They stepped outside onto the terrace and looked to the sky. Bursting out of a cloud was the Baron’s plane. It came in low over the lagoon and passed over the tiny church like a giant vulture.
“Any parting words of wisdom, Father?”
“Resist this man.”
“God knows I’ve tried, Father. I can’t promise you I won’t sleep with him when I know what means he’ll use to force me. I won’t deny it. I won’t lie to God.”
“Then at least thank God for His forgiveness and promise Him you’ll do your best to resist this man.”
She sighed and lowered her eyes. “O almighty and merciful God, I truly thank Thee for the forgiveness of my sins,” she recited impatiently. “Bless me, O Lord, and help me always, that I may ever do that which is pleasing to thee, and sin no more. Amen.”
She lifted her eyes and watched the plane clear the trees at the end of the lagoon and drop out of view. Hans was furiously waving her back to shore, and Peter was halfway toward the monastery in a rowboat. The Baron was back in time for afternoon siesta, and he would want her comfort.
25
A s the Stork began its descent, von Berg looked out the window. The island of Corfu lay like a jewel in the northernmost part of the Ionian Sea. The most lush and tropical of the Greek islands, its southern tip was a few miles west of the mainland, its northern under a mile from Albania. For him it was the perfect island retreat, far away from the Byzantine politics of the Third Reich.
The pilot tipped his wing and made a slow turn over the Chalikiopoulos Lagoon for the final approach. The plane barely cleared the steeple of the monastery on Mouse Island, skimming the blue water until it finally dropped down onto the airstrip.
Before Corfu became part of Greece, it was a British protectorate; now it was occupied by the Italians, who’d replaced the local Nazi forces when the Germans moved on to the invasion of Russia.
Commandant Georgio Buzzini, the nervous Italian officer temporarily in command of the island, was in full dress uniform when von Berg stepped out of the plane. As far as von Berg was concerned, Buzzini was a bumbling idiot. His round face, hooded eyes, and baritone voice bestowed upon him all the military graces of a stage extra from a third-rate Italian opera.
“General von Berg!” He saluted. “You have several cables and reports from Berlin waiting for you.”
Von Berg looked over the squat man’s shoulder toward his awaiting Mercedes. The top was down, and Franz, his driver, stood outside and opened the back door.
“Thank you, Commandant, but I’m anxious to get home for siesta,” said von Berg as he proceeded toward the Mercedes, Buzzini close behind.
“All is well, I take it, General?”
“If the commandant is referring to the mental health of the Fuhrer, I’m afraid not. In fact, soon you’ll have even more German company. The Fuhrer has personally ordered the First Panzer Division over from France. It should arrive in a few weeks, along with further reinforcements for Greece.”
Buzzini frowned as von Berg settled into the backseat of the Mercedes. Franz shut his door, climbed behind the wheel, and started the engine.
“That would make four German divisions in Greece,” Buzzini said. “So they fear an Allied landing?”
“No, just you Italians.”
The commandant laughed nervously.
All this idiot can do is laugh at my jokes, von Berg thought. “I’ll come to Corfu Town to look at my cables in a day or two.”
“Any time the general wishes-”
But the Mercedes shot off before the Italian could finish his sentence.
“Thank you, Franz,” said von Berg as they left the airstrip behind and began to make their way through the countryside.
Franz looked up into the rearview mirror and smiled. “Anytime, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer.”
Franz was a fine young soldier who would rather be on the front fighting than be anyone’s driver, von Berg thought, but his ability and loyalty as a protector made him indispensable. He was not only a crack marksman but an excellent skier, the only bodyguard who could keep up with him on the slopes in northern Italy during the winter months. That the two bore some resemblance-same height, similar smooth features, and blond hair-when targeted in a rifle scope also came in handy on occasion. Franz had two bullet scars in his left shoulder to prove it.
“I could have used your services while I was gone, Franz. These other drivers, they have no manners, I tell you. I’m glad to be back. Anything happen while I was gone?”
Franz hesitated and then looked up. “Karl…touched the girl.”
Von Berg could see Franz’s eyes in the mirror, searching for his reaction. Karl was one of his best men, too familiar with the consequences of any advances toward Aphrodite to pursue such folly. Unless, of course, von Berg realized, Karl wasn’t expecting him to return from the monasteries of Meteora or his meeting with Hitler in Obersalzberg. That would mean the fool had thrown in his lot with Himmler and Ulrich.
“How very daring of him.”
They passed the village of Gastouri, and the road climbed through geraniums, cypresses, and olive trees toward von Berg’s estate.
26
T he Achillion was a pretentious palace in the neoclassical style and was completely at odds with its tropical surroundings. But von Berg considered it home for a number of reasons, not least of which was that it was built in 1890 for Empress Elizabeth of Austria. Later, Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany made it his summer home until the Greek government confiscated it in 1914 and let the French turn it into a hospital. Now it belonged to Baron von Berg, courtesy of Adolf Hitler, who had intervened on his behalf with Mussolini.
Von Berg had made a few of his own modifications when he moved in. The vast, beautiful gardens that surrounded the estate were booby-trapped with mines triggered by pull igniters and pressure switches. Also, any low-flying intruders who approached from the sea and managed to elude Italian radar would be greeted by a camouflaged FlaK 38 antiaircraft gun. Its quadruple barrels could fire at a rate of 900 rpm and had a ceiling of 6,500 feet. Quite formidable, especially as it was fitted with the latest generation of sights. Finally, despite objections from the Italians, the entire estate staff was German, handpicked by von Berg himself, from the chefs to the Waffen SS guards and Dobermans that patrolled the grounds. Surrounding the premises were an electric fence and signs that said the estate was a clinic for convalescing soldiers.
The SS guards snapped to attention as Franz brought the Mercedes through the electric gate and pulled up to the entrance. Von Berg got out and walked up the steps past the sentries.
Inside the front door, to the right, was a chapel with frescoes on the walls. Von Berg poked his head inside to see if Aphrodite was there, as she often was, wasting her prayers on a God who didn’t exist, but the chapel was deserted. He moved on, briefcase in hand, passing a series of rooms adorned in Pompeian splendor.
Von Berg’s office was on the first floor at the end of the hallway. Here, in what used to be Kaiser Wilhelm’s study, rested the Maranatha text. The troublesome papyrus lay enclosed in a glass case in the corner of the ornate room. Standing next to it was Karl, von Berg’s once trusty, lantern-jawed aide, buffing the glass with his sleeve. When von Berg walked in, he snapped up straight and smiled. “Does this please the general?”
“It’s just fine, Karl.” Von Berg didn’t even look at the text as he walked up to the portrait of King Ludwig II behind his desk. It pictured the Bavarian monarch wearing the regalia of St. George. The Baron pulled the portrait open on its hinge to reveal a secret wall safe, dialed the combination, and placed his briefcase inside. Upon closing the door and replacing the portrait, he turned to Karl and asked, “Where’s Aphrodite?”
Karl didn’t flinch. “She should be back from her swim any minute now.”