The 34th Degree

50

P restwick moved out onto his terrace at the Hotel Saint George that morning and took in the spectacular view of the city below. Dazzling white terraces cascaded down the pine-covered hills to the ocean. The palm trees that lined the seafront boulevards swayed in the Mediterranean breeze.

“The French call the city Alger la Blanche -Algiers the White.”

Prestwick turned from the terrace to see Erin standing in the living room. He hadn’t heard her come in. But he certainly didn’t mind. She looked ravishing in her uniform this morning, her earthy brown eyes as warm as ever and her ethereal blond hair catching some of the sunlight. “So I see,” he told her as he stepped back inside. “Quite lovely.”

She seemed to pick up his hint, because the corners of her mouth tightened, and she was formal with him. “The Saint George used to be the personal headquarters of the supreme commander before he moved to that Moorish villa,” she told him. “I trust you approve of your accommodations, Colonel.”

“Who wouldn’t? But I must confess that I was looking forward to a tour of our OSS headquarters at Maison Blanche, not to mention our special training school Club des Pines. I’ve heard much about our demolitions program with that new C-3 explosive the French call plastique. But I’ve been here ten days, and still I’ve seen nothing.” He took a step toward her.

She didn’t back away, but she sounded evasive. “General Eisenhower felt it best that you keep a low profile during your stay here.”

Prestwick took that to mean that he wasn’t welcome here, that he and his bungled Operation Maranatha were an embarrassment that Eisenhower wanted to sweep under some Oriental rug. That didn’t surprise him. Traditional military types rarely appreciated the subtle, more sophisticated work of the OSS. “A low profile, you say?” he asked. “So you’ve just returned from the supreme commander?”

Erin nodded. “Even as we speak, Andros is arriving in Athens.”

It was the first piece of good news he had heard in a long time. A very long time. He stroked his chin and nodded. “That’s fantastic!”

“That’s not all,” said Erin. “Your presence is requested aboard His Majesty’s submarine the Cherub tomorrow. If all goes as planned, I’ll rendezvous with you off the coast of Greece in a few days.”

“Even more fantastic!” Then he saw the champagne bottle in the silver bucket on the table by the wall. “This calls for a celebration, Captain.” Prestwick rubbed his hands together and walked over to the table where the champagne waited. He removed the bottle from the bucket of melted ice and eased out the cork from the bottle.

“I don’t think so,” said Erin. “I need to rest before my parachute drop into Greece tomorrow night.”

“Yes, yes, you do that,” said Prestwick, pouring slowly into two glasses. “In the meantime, however, I propose a toast.”

Erin eyed him. “Is a toast all you’re proposing, Jason?”

Prestwick smiled and handed her a glass. “Think about what we could do before your flight tomorrow, Erin. We could sip cold champagne, share a hot bath, and dance on the rooftop all night long.”

“Or,” she replied, staring down into her champagne, “we could simply save the celebrating until after Andros has accomplished his mission.”

“To Chris Andros, then,” he toasted. “May he retrieve the Maranatha text and find the meaning of the universe.” He raised his glass to his lips and was on the verge of tasting the sweetness of success when she stopped him with her next remark.

“The meaning of the universe?” she asked, a frown on her face. “Is that what you really expect to find?”

He lowered his glass. “No, of course not. I was being facetious. There is no meaning. What’s the matter with you?”

“You can believe what you want about the Maranatha text,” she told him firmly, glaring at him. “But the mysteries of life can’t be reduced to numbers. And even if you could see the future, without love, you’re nothing.”

“Did you say ‘love’?” He looked at her and wanted to tell her she looked lovely when she was angry. “What are you driving at?”

“It was your fascination with futile speculations that got us into this mess,” she said, setting her glass on the table. “But it will be Andros and his love for Aphrodite that will get us out.”

“Is that so?” He flashed a conspiratorial grin. “According to what Dulles says in Bern, it was Andros’s performance in bed with a Nazi spy that’s gotten him this far.”

The sting of disappointment was plain on Erin Whyte’s face, and Prestwick took perverse delight in it.

“Did you train him for that, Captain?” he taunted her, pressing himself against her supple body. “Do you want to train me?”

“I taught him a lot of things,” Erin replied calmly, “the last of which I’ll show you first.”

A tremendous explosion of pain erupted between Prestwick’s legs. His face pinched in a grimace before his jaw dropped in a low groan.

Then Erin removed her knee from his groin, smiled, and sipped her champagne.