The 34th Degree

44

I n his underground laboratory hundreds of feet beneath the Achillion, von Berg was talking with his chief physicist when Franz came in with word that a Sergeant Racini was outside with a signal from Berlin.

Von Berg frowned. “Why didn’t you take it?”

“He insists he deliver it to you personally.”

“I see.” Von Berg looked around the cavernous facility. A thousand centrifuges whirled while scientists and engineers in white jackets monitored their controls. With Hitler’s weapons conference only one week away, time was running out. “I wonder what Berlin wants now.” He turned to his physicist. “Dr. Reinholt, you may proceed,” he instructed, and left with Franz.

They entered a maze of underground corridors. As they passed, Waffen SS guards posted at key intersections smacked their leather boots together and gave von Berg stiff-armed salutes. They were yet another precaution of von Berg’s to protect this vast research and development complex he had constructed beneath what to the British, the Greeks, and even the Germans appeared to be an ordinary residential estate on an island naval installation manned by an Italian garrison.

It was here in these secret laboratories that Germany’s best scientists, plucked from their respective industries by von Berg, worked around the clock. Not to develop new and better chemical weapons for use on the Russian front, nor to produce the rocket fuel for von Braun’s A-4 rockets that Hitler had been demanding. Nor to chase Hitler’s Greek Fire. No, a project as important as the Flammenschwert -Germany’s first atomic bomb-required single-minded devotion and zero interference from Berlin. Here his scientists could proceed unencumbered by the uncertain whims of the Fuhrer that so often impeded any real progress in weapons development.

Raw materials and supplies for his atomic program were easy to come by. Von Berg simply performed the same maneuvers for himself that he did for the German navy and, later, for Himmler in breaking the Versailles Treaty: They came into Piraeus on Andros ships in crates marked as grain and food. From there he slipped them onto Corfu via submarine and assembled them here in this underground facility.

They emerged into the cavernous loading bay where von Berg’s submarine, the Nausicaa, was being serviced by her crew. Rounding the horseshoe quay, they passed a pile of crates and stepped into an elevator. The doors closed, and they ascended through hundreds of feet of rock to his study in the Achillion.

A few minutes later, von Berg walked down the front steps of the Achillion and saw the rat Racini. “Yes, Sergeant,” he said in a manner that made his irritation plain to the Italian. “What is it that is so urgent?”

“This cable came for you from Berlin, General von Berg.” The sergeant held out the envelope with an unsteady hand.

Franz took the envelope, examined it, and passed it to von Berg. “It’s been opened.”

“So it has.” Von Berg looked at the cable inside. “Franz, please take this inside and translate it while I dismiss the sergeant here.” Franz left, and von Berg looked at Racini. “The commandant’s negligence I’ve long suspected, but treason? What do you have to say about that, Sergeant?”

“It was an accident, General. An accident. I swear to God.” Racini’s voice was shaking. “The commandant, he thought it was for him.”

Von Berg held up the envelope. “But of course, Sergeant. Seeing as how the outside clearly has my name in German, I understand how the good commandant could make such a silly mistake.”

“He is terribly sorry, General. Terribly sorry. I am terribly sorry, too.”

“Yes, I am sure you are. Now go back and tell Buzzini he is lucky this time that the dispatch is ciphered.”

“And why is that, General, sir, if I may ask?”

“Because he can now live a little longer.”

With that, von Berg walked up the steps into the Achillion, took an immediate right past the chapel, and walked back down the hallway to his study, where Franz sat with the Sonlar decoding machine, translating the cipher.

It was from Bern. The Barracuda reported that she had searched Andros’s belongings, slept with him, and come to the conclusion that he was a genuine dupe. A full report was forthcoming, complete with photographs.

“So, Andros wants to do business,” mused von Berg as he read the signal, “and wants one hundred thousand American dollars for it. Not quite the saintly icon Aphrodite paints of him, Franz.”

“No, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer.”

Von Berg walked over to his wall safe behind the portrait of King Ludwig II and turned the dial several times to unlock the thick steel door. “Indeed, for a man who has pledged his love to one woman only, Herr Andros seems quite willing to accommodate the Barracuda’s advances. Unless the Barracuda has once again overestimated her charms.”

Von Berg opened the door to reveal several stacks of papers along with his leather briefcase. He placed the signal inside his file marked ANDROS. He then pulled out a red folder labeled FLAMMENSCHWERT , looked at it for a moment thoughtfully, and put it back, shutting the safe and sliding the portrait over the door.

Franz asked, “So you think he’s a spy?”

“Let’s just say I’m wary of Greeks bearing gifts,” von Berg replied. “This Red Cross ruse is obviously an excuse for something else, and not just to see Aphrodite. Greek channels in the Middle East probably tipped him off that she was helping to distribute food supplies in Athens. Why else would such a worthless individual make this sort of noble gesture?”

Franz shrugged.

Von Berg sat down behind his desk and drummed his fingers on the leather top. Hitler’s weapons conference and von Berg’s fortieth birthday were only a week away. Now that the fulfillment of his destiny finally was within his grasp, he suddenly felt vulnerable. Things were proceeding smoothly in the labs, but his timetable had been designed to tick away like a fine Swiss watch in the final days, and the unexpected arrival of Chris Andros was throwing off the second hand.

“Still,” he mused, “this proposal deserves a response.”

“Do you want him killed?”

“Oh, no. Not yet.” Von Berg shook his head. “That would be terrible. Make him a martyr in Aphrodite’s eyes, and he’d be immortal. No, Franz. She can never love me fully as long as she loves this distorted conception of Andros; he is more myth than man. We must destroy this image first, expose him for the fraud he truly is.”

Franz furrowed his brow. “How do you mean?”

“Why, do business with him. Bring him to Athens, let Aphrodite see for herself what kind of coward he is. Then we can kill him, and it will be no loss to her.”

Franz nodded. “Yes, I see. But at this delicate stage in your operations, do you think it’s wise to allow yourself to be distracted?”

He pondered Franz’s question for a moment. To unmask Aphrodite’s idealized Andros as rabble was no distraction, he decided. She prized her freedom, so he would give her a choice, but he would make sure he was the better man for her to choose. To win her heart and kill Hitler at the same time would be the fulfillment of all his dreams. He could capture sanity itself and secure his future.

“Inform Bern that they are to permit Herr Andros safe passage to Greece,” he told Franz. “They have forty-eight hours to make the necessary arrangements and issue the official papers. And tell Buzzini that Aphrodite will fly out this afternoon for Athens. You and I will be leaving tomorrow.”

“Anything else?” Franz asked.

Von Berg stood up and walked across the floor to the glass case containing the Maranatha text. He leaned over and looked at the papyrus, pondering the significance of recent events and what seemed to him a fantastic convergence of the cosmos.

“Yes,” he replied. “Inform the house staff that while we’re gone, a certain Dr. Xaptz will be arriving at the Achillion as my guest. He does not know why. He is to be allowed access only to the upper floors of the palace and the Maranatha text in my study. Once he is here he cannot speak to anybody outside the house staff, in person or by phone. Until Aphrodite and I return together from Athens one week from today, Dr. Xaptz is not to leave here alive.”

“Zu Befehl,” Franz replied automatically. “And then?”

Von Berg smiled. “Then it’s off to Obersalzberg to make history.”