I open my eyes, roll around the other way, and see… The Aegir! The brass guardrail is browner, and its bowline caked in rust. But it’s the same ship I sailed on five years ago.
SS troops – identifiable from their earth-grey uniforms – guard the dockside end of the pier. I have a good inkling who the ‘interested man from Berlin’ is. Do I confront him directly? The Aegir is the only ship in Piraeus harbour I know the layout of. No activity nearby and the portholes are dark, so it’s probably lightly crewed. Definitely my best shot at escaping Greece, and I’d much prefer to deal with him than a U-boat full of Kriegsmarine.
I continue my roll off the pier edge. I close my palms together, straighten my legs, and tilt so I’m nearly vertical when I dive into the sea. My cloth is non-absorbent, but the pouch is a heavy weight around my neck. I swim around the Aegir, staying beneath the surface except for quick breathers whenever my lungs reach bursting point.
The water is calm and cool, with shoals of fish swimming along the seabed. A pleasant diversion from the war-ravaged docks, but it only lasts a minute. Then I arrive at the pier, and I’m faced with a monotonous climb up the slippery poles.
You’re used to climbing by now, I tell myself. Get up there. But it doesn’t stop my arms hurting.
I keep inside - between the two sets of struts – to conceal myself from any observant sailors. It’s still daylight, but my dark cloth, hair, and face stand out less in the shade. Where possible I use rough, dry sections of wood to avoid slipping. After some tiring gymnastics, I hold position just below the pier, and listen for telltale creaks or bumps that might indicate a patrolling guard. I hear nothing except lapping waves and the distant hammering of metal.
Yellow light flashes on the U-boat conning tower. The blond sailor has binoculars! I flatten up against a wide strut, and place my arms and legs along poles. Hopefully the man will think I’m a shadow. He scans the pier, then looks out to sea. Probably a routine check, but I’d best be careful.
I swing outside the struts, climb onto the pier, and crouch down low. The SS troops guarding the port end are facing the other way, but I’m not taking any chances after that scare. Using stacked crates for cover, I make my way across to the Aegir‘s gangplank. When I’m satisfied nobody is watching, I climb on board.
I was right. He’s here. The black-jacketed man is focused on his prisoner, but I’ve seen the charcoal hair, fedora, and rectangular-framed glasses before. The scene is a mirror image of the Marzahn interrogation room, only it’s not my sister strung up this time.
Zennler has Kostis at his mercy. The Greek is stripped to his underwear, wrists and ankles fastened to the ship’s mast with blackened hemp. How long has he been tortured for? A while, judging from all the cuts on his chest. A rusty bucket full of bloody water is next to the guardrail, and a second positioned under Kostis’ legs.
An SS soldier stands guard nearby, machine gun strapped on his back. Good thing he wasn’t looking my way, or they’d have two prisoners to interrogate.
“You didn’t ask about the girl?” says Zennler in fluent Greek, holding his Ahnenerbe pin up to Kostis’ eye. “Why she came to Athens? Didn’t you think it strange they would send a child here? Or is that normal behaviour in the Greek army?”
Army? Kostis must have fed Zennler a lie. Only my sister knows who he really is, and she’s not here. Fortunately. My old mentor is tougher than he looks, but one sadist is quite enough to contend with.
Kostis must have seen me, but he doesn’t move his eyes. “My mission was to follow orders,” he says. “Not to ask questions. Those I leave to you.” He spits out a globule of red saliva.
“Interesting weapon you brought along. Not normal issue for your military. Who gave it to you?”
Now I’ve moved closer I see Belfast’s Welrod pistol in the SS soldier’s hand, and the bag of explosives by the far rail. I walk on tiptoes, holding my breath as I lift the chained leather pouch from my shoulders. Guns are far more dangerous than Zennler’s badge pin, so I’ll deal with the guard first. I don’t need to worry about the men on the pier. The deck is elevated enough to obscure me.
“You’re a spy,” Zennler accuses Kostis. “Tough, but any man can be broken.”
I wrap the chain around my fingers, and approach the SS man from the side so he won’t see my shadow.
“Girls are more difficult to persuade,” says Zennler. “Especially those built like stone houses, or those who heal after you cut them. But you… You will talk.”
The pouch chain clinks, alerting the soldier to my presence. He turns, eyes widening in alarm as he spots me. I swing the metal ball before he can aim the Welrod. The vessel smacks him in the forehead. His eyeballs roll up, and he falls over backward onto the Aegir‘s deck.
I catch the falling pistol. My hand may be steady, but my pulse races as I aim at the bridge of Zennler’s spectacles.
“That girl you’re looking for,” I say, meeting his stare with my own. “She’s right here.”
Zennler takes a couple of seconds to recognise me through the makeup. “Fraulein Clayton. You won’t shoot.”
He doesn’t sound convinced, but that could be me hoping he’ll surrender. The man’s a torturer. Why is it so hard to squeeze the trigger?
“Shoot him!” Kostis yells.
“She cannot,” says Zennler, smirking. “She is a child. A compassionate, caring child. She does not have the stomach to kill a man.” He moves closer, almost daring me to do it.
My arm’s frozen… and not because I’ve stopped time. “I’ve grown up since you last saw me,” I say. “I’ve changed.”
“No. Underneath that dye, you’re the same girl I spoke to in Berlin. And you’re forgetting something else. What about my men on the dock? They will hear you shoot. You will not have time to save your Greek friend.”
Kostis struggles against his bonds, grinding his teeth. He can’t help me. I’m on my own. I close my eyes and think about firing the gun. Maybe if I don’t look at…
I’m on the Short Stirling, preparing for the parachute jump.
“It’s a Welrod,” Belfast explains. “Designed for special operations. It’s got a built in silencer.”
Exactly what I need. I picture Zennler holding his badge, with Kostis roped behind. I feel the warmth of the Sun on my face as I return to the Aegir. But I keep my eyelids closed.
“They won’t hear a thing,” I say, and pull the trigger.
There’s a quiet phut. I shoot again. And a third time, even though I just heard a loud bump.
“Good girl,” Kostis praises me.
I open my eyes to see Zennler lying face down on the deck, blood spreading under his cracked spectacles. His fingers twitch, but that’s just muscle spasm. He won’t be getting back up.
I’m a murderer. No different from Lydia, Father, or my sister. However I try to justify it, I killed a man. My sole consolation: whenever I’m forced to relive this moment, I won’t have to watch Zennler die.
Chapter Nineteen: The Wisdom of Athena
It’s getting late. In a few minutes the Sun’s crest will disappear below the western sea, and the last rays of daylight will fade from the orange-brown sky. Kostis insisted we leave the wheelhouse lights switched off. I wish he hadn’t. Drawing a precise diagram is hard to begin with. Doing it in near-darkness is slow, tedious, and exhausting.
“Get some rest,” Kostis says after my latest misstep. “We’re not going anywhere until nightfall.”
“What was it you taught me?” I ask, raising my voice a little. “Whenever you need to concentrate, find a quiet spot.”
Kostis gazes through the Aegir‘s portside window. He’s been watching the pier for hours. Does the old man ever get tired? He would if he rewound time every five seconds. But I don’t have a choice.
It’s crucial I draw the symbols exactly as they were on the Parthenon. Squares in the same positions, same angles, same sizes. This is my third attempt. My first sheet of paper is crumpled in a ball on the navigator�
�s desk, the second ripped to confetti. If Kostis keeps quiet, I might get it right before sundown.
I plot four points and revisit my memory to check they’re aligned with the corners of the last square. Dots are much easier to rub out than lines. I wish I’d thought of this technique sooner, but I tend to miss the obvious.
“I don’t understand why you need to draw them,” Kostis says. “Don’t squares look the same both ways?”
“The sizes and angles stay the same if you flip them around.” I keep the explanation simple. My last one only confused him. “But the positions in the pattern change, and so do half the lines in the translated picture. Without knowing what it’s supposed to show, I can’t tell which are right and which are wrong.”
I join the dots, pausing to recuperate before I rotate my sketch to view the symbols the right way up. When I was on the Parthenon roof, I hung over the edge and saw them from an inverted position. So the lines based on the square positions were all wrong. No wonder the picture was a mess. Why didn’t I realise it sooner? It was only when I saw Zennler’s—
“Get his legs,” says Kostis. “We need to move him inside, in case the soldiers come on board.”
Not this memory again. I really must stop thinking about Zennler.
His body lies face up on the sunbathed deck. Up close I see every gory detail. Blood rimmed hole between his lifeless eyes. The flattened bullet rattling in his skull. Broken spectacle glass buried in his nose. Did Zennler deserve to die? Probably, but that doesn’t make me feel any better.
I grab Zennler’s ankles. At the time I was thankful to be wearing gloves so I didn’t have to touch his cold skin, but now I feel nothing but guilt. Kostis lifts the arms. He pulls, while I provide what support I can from my end.
We’re halfway to the bulkhead door when I hear a metallic ping. I glance down to see a shiny metal disc spin to a stop. Zennler’s badge has come off his jacket, and the Deutsches Ahnenerbe inscription is…
“Upside down,” I mutter, making the connection. “That’s why the symbols aren’t translating properly. I was looking at them the wrong way around.”
I come back to the present. Disposing of Zennler’s corpse in the engine room is an experience I’d rather not repeat. I convinced Kostis to grant the SS soldier – the man I knocked out – a reprieve. He’s tied up and gagged down below, though he may be wishing we’d killed him. Zennler’s body is six hours old. By now, the stench of rotting flesh will be nauseating.
Grateful I’m not down below, I freeze time and focus on the symbols I’ve drawn. The picture that forms is clearer than before. Slightly. There are a few jagged shapes that resemble ellipses, but many lines are isolated. All that effort to produce this? When I open my eyes, I’m so frustrated I could rip my hard work to pieces.
“They’re still out there,” Kostis says, referring to the troops guarding the pier. “But I don’t think they’re coming back. That man… Zennler. He asked not to be disturbed.”
“Who’d argue with that maniac?” I stare at the desk, in dire need of inspiration. It doesn’t come.
“What does it show?”
“Nothing!” My snappy response gets me an angry glare, but I’m in no mood to be nice. “My drawing’s not accurate enough. That’s why the lines are coming out wrong. I can’t draw the symbols as accurately as Athena. It’s impossible. Even Ernst could only confirm the lines based on…” I recall the chalk city on the blackboard at Bletchley Park, with the different coloured lines. “The first four digits. If I only draw only those lines and ignore the rest… Maybe they’ll be accurate, and the picture will make sense.”
I ignore Kostis’ perplexed reaction and pull a bronze, three-pronged protractor from under the navigation charts. Its arms are as long as mine are, and its pivots so stiff I have to force them to move. Bulky and unwieldy, but it’s the only instrument around here that can measure angles. No Vernier callipers, so the ruler will have to do for distances.
“Are you sure you want to find this cave?” Kostis asks. “Maybe it’s better left undisturbed.”
“So the Nazis can stumble across it?”
I close my eyes and return to Ernst’s hut at Bletchley Park. I listen to him describe the translation method three times. Enough to understand the basics, but no more. It’ll have to do.
I return to the wheelhouse and get to work. Using another sheet of paper, I reconstruct Ernst’s four-column table. Now for the tricky bit: measurements. I start with the big, outside squares. By a stroke of good fortune – or fate – the sides are exactly twenty centimetres long.
“One hundred units of arbitrary length,” I think aloud. “So to convert them… times by five.”
I measure the other squares and do rough calculations by the side. But there’s no time for angles. Darkness has fallen, and the waning moon isn’t bright enough to be of assistance.
“They’re changing the guard.” Kostis presses his face to the window. “If we leave now, there’s a chance they won’t see us.”
“Only a chance?” I query.
“Better than none at all.”
Kostis takes the wheel. Hopefully he can navigate in the dark. If we crash into the pier, we’ll alert every German in Piraeus. And if we do escape, we could be heading further away from the cave. Hopefully the picture – when I finally finish it - will give us some indication where to look.
“Take watch,” Kostis says. “Warn me if you see anything.”
And if I do? What chance does the Aegir have against German warships? Or a U-boat? The submarine is an even greater threat at night. With its grey hull practically invisible in the dark, it won’t have to submerge to catch us unaware.
Kostis pushes the throttle forward. The Aegir edges ahead at two miles per hour, or whatever the nautical equivalent is. It’s slower than a rowboat, but at least the engine is quiet. The Germans won’t hear us depart, and they shouldn’t see us with the lights off.
It takes an age to safely clear the pier, and even longer before Piraeus vanishes behind the Attican coastline. Kostis waits a few minutes before switching on the only lightbulb he hasn’t unscrewed. One is bright enough to see by, and my hands have stopped aching now. No excuses for not finishing the sketch.
I mark axes on another sheet of paper, do the rest of the measurements, and plot lines on the grid. Fifteen squares, which gives me sixty grid coordinates. And thirty - mostly unconnected - pieces of an indecipherable puzzle.
“Is that it?” Kostis enquires with an unimpressed glance. “Your treasure map’s missing a few islands.”
Islands… He’s right. Two irregular, vaguely elliptical shapes are almost complete, their edges joined at obtuse angles. And some other lines form broken sections of what could be a coastline. A lot of blank space, but there are enough contours to identify the archipelago.
“The Aegean Sea!” I exclaim. The group of small islands is east of our present position, between Greece and Turkey. “All we have to do is continue on our course.”
“That’s a large area,” Kostis says pessimistically. “And some islands may already be occupied.”
“They are.” Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Kostis is already against the idea. “But in the picture, the one I saw in London, there was an underground lake. So what if the cave isn’t on land, but somewhere offshore?”
I run my finger back and forth across the paper, checking the plotted lines against a colour chart of the Aegean Sea. Apart from the occasional overlapping connection and stretches of missing coast – due to inaccurate measurements – I find no major discrepancies. There must be some clue. I go over the sketch again, starting at the bottom. The southernmost island is crescent-shaped, with its tips pointing west. It’s labelled on the chart as Santorini, but I’m certain it was called something else in Kostis’ atlas.
What are those two short lines, just north of the lower point? Horizontal and vertical, joined at a perfect right angle. There’s nothing at that location on the chart.
�
�It’s a marker square.” I pencil in the missing edges. “That’s where the cave is. In the sea. I was right.”
“Thera,” Kostis says, calling the crescent island by its Greek name. “The water in between the moon shape used to be land, until a volcanic eruption submerged it. Today there are steep cliffs along the inside edge. No beaches or docks, and the only settlements are on the hill.”
“Nobody to see us approach,” I argue. “And far enough south it might not have been invaded yet.”
“Edith.” Kostis is about to lecture me. I can tell from his patronising tone. “You remember how I was when we first met in England. Rough, angry, impulsive.”
“I’m not—”
Kostis places a hand on my shoulder. “Like that? Then let me finish. I was no more than a thug, but Lydia taught me to control my emotions. As I taught you. But she always believed the woman she met in ancient times was a Goddess. She would do anything to find her, even things she told me not to. She took unneeded risks, put herself in harm’s way, killed innocent men to protect her secrets. I don’t know if the metal woman came from beyond the sky, but if she did, imagine the knowledge she would possess.”
I was right about the lecture, but Kostis is so sincere I don’t interrupt.
“The British, the Germans. Both want to win the war whatever the cost. If they acquire the wisdom this… Athena left behind, think of the destruction that will follow.”
I’d prefer not to, but I can’t deny it’s human nature to fight wars. Peace never lasts forever, no matter what our leaders tell us. There’s always another conflict, and each time the weapons are more devastating. The last great war claimed millions of lives. This one is already bigger. And the next…
“What if we destroy it?” I propose. “We have the dynamite. And the supply bag has an airtight seal. We could get the bombs down to the cave.”
“You think bombs will be enough against…” Kostis eyes the pouch around my neck.
Edith Clayton and the Wisdom of Athena Page 23
