“Are you sure about this?” Cody asked. “Sure about what?” Bailey couldn’t help but sound defensive in the face of Cody’s skeptical tone.
“I mean I’ve pulled people off three other teams to cover this thing.” Cody indicated the frantic activity that was consuming the CIA’s secure operations room—four operators were monitoring the ongoing transmissions with the six field agents, while behind them two more of his staff were fielding calls, accompanied all the while by the constant buzz of computers and the high-pitched shriek of encrypted fax machines. An armed sentry stood
by
the
swipe-card-acthe black sun 185
tivated door. “I wouldn’t have done it for anyone other than Carter. He’s a good man. One of the best. But, I gotta tell you, I’ve had enough bureau wild-goose chases to last me this life and the next.”
“I can’t promise anything,” said Bailey. “Let’s be clear, we’re following a hunch here. But Carter wouldn’t have sent me if he didn’t think it was worth running with.”
“Well, I guess we’ll soon find out whether you’re right.” Cody sighed. “Either way, we’ll get a fix on whoever goes in or out of that hotel. If your guy shows up, we’ll nail him.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
WIPKINGEN, ZURICH
January 8—2:32 p.m.
That’s it?” Tom understood the disappointment in Dominique’s voice. The lengths to which Weissman and Lammers had gone to guarantee the safety-deposit box’s safekeeping had had them all speculating feverishly about what exactly lay inside it. They had all been wrong.
No gold. No diamonds. No long-lost Vermeer. In the end, all it had contained was the thin brown leather pouch, cracking along the seams, that Tom had just placed on the tea chest in front of them.
“Someone’s having a laugh” was Archie’s typically forthright analysis. “It’s a practical joke. Must be.” “What is inside, please?” Dhutta inquired, his mustache twitching.
“A map,” Tom answered, flipping the pouch open and drawing out a yellowing document that had been folded several times to fit inside. “Where we can pin it up?”
“I have the very place.” Dhutta’s tongue flicked against the corners of his mouth with anticipation. “This way, please.” He darted through to the computer area and pointed the black sun 187
at the expanse of bare wall above the printers and scanners. “It will fit there, I believe.”
Standing on a chair, Tom tacked the four corners to the wall, then jumped down again.
“Deutsche Reichsbahn—German National Railways,” Dominique translated. “It’s a map of the Nazi rail network.”
“That’s right,” said Archie. “The various countries of the Reich are shaded the same color as Germany: Austria, Luxembourg, Czechoslovakia, Poland—”
“Given that the Nazis didn’t absorb that much of Poland until 1942 or ’43,” Tom butted in, “this was probably printed toward the end of the war. Before then, central Poland was governed from Krakow as a German colony.”
“June 1943,” Dominique confirmed, pointing at the date in the bottom right corner. Tom moved in for a closer look. “It shows all the major towns and cities. The thick black lines are the actual railways. The thinner lines must be sidings or branch lines or something.”
“And the dots are stations,” Archie added.
“So why keep it?” Dominique frowned.
“Good question,” Archie agreed. “They must have produced tens of thousands of these maps.”
Tom pinched the end of his nose in thought. “This one must be different in some way .
. . Raj?” Dhutta sprang forward at the sound of his name. “Have you got a projector here?”
“Of course.”
“Great. Dom, see if you can find a 1943 map of the German railway network on the Web. We’ll blow it up to the same size as this one and overlay the images. That way, if there are any differences, we should be able to see them.”
Dominique busied herself at the computer while Tom readied the projector, raising it to the same height as the map so as not to create a distorted picture. A few minutes later, Dominique turned around with a smile.
“Got it?” Archie asked.
She nodded. “You were right: the 1943 printing was
188 james twining
standard issue. I found a copy on a university Web site. We may need to play with the sizing a bit, but it should work.”
The image flashed up on the wall, and Tom adjusted the focus and the proximity of the projector until he was satisfied that he had got as close a fit as he could. Then all four of them approached the overlaid maps and studied them carefully.
It was almost ten minutes before anyone spoke. Predict
ably, it was Archie. “Well, if they are different, I can’t see where.” “Me neither.” Tom rubbed his eyes wearily. “Same here,” Dominique chimed. “What about ultraviolet light?” Dhutta suggested brightly.
“It might show something. I have a black light here.” “UV?” Archie exclaimed. “Did they know about that back then?” “It was discovered in the early eighteen hundreds by Johann Ritter, a Polish scientist,” Dominique confirmed. Archie shrugged, experience clearly having taught him not to challenge Dominique on factual matters such as this. “Have you got something we can use, Raj?” Tom asked. Dhutta dived into his workshop, emerging a few moments later with a handheld fluorescent tube trailing a long black cord. Dominique killed the lights. Tom, taking the black light from Dhutta, approached the wall and began to move the tube across the map’s surface, his face lit with an unnatural purple glow. Almost immediately, black marks began to appear—small circles around place-names, and next to them, numbers.
“You guys seeing this?” Tom asked excitedly. Archie nodded. “I’ll read them out to you.” A few minutes later, Dominique had compiled a list from
the names Tom had called out. “There’s a funny mark here too,” he said, pointing at a large L shape that had been drawn in the bottom left-hand quadrant of the map. He marked it with a pencil.
Dhutta turned the lights back on. “Read them back,” Archie suggested. “I’ve arranged them alphabetically,” she said. “Brenn
the black sun 189
berg—30/3, Brixlegg—21/4, Budapest—15/12, Györ—4/2, Hopfgarten—15/4, Linz—
9/4, Salzburg—13/4, Vienna— 3/4, Werfen—16/5.”
“Werfen?” Archie turned to Tom. “Wasn’t that the name of the safety-deposit account?”
“That’s right,” said Tom.
“So what do you think this is?”
“Maybe those numbers are dates,” Tom suggested. “You know, the day followed by the month. What do you get if you order them that way?”
Dominique quickly reordered the place-names and then read them back.
“Budapest—15/12, Györ—4/2, Brennberg—30/3, Vienna— 3/4, Linz—9/4, Salzburg—13/4, Hopfgarten—15/4, Brixlegg— 21/4, Werfen—16/5.”
“Look”—Tom had placed a small pin in each place as it had been read out—“the placenames move east to west as if this is some sort of itinerary. A journey that was made or planned from Budapest, across Europe, to . . . well, look where it was headed until it got to Brixlegg.” Tom pointed to the border just a hundred miles from the small village.
“Switzerland.” Archie this time.
“And by the looks of things it almost made it, but then turned back to Werfen.” Tom tapped the map with his neatly clipped right index finger. “We should go and see Lasche again, find out whether he knows anything about this.”
“What about that?” asked Archie, pointing at the L shape that Tom had faintly penciled on the map.
“We’ll ask him about that too.”
“Whatever Lasche knows, I doubt it’ll explain why this map was hidden behind armorplated security with a couple of town names circled in invisible ink,” observed Dominique.
“Not invisible ink,” Dhutta said, his voice suddenly serious. “Although
the tint has faded over time, in my experience there is only one substance that you would expect to fluoresce less than its surroundings and yet show up under black light in this way.”
“Which is . . . ?” asked Archie.
“Blood.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
HOTEL DREI KÖNIGE, ZURICH
January 8—4:04 p.m.
It was, as Tom had remembered, an awe-inspiring sight— battle flags shimmering from the rafters, petals of Napoleonic swords winking from the walls, polished pistols reclining in display cases like fine jewelery. To Archie, though, it was all new, and he had leaped from piece to piece like an eager child.
“Where did he get all this stuff?”
Tom knew that Archie was attempting a whisper. It wasn’t working. His increasingly excited voice whistled noisily in the room’s stillness. But Tom understood why he was trying, at least. On his previous visit Tom had been struck by the polished martial grandeur of his surroundings; this time it was the dark, soulless intensity that overwhelmed him.
The room, he could see now, nurtured a leaden heaviness that reminded him of an El Greco painting. It had a strange, haunting quality that hinted at death, without ever fully expressing it. Tom felt that his presence was somehow inappropriate, that he had stumbled into the forbidden annex to some secret library and was having to balance the desire to find his way out with a terrifying hunger to study the exhibits for as long as he could
before
he
got
caught.
Under
the
the black sun 191
circumstances, a whisper seemed the very least the room required.
“Have you seen this?” The suit of armor Archie had paused in front of was an intriguing piece that seemed to be seated rather than standing. The black lacquer that had originally covered it had long since cracked and crumbled, although the faded remains of intricately painted gold characters could still be seen on the wide, fearsome helmet and the chest plate. The arms and the neck were also made from metal, wide flat links tied together with colored string. The remainder, however, seemed to be made of bamboo and patterned cloth.
“It’s samurai,” Archie explained breathlessly, although Tom had already worked that much out for himself. “From the helmet design, I’d say Muromacho Period. Fifteenth, maybe fourteenth century. Must be worth a small fortune.”
“Rather a large fortune, in fact, Mr. Connolly.”
Lasche had entered the room unseen and was now advancing rapidly toward them in his electric wheelchair. Archie spun around, clearly surprised that Lasche had known who he was.
“Yes, I know who you are.” Lasche gave a rasping laugh. “When you pay as much as I do to supplement my collection, it’s essential to know all the key players. You, I was given to understand, are one of the best.”
“Was. I’ve retired now. We both have, haven’t we, Tom?”
Tom didn’t answer. He had noticed that Lasche’s voice was surprisingly strong, compared to their last meeting. And his breathing, while still strained and wheezy, seemed much improved; almost normal.
“It’s good of you to see me again, Herr Lasche. You seem . . . much better.”
“Full blood transfusion.” Lasche gave a red-gummed smile. “I have one every four weeks. For a few days I almost feel human again.” He stroked the front of his jacket, and Tom noticed that he had swapped his pajamas and dressing gown for a suit and tie, although the top button had been left undone to allow the shirt’s starched fabric to accommodate
the
fleshy
folds
of
his
neck.
192 james twining
“Why is he back here?” Lasche’s nurse growled from the doorway.
“Forgive Heinrich”—Lasche gave a small shake of his head—“he is very protective. His question, however, is an appropriate one. Why have you returned, Mr. Kirk? I hope it is not regarding the Order, for you will have made a wasted journey. You have already quite exhausted the little I know.”
“Only indirectly, I can assure you. It is regarding a map. Or perhaps, more accurately, a journey. A train journey.”
“A train journey?” Lasche wet his white lips with a flick of his tongue. “You certainly have the gift of the mysterious. I suppose I will have to hear you out, one final time.”
Lasche steered his chair back over to the other side of the room and parked himself behind his desk, indicating with a wave that they should sit opposite, his gruesome lamp still casting its sickly glow.
“Now, tell me about your train journey.”
“We came across a map. A railway map. It seemed to indicate a train journey that was made in the war.”
“And no doubt you think it leads to some fantastic hidden treasure,” Lasche said dismissively. “Some long-lost masterpiece.”
“Why do you say that?” Tom couldn’t mask his surprise. Did Lasche know more than he was letting on?
“Because why else would you, of all people, be here, Mr. Kirk? You know your history. You know that Hitler understood the cultural significance of art—its emotional pull on people’s imaginations and their sense of identity. War offered him an opportunity to reshape the world’s perception of great art.”
“You’re talking about Sonderauftrag Linz, aren’t you?” said Tom. “The unit dedicated to building an art collection that exemplified everything that was best about Aryan art.”
“Sonderauftrag Linz yes, but also Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg and the SSAhnenerbe. They all played their part in the most sophisticated, well planned, and thoroughly executed theft in history. The plunder of Europe and the genocide of its Jews walked
hand
in
hand.
Millions
of
items
were
the black sun 193
taken. Tens of thousands remain lost to this day. Hundreds still surface every year, never having been returned to their rightful owners. And now I expect you think you may have found some small crumb that has fallen from their table.”
“All we think we’ve found at the moment is a train journey,” Tom said firmly. “A journey that we hoped you might know something about. Perhaps if we read you the names of the places the train passed through . . .”
Lasche scratched his head, the pink skin flaking in several places under his touch and dropping to his collar.
“I very much doubt it. Of all the millions of journeys that were made during that period, why should one mean more to me than another?”
“Because we think this one might have been special,” Tom said confidently, although he realized with a sinking heart that Lasche was probably right, and that this was even more of a long shot than he’d first feared.
“Then by all means, read away.” Lasche shrugged. “But I wouldn’t hold out too much hope.”
Tom began to read from the list Dominique had prepared. “Budapest, Györ, Brennberg, Vienna, Linz . . .” Lasche’s face remained impassive, just a little shake of his head with the mention of each successive name to indicate that they meant nothing to him. “. . . Salzburg, Hopfgarten,” Tom continued. “Brixlegg, Werfen.”
Lasche’s eyes narrowed. “Werfen? Did you say Werfen?”
“Yes.” Tom nodded eagerly.
“You want to know about a train that started in Budapest and ended up in Werfen?”
“Why, does that mean something to you?”
“You are forcing an old man to operate at the limits of his memory.” He turned to his nurse, who had remained standing at the rear of the room. “Heinrich, please go and fetch me file number fifteen. Oh, and sixteen too. It’s in one of them, I’m sure of it.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
4:30 p.m.
Tom
and Archie swapped questioning glances, but
Lasche was not to be drawn out, staring pensively up at the ceiling until the nurse re
turned a few moments later clutching two large red files bound with string. Lasche opened the first one, leafed through it, then turned his attention to the second. Eventually, he seemed to find what he was looking for.
“Read me those place-names again,” he demanded, his nose buried in the file.
“Budapest, Györ, Brennberg, Vienna . . .” Tom began.
“Linz, Salzburg, Hopfgarten, Brixlegg, Werfen.” Lasche completed the list in a perfunctory manner and looked up. When he spoke next his tone was curious. “Well, it seems I may know your train after all. What you have just described is the exact itinerary of the Hungarian Gold Train.”
“Gold train?” Archie turned to Tom, his staring eyes underlining the excitement in his voice.
“How familiar are you with what was happening in Hungary during the closing days of the war?”
“Not very,” Tom admitted.
“Well,
then,
let
me
set
the
scene
for
you,”
Lasche
said,
the black sun 195
pouring himself a glass of water and helping himself to a mouthful.
“By December 1944, overwhelming Russian forces had almost totally encircled Budapest. The Germans were in disarray, their thousand-year Reich collapsing around their ears. So, by express order of Adolf Eichmann, a train was prepared.”
“Adolf Eichmann?” Archie frowned. “Wasn’t he the bloke the Israelis kidnapped from Argentina and executed?”
“The same,” Lasche confirmed. “He is notorious now as the architect of the Final Solution, but at that time, Eichmann was in charge of the Office for Jewish Emigration in Vienna. The train he had commandeered was to take vast quantities of treasure plundered from some of the half-million or so Hungarian Jews he had sent to their deaths, and carry it far beyond the reach of the advancing Russian troops.”
“What sort of treasure?” Tom this time.
“Gold, obviously. More than five tons of it, ranging from ingots seized from national banks to teeth broken out of their owners’ mouths. They say that the wedding bands alone, stripped from the fingers of their victims, filled three crates. Beyond that . . .”
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