Then it jumped into view-a thin line beneath the water.
Andros lowered the magnifying glass and looked at Erin. “A submarine wake!”
“Seems the Baron has tunneled a secret submarine station into the rock beneath the palace,” Erin explained. “Now, that’s a nifty trick.”
Andros traced the line from the water back to the cliffs beneath the Achillion. It looked like the submarine must have just gone inside the mountain beneath the palace-or come out and submerged. A chill ran up Andros’s spine. “This must be where von Berg has Aphrodite.”
“Among other things,” said Erin. “We’ll have a better look when we surface.”
“When we surface?” Andros gripped her arm. “We’re heading for Corfu?”
Her face darkened. “I thought you knew.”
“To rescue Aphrodite?” he asked anxiously.
She lowered her eyes. “Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?” Andros tightened his grip until she winced in pain.
“My arm, Chris!”
He knew she could break his lock on her and strike him if she wanted to. But the pain in her eyes told him that her feelings for him were too strong. “Tell me,” he demanded.
She swallowed hard and said, “Churchill’s ordered an air strike on the island tonight.”
“What?” Andros released his grip and stood there in shock.
She rubbed her sore arm. “I’m sorry, Chris,” she said with genuine sadness. “I thought you knew.”
“Loose lips sink ships, Captain Whyte,” said a voice from behind them. “Or submarines.”
Andros turned to see Prestwick in the doorway. On either side of him was a junior officer, their pistols at the ready.
“You liar,” said Andros. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I knew you’d be unreasonable, as you are now.”
“Aphrodite held up her end of the deal in Athens, Prestwick. And paid the price. We have to rescue her.”
“How do you propose to do that? Walk through the front gates of the Achillion?”
Andros pointed to the aerial blowup. “Through the back door.”
“Oh, you mean that submarine tunnel?” Prestwick raised an eyebrow. “Assuming you were able to infiltrate the underground fortress and elude detection by von Berg’s formidable SS guards, how would you manage to get out before the bombers blow it to kingdom come? Swim?”
“If I have to.”
“Then you would finally qualify for the Olympic pentathlon after all,” sneered Prestwick, and he shook his head. “Unfortunately, I can’t risk sending you in at this point. You know too much. Besides, if you’re caught, the air strike will lose its element of surprise.”
“You expect me to sit here and watch the Allies murder Aphrodite?”
“If it means saving the lives of millions, yes.”
“No!” Andros pulled out his father’s dagger.
Erin pleaded with him, “Don’t, Chris. He’s not worth it.”
“Poking holes in me isn’t going to save your beloved Aphrodite,” Prestwick added matter-of-factly. “I’m afraid that if you insist on being difficult, we’re going to have to confine you to the captain’s quarters until tomorrow morning, when this is all over. Gentlemen.”
The two officers raised their pistols.
Andros glanced at Erin, whose alarmed eyes begged him to go no further, then back to Prestwick and the officers. Finally, he sighed in defeat and slid the dagger behind his back.
“There,” said Prestwick. “Now you’re being reasonable. Excuse us, Captain.”
Prestwick moved behind him and, together with the officers, escorted him down the fore-and-aft passageway back to the captain’s quarters. They made him lie on the bunk and handcuffed him to the rail.
“You’ll stay here until after the air strike,” Prestwick said. “I’ll be back in the morning.”
He stepped out and closed the green curtain, leaving Andros alone in the compartment.
111
In the operations building at the Blida air base, Captain Jack MacDonald reported to the intelligence room, as ordered. There he found Colonel Ellery Huntington, the senior OSS officer in Algiers, waiting for him.
MacDonald smiled and said, “To what do I owe this pleasure, Colonel?”
“Where the hell have you been, MacDonald?” Huntington replied, dispensing with the pleasantries. “We’ve been looking for you all afternoon.”
“I’m a creature of the night, Colonel,” MacDonald explained cheerfully. “I didn’t think you boys cared what I did during the day so long as I showed up to work.”
Huntington grudgingly agreed. “Yes, well, the prime minister wanted me to congratulate you on your string of successful missions, Captain. He also wanted you to perform one more special job for him.”
“Another SOE or OSS job, I suppose?” MacDonald muttered. “What’s the matter? Do the Swiss need more chocolates dropped on their villages? Perhaps the Greeks need more brandy? I hear there’s a shortage of tarts for our men in France. What is it about this time?”
“Oh, about two tons of TNT.”
MacDonald’s eyes widened as Huntington spread out the map of the Achillion on the table, pointing out the palace, the cove, and the bunkers halfway up the hill between them.
MacDonald couldn’t hide his delight. “The real thing!” he exclaimed. “It’s about bloody time.”
“I must warn you,” Huntington cautioned, “the OSS Air Operations Section has determined this mission is impossible, considering the terrain of the target area and the strength of the enemy air defenses if you’re detected.”
“Nonsense, sir,” he boasted. “Nothing’s impossible for Jack MacDonald. When do we go in?”
“You’ll strike at dawn.”
“Dawn?” MacDonald glanced at his watch. It was already 2300 hours. “In a bit of a hurry, are we, Colonel?”
“You could say that.” Huntington used a pointer to trace the flight route. “For most of the journey, you’ll be in the dark; but as you approach the island of Corfu, day will be breaking, and you should see the fortifications of the Italian garrison in Corfu Town.”
MacDonald noted the reference points to look for in his approach and nodded.
“You’ll have to come in under the Italian radar net to avoid detection, you realize,” Huntington went on. “That means one pass to surprise them before you and your planes are vulnerable to antiaircraft guns.”
“One pass is all we’ll need,” MacDonald assured him. “Just make sure the British Air Ministry has canceled any RAF missions that might interfere with our air strike.”
“Done,” Huntington said, and glanced at his watch. “With an estimated flight time of five and a half hours, that means you should be up in the air just after midnight. I suggest you assemble your men now.”
MacDonald looked at Huntington with a gleam in his eye. “That won’t be a problem, Colonel. Not when I tell them we finally get to bomb the Krauts.”
112
Von Berg was back behind the desk in his study on the eve of Hitler’s secret weapons conference, looking over the final report on the Maranatha text that he would present to Hitler at Obersalzberg the next morning. When he finished, he leaned back and looked up to see the wretched face of Dr. Xaptz, anxious with anticipation.
Von Berg said, “So, Professor, you don’t believe it was the apostle Paul who penned the Maranatha text?”
“It could have been, or one of his disciples taking his dictation.” Dr. Xaptz shrugged. “It’s difficult to say who the author really is.”
“But you don’t think it’s Paul.”
“No,” said Dr. Xaptz. “I think someone was pretending to be the apostle, to dupe the early church in Thessaloniki. Perhaps to further discredit the new Christian faith that threatened Rome.”
“What makes you so sure?” asked von Berg.
“As I said in the report, several things,” the professor said. “First, the emphasis on one’s good deeds rather than faith in Jesus Christ for one’s eternal salvation is anathema to Paul’s gospel. Indeed, in another letter to the Galatians, the apostle said that if he or anybody else should preach a different gospel, that person should be eternally condemned.”