The Crypt Trilogy Bundle

by Bill Thompson

  “What is it?” the Romanian minister asked.

  The driver shut off the noisy machine and replied, “I hit something. Probably metal.”

  “Keep going!”

  He started the motor, filled the bucket with dirt and backed out to unload it. The four of them went in to look. There was nothing but soil.

  As the operator shoveled more dirt, they heard metal strike against metal several times. The driver backed out again, shut off the machine and reported, “It’s big. I moved the bucket up and down, side to side. Whatever’s there seems to be made entirely of metal and it’s very wide. Very tall too.”

  “It appears the old Nazi’s directions might be accurate, Paul,” Minister Deutsch said, beaming. “And gentlemen,” he said to the others, “I think we may be about to witness history.”

  But today wouldn’t be historically significant. When the sun began to set, it grew so dark inside the deep cut the backhoe operator couldn’t continue. The Romanian minister promised to have construction lights set up by daybreak, in hopes of lighting the dark tunnel tomorrow. Some of the troops remained to guard the site while the rest were sent home for the night.

  The four adventurers met for dinner in the rustic dining room of their hotel. There was an atmosphere of anticipation – high hopes, impatience and jovial discussion. They had cocktails and a wonderful meal; then they adjourned to the lounge, where a roaring fire awaited them.

  “There’s something we must do,” the Romanian minister said as they settled in. “Has any of you had Dvin, the famous Armenian cognac?”

  They hadn’t.

  “There’s a reason we must have a glass or two,” he replied with a smile as he signaled the waiter and placed the order. “This brandy is perfect for tonight’s after-dinner drink among the four of us. Winston Churchill was a noted connoisseur of cognac, and Dvin was his favorite. The story is that the prime minister tried it at the Tehran Conference in 1943, thought it was the best thing he’d ever tasted, and drank a bottle a day until his death.”

  Paul was surprised. “A bottle a day? I’ve heard of his love of fine cigars, but that’s one hell of a lot of brandy!”

  “Yes, and it was impossible to get in England. When Josef Stalin heard of Churchill’s passion for it, he personally arranged for the prime minister to always have a supply on hand. Does anyone recall the saying attributed to Churchill, when he was asked the secret of his long life?”

  Hans Steffen replied, “Wasn’t it something like, ‘don’t be late for lunch, smoke Havana cigars and drink good cognac?’“

  “That’s almost it. Actually the last part was ‘drink Armenian cognac.’ He considered our Eastern European brandies to be the best in the world.”

  “Obviously,” Paul smirked. “He drank a bottle of it a day! My God, the man’s liver must have been in terrible shape!”

  They raised their snifters, and the German minister said, “To success, to the Allied forces who liberated Europe during the war, and to the memory of thousands who perished at the hands of the Nazis. May our treasure hunt tomorrow be fruitful, and may it honor those who died.”

  Glasses clinked and Dvin cognac went down the hatch. The consensus was it was the best they’d ever had. They thanked the minister for thinking of this very appropriate idea.

  “How about I buy the next round?” Paul offered. That suggestion was met with enthusiastic approval.

  They were the only guests left by the time the last drop was finished. The bartender bid them good night, and they retired upstairs, each of them dreaming of success tomorrow.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Hoping a rewarding day awaited, they met up with the soldiers at Peles Castle at seven a.m. Soon the backhoe was belching and snorting smoke as the driver took out more bucketsful of soil. The almost constant sound of metal striking metal kept them on edge and excited. An hour after he began, the operator backed his machine out of the cut and turned it off.

  “There’s a solid wall blocking the entire passage,” he reported. “I can’t do any more.”

  The soldiers went in with shovels and finished the job. Since there was now a battery of huge lights shining into the deep cut, the four men could see the outline of a pair of doors. When the troops had finished clearing, Paul, Hans and the ministers took their place, standing in front of a steel barrier fifteen feet wide and nearly that tall. It consisted of two sides that would swing open. Enormous hinges were on the outside edges, and in the middle was a heavy chain and a bulky padlock.

  The men stood in silence, unable to put their emotions into words. They were awed by the sheer magnitude – the ultimate importance to the world – of what might lie just on the other side of this door.

  “My God, this is it,” Hans Steffen whispered at last as a tear ran down his cheek. “It’s big enough for a train. It is, isn’t it? Amazing!”

  Finally Herr Deutsch broke the reverie. “Shall we continue, gentlemen?”

  The soldiers took picks and a sledgehammer to the lock and chain, and within minutes the encumbrances were gone. The Romanian minister ordered them to open the doors. After seventy years, the going was slow. The bulky hinges wouldn’t budge at first, and the decision was made to hook a chain to one door, then to the backhoe, and use the machine to pull the door open.

  Just as they were getting everything in place, a cheery female voice from behind them said, “Good morning, everyone!”

  They looked around and the Romanian minister muttered, “Shit! What the hell is she doing here?”

  Two people stood just outside the cut where they were working. One was an attractive brunette and the other, a young man, held a camera on his shoulder.

  “Stop everything and give me a moment,” he whispered to the others. Walking out to the newcomers, he said cordially, “Good morning. How may I help you?”

  “We hear there’s big news here. The word is that you’ve found something very important, something from World War II.” She pointed to the cut. “You’ve done a lot of digging, haven’t you? Do you mind if we shoot some footage while you work?”

  The minister replied smoothly, “This is a restricted site, Miss Vasile. Once we are prepared to release information, I’ll be sure my office contacts you.”

  “Of course, Minister,” she answered. “Since the castle is public grounds, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind if we stand out here and film for a bit. We have the right, you know.”

  He remained completely civil although his response was firm and crisp. “I’m afraid this is official government business. Surely you don’t wish to interfere? I’m going to ask you politely to let us continue our work. Once there is something to talk about, I’m sure we will be seeing each other again.” He turned to the lieutenant who was in charge of the Romanian troops. “Would you please escort Miss Vasile and her associate back to the castle?”

  Once they were gone, he motioned the others away from the soldiers to a place where they could talk privately.

  Paul asked, “What was that all about? How do you know her?”

  “Everyone in Romania knows her. That’s Nicoleta Vasile. She’s the news anchor for TVR, the Romanian national television network. I’d bet one of the soldiers went home last night and told his friends about the huge iron door they uncovered. It doesn’t take long for word to get around in a small country like ours. She must have driven up here from Bucharest this morning.”

  The German minister was concerned. “She made a point about this being public property. How can we continue if she has the legal right to be here?”

  “This isn’t Germany.” The Romanian laughed. “Sometimes I wish we were more civilized, but instead much that happens in my country is a throwback to the Communist days. For us at this moment it is a good thing. Freedom of the press doesn’t mean the same thing here as it does in the West. Nicole Vasile works for the same government that I do. And I outrank her. I can keep her away from here for today, but I can’t keep her from broadcasting a story about something happening
at Peles Castle. At six p.m. tonight our project will be a secret no longer.”

  Paul, Hans and Herr Deutsch went back to the door while the Romanian minister gave orders to his lieutenant. There would be security at this site starting this afternoon.

  The backhoe operator tugged and pulled, the heavy machine struggling as the taut chain failed to budge the door. He tried again, then a third time. At last they heard a heavy groan and the door shuddered. It had been almost imperceptible, but the door had moved slightly.

  “Again!” Hans yelled to the operator.

  This time the groan became a rumble. The machine moved backwards as the door swung on its hinges. Now there was a two-foot gash in the middle of the huge steel barrier. The door was open!

  Paul had anticipated this moment for so long he imagined himself rushing up to see what was inside. Instead he felt an unusual reverence. It wasn’t his place to go first anyway – that privilege was reserved for the two governmental officials. They walked to the door, slipped through the slash of darkness, and were gone for over a minute. When they stepped back out, they switched off the cell phones they’d obviously used for light.

  Hans and Paul rushed to Herr Deutsch as the Romanian shouted at his men to reposition the lights. Two of the soldiers carried the heavy stand into the tunnel. When they came out, everyone could see the amazement on their faces.

  Deutsch extended his hand to Paul and exclaimed, “You did it. You found it, Paul.”

  “Do you mean…”

  “I mean yes. Yes, there’s a train sitting in there, still on its track. We could only see the last boxcar; the engine’s obviously on the other end.” He held out his phone to show Paul and Hans a picture. He’d shot the side of a dusty freight car, a huge swastika emblazoned on its side.

  Once the lights were in place, the Romanian minister said jovially, “What are you standing here for? Don’t you want to see it too?”

  For the first time Paul Silver saw what he’d been daydreaming about for months. They walked down one side, then the other of the thirteen boxcars and the ancient 1940s locomotive that had pulled them into this tunnel.

  The minister ordered Peles Castle closed to visitors, called for reinforcements, and posted armed guards at the main entrance. The four of them drove into Sinaia for lunch, leaving the remaining soldiers to maintain tight perimeter security until more troops arrived. They discussed what would happen next.

  “It’s your call,” Herr Deutsch told his Romanian counterpart, “but may I throw out some ideas for you to consider?”

  “By all means. What are you thinking?”

  “If this were in my country, I would open one or two freight cars just to confirm the train is what we think it is. If we find this really is the Ghost Train, I would seal the tunnel and erect a stronger barrier to protect the entrance. I would keep it heavily guarded and I’d request an archaeological conservatory team to examine and catalog everything on the train. It’s not my place to interfere,” he continued, “but my country has excellent resources in this regard, and I will be pleased to offer the best people we have should you require them.”

  The Romanian explained that although he was grateful for the offer, he must speak with his prime minister immediately. He knew the matter would then be out of his hands. He was a simple cabinet-level official in a third-world government, a participant in a discovery that could have worldwide impact.

  “And by all means,” he continued with a burst of enthusiasm, “after what the four of us have been through, we will certainly open one or two of the cars before I make that call to the prime minister! It would be foolish to call without knowing what’s there!”

  That statement put a renewed fire into each of them, and within the hour they were standing in the tunnel.

  “Which car shall we open?” the Romanian minister asked. “They’re identical. Shall we pick one? We are four adventurers. I choose the fourth car from the engine!”

  Not wanting to subject the discovery to more publicity than absolutely necessary, the minister selected his most trusted soldier, the lieutenant, to break the chains on the boxcar door. His sledgehammer made easy work of it. Dismissing the soldier, the minister gathered them around and said, “Let’s all give it a shove.” The door rolled easily on its tracks, and they looked inside.

  The car they’d chosen had two different loads inside it. Gold bars were stacked halfway up the side of the car on both ends, apparently to equalize the weight. On top of the bars and in the middle of the boxcar there were slatted crates. They could see framed artwork inside. They chose a random crate, pulled it out and removed the slats. As dusty and grimy as it was, the bright yellows, greens and blues of Van Gogh still shone through.

  “It’s The Painter on the Road to Tarascan,” Paul murmured as he brushed away some dirt. “He painted it in 1888, and it hung in the Magdeburg museum. When the Allies bombed Magdeburg, the museum caught on fire and this painting was believed lost. But here it is.” He choked up. “What else will we find? What else has been missing all this time that will at last be revealed?”

  They opened five more crates, each containing paintings of greater or lesser importance than the Van Gogh they’d seen first. While they worked, Herr Deutsch was in the boxcar, moving crates here and there and counting the gold bars. The others left him to that task, but when he emerged, they were eager to know what he’d found out.

  “There are ten thousand one-kilo bars in this freight car alone,” he reported. “May we check one more car just to be sure?”

  As the others broke the chain on the next car, Paul entered figures into his phone calculator. “That car contains roughly three hundred seventy-five million dollars in gold, not counting the value of the artwork.”

  They opened the sliding boxcar door of the second car, glanced inside, and shut it again without touching anything. The Romanian minister thought it would be better to leave the rest to the conservators. The cargo in this one looked identical to the other car. It was reasonable to assume it held the same number of gold bars.

  Paul made one more set of calculations, then announced, “If we presume each of these thirteen cars has the same amount of gold as the one we counted, we’re looking at a total value of almost five billion dollars. I think the need for heightened security just went through the roof, gentlemen. Mr. Minister, I suggest you get the heavy artillery in place immediately.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Six Months Later

  Philippe Lepescu limped along a dark East London street until he arrived on a familiar doorstep. He rang the bell twice and stood by an intercom mounted near the entryway. A male voice in a clipped British accent came on and said, “May I help you?”

  “I’m here to see the doctor. Six-four-three is my number.”

  The door swung open. A fat, balding man in a stained undershirt and torn boxer shorts stood in the hallway.

  “Come in, Philippe! Come in!”

  Philippe followed the man to an office at the back of the house. Philippe knew exactly where to go since he was coming here more and more frequently these days. The man sat at his desk and said, “OxyContin. That’s what you’re after, if I recall correctly.”

  “Right,” Philippe panted. He squirmed, standing first on one foot and then the other, like a person needing to use the bathroom. “Fast. I need it fast.”

  “Of course, my good man. I can see you’re experiencing withdrawal. But you know what comes first.”

  Philippe threw ten fifty-pound notes down on the desk. As the doctor counted out ten tablets, Philippe grabbed two and stuck them in his mouth.

  “My word!” the fat man exclaimed. “You shouldn’t be taking two at once!”

  “Just give me the fucking pills, Doctor,” he said, spitting out the man’s title with a sneer. “Leave the rest to me.”

  Philippe walked the rainy streets until he calmed down. The Bad Man was out all the time now, and Philippe had to be careful. He would curse randomly at people who passed him
on the sidewalk. He would kick at a stray dog, trying to hurt the defenseless animal. Nothing made any difference to him anymore, and it was simply a matter of time until something awful was going to happen. Philippe Lepescu was a walking powder keg, and his sole motive for continuing this miserable life was to destroy Paul Silver.

  Although he still dragged his left leg with every step, his limp became a little less pronounced as the pills took effect. He seethed as he thought about this little present Paul had given him. Just the thought of it made him want to lash out at the very next person he met.

  He stopped into a pub he’d never visited before and ordered a pint. He constantly had to find new pubs nowadays. The Bad Man was never good company. Now that he was always out in the open, Philippe had been banned from all the places he used to enjoy. There were the fights, the screaming matches, the smashed bottles. More than once the police had been called, but he always ran away before they arrived.

  This pub visit went better than most because for once the Bad Man was quiet. Philippe got a little upset when the bartender failed to notice he needed a second drink quickly enough, but he forced himself to be calm. He wanted that next pint of ale more than he wanted the satisfaction of creating mayhem.

  When he finally fell into bed, tonight became the same as all the others. Throughout the endless night he screamed and kicked as sharp slivers of pain jolted him awake every half hour or so. When he did sleep, he dreamed violent dreams: vast scenes where the Bad Man was free to play as much as he wanted. Most people would call them nightmares, Philippe would occasionally reflect. But the dreams of gang rapes, suicide bombings and mass executions – always with him as the perpetrator – were simply his dreams ever since the day Paul Silver took away his manhood and his life.

  He had one mission now. Every move he made, every thought in his head, was directed at one solitary goal. Paul Silver would pay.