The Secret Crown

by Chris Kuzneski

  Payne laughed sarcastically. ‘Really? You honestly thought we’d want to get involved with Nazi loot? Why in the world would we do that?’

  ‘To save a good friend of yours.’

  ‘To save you from what?’ Payne growled.

  ‘Actually,’ Kaiser said, ‘I’m not the friend who needs to be saved.’

  11

  The comment caught Payne completely off guard. For the past thirty seconds, he had been lecturing Kaiser about their involvement with a cache of stolen art in a Nazi bunker – only to discover that something else was going on. Something to do with one of Payne’s friends.

  Suddenly, their mission was a lot more urgent.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Payne said, trying to remain calm. ‘Who needs my help?’

  ‘A close friend of yours,’ Kaiser assured him.

  ‘Who?’ he repeated, this time a little louder.

  ‘Before we get to that—’

  ‘Now!’ Payne demanded, veins popping in his neck. ‘Tell me now, or I swear to God I’m going to—’

  ‘Jon!’ Jones shouted as he stepped in front of Payne. ‘You need to calm down.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Payne barked, towering over his best friend.

  ‘You heard what I said. Calm the fuck down.’ Jones emphasized the word down by drawing it out for an extra beat. ‘We’re on the same side here. There’s no need for threats. Take a deep breath, and let Kaiser explain.’

  Payne followed his advice, trying to relax. Although he rarely lost his temper, it occasionally flared up whenever he felt lied to or deceived. Factor in a friend in danger, and his anger was easy to understand. ‘Who needs our help?’

  Not wanting to be the messenger, Kaiser swiftly moved towards one of the crates. He raised the lid that Jones had removed a few minutes earlier so they could inspect the underside. ‘See for yourself. Look at the lid.’

  In the dim light, it was tough to see the mark inscribed on the lid. It wasn’t until Jones stepped closer that he noticed a coat of arms on its underbelly, a symbol vaguely familiar to him. Branded into the wood several decades earlier, it depicted an eagle with sharp talons holding a sword in one foot and a scroll in the other. On its chest, the bird wore a striped shield emblazoned with a smaller symbol. Upon closer inspection, he realized it was the letter U.

  Suddenly, everything made sense to Jones: Kaiser’s deception, the half-truths, the total need for secrecy. In a flash, Jones knew whom they were there to save.

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ he mumbled under his breath.

  Payne heard the comment. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Jones tapped on the symbol. ‘Do you recognize that?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, should I?’

  Jones nodded. ‘It’s the Ulster family crest.’

  The name hit Payne like a sucker punch, temporarily leaving him stunned. ‘As in Petr Ulster? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah, Jon, I’m positive. I’ve seen it on one of his rings.’

  ‘The stolen art belongs to his family?’

  Off to the side, Kaiser nodded in confirmation. ‘As soon as I saw the symbol, I sealed the site and called you. I know how close you are to Petr. And I know what would happen if his family was ever linked to the Nazis. The Archives would be tarnished for ever.’

  *

  Built in Switzerland by Austrian philanthropist Conrad Ulster, the Ulster Archives was the most extensive private collection of documents and antiquities in the world.

  Unlike most private collections, the main goal of the Archives wasn’t to hoard artefacts. Instead, it strived to bridge the ever-growing schism that existed between scholars and connoisseurs. Typical big-city museums displayed 15 per cent of their accumulated artefacts, meaning 85 per cent of the world’s finest relics were currently off-limits to the public. That number climbed even higher, closer to 90 per cent, when personal collections were factored in.

  Thankfully, the Ulster Foundation had vowed to correct the problem. Ever since the Archives had opened in the mid-1960s, it had promoted the radical concept of sharing. In order to gain admittance to the facility, a visitor had to bring something of value – such as an ancient object or unpublished research that might be useful to others. Whatever it was, it had to be approved in advance by the Archives’ staff. If for some reason they deemed it unworthy, then admission to the facility was denied until a suitable replacement could be found.

  It was their way to encourage sharing.

  For the past decade, the Archives had been run by Petr Ulster, Conrad’s grandson. He had befriended Payne and Jones a few years earlier when the duo was at the facility conducting research for one of their missions. During their stay, a group of religious zealots had tried to burn the Archives to the ground. Their goal had been to destroy a collection of ancient documents that threatened the foundation of the Catholic Church, including evidence about the True Cross. Fortunately, Payne and Jones managed to intervene, thwarting the attack and saving the facility from irreparable damage.

  Now it appeared they would have to save the Archives again, but this time, from a self-inflicted wound.

  Payne grabbed the lid and studied the Ulster family crest. A sword in one talon and a scroll in the other, it represented the family’s role as guardians of history. ‘This has to be a mistake. Petr has done more for the preservation of history than anyone I know.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ Jones said. ‘Then again, who knows what his ancestors did?’

  ‘But that’s what doesn’t make sense. Petr has told me countless stories about his family, all of them positive. I can assure you, he reveres his grandfather as much as I revere mine.’

  Payne paused for a moment, replaying some of the details in his head.

  During the early 1930s, Conrad Ulster had sensed the political instability in Austria and realized there was a good chance the Nazis would seize his prized collection. To protect himself and his artefacts, he smuggled his possessions across the Swiss border in railcars, using thin layers of coal to conceal them. Though he eventually planned to return to Austria after World War Two, he fell in love with his new home in Küsendorf and decided to stay. When he died, he expressed his thanks to the people of Switzerland by donating his estate to his adopted home town – provided they kept his collection intact and his family in charge.

  ‘I’m telling you, it doesn’t make sense. Do you know why his grandfather built the Archives in Switzerland instead of his homeland? He was afraid Hitler was going to seize his collection. Does that sound like someone who was in bed with the Nazis?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ admitted Kaiser, who had learned about Payne and Jones’s close relationship with Petr Ulster through media accounts of the Greek treasure. ‘But that doesn’t mean his grandfather was innocent.’

  Payne glared at him. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I mean, it was a horrible time filled with many regrettable acts. Tell me, what do you know about the end of World War Two?’

  ‘The good guys won,’ Jones cracked, trying to inject some levity.

  ‘Yes, that’s correct – if you were rooting for the Allied Forces. But here in Germany, some people might argue your point.’

  ‘True,’ Jones conceded.

  Kaiser continued. ‘That being said, post-war Germany was an interesting place. Due to its unconditional surrender, the country was divided into four militarized zones: American, British, French and Soviet. Most of the cities had been devastated by ground campaigns and Allied bombings, so the first order of business was to fix the infrastructure. One of the top priorities was clearing away all the rubble so supply trucks could get back on the roads. Since millions of German men had died in the war, most of this work was done by women and children who were paid in food, not money.’

  Payne and Jones nodded, quite familiar with the realities of war.

  ‘In 1945 hyperinflation swept through this country like a plague. In the year after the war, prices rose a dramatic eighty-five per cent, leaving most German cit
izens in desperate straits. During this time many of the so-called good guys – the Americans, the Brits, the French and so on – capitalized on the situation, doing things in this country that even I find despicable.’

  ‘Such as?’ Payne asked.

  ‘Buying babies, running sweatshops, trading food for sex. Basically doing whatever they could to take advantage of the Germans – including poverty-stricken Jews who were struggling to put their lives back together. I’m telling you, some of the post-war stories I’ve heard about this place make the Wild West seem tame.’

  ‘What does that have to do with these crates?’ Payne asked.

  Kaiser answered. ‘For a span of about sixteen years – starting in 1933 when Hitler was named chancellor of Germany until 1949 when the American, British and French zones combined to form West Germany – artwork was the most profitable sector of the European black market. And trust me when I tell you, these deals weren’t limited to Nazis and criminals. It was common in all levels of society, including the upper crust. People were so desperate for money they were willing to sell family heirlooms at bargain-basement prices. I’m talking priceless paintings for pennies on the dollar. Technically speaking, the sales weren’t illegal, but …’

  Payne nodded in understanding. ‘It was a sleazy way to obtain art.’

  Kaiser pointed at the crates. ‘For all we know, Petr’s family did nothing wrong. They might’ve obtained all this for a fair price on the open market.’

  ‘But you don’t think that’s the case,’ Payne said.

  Kaiser shook his head. ‘If I did, I wouldn’t have called you.’

  12

  Psychologically speaking, it didn’t take an expert to figure out why Payne was so loyal to his friends. His parents had died in a car accident during his formative years, and since neither of them had siblings, Payne had no aunts, uncles or cousins to comfort him. If not for his paternal grandfather, Payne would have been placed in foster care, because his maternal grandparents had died before the accident. Actually, they had died before he was born.

  During his entire lifetime, Payne had met three relatives.

  Now all of them were dead.

  Payne was more than an orphan. His entire family was gone.

  One of the main reasons Payne had joined the military was to be a part of something. To know that others had his back and he had theirs. It had given him a sense of purpose, a sense of belonging. And when he had been forced to give that up to take over Payne Industries after his grandfather’s death, he found himself clinging to the only ‘family’ he had left. He would go to any length to protect his friends, like a mother guarding her young. Occasionally, he took it a bit too far. It was an issue he was aware of, one that had plagued him for years and had led to his earlier outburst.

  ‘Just so you know,’ he told Kaiser, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘For what?’ Kaiser asked.

  ‘For everything. My yelling, my suspicions, my threats. I shouldn’t have acted that way. I hope you can forgive me.’

  ‘Of course I forgive you. I gave you every right to be paranoid. I realize I kept you in the dark for a very long time, but like I said earlier, there was a method to my madness. If word got out about this bunker, it would destroy Petr. And me, too.’

  Payne furrowed his brow. ‘You? How could it destroy you?’

  ‘You know what I do for a living. In my line of work, I’m forced to bend laws all the time. The last thing I need is for the German government to be snooping around my life. Seriously, if word ever got out that I had anything to do with a Nazi cache – if that’s what this is – then I’d be fucked for ever.’

  ‘And if it isn’t?’ Jones asked.

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘On what?’ Payne wondered.

  ‘On what’s in the crates,’ Kaiser said, smiling. ‘If we crack them open and they’re filled with items that can’t be traced to a rightful owner, then in my opinion, the stuff belongs to me. Finders keepers, you know?’

  Payne didn’t have a problem with that. ‘And the items that can be traced?’

  Kaiser shrugged. ‘Whatever you and Petr decide is fine. All I ask is that you keep my name out of it. Seriously, I don’t want to be linked to Nazi loot in any way. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed,’ Payne said, as he shook Kaiser’s hand. ‘Not to pry, but I’m sensing this is a sore subject for you. Did you lose a loved one to the Nazis, or …’

  Kaiser winced. ‘Damn, Jon, how old do you think I am?’

  ‘Don’t take it personally. Jon sucks at math,’ Jones teased.

  Payne nodded. ‘I even need my fingers to count to one. Here, let me show you.’

  Then he flipped off Jones for making the comment.

  Kaiser smiled but didn’t laugh, the gravity of the topic still weighing on his mind. ‘What can I say? Everyone has their boundaries, even men like me. Over the years, I’ve had plenty of chances to sell Nazi plunder – for serious money – but my conscience wouldn’t let me. Who knows? Maybe I’ve been in Germany a little too long. I must be turning native.’

  The comment confused Payne. ‘Meaning?’

  Kaiser stared at him. ‘Were you ever stationed here?’

  Payne shook his head. ‘Passed through, but never stayed.’

  Kaiser nodded, as if Payne’s confusion should have tipped him off. ‘Outsiders find this hard to believe, but ninety-nine per cent of all Germans are embarrassed by their homeland’s role in World War Two. Actually, I take that back. Embarrassed doesn’t even begin to describe it. Humiliated, ashamed, horrified, mortified – you get the idea. I’m talking about Germans who weren’t even alive during that era, yet they carry round the guilt like a stain on their DNA. Sure, I might be an American, but I’ve lived in this country long enough to recognize their pain. And out of respect to my German friends, I refuse to profit from Nazi loot.’

  ‘Is there a big market for that stuff?’ Payne asked.

  ‘Sadly, yes,’ Kaiser admitted. ‘Then again, I know people who will sell anything – including their daughters’ virginity.’

  ‘Damn. That’s harsh,’ Jones interjected.

  Kaiser nodded. ‘Obviously, I refuse to deal with such lowlifes, but our paths still cross from time to time. And when they do, it’s rarely pretty. Truth be told, men like that are another reason I didn’t tell you about this bunker until you were here. If word ever leaked to one of those men, this mountain would be a war zone before morning.’

  Petr Ulster, a round man with a thick brown beard that covered his multiple chins, was napping in his office at the Ulster Archives. Sprawled on a comfortable leather couch, he snored loudly as he clutched an Italian book called Il Trono di Dio to his chest. A passionate academic, Ulster tried to follow the example of inventor Thomas Edison, who took power naps during the course of the day in order to forego sleep at night. Unfortunately, due to Ulster’s love of gourmet food and his passion for fine wine, it was rarely past midnight when he crawled into bed with a full belly and a slight buzz. His intent was there, but not the conditioning.

  The ringing of Ulster’s private line pulled him from his sleep. Few people had his private number, and those who did called infrequently – not because he wasn’t loved and admired, but because everyone assumed he was busy.

  Intrigued by the call, Ulster rushed to his desk. ‘Hello, this is Petr.’

  ‘Hey, Petr, it’s Jonathon Payne.’

  Ulster beamed. Even though he was in his mid-forties, he came across as boy-like, due to the twinkle in his eye and his zest for life. ‘Jonathon, my boy, what a pleasant surprise! How are things in the States?’

  Sitting on a log near the entrance to the site, Payne grimaced at his unpleasant task. Telling Ulster bad news would be like kicking a puppy. How could he hurt someone so warm and cuddly? ‘The States are great. Then again, I’m not in the States.’

  Ulster took the phone from his desk and returned to his couch. It groaned from his bulk as he sank into its cushions. ‘You’re not? Where
are you then?’

  ‘I’m in Germany.’

  ‘Was machst du in Deutschland?’ he said fluently.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Ulster grinned at Payne’s confusion. ‘I said, what are you doing in Germany? Wait! Let me guess. You and David are at Oktoberfest! Am I right? Have you been drinking?’

  ‘I wish I had been. It would make this conversation a little less painful.’

  For the first time, Ulster recognized the tension in Payne’s voice. ‘Tell me, is everything all right? You sound rather glum. Do you need bail money?’

  Payne glanced over his shoulder, making sure no guards were around. Obviously they knew about the bunker, but according to Kaiser, they didn’t know anything about the crates. Lowering his voice to a whisper, Payne said, ‘Petr, are you alone?’

  ‘Am I alone? Why do you care if I’m alone? Wait, just a moment. You aren’t at Oktoberfest, are you?’

  ‘No, Petr, I’m not.’

  Ulster gasped. ‘Good heavens! Are you on a mission?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Ulster grinned with delight. Over the past few years, Payne and Jones had used his expertise on topics ranging from the crucifixion of Christ to the prophecies of Nostradamus. And Ulster had loved every minute – even the times he had feared for his life. Running from gunmen while carrying scrolls and artefacts made him feel like an overweight Indiana Jones. ‘Tell me, my boy, what do you need? Just make a wish, and I shall grant it.’

  Payne exhaled as his blood pressure spiked.

  The next few minutes would be brutal.

  13

  Monday, 20 September

  Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany

  Ulster’s flight from the Archives was a short one, less than 200 miles to the German city with the twenty-one-letter name. Long before they could see it, Payne and Jones heard the roar of the helicopter as it soared over the Alps and swooped into the valley like an angry hawk. Standing near the foot of the hiking trail, they shielded their eyes as the chopper landed fifty feet in front of them, its downdraught kicking up dirt and debris from the surrounding field.