A Tsar's Gold (Parker Chase Book 6)

by Andrew Clawson

They’d settled on an alternate version of their true story. The best lies kept close to the truth. “Your client is a German expatriate who visited this church during World War Two. He sent us to visit as he’s interested in bequeathing money to the church in his will. During the war he found spiritual comfort here and wants to repay their kindness.”

  “Which should buy us enough goodwill to inspect any paintings more closely than the normal visitor,” Parker said. “Beyond that, we improvise.”

  Jane parked, then stepped outside. “This is a church,” she said as they headed for the massive doors. “Have faith.”

  Parker grunted noncommittally. After the two people closest to him had met violent, senseless ends, any faith he’d ever possessed had been shaken to the ground.

  “I’ll cross my fingers.” He stopped on the sidewalk. A caution he didn’t have a few short years ago made him pause to survey the surroundings. “There’s another German license plate.” He nodded down the street to a parked car. “It’s the only other one I see.”

  “I see it,” Jane said. “There’s a French plate. And another. There’s one from the Netherlands. I think that one,” she turned to look behind them, “is from Luxembourg.” She looked up at him, brushing dark hair from her eyes. “This is the Eurozone. Foreign license plates are everywhere.”

  Maybe she was right. Nobody was in the car. They surely weren’t the only German visitors in Brussels. “You’re probably right.” Plenty of people were around, some walking, others sitting on benches in the sun, many talking to companions. A lone man sat hunched over a newspaper across the street. He looked up through the smoke wafting from his cigarette, took zero note of Parker and Jane, then returned to the news. “We have enough to worry about inside,” Parker said, forcing a smile. “I suppose after what we’ve been through, the nerves don’t ever fade.”

  “Caution keeps you alive.” Jane looped an arm around his, letting him take her up the steps. As Parker stood wondering how to break down a pair of impenetrable doors, Jane pulled him toward a much smaller metal door off to the side. INVOEREN had been stenciled above it. “Through here,” she said. “It means ENTER.”

  “I knew that,” he lied, earning an eye roll. A small entrance room met them, with closets on either side and a hallway running in each direction. The chapel lay directly ahead, doors open, inviting all visitors to come in. They did, and found rows of wooden pews stretching across the wide nave. Thick runners led down each aisle, the center one leading to a raised dais where the pulpit looked over the congregation. A massive wooden cross hung above where the priest would stand. The walls were softly lit, electric sconces mimicking how the interior must have looked centuries ago.

  “Where should we start?” Jane asked.

  Parker responded with a confidence he didn’t feel. “The letter used a painter’s name to point us to Belgium, so any paintings are my first thought.”

  Artwork lined the walls, ranging from portraits no bigger than a hardback book to one piece with life-sized depictions of saints above the main entrance.

  “Let’s start on this side,” Parker whispered, pointing to the closest piece. His words were lost in the cavernous interior. Far above, dim spotlights sent pinpricks of light into the vast gloom of wood beams and dark polish.

  “Hallo.” A booming voice cut the still air. Parker twisted on his heel, looking for the source and failing to find it. Only after the greeting was repeated did he see him. A man unlike any Parker had seen moved toward them, each halting step supported by a cane. Parker blinked when light from above reflected off the man’s gleaming head, which seemed nearly to scrape the ceiling. The priest looked to be almost seven feet tall.

  “Goedemorgen en welkom.”

  With his close-set eyes, the over-stretched priest had a pinched gaze, likely from too much squinting down on normal-sized folks. His dark robes could have covered the floor of Parker’s entire dining room. Jane stepped toward him and replied in halting Dutch, after which the man switched smoothly to English.

  “Yes, English is fine. Good morning, my friends. Welcome to our church.” The wizened face softened as he greeted them, taking careful note of their names. “Jane and Parker. A pleasure to meet you. I am Father Bakker.”

  Parker’s hand disappeared into the father’s. His skin was like parchment, cool and dry, the grip strong. When Father Bakker switched the cane from one hand to the other, the sturdy stick thudded with force. It was big and heavy.

  “We’re here for an unusual reason,” Parker said. “Do you have a moment for a story?”

  Father Bakker’s eyebrows went up. “A story? Of course, my son.” The father indicated a set of chairs along the wall. “I am all ears.”

  “Our journey started in America,” Parker said, “where I own an investment firm. We’re here regarding a client of mine who visited this church many years ago, during a troubled time.” The father’s face didn’t change one bit. “He is a German who served in World War Two, spending at least some time here in Brussels.” Parker ran through it all, giving Claus’s true name but fudging the rest. At the end he mentioned the money Claus allegedly wanted to donate, not giving a sum while hinting it would be substantial. To his complete surprise, Father Bakker didn’t react one bit.

  “This is the only place I have ever served the Lord,” he said. Both hands rested atop the cane. “I came here in 1937, and began tending to the parishioners in this corner of Brussels in 1939. It was not uncommon for German soldiers to worship here during the war.” His gaze softened, drawn far into the past. “Those were dark years indeed.”

  Parker took a chance he had discarded at first, elaborating on the father’s comments. “I know Pope Pius XII and the Catholic Church had a complicated relationship with the war.”

  Father Bakker zoomed back to the present. “That is untrue, Parker. There is nothing complicated about it. My church failed those in need. The worst crime in human history is perpetrated on our doorstep and our spiritual leader, the manifestation of God’s will on Earth, does nothing but talk.” Spittle flew from his lips. “I can say this because I am an old man. My time on Earth is nearly done, and what little of it is left will not be spent papering over past misdeeds. We all should have done more.” His cane thumped the floor.

  Parker found himself at a loss for words. He’d expected disagreement, even outright pushback, but not support. A Roman Catholic priest so openly criticizing a dead pope? Father Bakker had dealt with enough bullshit in his life, Parker supposed – no time left for it now.

  “I admire your honesty,” Jane said. “Now it’s our turn to be honest.” She plunged on before Parker could stop her, spilling an abbreviated version of nearly everything, from Claus Elser changing his name, to his murder, to the letter Claus had sent his sister and which they believed was intended to point her to this church. The only part she left out was the gold. At least she has some sense.

  “I appreciate your candor. Have you seen what Claus Elser looked like as a younger man?” Parker had, on his sister’s wall in Berlin. He nodded. “Would you describe him for me, please?”

  Once Parker did, Father Bakker fell silent for a long time. If it weren’t for his eyes moving back and forth, studying Parker and Jane while he sat, Parker would have spoken. Then the father looked away, turning toward the altar as he stood. “There is something I would like to show you.”

  They headed to one side of the altar and found a shrouded doorway. Parker studied each painting they passed along the way. None jumped out at him. “Through here, please.” Father Bakker led them down a short hallway to an open office with ceilings over two stories high. “This is my office,” he said. “Have a seat.” Two windows let abundant natural light into the room, which had shelves filled with books, several photographs on the wall, the requisite religious painting, and an incongruous flat-screen television. Both the painting and the television were huge.

  “My eyes are not what they used to be.” Parker turned from looking at the television t
o find Bakker watching him. “I prefer the larger screen to watch Ajax football matches. Or soccer, as you call it.”

  “It’s a nice TV,” Parker said.

  “Thank you. However, we are not here to speak of sport.” Father Bakker’s voice dropped. “Now that you have shared your story, I have one of my own.”

  The father removed a ring of keys from his desk and leaned over, out of sight. As the sound of metal clinking on metal and what could have been a lock turning filled the office, Parker looked at Jane and realized her knuckles were white. He took a deep breath and patted her hand, winking when she jolted. Take it easy. Whatever Bakker had to show them, they were on the right path. While Bakker fiddled, Parker’s gaze lifted to the picture hanging in the room’s darkest corner; an old man with an angel, both of them reading a book. The thing stretched to the ceiling, nearly ten feet high and half as wide. It hung on the only wall shrouded in gloom, and Parker could scarcely make out the angel’s wings at the top.

  “Please close the door.” Only after Parker had done so did Father Bakker continue. “Your presence is an unexpected window into the past, and the conclusion of a mystery I did not expect to see end in my lifetime.”

  Bakker was just getting started. “Your suspicion about Claus Elser’s letter is correct. He did visit this church during his time in Brussels. The war had turned at that point, though no one admitted it. I recall the first time I met Claus, on the same spot where I greeted you today. A Catholic man seeking confession.” Bakker’s enormous hands spread across the desk. In one, an envelope. “Today, with his permission, I break the sacramental seal for the first time in my life. I know God will forgive me.”

  Bakker shuddered visibly. “Claus Elser and I were kindred spirits. He knew our Jewish brothers and sisters were being massacred for their beliefs across Europe. Claus evaluated artifacts for his Nazi masters. His was not a position of power; he was merely a cog in the party machine.” Bakker’s hands curled into fists. “A party he and I both hated. However, Claus was not entirely powerless. As such, he recruited me to aid in his resistance.”

  “How did he know you wouldn’t turn him in to the Nazis?” Jane asked. “For all he knew, you could have been a sympathizer.”

  “I invited him into this office after he left the confessional booth.” Bakker pointed to Jane’s seat. “That exact spot. I then shared my hatred for the Nazi party. Once Claus knew of my feelings, he asked me to join in fighting back.”

  “What could a priest and an art expert do to fight the Nazi war machine?” Parker asked.

  Father Bakker frowned. “In truth, very little. Though more than nothing, which is what many others chose.” He tapped the letter. “This is the second part of what Claus and I did. He sent this after his unit transferred out of Brussels. It is merely an appreciation for seeing to his spiritual needs.”

  “Then why keep it for so long?” Parker asked.

  “Because this letter reveals the location of his next effort to injure the Nazis.”

  Jane clamped a hand on Parker’s before he could speak. “What effort? Forgive me, Father, but I would appreciate if you spoke plainly.”

  Father Bakker spread his hands wide. “A reasonable request. I have not shared this with another living soul, and as I said, I love a good story.”

  Jane sat back in her chair, chastened. “I’m just excited, that’s all.”

  “The relevant contents are at the very end, where you will find reference to a biblical passage which is not entirely accurate.” He reached across the desk and handed the letter to Jane.

  Parker listened as Jane translated the generic well-wishes and expressions of thanks from Claus to Father Bakker. All was as Bakker had said, up to the final paragraph.

  “Claus says he’s reading the passages you recommended to bring him peace,” Jane said. “The different numbers reference certain passages, right?”

  “Chapter followed by verse,” Bakker said. “And yes, it references specific writings. To save you the effort, the passages and verses Claus references do not exist. The numbers are far too high.”

  Jane pointed to the numbers: 100:59 and 19:128. “You’re right; these are nonsense.” She looked up at Bakker. “What do they really mean?”

  “They tell me where to look in the Bible. Claus and I agreed on a coded message system before he departed. In his letter he would reference false passages, which I would use to determine his true message.”

  Jane snapped her fingers. “He’s telling you the actual page numbers. And words – the exact word to find on each page.”

  “Correct,” the father said. “Should a Nazi agent read the letter before it was delivered, which Claus suspected would happen, they would find at worst a misprinted biblical reference. Hardly grounds for suspicion.”

  “Crafty,” Parker said.

  “The most effective plans are often simple,” Bakker said. “Now, you want to know what it means.” He folded his hands on the desk. “Before that, you should see the first part of our efforts.”

  “This letter is the second,” Jane said, remembering Father Bakker’s earlier words. “What else did you do?”

  “Hang on.” Parker pointed at Father Bakker. “You said see. Not hear. Do you have something else in this church?”

  “In my office.” Bakker waited as they sat silently. “It’s over there.” He nodded toward the bookshelf beside him. Sunlight fell onto it, lighting up every volume on its shelves. Jane nearly bowled Parker over as she ran to inspect them. “Not the bookshelf,” Father Bakker said. “Above it.”

  Parker and Jane both looked up. And up. They craned their necks. “You’re talking about the painting,” Jane said. “Is there a message on it? I can’t…” Her voice trailed off. “Oh my. It’s real.”

  Father Bakker was suddenly towering over them. One lanky arm reached for the wall and flicked a switch Parker hadn’t seen before. Soft light washed over the towering canvas. “Yes, Jane. It is real. A heavenly gift we saved from those devils. Caravaggio’s St. Matthew and the Angel.”

  A young angel with alabaster skin leaned over the book in St. Matthew’s lap, gently touching his hand as the bearded saint looked on in wonder. Feather wings sprouted from the angel’s back, with light falling over Matthew’s vibrantly orange cloak, falling forgotten onto his chair while he wrote with a quill pen under the angel’s guidance. The contrast between a dark background devoid of imagery and the cherubic being imparting knowledge to Matthew made the images jump off the canvas.

  The stunning, simplistic beauty stole the breath from Parker’s chest. “I didn’t notice it before in the dark,” he said.

  “Which is why I keep the display light off.” Father Bakker extinguished the bulb. “It is truly divine. Painted over four centuries ago, yet still able to stop me in my tracks every day.” His hands went behind his back. “Now that so many years have passed, I confess I do not know what Claus would wish to do with this painting. Initially he thought to sell it, to not only deny the Nazis ownership of such a piece, but to reap the funds from its sale and use them to fight the party. Now I believe Claus would want this returned to the rightful owners or their descendants.”

  “They won’t be hard to find,” Jane said. “Several organizations are still working to repatriate stolen artifacts to the rightful owners.”

  Father Bakker patted her shoulder. “In that case, our task will surely succeed.”

  “This is only part of Claus’s message,” she said. “What did he send you in the letter?”

  “His next location. The two words hidden in the message are Villa Pauly.” He looked at them expectantly, though neither responded. “A name that has lost its terror over the years. It references a building which served as the Gestapo headquarters in Luxembourg.”

  That name, Parker knew. “The Nazi secret police.”

  “Created by Hermann Göring, overseen by Heinrich Himmler,” Jane said. “Gestapo agents coordinated mass deportations to extermination camps.”

&nbs
p; “A secure location for Claus Elser’s team to carry out their work,” Father Bakker said. “Though it would have been impossible for his sister to enter the building. If Claus expected her to follow his path, he needed to point her to a different location. Where that is, I cannot say, though I imagine he would have included the message in a letter to her.”

  Parker nodded. “Perhaps that letter is one his nephew provided?”

  Jane was already ahead of them. “We can use the dates to order them sequentially. Claus dated each letter on the top. Unless it’s part of the code.”

  “It is not.” Father Bakker spoke with finality. “I am certain.”

  “How so?”

  “Claus made one other request of me,” the father said. “He said that if anyone should ever come to this church and ask about what we have discussed, I was to give them this.” Bakker went back to his desk, opened a drawer and removed a single book. “Claus chose it as his personal codebook. Any future messages would point to words used in this version of the story.”

  “I love this book.” Jane took the timeworn copy of a novel known the world over. “The Hound of the Baskervilles. Sherlock Holmes would have been proud to help fight Hitler.”

  “It’s the first book after Holmes supposedly plunged over the Reichenbach Falls and died,” Parker said. “Maybe his rebirth is what Claus had in mind; a chance for Germany to come back from the darkness of National Socialism.”

  “Well said.” Father Bakker laid a hand on Parker’s. “I see the resistance Claus and I began is in good hands. Now, I am an old man, and I know about time. It is forever passing, so I suggest you continue on your way. This path travels dark grounds; no one knows what awaits you.”

  “How will you get the painting back to its owners?” Jane asked. “Admitting you had it here for so long could raise questions.”

  “Honesty is my preferred route,” Father Bakker said. “Once I know you two are safely at the end of Claus’s path, I will contact the authorities. When I tell them a painting I have long considered to be a replica may actually be authentic, I have no doubt they will investigate quickly. I did not profit from this piece; I have no shame for my actions.”