“The infamous Hadji Azrael,” stated Churchill.
Prestwick nodded. “Hence Operation Maranatha,” he said. “The word ‘Maranatha’ is Aramaic and means ‘Lord, come.’ It was a greeting used by the early Christians to express their hope in Christ’s return. That’s how the legendary lost epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians became known as the Maranatha text-because it predicts the end of the world and the return of Christ. I simply arranged for a microfilm of a bogus Maranatha text to surface at our OSS outpost in Istanbul, which you correctly suspected of being infiltrated by Axis agents. In addition to its references to the Second Coming, Armageddon, and all the fire-and-brimstone rhetoric we find in Bible prophecy, the bogus text by implication singles out Greece as the first point of entry by any invasion forces from the Middle East, Allied or Divine.”
Here Prestwick couldn’t help himself and had to add, somewhat shamefacedly at his own brilliance, “I even encrypted it with an ancient Greek military cipher just to make Hitler’s numerologists think they had tapped into the Greek Fire formula.”
“So I’m told,” said Churchill, puffing his Havana. “That was quite…clever.”
“All in all,” Prestwick concluded proudly, “I’d call it an apocalyptic piece of theater designed to exploit Hitler’s fascination with the supernatural.”
There was heavy silence, and Prestwick waited expectantly for Churchill’s congratulations. When they didn’t come, he began to feel uneasy.
Finally, Churchill said, “And knowing Hitler’s obsessions, you never considered the possibility that he would attempt to obtain the original Maranatha text?”
“We suspected the microfilm would whet Hitler’s appetite, sir, but we never dreamed the Nazis would find a real text, because…” Prestwick trailed off.
“Because a real text couldn’t possibly exist?” Churchill asked. “Quite presumptuous of you. Indeed, this revelation of yours has turned into a divine comedy, and it’s that devil Hitler who will be laughing.”
Prestwick felt a hollowness in his stomach. “Excuse me, sir?”
“We just got these photos from C in London this morning.” Churchill pushed a file across the desk to Prestwick. “The Nazis beat us to the text. Operation Maranatha is blown.”
Prestwick’s heart sank. With trepidation, he opened the file and shuffled through the grisly photos. The charred remains of Orthodox monks lay strewn among the smoldering ruins. “Dear Lord. I take it this was once the Monastery of the Taborian Light?”
“Not one stone left unturned.”
“And Commander Lloyd?”
“Dead,” said Churchill. “This is the Baron’s handiwork.”
“General von Berg?” This was even worse than Prestwick had thought. He pushed the file of photos back across the desk.
“The implications, of course, are catastrophic,” said Churchill. “If the Nazis suspect your bogus Maranatha text is a plant, they’ll know Greece is only a cover and that we’ll be landing in Sicily. And they’ll be waiting for us on those beaches, all their forces concentrated. Hundreds of thousands of British and American lives are on the line, Prestwick.”
Prestwick stared at the map of Europe, everything Churchill said sinking like lead in his stomach.
“What I want to know,” demanded Churchill, “is how long before von Berg appreciates the differences between his text and your microfilm? How long before this time bomb of yours goes off?”
Prestwick’s mind, numbed for a moment by the realization that it was his head that would roll on Churchill’s altar of bungled Allied operations, now started to race. “The beauty of passing my forgery in the form of a microfilm, of course, is that the film is only a photographic reproduction of the text and not the text itself. That eliminates the danger of the Nazis dating my ‘ancient’ papyrus and discovering it to be discolored 1940 Canadian bond paper. Furthermore, my papyrus appears to be only a fragment of a larger document. My guess is that’s precisely the case with the text from the Taborian Light. Therefore, rather than compare the two versions side by side, the Germans could in fact see them as complementary.”
“It’s those alphanumeric codes of yours I’m worried about,” said Churchill sharply. “I sincerely doubt that the document von Berg has found, if genuine, is similarly encoded.”
That was true, Prestwick realized. Churchill had him there. “Perhaps,” he suggested weakly, “there’s still time to change the invasion plans?”
Churchill stopped him with a cold glance. He then waved his hand over the map and spoke as if by rote. “The toppling of Mussolini. The domination of the central Mediterranean. The ability to level threats at the soft underbelly of the Axis in southern France and the Balkans. Not to mention the possibility of drawing Turkey into the war on our side.” Some cigar ashes fell onto Greece, and the prime minister brushed them off. “These are highly desirable goals.”
There was little Prestwick could say, so he thought it best not to say anything.
“No,” Churchill concluded. “According to what you’ve told me, we must obviously steal that text, or destroy it, before von Berg cracks the codes and discovers the secret of Operation Maranatha: namely, that our text is a fraud.”
“Steal the text from the Baron?” Prestwick was incredulous. “Impossible!”
“Good God, nothing’s impossible,” Churchill replied. “It can’t be impossible, not with more than half a million troops on the line. But you’re correct in assuming that if von Berg has the text, it will be difficult to find. A traditional commando unit is no good, not until we know exactly where von Berg has hidden it. Fortunately, I know of someone close to von Berg, an insider who may be privy to the text’s whereabouts and could be induced to help us.”
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.