A loud beep, and the indicator light changes from red to bright green. We’ve reached the drop point.
Belfast stands up, turns the door’s locking handle until it clunks, and pushes open the hatch. Wind howls through the cargo bay. Maybe I should have accepted the thick, dark green jumpsuit the armourer offered me at the airfield, but I found it heavy and cumbersome. After a protracted debate, the commandos let me wear my trusty black cloth and kindly patched the torn leggings. But it feels very thin right now.
“Ladies first?” jokes Belfast.
I stand up, stumbling under the weight of the parachute harness. They don’t make smaller sizes for children, and I’m nowhere near as fit as the commandos. It’s a huge burden, but – as the old saying goes - I grin and bear it. Scar actually seems impressed I reach the door without falling. I grip the handrail by the side and lean out, feeling the night air chill my ears.
Our flight is nearly over. We travelled under cover of darkness along an indirect route: a detour across the Atlantic to avoid the dogfighting, across the south of Spain, and then east over the Mediterranean Sea. We’re in a Short Stirling, a metal beast of a bomber which – according to Rodgers’ briefing - doubles as a troop carrier because of its superior range. Even so, we had to make an unofficial landing near Barcelona to refuel. Spain is neutral in the war, which is probably why we used a remote airstrip, and why the pale-skinned, English speaking mechanic talked in code phrases.
“You’ve not had any training, I take it,” Belfast says.
I wonder what gave me away: my sweaty hand marks on the rail, my shaky knees, or the last minute adjustment of my parachute harness.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell them – and myself. “Just pull the ripcord, and glide toward the green lantern.”
I don’t see the signal yet. Our Greek contact should be somewhere on the Attica Peninsula, the southern tip of Greece that appears pitch black against the sparkling, moonlit sea. The distant clusters of orange-yellow lights must be Athens and the port of Piraeus. We’re further north, flying over the forested peak of Mount Parnitha. There’s a glimmer of emerald green among the trees, much too bright to be foliage.
“Down there,” Scar says, beating me to it.
Belfast fastens up the supply bag and throws it out the door, pulling a cord at the last moment. A black chute opens and quickly blends with the night sky. I can’t tell the canvas from the landscape. Hopefully our contact on the ground has better eyesight than me. I don’t fancy scaling the Parthenon without a grappling hook.
“What if you get hurt?” Scar asks gloomily. “Are we supposed to carry you?”
“Don’t worry!” I shout over the propeller blades. “I’ll get better.”
I jump before they ask me to explain.
I’m in free fall over Greece, black cloth flapping against my body. Spiky, many-branched outlines of trees take shape, and the green signal light gets bigger and brighter. The plane flew in low to avoid detection, so I only wait a few seconds before I pull the ripcord ring. I feel a sharp upward tug as my parachute opens. The harness straps creak, tightening around my chest and shoulders.
I’m slightly off course, so I compensate by pulling the steering rope. I bank sharply left, and the signal lantern moves from eleven o’clock all the way to four. I’m hearing double, because there are two buzzing aircraft engines. One’s a little quieter, as if…
A plane on an intercept course! Small cockpit. Single propeller. German cross symbol painted on its side. I recognise the Messerschmitt fighter from war footage. Flickers of yellow appear on its wings. A split second later I hear the rattle of machine gun fire, and a blazing fireball lights up the sky.
“No!” I gasp.
Flaming wreckage falls on Mount Parnitha: cabin sections, detached wing, undercarriage, cracked windscreen. A bullet must have struck the Short Stirling’s fuel tank. If the men were still on the plane… Nobody could survive an explosion that powerful, not even me.
The Messerschmitt flies over the mountainside and away from Athens. Did the pilot spot me? Has he radioed a report in? It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing I can do now. I need to focus on the mission.
I make a half turn and scan the forest. Finding a light among burning debris and thickening smoke is impossible. I freeze time to study the image. No lantern, but what’s that snagged on the high branch? Black sheeting and dangling ropes. It must be the supply bag.
I start time moving again and steer right. My control’s gotten better, and I only veer a little off course. I lift my legs to evade a tall conifer, but there’s no way to avoid the big one after that.
Leaves shed as I crash through the treetop. A thick, crooked branch sinks under my weight, brushes my back, and springs back to its original position. I’m safely through. There’s a clearing ahead I should be able to…
Cloth tears above me as my parachute catches a Y-shaped tree trunk. I swing forward then back again, harness twisting uncontrollably. I almost smack face first into the bark, but I’m able to trap a branch between my legs to steady myself.
“Hello,” I whisper cautiously. “Anyone out there?”
A flock of birds take flight. Did somebody disturb them?
“Hello!” I say again, louder but not quite shouting. It could be a German patrol for all I know.
“You’re in enemy territory.” An old man speaking Greek. “Be discreet, and scout the area. Have you forgotten what I taught you, Edith?”
“Kostis.” How could I forget my mentor’s voice, even if it has been two years?
So he’s the contact. Kostis emerges from the shadow of the same tree I’m stuck in, and holds up a green-windowed, box-shaped lantern. Its shutters are two thirds closed, and the circle of light it casts only a few feet in radius.
The hillside is littered with twigs and loose pebbles, but I didn’t hear Kostis approach. He looks older – bone white hair, patchy eyebrows and jagged beard – but age hasn’t dulled his aptitude for stealth. He wears a high-collared dark grey cloak and peaked cap, and carries the supply bag slung over his shoulder.
I unbuckle the harness straps, grab a parachute rope for support, and pull out my legs. I make only the tiniest of creaks, but it’s enough to alarm Kostis.
“Wait! I’ll catch you,” he offers.
No he won’t. I jump, angle my knees to soften my landing, and roll into a sitting position. A twenty foot fall onto hard ground, and not a single broken bone in my body.
“I haven’t forgotten everything,” I say cheekily.
Kostis scans the forest. “I was told to expect three of you.”
“There were three,” I say, losing the smile. “The other two were on the plane.”
Kostis eyes the peak of Mount Parnitha, where a column of fluffy black smoke rises from charred trees. “The Germans will investigate the wreckage. We should get moving if we want to reach Athens by daylight.”
My old mentor leads the way, trekking through the gloomy forest. Three years ago I might have suggested we search for the two commandos, in case they survived the crash. But personal experience – and Kostis’ training to expect the worst - tells me they’re already gone. Why does everyone around me die?
“When I heard they were sending a girl to Athens for some reason they couldn’t tell me, I knew it would be you,” Kostis says. “You don’t seem happy. Did the British not meet your expectations? I understand you want to visit the Parthenon before the Nazis defile it. The message didn’t say why, but I’m only Greek. I don’t need to know these things.”
That’s a polite way of asking me why I’m here. With the British commandos dead, my only ally is the mentor I walked away from. I need to rebuild trust, and that means sharing my secrets. All of them.
“It’s because of the symbols hidden in the stone,” I begin.
I fill Kostis in on the rest: Ernst, the Rosetta project, the picture of the mermaid and diamond, the second vessel, the fight with my sister at Aldwych.
“Irene took the meta
l ball, but I managed to…”
Kostis stops walking, reaches in the bag, and throws me a leather pouch sealed with a taut drawstring. There’s a loop of steel wire stitched through the side. The object is spherical, hard and heavy, four inches wide. It can only be one thing. There’s no dark blue glow or tingling sensation. Maybe I need to be in direct contact to power the vessel. I wear the steel wire as a necklace, keeping the pouch close to my chest.
“You managed to recover it,” says Kostis. “And you came here to read the symbols? To find the cave?”
I answer with a nod. “My sister knows about the marbles now, that they react to the black metal. If the Germans find more of it, and take control of Athens… We have to get there first.”
“We?” Kostis’ eyes narrowing with suspicion. “You still trust the British?”
The same warning he gave me two years ago. I’m more inclined to believe it after the way Rodgers double crossed Ernst, but that doesn’t change what we have to do.
“The commandos are dead,” I say, raising my voice in anger. Will I ever find out their real names? “By we I meant us. Unless you want to risk the Nazis acquiring a vessel.”
“And what would you do to prevent that?”
What a silly question. “Whatever I have to,” I clarify.
Kostis’ shoulders are slumped, his smile a little too warm to be genuine. Always be alert. That was one of the first things he taught me. What’s he hiding?
“It’s nearly dawn.” Now Kostis is talking about an innocuous subject. Another sign something isn’t right. “We need to move quickly, and ditch the things we don’t need.”
Kostis rummages through the bag, unpacks two long-tailed black coats – meant for the British men – and a smaller sized one he passes to me. He rolls the surplus ones up and hides them under a loose rock.
I slip into my disguise on the way down the mountain. The route is steep, covered in smooth pebbles. My rubber soles slip continually, and it’s a relief when we reach a lightly-trodden dirt footpath.
“How much further to your car?” I ask Kostis.
“I walked here. Germans could be watching the roads. You only have to go down. Easier than up.” The gist is clear: stop your whining.
Kostis secures the supply bag on his back. After a half-mile march through woodland, we reach a shallow valley. Kostis guides me through a clear freshwater stream, up a barren hill, and to the outskirts of Athens.
“Over there,” he says. “The Acropolis.”
Even if I’d never been to Athens before, Kostis wouldn’t need to point it out. The four hundred foot high, rocky plateau dominates the skyline, its eastern face bathed in sunlight. The ancient temples on top would have been more impressive in their heyday, but centuries of war, wind, and rain have left only roofless marble columns, ruined walls, and foundation stones. The structure on the north side facing us - with the porch supported on heads of stone maidens – is the Erechtheion, a temple to Athena and Poseidon. The Parthenon is further back. We can’t see it yet.
Or any people about, now that I think about it. The streets are spotlessly clean and empty, and nobody greets us as we enter the city limits. Residents hide indoors, watching. A hunchbacked shadow moves across a drawn upstairs curtain, and I hear coughing from behind a closed window shutter.
“Why’s everybody inside?” I ask Kostis.
“They know the Germans are coming,” he says gravely. “There was a radio address last night. Be proud and dignified, it said. What pride and dignity is there in hiding away while the Nazis march through Athens?”
Kostis leads me up a lightly-sloped, paved street with yellow-painted houses. Based on the Sun’s position it’s almost noon. The Byzantine church bells should be ringing to announce midday prayers, but they’re as silent as the rest of the city. We’re almost at the Propylaea, the stepped western entrance to the Acropolis. Very little of the roof has survived, leaving a gate of sunlit, broken columns.
“There’s a lot of history on this hill,” Kostis says as we climb the eroded staircase. “Someone needs to protect it.”
Why’s he looking at me like that? All suspicious, as if I’m the enemy? Does he think I’m planning to betray him?
“What’s going on?” I enquire.
Kostis places the supply bag carefully on the steps. He unfastens it, removes the Welrod, and shows me the long barrel. “Not a standard issue firearm. The commandos were special operations. On a secret mission. The British didn’t tell you, did they?”
“Tell me what?”
Kostis is about to answer when he suddenly grabs the bag. “Germans!” he shouts, running up the steps. “Five minutes away!”
I instinctively look north, the direction they’ll arrive from. What’s Kostis talking about? I see no Panzer tanks, no infantry troops, no trucks. There’s nobody— A sparkle of light divides in two. It’s a motorcyclist wearing goggles, and there are dozens more kicking up dust behind him.
“Coming straight for the Acropolis,” I say. “Like Scar said.”
I run flat out, striding up three steps at a time. I’m neck and neck with Kostis when we reach the Acropolis plateau.
The Parthenon is the grandest of the ruins. Doric marble pillars – narrower at the top than bottom – support badly damaged lintels. The Sun shines through gaping holes in the sloped roof, lighting up an inner stone-walled structure. A flagpole erected in front of the temple flies the azure blue colours of the Kingdom of Greece. There’s meant to be an Evzone – a sentry - guarding the flag, but it’s been left unattended.
Lord Elgin removed his marbles from the carved frieze of centaurs and lapiths. That’s on the south side of the temple, between the pillars and roof. “Throw me the rope!” I shout, making my way round.
Why is Kostis hesitating?
“Trust me!” I persist. “The rope. Now!”
Kostis pulls the three-spiked grappling hook – and an attached black cable – from the bag and throws it to me. I swat the hook from the air, letting the rope snake along the plateau. I release the slack, allowing three feet of cable to slip through my thumb and forefinger before I squeeze tight and spin the hook in an accelerating, circular motion.
Whooshes get noisier, and the rope becomes a blur of silver and black. I let go at the height of my spin. The steel claws rise above the Parthenon, glinting under the Sun.
My aim is spot on. The grappling hook catches the southern lintel, and the dangling rope settles along a pillar. Kostis isn’t surprised I got it right on my first try, but he wouldn’t be. He taught me how to do this. And how to climb.
I begin my ascent, slotting the rope between my pressed knees. My feet fit snugly in marble cracks, lightening the strain on my arms. Even so, it takes a minute to reach the Parthenon roof.
I kneel on the pediment, undo the pouch drawstring, and tip the vessel into my cupped hand. It doesn’t react to my touch. My leather glove must be acting as electrical insulation. A good thing, because I’d struggle to hold on otherwise.
“I’ll go check on the Germans,” I hear Kostis say.
Why’s he standing near the Greek flag? I suppose it must be difficult to watch his country capitulate to the invading Nazis. But for the moment we remain free, and we should use what precious little time we have left.
I lean over the rooftop and move the vessel across the carvings. No symbols hidden on the first slab I try, and the next few marbles are missing. They must be the ones Lord Elgin removed. I cross the damaged roof, careful not to slip off the edge.
Blue light glows on my feet. I hold the vessel closer, revealing the squares in the marble. I’ve already seen these symbols. They translate to the hollow city drawing of Alexandria. Useless! The German motorcyclists have reached the Byzantine church, and are almost at the Propylaea. There isn’t time to search the whole Parthenon! If only I knew where the metal woman…
That’s it! I close my eyes and think of the amazing, lifelike pictures I saw in Athena’s ‘tomb’. I speed forward t
hrough the Solar System and the scribe writing on papyrus, and stop at the image of Lydia kneeling before the ancient Parthenon.
The gleaming white, sloped roof is the same one I’m standing on in the present, only it’s intact and clean in the image. But where on the temple was the watcher stood when she dropped the vessel? It’s one of the narrower, triangular faced sides, overlooking a spectacular columned gate at the Acropolis edge. The Propylaea. I exit my memories to see the same structure thousands of years on, dirtied and crumbling.
I cross a narrow marble beam to the west side, crouch down, and hold the vessel over the edge. The eroded marbles depict a battle in progress, and a few bare-legged combatants appear vaguely feminine. Perhaps they’re Amazons, like on the slab at Aldwych. Symbols pointing the way to the cave must be here somewhere. The first carving doesn’t react to the black metal ball, and neither does the second.
A motorcycle engine splutters and dies. Then another. Have the Germans reached the steps already?
My gloved hand turns pale blue. I’ve found them! I centre the vessel so all three framed symbols glow. I don’t check what the picture is. If I use up too much energy, I could lose my grip on the metal ball.
There’s more squares on the next slab, but the patterns are intricate and don’t have frames. Could it be another sequence of five? But I only see two symbols. The rest of the marble is broken off.
“It’s no good!” I shout down. “They’re—”
Kostis has the Welrod pistol trained on me. What the hell is he doing?
“It was not enough for the British to steal the marbles?” he spits. “You had to destroy the temple as well?”
Kostis kicks open the flap of the supply bag. The bottom is stuffed with dynamite - dozens of charges. Enough TNT to flatten the Parthenon, or at least destroy the marble frieze. I remember what Belfast said on the plane. We all have our orders.
“The commandos were told to blow it up,” I say. Kostis is still aiming the gun at me. “I didn’t know!”
“And now you do know?”
I’d never destroy such a national treasure. That would be the most sensible answer, but Kostis would only see through my lie. Wasn’t he the one who taught me to put feelings aside?
Edith Clayton and the Wisdom of Athena Page 21