The answer to the mystery was hidden in her own family history.
PART FOUR
THE SECRET
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kraków
1
Christmas Eve is a day when everyone should spend the evening at home, feeling safe. Zofia Lorentz was standing on a deserted station platform in Lviv, feeling scared as hell. She looked at the Polish train that was going to take them to Kraków, at the Polish conductors deep in conversation, and the familiar city names on the board describing the route. Normally she’d be smiling, feeling happy to be going home to a familiar language, familiar places and smells. But for ages nothing had been normal. Her home country was no longer a safe harbor. They’d be easier to pinpoint there, easier to catch.
She didn’t want to go there. She wanted to run in the opposite direction, maybe to Kiev or Crimea, maybe even farther, beyond the Urals. Hole up somewhere in India or in China and lead the life of a Latvian immigrant there, teach children. But then she’d have to spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder.
She had no other option.
She grabbed Karol’s hand, and they boarded the train.
2
Hermod was calm for a change. Christmas Eve didn’t concern him, nor did the rest of the religious holidays and superstitions so numerous around the world. At one time he’d wondered why no religious target had ever appeared, either in his earlier military career or in his later mercenary life. No archbishop, rabbi, imam, or prophet, none of the countless seasoned messiahs and founders of new religions. Only later had he realized that these people don’t pose a threat to power politics and the elite.
He was lying in bed at the Grand Hotel in Kraków, which was lavish in its way, like a beggar disguised as a prince. And he was pleased to be spending Christmas Eve with a bottle of decent wine and a good book. A pity to be in this dumpy town, but you can’t have it all.
Ever since he’d been able to follow every move made by the Fantastic Four, he was completely relaxed. He could have actually carried out the commission long ago, but he knew they’d split up, and for purely personal reasons, he was counting on all of them to be present when he brought this nasty business to a close, and then he’d retire.
Apart from that, ever since the conversation in Washington, though he knew it was unprofessional, he had been curious to learn what sort of a terrible secret was making the Americans shit themselves. So he’d decided to give Dr. Lorentz a while longer to uncover that secret and only then take her out of the equation.
Unless something went wrong. Then he’d just eliminate her.
3
The train was empty, apart from them and two smugglers. They had the entire sleeping car to themselves. An incredibly fat conductor beamed at the sight of them, delighted he wouldn’t have to spend the night alone.
It was eleven p.m. Ukrainian time. Before they’d had time to take off their coats, the conductor knocked on their door with a steaming kettle and earnestly asked if they’d like a cup of tea. They looked at each other and invited him in. The three of them drank tea and shared a stale croissant instead of the traditional wafer, wished each other the very best, and had a drop of delicious homemade hot-chili liquor, which the conductor had conjured from an inside pocket of his uniform.
As soon as he was gone, Karol exploded.
“Could you explain to me what the fuck this is all about? Since when have you known that your family might have something to do with this?”
She sighed. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others. I wasn’t sure if I could trust them.”
“What about me?”
“I’ll tell you what I know, OK?”
“That would be nice for a change.”
“Starting with the things I knew before we left. My father was born in July 1946, by which time his mother was a widow. His father, my grandfather, was killed two months earlier. I’ll tell you about that later. But the point is what my grandfather did before the war. He was an art historian who taught at the university in Lwów, and worked at the museum there too. He knew the Czartoryski family well and was one of the people who helped them hide the works of art displayed at their museum in Kraków, including the Raphael, when the war began. I have no idea what exactly happened there, but when the Germans found them, they locked him up as well. He was one of the first prisoners in Auschwitz, when it was still a camp for political prisoners.”
“Was he there throughout the war?”
“No, the family bought him out; at that point it was possible. He immediately went into the forest and fought for the resistance. I think he must have felt bad about failing to prevent the looting. My God, it’s all falling into place now . . .”
“Zofia, what’s falling into place? I don’t understand.”
“You know the photograph of the three guys on skis?”
“Yes.”
“Three good friends, three art lovers. One of them is Karol Estreicher. During the war he’s in London, then afterward he helps the Americans recover Poland’s stolen heritage and goes back to Poland with the treasures. Following me?”
“Uh-huh.”
“The second was Robert Lorentz, my grandfather.”
“That’s why I thought I recognized him. You look like him, the same fierce determination in the eyes . . .”
“Stop it. Robert Lorentz helps hide the treasures at the start of the war, but he trips up, spends some time in Auschwitz, then hides in the forest with the partisans, and very soon after the war he’s murdered. Is that clear?”
“Murdered?”
“Is that clear or not?”
“Yes.”
“The third, the divinely handsome man, is Henryk Aszkenazy. When he’s not humping his beloved Olga Bortnik in highly inventive ways, he’s raking in vast sums of money working for international companies and collecting paintings. Let’s suppose that in the 1920s, Milewski’s canvases end up in his collection. All those self-portraits of the greatest Polish and French masters. A big thing. The war breaks out. Aszkenazy hides his lover, hides his paintings, and disappears. Why?”
Karol stared at the twinkling lights of a passing station. “Why does he appear soon after in an SS uniform, smack his lover around, and remove the paintings he’d taken so much trouble to hide? Good question.”
“The longer I think about it, the more it makes sense. Aszkenazy was a Polish patriot. At the same time, he was doing business in the Reich, he knew the culture, he knew the language, he could easily pass as a German.”
“I see where you’re heading. Perfect profile for a government agent. Especially if he has a friend working for the Allies in London. An agent for the British at the very top, right by Hans Frank’s side, would be worth his weight in gold.”
“Precisely. And what do you imagine—what easier way is there to buy yourself into the favors of a butcher and thief, who thinks of himself as a great connoisseur of art, than to provide him with some very special treasures? It’s true that the butcher can’t boast about it, because they’d go crazy in Berlin, but he knows what’s good. He keeps the treasure by his side right to the very end, and his faithful pal too, totally unaware that the man is working for the Polish and the British.”
Karol took his backpack from the shelf. He took out a tiny parcel and sat beside Zofia.
“You’re trying to say that Aszkenazy was with Hans Frank to the very end. And then he fooled him by hiding his entire insurance policy: the Raphael, Milewski’s collection, and some mysterious items, and this is why NATO wants to blow our heads off. But the operation was only half-successful. Frank lost all his bargaining chips, and they quickly hanged him, but unfortunately none of this rendered a service to Poland, because Aszkenazy hid everything so well that no one has managed to find it for the past seventy years. Right?”
“Right.”
“But Zofia, that doesn’t change anything. We’re looking for something in an unknown location.”
“And that’s wher
e you’re wrong, my dear,” said Zofia, smiling radiantly. “Because this time I know exactly where to look.”
4
They’d managed to get a fairly good connection from Trieste to Kraków via Frankfurt, and now they were dining at one of the few cafés that were still open on the Market Square; by way of a Christmas present they had promised each other some great orgasms as soon as they returned to the hotel. The dinner was ordinary, two duck salads and some red wine.
Lisa finished her food and drew TLM on her napkin in various configurations.
“Did Zofia say any more?” she asked.
They were talking in Swedish to be safe.
“No. All she said was that everything’s going in the right direction.”
“She should tell us enough so we can take action if anything happens.”
“I said the same thing.”
“What did she say?”
“Some joke about not being a paranoid soldier-boy.”
“As sweet as ever. I’m guessing they still haven’t screwed.”
He nodded and gestured for more wine.
“Who was that woman on the radio?” Lisa suddenly asked.
He realized they had been too intimate and become too close for him to lie.
“My ex-wife, Sylwia. We were together for almost twenty years, but she left me a few months ago when she found out she had cancer. She said she wanted to live before she died.”
“Are you going to donate to her cause?”
“I think so.”
“A lot?”
He was silent for a while.
“As much as I can.”
“Send me the link when all this is over. I’ll send something in too.”
He smiled. “That’s the second offer of that kind. It looks as if she’ll save up for a new life pretty quickly. So who’s Martin?”
“Sorry?”
“Sten asked about him while we were waiting for the chromatography test result. I heard him whispering. He said Martin had been to see him and had asked about you.”
“Martin’s a man from the past. And he’s a man with a past.”
“A Swede?”
“Yes. A neighbor from the Far North. When I was young and stupid, I believed in partnership and togetherness. Martin cured me of that.”
“How?’
“He’s an evil man. Extremely evil. I thought that . . . that because of what I do, I can’t avoid such people, and that’s the price I pay. Then it turned out I was more important to him than he was to me. Our paths diverged.”
“So what happened to him?”
“Apparently he got worse. More merciless. For a time he tried getting in touch with me and dragging me into his life, and for a while I thought I had to sacrifice myself to save him and others. But a wise friend told me I should have nothing to do with him. Martin was attracted to evil and wanted to devote himself to it.”
“A wise friend.”
“Sten. The only one I’ve ever had. You’ll be the second, if we don’t get any crazy ideas.”
“I don’t think we will.”
“All right then.”
He nodded. He wasn’t sure if he liked that answer or not. Suddenly, sitting in that cozy interior, redolent of wood smoke on a quiet Christmas Eve, Major Anatol Gmitruk felt an unwarranted anxiety, an acute feeling of approaching death. He couldn’t catch his breath.
He told Lisa to finish her coffee, paid, and they went out into the snow-coated square.
As they left, the speakers poured out one of the most beautiful and depressing of all metal ballads. The singer was Dave Mustaine, the lyrics formed the farewell letter of a dying man to his friends, his final words before death came to set him free. It sent a chill down Anatol’s spine.
5
It was eleven p.m. Polish time when their conversation was interrupted. They’d stopped in Mostyska, seven miles from the Polish border, politely shown their passports, and were waiting for a change of wheels so that the train could shift onto Western tracks, 3.34 inches narrower. Karol had the grouchy thought that its track gauge was probably the only feature Poland had in common with Western civilization.
He opened the window a crack and breathed in winter air. He loved riding in the sleeper car—for him it was the essence of traveling. If he could, he’d go everywhere this way. He believed a journey was only real when it included the rising and setting of the sun.
Zofia was sitting on the lower bunk, with her knees pulled up to her chin, thinking.
“Merry Christmas,” he said, handing her the small package he’d dug out of his backpack earlier. “All the very best.”
“What’s this?”
“A present. For Christmas.”
“For me?”
“No, it’s for me. But I want you to unwrap it.”
Zofia unwrapped the gift. Inside was a box, and in the box there were gold earrings with a flower design and a slightly matte tone; the art historian instantly recognized them as authentic Secession jewelry, unearthed from an antique shop in Lviv.
“Thank you,” she said, without looking up.
“Thank Vasily; it’s his cash.”
Zofia began to sob. “I . . . I haven’t got a present for you.”
Karol sat beside her. “It’s all right, I’m sure we’ll think of something together in this cozy compartment.”
If he was trying to cheer her up, he’d failed—she only shook and wailed louder.
“I’m sorry,” she finally gasped. “I’m so sorry, I wish I’d never said those things. I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t mean to say I don’t want to have children with you and I don’t want to get married, I didn’t mean to tell you to go to hell with your dreams of turning me into a housewife. Even if I said it, I never meant it. Do you understand?”
He nodded.
“And I’m extremely sorry, really and truly. Can you forgive me?”
He smiled. “Of course. You’re the love of my life. And I was never really angry with you.”
“I could even have children with you.”
“I could even not have children with you. Will you marry me?”
“But we’re going to bed now, aren’t we?”
“I’m certainly not going to let this romantic moment go to waste.”
“Thank God for that.”
They looked at each other and kissed just as the train started up again; outside, the lights of the border station flashed by ever faster as they rode into the darkness.
6
The four Latvian tourists met on Christmas Day in Kraków, at the Chopin Hotel on Mogilskie Roundabout.
Lisa and Anatol described what they’d found on Sveta Katarina and showed their photos of the “theater” with the presumed recesses for the paintings and cartouches with the artists’ initials. Zofia deciphered most of the initials, including the Polish artists, but when it came to TLM, she was just as helpless as they were. Like Lisa, she couldn’t think of anything except Toulouse-Lautrec, and also found it very contrived.
“It’s something obvious, not a code or a secret,” she said. “Let’s let it go for now, and at some point it’ll pop into someone’s head, and we’ll laugh at how obvious it is.”
Zofia and Karol described their encounter with Olga Bortnik and told the story of Henryk Aszkenazy and his close association with Hans Frank.
Soon silence fell over the small hotel room, broken only by the roar of cars and trams passing on the street below.
Anatol hid his face in his hands.
“Jesus,” he said. “Am I just imagining it, or have we once again managed to come up with several new questions and no answers? I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of this. We could spend the next five years on trains and sleeping in lousy hotels, chasing rumors. Do you have any facts that support your theory about Henryk in the SS?”
“My theory is confirmed by this slender envelope,” said Zofia, removing the said object from her purse and waving it overhead.
The other three l
ooked skeptical.
“First of all, I stole the postcards from the old lady.”
“You didn’t!”
“Of course I did. Anyway, so I’ve got the postcards. Also, I have a printout from a website. And on top of that, a photocopy of an article from the Polish Daily in 1946. My parents have the original, but for obvious reasons I couldn’t call them, so our pal in Lviv extracted it from the library.”
“So what is it?”
“Something that in my family was always regarded as dumb propaganda and Communist lies. The story of how war hero and Auschwitz survivor Robert Lorentz was shot dead during a mountaineering expedition. There’s a lot of righteous indignation here, because my grandfather was killed on May 1, in other words not just an attack on a tormented victim of the Nazis, but also the symbolic desecration of the working people. Another symbolic fact is that the perpetrator of the crime was actually . . .”
Zofia paused so they could guess. Anatol came up with the answer.
“An American.”
“Very good, Major. And it gets even more interesting. So this American, a man called Timothy Beagley, arrived in Poland as part of the escort for the twenty-seven railcars filled with national treasures the Americans had sent us from Germany. The train went from Nuremberg to Kraków, an awkward situation for the new Communist regime. People cheered the Americans and threw flowers. There were soldiers, Western journalists, and a few women described in the sources as ‘accompanying ladies.’ The train broke the rules when it entered Poland, because no one had a visa, but nobody was checking documents at a time like that.”
“How convenient for army intelligence or special forces,” said Anatol. “How long were they in Poland?”
“Five days.”
“Plenty of time to sniff things out.”
Karol whistled.
“It holds water,” he said. “When the war ended, everyone wanted to save their own hide. As he fled the Red Army, Hans Frank hid his treasure: the Raphael, the Impressionists, and a political secret, hoping it would give him bargaining power with the Americans. Then the Allies took advantage of the transport to send in their people to find the treasure and bring it back to their base in Germany. But they failed. Why? Because it had been hidden by the Polish agent, Henryk Aszkenazy. And during their search, they must have run into his friend, Robert Lorentz—Zofia’s grandfather.”
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