Thomas Greanias - The 34th Degree

The papyrus was brown and fragmented, and the ancient Greek characters looked dark and foreboding, as if they were indeed hiding some eternal mystery. Deker could understand Hitler’s and Prestwick’s interest in unlocking the text’s secrets. He wanted to reach out and touch the glass, but his hands were tied.

“So close, Herr Andros, yet so far.” Von Berg pulled the text away from him. “And it was all for nothing, you see, because I already knew the Allies intend to invade Sicily and that Greece is only a cover.”

Deker sank in his chair. Von Berg knew everything. There was nothing to hide now.

“The truly astonishing irony,” von Berg continued, “is that this text is nothing but a forgery.”

Deker looked up. “A forgery?”

“Foisted upon gullible believers by a false apostle in the first century. If he were alive today, I suspect he’d be working for Himmler or Donovan.”

“A forgery,” Deker repeated, watching von Berg carefully slip the glass containing the text into his leather briefcase.

Von Berg laughed. “Don’t despair, Herr Andros! Your failure has been my inspiration. This text may yet serve a greater purpose than anyone ever intended. You see, I intend to convince the Fuhrer that he has indeed tapped the source of Greek Fire and that the formulas encoded in the text are atomic in nature. Anything to make him a believer in the Flammenschwert.”

“Atomic formulas hidden in a text written almost two thousand years ago?” Deker asked incredulously. “Hitler will never believe it.”

“The Fuhrer is crazy, and he will believe it,” von Berg retorted. “After all, atomic theories were formulated in classical times. There was Leucippus of Miletus, Democritus of Abdera, and Epicurus of Samos. The ancient philosophers and mathematicians simply lacked the means to translate their ideas into reality.”

“Reality? Come, now, von Berg. This is fantasy!”

Von Berg shrugged as if to say it didn’t matter. “Whether it was Paul or some other false apostle who penned the Maranatha text, whether the text was encoded consciously by the author or unconsciously by some unseen hand, whether it is divine or of the devil, will be of little consequence to the Fuhrer. The point is, Herr Andros, the text exists. More important, this text is proof to the general staff that the Allied microfilm Canaris’s Abwehr agents intercepted in Istanbul is a forgery and that the Allies intend a landing in Sicily.”

Von Berg placed the briefcase containing the Maranatha text inside his wall safe, shut the door, and spun the combination. He then swung the portrait of King Ludwig II back into place. “So you see, Herr Andros, I know everything.”

“Everything?” said Deker, challenging the Baron’s hubris. “Then I suppose you knew all along that Werner was working for Himmler.”

The corners of von Berg’s mouth tightened as he forced a smile, and Deker could see a flicker of doubt in his icy blue eyes.

“Oh, yes,” said Deker. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Himmler has a cell with your name on it.”

Von Berg shrugged. “Then I’ll simply have to kill Himmler and Hitler when I see them later this morning,” he said. “As the new chancellor, I can then put a stop to this war.”

“Stop this war?” Deker laughed incredulously. “Even if you did take out Hitler and Himmler, why would the Allies or anybody believe you’d be any better, much less make peace with you?”

“Because I am the rightful king of Germany!” von Berg cried out, and began to pace back and forth beneath the portrait of King Ludwig II. “I am the son of Maximilian von Berg and the grandson of Elizabeth of Austria and Ludwig II of Bavaria. I am King Ludwig III!”

Deker blinked. “You’re crazy, von Berg. You’re even worse than Hitler.”

Von Berg’s face turned red with anger, his facial muscles trembling as all the passion he had bottled up inside erupted. “‘Ein ewiges Ratsel will ich bleiben mir und anderen!’” he screamed, shaking an angry fist at heaven. “If I wish to remain an eternal enigma to myself and to others, that is my divine right!”

The emotional outburst caught Deker by surprise, and he watched in morbid fascination as it took a full minute and several deep breaths before the Baron could fully wind down and regain control of himself.

“The Allies will recognize the authority of King Ludwig III,” von Berg announced, referring to himself in the third person. “If they don’t, the power of the Flammenschwert will force them to make peace with Germany. Peace or the destruction of their cities. Yes, the war will be over in a matter of days. It’s a shame you won’t be alive to see it, Herr Andros.”

The bookcase opened, and Franz appeared in the passageway. He regarded the red-faced Baron with trepidation and cleared his throat. “The Flammenschwert device is being loaded on the Nausicaa, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer.”

Von Berg drew a deep breath. “And Aphrodite?”

“Already on board, in your quarters.”

“Excellent.” Von Berg turned to Deker. “The crew of the Nausicaa believes the Flammenschwert device contains a new form of rocket fuel. Of the five officers and fifty ratings on board, only Captain Myers, Franz, and I know the truth.”

Von Berg checked his watch. “It’s a quarter to six, Franz. Take Andros downstairs to his cell and inform Myers to prepare to depart in ten minutes.”

Ten minutes, thought Deker. That meant the Flammenschwert could be gone before the Allies’ strike. It would all be for nothing. And he would be left here to die.

Von Berg seemed to read his mind. “You thought I’d stay for the fireworks, Herr Andros? With you here, your Allied friends can’t be far behind, but by the time they arrive, I’ll be long gone. And you’ll be dead.”

A few minutes later, Deker was thrown into a dank cell beneath the Achillion. Franz slammed the heavy metal door and turned the key. Deker could see the German’s smiling face looking through the bars of the square window cut into the door.

“I trust your accommodations are adequate, Herr Andros.”

“A bit damp, I confess.”

“Oh, did the Baron forget to tell you? These cell blocks are flooded from the loading bay above us every time the Nausicaa departs. According to my watch, that should be five minutes from now.”

The island of Corfu loomed large on the horizon as the squadron of RAF bombers skimmed the surface of the Ionian Sea and flew in under the Italian radar net. Their view of the coastline was obscured by a low mist over the waters.

Seated at the left-seat controls of his Liberator was Squadron Leader Jack MacDonald, excitedly scanning his airspeed indicator, which read 110 mph. Next to him sat Wing Commander Rainey, looking ahead nervously, a crushed fifty-mission hat clamped to his head by a pair of oversize earphones.

“At least the experts at our briefing in Blida were honest,” said the baby-faced copilot. “We have poor visibility and dangerous terrain. I can’t see a thing. We’ve got to climb.”

MacDonald grasped the yoke of the control stick with his left hand and gripped the throttle with his right, carefully jockeying the bomber toward the shadowy outline of coast and mountains.

“We’ve got to climb, sir!” Rainey repeated.

MacDonald shook his head. “Any higher than six hundred feet, and we’ll trip their radar.”

“Any lower than six thousand feet,” warned Rainey, “and their antiaircraft guns will shoot us down.”

But dawn was breaking, and so was the low mist. The sky cleared, and MacDonald could see their reference points. At three o’clock was Corfu Town’s Old Fortress. At noon were the two islets in the mouth of the Chalikiopoulos Lagoon. And there at nine o’clock high, sitting pretty on its hill, was the Achillion.