A Tsar's Gold (Parker Chase Book 6)

by Andrew Clawson

  Jane laid a hand on Parker’s knee. Otto merely raised his own. “No need for concern, Jane. Parker speaks the truth. My uncle served the Nazi party, a despicable act. Though I hope you will view his choice differently after I explain.” Otto refreshed his coffee, brandy included. Parker declined this time. “My mother told me Uncle Claus was approached by the Rosenberg Taskforce due to his skills. They needed men knowledgeable about cultural artifacts. Most Nazis were thugs, only good for heiling and dying.”

  “They had a group like this in the American army,” Parker said, “called The Monuments Men.”

  “The real-life Allied forces monuments men tried to save or recover items looted by the Nazis,” Jane said. She turned to Otto. “How much do you know about his service?”

  “I know Uncle Claus was not a Nazi.” That clearly mattered to Otto, and Parker didn’t blame him. Based on what he’d heard so far, it seemed unlikely Otto had any direct connection to the atrocities they’d perpetrated.

  Otto took another sip of spiked coffee. “My uncle was a quiet man. Strong and reserved. When the Nazi party recruited him for service, the options were to join or be shot as a traitor to the Reich. No matter what else you learn, please remember that.” He waited until both Parker and Jane acknowledged his request. “As to his military service, most civilians had no idea what the Führer’s forces did during the war. All media was state controlled, the messaging carefully crafted to keep morale high and dissent down.”

  “You don’t think Claus knew about the Final Solution when he was recruited?” Jane asked, using the Nazi term for the systematic extermination of European Jews.

  Otto shook his head. “He did not, I assure you. In his position with the task force, he did not deal with that aspect of the Nazi machine.”

  Maybe Carl, or Claus, hadn’t been a bad guy after all, Parker thought. Just one given an impossible choice. A debate for another time. Right now, Parker was more interested in learning what Claus had done during his time on active duty. “Ideology aside, what do you know about his duties?” Parker asked.

  “Claus’s unit changed locations often toward the war’s end based on Nazi advances or Allied progress. The items they handled were valuable and desired by the highest Reich leaders, so their unit stayed near secure areas.” Otto raised a hand. “I do not know specifics. Claus spoke about his time only in general terms. As with many Germans, he tried to forget the war. Recalling how he helped mass murderers, even by examining art, was painful.”

  “Did he ever mention anything about gold?” Jane asked. “If Claus spent all his time evaluating paintings or artifacts, I don’t see how he would have come to have gold bars.”

  “Uncle Claus told me nothing about the items,” Otto said. “Only that he knew they were stolen, and he hoped every single piece was eventually returned to the owners.”

  A thought flashed in Parker’s head. “What did he do immediately after the war, before he immigrated?”

  Otto shrugged. “Tried to stay alive. After the extent of what occurred came to light, Allied governments focused on catching high-level Nazis. Most common soldiers returned to daily life, tried to rebuild. Claus was one of those.”

  “He never mentioned anything about the items he examined?” Jane asked. Otto confirmed he had not. “Or about where his unit traveled? If we know that, it’s possible I could piece together what he was involved in based on known missing or stolen items.”

  “Unless they have gold bars listed on the missing inventory report, that won’t help our problem.” Parker ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know much about war, though I do know the first thing that disappears in a conflict zone is money. Diamonds, precious metals, cash – they all vanish. The gold could have come from anywhere.”

  “Uncle Claus would not steal gold from a civilian.” Fire burned across Otto’s face. “He was more principled than that.”

  “Not saying he wasn’t,” Parker said. “I’m only trying to figure out how he got it, and why Russians came after him for it a half-century later. Gold that had both German and Russian writing on it.”

  A dog barked outside, the sound growing and then fading as it passed the house. “My uncle once warned me about anyone from the government ever showing up and asking questions. He said to tell them nothing.” Otto pursed his lips. “I did not understand what he meant at the time. It was so long ago, I told him. No one will come.” Air blew from his nose. “Now I know he was correct.”

  “Is there anyone else who could tell us about his service?” Jane asked. “Other siblings or cousins?”

  “There is no one else,” Otto said. “I am the last of our family. I have no wife, no children.” His gaze lifted from Jane and moved toward the staircase. “My uncle left Germany shortly after the war and never returned. My mother said he packed two trunks with all his belongings and never came back.”

  Parker looked to Jane. She knew Claus’s journal mentioned trips taken recently, what could have been returns to Germany. Apparently, he’d never told his nephew about them. “I saw two trunks in his office,” Parker said. “One weighed about a thousand pounds.”

  “During the war Uncle Claus wrote to my mother. He did not describe his missions, but he gave indications about his locations and movements around Europe, most often toward the end of the war. By then I suspect the letter-readers reviewing soldiers’ mail had other worries.” Otto smiled. “Such as staying alive while the Reich collapsed.”

  Parker and Jane both leaned forward. “Do you remember anything about the letters?” Jane asked. “Any dates, locations, anything at all?”

  “I do not.”

  The flash of hope blooming in Parker’s chest went dark. The answer could be in those letters. Now we’ll never know.

  “I never read them very closely,” Otto continued. “It could be they are useful. Would you like to see them?”

  Parker and Jane nearly jumped out of their chairs. “You have them?” Parker asked.

  “My mother kept them,” Otto said. “They are upstairs.” He ascended the staircase and returned a minute later holding a stack of envelopes, each one yellowed with age. “Please be careful with them. They are important to me.”

  Jane took the letters with gentle hands, laying them on the coffee table. “We will. Is it okay to read them here?” Otto assured her it was, sliding a chair alongside Jane’s and looking on with interest. “Ten letters. The postmarks are dated,” Jane said. “Let’s start with the oldest one.”

  Made of heavy paper, the envelopes crackled as Jane cautiously opened them, noting the postmark dates on each. “These dates span just under a year,” Jane said. “How long was your uncle in the service?”

  “Four years,” Otto said. “Though he didn’t start field work until near the end. For the first years after joining he worked in Neuschwanstein Castle in Bavaria.”

  “That’s where the task force stored what they stole,” Jane said. “At least until Göring or one of his cronies took it.”

  Otto nodded. They all watched as Jane laid the envelopes out. Tight, concise writing that clearly came from the same hand covered each one, the letters of a man who wasted neither time nor ink. The first letter Jane unfolded might as well have been written in hieroglyphs for all Parker understood.

  “Will you translate it for me?” he asked, only slightly embarrassed.

  The piece of paper was less than half the size of the sheets Parker put in his printer. Writing covered barely half the page. “Claus says he’s doing well,” Jane said, summarizing as she read. “He says the food is not good, his fellow soldiers are friendly, and he believes the war will not last long because Germany is destined to prevail.” She glanced up at Otto. “I didn’t know Claus, but it sounds as though he expected someone else to read these before your mother.”

  “As I said, my uncle warned me never to trust the government.”

  “Smart man.” Jane continued reading. “He hopes your mother is healthy, and says he misses his family. Your u
ncle says he’s seen several churches that remind him of home, then describes a specific church. He’s looking forward to returning home so he can join his sister and their cousin Pete Rubens on a visit to the Royal Museums. That’s it.”

  They both looked up to find a frown on Otto’s face. “That is odd,” Otto said. “I do not have a cousin with that name.”

  “You’re sure?” Jane asked. Otto said he was. “I’m not surprised.” She glanced at Parker before continuing. “This is going to sound odd, but hear me out.” She reached for Parker’s spiked coffee, found the cup empty, and frowned. “Is it possible your uncle was trying to communicate in a way no one would suspect? You’ve never heard of this cousin.” She looked at Otto, who shook his head, and then at Parker. “Peter Paul Rubens? One of the most influential Old Master painters to ever live. He was born in Belgium, which houses the Royal Museums, in Brussels.”

  “Why would my uncle write a secret message about Brussels?”

  Jane lifted her hand, a finger aimed at Otto. Then she dropped it. “Maybe he wanted to tell her where he was working.”

  “Or maybe,” Parker said, “he wanted her to go there.”

  “This sounds strange to me,” Otto said. Then he shrugged. “But if he was murdered by Russians, perhaps there is more to this letter than I realized. May I see it again?”

  Jane handed the letter over. Five seconds later Otto looked back up. “I never noticed this.” He turned the letter around so they could see and laid it on the table. “Look at the address. It is strange.”

  “You don’t normally have the person’s address you’re writing to on the envelope and also in the letter,” Parker said. He tapped the envelope. “Your mother’s address is on here. Why write it again on the letter?”

  “In case they were separated,” Jane said. “Reliable mail service didn’t exist in most places.”

  “Which would make sense,” Otto said, “if the addresses matched. These do not.”

  Parker studied the address written in the letter. It was different than what the envelope said. “Both are in Berlin, but this one in the letter has a different number and street. Could it be a mistake? Is this an old address, and he wrote it by accident?”

  “My mother lived in this house her entire life,” Otto said. “As did my uncle. They were both born in Berlin and grew up here. I cannot imagine he would make such an error.”

  Jane pulled out her phone and began typing. “Otto, read that address to me again.” He did. A minute later Jane looked up. “It’s a real address, just not in Berlin. There’s a church at that address in Brussels.”

  A light bulb went off in Parker’s head. “Can you pull up a street view?” When Jane did, he showed it to Otto. “Does that church look familiar?”

  “It does not.”

  “It should.” Parker pointed to Claus’s letter. “It’s the church your uncle describes in his letter.”

  Otto grabbed the phone, looking between it and the letter. “You are correct,” he said. “I did not think of it until now, but I attend the same church my mother and Uncle Claus did when they lived here in Berlin. It looks nothing like the church Claus describes in his letter.”

  Parker turned to find Jane staring at him. Excitement danced in her eyes. “He’s telling us to go there,” she said. “For some reason Claus wanted his sister to know about this small church in Brussels.”

  Otto’s doorbell rang. Parker nearly jumped, while Jane did. Otto moved to the door. He opened it and a rapid conversation ensued in quiet German. When Otto closed the door again, he had a newspaper in hand. “The newspaper man,” Otto said as he returned to his seat. “We are friends.” He set the paper on the edge of the table, grumbling at the front page. “I cannot stand those idiots.”

  Parker caught an edge to his voice. “The newspaper guy? I thought he was your buddy.”

  Otto chuckled without mirth. “Not him. This bastard.” He pointed to the front page, which showed a large photograph of a far-too-familiar image; an angry politician gesticulating wildly in front of a crowd.

  Parker didn’t have to be able to read a word of German to get the gist. “Not a fan?”

  “Frank Weidel. He is a bastard who sells fear. Too many people believe him, now that our past lessons are forgotten. The Reich may have fallen, but ideas are far harder to defeat.” Otto set what looked like a miniature anchor on top of the paper. “Enough of him.”

  “What is that?” Parker asked, pointing at the brass object.

  “It is a paperweight. It was my grandfather’s.” Otto smiled. “My mother liked to use sentimental items to remind us of our relatives.” He shrugged. “A habit is hard to break.”

  “Can you think of any reason your uncle would send your mother the address of a church in Brussels?” Jane asked.

  “I cannot,” Otto said. “However, I must repeat myself.” His words took the hard edge of several minutes earlier. “Uncle Claus was not a Nazi. They forced him to join. I believe in my heart he would only do this for the right reasons.” Now his eyes softened. “I would be grateful if you followed his trail. I loved my uncle. He did not deserve what happened to him.”

  Parker looked at Jane and shrugged. “Want to go to Brussels?”

  “I do.” She stood. “Do you mind if we take these letters?” Jane asked Otto. “They’ll prove useful if we’re correct.”

  “Of course,” Otto said. “Please be careful with them.”

  Jane promised she would, and that they would keep him updated on their progress. A framed photo caught Parker’s attention as they moved to the front door. A black-and-white image of a young man, an elegant house in the background. Two pillars framed the front door, and the level above boasted a covered patio looking out over the front yard. Nice house. Parker leaned close enough to read the street number. The young man he recognized, even without the wrinkles and snow-white hair. “Is that Claus?”

  “In Vienna,” Otto said. “My uncle loved all the arts, including music. That is the home of Richard Wagner.” His face darkened. “He loved the music, not the man.”

  Parker knew Hitler had been fascinated with Wagner’s music, utilizing it for propaganda purposes and as an example of “pure” national music, even going so far as to play it at concentration camps in an effort to reeducate political prisoners.

  Otto opened the front door. “I wish you luck and look forward to your safe return.”

  Parker followed Jane down the walkway, keeping one eye on the street while they walked to her car at a fast clip.

  “It’s a seven-hour drive to Brussels,” she said as they got in. “Want to sleep while I drive?”

  “And when we get there my translator is exhausted?” Parker shook his head. “It’s nearly dinner time. Let’s grab a bite and drive halfway. We’ll stop at a hotel, sleep for a few hours and leave in time to get there tomorrow morning.”

  “I like your plan better,” Jane said. She pulled up directions on her phone. “You’re the navigator,” she said as she pulled away from Otto’s house. “Why don’t you run through what happened with Carl again. Or Claus, I mean. It can’t hurt.”

  Moving through the side streets of Berlin, Jane found the A2 highway and accelerated west toward Belgium. She listened as Parker took her through it from the beginning, losing himself in the story, trying to find a clue he’d missed, something to tell them why Claus had died on the street outside Parker’s office, a reason other than robbery.

  Neither noticed the car following a distance behind after they left Otto’s house, tailing them as they drove toward the setting sun. The driver made a call on his phone, which lasted less than a minute. If Parker or Jane could have overheard the man speaking, they wouldn’t have understood his conversation, though each would have recognized the language. Russian.

  Chapter 4

  Brussels, Belgium

  Gothic buildings straight out of a fairy tale surrounded them on all sides. The sight of taxicabs and sport utility vehicles maneuvering on the stree
ts of Brussels instead of horse-drawn carriages and wagons seemed somehow off, as though part of the city had forgotten to keep up for several hundred years. Parker couldn’t take his eyes of any off it. A gargoyle stood guard on a building overhead, perched at the roof’s edge. A real bird took flight from atop the otherworldly creature’s head, flying low and nearly skimming their car. Parker flinched when a pile of droppings smacked on the windshield.

  “Yuck.” Jane smeared it around with the wipers, swore a few times. “Maybe it’s a sign from the travel gods.”

  “Bird poop is a good omen,” Parker said. “Well-known fact.”

  That got a laugh. After rising early and leaving their hotel, they’d spent the drive considering their search of the city from all angles. Not that either had a clue what they were going to find.

  “The church is two miles ahead,” Jane said.

  Getting there involved traversing the heart of Brussels, fighting the inevitable urban congestion. Parker’s heart rate picked up as they neared the church. Traffic thinned as they approached, the city’s unique architecture softening into more residential homes and apartments.

  Jane spotted it first. “Look familiar?”

  A simple church, brownstone and stained glass, with a respectable bell tower reaching for the heavens. Stone steps led to wooden doors that had hardened to near stone-like consistency with time. Vertical and horizontal metal strips covered each door. They looked capable of withstanding a battering ram wielded by giants.

  “Are you sure it’s open?”

  Jane’s eyes narrowed. “Their website said it was.”

  Unable to read a word of either the German or Dutch on the church’s page, he’d had to take her word for it. “You do the talking,” he said.

  “Perhaps the local priest is like most Belgians. And Germans – multilingual.”

  “Point taken. Go through our story one last time.”