The Crown of Fire

by Tony Abbott

  “You childrens and your muzzer heff no idea vhat you heff shtumbled into,” the man said with some trouble. “Nor do you guess zat you are in ze presence of Kurt Stangl, deputy head of art procurement during ze vore!”

  Whatever that meant.

  With an awkward movement of his legs, the skeleton then tried to bring his heels together in a salute—or something—but one foot caught in the dirt and he nearly fell. He righted himself, but his pistol wagged all over the place.

  “Grandpa!”

  A young man with blond hair and a thin mustache rushed breathlessly from the structure.

  “Grandpa, please put that old thing down. You remember what happened the last time you aimed that gun, don’t you?”

  “Eh . . . no?”

  “I nearly bled to death.”

  “You were in ze vay!”

  “And now these kids are. Please, Gramps.” Gently pushing the Luger’s barrel toward the ground, he introduced himself. “Hi. I’m Rafe Stangl. I apologize. Grandpa’s gun could—and often does—go off accidentally. He might wound you.”

  “We wouldn’t want that,” Darrell’s mother said, relaxing visibly.

  “No, no. Wounding won’t do,” the young man said. “You really have to die.”

  Darrell started laughing, then stopped. “Wait, what?”

  Smiling icily, the man reached around and pulled his own gun from behind his back. It was a thick, black-barreled weapon, and not at all antique. “’Fraid so. Now, put your hands back up and let’s visit the cemetery. It’s where we keep all the curiosity seekers. Please.”

  The politeness of the grandson was just plain weird, but they were both armed, and there was little else to do just then. The grandson bunched them up and marched them past the structure into a dense jungly area. From there they were forced single file into a clearing where the sun burned down through a sparse canopy.

  “Stop here.”

  Darrell scanned every direction. Would Galina and Ebner be here soon? What was taking them so long? And what would they add to this bizarre scene? Extra guns? Or a distraction? Were these two crazies expecting them?

  “I do apologize,” Rafe Stangl said. “The graves are unmarked. Yours will be, too. I’m sure you understand.”

  “We don’t actually,” Lily said. “All we really wanted was to talk.”

  “Ya! First you talk, zen you vant to shteal ze relic!”

  “Grampa, zip it up, will you? Sorry, kids. There’s no relic here. What relic?”

  “Mind your manners!” the old man said. “Ve don’t get many visitors. Let me tell zem.”

  “Grandpa, please—”

  “Back in ze year nineteen thirty-nine,” the old man said, his eyes taking on a faraway gaze, “ze German high command learnt of a time machine crafted by Nicolaus Copernicus. I, Kurt Stangl, actually discovered an original relic.”

  “Grandfather, I think you’re inventing things again,” said Rafe. “Relic? What relic? Anyway, enough talk. We really must kill you. Do you want a mass grave? Or separate ones? Mass graves are easier for us.”

  The Stangls raised their pistols at the same time and took aim. Darrell wanted to run at them—and probably die trying—when his mother—his amazing mother—blurted out a statement that just might have saved their lives.

  “You’re right, Herr Stangl,” she said. “We came halfway across the world to see your relic.”

  “Aha!” he said. “I knew it!”

  “Of course, you could be mistaken, and it’s not one of the Copernicus relics at all,” she went on. “We’ve seen a few of them, but there are decoys, after all, so we could verify if yours is real. Before we die, I mean.”

  “Oldest trick in the book,” the grandson said. “Say good-bye now—”

  “Vait!” the elder man said.

  “Grandpa, please . . .”

  “No! No. It is real, and I vill prove it to zem.” A curious look came over his face. “You vill all see the glory of the craftsmanship. It vill be ze last thing you see before your end. Rafe, ze vault. Follow my orders.”

  “Oh, come on—”

  “Now!”

  The younger Stangl grumbled, but obeyed his grandfather.

  After quickly shooing them back through the jungle to the structure, the old man fumbled to unlock a large iron door. He yanked it open, and they all descended a cavernous staircase that led into darkness.

  Cowering beneath a low concrete ceiling and flickering under a string of weak electric lights, Becca found it once more hard to breathe. Her blood throbbed in her ears, her vision grew dim, her throat began to close. She thought she might pass out or tumble forward to the damp floor, but Wade was there. His hand grasped her good arm and held her steady.

  The next moment, the corridor flashed with light, and they were no longer in a tomb, but in an artificially cooled bunker with walls of gray iron. She breathed again.

  “Thanks,” she whispered to Wade. “Don’t let go.”

  The old man opened the locks of a vault door with shaky fingers while his son kept his pistol trained on the five of them.

  The door slid away. The room inside was empty except for an oak display stand about waist high with a mechanical eagle on it and one heavily veiled painting hanging on the wall.

  The eagle stood some six inches high and was perched on the stand as if ready for flight. It bore hinged movable wings that at the moment were outstretched to a span of nearly two feet. The bird’s beak was long and curved downward, and in its needle-sharp talons it clutched several jagged strips of gold—the thunderbolts of Zeus.

  Except for the dull iron of the hinges and rivets, the eagle glowed brilliantly because, Kurt Stangl told them, “it is crafted of ze purest white gold. Priceless beyond belief!”

  The sense of quiet and wonder, even in that jungle hideout, even on the verge of death, stunned Becca. She felt herself nearly swoon at the beauty and power of Aquila; but she thought about her sister, Maggie, and her parents, of all the things and people she loved, and she stiffened her legs and arms, and her dizziness faded. If this was to be one of the last adventures of her quest, she needed to be aware of every second of it.

  Wade meanwhile seemed hypnotized by the eagle. Gently letting go of her, he moved around the bird, studying the hinges and minuscule rivets and braided gold thread woven through the splayed feathers.

  “It’s . . .”

  “It is!” said the old man. “You must agree it is real!”

  Leaning over, Becca placed her hands on her knees for support. It was then she noticed a cool swirl of coral, a kind of salmon-pink wash of oil, peeking out from under the veil over the wall painting. Something tickled her memory, a sense of recognition of that strange cool color, a reddish pink, very old, almost faded, and . . . and . . . she remembered.

  It was the painting Copernicus had showed her in her hallucinatory vision.

  It was the very same.

  “Enough now. You really have to die,” said Rafe. “Everybody out!”

  “Entschuldigen Sie mich, Herr Stangl,” Becca said softly, “kann ich das Bild sehen? Darf ich den Schleier entfernen?”

  “Excuse me, Herr Stangl, may I see the painting? May I remove the veil?”

  The old man nearly jumped out of his boots. “Sie sprechen die Sprache der Väter?”

  “You speak the language of my fathers?”

  “Ja. A little. I love old paintings. May I see it?”

  She felt herself beginning to swoon for real now. Her knees seemed ready to buckle as she leaned against the wall, Lily next to her.

  A smile grew on Stangl’s wrinkled face. “Lift ze veil yourself. Go ahead. Please. It is by ze master Raphael, of course.”

  Raphael. Yes. That might explain why he named his son Rafe.

  The portrait was of a young man in Renaissance clothing. He wore a large black beret-like hat pitched far back on his head. A heavy fur wrap or cape—it might have been bear—was draped over one shoulder. His hair was long and brown
, his face bright, and his lips half smiling. He sat before an open window, and the angle of his eyes suggested he was looking left and out of the frame of the portrait at the view outside.

  The scene beyond the window was a gentle landscape of blue sky, bluer mountains, and green hills and trees. Nestled in the midst of the hills was a large white castle.

  I’d never seen this picture before in my life. And now . . . twice? Copernicus had said, “Hope . . .” What did he mean?

  Maybe more important, what does it mean that Kurt Stangl has it here? Since Lyra was a clue to Aquila, the eagle that was standing right here, was this painting a clue to yet another relic?

  “Show’s over!” Rafe snapped. He nudged them to the door of the vault. “You die!”

  Becca knew that whatever happened, they needed both the relic and the painting. She felt her arms and legs tense. Not knowing exactly what they could do, she was ready to do something, when a sound pierced the vault room.

  Beep! Beep! Beep!

  “Vhat is dat?” the elder Stangl gasped.

  “The perimeter alarm! We have more visitors.” Rafe rushed to close the vault door, but even as he did, he tumbled back into the vault, surprised by two figures darkening the hallway, their guns drawn. The first was Ebner von Braun, his beady eyes narrowing as he entered. The second was Galina Krause. Following them were a half-dozen heavily armed men in commando uniforms.

  Everyone froze.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Almost everyone froze, that is.

  Wade was aware of every twitch and movement inside the vault. While the troops stood like statues, so much seemed to be going on between Ebner and the Stangls, while Galina herself stared almost maniacally at Becca.

  Finally, after a very long moment, old Stangl broke the tension with a loud cry—“Ach, mein friend!”—and lurched to embrace Ebner in his withered old arms.

  From the beginning of their quest for the relics, Wade had detested Ebner. The weasely little man had tried to kill them dozens of times, had urged Galina to kill them, was always around when anyone else tried to kill them, and worst of all was half the reason Becca was poisoned by Galina’s crossbow arrow. To say nothing at all of killing Helmut Bern and Fernando Salta. He was evil.

  Here, though, despite his life of horrendous crime, Ebner seemed to return the old man’s embrace warmly, as if he meant it.

  “Herr Stangl! Such a long time. A very long time.”

  “Your great-uncle Wernher vas so dear to me,” Stangl murmured. “He and ze Order helped me escape Europe vhen ze Allies hunted all of Paris for me.”

  And another piece of the giant puzzle dropped into place for Wade. The evil Order was associated with the remains of the Nazi Party. Well, maybe that wasn’t much of a surprise. But that war was over now, and this, this was a new one. A war that Galina, using the same tactics as the Nazis, was winning.

  Galina now fixed her eyes on Sara. They were cold, full of hate. “I regret, you will all die here,” she said, her first words since entering the vault. “First, however, Herr Stangl, we must retrieve the relic you brought from Paris in nineteen forty-four. Ebner?”

  At that, the gnome pulled back from Stangl with an icy laugh. So much for sincerity. He snapped his fingers, and four of the muscle men forced the Kaplans roughly against the wall with the barrels of their machine pistols. Ebner started for the mechanical eagle on the stand when Rafe jerked himself in front of the relic.

  “I don’t think so. This isn’t Germany seventy-five years ago. Aquila is ours.”

  Galina grinned slowly. Very slowly.

  “So,” she said, “a standoff.”

  Standoff must have been a signal, because the other muscly goons threw themselves instantly at the grandson, while Galina pushed the old man aside and reached for the eagle herself.

  Becca shouted—“No you don’t!”—and squirmed out of the agents’ grasp, lowering both arms like an ax and knocking Galina’s hand away. Rafe elbowed the goons, then quickly rushed at Becca with his gun drawn. There was a shot. Rafe fell to the floor.

  Galina had shot him. Why? To save Becca from him?

  “My grandson!” Kurt shrieked, charging at Galina in a rage.

  Wade, oblivious to anything, found his hands on Aquila. He dragged it off the stand—it was heavy!—and was suddenly grappling with two thugs and Ebner. Sara pounded one of the goons on the back until he let Wade go. A pistol went off. The shot whizzed past Wade’s face, and he dropped the eagle. Another thug was hit. He groaned and fired wildly. Galina shot the old man point-blank and snatched up the eagle.

  “Everybody go! Becca!” shouted Wade, and she was next to him, cradling the painting in her arms as if it were a baby. They all tore up the staircase, slamming every door behind them, and out into the sweltering jungle. Heat poured over them like boiling water.

  “Keep going,” said Sara, her arms reaching for Becca. “Come on. You’re . . .”

  “I’m fine,” Becca said. She wasn’t fine. She was perspiring, stumbling, her face as pale as snow. Wade reached for her. Her arm was burning hot.

  “Holy crow, Becca!”

  “Just run!” she cried.

  The gun battle followed them up the stairs. It spilled out into the jungle. Ebner fired wildly into the trees after them. The remaining agents fanned out, firing a shower of bullets that tore the leaves from the trees. The birds sent up a horrified din.

  “There’s a well or something,” Sara said, diving behind a cluster of felled trees. She pointed to a round stone structure about waist high some twenty feet away.

  Wade knew it couldn’t be a well. “You don’t dig for water in a rain forest. You collect it. It’s a cistern. There might be a pipe leading back to the big house.” He saw Ebner and Galina moving among the trees. Their henchmen were trying to surround their position.

  “Give up the painting!” Galina shouted. She was not more than twenty feet from them. “I will let you live!”

  Fat chance, Wade thought. He scanned the trees. No easy escape.

  Then Lily whispered, “Can anyone throw a rock and cause a distraction? And by anyone, I mean you, Darrell?”

  Darrell grinned. “Of course I can.”

  “Right there,” said Sara, pointing through a break in the leaves.

  Darrell found a palm-sized pebble and shot it straight through the dense growth, not striking anything close. It snapped through leaves some thirty feet away. Ebner ran from his position, firing at the noise. Galina stayed put.

  “Again, farther this time,” Lily whispered.

  Darrell sent a second rock farther away, making it seem as if they were fleeing through the trees. Galina followed it this time. The instant the coast was clear, the kids tore the opposite way across the clearing to the cistern.

  Wade slid in first, pushing past ferns. The others followed. It was slimy, wet, rank inside the old pipe. But he crawled forward, headfirst into the muck. Five long minutes later, he came up against a grate that led to the cellar of the house. He twisted around and kicked it open with his feet, then slid out into an empty water barrel. He caught Becca, then Sara and Lily. Darrell slid down last. The pipe echoed with gunfire. They quickly made their way up from the cellar to the main floor of the house.

  The rooms were decorated with museum-quality artwork of all kinds: bronze statues, old master paintings, an array of antique musical instruments.

  “This is all looted art,” said Sara. “And it’s all decaying in the jungle. This is insane. And wrong. I wish Roald could see this. The Nazis and the Order. He would be stunned.”

  “In the meantime, we saved this,” said Becca, still clutching the painting.

  Amid yelling—Galina, Ebner, and their agents—they rushed as swiftly and quietly as possible back to where they had left Clive Porter. He yelped when he saw them running, then threw the car doors open and started up. They were soon tearing through the jungle on their way to the airport.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Wade
and the others tried their best to answer Clive Porter’s questions as the car bounded over the rough roads, but finally they were all stunned by the ferocity of the attack. In a matter of seconds both Rafe and his grandfather, along with at least two thugs, had been shot, maybe killed.

  But Wade knew that Galina didn’t care how many victims piled up. She only cared about the relics. Just the relics. Why she needed them, what she actually planned to do with the astrolabe, well, they’d barely had time to think about that. Was she going for the mysterious cargo they’d learned about? He couldn’t tell yet.

  But the deadline was a little over a month away. They would know by then.

  “Galina wanted this painting,” Becca said softly. “Is that the reason she didn’t shoot me when she had the chance, because she didn’t want to damage the painting? Or is it, like Markus Wolff said, because of Joan Aleyn, the young woman I saved in London? I don’t know. But this painting has got to be important. It’s the one Nicolaus showed me. I’m thinking maybe we should take it to the Morgan Museum in New York. Our friend Rosemary Billingham could examine it for clues.”

  “Good idea,” said Lily. “In the meantime, I wish we could look it up.”

  “Oh, here,” said Clive, slipping his hand into his jacket pocket. “Service is spotty this far outside the city, but you can use my phone. It’s not been used. Same precautions as always. Once only, for a few minutes.”

  The moment they came in range of Montevideo, Lily began tapping in searches. They quickly paid off. “Guys, this painting is famous. It’s called Portrait of a Young Man. Raphael painted it, then supposedly repainted it. It was lost during World War Two. Stolen by the Nazis. Now we find it in the jungle.”

  “I say, good show, people!” Clive said. “The world will thank you!”

  The sun was going down, and when the road was in shadow, the air was cooler.

  Wade squirmed over the seat and into the back with Becca, where they studied the small, oil-on-wood work together. “The fur he’s wearing over his shoulder. It’s an animal. A brown bear, maybe?” Wade said. “It could be the constellation Ursus.”