Thomas Greanias - The 34th Degree

T he First Cemetery was the Athenian version of Washington’s Arlington National Cemetery. The approach was along Eternal Rest Street. Nasos drove up the slight grade through the main gate and stopped so that Andros could help his grandmother out. In his dark, conservative suit, Andros felt uncomfortably warm under the hot sun.

They made their way between the mausoleums and cypress trees toward the Andros family plot. To their right, the sculpture of the Sleeping Maiden, by the sculptor Halepas, graced the Afendakis family plot. To their left were other shrines, more famous for their art than for the souls whose memory they were intended to preserve.

Mourners had gathered around his father’s simple grave, including his cousins and the Vasilis family. They kept a respectful distance while he and his grandmother made the sign of the cross and placed a bouquet of fresh flowers on the cold stone slab. Then little Helen came up and threw some wheat kernels on the tomb, a symbol of eternal life, and ran back to her father. Uncle Mitchell took her hand and glared at Andros, obviously displeased with him and his business in Athens.

As Andros grimly stood there before his father’s grave, staring at death itself, Aphrodite’s father approached and made the sign of the cross, whether out of respect for Nicholas Andros or his own fears, Andros couldn’t tell.

“The same fate awaits us all,” Vasilis said. “But as I once heard Metaxas say to a foreign dignitary, ‘Death is but an episode for the Orthodox believer.’”

With those hugely consoling words, Vasilis rejoined his daughter and scowling wife, and they walked to their car. Before climbing in, Aphrodite glanced back toward Andros, and when he saw her sad eyes, he knew she still had feelings for him.

“Good God,” remarked a voice from behind in perfect Oxford English. “Now we’re quoting dead dictators like Holy Writ.”

Andros turned to see a bearded Greek Orthodox priest standing next to him, staring down at the grave.

The priest said, “Now kiss my ring and look pious for all the mourners loafing about.”

Andros bent over to kiss the priest’s ring and saw the Union Jack insignia. When he straightened, he realized he was looking at Brigadier Andrew Eliot, the Athens SOE chief known as Touchstone. With a straight face, Andros asked, “Father, does the good archbishop know he’s surrounded by false apostles?”

“His Most Holy Grace is quite on board, as you Americans say,” replied SOE’s master of disguise. “Let’s take a stroll among the tombstones. Remember, I’m here to console you in your grief.”

The two moved away from the mourners, who Andros hoped saw only a priest placing his hand on the shoulder of General Andros’s grieving son, comforting him.

Eliot said, “I must congratulate you on your own exceptional performance, Chris. In under twenty-four hours, you’ve successfully established yourself as a thoroughly despicable individual. Athens is alive with talk that you’ve struck a deal with the Germans. You’ve been branded a collaborator.”

“So it seems,” Andros observed. It was a brutal fact of life he couldn’t escape. As far as any Greek was concerned, he had become the kind of man he hated most. A turncoat. A traitor. A man who put his own selfish interests ahead of others. A Nazi. God, how he hated those bastards. The thought that he could be thrown in with that lot-especially Baron von Berg-brought bile to the back of his throat. “I’m everything I ever hated.”

“Yes,” said Eliot. “Even your uncle is a believer, and he’s more than displeased with you. From what he’s been telling his friends, you are an utter embarrassment to your family and to Greece.”

Andros was beginning to worry that if the Germans didn’t get him, some Greek patriot like Captain Tsatsos or his uncle Mitchell would. “You’ve heard this?”

“One hears many confessions in my occupation,” Eliot replied with a smile. “You might want to read the latest edition of the resistance newspaper Nea Eleftheron. You’re featured in the ‘Portrait of a Traitor’ column. Frankly, with such talk going around, I suspect you’re the reason so many have come to pay their respects to your father. Tell me what happened last night. I understand you managed to infiltrate one of von Berg’s parties.”

“It was an invitation I couldn’t refuse,” Andros replied.

“You made contact with the girl?”

It was always “the girl” with these OSS and SOE types, thought Andros. Aphrodite had a name. Why didn’t they use it? “ Aphrodite says von Berg keeps important papers in the library safe,” he snapped. “But she’s too scared to even see me again.”

“And von Berg?”

“Oh, von Berg and I are good friends,” Andros went on in a stale tone. “He invited me to lunch this afternoon at the Vasilis estate.”

“Perfect,” said Eliot. “You can speak with Aphrodite while you’re there, if you can get alone with her.”

Andros turned and looked at Eliot. “I told you, she wants nothing to do with me.”

“You must be bold, do something that will force her hand,” Eliot said, putting his arm around Andros like a concerned man of the cloth, directing him back toward the mourners. “That’s what the engagement ring is for. You will press her to marry you, to make her deal with you. In turn, that will force von Berg to deal with you.”

“The Baron has already dealt with me most effectively,” Andros said. “The question is, how do I deal with him this afternoon?”

“Very carefully,” Eliot explained. “You’ll tell him that the Andros ship Turtle Dove is already steaming toward Greece from Istanbul with a shipment of Red Cross food and medical supplies.”

“It is?” asked Andros, alarmed at the pace with which events were now proceeding.

Eliot nodded. “That ship, which is under Swiss registry, is your proof to von Berg that you can deliver on your promise to break the British blockade. You’ll ask him to reciprocate by allowing the ship safe passage into Piraeus tomorrow morning. In the meantime, you must convince Aphrodite to help you get into the Baron’s safe before that ship returns to Istanbul the next morning.”

That was under forty-eight hours, Andros realized. “You’re not giving me much time.”

“Nor, we hope, the Baron,” Eliot replied. “We have to move fast if we’re going to pull this off, before the Nazis figure out what’s happening.”

“What about you?” asked Andros. “Where will I find you?”

“After your meetings with von Berg and Aphrodite this afternoon, we’ll rendezvous in the Royal Gardens near Constitution Square. You’ll be taking a stroll through the park at dusk, wearing exactly what you have on now. You’ll decide your shoes need to be shined. A boy will offer to shine your shoes, and you will say, ‘Like a glass darkly,’ and he will reply, ‘But soon face-to-face.’ He will hand you further instructions.”

“And in the meantime?”

“We’ll listen in on your conversations with both von Berg and the girl, courtesy of that ring box from Tiffany,” said Eliot. “The Germans have mobile direction finders roaming about, so we have to be careful. You especially. One slip, and this could well be your funeral next week. I see there’s already a plot with your name on it.”

S till dressed in his stiff three-piece suit from the memorial service, Andros arrived at the Vasilis estate at two and found Baron von Berg in the library, working through some papers. Von Berg was wearing a loose-fitting white sport shirt, slacks, and tennis shoes. The clothes gave the Baron an unhurried air of leisure, as if the only thing on his mind that afternoon, really, was getting in a few sets on the grass court in back before supper.