The Secret Crown (2010)

by Chris Kuzneski

  ‘No problem. I like helping the elderly.’

  Payne smiled and pushed the door with all his strength. Slowly but surely, it swung open from left to right until it crashed into the tunnel wall behind it. Made of concrete and painted the same colour as the first chamber, the arched corridor was nearly six feet wide and seven feet high, and it stretched twenty-two feet into the mountain. At the far end of the passageway, there was another thick door. In between, there was nothing but concrete and empty space.

  No lights. No signs. No markings of any kind.

  ‘Thanks,’ Jones said as he slipped past Payne. ‘I knew we brought you for a reason.’

  ‘Please, after you,’ he mumbled sarcastically. ‘Really, I insist.’

  Jones grinned in the dark as he took the lead. Guided by his flashlight, he studied the tunnel’s construction as he moved towards the back room. ‘Notice anything about the walls?’

  ‘Not really,’ Payne said. ‘Then again, you’re blocking my view.’

  Jones answered his own query. ‘They’re spotless. No mildew or cracks of any kind. Whoever built this section did a much better job. Then again, that makes sense if the next room is a bomb shelter - although I’m beginning to have some doubts.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Kaiser asked from the rear.

  ‘As far as I can tell, there’s no ventilation.’

  Kaiser nodded. ‘Actually, you’re right. Not a single vent anywhere. I checked.’

  Payne stopped and shone his flashlight at Kaiser. ‘No vents? There has to be vents. No vents mean no air. No air means no people. Why build a bunker that can’t hold people?’

  Kaiser smiled cryptically. ‘You’re about to find out.’

  9

  Mitte District

  Berlin, Germany

  Hans Mueller grabbed the sharpest knife he could find and plunged it into the sausage. It hissed when its skin was pierced, grease oozing like lava onto the hot grill.

  Watching closely, the man across the kitchen winced.

  He knew this was a message, not a meal.

  Born in India but a recent resident of Berlin, Asif Kapur had been invited to dinner through unconventional means. Two thugs had kicked in his front door and dragged him out of his shower. At first, he had screamed and tried to fight back, but a swift kick to his groin and several layers of duct tape round his hands and mouth had put an end to that. Dripping wet and completely naked, Kapur had been thrown into the trunk of a Mercedes and driven round the city for more than an hour. By the time they were done, he was shivering with fear.

  That’s when he was delivered to the restaurant.

  Recently purchased by Mueller as a way to launder money, the complex was still being renovated. Over the past few decades, the entire neighbourhood had received an extensive facelift. Formerly a part of East Berlin, the borough of Mitte had been surrounded by the Berlin Wall on three sides. Although there had been some crossing points between East and West Berlin during the Cold War - the most famous being Checkpoint Charlie - Mitte hadn’t been a popular tourist destination until the wall came tumbling down in 1989. Since then, the area had experienced a renaissance. Galleries had been built, cafes opened, derelict houses destroyed. After so many years of being an embarrassment, Mitte has re-established itself as the heart of Berlin.

  And Mueller hoped to take advantage of the influx of visitors.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said without turning away from the grill, ‘do you know who I am?’

  Kapur, still naked but no longer gagged, nodded in fear. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Mueller stabbed another sausage with the tip of the knife. ‘Do you know why you’re here?’

  Kapur gulped, his heart pounding in his throat. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘One more question,’ Mueller said as he turned off the flame and faced his guest for the very first time. ‘Do you enjoy curry?’

  The topic caught Kapur off guard. ‘Excuse me?’

  Wearing a white apron over his dress shirt and tie, Mueller carried the platter of sausages across the kitchen and set it on a large butcher’s block. Made of maple, it sat in the centre of the workspace and was partially covered with kitchen equipment. ‘It’s a simple question, really. One I thought you could answer without much difficulty - especially considering your heritage. You are Indian, correct?’

  Kapur nodded from the opposite side of the wood.

  Mueller, a fit German in his forties with a military haircut and eyes as black as coal, glared at his guest. ‘I believe I asked you a question. If you’re unwilling to answer me verbally, my men will gag you once again. Is that what you’d prefer?’

  Kapur shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

  A smile returned to Mueller’s face. ‘Good. You are Indian, correct?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Mueller stared at him, sizing him up. ‘Do you enjoy curry?’

  Kapur nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Very much, sir.’

  Mueller leaned closer. ‘Do you like it … spicy?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Very spicy.’

  Mueller considered Kapur’s answer, then nodded his approval. ‘This restaurant, once the renovations are finished, will serve the finest currywurst in all of Germany. Are you familiar with the dish?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Mueller gasped in surprise. ‘You are an Indian living in Berlin, and you are not familiar with currywurst? How can this be?’

  Kapur swallowed hard. ‘I haven’t been here long. Only a month.’

  ‘A month,’ Mueller echoed, letting the words hang in the air like smoke from the grill. ‘You are correct. You have been here a month. One month exactly. One month to this very day.’

  Kapur nodded. He was very aware of the date. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Mueller took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, trying to control his rage. ‘Even so, you cannot go anywhere in this city without passing a currywurst stand every fifty feet. I am surprised that an Indian, such as yourself, did not smell the spice and stop for a taste of your homeland. To me, that’s inconceivable. Tell me, are you a vegetarian?’

  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 vari
ations. 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 hustled 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.’