Thank God his family was safe on the Turtle Dove.
Andros removed the microfilm cartridge from the lighter and looked at it in the moonlight. In all probability, the information it contained was worthless. All it confirmed was what his OSS masters had known all along: that the Allies were invading Sicily, not Greece. Clearly, they had expected him to be captured and to spill their precious lie to the suspicious Baron von Berg. Only, he had escaped, and von Berg presumably was more suspicious than ever. To top it off, he had seen nothing resembling an ancient Greek text and was beginning to wonder if it even existed. He put the microfilm in his pocket and grasped the hollow shell in his hand. Cursing the name of Jason Prestwick, and himself for his naivete, he hurled the good-for-nothing lighter into the sea and went up to the bridge.
Karapis stood by the helmsman while Tsatsos scanned the darkness with his night glasses. Andros moved to the chart table and examined their route, trying to push Aphrodite out of his mind.
“I still don’t understand,” Andros said a minute later. “According to the charts, there’s nothing north of Monemvasia.”
“Ah, nothing now,” said Tsatsos, handing him his night glasses. “But soon you’ll see.”
Andros took the night glasses and looked out at the wall of mountains to the starboard side. Still a monolithic mass, he thought, until he saw a flicker of light, and then the wall seemed to part like angels’ wings, revealing something like a valley of stars between two dark peaks.
“The Villehardouin Gorge,” Tsatsos explained. “It starts wide by the sea and narrows through the mountains for twelve miles, with only a stream at its bottom. The National Bands base is situated in a defensive position on the high ground between the gorge and the sea.”
Andros continued to scan the shore until he saw a light. “I see something. The signal, I suspect.”
He gave the glasses back to Tsatsos, who looked for himself. “That’s it,” said Tsatsos, lowering the glasses. “We’ll signal back while you and Karapis get ready. Remember, once you’re ashore, send Karapis back immediately. We must make up for lost time.”
Andros nodded and went to the deck, where the crew lowered a lifeboat and its pilot, Karapis, into the water. Andros climbed over the side and descended a rope ladder one sagging rung at a time. Then he dropped into the bobbing boat, and they cast off.
As they peeled away, Andros could see Tsatsos standing by the rail on the deck of the Independence, waving good-bye. “You’ve made an old sailor proud, Christos!” he called out as he was swallowed by the darkness.
Andros waved back dutifully and said, “Farewell, old friend.”
The sea was rough as they approached the cliffs along the coast, but soon they rounded a promontory, and Karapis eased the small boat into the inlet of a bay.
“An ancient Minoan harbor abandoned for centuries,” Karapis informed Andros. “Guillaume de Villehardouin used it in the twelfth century as a secret supply dock during his three-year siege of Monemvasia. The two piers were built later by the Venetians. One of them is a good six feet underwater, so we have to watch it going in to keep from ripping the hull.”
Andros could see the other pier, an old, crumbling stone peninsula jutting into the water, and on it a row of dim, ragged figures holding torches.
86
E rin Whyte stood at the end of the pier and watched anxiously while the boat carrying Chris came in from the sea like a phantom raft crossing back over from beyond the river Styx. What had happened in Athens, she wondered, that he should return alive yet alone?
Standing next to her was Stavros, sporting three bandoliers full of ammunition, one around his waist and one over each of his shoulders. She watched him briefly finger the beautifully engraved handles of the knives that protruded from various parts of his ample waist before he readied his Sten gun.
“Easy, big fella,” she told him. “He’s on our side, remember?”
“Humph,” grunted the Greek.
She ignored him and watched the caique approach. She was looking forward to finally seeing a friendly, familiar face in Greece.
When the caique bumped up against the pier and Chris stepped onto the stone in his docker clothing, Erin immediately was struck by the disappointment on his face. She walked up to him, waiting to let him speak, fighting the urge to throw her arms around him and welcome him to “Free Greece.”
“Well, Captain, here’s what I have,” he told her, handing over a microfilm cartridge and a film negative. “And that’s all I have.”
He did not greet her or show any emotion, and his lifeless eyes disturbed her deeply. Suddenly, she didn’t want the film or even the Maranatha text itself; she only wanted Chris to be like he was before this mission. Like she was before Lyon. But that was impossible, she realized, and she could sense he knew it, too.
“You keep them for now,” she told him, passing them back. “We don’t have the facilities to develop them here, so we’ll wait until we link up with Colonel Prestwick on the submarine.” She dared not mention Churchill’s change in plans.
“Prestwick,” Chris muttered as he put away the negative and the microfilm cartridge. “I’m looking forward to our reunion.”
It was then that Doughty, wearing his New Zealand battle dress uniform with parachute wings on his chest for the occasion, greeted Chris in Greek on behalf of the National Bands of Greece.
“Chris Andros, I presume,” said the red-whiskered New Zealander, shaking Chris’s hand. “So good to see the great general’s son. Welcome to Free Greece.”
At the name of Andros, whispering broke out among the ranks of the andartes. Stavros, it seemed to Erin, seemed particularly thunderstruck. The big Greek passed a torch in front of Chris’s face and studied him closely. “You are the son of that monarcho-fascist General Nicholas Andros?”
“Yes,” Chris shot back, glancing at her and Doughty. “I’m the son of that monarcho-fascist.”
Stavros said nothing, but Erin could see from his suspicious expression that his Marxist mind was at work. Perhaps he could guess that the British wanted to install Andros as the leader of a united Greek Resistance, all under the banner of the National Bands of Greece. It was news she would have to break to Andros the next morning.
“An ugly bunch, aren’t they?” she told Chris lightly, and to the rest gave a shout. “Let’s move!”
They launched Karapis and his boat back to the Independence and produced a sorry-looking mule for Chris to ride to the base.
“I forgot,” said Chris, reaching into his pocket and producing three sealed envelopes. “Touchstone wanted me to give you these orders.”
Erin looked at the envelopes. The first was for her, the second for Stavros, and the third for Kalos. She slipped them into her tunic and nodded. “I’ll pass these out tomorrow. In the meantime, I suggest we get moving.”
As the column of andartes climbed the rocky trail, Erin noticed Stavros looking back over the long line of horses to glimpse her and Andros, side by side, bringing up the rear. Stavros then looked ahead resolutely and proceeded to lead the column of andartes in song: “Better one day of freedom than forty years of slavery…”
87
A phrodite slept in such fits throughout the night that when she awoke the next morning, she was surprised by the serenity that had descended upon her family’s estate.
She got out of bed, slipped into her dressing gown, and walked to the balcony. The sun was up, the birds were chirping. It was so pleasant that the previous night seemed to fade like a dream, as did the past several days. Then she saw the stain of blood on the stone balustrade.