Thomas Greanias - The 34th Degree

“Just because plenty of Greek police officials work under the Nazis and Italians doesn’t mean all of them are collaborators, Stavros,” Eliot said. “Quite a few are genuine patriots helping the Resistance. This one contacted us some months ago, saying he wanted to join the guerrillas in the mountains. We told him to stay at his post, that apart from carrying out his unpleasant duties as humanely as possible, he could also be of some service to us. I have more for the rest of you.”

“I won’t be needing one,” said Stavros. “This is as far as I go. After we get out of here, I must get back to my village.”

Eliot looked at the kapetanios with disdain, as if Stavros were a loose end that refused to be tied. “Fine,” he said.

Andros asked, “So where is this truck, and who will be driving?”

Eliot led him to the open window overlooking the platia, throbbing with evening strollers and patrons of the tavernas. “See that fountain over there? In ten minutes you will go take a drink of water. A man will appear behind you, telling you to save some for the fish off Kalamata. He’s your conductor. You’ll follow him to a warehouse on the outskirts of town. That’s where the truck is. You simply ask to see Stella. We don’t have much time: curfew is in under an hour.”

“What about us?” asked Stavros, glancing at Erin. “You expect us to wait up here with a hundred Germans downstairs?”

“Andros will park the lorry in the rear and load you in the back. The less you two are seen, the better. All of you will take the main road out of Sparta and drive through the Taygetos range to Kalamata.”

“And simply float through the checkpoints?” Stavros asked.

“Inside the glove compartment of the lorry are papers signed by the local German garrison commander himself. They’ll get you past the checkpoints here in Sparta, outside Kalamata, and onto the docks. Our man Niko will take you in his fishing caique to the submarine. The caique is moored to the second to last pier. Understood?”

“Understood,” said Andros.

“Good, I’ll go secure the arrangements. Andros, you follow me in five minutes.”

When Eliot left the room, he closed the door and went downstairs to the phone in the kitchen. There, amid the background clatter of plates and glasses, he dialed a local number. “This is the Minotaur. Andros just turned up. I’m sending him your way. He’ll do as I say, and so will you. Now listen…”

Andros was only too happy to step out onto the platia after spending too much time in a closed room with a nervous Stavros. He crossed the platia and approached the fountain as Eliot had instructed and stood behind two women. He bent down to take his drink. When he looked up, he saw a convoy of German trucks pull up in front of the town hall. They were the Alpine Corps they had spotted from the cave earlier, back from a fruitless excursion in the mountains.

A voice from behind him said, “Save some for the fish off Kalamata.”

Andros turned. Before him was a small, dark man with a gray mustache. The man took some water and then, in passing, whispered that they must get going. “Follow me at intervals.”

They crossed the platia and made their way past the cathedral, turning down a narrow alley. Although the streets were laid out at right angles, Andros quickly lost his sense of direction as he followed his conductor through the maze of alleys toward the edge of the town. The odyssey ended in a ghostly courtyard under a big moon. The warehouse in back could barely stand, its caved-in roof supported by rotting walls with broken windows.

The conductor creaked open the gate, and they walked around back. He knocked quickly four times and waited. A moment later, the garage door slid open.

The man who stood there in dirty overalls was wiping the grease from his hands with a blackened cloth. He wore a handkerchief knotted over his head in the manner of the Cretans, and his angry eyes looked Andros over from his soot-smeared face. “What do you want?”

The conductor answered, “We came to see Stella.”

“She’s inside, but I don’t know if she wants to see you.”

The conductor motioned for Andros to go inside while he stayed outside.

The warehouse was simply one large garage with two small rooms and a kitchen in back. In the middle of the garage sat the sorry-looking lorry, its condition hardly better than the garage’s. It was filled in back with sacks of grain.

Andros walked around the truck and opened the hood. “Stella looks sturdy enough for the streets in town,” he told the mechanic, “but how will she do in the mountain passes?”

The mechanic angrily retorted, “You don’t like the arrangements?”

“All I want to know is how she’ll do in the mountain passes.”

“You’ll never know.” The mechanic’s right arm came up holding a pearl-handled Colt revolver. “Spread your feet,” he ordered. “Hands against the wall.”

Andros did as he was told and could feel the rough hands run over his body. “If you’re looking for a gun, I don’t have one.”

The mechanic spun him around and pushed the cold barrel of the Colt under his chin. “The film, fascist,” he said, breathing heavily. “I want the film!”

“Too late,” said Andros with a smile. “It’s back at the camp.”

“Liar!” The mechanic kicked him in the groin.

The blow sent Andros doubling over in agony. He slid against the wall to the floor, groaning in pain.

The mechanic reached down and tore open his shirt, saw the film cartridge and negative taped to his chest, and ripped them off. “You’re in the hands of the National Liberation Front, traitor,” he told Andros. “And it is in the hands of the National Liberation Front that you will die. Now, get up and walk toward the kitchen slowly.” With the sharp point of his boot, he kicked Andros in his wounded leg. Andros roared in pain, his body writhing in agony.

“You call yourself the son of General Andros,” scoffed the mechanic, looking down at him. “You’re not much to look at.” He screwed up his eyes. “I said get up!”

Andros tried to brace himself, but the blow from the boot came too fast, crashing into his back with such force that he was sure his back was broken. In spite of the jarring pain, he managed to stand. He stood staring at the revolver, trying to piece together what was happening.

The mechanic barked, “I said move.”

Andros felt the hard barrel of the Colt press against his back, pushing him through the warehouse to the kitchen. There he saw Brigadier Eliot, sitting in a chair, sipping some tea, a Mauser on the counter beside him.

“Ah, you made it, Andros.” Eliot nodded toward an empty chair. “Please sit down.”

Bewildered, Andros sank down on the chair while the mechanic used one hand to keep the Colt revolver trained on him and the other to place the cartridge of microfilm and the negative on the counter for Eliot to see.

“Excellent work, Comrade Kalos,” Eliot said. “Although I must say, from what I heard happening out there, I wasn’t sure I was going to see Andros walk in here alive.”

Andros glanced at the mechanic and realized he was looking at Colonel Alexander Kalos. He then looked at Eliot. Suddenly, he saw it all. “You’re the Minotaur.”

Eliot smiled with satisfaction. “Ever since that fateful autumn afternoon on the campus at Cambridge, when I had the unexpected pleasure of running into an elderly gentleman by the name of Orlov,” he explained. “For me, an ungrateful son of a barrister and disillusioned veteran of the Great War, what he offered was the opportunity of a lifetime. Two years later, I joined the British Secret Service.”

“As a spy for the enemy,” said Andros.