High Stakes

by John F. Dobbyn

  When the curtain parted, I must admit to being very happy to see his grandson carrying a tray with a metal coffeepot, three small cups, and a plate of some kind of cookies that were dripping in honey. Mr. Ataman poured the coffee. It was strong enough to walk on and thick enough to chew. I realized why the cups were small. A full coffee mug of that wonderful brew would have had me wired tighter than his violins.

  We ate. They talked. And the cookies disappeared from the plate. Mr. Ataman refilled our cups twice. When the last drop had been drained, it was crunch time. This time, the laboring oar clearly had to be in Elena’s hand. I quietly suggested that she explain our visit to Mr. Ataman.

  Elena spoke slowly and softly for about five minutes. I studied the expression on the face of Mr. Ataman, searching for any hint that what she was saying registered. None.

  When she finished, there was just silence. She looked at me with a defeated look. “I tried Michael. I told him the whole story. Whatever record was left must have been lost. I’m sorry.”

  Mr. Ataman turned to look at me. “Mr. Knight, you’ve come a long way. May I ask whom you represent?”

  My mind jumped to another level. It was suddenly clear that Mr. Ataman was considerably more fluent in English than he’d led us to believe.

  “It’s complicated, Mr. Ataman. I’m not sure what Professor Sakim has told you. Your English is certainly better than my nonexistent Turkish. If I repeat something, please forgive my ignorance of your language. I will, however, be perfectly honest.”

  “As I would expect, Mr. Knight.”

  The subtle force behind those words indicated that I was speaking to a man of firm principle. That made it easier.

  “I’ve made promises to representatives of two criminal gangs, one Chinese and one Russian. If you have time, I can explain why and to what extent.”

  He raised his hands. “I have whatever remaining time Allah allows me. I’d like to hear it from your lips.”

  I filled him in on the promises to convey whatever information I gained to the two gangster leaders. That brought lines of concern in his face. I took the time to add, however, the fact that I had no intention of allowing the treasure to fall into either of their hands. The lines disappeared. I thought I saw a smile creep in as I laid out the plan I had in mind to prevent it.

  He looked at Elena and said something in Turkish. She laughed. She turned to me. “Mr. Ataman finds you interesting. He says you are young enough and innocent enough to think like one of those ‘superheroes,’ his words, his grandson watches on the television.” We all laughed.

  When his smile faded, he asked me, “Then if you have not sided with either of the criminal groups, may I ask again, whom do you represent? Do you have ambitions of your own for this supposed treasure?”

  We looked eye-to-eye. “Yes, I do.”

  His eyebrows raised. “You’re very honest, Mr. Knight. What might those ambitions be? Do you wish to be one of the wealthiest men in the world?”

  “No. I’m wealthy enough. My involvement in this hunt was far from deliberate. I’ve simply followed one moral obligation after another until I reached this point.”

  “I see.”

  “I don’t think you do, Mr. Ataman. You asked about my ambitions. They’re these. I want to put the pieces of my life back together. I want to live in peace and safety with my wife. I want to practice law with a certain man of your age who means more to me than all of the treasures in the world. That’s ambition enough for any three men.”

  His eyes shown with intensity. He asked, “And if you were to find this treasure you ask about, what would you do with it?”

  I could read into his question the same weight of responsibility that had been on Elena’s shoulders. I laid out the rest of my plan for ending this entire chapter of my life.

  He poured one last refill of coffee into Elena’s and my cup, but not his own. He looked at Elena. “Perhaps you and I have reached the same conclusion about this unusual young man.”

  Elena nodded. He stood up. “You’ll please do me the kindness to enjoy your coffee in my absence. I’ll not be long.”

  When he returned, he was carrying a small wooden box that had clearly seen many decades. He set it on the table between us.

  “This box has come down through our family, those of us who followed this trade, for over three centuries. As it passed through each generation, it remained sealed shut. I think perhaps this is the time it should see the light of day.”

  He took a sharp instrument from his workbench. He used it to cut through the crusted wax seal on the box. His hand was on the freed lid of the box. He said it quietly, reverently. “May Allah guide whoever receives the contents of this box.”

  He opened the lid. The wood inside showed the cracked veins of aging. The only thing it contained was a document as aged and faded as the box itself. Mr. Ataman removed the document as carefully as if it could crumble under his touch. He handed it to Elena. She unfolded it as softly as if it were the original parchment of the Gospel of John.

  I watched her scan the faded ink figures on the paper. She looked up at me. “It’s in ancient Turkish. I’ll need materials in my office to be sure of the translation. I believe it was written by Mr. Ataman’s own ancestor. Probably in the presence of the only man ever to discover Vlad Dracula’s treasure. I think … I feel certain. This is the key to the violin code.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  EIGHT HOURS LATER we were in Elena’s office. She gently lifted the fragile document out of the centuries-old box. She unraveled it in slow motion on the flat surface of the cleared table. Her delicacy indicated a career of dealing with papers and parchments that could disintegrate with a sneeze.

  She placed soft padded weights on the four corners and focused the beam of a strong light clamped on the side of the table. Given the cracks in the paper and the fading of whatever substance was used to write the words, I probably couldn’t have read it if it were in English.

  “What do you think?”

  The lack of an answer told me that her concentration was not subject to interruption. She moved with surprising agility, leaning over the document with a magnifier from the front, the back, and each of the sides.

  I felt like an extraneous piece of furniture. I tapped her shoulder. “Elena, I’ll leave you alone. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  For the first time since we came into the room, she recognized my existence. “Two hours.”

  “Good. Done. What do you think about it?”

  “I think you should have some supper in the faculty dining room where we ate. Two hours.”

  “I mean, do you think you can read it?”

  Silence. She continued to buzz around the document like a bumble bee on steroids.

  “Can I bring something back for you? You should eat.”

  “I have all the nourishment I need right here on this table. Two hours, Michael. Go.”

  I went. I used one hour to call Terry; Mr. Devlin; my secretary, Julie; and finally, George. Terry was ecstatic to hear that what I was doing was so far not life-threatening. In answer to my question, our prospective third family member was not affecting her vigorous health. Mr. D. told me that Billy Coyne was, as he put it, making positive progress on witness protection for the Tan family. Julie seemed happy to be asked to make a home-bound plane reservation for the next day from the airport in Constanta. And George was trying unsuccessfully to restrain his excitement over the discovery of the document.

  The second hour, I spent in nervous distraction over an excellent tava, Turkish stew. Before I left, I asked the waitress in the faculty dining room to put up another order of tava to take out.

  When I walked back into Elena’s office, she was standing at the base of the document writing notes.

  I was surprised that she knew I was there. “Come on in, Michael. Sit. Give me another minute.”

  I set the stew down on a pile of bound documents and took my seat on the books still on the chair. Even better th
an the stew, I knew the best thing I could give her was silence.

  Five minutes later, she stiffly straightened up. She took a quick scan of her notes and looked back over the faded, crackled document. “Michael, this is incredible.”

  “Does it talk about the code?”

  “The man, the luthier, who wrote this had much more education than most people in that trade did in those days. Without his putting it in words, his writing tells so much about his thoughts, his trade, the times he was living in. Just in these ten sentences. It’s a piece of history.”

  “That’s all interesting. But does it speak about the code?”

  I doubt that she even heard my question. She had the exhausted look of a runner who’s just completed a marathon. She walked to her desk and just collapsed into the desk chair. Her body seemed drained, but her thoughts were spinning.

  I gave her time. In about a minute, she looked over at me as if she was just re-recognizing my presence. “It’s right here.”

  I was praying that she meant a key to the code. “Could you be more specific?”

  She bounced forward at the desk as if something infused her body with resurging energy. “It’s the code. It’s right here. Amazing. It’s brilliant. It’s so simple. Only a luthier could have dreamed it up. No wonder people have been scanning that violin for centuries and never saw it.”

  “Now you’ve got me on the edge of this seat. Tell me!”

  She wiped beads of sweat from her forehead. “Damn. I wish we had that violin here. We could solve the code in a minute.”

  “I’ll get out the violin as soon as I get home. I promise. I’ll call you as soon as I do. But can you tell me about it right now?”

  “I’ll do better than that. I’ll read you the direct translation.”

  * * *

  The flight back to Logan Airport in Boston the next day seemed as long as a trip to Mars. Elena’s handwritten translation of the document was burning a hole in my mind and my pocket.

  I picked up my Corvette in long-term parking. I forced myself to go lighter on the gas pedal than my nerves were demanding.

  I was still enjoying a euphoric confidence that neither clutch of gangsters was on my tail. It allowed me to cruise through the tunnel and take a direct route to South Station.

  For the first time, I opened the locker that held the Stradivarius without looking over both shoulders. I also took the decoy violin out of the adjoining locker. It had been like a security blanket if either gang had put me in a tight squeeze. It no longer seemed necessary.

  With both violins snuggled up on the seat beside me, I took another direct route, this time to the Broken Neck Guitar Repair Shop on Boylston Street. I returned the expensive decoy violin Lanny McLaughlin had loaned to me with thanks.

  “Anytime. You taking up the violin? I have something a little lower on the price scale if you’re interested.”

  “Not at the moment, Lanny. On the other hand, I think this’ll be an afternoon you’ll remember. Let’s go back to your workroom.”

  With a nondescript bag under my arm, I followed Lanny through the door in the back to his workroom. It had a wood-like aroma that reminded me of the shops of Mr. Oresciu and Mr. Ataman.

  I set the bag gently on his workbench. I had his full attention. “What have we here?”

  I took the old violin case out of the bag. His eyes were glued to it. “Go ahead. Open it.”

  He unclicked the snaps and slowly raised the top. He had it halfway open when I saw his lower jaw drop to half-mast. By the time it was fully open, his jaw was working again. “Holy crap! What the hell do we have here?”

  I’d never heard Lanny use a word you wouldn’t say in nursery school. He stared for about fifteen seconds. He gave me a blank look. “If this is …”

  “It is. Go ahead. Take it out.”

  He used two hands to lift the violin out of the case as if it were a vial of nitroglycerin. He looked at it from every angle. He looked at the faded label on the inside which could still be read: “Antonius Stradivarius Cremonensis Faciebat Anno 1 …” The last three digits of the date, 1690, were handwritten, as was Stradivari’s custom.

  “Michael! This is the real thing! It’s the first one I’ve ever actually touched.”

  “Enjoy the moment, Lanny. When you come back to Earth, I want you to do more than look at it.”

  “Sure, anything. Just give me a minute.”

  When he finally set it down, all he could say was, “It’s as fine as every word I’ve ever heard about it.”

  “Try the sound.”

  “Really?” He picked up a bow from the shelf and played a part of Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto. The tone rang through the studio as clearly and brilliantly as new snow. When he set it down, neither of us could find a voice for a few seconds.

  I thought I heard him whisper, “I may never play another violin again.” He looked at me, and then he looked up. “Saint Peter, I’m ready to go.”

  “Not quite yet. I want you to do something for me.”

  I recalled the words of Elena’s translation of the luthier’s message from 1699. This was crunch time. I said every word as slowly and clearly as I could.

  “This is what I want you to do, Lanny. Look at each of the four pegs at the end of the neck of the violin. Those things you use to tune the strings.”

  “The tuning pegs.”

  “Probably. There should be a thin, tiny, almost invisible scratch mark on the long part of each of the pegs where it goes into the end of the violin.”

  “The pegbox.”

  “Right. Can you see them? Those little scratches were made over three hundred years ago. They could be difficult to see. Probably impossible if you don’t know what you’re looking for.”

  Lanny brought the violin delicately under a bright lamp on his bench. He turned the violin slowly while he scanned each peg.

  “Can you see them?”

  “I don’t know. Wait a minute.”

  He reached in a drawer for a magnifying glass and scanned the pegs again. “If I can see it on one peg, it’ll tell me what to look for on the others … Hah! There it is. Give me a minute. Yes … I can see all four. Now what?”

  “Now I want you to look at the place where each peg goes into the hole at the top of the neck.”

  “Right. The pegbox.”

  “Okay. Somewhere on the pegbox where each peg is inserted there should be another barely visible scratch line. A thin scratch beside each peg. Can you find them?”

  This time he knew what to look for. It took a minute, but he found all four. By that time, I could feel my shirt sticking to my back with sweat.

  “Okay. This is the hard part. First, I want you to tune the violin the usual way. To the usual notes. G, D, A, and the highest note, E. Just the way you usually tune a violin.”

  While he did it with painstaking delicacy, I reread Elena’s translation to be sure we were on course. He looked back at me when he finished.

  “This is the critical part, Lanny. Now I want you to tune each of the strings to a higher pitch. Turn each tuning peg until the scratch on the peg is exactly lined up with the scratch next to it on the pegbox.”

  I could see sweat coming out on his forehead. He carefully tightened each peg for a perfect matchup of scratches.

  “That’s it. That should be right on.”

  “Good. Now, my man. This is the crux of it all. I want you to play each string and tell me what note it sounds.”

  “Starting with the high string or the low one?”

  There was no indication in the translation. I made an intuitive guess. “Start with the low string.”

  While he played each of the notes, I was trying to get my mind around what was about to happen. If we’d gotten the process right, I was about to be the first person in three hundred years—actually six hundred years—to hear the sole clue to where the infamous Vlad Dracula chose to stash one of the world’s greatest collections of wealth. It was numbing.

  I knew
Lanny had the gift of perfect pitch. That meant that he would be dead-on when he named the notes he was hearing.

  “Here they are. Beginning with the lowest pitch string, the four notes are A, B, E, and C.”

  I wrote them down as a backstop for my memory. “Good. You can reset the violin back to the usual tuning.”

  In a bit of over-caution, I wanted the code notes to be removed from the tuning of the violin as soon as possible, just in case.

  As Lanny retuned it and laid it gently to rest in the case, I was recalling Elena’s words. That old luthier back in 1699 was damned clever. Whoever got their hands on that violin through the centuries could scan every inch of it for the rest of their lives, as undoubtedly some had, and never find the clue to the treasure. Appropriately, the code was not visual. It was in the sound of that unique instrument.

  * * *

  Within three minutes, I was back in the Corvette, driving from Lanny’s violin shop to the Wallachia Café. I felt like Tom Brady of the Patriots after winning a division championship. It was a half victory, not to be given short shrift. But it was still a long way from the total prize—winning the Super Bowl. I had a string of four letters, which was more than anyone else had had since that Turkish captain happened on Vlad’s treasure. But the puzzle remained. How do those letters get us to the one exact location in all of Romania?

  On the way to the Wallachia Café, I phoned George. I could tell he was on pins and needles from the exuberance of his “Hello, Michael. What?”

  I asked George to meet me on the sidewalk of the café. I popped the inauspicious-looking bag with the Strad into the trunk. When I pulled into the curb with the convertible top down, George practically jumped into the passenger seat. “Where are we going?”

  “I thought we’d just go for a nice little drive. Get away from it all. Enjoy the warm sun on our arms, our faces.”

  “Michael, I’m fond of you, but you can be a pain in the butt. This is the Jamaicaway. You’re doing nearly twice the speed limit. Where the hell are we going?”