by Steve Berry
He sold his original acreage twenty-four years ago, garnering enough to pay cash for a new house. The subdivision then was one of the newer developments, the street now evolved into a pleasant nook under a canopy of quarter-century timber. His cherished wife, Maya, died two years after the house was completed. Cancer claimed her fast. Too fast. He hardly had time to say good-bye. Rachel was fourteen and brave, he was fifty-seven and scared to death. The prospect of growing old alone had frightened him. But Rachel had always stayed nearby. He was lucky to have such a good daughter. His only child.
He trudged into the house, and was there only a few minutes when the back door burst open and his two grandchildren rushed into the kitchen. They never knocked and he never locked the door. Brent was seven, Marla six. Both hugged him. Rachel followed them inside.
“Grandpa, Grandpa, where’s Lucy?” Marla asked.
“Asleep in the den. Where else?” The stray had wandered into the backyard four years ago and never left.
The children bolted to the front of the house.
Rachel yanked open the refrigerator and found a pitcher of tea. “You got a little emotional in court.”
“I know I say too much. But I thought of papa. I wish you knew him. He work the fields every day. A Tsarist. Loyal to end. Hated Communists.” He paused. “I was thinking, I have no photo of him.”
“But you have his name again.”
“And for that I thank you, my darling. Did you learn where was Paul?”
“My clerk checked. He was tied up in probate court and couldn’t make it.”
“How is he doing?”
She sipped her tea. “Okay, I guess.”
He studied his daughter. She was so much like her mother. Pearl white skin, frilly auburn hair, perceptive brown eyes that cast the prepossessing look of a woman in charge. And smart. Maybe too smart for her own good.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“I get by. I always do.”
“You sure, daughter?” He’d noticed changes lately. Some drifting, a bit more distance and fragility. A hesitancy toward life that he found disturbing.
“Don’t worry about me, Daddy. I’ll be fine.”
“Still no suitors?” He knew of no men in the three years since the divorce.
“Like I have time. All I do is work and tend those two in there. Not to mention you.”
He had to say it. “I worry about you.”
“No need.”
But she looked away while answering. Perhaps she wasn’t quite so certain of herself. “Not good to be old alone.”
She seemed to get the message. “You’re not.”
“I’m not speaking of me, and you know it.”
She moved to the sink and rinsed her glass. He decided not to press and reached over and flicked on the counter television. The station was still set to CNN Headline News from the morning. He turned down the volume and felt he had to say, “Divorce is wrong.”
She cut him one of her looks. “You going to start with the lecture?”
“Swallow that pride. You should try again.”
“Paul doesn’t want to.”
His gaze held hers. “You both too proud. Think of my grandchildren.”
“I did when I divorced. All we did was fight. You know that.”
He shook his head. “Stubborn, like your mother.” Or was she like him? Hard to tell.
Rachel dried her hands with the dish towel. “Paul will be by about seven to get the kids. He’ll bring them home.”
“Where you going?”
“Fund-raiser for the campaign. Going to be a tough summer, and I’m not looking forward to it.”
He focused on the television and saw mountain ranges, steep inclines, and rocky crags. The sight was instantly familiar. A caption at the bottom left readSTOD ,GERMANY . He turned up the volume.
“—millionaire contractor Wayland McKoy thinks this area in central Germany may still harbor Nazi treasure. His expedition begins next week into the Harz Mountains of what was once East Germany. These sites have only recently become accessible, thanks to the fall of Communism and the reunification of East and West Germany.” The image switched to a tight view of caves in forested inclines. “It’s believed that in the final days of World War Two, Nazi loot was hastily stashed inside hundreds of tunnels crisscrossing these ancient mountains. Some were also used as ammunition dumps, which complicates the search, making the venture even more hazardous. In fact, more than two dozen people have lost their lives in this area since World War Two, trying to locate treasure.”
Rachel came close and kissed him on the cheek. “I have to go.”
He turned from the television. “Paul be here at seven?”
She nodded and headed for the door.
He immediately returned his attention to the television.
FIVE
Borya waited until the next half hour, hoping headline news would contain some story repeats. And he was lucky. The same report on Wayland McKoy’s search of the Harz Mountains for Nazi treasure appeared at the end of the six-thirty segment.
He was still thinking about the information, twenty minutes later, when Paul arrived. By then he was in the den, a German road map unfolded on the coffee table. He’d bought it at the mall a few years back, replacing the datedNational Geographic one he’d used for decades.
“Where are the children?” Paul asked.
“Watering my garden.”
“You sure that’s safe for your garden?”
He smiled. “It’s been dry. They can’t hurt.”
Paul plopped into an armchair, his tie loosened and collar unbuttoned. “That daughter of yours tell you she put a lawyer in jail this morning?”
He didn’t look up from the map. “He deserve it?”
“Probably. But she’s running for reelection, and he’s not one to mess with. That fiery temper is going to get her in trouble one day.”
He looked at his former son-in-law. “Just like my Maya. Run off half-crazy in a moment.”
“And she won’t listen to a thing anybody says.”
“Got from her mother, too.”
Paul smiled. “I bet.” He gestured to the map. “What are you doing?”
“Checking something. Saw on CNN. Fellow claims art is still in Harz Mountains.”
“There was a story inUSA Today on that this morning. Caught my eye. Some guy named McKoy from North Carolina. You’d think people would give up on the Nazi legacy thing. Fifty years is a long time for some three-hundred-year-old canvas to languish in a damp mine. It would be a miracle if it wasn’t a mass of mold.”
He creased his forehead. “The good stuff already found or lost forever.”
“I guess you should know all about that.”
He nodded. “A little experience there, yes.” He tried to conceal his current interest, though his insides were churning. “Could you buy me copy of thatUSA newspaper?”
“Don’t have to. Mine’s in the car. I’ll go get it.”
Paul left through the front door just as the back door opened and the two children trotted into the den.
“Your papa’s here,” he said to Marla.
Paul returned, handed him the paper, then said to the children, “Did you drown the tomatoes?”
The little girl giggled. “No, Daddy.” She tugged at Paul’s arm. “Come see Granddaddy’s vegetables.”
Paul looked at him and smiled. “I’ll be right back. That article is on page four or five, I think.”
He waited until they left through the kitchen before finding the story and reading every word.
GERMAN TREASURES AWAIT?
By Fran Downing, Staff Writer
Fifty-two years have passed since Nazi convoys rolled through the Harz Mountains into tunnels dug specifically to secret away art and other Reich valuables. Originally, the caverns were used as weapons manufacturing sites and munitions depots. But in the final days of World War II, they became perfect repositories for pillaged loot and national tre
asures.
Two years ago, Wayland McKoy led an expedition into the Heimkehl Caverns near Uftrugen, Germany, in search of two railroad cars buried under tons of gypsum. McKoy found the cars, along with several old master paintings, toward which the French and Dutch governments paid a handsome finder’s fee.
This time McKoy, a North Carolina contractor, real estate developer and amateur treasure hunter, is hoping for bigger loot. He’s been a part of four past expeditions and is hoping his latest, which starts next week, will be his most successful.
“Think about it. It’s 1945. The Russians are coming from one end, the Americans from another. You’re the curator of the Berlin museum full of art stolen from every invaded country. You’ve got a few hours. What do you put on the train to get out of town? Obviously, the most valuable stuff.”
McKoy tells the tale of one such train that left Berlin in the waning days of World War II, heading south for central Germany and the Harz Mountains. No records exist of its destination, and he’s hoping the cargo lies within some caverns found only last fall. Interviews with relatives of German soldiers who helped load the train have convinced him of the train’s existence. Earlier this year, McKoy used ground-penetrating radar to scan the new caverns.
“Something’s in there,” McKoy says. “Certainly big enough to be boxcars or storage crates.”
McKoy has already secured a permit from German authorities to excavate. He’s particularly excited about the prospects of foraging this new site, since, to his knowledge, no one has yet excavated the area. Once a part of East Germany, the region has been off-limits for decades. Current German law provides that McKoy can retain only a small portion of whatever is not claimed by rightful owners. Yet McKoy is undeterred. “It’s exciting. Hell, who knows, the Amber Room could be hidden under all that rock.”
The excavations will be slow and hard. Backhoes and bulldozers could damage the treasure, so McKoy will be forced to drill holes in the rocks and then chemically break them apart.
“It’s slow going and dangerous, but worth the trouble,” he says. “The Nazis had prisoners dig hundreds of caves, where they stored ammunition to keep it safe from the bombers. Even the caves used as art repositories were many times mined. The trick is to find the right cave and get inside safely.”
McKoy’s equipment, seven employees and a television crew are already waiting in Germany. He plans to head there over the weekend. The nearly $1 million cost is being borne by private investors hoping to cash in on the bonanza.
McKoy says, “There’s stuff in the ground over there. I’m sure of it. Somebody’s going to find all that treasure. Why not me?”
He looked up from the newspaper. Mother of Almighty God. Was this it? If so, what could be done about it? He was an old man. Realistically, there was little left he could do.
The back door opened and Paul strolled into the den. He tossed the paper on the coffee table.
“You still interested in all that art stuff?” Paul asked.
“Habit of lifetime.”
“Would be kind of exciting to dig in those mountains. The Germans used them like vaults. No telling what’s still there.”
“This McKoy mentions Amber Room.” He shook his head. “Another man looking for lost panels.”
Paul grinned. “The lure of treasure. Makes for great television specials.”
“I saw the amber panels once,” he said, giving in to an urge to talk. “Took train from Minsk to Leningrad. Communists had turned Catherine Palace into a museum. I saw the room in its glory.” He motioned with his hands. “Ten meters square. Walls of amber. Like a giant puzzle. All the wood carved beautifully and gilded gold. Amazing.”
“I’ve read about it. A lot of folks regarded it as the eighth wonder of the world.”
“Like stepping into fairy tale. The amber was hard and shiny like stone, but not cold like marble. More like wood. Lemon, whiskey brown, cherry. Warm colors. Like being in the sun. Amazing what ancient masters could do. Carved figurines, flowers, seashells. The scrollwork so intricate. Tons of amber, all handcrafted. No one ever do that before.”
“The Nazis stole the panels in 1941?”
He nodded. “Bastard criminals. Strip room clean. Never seen again since 1944.” He was getting angry thinking about it and knew he’d said too much already, so he changed the subject. “You said my Rachel put lawyer in jail?”
Paul sat back in the chair and crossed his ankles on an ottoman. “The Ice Queen strikes again. That’s what they call her around the courthouse.” He sighed. “Everybody thinks because we’re divorced I don’t mind.”
“It bothers?”
“I’m afraid it does.”
“You love my Rachel?”
“And my kids. The apartment gets pretty quiet. I miss all three of ’em, Karl. Or should I say, Karol. That’s going to take some getting used to.”
“Us both.”
“Sorry about not being there today. My hearing got postponed. It was with the lawyer Rachel jailed.”
“I appreciate help with petition.”
“Any time.”
“You know,” he said, a twinkle in his eye, “she’s seen no man since divorce. Maybe why she’s so cranky?” Paul noticeably perked up. He thought he’d read him right. “Claims too busy. But I wonder.”
His former son-in-law did not take the bait, and simply sat in silence. He returned his attention to the map. After a few moments, he said, “Braves on TBS.”
Paul reached for the remote and punched on the television.
He didn’t mention Rachel again, but all through the game he kept glancing at the map. A light green delineated the Harz Mountains, rolling north to south then turning east, the old border between the two Germanies gone. The towns were noted in black. Göttingen. Münden. Osterdode. Warthberg. Stod. The caves and tunnels were unmarked, but he knew they were there. Hundreds of them.
Where was the right cave?
Hard to say anymore.
Was Wayland McKoy on the right track?
SIX
10:25 p.m.
Paul cradled Marla and gently carried her into the house. Brent followed, yawning. A strange feeling always accompanied him when he entered. He and Rachel had bought the two-story brick colonial just after they married, ten years ago. When the divorce came, seven years later, he’d voluntarily moved out. Title remained in both their names and, interestingly, Rachel insisted he retain a key. But he used it sparingly, and always with her prior knowledge, since Paragraph VII of the final decree provided for her exclusive use and possession, and he respected her privacy no matter how much it sometimes hurt.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor and laid Marla in her bed. Both children had bathed at their grandfather’s house. He undressed her and slipped her into someBeauty and the Beast pajamas. He’d twice taken the children to see the Disney movie. He kissed her good night and stroked her hair until she was sound asleep. After tucking Brent in, he headed downstairs.
The den and kitchen were messy. Nothing unusual. A housekeeper came twice a week since Rachel was not noted for neatness. That was one of their differences. He was a perfectly in place person. Not compulsive, just disciplined. Messes bothered him, he couldn’t help it. Rachel didn’t seem to mind clothes on the floor, toys strewn about, and a sinkful of dishes.
Rachel Bates had been an enigma from the start. Intelligent, outspoken, assertive, but alluring. That she’d been attracted to him was surprising, since women were never his strong point. There’d been a couple of steady dates in college and one relationship he thought was serious in law school, but Rachel had captivated him. Why, he’d never really understood. Her sharp tongue and brusque manner could hurt, though she didn’t mean 90 percent of what she said. At least that’s what he told himself over and over to excuse her insensitivity. He was easygoing. Too easygoing. It seemed far less trouble to simply ignore her than rise to the challenge. But sometimes he felt she wanted him to challenge her.
Did he disappoint
her by backing down? Letting her have her way?
Hard to say.
He wandered toward the front of the house and tried to clear his head, but each room assaulted him with memories. The mahogany console with the fossil stone top they’d found in Chattanooga one weekend antiquing. The cream-on-sand conversation sofa where they’d sat many nights watching television. The glass credenza displaying Lilliput cottages, something they both collected with zeal, many a Christmas marked by reciprocal gifts. Even the smell evoked fondness. The peculiar fragrance homes seemed to possess. The musk of life, their life, filtered by time’s sieve.
He stepped into the foyer and noticed the portrait of him and the kids still on display. He wondered how many divorcées kept a ten by twelve of their ex around for all to see. And how many insisted that their ex-husband retain a key to the house. They even still possessed a couple of joint investments, which he managed for them both.
The silence was broken by a key scraping the front door lock.
A second later the door opened and Rachel stepped inside. “Kids any trouble?” she asked.
“Never.”
He took in the black princess-seamed jacket that cinched her waist and the slim skirt cut above the knee. Long, slender legs led down to low-heeled pumps. Her auburn hair fell in a layered bob, barely brushing the tips of her thin shoulders. Green tiger eyes trimmed in silver dangled from each of her earlobes and matched her eyes, which looked tired.
“Sorry about not making it to the name change,” he said. “But your stunt with Marcus Nettles held things up in probate court.”
“He’s a sexist bastard.”
“You’re a judge, Rachel, not the savior of the world. Can’t you use a little diplomacy?”
She tossed her purse and keys on a side table. Her eyes hardened like marbles. He’d seen the look before. “What do you expect me to do? The fat bastard drops hundred-dollar bills on my desk and tells me to fuck off. He deserved to spend a few hours in jail.”
