The 34th Degree

86

E rin Whyte stood at the end of the pier and watched anxiously while the boat carrying Chris came in from the sea like a phantom raft crossing back over from beyond the river Styx. What had happened in Athens, she wondered, that he should return alive yet alone?

Standing next to her was Stavros, sporting three bandoliers full of ammunition, one around his waist and one over each of his shoulders. She watched him briefly finger the beautifully engraved handles of the knives that protruded from various parts of his ample waist before he readied his Sten gun.

“Easy, big fella,” she told him. “He’s on our side, remember?”

“Humph,” grunted the Greek.

She ignored him and watched the caique approach. She was looking forward to finally seeing a friendly, familiar face in Greece.

When the caique bumped up against the pier and Chris stepped onto the stone in his docker clothing, Erin immediately was struck by the disappointment on his face. She walked up to him, waiting to let him speak, fighting the urge to throw her arms around him and welcome him to “Free Greece.”

“Well, Captain, here’s what I have,” he told her, handing over a microfilm cartridge and a film negative. “And that’s all I have.”

He did not greet her or show any emotion, and his lifeless eyes disturbed her deeply. Suddenly, she didn’t want the film or even the Maranatha text itself; she only wanted Chris to be like he was before this mission. Like she was before Lyon. But that was impossible, she realized, and she could sense he knew it, too.

“You keep them for now,” she told him, passing them back. “We don’t have the facilities to develop them here, so we’ll wait until we link up with Colonel Prestwick on the submarine.” She dared not mention Churchill’s change in plans.

“Prestwick,” Chris muttered as he put away the negative and the microfilm cartridge. “I’m looking forward to our reunion.”

It was then that Doughty, wearing his New Zealand battle dress uniform with parachute wings on his chest for the occasion, greeted Chris in Greek on behalf of the National Bands of Greece.

“Chris Andros, I presume,” said the red-whiskered New Zealander, shaking Chris’s hand. “So good to see the great general’s son. Welcome to Free Greece.”

At the name of Andros, whispering broke out among the ranks of the andartes. Stavros, it seemed to Erin, seemed particularly thunderstruck. The big Greek passed a torch in front of Chris’s face and studied him closely. “You are the son of that monarcho-fascist General Nicholas Andros?”

“Yes,” Chris shot back, glancing at her and Doughty. “I’m the son of that monarcho-fascist.”

Stavros said nothing, but Erin could see from his suspicious expression that his Marxist mind was at work. Perhaps he could guess that the British wanted to install Andros as the leader of a united Greek Resistance, all under the banner of the National Bands of Greece. It was news she would have to break to Andros the next morning.

“An ugly bunch, aren’t they?” she told Chris lightly, and to the rest gave a shout. “Let’s move!”

They launched Karapis and his boat back to the Independence and produced a sorry-looking mule for Chris to ride to the base.

“I forgot,” said Chris, reaching into his pocket and producing three sealed envelopes. “Touchstone wanted me to give you these orders.”

Erin looked at the envelopes. The first was for her, the second for Stavros, and the third for Kalos. She slipped them into her tunic and nodded. “I’ll pass these out tomorrow. In the meantime, I suggest we get moving.”

As the column of andartes climbed the rocky trail, Erin noticed Stavros looking back over the long line of horses to glimpse her and Andros, side by side, bringing up the rear. Stavros then looked ahead resolutely and proceeded to lead the column of andartes in song: “Better one day of freedom than forty years of slavery…”