The 34th Degree

51

A s the Independence moved into the great harbor, Andros could feel himself trembling with excitement. Here was Athens, the ancient capital of Western civilization. Here was home. He beheld the whitewashed city in wonder. The last time he’d felt such a sensation was on his first visit to America, when the ocean liner entered New York Harbor and he saw the Statue of Liberty.

Rising above the city was the Acropolis, and on top of it the pillars of the Parthenon stood proudly against the clear blue sky. The symbol of democracy, though desecrated by the Nazi flag flying overhead, still inspired hope for freedom. The sacred sight aroused in Andros the same pride and devotion he felt for the American flag. If Western civilization had a moral compass, his grandfather used to say, this was its true north.

Andros felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Tsatsos, who said, “Did you think the Parthenon would be gone when you came back?”

“To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure.”

The old captain laughed. “And I tell you, it will still be standing long after these barbarians are gone.”

The Independence dropped anchor, and the foul stench of defeat and occupation settled in. The Luftwaffe had bombed Piraeus more extensively than Andros had heard. As he surveyed the damage, he felt a surge of outrage.

“The German Stukas bombed the ports and ships, both war and merchant, as we were evacuating British troops to Crete,” said Tsatsos. “Now it is the British RAF who raid the surrounding airfields and our ships.”

The sober realization hit Andros that this was the last sight his father had had of the Greek mainland before he died. The memory of his father made him once again painfully aware that his own return to Greece wasn’t at all what he’d been expecting. He was not in military uniform, disembarking from a troop transport. Rather, he was on his own family ship and dressed in civilian clothes. One man against the Third Reich.

And a powerful Reich it was. Patrolling the docks were SS guards toting Schmeissers. Rolls of barbed wire topped a concrete wall to shield the cargo ship as it sat at the water’s edge.

Andros eyed the SS men as the gangway was lowered. “Baron von Berg’s men?”

“They protect the transfer of his special shipments,” Tsatsos said. “I see you are considered one of them.”

As Tsatsos spoke, three black Mercedeses pulled up along the quay. Two men in black hats and overcoats stepped out of the first car.

“For me?” Andros asked.

“Gestapo,” said Tsatsos, troubled. “They must be expecting you. Karapis, help our friend the diplomat with his luggage.”

First Mate Karapis appeared with the trunk, which, like Andros, had survived the rigors of OSS training, a parachute drop into Switzerland, and the long journey to Athens.

Tsatsos glanced at the trunk and then fixed his dark, brooding eyes on Andros for a moment. “I don’t know why you’ve chosen to come back, Christos,” he said, his strong, rough hand gripping the scruff of Andros’s neck. “But I must warn you to beware the kisses of an enemy, especially when you are among old friends.”

“I take that to mean you harbor little love in your heart for collaborators?”

Tsatsos smiled broadly enough to reveal a few missing teeth. It was a menacing smile that required no explanation.

“Don’t worry, old friend,” said Andros as they parted. “Things aren’t always as they seem.”

He started down the gangway, Karapis and the trunk close behind. As soon as they reached the quay, the Gestapo agents relieved Karapis of the trunk and escorted Andros to the middle Mercedes. The driver got out and opened the rear door for him, and Andros heard a voice address him in coarse, ugly English.

“Welcome to Athens, Herr Andros. Please, climb in.”