Thomas Greanias - The 34th Degree

Churchill passed Prestwick a photo of a striking young woman. Large, sad eyes gazed out of one of the most beautiful faces Prestwick had ever seen, crowned with a shimmering mane of black hair that fell behind her shoulders. Prestwick was seduced by her wide and well-formed mouth. “Who is she?”

“Von Berg’s mistress,” Churchill explained. “Aphrodite Vasilis, an Athens socialite.”

“She can’t be over twenty-one.”

“Exactly,” said Churchill. “And if anybody else besides von Berg knows about the text, it’s Miss Vasilis. She’s the chink in his armor, his Achilles’ heel. If we can get through to her, we can get to the text.”

“But how, sir?” asked Prestwick. “Knowing the Baron, she’s probably just as well defended as the Maranatha text. And I’m sure he’s trained her never to talk to strangers.”

“That’s why we’re going to send her an old friend.”

“An old friend?” Prestwick was curious.

“A special man I have in mind,” Churchill went on. “A man I believe is capable of persuading Miss Vasilis to help us.”

Prestwick adjusted his tie and leaned forward expectantly. “And who would that be, sir?”

“His name is Chris Andros.”

Prestwick frowned and sat back in his chair. “Of the Andros shipping family?”

“The same,” said Churchill. “I knew his father well. General Nicholas Andros of the Greek army, one of Greece’s greatest war heroes. He was killed on Crete two years ago during the Nazi invasion. His brother-in-law now runs Andros Shipping in Athens, under Nazi supervision. He also runs guns for us to the Greek Resistance.”

“And this son of General Andros. Where is he now?”

“Here in the States.” Churchill drew out a file. “You’ll discover that Chris Andros is a fiercely independent, proud young man who seems hell-bent on emerging from his father’s shadow on his own terms. That’s why he left politically scarred Greece and came to America.” He pushed the file across the desk.

Prestwick opened the file, and a photo fell to the floor. He picked it up by the corner and saw a rather dashing young man no older than twenty-five standing in what he recognized as Harvard Yard. For a Harvard man, Prestwick thought, this Andros cut a fine figure: medium height, good shoulders, and a trim, athletic build. He had black wavy hair, clear dark eyes, an aquiline nose, and a firm jaw. But it was his broad grin that made Prestwick hate Andros, for it was the kind of winning smile no decent man could hate and no warm-blooded woman could resist.

“A handsome man,” he observed, unable to hide the envy in his voice. “Too handsome, really, for a spy.”

“Good looks aside, Prestwick, Andros has proved himself in action, which is more than I can say for you.”

Stung by this tasteless exposure of his faults, Prestwick replaced the photo of Andros in the folder. He thumbed through the rest of the documents, hoping to glean some vice or character flaw that he could put to good use. “What makes you think Miss Vasilis will assist young Andros?”

“She was his fiancee before the Nazis invaded Greece and cut off their engagement.”

“Ah.”

Churchill added, “Those letters in his file are love letters the two wrote to each other between the time of their engagement and the middle of 1941, when all communication ceased. Our girls in Bermuda intercepted them. From what they tell us, Andros knows nothing about the new man in his former fiancee’s life. As for Miss Vasilis, she still thinks he’s at Harvard, as do the Germans.”

“But he’s not there anymore?”

“Dropped out as soon as the Germans invaded,” Churchill told him. “Tried to get back to Greece for personal reasons, but couldn’t.”

“So where is he now?”

“The United States Military Academy.”

“West Point?” Prestwick could see there was more to young Andros than he at first imagined. “He’s a soldier, just like his father?”

“I wouldn’t put it to him that way, Prestwick, but it’s all there in your file. You’ll recruit him, train him at the Farm, and then slip him into Greece. There he’ll make contact with the girl and, ideally, steal the text.”

Prestwick glanced at the file in his hands, keenly resenting that his career now rested with a young, untested man he hadn’t even had a hand in selecting. “But what chance does a rank amateur-even if he is a West Pointer-have against the likes of the Baron?”

“Young Andros is our only chance,” Churchill said. “He knows the language and the land of Greece better than any of our own. He also has, as you people in New Haven put it, the proper ‘connections’ in Athens. Let’s see how he fares with Miss Vasilis. If her feelings for him are anywhere near what she’s expressed in those letters, she’ll help.”

“And if not?”

“We have another little Greek tragedy in the making. And you’ll be part of it.”

“Excuse me?”

Churchill drew out a second file. “According to your OSS records, Yale cut off all your funding just before you joined SOE.” He grew reflective. “This war is the best thing that ever happened to you, isn’t it? If it came to an end, you’d have nowhere to go, would you?”

“Would you, sir?” Prestwick shot back, and then, seeing the frown on the prime minister’s face and realizing the enormous offense of his insult, hastily added, “Would any of us, really?”

Churchill reached over and tapped his cigar on an ashtray. “You don’t have any friends, do you, Prestwick?”

“Plenty, sir, in every department.”

“Those are colleagues, Prestwick, acquaintances.” Churchill sat back in his chair and looked at him. “I’m talking about those individuals with whom you spend your leisure. You don’t have any of those in your life, do you?”

Prestwick felt cornered and didn’t like it. He always felt uncomfortable whenever he considered his personal relationships, or lack thereof, and wondered what the prime minister was driving at. “No, sir.”

“You were married once, too. What happened?”

“She left me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was because of my work,” Prestwick put in hastily, feeling he had to provide some sort of excuse. “She couldn’t come to grips with my devotion to scholarship.”

“The same scholarship the academic community could do without?”

Prestwick thought Churchill’s cruelty deserved a response. But it eluded him, and he was forced to face the cold truth that he had squandered the better part of his life on dubious research and lost the only woman he ever loved.

Churchill said, “We can’t afford to have any of our lonely masterminds wandering about in vulnerable conditions.”

“Vulnerable? I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.”

“I think you do.” Churchill produced a thick envelope and pushed it across the desk.

Prestwick picked up the envelope and opened it. It was stuffed with American hundred-dollar bills. “There must be several thousand dollars in here, sir.”

“Just enough to cover your gambling losses,” said Churchill, giving him a knowing look.

Utterly humiliated, Prestwick pocketed the cash. Desperately, he tried to recover his dignity in the face of all this unpleasantness. “I can explain, sir.”

Churchill held up his hand to inform him that no explanation was necessary. “That young actress, by the way, is one of Hoover’s,” he added. “She has more than enough secrets to pry loose from the hearts of private citizens without your wasting her time. Or compromising our secrets to the FBI.”

Prestwick swallowed hard. “I won’t, sir.”

“Good,” replied Churchill, and he repeated the point of their little conversation lest it be lost on either of them. “It is paramount that the Nazis believe we’re about to invade Greece, Prestwick. You’ll do whatever it takes to convince them. Understand? Or else, for you, this war is over.”