Thomas Greanias - The 34th Degree

All this idiot can do is laugh at my jokes, von Berg thought. “I’ll come to Corfu Town to look at my cables in a day or two.”

“Any time the general wishes-”

But the Mercedes shot off before the Italian could finish his sentence.

“Thank you, Franz,” said von Berg as they left the airstrip behind and began to make their way through the countryside.

Franz looked up into the rearview mirror and smiled. “Anytime, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer.”

Franz was a fine young soldier who would rather be on the front fighting than be anyone’s driver, von Berg thought, but his ability and loyalty as a protector made him indispensable. He was not only a crack marksman but an excellent skier, the only bodyguard who could keep up with him on the slopes in northern Italy during the winter months. That the two bore some resemblance-same height, similar smooth features, and blond hair-when targeted in a rifle scope also came in handy on occasion. Franz had two bullet scars in his left shoulder to prove it.

“I could have used your services while I was gone, Franz. These other drivers, they have no manners, I tell you. I’m glad to be back. Anything happen while I was gone?”

Franz hesitated and then looked up. “Karl…touched the girl.”

Von Berg could see Franz’s eyes in the mirror, searching for his reaction. Karl was one of his best men, too familiar with the consequences of any advances toward Aphrodite to pursue such folly. Unless, of course, von Berg realized, Karl wasn’t expecting him to return from the monasteries of Meteora or his meeting with Hitler in Obersalzberg. That would mean the fool had thrown in his lot with Himmler and Ulrich.

“How very daring of him.”

They passed the village of Gastouri, and the road climbed through geraniums, cypresses, and olive trees toward von Berg’s estate.

T he Achillion was a pretentious palace in the neoclassical style and was completely at odds with its tropical surroundings. But von Berg considered it home for a number of reasons, not least of which was that it was built in 1890 for Empress Elizabeth of Austria. Later, Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany made it his summer home until the Greek government confiscated it in 1914 and let the French turn it into a hospital. Now it belonged to Baron von Berg, courtesy of Adolf Hitler, who had intervened on his behalf with Mussolini.

Von Berg had made a few of his own modifications when he moved in. The vast, beautiful gardens that surrounded the estate were booby-trapped with mines triggered by pull igniters and pressure switches. Also, any low-flying intruders who approached from the sea and managed to elude Italian radar would be greeted by a camouflaged FlaK 38 antiaircraft gun. Its quadruple barrels could fire at a rate of 900 rpm and had a ceiling of 6,500 feet. Quite formidable, especially as it was fitted with the latest generation of sights. Finally, despite objections from the Italians, the entire estate staff was German, handpicked by von Berg himself, from the chefs to the Waffen SS guards and Dobermans that patrolled the grounds. Surrounding the premises were an electric fence and signs that said the estate was a clinic for convalescing soldiers.

The SS guards snapped to attention as Franz brought the Mercedes through the electric gate and pulled up to the entrance. Von Berg got out and walked up the steps past the sentries.

Inside the front door, to the right, was a chapel with frescoes on the walls. Von Berg poked his head inside to see if Aphrodite was there, as she often was, wasting her prayers on a God who didn’t exist, but the chapel was deserted. He moved on, briefcase in hand, passing a series of rooms adorned in Pompeian splendor.

Von Berg’s office was on the first floor at the end of the hallway. Here, in what used to be Kaiser Wilhelm’s study, rested the Maranatha text. The troublesome papyrus lay enclosed in a glass case in the corner of the ornate room. Standing next to it was Karl, von Berg’s once trusty, lantern-jawed aide, buffing the glass with his sleeve. When von Berg walked in, he snapped up straight and smiled. “Does this please the general?”

“It’s just fine, Karl.” Von Berg didn’t even look at the text as he walked up to the portrait of King Ludwig II behind his desk. It pictured the Bavarian monarch wearing the regalia of St. George. The Baron pulled the portrait open on its hinge to reveal a secret wall safe, dialed the combination, and placed his briefcase inside. Upon closing the door and replacing the portrait, he turned to Karl and asked, “Where’s Aphrodite?”

Karl didn’t flinch. “She should be back from her swim any minute now.”

“Fine.” Von Berg could only admire the ice-cold self-assurance of his protege, and inwardly, he complimented himself for being such an excellent role model. “And where have you been?”

“Downstairs in the labs.”

“Of course you have.” Von Berg decided that Karl knew too much about what went on beneath the Achillion and had to die. “I’d like to see you upstairs in the master suite in a few minutes.”

A puzzled look crossed Karl’s face. “As you wish.”

Von Berg went out into the front hall and climbed the majestic marble staircase to the second floor and the master suite. On his bed lay a change of clothes, and he could hear water running in the bathroom.

“The perfect temperature, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer,” said his maid as she came out with his robe. “Just as you like.”

She was a heavyset, middle-aged, and plain mule of a woman who knew her place. That was exactly what he liked about her. “Thank you, Helga.”

Helga nodded and left, closing the door behind her.

Von Berg unfastened his tie and moved to the open window overlooking the sweeping gardens. Here stood an outstanding statue of the dying Achilles, by the German sculptor Herter, as well as lesser statues of Lord Byron and the melancholy empress Elizabeth herself. Best of all, the gardens offered von Berg a panoramic view of the Chalikiopoulos Lagoon, Mouse Island, and, beyond that, the mainland. And there on the sand, walking along the shore like a Greek goddess, was nature’s most exquisite treasure of all-Aphrodite Vasilis.

If he had a flaw, von Berg realized, it was his love for this Greek girl. Not that he believed in love as such. Love implied an equal footing for both partners. But life in this meaningless universe had made it clear to him that the stronger must always subdue the weaker. So it couldn’t be love, he rationalized. No, perhaps it was his instinctual recognition that he was attracted to her for reasons beyond her physical beauty.

For one thing, she wasn’t weak, like other women. He detected a strength in her that he found truly admirable. She wasn’t one to be bullied, though bullied she had to be if he wanted to control her. But threats of physical harm to her proved fruitless. She would rather have both breasts cut off and her face mutilated before she bowed down to the Gestapo. That was happening in many Greek villages these days. The only way to motivate Aphrodite, therefore, was to threaten another innocent victim. This compassion for others was her only vice, and he used it as a last resort because it was a tacit admission of his own failure to control her.

There was also her love of poetry, which they shared, although she preferred Lord Byron to his beloved Goethe. Lately, however, he had seen her toting a slim volume by the aviator poet Michalis Akylas, a major in the Hellenic Royal Air Force who had been shot dead in Athens the year before. Poets who died of natural causes, von Berg decided, were preferable to those who died from German bullets; they didn’t stir the same resentment in Aphrodite toward him.

Then there was the way she carried on behind his back, secretly working with Archbishop Damaskinos whenever they were in Athens, using her Red Cross mercy missions to funnel money and relief supplies to the families of killed and imprisoned Resistance fighters. She didn’t know he knew this, but he did and approved of it. He had tested her with his own agents, posing as British spies, and knew that she was loyal to him. In short, she could play the game.