“Fine.” Von Berg could only admire the ice-cold self-assurance of his protege, and inwardly, he complimented himself for being such an excellent role model. “And where have you been?”
“Downstairs in the labs.”
“Of course you have.” Von Berg decided that Karl knew too much about what went on beneath the Achillion and had to die. “I’d like to see you upstairs in the master suite in a few minutes.”
A puzzled look crossed Karl’s face. “As you wish.”
Von Berg went out into the front hall and climbed the majestic marble staircase to the second floor and the master suite. On his bed lay a change of clothes, and he could hear water running in the bathroom.
“The perfect temperature, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer,” said his maid as she came out with his robe. “Just as you like.”
She was a heavyset, middle-aged, and plain mule of a woman who knew her place. That was exactly what he liked about her. “Thank you, Helga.”
Helga nodded and left, closing the door behind her.
Von Berg unfastened his tie and moved to the open window overlooking the sweeping gardens. Here stood an outstanding statue of the dying Achilles, by the German sculptor Herter, as well as lesser statues of Lord Byron and the melancholy empress Elizabeth herself. Best of all, the gardens offered von Berg a panoramic view of the Chalikiopoulos Lagoon, Mouse Island, and, beyond that, the mainland. And there on the sand, walking along the shore like a Greek goddess, was nature’s most exquisite treasure of all-Aphrodite Vasilis.
If he had a flaw, von Berg realized, it was his love for this Greek girl. Not that he believed in love as such. Love implied an equal footing for both partners. But life in this meaningless universe had made it clear to him that the stronger must always subdue the weaker. So it couldn’t be love, he rationalized. No, perhaps it was his instinctual recognition that he was attracted to her for reasons beyond her physical beauty.
For one thing, she wasn’t weak, like other women. He detected a strength in her that he found truly admirable. She wasn’t one to be bullied, though bullied she had to be if he wanted to control her. But threats of physical harm to her proved fruitless. She would rather have both breasts cut off and her face mutilated before she bowed down to the Gestapo. That was happening in many Greek villages these days. The only way to motivate Aphrodite, therefore, was to threaten another innocent victim. This compassion for others was her only vice, and he used it as a last resort because it was a tacit admission of his own failure to control her.
There was also her love of poetry, which they shared, although she preferred Lord Byron to his beloved Goethe. Lately, however, he had seen her toting a slim volume by the aviator poet Michalis Akylas, a major in the Hellenic Royal Air Force who had been shot dead in Athens the year before. Poets who died of natural causes, von Berg decided, were preferable to those who died from German bullets; they didn’t stir the same resentment in Aphrodite toward him.
Then there was the way she carried on behind his back, secretly working with Archbishop Damaskinos whenever they were in Athens, using her Red Cross mercy missions to funnel money and relief supplies to the families of killed and imprisoned Resistance fighters. She didn’t know he knew this, but he did and approved of it. He had tested her with his own agents, posing as British spies, and knew that she was loyal to him. In short, she could play the game.
The worst thing about her-the best thing, really-was her independent spirit. For a man like himself, one who had to conquer and defeat to validate his existence in this insane world, she proved to be the ultimate challenge. Hitler, after all, could be stopped with a single well-placed bullet. The Allies, too, could be blackmailed into favorable peace negotiations with the nuclear threat of Flammenschwert . But the human heart was a different game altogether. After all, he couldn’t make Aphrodite love him. She was beyond his control. This fact frustrated and infuriated him, because it reminded him of the other things in life beyond his controclass="underline" his impending madness and, ultimately, death.
He looked down at Aphrodite drying off on the beach. She then climbed into the back of the Kubelwagen with Hans and Peter. They started down the coast road to the Achillion.
Perhaps if I can make her love me, he reasoned, I can defeat the demons of madness and frustrate death.
Or, if I fail, she will be the cause of it.
27
W hen Aphrodite returned to the mournful palace, she was told the Baron was waiting for her on the second-floor veranda. There she found that a table for two had been prepared, the white china and silverware that bore Ludwig von Berg’s monogram gleaming in the sun. A few feet away, next to a bust of one of the nine Muses, stood Ludwig, looking out over the hills and ocean.
He was out of uniform and thus seemed less lethal and more relaxed, dressed as he was in a white linen suit. When he turned, his blue eyes brightened.
“The best view in all of Corfu,” he said as he crossed the terrace and embraced her. “My little Nausicaa.”
Nausicaa was his pet name for her; it was the name of the princess who’d found Odysseus shipwrecked on her island. Ludwig fondly drew the parallel to her finding him in a hospital bed and nursing him back to health. That they ended up here on Corfu-the very same island, possibly, from Homer’s myth-only made their relationship that much more romantic. Or so Ludwig maintained, conveniently forgetting that she hadn’t come to Corfu of her own free will.
“Did you miss me?” he asked. “I’ve missed you. You know, I almost didn’t make it back here alive.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
He gave her a rueful smile. “That’s what I like about you, Aphrodite. No flattery. Complete honesty. An independent opinion. That’s rare in the New Order.”
“Then maybe we should go back to the old order, Ludwig. You and your countrymen can pack your bags and leave my land. Then my family and I can get on with our lives.”
“And leave you to a future without me?” he said, taking her arm and escorting her to the table. “The thought is too much for me to bear.”
An SS waiter she did not recognize held her chair for her as they sat down. He proceeded to pour some Mavrodaphne wine into two glasses. It was the first sign that something was wrong: Karl usually poured Ludwig’s wine after tasting it. When she looked at Ludwig, he raised his glass to toast her. “To my little Nausicaa.”
“Where’s Karl?”
Ludwig paused, swallowed some of the sweet red wine, and set the glass down. “Karl is ill,” he replied. “A bad bottle of wine. Fortunately for us, we do not have to drink from the same cup, do we? Come, now, you aren’t even touching your food.”
She looked down at her plate, where some lamb was already cut up for her. There was no knife in her place setting because Ludwig had ordered the staff to keep sharp objects out of her reach when they were close to each other. “I’m not hungry,” she informed him. “I’m too worried to eat.”
“Worried?” His penetrating eyes looked intently at her above his cruel smile, a look that always made her fear for her life. “Whatever about?”
“About Kostas,” she said. “Did you inquire about Kostas?”
He frowned. “Yes, he’s doing as well as can be expected at a place like Larissa. I made sure he received your letter. As for any release, right now that’s impossible. But I’m working on it.”
It was always I’m working on it. Aphrodite bit her tongue. She knew she couldn’t press him too hard about Kostas’s case; she was fortunate to get the news she did about him, and fortunate that Ludwig’s SS bodyguard detail “protected” her family in Athens. Fortunate to be alive, even, and so well cared for. Still, somehow, she didn’t feel alive.
“It’s just as well,” Ludwig went on. “If your brother were released, he’d probably turn right around and do something foolish again, maybe even come after a German like me. All he’d manage to do is get himself killed. No, my sweet, I think your brother is safer at Larissa.”