The Last Monument

by Michael C. Grumley

  Ottman’s eyes narrowed and became icy. “Then get them off the truck!”

  Twenty minutes later in a small empty room, save only for a table and chair, Ottman removed his coat and stepped behind a sitting woman. Her eyes were filled with fear as she looked nervously from Krüger at the door, to the man now behind her.

  A moment later a knock sounded, prompting Krüger to open and let in a guard, who promptly crossed the room without a word and placed a box of supplies in front of the nervous woman.

  The guard never looked up, nor waited for instructions. Instead, he immediately turned and exited just as quickly as he’d arrived.

  Ottman lowered himself closer to her ear. “Do you have all you need?”

  “I’m not sure,” the woman’s voice said feebly. She leaned forward and examined the items. “What am I to do?”

  Ottman’s eyes rose to Krüger, who was still standing next to the door. “Get out.”

  The younger officer almost jumped, gripping the knob of the door before hesitantly turning back. “Herr Hauptscharführer, I have been ordered to leave this afternoon.”

  “You will stay until I release you.”

  With that, Ottman rounded the table and stood before the woman, waiting for the door to close after Krüger. When it did, he swiftly removed the satchel from under his arm and unbuckled two thick straps across the top. He delicately retrieved several papers and placed them on the table in front of her.

  “I need replicas of these,” he said. “Perfect replicas. In every way.”

  The woman examined the pages, studying them carefully.

  “In every way,” he repeated.

  Obediently, the woman dropped her gaze back to the table and reached down to scoot her chair closer. She was the best of the group. A former printing expert from Poland, she was one of the first twenty-six Jewish prisoners to arrive.

  The project was called Operation Bernhard and operated for years as one of the Nazi Party’s many secret plans to destabilize their enemy. Originally named Andrew, the operation was born from an idea in 1938 as a means to undermine Great Britain by decimating its economy and destroying the British pound as the world’s reserve currency.

  Economically, the plan was simple and terrified the British. But the actuality of counterfeiting enough notes to airdrop over the country proved more difficult than expected, causing the project to grind to a halt after a falling out between the egos of two high-ranking Nazi officers.

  But the plan was later brought back to life by none other than Heinrich Himmler himself--this time, not as an attack on Britain, but as a more practical means of helping Germany finance its runaway costs of war run amok.

  Now, in early 1945, Germany was reeling, out of money and trying desperately to find any resources or other means to continue. Which was exactly what Ottman had just accomplished.

  His own project had been initiated several years before, also in 1938, and also by Heinrich Himmler, head of the SS and second in command to Adolf Hitler.

  And it all began with the city of Troy.

  The fabled city of Troy, described in Homer’s Iliad, had long been considered to be exactly that. A fable. Nothing more than a mythical story born not from Greek history, but from the imagination of Homer himself…until it was actually discovered in 1868 by a German archaeologist named Schliemann. But what made the discovery so profound to the Nazis was not where Troy was found, but how.

  For years the story had been dismissed by the world’s greatest scholars as a fable. A myth. Fabricated as part of a fictional story.

  But Schliemann did not believe it. He remained convinced that Homer’s setting of the Trojan War was, in fact, true. Even accurate. He searched for years, by ignoring the historians and trusting in the written words of Homer. Studying every detail of the Iliad and Homer’s descriptions of ancient Troy. Painstakingly piecing the clues together until he believed he knew where it was.

  And he found it. A city that no one believed existed--proving not only was the legend true, but that many of our oldest written records were likely based on facts.

  It was a form of archaeological inspiration that fueled men like Erhard Ottman, men assigned to track down critical religious or historical artifacts to ensure victory for the Nazi party.

  Just as Herman Wirth was searching for Atlantis to trace their superior Aryan ancestry back to its roots, or Otto Rahn searching for the Holy Grail near the remains of fortress Montségur, each of them took their lessons from the great archaeologist Schliemann, by studying the world’s great religious texts very carefully.

  Unfortunately, Wirth had failed. And Rahn was now dead. But Erhard Ottman was not. Ottman had not only survived, he had succeeded. Succeeded in finding what he had set out to discover. What he had been assigned to locate by whatever means necessary. No matter what it took or where it ultimately led.

  What he was searching for was not in Asia as they had originally thought, but in South America, buried deep in the forests of the Amazon where few dared venture and even fewer survived. Where innumerable ways existed to befall a man, all of them lying in wait in dark jungles, like predators ready to strike.

  Enough death to keep all but a few foreigners away for generations. Except one man by the name of Percy Fawcett, a British explorer and resolute believer that the rumors were true. Legends which were little more than faint whispers among tribes that something truly extraordinary lay hidden deep within the dense, almost impenetrable walls of the Amazon, waiting to be discovered after centuries of obscurity.

  The same Percy Fawcett who’d finally found it. And as his fellow patriots would later prove so utterly adept at during the war after cracking the Enigma code, Fawcett kept the secret quiet, telling absolutely no one about the discovery until his untimely death--with the only exception being his family.

  In a separate piece of correspondence, hidden away by Fawcett’s family for years, it was the explorer’s youngest son who finally cracked, handing it over to SS Officer Erhard Ottman after a rather intense episode of persuasion.

  Now, just as with Homer’s Iliad, Ottman had finally hunted down and attained a detailed description in Colonel Fawcett’s own handwriting, revealing the final location of what Ottman had long been searching for.

  A handwritten letter that one of Krüger’s forgers was now making an exact replica of. Three copies. One for the Führer. One for Heinrich Himmler. And a third for Ottman himself, who was now watching while absently fingering the golden letter “A” on his coat--the pin for a founding member of the terrifying Ahnenerbe, later to be known as the Nazi SS.

  36

  Three-quarters of a century later, Erhard Ottman’s son was still standing and peering out over the city of La Paz, Bolivia, the first city in South America ever visited by Percy Fawcett. The giant window now reflected a faint image of the old man’s face, worn and tired, but with eyes ablaze with life. With hope. That he had finally found what his father had instructed.

  A great secret that could have saved the war if it had not somehow mysteriously vanished into history. The same secret his father had died trying desperately to preserve when their house had caught fire in the winter of 1949.

  Karl Ottman studied his face in the window. Tanned, with tight leathery skin. Deeply set and intense blue eyes, gleaming even in the reflection.

  He could still see remnants of his father in the glass. The eyes and heavy brow still matched parts of his last paternal image. Writhing on the ground, coughing and belching out smoke and blood from severely burned lungs. Trying to speak, but unable, while clutching the panes of cracked glass tightly in his charred hands. His own copy, created by the female forger at the Mauthausen concentration camp, irreparably burnt.

  Karl Ottman could still hear his father’s words. Lass es nicht mit mir sterben.

  “Don’t let it die with me.”

  Ottman stepped back and watched his reflection disappear into nothingness. He stared down thoughtfully at the plush white carpet beneath him.


  So, they were coming to Peru. The Monument Man’s great-niece, along with a U.S. federal investigator. Which meant they must know something. But what? What could they possibly discern from two handwritten paragraphs? The answer was nothing.

  Ottman inhaled and raised his head. He was ready. After a lifetime of waiting, he was ready. He would do whatever was necessary and use the entirety of his resources if need be. Copious resources, thanks to something else his father had revealed to him.

  A federal agent from the United States would require caution. Nothing insurmountable. Not in the least, with a little planning.

  The woman, from Fischer’s description, sounded inconsequential: a teacher from the local university. Hidden away in an ivory tower, no doubt preaching about how the world should be, instead of how it truly was. Brutal and unforgiving, beneath a thin veneer of civility. And outside of places like the United States, in places such as South America, that veneer was even thinner.

  Ottman glanced at his watch.

  He had mere hours to prepare before the Americans’ arrival, to make arrangements and get money into the correct hands. To ensure that whatever measures were necessary would go unquestioned and forgotten. Long enough for Ottman to get what he needed.

  After all, smaller countries knew exactly how to deal with giant elephants. More than enough experience managing great and powerful nations, especially the giant and very bureaucratic United States.

  They are coming to Peru, Ottman thought with a confident smile. And the best part was that Fischer was on the plane.

  37

  The second leg of the flight was much longer. Sixteen grueling hours out of Los Angeles, allowing Angela to get more than enough sleep. But not Rickards. He’d never been able to sleep on a plane and was now sitting several seats up and to the right, flipping quietly through some of the information she’d given him.

  The constant roar of the engines had him wishing he’d bought some of those expensive noise-canceling headphones, especially given a tiny seat that periodically prompted him to shift in the dark to get comfortable, while glancing around the cabin.

  This time he noted a mother playing with her young child to keep him distracted. Rickards watched, wondering how long the mother had before the boy finally caught on to her game.

  Rickards lowered his head again and continued reading through the journals Angela’s grandfather had kept over the course of fifty some odd years, searching for answers to his older brother’s fate.

  What Rickards was becoming increasingly interested in, though, were the details surrounding the Monuments Men as a whole.

  It was a fascinating mission. One of a very small team of volunteer soldiers who, just as Angela had explained, quite literally saved the entire world. Or more specifically, the history of the entire world. Paintings, sculptures, shrines, even churches in some cases, from the insatiable and tyrannical clutches of Adolf Hitler and his Nazis, a group whose ruthlessness knew no bounds.

  Rickards stopped on one of the journal’s pages, where Angela’s grandfather had jotted down an old quote. It was a quote from a name Rickards recognized as one of the most powerful leaders of the Nazi Party.

  “It used to be called plundering. But today things have become more humane. In spite of that, I intend to plunder, and to do it thoroughly.” – Hermann Göring.

  To destroy another country’s army or government in war was one thing. But to destroy the very identity and history of the citizens themselves was akin to cultural genocide. For Hitler, killing millions of innocent victims was not enough. He also wanted to destroy their culture and the very souls of those who might survive. To plunder and confiscate human history itself. And destroy it if need be.

  Saved by approximately sixty overweight and out of shape volunteer soldiers who laid their lives down to find and protect it all.

  It was an extraordinary effort that few alive today fully appreciated or even understood. And yet it was one that ironically left Rickards with a strange feeling of guilt. Because as powerful as the story was, for Rickards, there was a slow, inching worry about Roger Reed himself. A man about whom he still knew very little. Where he was from, yes, but virtually nothing else that spoke to what kind of man he was.

  Because what Rickards knew was that no matter who they were or what they did, all men were fallible. All were vulnerable. And there was an important element in Reed’s story that he and Angela had only briefly touched upon.

  Joe Rickards was now wondering about the other side of Roger Reed. And that place that existed beneath every man’s exterior. Even heroes.

  After all, not every man could simply disappear from the planet for an entire decade, then suddenly surface again to send a single letter. And then disappear again.

  What was it, exactly, that drove Reed to do it? Had he been instructed by his government? Or had he acted alone? Because if he’d acted alone, a darker explanation of his motives had to be considered.

  When all was said and done, Rickards’ ultimate question was: Was it possible that Roger Reed, a distinguished Monuments Man, had been involved in something darker? Something unethical? Or worse, illegal?

  The last thing Rickards needed was to walk into something that could inadvertently make him an accomplice.

  38

  Less than two hundred feet from the ground, the large Airbus A319 suddenly rolled hard, frightening several passengers before the pilots quickly corrected, fighting to keep the aircraft level against unusually strong crosswinds. Hardly uncommon for the Jorge Chávez International Airport, which lay just eleven kilometers outside of Lima, Peru, but the conditions were as bad as anyone had seen in a year.

  The massive aircraft rolled again, this time almost violently, and was once again jerked back by its pilots. Overhead, the seat belt sign glowed bright red, and passengers were being instructed in both Spanish and English and in no uncertain terms to hold tight and not remove their belts under any circumstances.

  Another hundred feet and the turbulent winds grew even worse, rocking the plane from side to side.

  Sitting in a different seat from the previous flight, Rickards turned and peered between the seats at Angela, who had her eyes closed and was grasping the arms of her seat with white knuckles.

  Another sudden drop and roll gave Rickards a momentary glance of the earth directly below them through a side window, followed immediately by several soothing words overhead by one of the pilots, spoken in rapid Spanish.

  Finally, less than fifty feet from the surface, the plane leveled long enough for the pilots to force the craft down onto the asphalt runway. The impact caused everyone to jerk forward in their seats, followed instantly by the deafening reverse thrust from both engines outside and forceful shaking as the entire craft rapidly slowed.

  Angela’s eyes reopened and she looked around the cabin, finding Rickards, who raised an eyebrow at her through the narrow opening. She nodded and tried to smile, even with her hands still firmly wrapped around both metal arms.

  The braking eased and everyone leaned back again in relief, many murmuring in nervous tones while others made reassuring jokes to each other.

  Rickards, however, knew what kind of stress testing these planes were subjected to and the limits before metal fatigue or failure normally appeared. The wings themselves would damn near flap before they would break. But the sudden impact of the ground was different, and why his blood pressure was up just like everyone else’s. Knowledge only went so far in moderating a human body’s natural anxiety.

  After a few minutes, the lumbering craft came to a full halt. Dozens of passengers stood up at once, filling the aisles. For Rickards, standing up, even in a hunched position, was a godsend and allowed him to get a better look at Angela, who this time gave a nervous but genuine smile.

  It had been years since he had experienced a landing like that.

  ***

  Once off the plane and inside the airport, a sullen Angela caught up to Rickards, who was waiting near a
row of plastic seats.

  “Well, that wasn’t awesome.”

  “You okay?”

  She nodded. “As you can probably tell, I’m not a huge fan of flying.”

  “I’m sure a lot of people on that flight are thinking the same thing about now.”

  “I think I officially owe you big now for coming with me.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  He began to turn when Angela reached out for his arm. “So, have you ever been to Peru before?”

  “No.”

  “Anywhere in South America?”

  “Nope.”

  “Anywhere outside the country?”

  “Hawaii.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t count.”

  “Alaska?”

  “Forget it.”

  “Canada?”

  Angela shook her head. “Listen, there are some things you should probably know in terms of local customs and what to expect.”

  “Such as?”

  “As you might have guessed, not everything is like the U.S. down here. Or even Canada. There are a lot of things you need to be careful of.”

  “Like…?”

  “For starters, like being careful not to offend anyone. Don’t talk about certain things that may upset them. Number one is no politics.”

  “What do I know about Peruvian politics?”

  “How should I know? I don’t know anything about you.”

  “Fine. So, don’t insult their president.”

  “That’s a good start. You also need to remain very respectful of the native peoples.”

  “Check.”

  “Don’t call them indios. Call them indigenas. And don’t worry, them calling us gringos is not an insult.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. But later,” she said, watching the direction of the other passengers. “Let’s get our bags.”