The 34th Degree

28

A ndros guessed they couldn’t be over twenty miles outside Washington, but Prestwick was mum as the black Chevrolet with District of Columbia plates hummed through the Maryland countryside in the middle of the night. The driver, some sort of government agent, stared woodenly ahead.

Andros could see that Prestwick was enjoying himself. “You like keeping people in suspense, don’t you?” Andros asked.

A perverse smile crossed Prestwick’s face. Only when the Chevy rolled up to a locked gate an hour later did he finally announce their arrival. “The Farm. Or, as it is officially known, RTU-11.”

The official sign said something about an army gadget testing center, but Andros could make out the dim outline of a large country manor at the end of the long drive. So this was the OSS school for spies.

“The whole estate is about a hundred acres or so,” Prestwick explained as they started up the drive. “Belongs to a prominent industrialist from Pittsburgh. OSS is leasing it for the time being.”

At the entrance, a rotund woman whom Prestwick introduced as Gertrude greeted them and escorted them upstairs to spacious, comfortable bedrooms.

“A regular Waldorf you have here,” Andros observed, pressing down on the soft bed. “Is this how you toughen up your secret agents, Jason?”

Gertrude had warned them that they should use only their first names. Security precautions. Still, Andros detected an unnaturally chummy atmosphere here that confirmed his perception of spies as dilettantes, men of leisure who had little to offer their country-men like this Prestwick.

“Don’t you worry,” said Prestwick, who was standing by the window looking out. “We’ll get started in the morning with some of the more practical aspects of your survival behind enemy lines.”

Andros nodded and began to unpack his sack. He drew out a cigarette from his pack of Vargas and lit it with the gold lighter Aphrodite had given him.

Prestwick coughed from the smoke and turned away from the window. “A nasty habit for a West Pointer,” he observed. “My reports said nothing about you being a chain-smoker.”

Andros shrugged and propped up his picture of Aphrodite on the nightstand. He placed the gold lighter in front of it. “Maybe you shouldn’t put too much faith in those reports of yours.”

“And maybe you should keep your mind clear of distractions.” Prestwick was frowning at Aphrodite’s picture. “From now on you must focus only on your mission.”

“She is my mission.”

Prestwick ignored the remark. “There’s a bible in the top drawer of your nightstand. I suggest you begin with that tonight.”

Andros opened the drawer and found the OSS training syllabus. He scanned the table of contents: silent killing, firearms, ciphers, undercover operations, escape, explosives.

Prestwick said, “Those areas pertinent to your individual mission are highlighted. Study those sections thoroughly.”

Andros thumbed through the syllabus. “I’ll commit these passages to memory tonight.”

He tossed the syllabus on the bed and moved to the window where Prestwick had been standing. A peek behind the curtain revealed well-manicured lawns rolling on under the night and the shimmer of a swimming pool. Andros paused a moment and looked again. Swimming laps in the pool was a shapely woman. What kind of crazy outfit was this? At the sound of Prestwick’s rapping, Andros let the curtain fall and turned around.

“Your closet.” Prestwick opened the door to reveal clothing. “Your prewar Savile Row suits, custom-made Italian shoes, all the trappings of a playboy. Standard uniform for your cover.”

“Cover?” Andros asked suspiciously. “What cover?”

“That, you’ll find out tomorrow morning in the study, seven sharp. In the meantime, try to get some rest.” Prestwick stopped in the doorway and looked back with a self-satisfied smile. “Pleasant dreams.”