Thomas Greanias - The 34th Degree

O r else, for you, this war is over. As far as Prestwick was concerned, harsher words were never spoken. Churchill’s warning was unmistakable, and it made an indelible impression. Suddenly, Prestwick felt old and used up, crumbling inside like the yellowed pages of some old, dusty, and forgotten book. “This war is my life, sir.”

“Then you’ll do everything in your power to make sure Andros succeeds in his mission.”

As Churchill spoke, the bookcase behind him opened to reveal a secret exit. Two American Secret Service agents were waiting to escort the prime minister.

“I must be going,” Churchill said, putting out his cigar. The great man rose to his feet, brushed off the cigar ashes from his blazer, and rolled up his map of Europe representing millions of lives. “I’m expected at the White House this afternoon to meet with the president and the Combined Chiefs of Staff. Hopkins is waiting for me outside in the car.”

Prestwick nodded and picked up the folder, realizing there would be no gin rummy tonight, no starlet, no dancing. Instead, he’d spend the night like he did nearly every night: translating some obscure document or reading a report. Then he saw the stuffed bear still sitting on the desk.

The prime minister was squeezing through the bookcase when Prestwick caught up with him. “Sir, what about the teddy bear?”

“Almost forgot, Prestwick, thank you.” Churchill clutched the cub by the throat. “A gift for one of the president’s grandchildren. Good of you to pick it up for me. Now, no more mess-ups. Knowing the Baron, he’s already two steps ahead of us.”

B aron von Berg raced through the Bavarian Alps in a staff Mercedes, late for a conference with Hitler and his generals at the Fuhrer’s holiday house at Obersalzberg.

Von Berg was driving with the top down, having placed the dead body of the chauffeur who tried to kill him in the backseat. No doubt Himmler had sent the fool to greet his plane after failing to hear from Ulrich in Greece, von Berg thought. Unfortunately for the driver, the Baron had performed too many similar assassinations for the Reichsfuhrer to fail to recognize that something was up. He took care of the swine shortly after they passed through the village of Berchtesgaden, when he forced the driver to stop so he could answer nature’s call.

Himmler had tried to kill two birds with one stone in Greece, von Berg realized: eliminate the Baron and obtain the Maranatha text. Now he would get neither, for the text was safe in Greece, and von Berg had no intention of missing this meeting, not with the truly significant document inside his leather briefcase on the seat beside him.

As the autobahn curved east, von Berg could see more majestic mountains in the moonlight. Yes, it was good to come home to his beloved Bavaria, good to be alive. So good that the thought of the Reichsfuhrer working up some remorse and breaking the bad news to the Fuhrer of the Baron’s unfortunate end at the hands of religious fanatics made him smile. He pushed the pedal to the floor, and the Mercedes took off.

H itler’s holiday house at Obersalzberg was reached by a precipitous road that wound its way up Mount Kehlstein and ended at a bronze portal blasted into the rock. Here an SS guard snapped to attention as Baron von Berg proceeded to drive through a long marble tunnel lined with chandeliers. When he emerged in the vast underground garage at the other end, he stopped the Mercedes, and an SS valet opened the rear door only to discover that the passenger was dead.

“His shirts weren’t pressed, and he was always on time, never early,” von Berg explained to the terrified attendant, jumping out of the driver’s seat. “Now, I won’t be long, so inform the airfield in Berchtesgaden that my private plane will arrive and take off in three hours. Unload the globe from the trunk and have it brought up to the house. In the meantime, have my car washed and get that blood off the backseat. You might also inspect the wiring under the hood before we leave, to ensure we don’t have any unfortunate accidents, because you’ll be my driver.”

The parking attendant gave him a stiff-armed but shaky Nazi salute. “ Zu Befehl, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer!”

“Excellent. Carry on. And don’t scratch the fender this time.”

Von Berg stepped into the waiting elevator and sat down on a gray leather seat. As the polished brass cage began its slow three-hundred-foot ascent up the shaft in the heart of Mount Kehlstein, he glanced at his watch and turned to the sleepy SS guard operating the elevator. “Rather unusual for the Fuhrer to hold a situation conference this early, wouldn’t you say? He’s not exactly what I would describe as a morning person.”

“Ach,” replied the operator with a nod. “He is having trouble sleeping these days and keeps us all up every hour to accommodate him.”

“And accommodate him we must. Is my delivery here?”

“Yes, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer.” The operator pulled a hook on the floor to reveal a lower compartment. Below were two SS orderlies with a large object draped in canvas: the Templar Globe. They would exit on the lower level of Hitler’s house.

“Very good. Have it ready when I call.”

When the elevator reached the top, von Berg proceeded to the anteroom of the Berghof, Hitler’s holiday house. Oberfuhrer Rattenhuber, the Nordic-looking chief of the SS bodyguard, seemed very surprised to see him, as though he had just seen a ghost. He was so surprised, in fact, that he failed to ask General von Berg to hand over his pistol when he brushed past without waiting to hear the magic words “The Fuhrer will see you now.”

H itler was standing in front of the large picture window, looking out at the hills of Salzburg while he addressed his generals, his hands clasped behind his back. He was wearing the field-gray military uniform. At the sound of von Berg’s footsteps, he turned sharply with a frown that quickly became a smile.

“Von Berg, at last!” he said, walking over and warmly clasping von Berg’s hand with both of his own.

“ Guten Tag, Chief,” replied von Berg, dispensing with the ingratiating “Heil Hitler” of outsiders.

“I see the rumors of your death are greatly exaggerated. Please sit down.”

Von Berg nodded and looked at the disappointed faces of the four men seated around the long map table. They were General Alfred Jodl, chief of staff of the Armed Forces High Command; Admiral Karl Doenitz, commander in chief of the naval staff; Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, chief of military intelligence; and, finally, von Berg’s boss, Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler, chief of both the state and the secret police, looking paler than usual, von Berg thought, as he took his seat next to the devil and smiled.

“As I was saying,” Hitler continued, “now that Rommel’s overrated Afrika Korps have disgraced us with their defeat in Tunisia, the Allies hold the whole North African coast, with General Eisenhower’s army at the western end of the Mediterranean and General Montgomery’s army at the eastern end. That the Allies will use their new position to launch an invasion into our Fortress Europe there can be no doubt. Our entire southern front is exposed from France in the west to Greece in the east. The only thing between us and them is the moat that is the Mediterranean.”

At this everybody nodded, Admiral Doenitz in particular, acknowledging that the Mediterranean was his fleet’s responsibility to defend.

“But where will they land?” asked Hitler. “That is the question, and we must know the answer if we are to crush their armies on the beaches. I shall hear reports from our two intelligence chiefs. Canaris, you first.”