High Stakes

by John F. Dobbyn

  I looked over at him and smiled. “I hope we’re going to make your dreams come true.”

  I parked in Copley Square. George was getting more antsy as we marched double-time into the classic building of the Boston Public Library. It was time to take George off the bed of nails I had him on.

  We rode the elevator in the McKim Building to the Norman B. Leventhal Map Center. I found us two chairs in a quiet corner. We settled in.

  George was practically panting when I took out Elena’s handwritten translation of the violin code. He read it twice and looked up. The question mark was written on his face.

  “Here’s the good news—as far as it goes. I had a violin expert apply the code to the Stradivarius. He found the scratch lines and he matched them up. I have the code in four letters.”

  “Excellent. What are they?”

  “I think the letters refer to a place. It has to be somewhere it would make sense to hide something as large as a treasure. I think it’s also someplace that had a serious personal connection for Vlad Tepes, Dracula, back around the 1460s. You know the country and the history. So here it is. Please tell me this rings a bell.”

  I put a slip of paper in front of him. It had just the four letters: A B E C.

  My breathing stopped. I watched his eyes for any sign of elation. No sign. I gave him thirty more seconds to let the letters take shape and hit home. Still nothing. Instead of elation there was an emptiness.

  “It’s alright, George. It’s not a dead end.”

  I stepped outside into the hallway. I used my cell phone to call Elena’s office. It was still before noon. Given the seven-hour time difference between Boston and Istanbul, I figured I could still catch her at work. I let out the breath I was holding when she answered.

  I gave her the four violin letters—A, B, E, C. Again, there was no instant jubilation on the line. But instead of emptiness, she told me to stay where I was. She’d call back in ten minutes.

  I paced the corridor for fifteen minutes. I caught the call on the first half ring.

  “Michael, you darling. I think you found it, but …”

  “Please, don’t give me a but. Not after all of this.”

  “The but is that you started from the wrong violin string. I’m sure of it. The code starts from the top string, not the bottom. It’s not ABEC. The name is CEBA. The ‘C’ should have a little pronunciation mark below it, but you can’t put that into a violin string. It should be pronounced Cheba.”

  “Is it a place? Where is it?”

  “Is George there?”

  “He’s inside. We’re at the map room of the Boston Public Library.”

  “Excellent. Get him. Put it on speaker.”

  I did. I held the phone on low speaker close to the ears of both of us. Elena had the floor. “You boys are in the right place in that map room. That name, Ceba, I’ve come across it somewhere. I’m going through some papers. Michael, I told you I could find anything in this office. Hold the line.”

  George and I were frozen in position over my cell phone in the corridor. In less than two minutes, we heard a loud “Aha! Eureka!” from away from her phone. She was back in an instant. “Gentlemen!”

  “Go, Elena.”

  “This came up in a paper I did for my degree. See if the library has a map of the area around Ploiesti going back to the 15th century. It’s around sixty-five kilometers north of Bucharest. That luthier must have been a student of Romanian history. Look for ‘Ceba’ on the old map. It was a fair-sized market town at the intersection of three trade routes. One of them linked Vlad’s capital, Tirgoviste, to Braila. Ceba was a port on the Danube. I don’t know what Ceba’s called today. George, if you find it on the ancient map, you may recognize the area.”

  “We’re on it.”

  “Call me.”

  Thanks to the Boston Public Library and one particularly acute staff member, within ten minutes, George was pouring over a map of the Ploiesti area of Romania dating back to the fifteenth century. Sure enough, there was a town named Ceba within ten miles of Ploiesti.

  George spotted it first. He started thumping it with his finger. His face was beginning to turn crimson.

  “Dammit, Michael! This is it.”

  “Before you melt down, what is it?”

  He kept thumping the spot with his finger. “It’s exactly where it should be.”

  “Could you be specific?”

  “That luthier doubled the code. He encrypted the name in the violin, and then he used a place name that’s no longer in existence. Ceba. It’s exactly there.”

  “So what’s there now?”

  “It all fits perfectly. It’s where Vlad Tepes, our Dracula, built the Monastery of Targsor.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  GEORGE WAS ON his feet, pacing. “This has to be it. Just what you said. The location has to be someplace that had special meaning to Vlad. Yet not too obvious.”

  “So why is this place special?”

  George pulled out the chair next to mine and sat close. “Dracula’s father, Vlad Dracul, was the ruler, the voivode, of the province of Wallachia. It’s just south of Transylvania. The word is that he was killed by Vladislav II in 1448. Vladislav took his place as ruler for the next twelve years.”

  “So?”

  “So, on August 20, 1456, our Dracula, Vlad the Impaler, got even for his father’s death. He killed Vladislav II. He did it personally in a hand-to-hand battle. That’s how our Dracula came to power. He ruled Wallachia as the voivode for the next six years.”

  “Again, so?”

  “Whether Dracula had pangs of conscience over the murder of Vladislav, which I doubt, or he was just worried about where he’d spend eternity, which is more likely, he wanted to do something major to atone for the sin of murder. Christians in those days believed that doing good works, like building and endowing a monastery, would help eradicate sins.”

  “And?”

  “His act of atonement was to build a monastery at the exact location of the murder. It’s right there on this old fifteenth-century map. Look at the name of the location. ‘Ceba.’”

  “Is it still there?”

  “The town? Yes. But not by that name. The name was later changed to Targsor. It means Little Market. There’s not much left of the town. It was attacked by Stefan IV of Moldavia in 1526. It slowly died after that.”

  “Do you know how to find it?”

  Now he had a grin to match his enthusiasm. “Look here on this modern map. There it is under the new name. Targsor. Just a little south of Ploiesti.”

  “How about the monastery? Is it still there?”

  “The building stands, but it’s just a ruin. It’s long since been closed as a monastery.”

  He sat back. The look on his face broadcast assurance. “Michael, this is it. I feel it in my bones.”

  “I have the same feeling. But where in the monastery? If it’s a ruin, the treasure can’t be inside the building. Someone would have seen it.”

  The assured look persisted. “So what does that tell you?”

  “It could be underground. Buried somewhere around the monastery.”

  “And where would it be buried?”

  “What the hell is this? Twenty questions?”

  “Yes. Remember, that this area of Christianity was always under the threat of attack by the Muslim Turks. They could have invaded at any time. In fact, it was the Turks who actually drove Vlad north to the mountains in 1462. So, under that constant threat, what do you suppose the Christians in the monastery would have done for their own safety?”

  “They went underground.”

  “When Christians went underground, what did they build?”

  “You’re becoming annoying. What?”

  “You say it. You’ll believe it more if you think of it yourself.”

  “Catacombs. A web of tunnels under the monastery.”

  “You are so clever.”

  “Were there catacombs?”

  “Yes. Ther
e’s a high hill just next to the monastery. The catacombs were dug under that hill.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I was there two years ago. I wasn’t looking for treasure. I was visiting friends. I actually stayed in the town. I’d heard about the tunnels under the hill that were the catacombs in Targsor. A guide from the town showed me where they were. This brings it all back.”

  “But if the treasure is there, and people can go into the catacombs, why wasn’t the treasure discovered before now?”

  “Two reasons. First, until ten minutes ago, nobody had any idea that the treasure might be buried in those catacombs. Secondly, well before Dracula fled north in retreat to his castle on the Arges, he had the entrances sealed with piles of stones, He concealed the stones by planting bushes and trees. The entrances are well hidden. Unless you know where they are, you wouldn’t recognize them if you were standing in front of them. My guide pointed them out. Like everyone else, I just looked at where they are and moved on. Vlad must have sealed off the entrances after he hid the treasure there. He probably thought he could come back for it later.”

  “And no one ever wanted to clear the entrance and look inside?”

  “Why bother? As far as anyone ever knew, it was just a link of empty caves.”

  “Then how do you suppose the Turkish captain found the treasure?”

  “It’s only a guess. He’d been stationed in that area with the Turkish army. He’d probably heard of the catacombs. He might have opened an entrance and used it as a refuge when the Christians were retaking the country around 1699.”

  I sat back and just stared at the ceiling. Thoughts were swimming until they finally melded into an idea.

  “We have to go there,” I said. “This is coming together. You have to show me where it is.”

  “I know. When?”

  “Soon. I’ll let you know. There’s something I have to take care of before we leave. Maybe a few days. Will you wait for me?”

  “A few more days? Why not?”

  * * *

  The pace was picking up. I was as anxious as George to play out the final scene as I pictured it. But first, there was business I had to attend to.

  It was just after four in the afternoon. I was right in figuring that Mr. Devlin was back from court. He took my call in his office. He got Billy Coyne in on a conference call.

  “What’s the deal, kid? You ready to bring in Mickey Chan?”

  “First things first, Mr. Coyne. I’m into something. If it works out, you won’t need him. You’ll be moving to dismiss the indictment.”

  “Yeah, sure. And when that hits the D.A.’s desk, she’ll be taking my tonsils out through my anus. She’s already counting on headlines for convicting Chan.”

  “She’ll come around. Hopefully, you’ll be substituting indictments for the top tong leaders. She’ll get a parade through Chinatown.”

  “So you say, kid.”

  “Yes, I do. But it depends.”

  “On?”

  “Witness protection for Ming Tan and her family. I can’t wait any longer. Can you do it?”

  “I’m working on it. I should hear from the U. S. Attorney by tomorrow.”

  “What are the odds?”

  “They’re feds. We’re not exactly in the same Boy Scout troop. This is no buddy system. Besides, you didn’t give me a whole lot of facts to base it on.”

  “It’s the best I have at the moment. What’s your estimation?”

  “If I had to guess, slightly more likely than not.”

  I took a deep breath for thought. “Alright. Here are the odds on my side. I’m going to make a play to get Ming Tan out of the hands of the tong. It has to be done right now. I’m going to do it on blind faith that you’ll come through with witness protection.”

  “I told you, kid. I’ll do what I can. That’s all I can offer.”

  “That’s terrific, Mr. Coyne. Just so you understand the odds completely. If I can’t pull this thing off, and I mean perfectly, you’ll still be taking the train home to your wife in Lynnfield. The chances of my living to see my wife again, you wouldn’t want to bet on. Under those circumstances, two things. One is you better do your damn best. The second, is … let that be the last time in this life that you call me kid. This game is not kid stuff.”

  Where I got the nerve to actually say it, I’ll never know. But I did. Just like that. There was silence for three seconds.

  Mr. Devlin couldn’t hold it any longer. “Billy, I love you for the fine Irish lad that you are. But, by damn, if my partner is left swinging in the wind on this thing, I’ll throw so much crap at the fan, you and that feather-brain you work for’ll think it’s midnight. I’d advise you strongly to get on the horn and nail down that witness protection. Have one hell of a day, Billy.”

  There was no better note to end the conversation. I hung up and thanked God for my partner, Lex Devlin, who had my back without the foggiest notion of what I was up to.

  Next, I called my old Harvard buddy, Harry Wong. I thought it might be well to have someone who was familiar with the Chinatown underworld know where I was going in case it became a one-way trip.

  I sketched a plan to Harry that might have seemed suicidal until I explained the leverage I’d be taking with me. I figured that would convince him that I was on solid ground.

  Harry answered, “That is absolutely insane. Do you know who you’re dealing with?”

  “I think so.”

  “I don’t think so. Dammit. How stubborn are you going to be about this?”

  “I have no choice. My back’s to the wall. I just want you to know where I’m going, you know, in case …”

  “Where are you now, Michael?”

  “The library. The big one. Copley Square. Why?”

  I could almost hear Harry ruminating over a decision for about five seconds. “Meet me at the Chinatown Gate. Quarter of five. We can walk there before closing time at five.”

  “Harry, I just want you to know where I’m going to be. It’s just insurance. I can do this myself.”

  “Really? How’s your Chinese?” He poured out a sentence in flowing Mandarin. “What’d I say?”

  “You said, ‘Don’t take any wooden fortune cookies.’ It’s a quote from Lao Tzu.”

  “Cute, Michael. But you’re an ass. What if the conversation shifts to Chinese on their side? Exactly what creek will you be up?”

  I had no answer.

  “Right, Michael. Chinatown Gate. Quarter of five.”

  * * *

  We met and walked from Beach Street. We were at the front door of the main bank of Chinatown at five minutes before closing. I grabbed Harry’s elbow before we went in. “Truth told, I’m glad you’re here, Harry. I owe you an excellent dinner.”

  “You owe me a week in Vegas for this one. Let’s go.”

  “Wait a minute. Here’s the play. I may need you for translation later, but let me take the lead. As long as it’s in English, I’ll do the talking. I really do have a plan.”

  “I hope so. After you, Tiger.”

  I took one deep breath. I led the way into what looked like any bank I’d been in except that all of the employees were Chinese. I walked with a confident smile up to a clerk who appeared to be in a management position.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Chang. My name’s Michael Knight. Would you let him know I’m here?”

  He bowed with a smile, rapped on the door behind him, and entered. I could hear my name whispered. In about two seconds, Mr. Chang was in the doorway. His expression was halfway between puzzlement and shock that the prey would walk so willingly into the lion’s den after the incident at Park Street Station.

  He gestured for me to enter—no smile this time. A brusque word to the employee sent him back to his station.

  I walked to the chair in front of his desk and sat down. Harry came in and closed the door behind him. He stood by the wall. When Mr. Chang recognized Harry, he shot him a glance that could have withered the flowers on his d
esk. Another reminder that Harry’s defection from the tong’s youth gang in his teens was still an open sore. If it made Harry uncomfortable, it gave me a pang of delight. It confirmed my belief that Mr. Chang was a member of the tong, and probably at an extremely high level.

  Mr. Chang finally focused on me and took his seat.

  “You’re a man of infinite surprises, Mr. Knight. I believe the last time we met you made a promise that remains curiously unfulfilled. I’m going to assume that’s the purpose of your presence here.”

  I learned a principle in my first year at the bar. In an argument, never let your opponent set the agenda. “There are actually two issues on the table before us, Mr. Chang. First things first, yes?”

  I could sense his reluctance to lose control of the order. “I’m listening.”

  “I made a promise to a certain elderly gentleman to share information regarding—shall we be open—a particular treasure, before I put a finger on it myself. I imagine you know the elderly gentleman. I assume you’ve heard about my commitment to him.”

  His expression revealed nothing.

  “Ah, perhaps I’m wrong, Mr. Chang. I assumed your position in the organization entitled you to be kept advised. I also assumed that I could deal directly with you. Obviously I misjudged your position. Forgive my wasting your time.”

  I noticed a bit of puffing up in the chest area. My promise had been to the man from the Hong Kong triad who had stepped over Mr. Chang’s head to take control of the treasure hunt. I had a strong feeling that Mr. Chang would relish gaining face when I presented the news of the treasure directly to him first.

  His tone was somewhat more receptive. “You may talk directly with me. I’m ready to hear your report.”

  “I’m ready to give it. Shortly. One item has to be dealt with first.”

  The air held instant tension. “I was told that your promise was unconditional.” He looked from me to Harry and back. “I would not advise gamesmanship at this point.”

  “No games, Mr. Chang. A simple ancillary matter. Strictly between you and me.”

  “Then why …” He gave a demeaning gesture of his chin toward Harry.

  “Mr. Wong stays. Non-debatable. Shall we proceed?”