Thomas Greanias - The 34th Degree

Too many minutes later, utterly astounded, Andros reached the final page of the summary section of the report: Because Ludwig II left no known successor, Prince Luitpold assumed the office of regent of Bavaria within the united Germany from 1886 until he died in 1912. The next year his son assumed the kingship and declared himself Ludwig III, only to be dethroned in 1918 with the brief establishment of the Soviet republic that preceded the doomed Weimar Republic and the rise of the Third Reich. By this time Ludwig II’s son and true heir by birthright, Maximilian von Berg, had died in an insane asylum. The line of succession now falls to Ludwig von Berg. As far as the world is concerned, only two of us are aware of Ludwig von Berg’s true identity. All members of the Bavarian political police aware of this rumor have been eliminated; Gestapo chief Heinrich Mueller knows nothing. As for others who might be aware of Maximilian’s legacy, it is doubtful that-if they are still alive-they would come forward to confirm the rumor, much less stake their lives on it. Nevertheless, the legend of Ludwig II’s son still fires a fierce monarchist movement in Bavaria, and the Wittelsbach family has worn the emperor’s crown three times before. Should the secret of Maximilian von Berg’s true identity be known, such sentiment could be strong enough to put Ludwig von Berg, the true Ludwig III, on the throne-if not by certain Germans, then by the Allies. Thus, in the final analysis, U-boat commander Ludwig von Berg of the Imperial Navy can only be considered an enemy of the Reich. Recommend special treatment. Heil Hitler!

Andros knew that “special treatment” was the SS euphemism for murder. The report was signed by the SS staff officer who had prepared it and was initialed by Heydrich. Heydrich, in turn, had the man executed the following day and added his own handwritten addendum to the bottom of the page: Now I am the only one who is aware of Ludwig von Berg’s true identity. Genetics dictate that the Baron should be completely mad by the time he is 40. That would be June 2, 1943. In the meantime, he can still be of use to the Reich. He shall be brought under my direct supervision, where I can personally observe the signs of his progressive mental decline and perhaps encourage them. If, at the age of 40, he is still psychologically sound, I shall see to it that he receives very special treatment indeed.

A ndros closed the report and looked outside to the gardens, recalling that Heydrich never made it to Berlin. Czech assassins had ambushed the Protector’s green Mercedes as it made a hairpin turn outside Prague. The exploding grenade had fatally wounded Heydrich. It took him over a week to die at Bulovka Hospital.

All great stuff for the OSS, but no Maranatha text.

He put down the V ON B ERG file and picked up the H USKY file. At last he’d found what he was looking for-copies of an ancient Greek text, juxtaposed with mathematical formulas.

The accompanying report, curiously, was written in…English.

English? Andros took a closer look and suddenly found himself staring at the Allied plans for invasion of Sicily. The plans said the Americans would be landing in the Gulf of Gela and from there would advance up the west coast of the island. The British were to land near the southwest tip of the island and move quickly to take Syracuse. The plans even detailed the movements of General Patton’s Seventh Army-to which he and Hayfield had been assigned at West Point.

Sicily! According to the report, Greece was only a cover.

Von Berg’s handwritten notes in the margins said that the Americans would never make it beyond the beaches. Hermann Goering’s panzer division would move down toward Gela from its positions around Caltagirone and would be waiting to greet them.

Andros thought of Hayfield and knew he couldn’t allow this scenario to happen.

He also thought of something else: Prestwick and Donovan lied to me.

His heart started to race as everything sank in. His own life, not to mention Aphrodite’s, seemed less certain with each passing second.

Andros set the folders on von Berg’s desk and pulled out his camera. He had to move fast, he realized, and switched on the desk lamp only to find Werner seated behind the desk, pointing a Ceska at him.

T he mournful strains of rembetika music faded into the night as Captain Tsatsos stepped outside the quayside taverna and lit his hand-rolled cigar. It was getting late, and darkness had fallen across the port of Piraeus. He drew a deep breath and looked past the row of shipyard warehouses to the docks. Anchored at the pier was the Independence, waiting to make her run to the Luftwaffe air base on the island of Kythira.

Tsatsos looked at his watch. Ten after nine. Curfew was at ten. Andros wasn’t expected to arrive until shortly thereafter, when the entire harbor would be blacked out in the event of Allied night bombing.

Tsatsos strolled along the quay to the Independence, whistling softly in the dim light. The crew were dallying about with the cranes and the last remaining drums of fuel, trying to look as busy as they could. But Tsatsos could sense their restlessness on his way up the gangway. When he finally reached the bridge, his first mate looked worn and hunted.

“We’ve been stalling for as long as we can,” Karapis reported anxiously. “Lieutenant Schneider from the port authority is demanding to know what the holdup is.”

“Lieutenant Schneider.” Tsatsos spat on the deck. “My favorite port officer.”

Karapis said, “I told him you were drinking at the taverna, that you weren’t aware our departure time had been moved up.”

“And our cargo?”

“Even with the delays, the last stores are ready to be loaded,” Karapis replied, “all except one.”

Tsatsos nodded. “Andros.”

“Do you think he’ll make it?”

Tsatsos shrugged. “Lights out soon,” he observed grimly. “If Christos comes, we want to be sure we’re still in port.”

Karapis, clearly losing patience, replied, “But the crew has stalled too long already.”

Tsatsos turned his gaze a few piers away to the ghostly Turtle Dove, emptied of her stores and crew until her departure in the morning, or so it seemed. “What about our other friends?”

“Mitchell Rassious, his wife, daughter, and mother-in-law are all safely stowed aboard the Turtle Dove,” Karapis reported. “We got them aboard before the last consignments were unloaded this evening and the SS guard detail moved in. It’s we who will be in trouble if we don’t cast off.”

Tsatsos could see that his exasperated first mate could wait no longer. “Come, then, Karapis, let us talk to our friend the port officer.”

They didn’t have to travel far, because at that moment an annoyed Lieutenant Schneider walked onto the bridge. He was an oily, sniveling, and pretentious landlubber who had developed an abrupt passion for the sea the previous fall when he discovered that his battalion would be moving on from Athens to the cold Russian front. How he finagled his new post was a source of endless speculation among the Greek dockers.

“So that’s what smells so foul in here,” said the German, frowning at the cigar in Tsatsos’s mouth. “You’re smoking hashish.”

Tsatsos shrugged. “Arrest me, Lieutenant. Then who will pilot your stolen wares?”

Schneider was still new to this miserable job and apparently had decided that insubordinate old dogs like Tsatsos weren’t worth the trouble. “You’re going to Kythira tonight,” the port officer said with an authoritative voice. “But I see you have no gun crew or escort flotilla.”

“Yes, it seems friends are in short supply for these little night runs to the Kythira air base.” Tsatsos took a puff on his cigar and smiled. “Perhaps it has something to do with the highly explosive barrels of fuel we have on board.” He tapped his cigar and with delight watched the German’s eyes anxiously follow the flickering ashes to the floor. “Why do you ask? Would you like to join us?”