Thomas Greanias - The 34th Degree

Andros exchanged glances with Erin as the lorry braked to a halt.

“Identification, signor,” demanded a harsh voice in passable Greek.

Andros heard the shuffle of papers and Stavros’s irritated voice. “I’m running behind schedule. Hurry.”

“But of course,” came the smart reply. “Now step out slowly or I’ll blow your brains out.”

The Italian must have been pointing a gun, because Andros heard the door open and Stavros get out.

“Rudolf, check this ape. Ah, a gun. Carrying a gun is worth the death penalty.”

“Protection,” Stavros explained. “From bandits like you.”

There was a great smack, and Andros could almost feel the butt of the pistol strike Stavros’s face. “Rudolf, check what they’re carrying in the back.”

Andros and Erin crouched low behind the sacks while a flashlight beam searched the back of the lorry. Apparently not satisfied, Rudolf climbed inside for a further look. As he bent over, Andros slipped his arm across the man’s neck and pulled until he heard the awful snap.

Outside, Rudolf’s superior was getting impatient. “Hurry up, Corporal. I haven’t got all night.”

When Andros finally came around from behind the lorry, he cut the figure of an Italian commando, rifle at the ready.

“Well, Corporal?”

“All clear,” answered Andros, stepping forward into the light of the guardhouse.

The Italian’s face fell, and he reached for his pistol, but Andros shot him in the arm. The Italian reached for his sleeve in agony. “Please, no more!”

“Next time you’ll join your friend,” Andros said, and called to Stavros and Erin, “Take care of the truck while I take care of this one.”

The Italian looked terrified and begged for mercy.

“Just shut up and strip,” Andros ordered. “Erin, pardon the stain on the sleeve.”

Andros marched the naked Italian into the fir forest on the other side of the ridge. He forced the man to lie flat on the ground and struck him on the head like Erin had taught him at the Farm. Then he used a rope he’d found in the guardhouse to tie him up in knots that would make old Captain Tsatsos proud.

When Andros returned to the road, there was no sign of the lorry, only the Italian staff car. The engine was running, and Erin was behind the wheel. Stavros, dressed in an Italian uniform, sat sulking in back with the submachine guns.

“I hope she knows what she’s doing,” the kapetanios griped as Andros climbed into the passenger seat next to her.

Erin ignored the remark, hit the accelerator, and they were off. As soon as the lights of the checkpoint faded from the rearview mirror, she told Andros, “Check the glove compartment for papers.”

Andros rummaged through the compartment and produced a visa. “Signed by the Italian garrison commander of Kalamata himself.”

“Perfect,” she replied.

They descended the other side of the Taygetos Mountains toward Kalamata along the Nedonas Gorge, clearing the next two checkpoints without a hitch.

The port of Kalamata was used by the Italians for shipping supplies between Italy and the Aegean Islands. But at this hour, the streets of the capital of the province of Messenia were deserted as the Italian staff car carrying Andros, Erin, and Stavros rolled through the center of town, passing the Italian garrison on its way toward the beachfront a long mile down.

They stopped behind a warehouse across from the marina. The smell of fish was strong, the mournful wail of a bouzouki from some distant taverna barely audible above the rhythmic creaking of boats in their slips.

“Nice and slow,” said Andros as they proceeded. “Remember, we’re patrolling the piers, just like the others on foot.”

As Erin drove along the quayside, past the strung-up nets and occasional swinging lantern, Andros was aware of several dark vehicles coming up fast on their right. He looked into the side-view mirror, only to be blinded by the headlights of Kubelwagen.

“It’s a trap!” said Stavros, opening fire, trying to knock out the lights.

Erin stepped on the pedal, but more lights appeared at the far end of the harbor. She roared down the quayside and swung a hard left into the second-to-last pier, the Kubelwagen and cars closing in.

She braked to a halt, and they all jumped out and started running. A hundred yards away was the end of the pier, lit by a lantern swinging on a rope. Behind them the Kubelwagen and Gestapo cars were blocked by the Italian staff car. The Germans got out and started shooting.

As they ran down the pier, Andros could hear an engine revving in the water. Soon he saw it-a fishing caique bobbing at the end of the pier. The pier light had been knocked out. A figure popped out of the wheelhouse, aiming a rusted Thompson submachine gun at them as they climbed aboard.

“Your uniforms, I wasn’t too sure,” the skipper said, dropping the formalities when a spray of bullets from the quay showered splinters of wood. “Inside, now!”

They crammed into the wheelhouse, and the surprisingly powerful engine roared to life. The old fishing caique peeled away from the pier at an unbelievably high speed.

“What do you have under there?” asked Stavros, pointing to the engine room.

“Tank engine,” the skipper boasted. “This caique belongs to the British, but I get to keep everything at the end of the war if I’m still afloat.” He switched on the radio to a special frequency to pick up Axis traffic. “We’re not out of this yet. They’ve alerted every patrol boat in the gulf. They will try to cut us off.”

Several German and Italian motor torpedo boats were converging up ahead in the open sea. But they were too late. The engine shot a pitch higher, and the caique cleared the boats trying to close them off, leaving them behind to be swallowed by the darkness.

The skipper said, “They won’t follow us now.”

“How can you be so sure?” asked Andros.

“The waters we are in, they are mined. That is why the patrol boats don’t follow us.” The skipper started laughing. “But I, Niko, know the way, I think. If they have not changed things too much.”

They weaved their way through the minefield in the Gulf of Messenia, a fiendish grin crossing Niko’s face as the boat headed toward the Cape of Koroni and the open sea. The tossing proved too much for Andros, and he retched over the side, convinced that if they didn’t strike a mine, they were going to die one way or another with this daredevil.

As Andros leaned over the splintered railing, the raw feeling of gravel in his throat, it occurred to him that the Minotaur would take whatever precautions necessary to minimize even the most remote risk of losing the microfilm. If such was the case, Eliot would cover his bets by placing his own man on the getaway caique. Andros straightened and turned to see Niko in the wheelhouse with Stavros.

Stavros must have been thinking the same thing, because he picked up the rusted Thompson on the deck and pointed it at Niko. “The British give you this, too?” he asked. “It doesn’t even work.”

The skipper shrugged. “It was too much of a chore to clean every day, and I got tired of it.”

Stavros pointed to several flags visible beneath the pile of ropes in the back of the deck-German, Greek, Egyptian, Turkish. “And those?”

“Depends on which waters I travel.”

“What else did the British do for you?”

“SOE also gave me this,” Niko said, proudly holding up a luminous signal ball. “Works well in the water and will help us with the submarine pickup off Koroni.”

As Niko held up the signal ball with one hand, he reached under the chart table with the other and released a spring catch. A flap fell down, and a Schmeisser machine pistol dropped from its secret compartment into his hand. He raised his arm and pointed it at Andros and Stavros. “The National Liberation Front orders you to hand over the film to me before I throw you out among the mines,” he demanded. “I, Niko, am-”