“A handsome man,” he observed, unable to hide the envy in his voice. “Too handsome, really, for a spy.”
“Good looks aside, Prestwick, Andros has proved himself in action, which is more than I can say for you.”
Stung by this tasteless exposure of his faults, Prestwick replaced the photo of Andros in the folder. He thumbed through the rest of the documents, hoping to glean some vice or character flaw that he could put to good use. “What makes you think Miss Vasilis will assist young Andros?”
“She was his fiancee before the Nazis invaded Greece and cut off their engagement.”
“Ah.”
Churchill added, “Those letters in his file are love letters the two wrote to each other between the time of their engagement and the middle of 1941, when all communication ceased. Our girls in Bermuda intercepted them. From what they tell us, Andros knows nothing about the new man in his former fiancee’s life. As for Miss Vasilis, she still thinks he’s at Harvard, as do the Germans.”
“But he’s not there anymore?”
“Dropped out as soon as the Germans invaded,” Churchill told him. “Tried to get back to Greece for personal reasons, but couldn’t.”
“So where is he now?”
“The United States Military Academy.”
“West Point?” Prestwick could see there was more to young Andros than he at first imagined. “He’s a soldier, just like his father?”
“I wouldn’t put it to him that way, Prestwick, but it’s all there in your file. You’ll recruit him, train him at the Farm, and then slip him into Greece. There he’ll make contact with the girl and, ideally, steal the text.”
Prestwick glanced at the file in his hands, keenly resenting that his career now rested with a young, untested man he hadn’t even had a hand in selecting. “But what chance does a rank amateur-even if he is a West Pointer-have against the likes of the Baron?”
“Young Andros is our only chance,” Churchill said. “He knows the language and the land of Greece better than any of our own. He also has, as you people in New Haven put it, the proper ‘connections’ in Athens. Let’s see how he fares with Miss Vasilis. If her feelings for him are anywhere near what she’s expressed in those letters, she’ll help.”
“And if not?”
“We have another little Greek tragedy in the making. And you’ll be part of it.”
“Excuse me?”
Churchill drew out a second file. “According to your OSS records, Yale cut off all your funding just before you joined SOE.” He grew reflective. “This war is the best thing that ever happened to you, isn’t it? If it came to an end, you’d have nowhere to go, would you?”
“Would you, sir?” Prestwick shot back, and then, seeing the frown on the prime minister’s face and realizing the enormous offense of his insult, hastily added, “Would any of us, really?”
Churchill reached over and tapped his cigar on an ashtray. “You don’t have any friends, do you, Prestwick?”
“Plenty, sir, in every department.”
“Those are colleagues, Prestwick, acquaintances.” Churchill sat back in his chair and looked at him. “I’m talking about those individuals with whom you spend your leisure. You don’t have any of those in your life, do you?”
Prestwick felt cornered and didn’t like it. He always felt uncomfortable whenever he considered his personal relationships, or lack thereof, and wondered what the prime minister was driving at. “No, sir.”
“You were married once, too. What happened?”
“She left me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was because of my work,” Prestwick put in hastily, feeling he had to provide some sort of excuse. “She couldn’t come to grips with my devotion to scholarship.”
“The same scholarship the academic community could do without?”
Prestwick thought Churchill’s cruelty deserved a response. But it eluded him, and he was forced to face the cold truth that he had squandered the better part of his life on dubious research and lost the only woman he ever loved.
Churchill said, “We can’t afford to have any of our lonely masterminds wandering about in vulnerable conditions.”
“Vulnerable? I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.”
“I think you do.” Churchill produced a thick envelope and pushed it across the desk.
Prestwick picked up the envelope and opened it. It was stuffed with American hundred-dollar bills. “There must be several thousand dollars in here, sir.”
“Just enough to cover your gambling losses,” said Churchill, giving him a knowing look.
Utterly humiliated, Prestwick pocketed the cash. Desperately, he tried to recover his dignity in the face of all this unpleasantness. “I can explain, sir.”
Churchill held up his hand to inform him that no explanation was necessary. “That young actress, by the way, is one of Hoover’s,” he added. “She has more than enough secrets to pry loose from the hearts of private citizens without your wasting her time. Or compromising our secrets to the FBI.”
Prestwick swallowed hard. “I won’t, sir.”
“Good,” replied Churchill, and he repeated the point of their little conversation lest it be lost on either of them. “It is paramount that the Nazis believe we’re about to invade Greece, Prestwick. You’ll do whatever it takes to convince them. Understand? Or else, for you, this war is over.”
13
O r else, for you, this war is over. As far as Prestwick was concerned, harsher words were never spoken. Churchill’s warning was unmistakable, and it made an indelible impression. Suddenly, Prestwick felt old and used up, crumbling inside like the yellowed pages of some old, dusty, and forgotten book. “This war is my life, sir.”
“Then you’ll do everything in your power to make sure Andros succeeds in his mission.”
As Churchill spoke, the bookcase behind him opened to reveal a secret exit. Two American Secret Service agents were waiting to escort the prime minister.
“I must be going,” Churchill said, putting out his cigar. The great man rose to his feet, brushed off the cigar ashes from his blazer, and rolled up his map of Europe representing millions of lives. “I’m expected at the White House this afternoon to meet with the president and the Combined Chiefs of Staff. Hopkins is waiting for me outside in the car.”
Prestwick nodded and picked up the folder, realizing there would be no gin rummy tonight, no starlet, no dancing. Instead, he’d spend the night like he did nearly every night: translating some obscure document or reading a report. Then he saw the stuffed bear still sitting on the desk.
The prime minister was squeezing through the bookcase when Prestwick caught up with him. “Sir, what about the teddy bear?”
“Almost forgot, Prestwick, thank you.” Churchill clutched the cub by the throat. “A gift for one of the president’s grandchildren. Good of you to pick it up for me. Now, no more mess-ups. Knowing the Baron, he’s already two steps ahead of us.”
14
B aron von Berg raced through the Bavarian Alps in a staff Mercedes, late for a conference with Hitler and his generals at the Fuhrer’s holiday house at Obersalzberg.
Von Berg was driving with the top down, having placed the dead body of the chauffeur who tried to kill him in the backseat. No doubt Himmler had sent the fool to greet his plane after failing to hear from Ulrich in Greece, von Berg thought. Unfortunately for the driver, the Baron had performed too many similar assassinations for the Reichsfuhrer to fail to recognize that something was up. He took care of the swine shortly after they passed through the village of Berchtesgaden, when he forced the driver to stop so he could answer nature’s call.