Thomas Greanias - The 34th Degree

Standing next to her was Stavros, sporting three bandoliers full of ammunition, one around his waist and one over each of his shoulders. She watched him briefly finger the beautifully engraved handles of the knives that protruded from various parts of his ample waist before he readied his Sten gun.

“Easy, big fella,” she told him. “He’s on our side, remember?”

“Humph,” grunted the Greek.

She ignored him and watched the caique approach. She was looking forward to finally seeing a friendly, familiar face in Greece.

When the caique bumped up against the pier and Chris stepped onto the stone in his docker clothing, Erin immediately was struck by the disappointment on his face. She walked up to him, waiting to let him speak, fighting the urge to throw her arms around him and welcome him to “Free Greece.”

“Well, Captain, here’s what I have,” he told her, handing over a microfilm cartridge and a film negative. “And that’s all I have.”

He did not greet her or show any emotion, and his lifeless eyes disturbed her deeply. Suddenly, she didn’t want the film or even the Maranatha text itself; she only wanted Chris to be like he was before this mission. Like she was before Lyon. But that was impossible, she realized, and she could sense he knew it, too.

“You keep them for now,” she told him, passing them back. “We don’t have the facilities to develop them here, so we’ll wait until we link up with Colonel Prestwick on the submarine.” She dared not mention Churchill’s change in plans.

“Prestwick,” Chris muttered as he put away the negative and the microfilm cartridge. “I’m looking forward to our reunion.”

It was then that Doughty, wearing his New Zealand battle dress uniform with parachute wings on his chest for the occasion, greeted Chris in Greek on behalf of the National Bands of Greece.

“Chris Andros, I presume,” said the red-whiskered New Zealander, shaking Chris’s hand. “So good to see the great general’s son. Welcome to Free Greece.”

At the name of Andros, whispering broke out among the ranks of the andartes. Stavros, it seemed to Erin, seemed particularly thunderstruck. The big Greek passed a torch in front of Chris’s face and studied him closely. “You are the son of that monarcho-fascist General Nicholas Andros?”

“Yes,” Chris shot back, glancing at her and Doughty. “I’m the son of that monarcho-fascist.”

Stavros said nothing, but Erin could see from his suspicious expression that his Marxist mind was at work. Perhaps he could guess that the British wanted to install Andros as the leader of a united Greek Resistance, all under the banner of the National Bands of Greece. It was news she would have to break to Andros the next morning.

“An ugly bunch, aren’t they?” she told Chris lightly, and to the rest gave a shout. “Let’s move!”

They launched Karapis and his boat back to the Independence and produced a sorry-looking mule for Chris to ride to the base.

“I forgot,” said Chris, reaching into his pocket and producing three sealed envelopes. “Touchstone wanted me to give you these orders.”

Erin looked at the envelopes. The first was for her, the second for Stavros, and the third for Kalos. She slipped them into her tunic and nodded. “I’ll pass these out tomorrow. In the meantime, I suggest we get moving.”

As the column of andartes climbed the rocky trail, Erin noticed Stavros looking back over the long line of horses to glimpse her and Andros, side by side, bringing up the rear. Stavros then looked ahead resolutely and proceeded to lead the column of andartes in song: “Better one day of freedom than forty years of slavery…”

A phrodite slept in such fits throughout the night that when she awoke the next morning, she was surprised by the serenity that had descended upon her family’s estate.

She got out of bed, slipped into her dressing gown, and walked to the balcony. The sun was up, the birds were chirping. It was so pleasant that the previous night seemed to fade like a dream, as did the past several days. Then she saw the stain of blood on the stone balustrade.

She thought of Chris and prayed that he was all right. She could still hear him begging her to come with him and could see the hurt in his eyes when she refused. But he never would have escaped if he had tried to bring her.

Suddenly, she remembered the German SS uniform and walked over to her dresser and pulled open the bottom drawer. She found it stuffed behind her nightgowns. It was soaked with blood. As she looked at it, she heard a knock on the door.

“Aphrodite?” It was Franz speaking.

She froze, the uniform still in her hands. “What is it?”

“The Baron wishes to have a word with you in his study.”

She quickly stuffed the uniform in the drawer and pushed it shut before calling back. “I need a few minutes to freshen up.”

“He wishes to see you now, Fraulein.” His voice was harsh.

She stepped away from the dresser and moved toward her bed. She heard the key rattle in the lock. A chill ran up her spine as the door opened.

“This way, Fraulein.”

Franz led her down the corridor and stood on the landing while he watched her descend the stairs. He’s going to search my room, she realized. Oh, God, please don’t let him find the uniform, she prayed frantically. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she looked back up toward the landing, but Franz was gone.

She proceeded toward the library, picturing in advance the sight of Hans-or whoever was responsible for the blood on Chris’s shirt-on the floor. But when she walked into the room, there were no bodies, there was no blood on the carpet. Only Ludwig seated behind his desk, dressed in the black uniform of an SS general. The French doors were open, she noticed, and a fresh breeze came in from the gardens.

“Aphrodite, please sit down.” His tone was icy. He gestured to the chair in front of his desk.

She sat down, realizing that the last time she had seen him in black was that fateful night when he “saved” her family from the Gestapo. “Something wrong, Ludwig?”

“Very. It seems Herr Andros and his entire family have disappeared. Not only that, but so has a film negative from my safe.”

Aphrodite followed his eyes to the safe and feigned surprise at its wide-open door. “Oh?”

“You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Aphrodite tried to suppress the panic rising up inside her. “No, Ludwig.”

“That’s too bad, love,” he replied, his steel-blue eyes piercing right through her. “Because we may have a problem with your brother’s send-off this morning.”

“Please, Ludwig, don’t tell me Kostas won’t be freed.”

“Oh, your brother will go,” Ludwig replied. “I promised the Red Cross that Kostas Vasilis would be freed, and so he shall. A deal is a deal. Unfortunately, neither his family nor I will be able to see him off.”

“What do you mean?” she demanded.

“I mean I will do what I can to intercede on your father’s behalf, but I’m afraid the evidence is quite incriminating,” Ludwig said, pointing to the open safe. “After all, he more than anybody else would know how to break into his own safe.”

Aphrodite knew he was not above using an implicit threat to her father’s safety to make her talk. But she refused to believe he would follow through on it.

“I don’t believe it,” she said simply. “And neither do you, Ludwig. My father is a shrewd businessman and has been more than accommodating to you. Since only you know the combination, he wouldn’t know how to open the safe in the first place, much less attempt it.”

“That has crossed my mind, and I must admit I am puzzled by this affair,” Ludwig answered. “I would like to believe there’s been a terrible mistake here and that your father will be vindicated. Your mother did her best to defend him. She tried to be diplomatic about it, told us something about Andros being in your bedroom last night, exposing himself to her.”