The 34th Degree

4

It was a sight Philip had to see with his own eyes from the monastery’s watchtower: The Death’s Head battalion must have started for the Taborian Light that morning, having shaken the dust of the nearest town, Kastraki, off their jackboots. What was once a sleepy village nestled a thousand feet below the towering rock formations of Meteora was now a pillar of black smoke rising up behind the twenty-four SS paratroopers as they converged on the granite summit.

They were far closer than Philip had imagined just a moment ago.

He knew they had come off their conquest of Crete, these Fallschirmjager in field-gray uniforms and rimless steel helmets. Hand-picked by Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler himself, they were the pride of the Waffen SS. These days found them loose on the Greek mainland, clearing the mountains of partisans and performing special missions for Himmler’s second in command, the mysterious SS general Ludwig von Berg.

Leading the way up was the Baron of the Black Order himself, handsome and wholly evil. One hand held a Schmeisser machine pistol, the other a leash with a terrified Gregory Koutras straining at the end. The boy tried to shout a warning. Von Berg yanked hard on the leash, choking off his cries.

Philip was no stranger to the art of war and the effects of military regalia. But even he felt a chill at the sight of Ludwig von Berg marching toward the monastery in his smartly tailored black dress uniform, black boots, and black leather accessories. Above his sleeve’s cuff title was the diamond-shaped SD patch of the Sicherheitsdienst, or SS intelligence service, which meant he was the worst of the lot. Flanking him were two Fallschirmjager, with their machine pistols.

The Baron of the Black Order looked younger than his reputed age of forty and radiated venal power. Glints of gold hair were visible beneath his black cap, and his clean-shaven cheeks tapered down to a twisted smile. His beaklike nose and upper lip, in particular, gave him the air of a predator. But it was his eyes that dominated his appearance, those clear blue eyes with a gaze that could pierce armor plating.

Even from afar, Philip felt the stare of the Death’s Head badge on von Berg’s cap. The silver skull-and-crossbones insignia signaled the general’s willingness to give and take death in the holy cause of national socialism. But it was also a grim reminder of the invincibility of the Baron of the Black Order, of the silver plate in von Berg’s skull and his seemingly supernatural ability to survive an assassin’s bullet on more than one occasion. Even Philip had heard of the joke within the ranks of the SS: The baron had nine lives, and for each life, the world was a worse place.

Philip turned from his perch and rushed down to the cave beneath the monastery. Commander Lloyd stood at the secret exit tunnel with Brother Yiorgios, who clutched the ornate golden Templar Globe containing the legendary Maranatha text. The globe was the size of a round watermelon but looked visibly heavier in Yiorgios’s arms. Six monks stood by, ready to roll back into place the large mosaic slab that hid the tunnel.

“You’ll come out in the Pindos chain of mountains,” Philip told them. “From there you are in God’s hands. Now go.”