“My team of scientists is working around the clock on a synthetic formula for Greek Fire,” he answered, although that was a lie. “They are using the latest advances in science to test various combinations of naphtha, sulfur, petroleum, bitumen, potassium nitrate, and other compounds in search of the formula.”
Hitler glared at him. “I don’t want a synthetic formula, von Berg,” he demanded, his voice growing louder. “I want the real thing. I want the Maranatha text. That’s all I ask. Just bring me that infernal text! I want it before the next weapons conference!”
Von Berg realized that the next weapons conference was on his fortieth birthday, less than a month away. “But that’s on the second of June.”
“Which gives you three weeks, von Berg. Don’t disappoint me.”
“Oh, I won’t.”
Von Berg knew that Germany’s only hope at this point was the restoration of his monarchy and a peace settlement with the Allies. The Flammenschwert bomb would make it all possible once Hitler was out of the way. All he needed was a few weeks-precisely what the Fuhrer was granting him. Until then he would keep the Maranatha text out of Hitler’s hands or find a way to use it for his own ends. He rose to his feet. “But if I should find that this Maranatha text contradicts the contents of the microfilm, you will reconsider my hypothesis concerning Sicily?”
“Yes,” Hitler sighed. “I will reconsider.”
18
C hris Andros stood fifty yards away from Adolf Hitler when he turned to face the Fuhrer, lowered his right arm, and fired three bullets from his Colt. 45 automatic into the madman’s face. The cigarette dangling from Hitler’s mouth exploded in a small cloud, the smoke lifting to reveal two holes for eyes. An awed silence was broken by cheers and pats on the back from the fellow cadets who surrounded Andros at the outdoor firing range of the United States Military Academy at West Point.
“What did I tell y’all, the best in the West,” proclaimed First Class Cadet Billy Hayfield. He lit a cigarette for Andros and turned to the fourth-class cadets. “Now pay up, plebes.”
There were groans as the young men began to part with their money, much to the delight of the big, grinning Texan.
Andros, meanwhile, popped his Colt back into its open holster and stared at the makeshift target as he smoked his cigarette. This was as close to a real Nazi as he had gotten in the war, a war that seemed so far away from these green meadows and rolling hills on the banks of the Hudson. To Andros, the river symbolized the uncrossable gulf that separated him from Nazi-occupied Europe and the woman he loved.
“Three hundred dollars!” Hayfield exclaimed, as he finished counting the money. “There’s gonna be a good time in the city this weekend!”
No sooner were the words out of Hayfield’s mouth than Andros heard the rumble of an approaching vehicle. The small crowd of cadets dispersed rapidly. Hayfield was still stuffing his pockets with cash when the jeep braked to a halt, engine still running.
“Superintendent wants to see Cadet Andros,” said the driver, an MP whom Andros vaguely recalled from a particular card game. “Pronto.”
“General Wilby?” Andros asked, snuffing out his cigarette.
The MP was stone-faced under his white helmet.
Andros exchanged a long glance with Hayfield before climbing into the jeep.
“Hey, I’m part of this, too,” Hayfield confessed as the MP shifted gears. “I didn’t mean to take O’Brian’s last cent, but he insisted on playing…”
But the jeep carrying Andros was gone.
19
T he jeep pulled up in front of the cadet chapel, a Gothic edifice on a hillside that soared above the surrounding woods. Andros turned to the driver and asked, “I’m supposed to find the superintendent in here?”
The MP didn’t give an answer, and by this time Andros wasn’t expecting any, so he went up the steps and under King Arthur’s sword, Excalibur, which hung above the entrance.
Inside, it was cool and dark. Carvings of the Quest for the Holy Grail glowed dimly from the light filtering through the stained-glass windows. Andros let his eyes adjust and looked down the cavernous chapel toward the altar. A lonely figure sat in the first pew with his head bowed. Andros took off his cap and proceeded down the aisle beneath the procession of flags that arched overhead.
When he reached the front pew, however, he was surprised to find not his superintendent but an elderly gentleman in an ugly tweed suit and crumpled shirt. The man was hunched over an open briefcase, sorting papers.
“Excuse me,” said Andros, “I was looking for General Wilby.”
The man raised his angular face. Two small green eyes regarded Andros from behind thick, round spectacles. “I’m afraid the superintendent won’t be able to attend this little meeting, Cadet Andros,” he stated in a slow, mannered, and annoying voice. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Colonel Prestwick.”
Andros frowned as he looked at the long nose and thin lips. This Prestwick didn’t look like any sort of military officer he’d ever seen, much less one with the rank of colonel.
Prestwick said, “Come, sit down. Nobody will bother us, I assure you. The MP will see to that.”
Andros sat down in the pew next to Prestwick. “What’s this all about…Colonel?”
“You are the son of General Nicholas Andros of the Hellenic Royal Army?”
The reference to his father made Andros shift uncomfortably. “My name is Chris Andros. I’m a second lieutenant in the United States Army. That’s who I am, Colonel Prestwick.”
Prestwick cleared his throat. “Yes, well, it seems you haven’t been as straightforward about your commission in the U.S. Army with your family or fiancee as you are with me. Indeed, they think you’re at Harvard. These letters are all addressed to your old Cambridge address, and your letters are posted in Boston.”
Prestwick handed over what Andros immediately recognized as photostats of the love letters he and Aphrodite had exchanged before Athens fell to the Nazis in the spring of ’41.
“Our offices in Bermuda intercept all transatlantic correspondence,” Prestwick explained, adding, “I must tell you, your romantic prose had our girls swooning.”
“What’s the meaning of this?” Andros demanded, angry and embarrassed that his words should be exposed to strangers. “Who do you think you are?”
“I told you. I’m Colonel Prestwick. I’m with the OSS.”
Andros had heard of the OSS, the American spy agency, but if this man was one of its so-called intelligence officers, he feared for the future of the country. “I’m sorry, did you say OSS or SS? I didn’t know the American government spied on its citizens.”
“We don’t.” Prestwick sniffed as he smoothed out his tie. “That’s the FBI’s job. Our interests are more global. That’s why we opened your letters; we could tell they had been opened and resealed by our German friends first.” Prestwick removed the photostats from Andros’s hands and replaced them in his briefcase. His manner suggested that their contents were classified and that Andros was privileged to have even glimpsed his own correspondence.
Andros never liked mysteries, and he was sure he didn’t like Prestwick. “So are you accusing me of being a spy, Colonel? Is that it? Are you going to kick me out of the academy?”
“Quite the contrary,” Prestwick said. “Your little white lies have established the perfect sort of cover for you. The Germans have no knowledge of your military background. That’s why I want you to work for us at the OSS. We have a rather special assignment for you in Greece.”
A hollow pang of anxiety filled Andros’s stomach, and he stiffened in the pew. Had Prestwick said Greece? The subject of Greece always brought to the surface painful reminders of his inadequacies as an Andros. But the possibility of learning what had happened to Aphrodite was simply too overpowering to resist. He looked at Prestwick with deep suspicion. “What’s in Greece?”