The Last Monument

by Michael C. Grumley

  Inside, Angela watched eagerly as Saturnin continued translating to his grandfather.

  “Can you tell me why my uncle was here? Did he leave anything?”

  After a moment, the young mayor frowned. “He say he does not know.”

  Angela retrieved the copy of the original letter from another pocket and unfolded it. She laid it on the table. “Does your grandfather understand what this means?”

  The old man’s shaking hand took the paper and held it up, reading, then finally lowering it again.

  “I’m sorry. He say no.”

  “Does he know what this Almv10 means?”

  Saturnin asked and waited. This time, instead of mumbling, his grandfather struggled to lean forward, raising his shaking hand up and reaching out toward her. His crooked fingers trembled from side to side before he raised them up and down.

  “What is he doing?”

  Saturnin shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Suddenly, Rickards stormed forcefully back up the steps and into the house. He looked directly down at Angela. “We’re leaving.”

  “What?”

  “I said, we’re leaving. Right now!”

  With a firm grip on her arm, he pulled Angela from the tiny house and back into the darkness outside, where she finally yanked herself free.

  “What are you doing?!”

  “We have to get out of here.”

  “Why?”

  “Because something weird is happening,” Rickards said. “My friend from the post office, Ken Stives—you remember him—just called me. He said the mail carrier who delivered that letter is now missing.”

  “What?!”

  “Yeah. And I just called the nursing home. They’ve issued a missing person’s on Lillian Porter. She wasn’t at her sister’s house. Someone else knows about that letter!”

  “Oh God.”

  “We’re leaving,” he repeated. “Now!”

  She blinked and followed him down the set of creaking steps. Reaching the bottom, she gasped when the area suddenly exploded into a flood of blinding white light from headlights of what appeared to be four different cars hidden in the darkness and surrounding the front of the tiny home.

  Angela seized Joe’s arm as he instinctively stepped in front of her. Behind them, Elena and Saturnin both rushed onto the porch and instantly covered their eyes.

  Beside one of the cars, Colonel Fernandez stepped forward, blocking part of a headlight as he studied the two Americans frozen in the white glare.

  He hoped the old German Bauer—or whatever his name was—was right that they could keep a federal agent in custody without anyone knowing. Because if not, he’d better have enough money, or resources, to bribe one hell of a lot of people.

  46

  Gau Lower Silesia, Poland

  January 23rd, 1962

  The earthly pounding against solid brick was almost entirely muffled by vast surrounding fields of white snow, pristine and untouched, interrupted only by a single track of footprints winding through trees and stretching downhill to a dense patch of snow-covered ash and maple trees.

  The pounding stopped and a lone figure stood up from a waist-deep hole, again scanning the low-lying forested hills. He was kilometers from the nearest farm, but one could never anticipate who might be wandering the hillsides in the dead of winter.

  Still seeing nothing, twenty-five-year-old Karl Ottman readjusted the wool cloth covering his nose and mouth back into place and continued digging.

  He’d found the first layer of brick resting several feet beneath the soil, precisely where his father told him it would be with the right calculations. He continued clearing away more dirt to widen the opening.

  Once it was large enough, he raised the heavy pick over his head and brought the tip crashing down onto the thick red brick, barely scraping its surface. It would take several more impacts before even the faintest crack appeared.

  Again and again, with each new blow, the crack began to widen and crumble around its edges, enough to allow the pick head to finally pierce the surface.

  Ottman looked up again and scanned.

  Still no one.

  After several more swings, the first brick finally broke into multiple pieces, prompting Ottman to sink to his knees and begin pulling them apart.

  One by one, he threw the chunks out of the hole, where they disappeared into the deep surrounding snow. Then he rose back to his feet to attack the next layer of brick.

  It took two more hours to finally punch through the second tier. When he did, the heavy pick suddenly slipped from his gloved hands and nearly disappeared into blackness below.

  Ottman wrestled it back up through the hole and continued swinging. Each strike widened the dark mouth, with chunk after chunk disappearing into the empty chasm. Each piece of brick echoed as it struck ground somewhere beneath him.

  Twenty minutes later, the hole was wide enough to shine a light into. It was nearly nightfall before he had an opening large enough to allow a human body through.

  Once he was inside, dangling from the ropes, it was just as he expected.

  And exactly as described.

  Of course, it wasn’t the tunnel he had been searching for. That was another fifty meters further down, through solid earth and rock that would require digging equipment and dozens of men. No, what the young Ottman needed was something even more difficult to find—one of four access tunnels extending up from the main cavern. Those four small tunnels, spaced at 1,000 meters apart, led down into the hidden tunnel.

  After sliding down the short rope, Ottman stepped onto the slick stone and inched downward, counting one step at a time with a bare hand carefully pressed against the wall. The smallest patch of ice could spell doom and cause a sudden slip or fall. Or, even worse, a serious injury, leaving Karl Ottman alone and stranded, unable to climb back out.

  After the 187th step, the access tunnel opened into a wider, colder space, revealing a rusted handrail along an outer edge. But when Ottman carefully peered over the edge, he saw nothing. Until he pointed his torch downward.

  From the oddly shaped stone walkway, the view was even more breathtaking than he had imagined. Hidden in utter darkness for years and illuminated now only by the beam of his wandering torch, the dark gray armored metal beast stretched as far as his light could reach. Perfectly preserved and frozen in time for nearly twenty years. An artifact of Nazi history that time had completely forgotten. Hiding motionlessly inside a collapsed tunnel no one alive knew anything about.

  Except Ottman.

  The others who had known were now all dead. Two by natural causes, and three more from suicide before the Nuremberg trials. And finally, the last one, Ottman’s own father, from fire.

  Erhard Ottman, father, former S.S. officer, and founding member of the Ahnenerbe. Desperately trying to communicate to his only heir through a pair of half-melted, burnt lips and vocal cords that were barely functional. Using the last of his strength to explain not just what the Nazi Gold Train was, but where it was buried. Precisely.

  The tunnel itself was too far from the surface for Ottman to reach. And any trace of railroad tracks would not be found within half a kilometer. They had been disassembled by laboring Jews who were simply told the materials were needed elsewhere.

  The four access tunnels existed much closer to the surface yet were still sealed off. The one he had found was the same from which his father had exited when the train had been hidden, before making careful notes on its location.

  If his son could find it, if he could find the train, it would give him all the resources he would ever need to help him locate one of two remaining copies of Fawcett’s letter—the copies he had sent to Hitler and Himmler. And within them, the most important archaeological discovery in human history.

  Before his father’s death, Karl Ottman had not known any of this. Any of what his father had found during the war, anything about the train of Nazi gold, or anything about the three copies of documents, one of which his f
ather had tried to save from the fire and failed.

  In the final three hours of his life, Ottman’s father struggled to explain everything he could through gasps and garbles, even refusing surgery that might have saved him. He could not risk it. Could not risk the chance of the secrets dying with him on an operating table.

  But three hours was not long enough. The gargling, bubbling fluids only grew worse, making what few words he could manage increasingly unintelligible, leaving his son stunned and reeling with far more questions than answers.

  And of course, his word.

  His word to a dying father that he would find the train, the documents, and finally, the secret of which Fawcett had spoken.

  An oath that would take him longer than ever imagined. The better part of his adult life.

  47

  Joe Rickards was awoken by an ache in his right arm. His shoulder, to be precise. A deep painful throbbing stemming from lack of circulation.

  His eyes slowly opened under an overhead light—a bright glare which, after several long seconds, grew into the shape of a single light bulb high overhead.

  Rickards blinked and looked at his right shoulder, pulsating with pain. That’s when he discovered his hand was raised over his head and handcuffed to a rail affixed to the wall, causing his arm to hang limply.

  He blinked again, this time longer, and tried to focus. He followed his arm up the wall to the railing, then down back to his body and finally, to the bed on which he was lying. Sheetless, with a badly stained mattress, and one foot hanging over the side.

  He raised his leg. One shoeless foot.

  With a painful wince, he turned and pushed himself back up in the bed, leaning against a cold, filthy wall to give some much-needed support to his dead shoulder.

  It wasn’t until he heard someone speaking that he looked up.

  “What the hell did you do?”

  Rickards’ eyes struggled to focus and found a figure standing nearby, on the opposite side of a long set of steel bars.

  He stared for a long time, blinking.

  “Don’t remember?”

  Rickards licked his lips with some effort. “What?”

  The figure pointed at him between the bars. “I said, what did you do?”

  Rickards pushed further up and shook his head.

  The other man grinned. “I’ve never seen someone handcuffed to the wall in a holding cell before.”

  Rickards squinted at the man. Large, both in inches and girth, and bald, with black skin and a long straight white goatee below his chin. “Who are you?”

  The man laughed heartily. “I’m the one in the cell next to you. And suddenly feeling a hell of a lot better about my situation.” He studied Rickards curiously. “Name’s Mike Morton.”

  Rickards’ lips were slow. “Joe.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Joe. I think. Judging by the look on your face, I’d say you’re feeling about as bad as you look.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Anytime.”

  Rickards peered thoughtfully at the man. “You’re American.”

  Mike displayed a wide grin between his white mustache and goatee. “Even better. Texan.”

  Rickards nodded with a dry grin and looked around the rest of his holding cell. The needles of intense pain now shooting through his arm were a sign his circulation was returning. He glanced up at the light again. “How long have I been here?”

  “Few hours.” Morton turned to look back at an argument behind him between two other prisoners in his larger group cell, before gradually turning back around. “You were pretty out of it when they brought you in. Heard the guards talking about a woman too.”

  Rickards didn’t remember any of it. He struggled to recall his last memories. A call from Ken Stives, then rushing into the tiny house to grab Angela. And finally, some clouded memories that weren’t crystalizing. Bright lights and…a shadow. Maybe a human figure. Then pain in one of his legs. He fought to hold onto the images.

  Pain. In his leg. And the image of…a dart.

  “So, what exactly did you do wrong?”

  Rickards shook his head. “I got on a plane.”

  “I see. Well, it couldn’t be too bad. Otherwise, you’d be on your way to the Palace of Justice for processing. You just get here?”

  He nodded.

  Was it yesterday? He wasn’t sure how much time had passed.

  He focused on Morton, only half visible between the bars but clearly in better spirits. “What are you here for?”

  “Ah, I’m here all the time.”

  Rickards squinted. “What does that mean?”

  “I’m in for trespassing. It’s a long story.”

  “How often is all the time?”

  “Once every couple weeks. Sometimes more. Law says they have to hold me for twelve hours, but then they just let me go.” Morton gave a spirited gesture down his body. “I’m not exactly a threat at my age.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Sixty-nine. But I’ve been told I don’t look a day over seventy-three.”

  With a small, pained smile, Rickards looked up to see if there was a way to free his arm from the railing by working the cuffs back and forth. He couldn’t.

  “You with that girl?”

  “Did you see her?”

  “No, just heard some talking between the guards.”

  “Any idea where they took her?”

  “Nope. But I’m guessing it was the same guys brought you in that took her. Almost dragging ya, by the way.” He grinned again. “Figured you robbed a bank or something.”

  “Nope. No bank.”

  “Well, if getting on a plane was all you did, then you appear to have made a terrific first impression. On somebody.”

  “Apparently.”

  “And the guys that brought you in weren’t cops. They looked like military.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “What do you do there, Joe?”

  “Huh?”

  “For a living. Your job.”

  After a pause, Rickards answered, “I’m a house painter.”

  Morton laughed. “Gotcha. I take it this is your first time in beautiful Puerto Maldonado.”

  He nodded. “You an ex-pat?”

  “Good guess. Yep. Been down here a couple years since retiring.”

  “Congratulations.”

  Morton laughed. “Word of advice there, Joe. Be careful with the sarcasm down here. I think it’s funny, but the Peruvians are a touchy bunch. They don’t take a lot of lip. Especially from Americans. I stay polite and they always let me out.”

  “Thanks. But something tells me I’m not leaving anytime soon.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because they weren’t after me. They wanted the girl.”

  48

  It was true. And even in his weakened state, it took Rickards only minutes to realize it. Angela held all the cards. Literally. She had the copies. She had the pictures. And her grandfather’s journals. She also had all the details about her grandfather, her uncle, their backgrounds, and the entire history behind it all.

  But none of those were the reason Karl Ottman wanted her. It was much simpler than that.

  She was the easy target.

  Rickards was a risk on all fronts. A federal agent, prone to violence, and, according to Ottman’s sources in the States, diagnosed as potentially unstable.

  The Reed woman was none of those. At least not on paper. However, at the moment, she looked to Ottman as if she was about to come apart from some kind of condition, as he studied her through the one-way mirror.

  Angela Reed, cuffed to a chair and visibly shaking, was related to both men, knew the Lillian Porter woman, and was the obvious beneficiary of anything her grandfather or uncle might have left behind. And therefore, would know a hell of a lot more than Rickards. She would also undoubtedly be easier to intimidate, which already appeared to be working.

  When he entered the room, Angela’s shaking grew even worse, her ha
ndcuff causing an audible rattling sound. Above her, the overhead lamp gave the room a Gestapo-like feeling and a special sense of irony for Ottman. Some interrogation techniques had stood the test of time for a reason.

  He ambled quietly past her and around the edge of the table. Lowering himself into the opposite chair, he opened his taut, wrinkled mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by Angela.

  “Where’s Joe?”

  Ottman closed his mouth and examined her. This was far from ideal. He wanted a private location, not a Peruvian police department. People knew they were here. And certain things that happened here would be recorded by matter of procedure, requiring even more effort to have those traces erased. Damage control was quickly becoming a problem, not the least of which was Colonel Fernandez, who was growing into a considerable issue. The man was becoming increasingly paranoid, convinced that having Rickards in the facility for any length of time was a political fuse just waiting to be lit.

  Fernandez was not as unshakable as Ottman had originally thought. Duress was always the window into a person’s true makeup. If there was one common trait amongst people like Fernandez, it was that their dedication only went so far. And they would quickly turn desperate to avoid the risk of going down alone. Meaning that if Fernandez were backed into a corner, he would do whatever was necessary to survive. That, of course, was quickly making him less of an asset and more of a liability.

  “I would be more concerned about yourself,” Ottman finally replied to Angela, “than Mr. Rickards.”

  Angela’s mental state had cascaded from nervousness, to frightened, to terrified. All her fears about traveling back to South America were being realized in spades. The feel of a third-world country was unique and distinct. Dark below the surface. A place where rules and procedures fell away the farther one traveled from highly populated areas. Reminding her just how quickly her naivete had eroded when living in Bolivia as a young archaeologist. And not just for her. Most of the other students were also shocked at the utter disregard for the law the further out they traveled.