Bloodstorm- a Dane and Bones Origin Story
Page 18
Maddock, recalling their earlier conversation on the subject, glanced over at Leopov. While Lars’ account was by no means definitive, it seemed to confirm Schliemann’s original claim rather than his later recantation. “You seem very sure of the details.”
Lars nodded. “We have the written account of both Henry and Sophia to confirm it.”
Maddock seized on this. “You have those written accounts here I take it?”
Lars nodded energetically. “We have an extensive collection of Sophia’s correspondences with Henry and her family, as well as many of his journals.” He paused a beat and then, with a little less enthusiasm, added, “Facsimiles, of course.”
“Does the phrase ‘Helen’s Charm’ appear anywhere?”
If the question caught Lars off guard, he did not let it show. “I don’t recall that expression, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. I can check our reference index if you would like.”
“Please do,” Maddock said.
As Lars hurried off to conduct his search, Leopov turned to him. “In 1873, she would have been twenty-one years old. A beautiful young woman, she would not have needed a magic charm to distract a customs inspector.”
Maddock glanced at the portrait again. “I’m not sure I’d use the word ‘beautiful.’”
Leopov gave him a wry smile, and he realized she had interpreted his comment as flattery.
“I just mean she’s not my type,” he amended.
“Obviously she was Schliemann’s type,” Petrov said, laughing.
“Trust me,” Leopov said. “She is very beautiful. Women know. Don’t be fooled by her serious expression. Nobody ever smiled in old photographs. Besides, this was never meant to be a portrait of her. She is just a mannequin, displaying Helen’s Jewels.”
Leopov’s comment prompted Maddock to study the portrait more closely. He compared it with the contents of the display case containing the replica of the diadems. “What’s missing from this picture?”
Leopov shrugged. “Helen’s Charm?”
“If it’s as important as we think, it would have been the most valuable piece in the collection. Even more valuable than all the gold. So why isn’t it in this picture?”
“We don’t even know what Helen’s Charm was,” Leopov challenged. “Or if it existed at all.”
Maddock shook his head. “Let’s just take it as given that it did. Hitler somehow recognized it. Telesh figured it out. The answer has to be here.” He studied the photograph again. “We’re just not seeing...”
He trailed off as he realized there was actually one item in the photograph that had not been reproduced as a replica and which was not listed in the official catalog of Priam’s Treasure.
Before he could elaborate, Lars returned. “I am sorry, my friends, but I could not find a reference to Helen’s Charm in the index. That does not necessarily mean that the expression is not to be found in the primary documents, but the only way to know for sure would be to read them all.” He spread his hands in a guilty gesture. “And now, I must take leave of you. There is a tour bus arriving shortly.”
Maddock thanked him for his labors and the background information. When he was gone, Leopov prompted, “You saw something. What?”
He blinked and then turned to her. “I’m not sure. Maybe nothing.”
“Dane, I know that look.”
He shot a glance at Petrov, wondering if he dared trust the man with the revelation, and decided that having the historian’s input was worth the risk. “It sounds like they really did smuggle the treasure out by hiding it in Sophia’s clothes, but why did Schliemann say they hid it under her shawl?”
“Perhaps he was trying to give the story a theatrical flair.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he was unconsciously revealing something that he didn’t mean to share. Like a Freudian slip. And when he realized what he had done, he backtracked. Claimed that Sophia hadn’t been there when obviously she had been.”
Leopov nodded patiently. “Okay, so what’s the big secret?”
“I’m no fashion expert, so feel free to correct me. A shawl is like a cloak... A blanket that you wear over your shoulders, right?”
Leopov nodded. “More or less.”
Maddock pointed to the photograph. “Is she wearing a shawl in that picture?”
They all took another look. “Hard to say,” Leopov said.
“It is very plain looking dress,” agreed Petrov. “As you say, Helen’s Jewels are the important thing. Not the woman.”
“What color would you say it is?”
Petrov answered quickly. “Black.”
Leopov’s response was less certain. “I don’t think it is black. Her hair is black. The dress is lighter. But it’s a black and white photograph. There’s no way to know for sure.”
“Could it be red?”
She shrugged. “Could be.”
“What if that dress is part of the treasure,” Maddock said. “What if it’s made from fabric they discovered along with the treasure. A shawl or cloak that might have once been worn by Helen.”
Leopov and Petrov exchanged a dubious glance. Petrov finally spoke. “Is not so crazy,” he said guardedly. “Shawl was a common accessory for Greek women in ancient times. You see in statues from the period. And garments were of great value to ancient people. They were often given as gifts along with precious metals and jewels.”
“In all the paintings I’ve seen, Helen is usually depicted either as nude or wearing a red cloak,” Maddock continued. “Let’s say Schliemann finds the cloak with all the other treasure. He’s a smart guy. He knows how valuable it really is, but he also knows that people won’t be as excited about an old shawl as they are all the gold and silver. So, he decides to make a gift of it to his ‘Helen.’ Lars said that Sophia’s father had a drapery business, right? Sewing was probably the simplest thing in the world for her. She could have stitched the fabric into a dress.”
Leopov raised her hands. “I’m sure she could have. What difference does it make?”
“All right, just bear with me here. What do we know about Helen? Aside from the fact that she was beautiful. Face that launched a thousand ships, et cetera?”
“She was daughter of Zeus and Leda,” said Petrov. “Leda was human woman. Queen of Sparta. Zeus came to her in form of a swan and seduced her. She laid eggs.”
Maddock suppressed a smile. He was grateful that Bones wasn’t around to hear that.
“Same night, king lays with her. Nine months later, eggs hatch and babies are borne. Two sets of twins. From eggs come Helen and Pollux. Natural borne human offspring are Castor and Clytemnestra, who became queen of Mycenae.”
“Helen was a demigod,” Maddock said. “And in all the myths, aren’t the gods always giving special gifts to their children to protect them from other jealous gods?”
Petrov laughed. “Zeus’ wife Hera delighted in tormenting the product of her husband’s adulterous liaisons. She drove Herakles to madness.”
Maddock nodded. “So maybe Helen’s cloak... Her red cloak... Gave her an extra boost that made her irresistible.”
Leopov was less enthusiastic. “Lars said the chest with the treasure had burned in the fire. How would a cloak survive?”
“If it was a divine gift, it might have been indestructible. Or at least, impervious to flame. Or maybe Schliemann was wrong about the fire.”
“He was probably wrong about a lot of things. Helen... The Trojan War... It’s all just mythology. Superstitious nonsense. None of it really happened.”
“I’m not saying it did, but belief is a powerful thing. Schliemann was a believer. Maybe Sophia, too. And when they found that stuff, maybe their belief that it really had belonged to Helen, daughter of Zeus, gave them a boost of charisma that helped them sneak the treasure out. Maybe Schliemann directly attributed their success to the fact that his wife was wearing Helen’s shawl—Helen’s Charm. And maybe that story, which Schliemann let slip once or twice, grew with the telling until, fift
y years later, a young Austrian political activist heard about it and decided it would be a powerful symbol for his new revolutionary movement.”
“I don’t think Hitler ever wore a red shawl,” remarked Leopov, dryly.
“He didn’t wear it.” Maddock could barely contain his excitement. When he had first entertained the notion, it had seemed so farfetched, but as he had laid out his hypothesis, step by step, his certainty grew like a wildfire. “Think about it. What would Adolf Hitler do with a big piece of red fabric?”
Leopov gaped at him. “You’re kidding? You think he made it into a Nazi flag?”
“Not just any flag. The flag he carried into the Munich beerhall.”
Petrov was nodding eagerly. “Of course. It makes perfect sense. The Blutfahne.”
“Blutfahne,” echoed Leopov. “Blood flag?”
“The Beer Hall Putsch ended when Munich police fired on the marching Nazis. The man carrying the swastika flag of the Sturmabteilung was wounded and dropped the flag. Another mortally wounded stormtrooper fell on the flag, staining it with his blood. From that moment forward, it became the most sacred relic of the Nazi party. Was used in ceremonies to consecrate new flags. Party members swore loyalty before it. Last time it was seen in public was October 1944, when Himmler conducted induction ceremony for the Volkssturm—the army of old men and boys raised up as the last defense of Berlin. Many of them did not even have weapons, but they fought to bitter end against Red Army.”
“The Blood Flag disappeared after that,” Maddock added. “Neo-Nazis would love to get their hands on it.”
“Himmler must have taken it with him when he fled Berlin,” said Petrov.
Maddock agreed. “Of all the Nazi leaders, he was the one that really bought into the occult. But there’s no record of it being found when he was captured.”
Petrov was nodding. “Remember what Lia found? Why Sergei Yukovitch wants her? Gestapo Müller caught up to Himmler near Bremervorde. He must have taken Blood Flag with him. That is the thing of ‘great importance,’ mentioned in the interrogation transcript. The Blood Flag. Helen’s Charm. They are same thing.”
Leopov inclined her head in a grudging acknowledgment of the deduction. “Now we know what it is. We still don’t know where it is.”
“It is wherever Müller took it,” replied Petrov. “KGB always believed American intelligence agents captured him. Turned him.”
Maddock shook his head. “Bones and the others have been working with Lia to track him down. The working theory is that he escaped Germany on a U-boat and headed for Argentina. Whether or not he made it is another question.” He thought about the call from Maxie the previous night. Had the fleeing Gestapo leader made it to Villa Gessell, carrying with him the most sacred relic of the Third Reich, and with it, the means to seduce a new generation of followers?
“Hopefully,” he went on, “Müller and the Blood Flag ended up in the deepest part of the ocean, beyond any hope of recovery.”
“Sergei Yukovitch is very determined man,” Petrov said.
Maddock sighed. “You’re right. We have to make sure that he can never get his hands on it. Or anyone else.”
“And how will you do that?”
“Find it first,” Maddock said, decisively. “Destroy it. Even if it is nothing more than a symbol, it’s a symbol that needs to be erased from existence.” He nodded toward the exit. “We’ll rendezvous with Bones and the others. Pool our knowledge and hopefully figure it out.”
As they headed outside, he dug out his phone and dialed Maxie’s number. It rang four times before going to voicemail. As the greeting played, Maddock struggled to order his swirling thoughts into a succinct message. He gazed out across the lawn where a large bus was unloading passengers. Further out, a few more cars had lined up behind their rental on the roadside, their occupants already mingling with the tour group. Several people were taking pictures in front of the Trojan Horse replica.
One face in the crowd seemed to leap out at Maddock.
That he noticed her at all might have easily enough been explained by the fact that she was gorgeous—slender, raven-haired, with high Slavic cheekbones and full lips. She looked like she belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine, or on the arm of a tycoon. Her attractiveness in fact was what had caught his eye the first time he’d noticed her the previous day.
This second convergence in as many days might have been simple coincidence, but Maddock wasn’t inclined to take any chances. He put his phone away, and changed course, angling away from the group toward the lawn in front of the museum building.
“Stay calm,” he said in a low voice. “I think we picked up a shadow.”
Leopov laughed as if he’d just said something hilarious, then covered her mouth as she looked at him. “Where?”
Maddock feigned laughter as well. “The brunette at my ten o’clock. About fifty yards away. Saw her yesterday at the museum in Berlin. Might be nothing, but let’s not take any chances. We’ll duck around behind the museum and wait to see what she does.”
Petrov craned his head around to look directly at the woman.
“Don’t be so obvious,” Maddock hissed.
Instead of heeding the advice, Petrov suddenly stepped away from them, moving at a near jog in the woman’s direction. As he moved, he cupped a hand to his mouth, and shouted, “Nadia! They know!” and then added something in Russian.
The woman flinched as if in embarrassment at being outed, but then regained her composure and fixed her gaze on Maddock and Leopov. She said something he couldn’t hear and made an overhand gesture. Two burly figures detached from the crowd and started toward them. Even though their faces were mostly hidden under the brims of large floppy hats, Maddock immediately recognized them as the pair of thugs that had chased him in Moscow—Tweedledee and Tweedledum.
SEVENTEEN
“Damn it,” Leopov snarled. “I hate that you were right about him.”
“Me too,” Maddock admitted. “Let’s go.”
He started across the lawn, heading east along the front of the building at a brisk walk. For the moment, at least, none of the bystanders had any clue what was happening in their midst, and Maddock wanted to keep it that way.
After rounding the northeast corner of the building, Maddock peeked around the corner to check on the pursuit. Tweedledum was about twenty yards away, shuffling along at a slow trot, but he appeared to be alone. The others had probably gone around the long way, hoping to cut off their escape.
“Now what?” Leopov asked.
Maddock did a quick visual survey of their surroundings. The museum building was a long rectangle running more or less east-west. The grounds were mostly open, dotted with trees which would provide some cover, but offered little in the way of concealment for an escape. The road, where their rental car waited, was only about fifty yards away, but to get to it, they would have to get past the Russians.
He wondered what Nadia and her twin goons were planning to do with them. The Russian mobsters probably hadn’t thought that far ahead. Clearly, this confrontation had been neither planned nor desired. Telesh’s intention had been, as Maddock had surmised all along, to have them followed in hopes that they would eventually reunite with Lia Markova. No doubt, Petrov had been covertly supplying them with updates on their search for more information about Helen’s Charm—information which Telesh probably already possessed. Now that the deception had been exposed, Telesh’s next move would probably be damage control. Eliminating loose ends.
“This isn’t Moscow,” he said. “I doubt they’ll try anything in front of all these witnesses.”
“Are you willing to bet your life on that?”
“Good point.” He sighed. “Okay, I’ll try to lead them off. Keep them distracted. Get to the car if you can. If not, find a phone and call the local police. There must be some kind of law enforcement out here.”
Leopov shook her head. “No. We stay together. Splitting up didn’t do us any good before.”
“Fine,” said Maddock. “New plan. We rush that guy—” He jerked a thumb toward the corner where Tweedledum was approaching unseen. “And make a beeline for the car.”
“Ready when you are,” she said, confidently.
Maddock gave a nod and then broke from cover, right in front of the lumbering Russian. The big man registered surprise at the sudden reappearance of his prey, but immediately threw his arms out in an attempt to scoop Maddock up. Maddock ducked under the sweep, and juked to the man’s left. As the Russian pivoted toward him, Leopov dashed out from behind the corner and slipped past them on the opposite side. As she did, she aimed a back kick at the man’s right knee. The strike had about the same effect as it would have if she’d kicked a tree. The Russian merely grunted, and then pivoted away from her to make another grab for Maddock who had doubled back to launch an attack of his own. He struck from the Russian’s blind spot. His fist connected solidly with the man’s jaw, but it might as well have been a love pat for all it accomplished. Tweedledum shrugged it off and reached for Maddock again, and this time, one of his groping hands managed to snag Maddock’s shirt.
Buttons flew like machine gun bullets as Maddock’s chest was suddenly bared. He backpedaled away, squirming out of the ruined shirt before the brutish Russian could reel him in like a prized marlin. His wristwatch caught momentarily on a shirt sleeve, but a hard pull tore him loose. He stumbled away, losing his footing along with his shirt.
Damn, he thought as he felt the cool grass tickling his exposed back. This is getting to be a thing.
Tweedle tossed the ruined shirt away and began stalking toward him. The Russian’s face was a study in casual indifference—it was the same dull-eyed expression he’d shown just before snapping the neck of Lia’s decoy in the Moscow underground.