Kapur shook his head. ‘No, sir.’
‘Wonderful!’ Mueller exclaimed as he jabbed one of the sausages with his knife. ‘Then allow me to make you a plate. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you are the only Indian I know. Personally, I feel it would be a wasted opportunity if I didn’t get your opinion.’
‘Of course, sir. Whatever you want, sir.’
Mueller reached to his right and grabbed a metal contraption that Kapur had never seen. It had a wide opening on top, a handle on the side, and several blades in the middle. ‘A woman named Herta Heuwer invented this dish way back in 1949. As you probably know, Berlin was in horrible shape after the war, and supplies were at a minimum. Herta had a street stand in the Charlottenburg district where she grilled pork wurst for construction workers rebuilding the city. One day she was given some ketchup, Worcestershire sauce, and curry powder by British soldiers and decided to make a sauce to pour over her wurst.’
After sliding the sausage into the top of the machine, Mueller placed a dish underneath the contraption, and then pulled the handle with a loud thwack! A second later, several bite-size pieces of sausage tumbled into the dish.
Mueller grinned with delight. ‘Currywurst was so popular with the workers that word spread round the city. Within two years, she was selling over ten thousand servings a week. Her recipe was so beloved she had it patented. To this day, there is still a plaque in Charlottenburg that marks the spot where her stand once stood.’
Mueller momentarily turned his back in order to get his sauce from the stove. Kapur, who was still completely naked, eyed the knife on the butcher’s block but thought better of it. Even if he managed to stab Mueller, there was no way he’d get past the guards, who were watching him from the far side of the kitchen.
‘Obviously,’ Mueller said as he grabbed the saucepan from the stove, ‘many chefs have tweaked Herta’s recipe over the years. Nowadays there are all kinds of variations. Some are made with paprika. Some are made with onions. Some are made with tomato paste. As hard as this is to believe, over eight hundred million servings of currywurst are sold in Germany every year. Can you believe that number? Eight hundred million!’
‘That’s hard to believe, sir.’
Mueller laughed. ‘But it’s true! I read that fact at the Currywurst Museum that opened last year. Can you believe that? Currywurst is so popular in Berlin it has its own museum. As soon as I heard about it, I knew I had to open a restaurant, using my grandmother’s secret recipe. Everyone who has eaten it swears it’s the best they’ve ever had.’
Kapur watched as Mueller drizzled some curry onto the sausage. Steam rose off the pieces as he did. ‘It smells delicious, sir.’
Mueller set the plate in front of him. ‘Wait until you taste it! I’m telling you, your taste buds will dance and your sinuses will clear – if they haven’t already.’
Kapur eyed the meal sceptically. Even if it was the worst thing he had ever tasted, he planned on gushing over it as if it had been the best. But much to his surprise, the currywurst was wonderful. Somehow the sausage and the curry, which seemed to have nothing in common, actually complimented each other. ‘Sir, it’s excellent! Truly excellent!’
Mueller beamed with pride. ‘See, I knew you would like it. Some people are hesitant to try new things, but not me. I’m always looking for something new.’
Mueller walked around the butcher’s block and patted Kapur on his shoulder. The flesh-on-flesh contact sent a tremor through Kapur’s body. ‘Take you, for example. A lot of people told me not to get involved with you. They said you couldn’t be trusted to hold up your end of the bargain. But I disagreed with them. I said if wurst and curry could mesh together into something so delicious, then so could a German and an Indian. Don’t you agree?’
Beads of perspiration formed on Kapur’s forehead. Whether it was from the spices or his nerves, he wasn’t sure. ‘Yes, sir. I wholeheartedly agree.’
Mueller grimaced as he grabbed the contraption. Its base squeaked softly as he pulled it across the wood. ‘Unfortunately, my Indian friend, your first payment was due one month after your arrival in Berlin, but according to my assistant, you have failed to hold up your end of the bargain. You have not paid a single Euro.’
‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. But there’s a- ‘
‘Don’t!’ Mueller growled, all the compassion gone from his face. ‘Do not make excuses. In my business, there are no excuses. You promised your first payment on this day, and you failed to deliver. That leaves me with no choice. I must punish your betrayal, or others will follow your lead.’
‘But, sir! If you-’
Before he could utter another word, Kapur felt one of the guard’s arms wrap round his throat. Instinctively, Kapur raised his bound hands and tried to fight him off – tried to gouge out his eyes or do anything he could do to loosen his grip – but it was the biggest mistake of his life. While Kapur was flailing and fighting for air, the other guard grabbed Kapur’s penis and shoved it into the contraption.
Kapur’s eyes doubled in size when he realized what was about to happen.
Meanwhile, Mueller smiled as he clutched the handle.
Thwack!
10
The second door was identical to the first. Same weight. Same concrete. Same recessed handle. It was as if the bunker’s architect had shopped at a buy-one-get-one-free sale before he had started the project – whenever that might have been. Without a trained historian, Payne and Jones had no idea how old the bunker was. Twenty years? Fifty years? More than a hundred?
They weren’t sure but hoped the back room would provide some answers.
To prove his worth, Jones opened the heavy door without any help, a process that took twice as long as Payne’s effort on the first door. Afterward, despite being out of breath, he stared at Payne and said, ‘Maybe we don’t need your muscles after all.’
‘Sure you do,’ he replied. ‘I’ll be the one who carries you out when you collapse.’
‘Thanks,’ Jones wheezed. ‘That’ll be pretty soon.’
Payne smiled and turned towards Kaiser, who was standing behind him in the tunnel. ‘If you don’t mind, why don’t you take the lead? Show us why we’re here.’
‘I’d be happy to,’ Kaiser said as he squeezed past the duo. ‘Just so you know, none of my men have been back this far. What you’re about to see is between us.’
‘How do you know?’ Payne wondered.
‘How? Because I trust my men,’ he said harshly. Then, as if he suddenly remembered whom he was talking to, Kaiser caught himself and grinned. ‘Plus I told them there’s going to be a lie detector test once we leave Bavaria, and if any of them fail, they’ll lose a limb.’
Jones glanced at him, unsure if he was kidding. ‘How does that work? Do they pick a limb ahead of time, or do you spin a giant wheel of body parts if they fail?’
‘Cross me someday and find out,’ Kaiser said with a wink.
Payne laughed, but Jones didn’t – still not sure if he was joking.
‘Anyway,’ Kaiser said, ‘let me show you what I found.’
Following the beam of his flashlight, Kaiser led the duo into the back room. Roughly twenty feet long and thirty feet wide, its walls were made of the same concrete as the outer chamber. Besides the width and length, the main difference in the construction was the height of the ceiling, which was a mere seven feet tall. Standing six-foot-six in hiking shoes, Payne instinctively crouched until he was certain he could walk upright without banging his head. After that, his focus shifted to the room’s contents instead of the room itself.
Payne stared in fascination at the dozens of wooden crates of varying sizes that lined the back wall. They were stacked in neat rows, one on top of the other, like Lego blocks from another time. Until recently, the crates had been covered with long canvas tarps, which Kaiser had folded and stored along the left wall. Other than that, the rest of the room appeared empty.
Excited by the possibilities, Jones h
ustled towards the stacks with childlike enthusiasm. He shone his light on the first crate he came across, expecting it to be open and overflowing with valuables, but its lid was nailed shut. Undaunted, he hustled to the next crate, which was slightly larger than the first one, and discovered it was sealed, too. The same with the next one, and the one after that. All of them appeared to be sealed.
Jones glanced over his shoulder, confused. ‘What’s in the crates?’
Kaiser looked at him and shrugged. ‘I honestly don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’ Jones blurted.
Kaiser shook his head. ‘Nope.’
‘Hold up,’ Payne said, trying to understand. ‘You flew us four thousand miles on a private jet, but you don’t know what’s in any of these crates? Sorry, but I don’t buy that for a second.’
‘Actually,’ Kaiser admitted, ‘I know what’s in one. That’s all it took.’
‘Which one?’ Jones demanded.
Kaiser pointed towards a crate in the far right corner. It had been moved a few inches from those nearby, like a book pulled from a crowded shelf and then hastily returned. From where Jones was standing, the crate looked sealed like the others. Upon closer inspection, he realized the lid had been replaced but hadn’t been reattached.
Jones turned and faced Kaiser. ‘Let me see if I got this straight. The contents of this box compelled you to fly us here overnight, but worried you so much you didn’t open any of the others … Please tell me it’s not cursed.’
Kaiser grimaced. ‘Define cursed.’
Payne furrowed his brow. He had known Kaiser for more than a decade, and in all those years, he had never seen him act so strangely. Cautious, yes. But never bizarre.
‘Listen,’ Payne said to him, ‘it’s obvious there’s something going on that we don’t understand. Do you want to fill us in, or should we open the box and find out for ourselves?’
‘Just open the box. We can talk when you’re done.’
Jones grinned. ‘Can one of you hold my light?’
Payne nodded and stepped forward, hoping to get a closer look.
Measuring nearly four feet in height, width and depth, the crate was made of old wood and free of exterior labels. Rope handles, common on boxes from yesteryear, dangled from its sides like elephant’s ears. Overall, the crate was in remarkable shape – completely free of cracks or scuffmarks of any kind. Whoever had placed it there had done so with respect.
Using both hands, Jones removed the lid and placed it on a neighbouring crate, careful not to damage either. With questions dancing in his head and adrenaline surging through his veins, he rushed back to Payne’s side, and they gazed into the box together.
At first glance, they were less than impressed. The crate’s interior was equipped with seven strips of plywood running from left to right, forming eight vertical slots extending to the bottom of the crate. All the slots, which were roughly six inches wide, were filled with a mixture of hardwood panels and unframed canvases. Due to the darkness of the bunker and the depth of the slots, they had no idea what they were looking at until Jones removed one of the objects and held it in the beam of Payne’s flashlight.
‘Holy shit,’ Jones gasped as he stared at the oil painting on panel. The Impressionist masterpiece depicted five sunflowers – three in a green vase and two more lying in front of the vase – painted against a royal-blue background. The colours were so vibrant and the brushwork was so unmistakable that both of them recognized the artist.
‘Is that a van Gogh?’ Payne whispered to Jones.
Kaiser answered for him. ‘It’s called Still Life: Vase with Five Sunflowers. Painted by Vincent van Gogh in August 1888, supposedly destroyed by fire in 1945.’
With his heart pounding in his chest, Jones carefully returned it to its slot and pulled out another. This one was oil on canvas, depicting a man and a woman walking through a garden. Though not nearly as colourful as the first painting, the brushwork was just as distinctive.
Kaiser spoke again, his tone similar to an art expert in a museum. ‘The Lovers: The Poet’s Garden IV, painted by Vincent van Gogh in October 1888. Last seen in Germany in 1937.’
A few seconds later, Jones pulled out another oil on canvas. The most colourful of the three, it depicted a painter on his way to work, walking down a bright gold path as he carried his art supplies. The background was filled with green and yellow fields and majestic blue mountains.
‘Painter on the Road to Tarascon,’ Kaiser announced, ‘painted by Vincent van Gogh in August 1888, destroyed by fire in World War Two.’
Jones nodded and returned the painting to its slot. He was about to pull out another when Payne grabbed his arm and told him to wait.
‘What’s wrong?’ Jones wondered.
Payne turned towards Kaiser. ‘Did you say it was destroyed in World War Two?’
Kaiser nodded, wondering when they would catch on. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘And the first one?’ Payne asked.
‘Burned in 1945.’
‘What about the second?’
‘Vanished from Germany in 1937.’
‘Shit,’ Payne mumbled as the dates fell into place. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’
Jones looked at him, confused. ‘What’s wrong?’
Payne raised his voice, which echoed through the chamber. ‘What’s wrong? I’ll tell you what’s wrong. Kaiser promised us treasure but brought us to a goddamned Nazi bunker.’
Jones’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘He what?’
‘Think about the dates and where we are. All this shit was looted in the war.’
Jones glanced at Kaiser. ‘Please tell me he’s wrong.’
Kaiser shrugged. ‘I hope he is, but I honestly don’t know.’
Payne raised his voice even louder. ‘Oh, so that’s how you’re going to play it? You bring us to a Nazi bunker, filled with stolen artwork and who knows what else, and you’re going to pretend you’re not sure? Son of a bitch, Kaiser! What in the hell were you thinking? Did you really think we’d want to get involved with this shit?’
Kaiser took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. ‘As a matter of fact, I did.’
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.
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