by David Meyer
"We need to talk."
"About what?"
"About Werwolfsschanze."
I groaned. "Can't it wait?"
"What if Pat's right? What if there's no treasure here?"
"It's a little late to worry about that now," I replied.
"I explored large parts of this region in my youth. And I never found a single Nazi artifact."
"Yes, but—”
"I've also read plenty of books about Antarctica. So, I know all about the 1939 expedition. The Nazis came here in the MS Schwabenland to scout out locations for a whaling station. In those days, whale oil was a major ingredient in soap and margarine. But the MS Schwabenland was a small ship. It was far too small to carry building supplies. It only stayed here a couple of weeks and the crew spent very little time on the ice."
"True. But the Nazis planned other expeditions."
"And failed to launch a single one."
I fought to keep my temper in check. "Come on, Dutch. We've been over this a thousand times."
"Yeah, but I had an ulterior motive for coming here. I think it may have colored my good judgment." He paused to collect his thoughts. "Here's what bothers me. Historians have covered all aspects of the Nazi regime for decades. None of them have uncovered the slightest trace of Werwolfsschanze. Hell, none of them have even found evidence of a follow-up expedition to Antarctica."
That wasn't exactly true. We'd researched that same topic while still in New York. And we'd found numerous reports of a Nazi stronghold in Antarctica. Unfortunately, the claims were outlandish. They involved things like Aryan physics, Hollow Earth theories, UFOs, secret battles on the ice, and mind control. "Maybe not," I replied. "But no one knew about the New York treasure trove either."
"Werwolfsschanze isn't even a real word. It could mean anything."
I exhaled. "We covered this too. The first part translates to werewolf. The second part means entrenchment or better yet, lair. So, Werewolf's Lair."
"Maybe. Or maybe it was just some little piece of Werwolf."
Werwolf was the code name for a mysterious Nazi operation launched in 1944. Its stated goal was to create a team of commandos who could operate behind enemy lines, wrecking havoc on the Allied forces. However, rumors had persisted for decades that Werwolf had another purpose—the recruitment and training of guerrilla fighters who could carry on the war after Nazi Germany's surrender.
"Let's get back to basics," I said. "The Nazis hid gold bars in New York shortly after the end of World War II. Beverly and I found those gold bars a few weeks ago."
The full story was a little longer than that. By the mid-1940s, Nazi leaders had realized defeat was inevitable. They'd formed a group known as ODESSA, or the Organisation der ehemaligen SS-Angehörigen. In the long run, they'd hoped to build a new Nazi empire. But they knew it would take time, personnel, and resources. So, they'd helped to relocate their people to South America and the Middle East. Then they'd sent the bulk of their treasure to New York for safekeeping.
Beverly and I had located the cache while searching for a lost subway car under Manhattan. She'd proceeded to vanish with most of the gold. I'd felt betrayed, even infuriated. And yet, I also felt a ray of hope. After all, she'd left behind a single bar, etched with a message that promised a way to find her again. The second half of that message flashed before my eyes.
I know you have feelings for her. When you sort them out, come find me if you want. All you need is this bar. It and the others are not what they appear to be. Until we meet again … B.G.
"I still think you should've done more tests on that bar," Graham said.
"I did every test known to man. All I found were the older markings."
The markings consisted of two sequences of numbers and letters. The first one was seven, one, five, and the letter S. The second one was zero, six, five, and the letter E.
It wasn't until I'd studied the markings that I'd figured out what she'd meant by her message. When she said the bars were not what they appeared to be, she wasn't talking about their physical properties. She was talking about their status. In other words, the bars appeared to be part of the New York treasure trove. But they were actually supposed to be part of a separate cache stored in Werwolfsschanze.
"Maybe we were wrong," Graham said. "Maybe those markings were serial numbers."
"If we're wrong, Beverly is too." After realizing the true nature of the markings, I'd investigated recent flights to Antarctica. It didn't take long to discover Beverly Ginger had flown to Fitzgerald Station a few days earlier under the guise of a geomorphologist from New York University. We needed a cover story to follow her. So, Graham had hit up his contacts at the institution and managed to get us listed as part of her fake expedition.
"It's possible," he said.
"No way." I shook my head. "They were geographical coordinates. Seventy-one and a half degrees south. Six and a half degrees east. You just needed a microscope to see the decimal points."
Doubt creased his face.
"Forget the gold bars. Think about all the evidence we recovered back in New York. We've got inventories, shipping logs, correspondence. Everything points to ODESSA wanting to spread its eggs across multiple baskets. Most of those New York resources were supposed to be forwarded to other places, including Werwolfsschanze."
"That's true," he said begrudgingly.
"Some of those resources were marked as delivered. Bernsteinzimmer, or the Amber Room, was one of those resources."
"But why deliver it here? It doesn't make sense."
"I don't know. But this is a perfectly good place to build a secret vault. It's remote. Hell, it's almost inaccessible."
"We can't prove the Amber Room ever got here. Maybe some soldier took it. Or maybe it got lost."
"There's one way to prove it. We find Werwolfsschanze."
"I know you're right. I'm just … I don't know. This day has been one mind fuck after another."
"So, we're good?"
He nodded. "We're good."
Chapter 19
I felt a hollow feeling in my chest as I climbed into the top bunk. I'd grown familiar with it over the past few weeks, ever since she'd vanished. It was odd really. I'd only known her for a short while. Then again Beverly Ginger wasn't your typical girl.
I thought back to the message she'd left me. The second half of it flashed before my eyes again.
I know you have feelings for her. When you sort them out, come find me if you want. All you need is this bar. It and the others are not what they appear to be. Until we meet again … B.G.
The her referred to Diane Blair. I'd reunited with Diane after Beverly had disappeared. But the relationship, at best, had been rocky.
Diane was an archaeologist. And like most archaeologists, she viewed herself as a historical humanitarian. To her, treasure hunting wasn't just a waste of time. It was morally repugnant, best left to greedy lowlifes who cared nothing for history. She'd made it her mission to cajole me back into archaeology. She'd seen herself as a missionary saving my soul.
I'd seen her as an annoyance.
I yawned. My eyelids felt heavy. But my brain refused to stop working.
Supposedly, archaeologists eschewed greed and worked for the common good. They recovered artifacts and painstakingly analyzed them. Then they handed their discoveries over to museums so the whole world could enjoy them. It was a popular image, buttressed by books and movies.
It was also a heaping pile of crap.
Museums were literally stuffed with artifacts. Countless pieces were taken into storage vaults, never to return. And the concept of the impartial archaeologist was laughable. Archaeologists were as greedy as everyone else. They desired fame and funding. But most of all, they craved relevance. They wanted to do more than chronicle the past. They wanted their work to mean something to modern civilization. They wanted to be prophets of a sort, using the past to inform others how to live.
At the same time, excavation funding was far from n
eutral. Bureaucratic types controlled the purse strings. They had axes to grind and causes to push. So, they funneled money toward archaeologists who promoted specific views and ideas.
Diane and I had failed to overcome our philosophical chasm. But that wasn't the whole story. She was beautiful, graceful, and driven. She was brilliant and fiercely loyal. She was, in short, the perfect match for the archaeologist within me. But I hadn't been fully committed to her. As much as I hated to admit it, there was someone else.
Beverly Ginger.
I wasn't sure what to think of Beverly. She'd stolen the gold bars out from under my nose. Sure, she'd left a trail so I could follow her. However, theft was an unforgivable offense in my world.
Still, I couldn't get her out of my head. She was devilish and sexy as hell. A cloak of mystery and excitement surrounded her at all times. She drove the treasure hunter side of me wild.
Question: How do you choose between two sides of yourself?
Answer: You let one side go.
My brain slowed. My eyelids closed.
Two weeks ago, Diane had lined up a dig to locate and excavate the famous Colossus of Rhodes. She'd invited me to go with her. I'd been sorely tempted. The Colossus of Rhodes was widely considered one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. Unearthing it would be a fantastic achievement. But it would be her achievement, not mine. I'd just be one of her many nameless diggers.
So, we'd parted ways. I wouldn't be surprised if we got back together someday. We hadn't always seen eye to eye but our relationship had never lacked passion. In the meantime, I needed to do something for myself.
I didn't know why Beverly had taken the other gold bars. And I didn't understand her interest in Werwolfsschanze. But I knew why she'd left behind the message along with the inventories and shipping logs. She wanted me to know about the Amber Room. She was trying to make up for her theft of the gold bars by offering me a crack at excavating another treasure.
I was happy to accept the challenge. The Amber Room was something I could pass onto future generations. It would be my greatest discovery.
It would be my legacy.
Chapter 20
"Here we are." Jim Peterson pulled the Sno-Cat to a stop. "Thanks for riding. That'll be fifty bucks per person. Tips are welcome too."
Ted Ayers didn't even look in Peterson's direction. Instead, the man just climbed out of the vehicle. He strode to the rear and opened the cargo area. After grabbing a couple of suitcases, he exited the shed.
A twinkle formed in Aaron Jenner's eye. "I'll have to owe you."
Jenner was young, in his mid-thirties. He was tall and thin with wavy black hair. His weathered face showed all the signs of a lifelong outdoorsman. His most prominent feature was a series of jagged scars running across the entirety of his neck. It looked like someone had tried to behead him from multiple angles.
Peterson chuckled. "I hear that a lot."
Peterson opened his door. Shivering, he lowered himself to the ground. He liked living at Kirby. As its only maintenance worker, he felt like he made a real difference. Without him, the other residents wouldn't last more than a week.
Peterson walked out of the shed with Jenner and Trotter at his sides. Ahead, he saw Ayers vanish into Kirby. Antarctica had its fair share of loners, but Ayers took the cake. Somehow the man had managed to remain completely quiet during the entire ride.
Trotter, on the other hand, had talked way too much. He'd spent the last few hours quizzing Peterson on every aspect of the region.
At first Peterson had enjoyed the questions. But after a few hours, he found himself wishing for headphones.
Only Jenner had kept the trip from being a complete waste. He'd entertained them with amusing stories about his previous trips to Antarctica. And he'd patiently listened to Peterson's own stories. All in all, he'd proven to be good company.
Peterson passed through the main entrance. Warm air engulfed him immediately. He wiggled his fingers and curled his toes. Ever so slowly, the chill melted from his body.
Trotter looked around. "Where is everyone?"
"Asleep, I imagine. It might look like noon outside, but it's about three o'clock in the morning." Peterson gave him an odd look. "I thought you said you'd worked in Antarctica before."
"Sorry, I got my inner clock mixed up. How many people live here again?"
"Including me, we've got seven full-timers."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"This place is pretty big for seven people."
Peterson shrugged. "The U.S. Antarctic Program expected a lot of demand to work in this region. So far, that hasn't happened."
"Maybe that's changing."
"Oh?"
"We met two guys on the plane. Cy Reed and Dutch Graham. They're staying here too."
"Oh, I met them. I think they're part of a geomorphology team. Jeff Morin—he's a fixture around these parts—is guiding them. Honestly, I doubt you'll see them much. Well, I need to do a few things before bed." Peterson nodded at a bulletin board. "Your room assignments are posted there. Settle in, get some sleep."
Peterson walked down the Work hallway toward his workshop. As he gained some distance from Trotter and Ayers, his chest started to ease. He was glad to get some time to himself.
Up ahead, he saw two heavy metal doors. They led into the Whitlow laboratory. He slowed as he approached them. His earlier conversation with Reed and Graham replayed in the back of his mind. What did the Whitlows do with their crates? And why were they so secretive? It was just a lab.
Wasn't it?
He reached for the knob but pulled back at the last second. He'd visited the laboratory on numerous occasions, but the Whitlows had always been present. Then again, they were probably asleep. And it wasn't like he wanted to steal anything.
He placed his ear next to the door. Cautiously, he knocked. Hearing nothing, Peterson twisted the knob. The door cracked open. It was dark inside the lab. "Hello?"
No one responded.
He flipped a switch. Bright light filled the room. It appeared empty. "Anyone here?"
Heart racing, he closed the door behind him. He couldn't believe his good luck. The Whitlows were usually religious about locking up their facilities.
Slowly, he walked around the room. He kept his eyes peeled for the crate Rupert had received at Fitzgerald. But he didn't see it anywhere.
He stopped in front of a large cabinet. He took another look to make sure no one was watching him. Then he searched the cabinet. He worked cautiously at first, making sure to place articles exactly where he'd found them. But as time went on, he grew careless.
He moved to another cabinet. But he found nothing other than office supplies and stacks of scholarly journals.
For the next ten minutes, he searched every nook and cranny in the room. But the crate eluded him. Why did the Whitlows receive so many crates anyway? What was in them? And where did they store the stuff they received?
The floor creaked.
Peterson frowned. He retraced his steps.
The floor creaked again.
Kneeling down, he examined the wood slats. They looked slightly different than the rest of the floor. He felt around the area. His finger touched something metallic.
Adrenaline pumped through his veins. He lowered his head to the ground. A tiny metal ring was embedded into the slats. It was barely visible, even from inches away.
He grasped the ring and pulled. A panel lifted into the air. A bit of wind touched his body. Dust particles flew into his face.
He looked into a gaping hole. A ladder ran down one side of it. It led to a dimly lit space.
His curiosity surged. What were the Whitlows doing with a secret room? How had they built it without his knowledge? And most importantly, what purpose did it serve?
Turning around, he lowered his legs into the hole. Then he descended into the abyss.
At the bottom, Peterson stepped off the ladder. He twisted around. A variety of images bo
mbarded his eyes. Numerous computers. New, shiny machinery. Old, rusty machinery. Instruments that looked more fitting for a doctor's office than a laboratory. And strangest of all, large cylindrical tubes. They were mounted on end and pushed up against the walls. Cables connected them to various machines and computers.
Peterson felt an odd electric buzz in the air. It bothered him. The whole room bothered him. There was something wrong with it, something he couldn't quite figure out.
"You shouldn't have come here."
Peterson spun to the side.
Holly stood several feet away, hands on hips.
"What is this place?" he asked.
"It's a laboratory." She smiled sweetly. "A private laboratory."
Out of the corner of his eye, Peterson saw a brass plate. It was bolted to the front of one of the cylindrical containers. His heart pounded against his chest. "Does that say—?"
The blow crushed his skull. Pain ripped through his body. He tried to cry out but his mouth wouldn't work. Slowly, he sank to the ground.
A pair of boots appeared. "What should I do with him?" Rupert asked.
Peterson fought to hold onto his consciousness.
"We can't let him leave," Holly replied. "So, we might as well prep him."
Blackness swirled around Peterson. Reality drifted away.
Then his worst nightmares began.
Chapter 21
"Relax, will ya?" Dutch Graham slipped a silver key into the lock and twisted it. The oak doors yawned open, revealing a massive void. "You're making me nervous."
My pulse raced as I inhaled the odors of wood, fine leather, and brass polish. Gently, I pulled the cuffs of my shirt and straightened my coat. I never wore suits. Never. But today, I was willing to making an exception. "How the hell am I supposed to relax? I don't even know why I'm here."
"Fair point."
He pushed a dimmer switch. Tiny electric fires burst forth from the darkness. Soft light stole across the room, illuminating all four corners of the cavernous space.
