by David Cline
“Remember,” Wood said. “Less than 10% of what is for sale in this city is visible from the street.”
“Where is the rest?” Amara asked.
Wood pointed up at the billboards all fighting for their attention. “On the upper floors of these buildings.”
Up ahead, Esteban had stopped and was waiting for them to catch up. “Do you see that building with the security camera advertisement? Third floor sells every kind of weapon you can think of. Fourth floor is stolen art, ivory and what not. Fifth floor is drugs.”
“It looks like any normal office building,” Amara said, astonished.
“Maybe in America,” Esteban said. “But this is Ciudad Del Este. We are still on the outskirts and have not even entered yet. Follow me.”
The three of them walked in a single file following in Esteban’s wake. Amara was amazed how close the shops were to each other. It felt more like one enormous outdoor store rather than thousands of individual shops. Large colorful tarps were stretched tight above their heads creating a festive ambiance like a circus. She stepped around two arguing women and looked at a large display of produce. Neat rows of fruits and vegetables had little painted carboard signs with prices. Next to that was a table full of half plucked chickens and some type of meat she did not recognize.
A middle-aged woman gently grabbed her arm and pulled her into a stand full of hanging dresses. “Special price for you,” she said in broken English, gesturing to the hundreds of hanging outfits.
“No gracias,” Amara said, pulling her arm away and hurrying to catch up to Wilkins ahead of her.
The pathway seemed to stretch on forever. Electronics, clothing, sports paraphernalia, food, this place had it all. There was a break in the wall of merchandise, and she saw that the opposite side of the street mirrored the gauntlet of material they were walking through now. The sheer volume of items being sold was mind boggling.
Up ahead, the three guys had stopped and were waiting for her. She hurried forward and stepped out onto the street. The open breeze felt cool against her sweaty face. “It feels like the jungle in there,” she said, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand.
Esteban put his arms around Wood and Wilkin’s shoulders. “I don’t want to point, but the building is down that way on the left.” He threw his head sideways.
Amara looked in that direction and saw it immediately. Esteban had been right when he said it looked different than all the others. No billboards crowded the outside walls. The empty space almost made it feel naked. The architecture looked a few hundred years old. The walls were a light red color. The base shape was square which supported ascending floors like a wedding cake. A sculpture of a fierce looking bird adorned the top.
“If something goes wrong,” Esteban said. “I can’t be seen with you. This place is my livelihood. I will wait for you here.”
Wood patted him on the back. “Thanks for everything so far. Keep your phone close.”
The three of them wandered down the street making sure to take their time and not just charge straight toward it.
“That bird at the top look familiar?” Wood asked under his breath as they drew near.
Amara looked toward the top again. She held her hand up to shade her eyes. “It looks like the bird on the coin we found.”
They stopped at a shop directly across the street. Beautiful leather artwork was on display. Amara picked up a piece with an elaborate elephant carved into the soft surface.
She sneaked a peak at the building. Two large wooden doors stood formidably at the base. Above was a large circular window that resembled the sun. The glass was dark like in some of the old cathedrals in Europe. Each sunray sprouted from a round center and extended into the shape of an elongated tear drop. It was beautifully designed.
“Should we go up and knock?” Wilkins asked, as he picked up a leather wallet with an engraving of the Beatles walking across Abbey road.
“Don’t see why not,” Wood said. “Fortune favors the bold.”
Before Amara could protest, the two of them crossed the street and Wilkins rapped his knuckles on the enormous wooden door. Even with all the noise from the hustle and bustle of Centro, the sound carried. A few bystanders stopped and looked around. The woman selling the leather gave Amara a terrified expression.
“Peligro!” she hissed.
“What?” Amara asked, as she took a step closer.
The woman talked so fast in Spanish, Amara didn’t understand a word. She got the general idea by the frantic gestures and fearful eyes.
Amara waited for a car to pass and then hurried across the street.
“Remember that one time in Mexico,” Wilkins was saying, “when you fell asleep on the beach and looked like a lobster.” He knocked a few more times.
“You guys!” Amara hissed. She was surprised how casual they both looked. As though knocking on the front door of a black-market Nazi museum was just another day in the office. “What are you doing? Look around! Everyone is holding their breath to see what happens to us. We are on the doorstep of Hell!”
Wood turned to respond when the sound of a large bolt being pulled back came from inside, and the door cracked open.
“It’s about damn time,” Wilkins said, pushing the door open with his ape like forearm and stepping inside.
Wood pulled a large foldable map of Centro from his back pocket and followed closely behind Wilkins.
Amara glanced one last time across the street toward the woman who had warned them. She clutched her chest and looked like she was about to faint. With a deep breath, Amara followed Wilkins inside.
The interior was dimly lit and it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust.
A man dressed in black robes looked both panicked and angry. His garments looked like what a monk would wear. The collar was popped, and gold buttons descended the front. She looked at the man’s face. He looked to be in his late fifties and was balding in a horseshoe pattern. He had dark eyes and thick jarring eyebrows.
“You cannot be here,” the man said, in a strange accent. “Please leave immediately.”
“We were told that this building is a must-see tourist destination.” Wood said, holding out the map of the city. “We want the tour.”
Wilkins pulled out a faded leather wallet. “We can pay whatever the cost.”
Amara looked around the large room. The floor was tile with elaborate symbols and patterns throughout. A beautiful chandelier hung low from the vaulted ceiling with dim lights. There was no furniture or anywhere to sit. Besides a small wooden door, only a narrow winding staircase across the room led out of the spacious foyer.
“That is impossible,” the man said. His face had turned very red. “We offer no tours. This is a privately-owned building and closed to the public.”
“Can we talk to your manager?” Wilkins asked. He put a finger close to the old man’s face. “We have traveled far and waited a long time to see this place. I’m sure we can come to an agreement.” He shook his wallet.
The man looked furious, like he was about to try and physically push the three of them out. He had one look at Wilkin’s enormous arms and probably thought better of it. After a brief pause, he shook his head and looked nervously over his shoulders toward the small wooden door.
“You have no idea where you are or what you are meddling with. Immensely powerful people walk these halls. People that don’t have time to worry about swatting away the annoying flies buzzing around their heads.” He took another step closer and whispered. “I am warning you, please remove yourselves from the premises immediately. For your own safety.”
Wilkins looked at Wood with a casual expression. Amara realized that she was grinding her teeth.
“Thank you for your concern, good sir,” Wilkins said. “But we would like to talk to your boss.”
For the first time, the old man smiled. An unnatural smile. Chills ran the length of Amara’s spine and she shuddered. She guessed that whatever the old man knew was abou
t to happen, did not bode well for them.
“As you wish,” he said, with a contemptuous bow. With a whirl of the black robes, he turned and strode across the lobby and disappeared behind the lone wooden door.
Amara looked at the two of them bewildered. “I really hope you guys know what you’re doing. I have had a bad feeling about this building ever since I laid eyes on it.”
Wood flashed his big smile at her. “Don’t worry, he said. “We will be alright. Did you see the reaction of the people outside when we knocked on the door? I would wager that no one has ever done that before.” He grinned at her. “We have the element of surprise.” He held out his arm toward the spiral staircase. “Shall we?”
Wilkins started forward with an excited expression. “Indeed.”
The three of them hurried up the winding stairs and came to a dimly lit hallway. Along both sides were doors Amara guessed led to offices. Further down, she could only see blackness.
“This way,” Wood said, moving toward the darkness.
Amara hurried after him. A door to one room stood ajar. She peeked inside. The light was off but on the far side hung a Nazi flag.
“Did you see that?” Amara whispered.
“Sure did,” Wood said. “No question we are at the right place. Remind me to buy Esteban a drink. We never get it on the first try.”
The three of them reached the end of the hallway and stopped at the edge of a vast space. Wilkins fumbled along the wall until there was a click and large flood lights began turning on.
Amara turned and gasped. An extraordinary collection of art and artifacts stretched along narrow rows.
Wilkins let out a soft whistle. “Ladies and gentleman,” he said. “This is what ransacking an entire continent looks like.”
“We don’t have a lot of time,” Wood said, looking behind them. “Let’s learn as much as we can and then get out of here.”
“Nothing is behind glass!” Amara said. “Everything is on display as though we are at a flea market.”
Wilkins took out a small camera from his backpack and pressed a button. A small red light came on. He gave the enormous room a slow panorama and then quickly began walking down the first row.
Amara set down the middle aisle. Wood followed close behind her.
“Do you see that painting?” he asked, pointing.
Amara looked. Inside a golden frame sat a painting of a boy with his arm resting out in front him. He wore what looked like a fur tunic. “I’ve never understood art,” she said.
“That is Portrait of a young man by Rafael in 1514,” Wood said. “Probably the most famous painting stolen by the Nazis from Poland during WWII.”
Amara looked at the painting again with a little more respect. “How much do you think it would be worth?” she asked.
Wood shrugged. “Priceless.”
They continued down the row. Hundreds of artifacts rested on the tables to either side. Gold jewelry, diamond necklaces, ancient coins from extinct civilizations. She recognized pieces that were Egyptian, Roman, and Mayan. Swords and shields from the crusades. Pieces of parchment written in Hebrew, Arabic, and ancient Chinese.
“Wood,” she said softly. “This is the largest collection I have ever heard of.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “Each one of these pieces has a story that the world needs to hear. We need to do something.”
She stopped at a group of artifacts she did not recognize. There were petrified bones which looked like they had once belonged to a horse. A golden chariot wheel with six spokes. A large wooden sarcophagus sat on the table. Amara leaned over to look inside. There was not a body, but Hebrew sketches were carved into the wood. She stuck her hand in and pulled out an ancient looking necklace. It was unlike anything she had seen before. She held it to the light trying to date it when Wood grabbed her arm and pulled her hard toward him.
“Time to go,” he said.
They ran the rest of the way down the row. Near the end, she noticed that everything had been skillfully placed in large boxes. Far behind them at the opposite side where they had entered, she heard yells.
Wood lead her to a doorway that Wilkins was holding open for them.
“I think their hospitality has run its course,” he said, closing and locking the door behind them.
Amara looked around the small office. There was no way out. Only a small circular window.
Wilkins slammed his backpack down on the table and pulled out a thin rope. He pushed the table against the wall and tied a knot around a thick leg.
Wood picked up a silver candlestick and threw it through the window. The sudden sound of glass breaking made her wince. “Ladies first,” he said, glancing behind him toward the door.
Amara did not need coaxing. She gripped the thin rope with all her strength and slipped out the window. The friction burned her hands as she squeezed hard to slow her descent. She gritted her teeth and stopped for a moment. She looked down and saw hundreds of people gawking up at her. The sound of glass breaking, especially in the building they were escaping from was enough to grab the attention of the entire neighborhood. When she was about six feet up, she let go and landed softly.
Wood came next. Before his feet hit the ground, he yelled up to Wilkins to follow. There was a burst of gunfire from above. Wilkins leapt headfirst out the window with the rope only in one hand. He swung and slammed hard against the side of the building. For a split second, he lost his grip and began to fall backwards.
Amara scrambled out of the way as Wood landed beside her. He immediately lifted both arms and braced for Wilkin’s impact. Wilkin’s had lost complete control and fell backwards with legs and arms churning. Wood managed to position his hands directly under Wilkin’s upper back and pushed Wilkins body around, so his legs contacted the ground first and they both fell into a heap.
Amara looked up and saw a head poke out the broken window. It was not an old friar this time but instead a battle-hardened soldier. An arm appeared wielding something metal.
“You need to move,” she yelled as she dove underneath a nearby table full of freshly picked flowers. She looked toward Wood and Wilkins who rolled in opposite directions as another burst of gunfire broke out above them.
Screams from hundreds of spectators erupted all at once as everyone ran for cover.
Wood jumped to his feet and dove toward the spot where Wilkins was lying with his arms covering his head. He grasped Wilkins under the arms and dragged him around a corner out of the line of fire.
Amara stayed low and crawled like a crab from table to table until she thought she was a safe distance away from their attacker.
Wilkins was on his feet leaning on Wood. His left leg hung useless. Amara hurried forward and pulled his other arm around her shoulders.
“You shot?” she asked.
Wilkins gritted his teeth and shook his head. “Busted my knee on the fall.”
Wood grasped his shoulder. “Better than your neck old buddy. We need to get out of Centro.” His eyes darted in every direction until settling on a quiet alleyway ahead of them. “This way.”
Amara winced as they hurried forward. Wood moved fast and she did everything she could with Wilkin’s weight resting on her to keep up. She stole a glance behind them and saw a figure dart behind a dumpster.
“Someone is following us,” she hissed, through gritted teeth.
The three of them hurried forward and emerged onto a busy road. They walked a few meters down the sidewalk and then Wood held out his arm. An old public bus with the number three screeched to a halt beside them.
“All aboard,” Wood said, glancing behind them toward the figure.
Wilkins used his large arms and good leg to climb the steep stairs. Amara followed and then Wood hurried and boarded behind her. He withdrew his wallet and quickly paid the bus driver. The door closed and the bus jerked forward. Wilkins lost his balance and hit the floor hard. He clenched his eyes shut and cradled his bad knee. Amara hurried forward to help him up and into an e
mpty seat.
The bus slammed to a halt again, right as the two of them sat down. Because both arms were used to assist Wilkins, Amara’s head hit the metal bar in front of her.
“Damn it!” she yelled toward the front of the bus. “Will you at least wait…” her voice trailed off. The bus had stopped again because another passenger had signaled to board. She crouched down low and saw the same figure from the back street pay the driver.
Wood sat in a seat behind her and Wilkins.
“That’s the guy,” she whispered.
Wood looked past her with fire in his eyes. He was ready for battle.
The bus lurched forward and picked up speed as it merged into traffic. The stranger used the long metal bar that ran the length of the bus to steady himself as he made his way back toward them.
With a quick motion, the man plopped himself into the seat next to Wood and held his hands up in front of his face. He must have seen the look in Wood’s eyes.
“You guys are dead, but it’s not going to be because of me.”
“Nice to meet you too,” Wood said. Amara noticed his fists were still clenched.
“Do you realize what building you just broke into?” he asked.
Wood locked eyes with him. “We have a pretty good guess.”
“Let me make it a little clearer,” the man said. “Why do you think there were no security cameras? Why do you think there was no one inside except for an old priest? You have the mafia in your country, correct? Well you just broke into the Don’s personal residence. That carries a sentence of death.”
“Things got a little hairy,” Amara said, over her seat. “But we are out now.”
“You don’t understand,” he said. “The group that owns that building, and the contents inside, run this entire city. They are part of a group called Odessa. They like to stay in the shadows for the most part and let local gangs do what they want. But their anger is something to behold, and right now, you are in their crosshairs. As we speak, every road leading out of the city is being watched. Small legions of soldiers and spies scattered throughout the city have their phones ready to dial. You will be dead before the night is over.”