Joan Groves: The Last Island

The fugitive never spoke, but requested and received aid by the use of silent signals from others who had knowledge. In time, he reached the last structure, a dark, cramped cottage, and put it into a secret place.

The place, then unmapped, is now mapped. The lowly cottage had become a majestic cathedral. It was still hidden.

The date on the calendar was Friday, October 13, 1933. Herr Schliemann was polishing his newly acquired fourteenth century baptismal font in the large isolated preparation room when an unseen fissure weakened, and it broke.

An aged sealed letter fell before him; the date was Sunday, October 15, 1307. Herr Schliemann began to read, and then he read and re-read the manuscript. The manuscript was a diary, a confession, a map—an account of the demise of the eight masters, the escape of the ninth master, and the failure to capture it .

He knew what the Bishop did not know. In 1307, it was only half the prize, and he knew what no other person knew even now in 1933. Herr Schliemann was a good archeologist, a good German, and a good Nazi. He was Meister des Glaubens neunten grad but he could be Meister der Welt, he thought to himself ecstatically. After all, bishops come and go and Nazism was the political activity of the present, but it was forever.

Herr Schliemann would not be like the Bishop. There would be no letter of confession. It would be much easier in today’s world, he thought. He would not even have to accuse the other eight masters of wrong-doing. He would simply have them invited to dinner and have the special state vehicle be the means and mode of transportation. They would be thrilled to ride in the ornate carriage. The eight would be joyful and unsuspecting and, during the time of the drive to his house, each would become a bloody dead mass. The eight would be gassed to death by a valve that would re-circulate exhaust gas into the passenger portion upon command.

The bodies would be placed in one of the hundred sites that the state had excavated for such necessities. No record would be forwarded. Reports of the missing would simply be ignored. He smiled as he thought how much more progressive, sanitary, and civilized 1933 was compared to 1307.

Confession—what confession? he thought. Sin—what sin? God—God is dead.

All he had to do was to devise a plan and then control the plan. He would tell them half, but only half or maybe less, but not more; he would need them to complete the plan all the while thinking that he was their faithful minion.

There were no markings to indicate that these rooms were the Office of Strategic Services of the United States of America—the spy agency of the American Armed Forces.

The large wall calendar on the wall of the OSS in London read Saturday, January 13, 1944, as the U.S. intelligence officers deliberated over grainy photographic enlargements.

“I just do not understand this,” Larry said.

“I wonder what they are up to,” Charles replied, equally bewildered by what he saw.

Charles and Larry worked for the OSS as civilian experts.

“Submarines. Three gigantic submarines. Why waste manpower and material on the construction of three oversize U-Boats?” Charles questioned Larry and himself.

Larry answered, “The Atlantic is lost, but, you know, they look more like cargo ships than subs. And that makes even less sense. What is so important that Hitler and his goons are at it all day and all night? And in such a secured area that the crazy man himself could not enter.”

“The 8th Air Force won’t waste a raid on it. I’ve talked to superior officers and they deem it madness on their part and worthless on our part. One general called them Hitler’s sausages.” Charles looked upon the photographs and then continued talking. “You know, Larry, these U-Boats are being loaded with supplies—look. New snorkel design, new shape and outsides. These, I bet, are transports. These U-Boats are going to be underwater trucks. It does not make sense, though. I’ll be.”

“Yeah, but a U-Boat here or a U-Boat there, regardless of how big, will not make a difference now. I’ll be home in time see the flowers in my garden bloom. So, if some crazy krauts want to dream about a new super weapon—it is fine with me. Let them burn their resources and waste their time and materials. The more they waste, the sooner I’ll be going home. But I must say that those U-Boats look like they are well-made.”

The calendar on his desk read Saturday, January 13, 1944, as he put his hand upon the page and turned it for, after all, it was just past midnight and, after all, he had to keep order.

“Herr Schliemann.”

The General Officer addressed him.

“Yes,” Herr Schliemann responded without looking up from his desk.

“Herr Schliemann, all is ready,” the General declared.

Behind the General, a man was standing without any sort of regalia, but with military bearing.

“I am—”

Herr Schliemann cut him off.

“I know who you are. There is no need for introductions or formalities.”

He handed the General Officer a leather case and the General Officer handed the case to Herr Schliemann.

“Herr Schliemann, this is the most important package of the Reich and maybe the most important package in the world...”

The unannounced man spoke with pride and continued talking. But Herr Schliemann didn’t listen; it didn’t matter. He thought about his next move. I will be soon on my way to obtain the most important item—you fool .

The unannounced man finished, “...The pure blood of the faithful of today and tomorrow is in your hands now, Herr Schliemann.”

Herr Schliemann with great formality accepted the package and with great formality returned the salutes of the General Officer and the unnamed man.

Blood of the faithful. It is just blood. No different than the hundred millions of other units of blood that have been plundered from the unfaithful. Fools, Herr Schliemann thought to himself.

You can make a liar believe a lie. You just have to tell a bigger lie and say it all the time. The best liars do not think they can be fooled by a lie but that was the truth of the lie. Herr Schliemann knew that the more one lied, the more a liar believed any lie.

He had created a lie and applied the lie to their vanity and now his plan was coming to completion. Blood of the faithful—it was all he could do to keep from laughing out loud. But, there was no time to waste. He had to finish the last small tasks before putting in motion the next aspect of his plan.

Locking the door after the meeting, Herr Schliemann sat down and fell into a comfortable slouch at his desk. It had taken over eleven years. Eleven years of twenty-hour days, eleven years of dusty roads and market places, eleven years of no human relationships, and eleven years of lying and lying—but it was going to be worth it very soon.

He had obtained what was needed. He had one very ancient manuscript in the form of what everyone assumed was just a bit of antiquity from an Arab art dealer. The Arab dealer was shrewd and thought that he was getting something for nothing, but Herr Schliemann knew that he himself was the one giving almost nothing for something. The scroll was of tarnished silver when he had obtained it, and he would have passed up the opportunity to purchase it if it had not been for what was remaining on the partial icon.

The second manuscript was obtained by theft and then murder. He did not wish to kill his hired thief, but the thief had engaged in the time-honored creed of ‘no honor among thieves.’ Herr Schliemann then had to enact his creed of ‘dead men tell no tales.’