The 34th Degree

25

A s the Stork began its descent, von Berg looked out the window. The island of Corfu lay like a jewel in the northernmost part of the Ionian Sea. The most lush and tropical of the Greek islands, its southern tip was a few miles west of the mainland, its northern under a mile from Albania. For him it was the perfect island retreat, far away from the Byzantine politics of the Third Reich.

The pilot tipped his wing and made a slow turn over the Chalikiopoulos Lagoon for the final approach. The plane barely cleared the steeple of the monastery on Mouse Island, skimming the blue water until it finally dropped down onto the airstrip.

Before Corfu became part of Greece, it was a British protectorate; now it was occupied by the Italians, who’d replaced the local Nazi forces when the Germans moved on to the invasion of Russia.

Commandant Georgio Buzzini, the nervous Italian officer temporarily in command of the island, was in full dress uniform when von Berg stepped out of the plane. As far as von Berg was concerned, Buzzini was a bumbling idiot. His round face, hooded eyes, and baritone voice bestowed upon him all the military graces of a stage extra from a third-rate Italian opera.

“General von Berg!” He saluted. “You have several cables and reports from Berlin waiting for you.”

Von Berg looked over the squat man’s shoulder toward his awaiting Mercedes. The top was down, and Franz, his driver, stood outside and opened the back door.

“Thank you, Commandant, but I’m anxious to get home for siesta,” said von Berg as he proceeded toward the Mercedes, Buzzini close behind.

“All is well, I take it, General?”

“If the commandant is referring to the mental health of the Fuhrer, I’m afraid not. In fact, soon you’ll have even more German company. The Fuhrer has personally ordered the First Panzer Division over from France. It should arrive in a few weeks, along with further reinforcements for Greece.”

Buzzini frowned as von Berg settled into the backseat of the Mercedes. Franz shut his door, climbed behind the wheel, and started the engine.

“That would make four German divisions in Greece,” Buzzini said. “So they fear an Allied landing?”

“No, just you Italians.”

The commandant laughed nervously.

All this idiot can do is laugh at my jokes, von Berg thought. “I’ll come to Corfu Town to look at my cables in a day or two.”

“Any time the general wishes-”

But the Mercedes shot off before the Italian could finish his sentence.

“Thank you, Franz,” said von Berg as they left the airstrip behind and began to make their way through the countryside.

Franz looked up into the rearview mirror and smiled. “Anytime, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer.”

Franz was a fine young soldier who would rather be on the front fighting than be anyone’s driver, von Berg thought, but his ability and loyalty as a protector made him indispensable. He was not only a crack marksman but an excellent skier, the only bodyguard who could keep up with him on the slopes in northern Italy during the winter months. That the two bore some resemblance-same height, similar smooth features, and blond hair-when targeted in a rifle scope also came in handy on occasion. Franz had two bullet scars in his left shoulder to prove it.

“I could have used your services while I was gone, Franz. These other drivers, they have no manners, I tell you. I’m glad to be back. Anything happen while I was gone?”

Franz hesitated and then looked up. “Karl…touched the girl.”

Von Berg could see Franz’s eyes in the mirror, searching for his reaction. Karl was one of his best men, too familiar with the consequences of any advances toward Aphrodite to pursue such folly. Unless, of course, von Berg realized, Karl wasn’t expecting him to return from the monasteries of Meteora or his meeting with Hitler in Obersalzberg. That would mean the fool had thrown in his lot with Himmler and Ulrich.

“How very daring of him.”

They passed the village of Gastouri, and the road climbed through geraniums, cypresses, and olive trees toward von Berg’s estate.