“That’s better, little princess.”
The cool, calm tone of his voice incensed her. “You killed my parents.”
“The fools killed themselves,” he replied, relaxing his grip on her throat. “Your young lover Herr Andros let them, just as he left you to die.”
“You might as well kill me, too, because now that Christos is gone, I have nothing to live for.”
“Silly girl.” He stroked her hair. “Everything passes, even these misguided romantic yearnings of yours. You’ll see. Tomorrow you’ll forget this unpleasant interlude and join me at my side.”
That he could demand her love after all that had happened infuriated her. “Never,” she hissed. “I’ll never love you.”
“Never is a long time, love.” His finger slid down her neck, and he slipped his hand into her nightgown and cupped her breast. “A very long time.”
She became very still, almost lifeless in the dark, but she could feel her heart pounding as the Baron’s hand made its way between her thighs and pushed them apart. Numb with horror, she could barely speak.
“You’ve lost, Ludwig,” she said in a low voice. “That it should come to this.”
“You’ll come around,” he assured her, and leaned over and crushed his mouth on hers.
114
It was almost two o’clock in the morning when the Cherub surfaced several miles off the island of Corfu. Andros knew it as soon as the submarine’s electric motor stopped humming and the clackclack of its twin diesel engines took over. He lay there in his bunk, staring at the curving bulkhead, aware of movement outside in the fore-and-aft passageway. He rattled his handcuffs against the bunk’s rail to get some attention.
Finally, Prestwick poked his head in. “What is it?”
“Captain Safire. Where is he?”
“On the bridge. Why?”
“I need some air, fresh air, and space. And a smoke. I’ve been cooped up in this sardine can for eighteen hours.”
Prestwick said nothing and disappeared. Andros gnashed his teeth in despair, but the old professor returned with a key. He also was pointing a U.S. Army-issue Colt. 45 pistol at him, his aim unsteady.
“Considering your fear of water, I don’t suppose there’s any danger of you swimming away,” Prestwick said crisply. “But any funny business, and I’ll have to shoot your leg.”
“So this is how America treats its heroes,” Andros complained as the cuffs came off and he got to his feet. “Just be careful where you point that thing.”
Prestwick waved the pistol at the curtain. “You first, Chris.”
Andros took a step forward, nudged by the poke of the Colt at his back, and spun around into Prestwick, passed his arm over the hand holding the pistol, and locked it. Prestwick was looking into angry eyes, unable to shoot him or release his arm from the deadly grip. Andros struck Prestwick across the face with the back of his other hand. Prestwick cried out in pain and released his hold on the pistol, dropping it to the floor.
“You can thank Captain Whyte for teaching me that trick,” Andros said softly, stuffing one of Safire’s socks into Prestwick’s mouth before he could call for help. “And you can thank me for not going all the way with her instructions.”
Prestwick mumbled nonsense while Andros twisted his arm behind his back and drove him face-first into Captain Safire’s bunk until he was on his stomach. Andros reached for Safire’s clothesline, tied Prestwick’s wrists together, and forced his arms well up behind his back. He then passed the cord around Prestwick’s neck and back and his wrists, bent his legs backward, and tied them together.
“If you keep still, you won’t be hurt,” Andros told him. “But if you attempt to struggle, you’ll probably strangle yourself.”
Andros reached down and picked up the Colt from the floor. He slipped it behind his back, along with his father’s dagger and a flare from one of Safire’s storage containers. He then looked at the Tiffany amp; Co. ring box on the oak countertop and lit a cigarette before moving toward the passageway.
“You’re crazy if you think I’d let Aphrodite pay for your stupidity, Prestwick. You better pray she’s alive, because one way or another, I’m coming back from that island. If it’s not with her, then it’s for you.”
115
The stars were still out when Andros came up the ladder onto the bridge. The cool spray of salt water slapped his face as he took in a deep breath and exhaled. Dead ahead was the island of Corfu, sleeping on the dark, brooding surface of the Ionian Sea.
Also on the bridge, with his back to Andros, was Captain Safire, scanning the shoreline with his night glasses while he smoked his pipe. “A gem she is tonight,” he said to himself, “sparkling on a velvet cloth for only God and us to admire.”
“From a safe distance, anyway,” said Andros.
Safire lowered his glasses and turned, surprised to see him alone. “Where’s Prestwick?”
“Resting. This is all a bit too much for him.” Andros looked at his watch. “Ten after two, Captain. Dawn is only a few hours away, and I have to reach shore before daybreak.” He raised the pistol slightly so Safire could see it. “I’ll need a dinghy to get across. Do you suppose you could produce one for me?”
“And if I don’t?” Safire dared.
“I’ll light up the sky with one of the flares I found in your compartment. Enough to attract the attention of nearby night fighters and torpedo boats.”
Safire spoke into his piping down to the control room. “I need a dinghy up here.”
“That’s it?” Andros asked. “No questions?”
Safire smiled reflectively. “When I was off the coast of Spain a few weeks ago, in another submarine, the captain had me and the other junior officers bring up a mysterious six-foot canister the rest of the crew believed contained optical instruments. We knew this was only a cover, that the canister contained a secret weather-reporting buoy. You can imagine our surprise when we opened it and found a frozen corpse, courtesy of our dirty-tricks specialists at SOE.”
“Major Martin?” asked Andros, remembering what he had seen in von Berg’s Husky file.
“The same,” Safire replied. “As you can see, our men have learned not to ask too many questions. Your request is par for this war.”
The hatch on the trim foredeck below the bridge opened, and two ratings emerged with an inflatable dinghy. Andros watched them work while Safire smoked his pipe.
“Who is this young lady who inspires you to kill yourself?” Safire asked.
Andros told him, “She was my fiancee before the war.”
“And the Baron has her captive?”
Andros nodded. “Aphrodite Vasilis.”
“Vasilis?” Safire removed his pipe from his mouth and stared at it. “As in Vasilis Tobacco?”
“The same,” Andros replied. “Von Berg had her parents executed.”
“Now, that is a pity.”
Andros watched the ratings lower the dinghy into the water. “Not as much as sitting here and watching her die at the hands of those whom she risked everything to help.”
Andros went over the side and descended the ladder to the circular hull. The dinghy was already in the water, held by the ratings. Andros dropped in.
“The water is a bit choppy,” called Safire from the bridge. “You ever try this before?”
“There’s a first time for everything, Captain. Thanks for the lift.”
“Let it never be said that Captain Safire stood in the way of true love.”
Safire ordered the ratings to release the lines and watched the tide pull the rubber dinghy away from the Cherub and in toward the island. Andros reached for the oars and started to row.
As the tiny dinghy drifted off into the darkness, Safire saluted from the conning tower. “I hope she’s worth it, Andros,” he said quietly, “for all our sakes.”
116
Andros could see the shore clearly as he rowed quietly. The white surf crashed across the sandy beaches and against the jagged cliffs rising from the sea. Every now and then, when a wave lifted him high enough, he could glimpse the Achillion waiting for him high atop its hill.