Late afternoon traffic picked up on the street as city workers escaped their modern prisons. Jane looped an arm through his, softly as a gentle breeze. Parker wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“Why do you think Claus left this behind?” she asked. “First the painting in Brussels, then this bank. The war was long over. Claus had a new life in America, no ties to the Nazis. Why go to the trouble of stealing valuable artwork and then forget about it?”
Parker had been wondering the same thing. “Could be a few reasons. He had enough gold in his house to live comfortably for a long time; from what I know about his financial records, Claus didn’t waste his money. He put it to work for him, making more. It’s possible he didn’t want to deal with coming back to get whatever he stole. Unless he planned to keep them for himself, returning the artwork or artifacts to the rightful owners would draw attention. I doubt he wanted to be remembered as a Nazi, even one who fought back.” Parker paused. “That’s one explanation. Another is he was scared.”
“Of what?” Jane asked. “Like you said, nearly all the Nazis are dead. I can’t imagine many of those he served or worked with are alive.”
“The people are likely dead. Their ideas aren’t. Populist politicians have been winning elections around the world lately. Some people would say their ideas aren’t far off from what Germans supported after the First World War.”
Jane nodded. “Angry people who blame others for their troubles.” Her hand tightened on his arm. “Wait a moment. You think there are Nazi sympathizers around today who wouldn’t want Claus to make a news splash by returning what he stole?”
Parker shrugged. “There are plenty of violent extremists who don’t stop at posting hateful messages online. To people like that, Claus is a traitor who deserves one thing.”
“Death.” Jane looked up.
Parker followed her gaze to find patchy gunmetal-gray clouds floating across the blue sky, the afternoon sun turning the fluffy tops a brilliant ruddy orange. Hard to imagine such beauty had looked down on atrocities not so long ago.
“If the people you’re worried about exist, they could have been looking for Claus. Or keeping tabs on him.” Jane shook her head. “I never would have considered that before I met you. Now it seems like a logical concern.”
“Don’t worry.” Parker squeezed her arm. “We took care of those thieves in Scotland. A couple of wannabe Nazi punks don’t scare us.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “Though I wouldn’t mind having a staff handy. In case anyone gets in the way.”
“That’s my girl.”
They approached the nondescript front door, which up close proved far more formidable than it appeared. A small plaque was affixed to the stone exterior. Simple script on the gold-plated metal informed him they were in the right place. Falcon & Landolt. The address ran beneath it.
“Ready?” Parker asked, his hand on the door.
“Wait.” She stopped, pulling him back as she dug in her pocket. “I need to tell Father Bakker we’re here. He deserves to know.” Jane dialed, her face growing tight as they stood in silence. She put the phone away a long time later. “He didn’t answer.”
“We’ll call when we leave.”
Jane nodded. He pushed the door. It didn’t budge. “It’s locked.”
“Try the buzzer.”
“Good idea.”
The button produced no noise. Parker waited, looking at the door, willing it to open. A recessed camera overhead gave no indication it was even on. Then a speaker blared to life. “Yes?”
The question came in English. How did he know I spoke English? “We require access to an account,” Parker said.
Nothing. He nearly repeated himself when a faint click sounded and the man spoke again. “Please, come in.”
The door swung open on silent hinges. Jane followed him inside, barely making it through before the door swung shut automatically. The lock snapping into place was louder on this side. Parker briefly took in marble walls, stone so black it absorbed the light falling from powerful bulbs running along the ceiling. A brilliant deep-blue carpet led to a desk of metal and smoked glass. A gaunt man studied them from behind it.
“How may I be of assistance?”
Same as the voice from the speaker. Parker bit his tongue. You’re in a private bank. Act like it.
He marched directly at the man, dragging Jane with him. “We require access to an account.”
The man’s forehead wrinkled. He didn’t throw them out. “The name on the account, please.”
First gamble. Did Claus use his real name? Banks like this one held client privilege sacrosanct; revealing private information was the kiss of death. Without their discretion, these banks had nothing.
“Claus Elser.”
The man didn’t ask how to spell it as he tapped a keyboard. A moment later the furrows on his brow deepened. He looked briefly at Parker, longer at Jane, then back to the screen. Parker latched onto Jane’s arm, silently sending the message Don’t flinch.
The seated man finally spoke. “A moment, sir.” He picked up a phone, whispering softly in German. The phone went back down. “Please, follow me.”
Parker breathed a silent sigh of relief as the man stood, pressing a button on his desk. The account exists. He set off towards a doorway Parker hadn’t noticed, tucked into a corner where the bright lights didn’t reach. Parker and Jane followed him across the thick blue carpet, through the doorway and into a large office.
It contained another desk, this version the polar opposite of the one outside. Much the same could be said for its occupant. Where the man outside appeared to rarely eat, this new banker clearly never missed a meal. Or dessert, for that matter. The oversized desk of deeply stained wood dominated the office, a perfect reflection of the rotund, balding man seated behind it. When he stood, Parker had to look up. The guy was huge, as big as any offensive lineman Parker used to get smashed by in college. His suit could double as a tent and must have cost five grand.
“Welcome. I am Eliot Landolt. Please, be seated.”
The gaunt banker had disappeared when Parker looked back. Eliot resumed his seat and rested his hands across the ample paunch pushing against his desk, waiting, watching. Parker suspected it was curiosity on the man’s part, wondering why two people whose parents weren’t born when this account had been opened now sat across from him requesting access. Parker glanced to Jane, sitting stone-faced beside him. They both mirrored Eliot Landolt’s silence.
The big man leaned forward. “This account carries specific instructions for accessing the contents.”
Parker nodded. “A password.”
What might have been satisfaction crossed Eliot’s face. “Correct. You have identified an account which is not in your name. We were instructed to permit any person who presents the correct password access to the box.”
Parker leaned forward. “The password is Baskerville Hall.”
Eliot Landolt did not reply. Parker’s words hung in the air, any chance they had at uncovering why Claus Elser had sent his sister to Luxembourg in the balance. Jane drew a breath. Parker reached over, his fingers brushing her arm. Wait.
Then Eliot Landolt leaned close to his computer monitor. Thick fingers tapped the keyboard before Eliot looked up.
Parker felt the shiver go through Jane’s arm. He barely managed to suppress his own.
“Please, follow me. I will retrieve the box.” They’d done it.
Moving more lightly than a man that size should, Eliot led them through yet another nearly invisible door and down a carpeted hallway wide enough for six men to walk abreast. Cameras with silent red lights watched them go. Doorways stood open on either side down the length of the hall, which ended at an elevator door. Parker noticed the only button pointed down. To the vault.
“If you would please wait in here, I will return shortly.” Eliot gestured for them to go through one of the open doors, which proved to be a small room with a table, two chairs, a p
hone and a conspicuous lack of other exits. Eliot closed the door behind them.
“I can’t believe that worked.” Jane fell into a chair, then jumped back up. “Who creates an account without requiring identification? It’s crazy.”
Parker beckoned her closer. “No telling who’s listening,” he said in hushed tones. “What Claus did isn’t crazy if you’re trying to keep stolen goods safe for your sister. It’s perfect, actually.” He considered it, then clarified. “Unless your bosses find out the account exists. Then you’re in trouble.”
“Claus played a dangerous game,” Jane said. “So far he’s winning.” She leaned closer, turning her back to the door. “What do you think is here?”
“First guess? More art. But the truth is I have no idea. Claus’s team handled all kinds of artifacts. It could be anything. A museum piece, a message, maybe even more gold.”
Eliot Landolt returned, opening the door and ushering in another suited man. This man carried a metal box measuring roughly three feet by two. Parker noted he carried the container with ease. Where Eliot was fleshy, this guy was solid, and he made no attempt to conceal the shoulder holster beneath his jacket.
“This box represents the sole account contents,” Eliot said. He inserted a key into the box’s single lock and twisted. He didn’t open the top, and set the key on the table. “Should you require anything, simply pick up the phone.” Eliot inclined his head slightly. “The room is yours for as long as you need.”
The door had not yet closed before Jane raced over. “It’s not heavy.” She shifted the box back and forth with care. “Do you want to open it?”
“And have the damn thing blow up in my face? No way. You open it. I’ll hide in the corner.”
She rose to the bait. “You think it’s dangerous?”
“I’m kidding. Claus wouldn’t plant a booby trap to hurt his sister. Go ahead, open it.”
She reached for the lid.
“Hold on,” Parker said. He opened the door, poking his head out to find an empty hallway. Eliot Landolt and his no-nonsense guard had vanished. “We’re alone.” He shut the door again.
Jane closed her eyes, inhaled, and blew air through her nose. “Thank you, Claus.”
Parker peered over her shoulder as she flipped the lid open. Jane had turned the single desk light to shine on the box. He blinked. “It’s a scroll.”
“A canvas.” Jane shouldered him aside. “Rolled up like a scroll.” She lifted it out with reverence, setting the thick fabric beside the box. “Look, you can see where this edge was cut.” She indicated a corner where strands of fabric had begun to fray. “This used to be in a frame. Someone cut it out with a knife and rolled it.”
“Is it blank?”
“Likely because this is the rear,” Jane said. The professor in her appeared. “Move the box. Carefully, don’t crush the canvas. We have no idea what’s on the other side.” After Parker did as ordered, she laid the rolled canvas on the table and stepped back. “Do you see any writing?”
He scanned what little they could see. “No. It’s a thick canvas, old if you ask me, and I can’t see anything on it, writing or painting.”
“Agreed.” When she looked at him, her eyes were glittering with excitement. “I had to be sure first. It wouldn’t take much to damage this given how old it is.”
“Hate to remind you, but there are Russians looking for this right now who won’t worry about damaging us to get it. If we can keep things moving?”
“Fair point. Hold this top end while I unroll it. Don’t let go.”
The coarse canvas rubbed his fingers as he held one edge down while Jane unrolled. A range of pigments appeared. Wide swaths of rich brown, like fresh earth turned in a garden. A splash of white overlaid two curved blue streaks. Then she twisted the canvas a final time, revealing what Claus had stolen. Parker took a step back. “That’s amazing.”
“The world thought this was lost forever. And we found it.”
Chapter 6
National Freedom Party Headquarters
Berlin, Germany
Steam rose from his coffee cup. Frank Weidel blew on it as he read the draft speech, scribbling occasional notes along the edges, the letters neat and orderly. Frank did not have the luxury of misusing words, not when so much rode on every speech. Losing an audience’s attention was far easier than gaining it, and with the end so near, he couldn’t take chances. Certainly not with the latest polls.
A soft knock sounded on his door. Frank made another note, rewording phrases that didn’t carry enough heft or didn’t hit the proper emotions. Speeches were like storytelling. All good ones had a framework, a cadence the audience responded to even if they didn’t realize it. The ultimate goal in his business was to carry minds in whichever direction he needed them to go. For Frank, the goal never changed: Show people your truth. Make them understand. Everything else followed.
He laid his pen down. “Come in,” he called out in German.
The door opened silently to reveal a trim blonde woman with her hair pulled up, wearing a no-nonsense black suit. Heels clicked as she marched over.
“This arrived moments ago,” she said, and handed him a package.
“Thank you,” he called after her as she left. Frank opened it to find a police report, written in English. Frank sipped his coffee, studying the Post-it notes attached to the front page. A handwritten message called attention to one section of the report.
“Pittsburgh?” Frank pursed his lips. A city he’d never visited in the Northeastern U.S. “Interesting.” He turned his attention to a biographical section of the report, the personal details of one man. Or one corpse, rather, as the man was dead. Hit by a car.
Frank read the scribbled lines. He lifted the paper to catch the sunlight. And then he spilled his coffee. “Gottverdammt!”
Frank shoved his speech notes aside and quickly lifted a framed photo off his desk before the coffee got to it. The rest could be replaced. The black ribbon from his sister Nadine’s funeral hanging on the frame could not. He mopped up the spill with his handkerchief and set the photo back in place.
How did we miss him? Decades had passed, and now it was impossible to tell what the man had done or where he’d been. Why hadn’t they known about him? Supposedly all of the members from the unit were either under surveillance or dead. Somehow this one had gone unnoticed.
Frank read the report again. Carl Ellis had died on a Pittsburgh street. A forgettable accident in every aspect save one: the tattoo found on the underside of Carl’s left arm. The series of black ink letters made sense only if you knew how to read them. Frank did. The first letters indicated the person’s blood type, a common practice among German soldiers. Some groups took the practice a step further, including unit or squadron information. In WWII the practice had gotten them killed when Allied soldiers were rounding up former German fighters after the war. Hard to argue you weren’t a combatant with the evidence tattooed on your arm.
A very specific group of German soldiers had used a private code for their unit, a unit charged with reviewing valuable items the German army liberated from Jews, Communists and other enemies of the Reich. Members of this unit had added three letters after the blood type. LDV. A tilt of the cap to Leonardo da Vinci.
“How did you get to Pittsburgh?” Frank asked. Right now, however, he had other problems to deal with, namely polls showing his party losing ground with the election right around the corner. A month ago the National Freedom Party had been favored to take control of the Bundestag. Now it was a toss-up at best. He looked at the framed photo on his desk. His sister, taken long before her time. I can’t let this happen again. Fortune had gifted him the chance to make a difference, but that chance came with several non-negotiable strings attached. Strings with names like Kurt Pierce.
“Or perhaps this is the best news I could find,” he said. Only time would tell.
“I love you, Nadine.” Frank pressed two fingers to his heart, sending a silent prayer to her.
Once the National Freedom Party controlled parliament, the kind of vicious criminals who had killed her would never hurt another good German family again.
He picked up the phone and dialed.
Kurt Pierce answered his call. “Ja.”
“I received the document,” Frank said. “This could be the break we need.”
“We must investigate, Mr. Weidel. It is possible Claus Elser shared what he did with others. We will dig into his life, learn into whose ears he whispered. Then they will tell us what they know.”
“Take care to keep your efforts quiet, but move quickly. The election is coming and we cannot afford negative publicity.”
“Do not fear the Christian Democrats. You will crush them.”
Frank grimaced. Kurt Pierce was loyal. The kind of muscle a movement needed, though such men also brought danger. They were tools to be wielded. “Yes, we will. They are a coalition of weak, pro-European Union cowards who tolerate the current state of affairs in Germany.”
“You will prevail.”
Loyal to the cause. A valued quality. “Keep me apprised of your progress.”
“Of course.”
“Remember what we seek. A chance for us to capture the public eye. Don’t risk exposure.”
Polls showed a close race between Weidel’s National Freedom Party and the coalition led by Angela Merkel. Her weakness had decimated Germany, which had fallen to the status of lesser nations after joining the European Union. Under her watch, Germany had stagnated, needlessly, allowing second-tier countries to leech on German superiority. Intellectual, fiscal, societal. Advantages that should have been exploited by their leader, but had instead been wasted.
“Your efforts must be quiet,” Frank said.
Conflicting emotions ran through Frank as he set the phone down. On one hand, Kurt was a zealot who would do anything for the party, including things that made Frank uncomfortable. But that was because Kurt was truly loyal to another man, the man who had made Frank what he was today. Looking back, it was no coincidence that five years ago Frank had been given a golden opportunity he’d never seen coming. Just as he hadn’t seen the strings attached.
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