The 34th Degree

THE 34TH DEGREE
119

A dazed and bewildered Sam Deker woke up to find himself tied up again. Only it wasn’t the steel chair beneath the VA Hospital in Los Angeles. It was a deep leather chair in Baron Ludwig von Berg’s study at the Achillion on Corfu. Franz slapped him into consciousness.

“Wake up, Andros,” Franz said.

When Deker came to, he saw no sign of Marshall Packard, Wanda Randolph, or young Prestwick. Nor did he see any sign of Aphrodite. Only Ludwig von Berg behind a desk. A brass clock on the desk said it was five-thirty, but Deker had trouble focusing. He looked around the large, ornate study to get his bearings in this smashed-up world of present-day Los Angeles and 1943 Corfu.

“Aphrodite,” he said. “What have you done with her?”

Von Berg narrowed his penetrating eyes. “Is she all you were searching for?”

“What else would I want?”

“I had in mind the Maranatha text.”

Deker refused to confirm or deny von Berg’s words, in case this was all a trick, so he kept a straight face and said nothing.

Von Berg smiled knowingly. “Truly, Herr Andros, I can only marvel at the audacity of the OSS,” he said. “Planting a cipher in a phony Maranatha text and allowing it to fall into our hands in the form of a microfilm-it’s beyond belief. The irony is that you succeeded in duping the Fuhrer. I suppose the plan would have worked had I not found the real text and you hadn’t prompted me to take a closer look.”

Deker watched the Baron remove a large portrait of King Ludwig II of Bavaria from the wall to reveal a secret safe. Out of this safe he removed a leather briefcase, and from there drew out what looked like a text pressed between two plates of glass.

“Here it is, Herr Andros,” said von Berg, walking up to him. “The text that has cost the lives of many good men throughout the centuries.”

The papyrus was brown and fragmented, and the ancient Greek characters looked dark and foreboding, as if they were indeed hiding some eternal mystery. Deker could understand Hitler’s and Prestwick’s interest in unlocking the text’s secrets. He wanted to reach out and touch the glass, but his hands were tied.

“So close, Herr Andros, yet so far.” Von Berg pulled the text away from him. “And it was all for nothing, you see, because I already knew the Allies intend to invade Sicily and that Greece is only a cover.”

Deker sank in his chair. Von Berg knew everything. There was nothing to hide now.

“The truly astonishing irony,” von Berg continued, “is that this text is nothing but a forgery.”

Deker looked up. “A forgery?”

“Foisted upon gullible believers by a false apostle in the first century. If he were alive today, I suspect he’d be working for Himmler or Donovan.”

“A forgery,” Deker repeated, watching von Berg carefully slip the glass containing the text into his leather briefcase.

Von Berg laughed. “Don’t despair, Herr Andros! Your failure has been my inspiration. This text may yet serve a greater purpose than anyone ever intended. You see, I intend to convince the Fuhrer that he has indeed tapped the source of Greek Fire and that the formulas encoded in the text are atomic in nature. Anything to make him a believer in the Flammenschwert.”

“Atomic formulas hidden in a text written almost two thousand years ago?” Deker asked incredulously. “Hitler will never believe it.”

“The Fuhrer is crazy, and he will believe it,” von Berg retorted. “After all, atomic theories were formulated in classical times. There was Leucippus of Miletus, Democritus of Abdera, and Epicurus of Samos. The ancient philosophers and mathematicians simply lacked the means to translate their ideas into reality.”

“Reality? Come, now, von Berg. This is fantasy!”

Von Berg shrugged as if to say it didn’t matter. “Whether it was Paul or some other false apostle who penned the Maranatha text, whether the text was encoded consciously by the author or unconsciously by some unseen hand, whether it is divine or of the devil, will be of little consequence to the Fuhrer. The point is, Herr Andros, the text exists. More important, this text is proof to the general staff that the Allied microfilm Canaris’s Abwehr agents intercepted in Istanbul is a forgery and that the Allies intend a landing in Sicily.”

Von Berg placed the briefcase containing the Maranatha text inside his wall safe, shut the door, and spun the combination. He then swung the portrait of King Ludwig II back into place. “So you see, Herr Andros, I know everything.”

“Everything?” said Deker, challenging the Baron’s hubris. “Then I suppose you knew all along that Werner was working for Himmler.”

The corners of von Berg’s mouth tightened as he forced a smile, and Deker could see a flicker of doubt in his icy blue eyes.

“Oh, yes,” said Deker. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Himmler has a cell with your name on it.”

Von Berg shrugged. “Then I’ll simply have to kill Himmler and Hitler when I see them later this morning,” he said. “As the new chancellor, I can then put a stop to this war.”

“Stop this war?” Deker laughed incredulously. “Even if you did take out Hitler and Himmler, why would the Allies or anybody believe you’d be any better, much less make peace with you?”

“Because I am the rightful king of Germany!” von Berg cried out, and began to pace back and forth beneath the portrait of King Ludwig II. “I am the son of Maximilian von Berg and the grandson of Elizabeth of Austria and Ludwig II of Bavaria. I am King Ludwig III!”

Deker blinked. “You’re crazy, von Berg. You’re even worse than Hitler.”

Von Berg’s face turned red with anger, his facial muscles trembling as all the passion he had bottled up inside erupted. “‘Ein ewiges Ratsel will ich bleiben mir und anderen!’” he screamed, shaking an angry fist at heaven. “If I wish to remain an eternal enigma to myself and to others, that is my divine right!”

The emotional outburst caught Deker by surprise, and he watched in morbid fascination as it took a full minute and several deep breaths before the Baron could fully wind down and regain control of himself.

“The Allies will recognize the authority of King Ludwig III,” von Berg announced, referring to himself in the third person. “If they don’t, the power of the Flammenschwert will force them to make peace with Germany. Peace or the destruction of their cities. Yes, the war will be over in a matter of days. It’s a shame you won’t be alive to see it, Herr Andros.”

The bookcase opened, and Franz appeared in the passageway. He regarded the red-faced Baron with trepidation and cleared his throat. “The Flammenschwert device is being loaded on the Nausicaa, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer.”

Von Berg drew a deep breath. “And Aphrodite?”

“Already on board, in your quarters.”

“Excellent.” Von Berg turned to Deker. “The crew of the Nausicaa believes the Flammenschwert device contains a new form of rocket fuel. Of the five officers and fifty ratings on board, only Captain Myers, Franz, and I know the truth.”

Von Berg checked his watch. “It’s a quarter to six, Franz. Take Andros downstairs to his cell and inform Myers to prepare to depart in ten minutes.”

Ten minutes, thought Deker. That meant the Flammenschwert could be gone before the Allies’ strike. It would all be for nothing. And he would be left here to die.

Von Berg seemed to read his mind. “You thought I’d stay for the fireworks, Herr Andros? With you here, your Allied friends can’t be far behind, but by the time they arrive, I’ll be long gone. And you’ll be dead.”

A few minutes later, Deker was thrown into a dank cell beneath the Achillion. Franz slammed the heavy metal door and turned the key. Deker could see the German’s smiling face looking through the bars of the square window cut into the door.

“I trust your accommodations are adequate, Herr Andros.”

“A bit damp, I confess.”

“Oh, did the Baron forget to tell you? These cell blocks are flooded from the loading bay above us every time the Nausicaa departs. According to my watch, that should be five minutes from now.”