“Germans!” he cried, out of breath. “Coming up the hill!”
4
It was a sight Philip had to see with his own eyes from the monastery’s watchtower: The Death’s Head battalion must have started for the Taborian Light that morning, having shaken the dust of the nearest town, Kastraki, off their jackboots. What was once a sleepy village nestled a thousand feet below the towering rock formations of Meteora was now a pillar of black smoke rising up behind the twenty-four SS paratroopers as they converged on the granite summit.
They were far closer than Philip had imagined just a moment ago.
He knew they had come off their conquest of Crete, these Fallschirmjager in field-gray uniforms and rimless steel helmets. Hand-picked by Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler himself, they were the pride of the Waffen SS. These days found them loose on the Greek mainland, clearing the mountains of partisans and performing special missions for Himmler’s second in command, the mysterious SS general Ludwig von Berg.
Leading the way up was the Baron of the Black Order himself, handsome and wholly evil. One hand held a Schmeisser machine pistol, the other a leash with a terrified Gregory Koutras straining at the end. The boy tried to shout a warning. Von Berg yanked hard on the leash, choking off his cries.
Philip was no stranger to the art of war and the effects of military regalia. But even he felt a chill at the sight of Ludwig von Berg marching toward the monastery in his smartly tailored black dress uniform, black boots, and black leather accessories. Above his sleeve’s cuff title was the diamond-shaped SD patch of the Sicherheitsdienst, or SS intelligence service, which meant he was the worst of the lot. Flanking him were two Fallschirmjager, with their machine pistols.
The Baron of the Black Order looked younger than his reputed age of forty and radiated venal power. Glints of gold hair were visible beneath his black cap, and his clean-shaven cheeks tapered down to a twisted smile. His beaklike nose and upper lip, in particular, gave him the air of a predator. But it was his eyes that dominated his appearance, those clear blue eyes with a gaze that could pierce armor plating.
Even from afar, Philip felt the stare of the Death’s Head badge on von Berg’s cap. The silver skull-and-crossbones insignia signaled the general’s willingness to give and take death in the holy cause of national socialism. But it was also a grim reminder of the invincibility of the Baron of the Black Order, of the silver plate in von Berg’s skull and his seemingly supernatural ability to survive an assassin’s bullet on more than one occasion. Even Philip had heard of the joke within the ranks of the SS: The baron had nine lives, and for each life, the world was a worse place.
Philip turned from his perch and rushed down to the cave beneath the monastery. Commander Lloyd stood at the secret exit tunnel with Brother Yiorgios, who clutched the ornate golden Templar Globe containing the legendary Maranatha text. The globe was the size of a round watermelon but looked visibly heavier in Yiorgios’s arms. Six monks stood by, ready to roll back into place the large mosaic slab that hid the tunnel.
“You’ll come out in the Pindos chain of mountains,” Philip told them. “From there you are in God’s hands. Now go.”
5
Inside the marble crypt beneath the monastery, Philip joined the Archimandrite and the rest of the monks of the Taborian Light huddled together in the dark. It was musty from the bones of the saints buried in the alcoves around them, the temptation to cough and betray their presence all too real.
Philip could hear the scrape of jackboots on the floor above as the storm troopers stripped priceless mosaics from the walls. He was sure the incense and smoke from snuffed-out candles had already informed Baron von Berg that the monastery had not been abandoned. But even if the Nazis should torch their monastery and burn it to the ground, yes, even then they would rise from the ashes like the phoenix and rebuild it all, just as they had done after the Italians, the Turks, and every invader before them.
“Outstanding, really,” the voice of Baron von Berg boomed above. “These Greek Orthodox monks have transformed their faith into an art form. Unfortunately, I suspect their art will outlast their faith. Yes, several icons here would make excellent additions to the Fuhrer’s collection. The best ones I keep for myself, of course. Along with the Maranatha text.”
Suddenly, something like thunder rumbled overhead, followed by a flash of light as the marble slab to the crypt was lifted away. Fear seized them all as they looked up to see the face of evil staring down like an austere icon painted inside the dome of a church. The face of SS general Ludwig von Berg smiled at them, but his voice addressed somebody else.
“Unfortunately, Standartenfuhrer Ulrich, you will have to join the martyrs in making a rather abrupt departure from this world. You and Himmler didn’t really think you could run off with the text and keep it a secret from me?”
From somewhere out of view came the cry, “I know who you are, von Berg! Himmler told me. You can’t get away with this. We know who you are!”
“To whom are you appealing, Ulrich? Reason? Justice? God? According to the SS rules that you have chosen to live and die by, you stand outside the jurisdiction of German state courts and even those courts of the Nazi Party. I am your judge now, and I know no justice except my own.”
Philip and the monks could see Ulrich’s back pressed against the low wall of the crypt. Something about him seemed oddly familiar to Philip.
“You are mad, von Berg, insane.”
“The Reichsfuhrer chases fantasies, and you call me mad? Hardly, Ulrich. Oh, I’ll keep this so-called Maranatha text, but not to indulge the Fuhrer’s mysticism. There’s a war going on, and the last thing we need is this apocalyptic nonsense further clouding the Fuhrer’s judgment. Now, if you will please hand over your SS dagger, Standartenfuhrer. Quickly, we haven’t all day.”
Philip heard the shuffle of boots and then saw Ulrich’s own men take hold of him. Then a black sleeve reached forward and removed the dagger from its sheath.
“See the words engraved on its hilt? Yes, say them out loud.”
Ulrich’s hoarse voice replied, “Blood and honor.”
“That’s right, Ulrich. Your blood, my honor.”
There was a flash as the blade caught the light. Ulrich screamed.
“You see, there is an art to dying,” von Berg’s voice mused above Ulrich’s cries. “In one stroke, a traitor is killed and decrepit monks become martyrs. Of course, it may help you to consider yourself a martyr. Every faith needs them, even our own. I can only wonder when you wake up whether it will be in the same place as those you are about to join.”
The monks saw Ulrich fall backward into the crypt, pushed by the stiff hand that still lingered in the air overhead. They shrank back in fear to avoid the falling body and felt the ground shake when Ulrich hit the floor.
Philip bent over the crumpled, robe-clad body and turned the head to see the German’s face.
Brother Yiorgios!
In that instant Philip realized that Yiorgios was a Nazi spy, Commander Lloyd of the British Secret Service was dead, and the Baron of the Black Order now possessed the Maranatha text.
Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner!
Then he felt something like raindrops and smelled petrol in the air. When he looked up, the Baron held a lit cigarette over the open crypt.
“See you in Valhalla, Ulrich. You, too, Hadji Azrael.”
Finding himself at his enemy’s mercy, Philip rose to his full if short height and looked up. “It is true that I answered the call of the muezzin to prayer as a child; that I have made the holy pilgrimage to Mecca; that I once lived by the sword of Allah. But now I serve the Lord Jesus Christ in the order of the Taborian Light.”