Thomas Greanias - The 34th Degree

“That’s because Swiss shares are bearer shares,” Andros said automatically. “They’re registered in the name of the shareholder’s bank, not the shareholder himself. And Swiss law forbids banks from revealing the names of depositors or shareowners.”

Dulles nodded. “Which is why you’ve come to Bern yourself-to see your family’s private banker.”

“Pierre Gilbert?” Andros felt truly unnerved at the vast amount of intelligence the OSS had gathered on him. “What on earth does he have to do with this?”

“As a director on the board of the Swiss Bankers Association, Pierre Gilbert works closely with the Swiss National Bank in the negotiation for international treaties and agreements affecting the banking trade and its customers. You want him to work on your behalf. Specifically, you’ll ask him to get the Swiss Clearing Office to certify that your blocked account in New York is not Germanowned. The agency has been supervising all Swiss-German trade.”

“He’ll never do it,” Andros insisted. “Pierre would bleed to death before he broke the Swiss banking code or enlisted others to do so.”

“We know that,” said Dulles. “But our intelligence sources here tell us that Gilbert amp; Co.’s biggest depositor is none other than Baron Ludwig von Berg himself, whom we suspect has spies at the bank. Remember, von Berg has a vested interest in tracking Swiss industry and finance. We’re confident that whatever you say to your family banker will make its way back to him.”

“So von Berg learns that Pierre turns me down flat. So what?”

“So you approach the German Legation. You offer to smuggle precision technology on Andros ships carrying Red Cross relief supplies to Greece. For a price, of course.”

“What?” Andros sat up in horror. “I’m a smuggler now?”

“You’re a desperate man, Andros, a playboy with no money to play with. The fact is, with all its funds blocked, Andros Shipping is in dire straits. It cannot continue to cover expenses and pay employees out of capital much longer. Nor can it support your lavish lifestyle, now that you’ve squandered what is left of your personal financial resources.”

“The only thing I’ve squandered is my sanity,” Andros said. “What makes you think the German Legation will believe this revolting cover?”

“Because it makes sense,” Dulles insisted. “You’ve come to Switzerland under the noble guise of securing Red Cross aid for the Greek people, but really to unblock Andros Shipping funds. When you can’t unblock your funds, you devise this smuggling scheme.”

“All right, then,” said Andros. “Perhaps I am desperate enough to make such an offer. Why should Baron von Berg take me up on it?”

“According to private Swiss intelligence services, as well as the Swiss Army’s N1 special branch and the Buro Ha, Baron von Berg has an entire network of agents here engaged in industrial and financial espionage. We also know that he’s constructed some sort of secret research facility in Greece. Your offer to smuggle precision components via neutral ports of call is just what the Baron is looking for.”

“And he’d believe I’d turn my back on my own country?”

“Which country? The American government has turned a deaf ear to your argument that by keeping Andros Shipping on the blacklist, it’s dissipating many of the assets it wants to recover. All that’s left for you is the draft. At least in Greece you have family, a girl, and a chance to rebuild what’s left of Andros Shipping. That’s if you play your cards right with the occupation authorities and use the Red Cross gesture to ensure a favorable reputation in postwar Greece, whichever side wins.”

Andros shook his head. “Quite a coward you people have made me.”

Dulles seemed unconcerned. “Tomorrow morning you’ll check into the Bellevue Palace Hotel,” he said, speaking to the fire. “We’ll slip you out of here before dawn. A cab will drop off your trunk later. And then you must promise to never come knocking at my door again.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” said Andros. “I don’t plan on coming back.”

I t was early morning on the island of Corfu when Baron von Berg came down the steps of the Achillion and got into the back of his Mercedes. He was in the full black dress uniform of an SS general. He avoided wearing the black around Aphrodite but preferred it whenever he went into Corfu Town, if only to put the fear of God into the Italians and see Commandant Buzzini jump.

“A beautiful morning, Franz,” he said as they drove along the seafront boulevard toward town. “Beats Berlin these days, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer.”

To their right, the sun was rising over Garitsa Bay. To their left was the old town, its colonnaded houses dating back to the island’s days under British rule. Straight ahead was the old fortress with the Italian flag flying overhead and, beyond that, their destination, the Palace of St. Michael and St. George.

The former residence of the British governor and the Greek royal family was now the headquarters of the Italian commandant. Franz turned in through the triumphal arch known as St. George’s Gate and braked to a halt at the Doric colonnade along the front of the palace. Von Berg got out and went up the steps past the Italian sentry.

Inside, a corporal was sitting behind a table at the bottom of the stairs, pretending to busy himself with paperwork, when the sound of von Berg’s boots made him look up, fix his eyes on the black uniform, and leap to his feet.

“The commandant is expecting me,” von Berg announced, proceeding up the stairs without bothering to check in, leaving the corporal to pick up the phone and, in a frantic voice, warn Buzzini’s office.

Sergeant Racini, the commandant’s lanky young aide, was just replacing his receiver when von Berg appeared. Racini looked up helplessly. His big, pointed nose and small eyes reminded von Berg of a nervous rat sniffing the air for a whiff of cheese. Without wasting his breath on the fool, von Berg brushed by Racini’s desk and burst into Buzzini’s office.

Buzzini was still in the middle of his Italian breakfast, chewing a tiny sandwich and sipping ersatz espresso. At von Berg’s appearance, he coughed up his espresso. “General von Berg,” he said, standing up and wiping his small, petulant mouth. “This is most unexpected.”

“But so much more fun, Commandant,” von Berg replied, noting the rolls of fat quaking beneath the commandant’s tunic. The man was a disgrace to all men in uniform. “You have my mail?”

Buzzini shot a fiery glance at the helpless Racini, who had followed von Berg into the office. “The general’s cables from Berlin, Sergeant,” Buzzini ordered in his baritone voice. “Bring them to me.”

The ratlike Racini disappeared and returned with several dispatches. Buzzini took them from his aide and handed them to von Berg. “Anything else?” he asked politely, although von Berg could detect the rage bubbling beneath the surface of his dark, fleshy face.

Von Berg ignored him and moved to the window and quickly sorted through the various dispatches to learn what the Italians had seen. Mostly routine, except for a special order from the naval high command and an encoded signal from German minister Otto Carl Kocher in Switzerland.

“I’d like to be alone for a few minutes,” von Berg replied finally. “Could you wait outside?”

At that moment Franz entered the office with what looked like a small typewriter. He proceeded to clear the top of Buzzini’s desk and put down the Sonlar coding machine.

Buzzini turned red, his eyes flashing in anger and his loose jowls quivering. “This is an outrage, General. This is my office! I am the commandant of Corfu!”