The War Cloud (19 page)

He handed the document to Philip, who looked it over carefully. It was an English copy of the German original and said that an SS General, a certain Ludwig von Berg, had discovered the location of the Monastery of the Taborian Light.

This was terrible news, Philip realized, even worse than he had feared. It meant they must flee Meteora at once or risk having the Maranatha text fall into German hands.

The Archimandrite must have sensed his distress, for he asked, “What is it, Philip?” When Philip told him that the Germans had located the Taborian Light, the old monk’s face turned white and he crossed himself. “Lord, have mercy on us all!”

Philip turned to Lloyd. “Who is this General von Berg, Commander?”

“You mean the Baron of the Black Order?” Lloyd shivered. “Only the most dangerous man in the Third Reich after Hitler and Himmler—and more cunning than both of them put together.”

Philip ped the communiqué back to Lloyd, who pocketed it.

“As you can see, Hadji Azrael, our interests are purely political,” Lloyd told him, patting the bulge in his tunic. “Churchill simply wants the Maranatha text out of Hitler’s reach for the rest of the war.”

Philip wasn’t so sure. The communiqué contained several puzzling references to a microfilm of a first-century copy of the Maranatha text, a copy allegedly unearthed by British archaeologists in Palestine. As far as Philip knew, there was no such copy, only the original text now buried beneath the monastery’s crypt. Obviously there was more to this intrigue than Commander Lloyd of British Intelligence was telling them. “And what does Mr. Churchill propose, Commander?”

“That I smuggle the text out of here on horseback to Kalambaka, hitch a ride on the Thessalian Railway to Volos and then board a certain ship to neutral Istanbul. There I entrust the text to the Patriarch of the Eastern Orthodox Church himself for safekeeping until the end of the war.”

Lloyd’s offer was too generous for Philip to believe. But he could see it made an impression on the Archimandrite, who began to nod as he worked his worry beads.

“Surely, Archimandrite, you’re not seriously entertaining this stranger’s insane proposition?”

The Archimandrite sighed. “Better the text be with the Patriarch than in the hands of the Antichrist.”

That was presuming the text ever reached the Patriarch. Philip did not trust British Intelligence. Nor could he trust the judgment of his superior, who, having never killed a man, clearly was at a serious disadvantage here. At times the Archimandrite seemed to forget that the heart of man was above all else cruelly deceptive and exceedingly wicked. But Philip, responsible for thousands of deaths, knew the human heart all too well.

“I am bound by a sacred oath to protect the Maranatha text,” he said. “I must insist that I be the one to deliver it to the Patriarch.”

The Archimandrite shook his head. “You know that is not possible. There is a death sentence on you the moment your feet touch Muslim ground. No, Philip. Brother Yiorgios will accompany Commander Lloyd to Constantinople.”

“Brother Yiorgios?” Lloyd frowned.

“Our silent brother,” said Philip, trying to conceal his bitterness. “We found him some months ago, roaming the hills not far from here, the last survivor of a monastery the Italians plundered. He has never said a word of that unspeakable evil. We put it all together when we saw his cassock and heard the reports.”

“He keeps everything to himself,” said the Archimandrite, who raised an eyebrow at Philip. “An example to us all.”

Philip added, “Vangelis insists he goes out at night into the woods to speak to the devil.”

The Archimandrite dismissed the notion with a wave of his gnarled hand. “That one sees a devil behind every fig tree.”

Seeing clearly that his superior was not going to allow him to accompany Lloyd, Philip switched tactics. If reason failed to move the Archimandrite, then perhaps the unreasonable would smoke out the Englishman. “I say we rn the infernal text and be done with it.”

“You would destroy God’s revelation?” The Archimandrite looked at Philip in horror. “Come to your senses, Philip!”

“I’ve told you my suspicions, Archimandrite. Paul warned our forefathers to beware of any unsettling letter supposedly coming from him that talks about the Lord’s return.”

“Just a bloody minute,” said Lloyd, his eyes shifting back and forth between Philip and the Archimandrite. “You don’t think the text is genuine?”

“A genuine forgery, “ Philip told him. “The Bible itself speaks of such a letter, one allegedly written by Paul that claims the last days have already come.” He looked the Archimandrite straight in the eye. “Perhaps the Maranatha text is the very false report Paul mentions in his second letter to the Thessalonians, the very letter from Hell he warns us to consider at our own peril.”

“Perhaps, Philip,” said the Archimandrite, suddenly sounding tired beyond his considerable years. “But how can you be sure?”

“The very nature of this text contradicts Paul’s repeated warnings to us not to entangle ourselves with endless timetables and futile speculations. Can’t you see, Archimandrite? There is something very diabolical about this text. Death surrounds it! Look at what it does to men.”

Philip was pointing to Lloyd, who at first was startled by the gesture but soon found his tongue and turned everything Philip had said to his advantage.

“Archimandrite, if what Hadji Azrael says is true, then you must help us,” he argued with rising passion. “If you don’t, if the Maranatha text should fall into Hitler’s hands, you will fan into flame the all-consuming fires of Armageddon. And if Jesus Christ should come back today or in a thousand years, it will be you who must stand alone before his throne of judgment with the innocent blood of millions of women and children on your hands. And these words of mine will judge you when they are replayed for all to hear. How will you account for yourself?”

It was a dirty trick that had its desired effect on the Archimandrite. The mere thought of what Lloyd said seemed too great a burden for the old monk to bear. His shoulders drooped and a faraway look filled his eyes. “Yes,” the Archimandrite repeated with resignation. “Better the text be in the hands of the Patriarch than the Antichrist.”

Philip could not believe this was happening. “But Archimandrite—”

“The matter is settled, Philip.” The Archimandrite grasped his rough, wooden cane and rose slowly to his feet. “Brother Yiorgios will accompany Commander Lloyd to Constantinople. The Patriarch will decide what should be done with the Maranatha text.”

“The Prime Minister’s sentiments exactly,” chimed Lloyd, grinning in triumph as he looked at Philip.

Philip stared at the floor, unable to suppress the restlessness in his heart. “To let this text leave this monastery is to open a Pandora’s box of evil,” he warned. “Who knows where it could end?”

It was a question that neither the Archimandrite nor Lloyd was able to answer, for at that moment Bangelis burst through the door.

“Germans!” he cried, out of breath. “Coming up the hill!”

It was a sight Philip had to see with his own eyes from the monastery’s watchtower: A Death’s Head battalion of 24 SS paratroopers was converging on the granite summit. Behind them a pillar of black smoke rose from Kastraki. What was once a sleepy village nestled a thousand feet below the towering rock formations of Meteora was now death and destruction.

They had come from Crete, these
Fallschirmjager
in field-gray uniforms and rimless steel helmets. Hand-picked by Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler himself, they were the pride of the Waffen SS. These days found them loose on the Greek mainland, clearing the mountains of partisans and performing special missions for Himmler’s second-in-command, the mysterious SS General Ludwig von Berg.

Leading the way up was the Baron of the Black Order himself, handsome and wholly evil. One hand held a Schmeisser machine pistol, the other a leash with a terrified Gregory Koutras straining at the end. The boy tried to shout a warning. Von Berg yanked hard on the leash, choking off his cries.

Philip was no stranger to the art of war and the effects of military regalia. But even he felt a chill at the sight of Ludwig von Berg marching toward the monastery in his smartly tailored black dress uniform, black boots and black leather accessories. Above his sleeve’s cuff title was the diamond-shaped SD patch of the
Sicherheitsdienst
or SS intelligence service, which meant he was the worst of the lot. Flanking him were two
Fallschirmjager
with their machine pistols.

The Baron of the Black Order looked younger than his reputed age of 40 and radiated venal power. Glints of gold hair were visible beneath his black SS cap, and his smooth, clean-shaven cheeks tapered down to a twisted smile. His beak-like nose and upper lip, in particular, gave him the air of a predator. But it was his eyes that dominated his appearance, those clear blue eyes with a gaze that could pierce armor plating.

The silver skull-and-crossbones insignia of the Death’s Head badge on von Berg’s cap signaled the general’s willingness to give and take death in the holy cause of National Socialism. But it was also the grim reminder of the invincibility of the Baron of the Black Order, who was said to have a silver plate in his skull and a seemingly supernatural ability to survive assassins’ bullets. Even Philip had heard of the joke within the ranks of the SS: The Baron had nine lives, and for each life the world was a worse place.

Philip turned from his perch and rushed to the cave beneath the monastery. Commander Lloyd stood at the secret exit tunnel with Brother Yiorgios, who clutched the ornate gold canister from Byzantium containing the legendary Maranatha text. Six monks stood by, ready to roll the large mosaic slab that hid the tunnel back into place.

“You’ll come out in the Pindos chain of mountains,” Philip told them. “From there you are in God’s hands. Now go.”

Inside the marble crypt beneath the monastery, Philip joined the Archimandrite and the rest of the monks huddled together in the dark. It was musty from the bones of the saints buried in the alcoves around them, the temptation to cough and betray their presence all too real.

Philip could hear the scrape of jackboots on the floor above as the stormtroopers stripped priceless mosaics from the walls. He was sure the incense and smoke from snuffed-out candles had already informed Baron von Berg that the monastery had not been long abandoned. But even if the Nazis should torch their monastery and burn it to the ground, yes, even then they would rise from the ashes like the Phoenix and rebuild, just as they had done after the Italians, the Turks and every invader before them.

“Outstanding, really,” a chilling authoritarian voice that could only be Baron von Berg’s boomed above. “These Greek Orthodox monks have transformed their faith into an art form. Unfortunately, I suspect their art will outlast their faith. Yes, several icons here would make excellent additions to the Fuhrer’s collection. The best ones I keep for myself, of course. Along with the Maranatha text.”

Suddenly, something like thunder rumbled overhead, followed by a flash of light as the marble slab to the crypt was lifted away. Fear seized them all as they looked up to see the face of evil staring down like an austere icon painted inside the dome of a church. The face of SS General Ludwig von Berg smiled at them, but his voice addressed somebody else.

“Unfortunately,
Standartenfuhrer
Ulrich, you will have to join the martyrs in making a rather abrupt departure from this world. You and Himmler didn’t really think you could run off with the text and keep it a secret from me?”

From somewhere out of view came the cry, “I know who you are, von Berg! Himmler told me. You can’t get away with this! We know who you are!”

“To whom are you appealing, Ulrich? Reason? Justice? God? According to the SS rules that you have chosen to live and die by, you stand outside the jurisdiction of German state courts and even those courts of the Nazi Party. I am your judge now, and I know no justice except my own.”

Philip and the monks now could see Ulrich’s back pressed against the low wall of the crypt. Something about him seemed oddly familiar to Philip.

“You are mad, von Berg, insane.”

“The Reichsfuhrer chases fantasies and you call me mad? Hardly, Ulrich. Oh, I’ll keep this so-called Maranatha text, but not to indulge the Fuhrer’s mysticism. There’s a war going on, and the last thing we need is this apocalyptic nonsense to further cloud the Fuhrer’s judgment. Now if you will please hand over your SS dagger,
Standartenfuhrer.
Quickly, we haven’t all day.”

Philip heard the shuffle of boots and then saw Ulrich’s own men take hold of him. Then a black sleeve reached forward and removed the dagger from its sheath.

“See the words engraved on its hilt? Yes, say them out loud.”

Ulrich’s hoarse voice replied, “Blood and honor.”

“That’s right, Ulrich. Your blood, my honor.”

There was a flash as the blade caught the light. Ulrich screamed.

“You see, there is an art to dying,” von Berg’s voice mused above Ulrich’s cries. “In one stroke a traitor is killed and decrepit monks become martyrs. Of course, it may help you to consider yourself a martyr. Every faith needs them, even our own. I can only wonder when you wake up whether it will be in the same place as those you are about to join.”

The monks saw Ulrich fall backward into the crypt, pushed by the stiff hand that still lingered in the air overhead. They shrank back in fear to avoid the falling body and felt the ground shake when Ulrich hit the floor.

Philip bent over the crumpled, robe-clad body, and turned the head to see the German’s face.

Brother Yiorgios!

In that instant Philip realized that Yiorgios was a Nazi spy, Commander Lloyd of the British Secret Service was dead, and the Baron of the Black Order now possessed the Maranatha text.

Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner!

Then he felt something like raindrops and smelled petrol in the air. When he looked up, the Baron held a lit cigarette over the open crypt.