The Mask of Troy

by David Gibbins

  Brandeis stared, his face strained. ‘Professor Raitz? This is Raitz? We never met. But yes. Of course. From the pictures. Professor Raitz, of the Courtauld Institute. What are you doing here?’ He raised his limp hand, flinching with pain. ‘Why, Professor? I gave you so much. Why? ’

  ‘Professor Raitz has been so kind as to show us several Nazi documents that were once in your possession. Documents you passed directly on to him when you turned informant, when the police used the professor as an expert appraiser. Documents he insisted on having direct from you, for immediate conservation treatment, of course. Professor Raitz is a man of great influence. Documents the police never saw. Documents they will never see.’

  The man looked back and forth between them, his eyes clouded with pain, but suddenly wily, calculating, the eyes of an underworld dealer once again. ‘I know nothing about documents,’ he said. ‘But look at him,’ he added, nodding at the professor. ‘He’s nervous. He’s in almost as bad a way as I am. It’s him you should be questioning, not me. He’s the one who’s concealing things.’

  Saumerre leaned forward, hands on one knee, staring into the man’s eyes. He sniffed, and crinkled his nose. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said quietly. ‘I really don’t think so.’ He snapped his fingers again, and the Russian came forward.

  ‘No,’ Brandeis said. ‘No.’ The Russian lifted the man’s right forearm, then bent the hand back. ‘Please God, no,’ he pleaded. ‘I’m an artist now. This is my livelihood. Not that hand. Please. Not that hand too.’ The Russian took the little finger, and abruptly jerked it backwards. Brandeis howled in pain. Raitz turned away.

  Saumerre put up his own hand, as if inspecting it, glancing at the Russian. ‘Well, one can still draw without a little finger, no? And why this paltry way of making a living when you have secret knowledge of art stashed away in bunkers and mines around Europe, your very words, as I recall?’

  ‘All right,’ the man mumbled, wincing in pain. ‘All right. Which document?’

  ‘What do you know,’ Saumerre asked, ‘about Das Agamemnon-Code? ’

  ‘The Agamemnon Code.’ Brandeis tensed, his hand shaking, then slumped. ‘That one,’ he said. ‘Of course. It had to be.’ He paused, grimacing again. ‘You will spare my hand?’

  ‘Tell us what we want, and I give you my word. Your hand will be spared.’

  The man took a deep breath. ‘Das Agamemnon-Code. That was my best discovery. And my most frustrating. For years my private passion was to collect any information about Heinrich Schliemann’s lost treasures, the gold he took from Troy and Mycenae. I always believed there must have been more hidden away by the Nazis, not only the known treasures, but other objects Schliemann himself may have sent back to hide in Germany. I always believed this. I made a special study of Schliemann’s psychology. If you want to be a treasure-hunter, you must know the mind of the man who has hidden the treasure, yes? Archaeologists know this. Everyone thought I was a bit mad, you know, an enthusiast, my obsession. But then, after the fall of the Iron Curtain, those objects from Priam’s treasure surfaced in Moscow, where the Russians had taken them from Berlin. People began to take me seriously. It was as if some clue to El Dorado had suddenly been revealed. Little red lights lit up on the art underworld map all over Europe, treasure-hunters, dealers, enthusiasts, each believing they had some small clue, something overlooked, something misinterpreted. But it all came to nothing. It was like looking at those faked grainy photos of UFOs. Every single clue could be discounted. But I still believed, as I always had. And then it happened. An old Jewish man who had once worked for me showed up at my apartment in Amsterdam one evening. He was down on his luck, needed money desperately. He was an uneducated man, knew nothing about Homer, about Agamemnon. So he hadn’t made the connection between what he had and Schliemann until he saw the news reports of the St Petersburg finds, and realized what he’d been sitting on all those years.’

  ‘Very good. Very good.’ Saumerre gestured at the Russian, who dropped Brandeis’ hand and stood back. The release of pressure made Brandeis wrench in pain, and he leaned over, retching. Raitz looked with concern at Saumerre. ‘We can surely give him some water, can’t we? He’s talking now.’

  ‘Of course. Of course.’ Saumerre reached back to the table behind him and picked up a small bottle of mineral water. He unscrewed the cap and made as if to push Brandeis’ head up, but recoiled at the last moment, not wanting to touch him. He looked at the Russian, who came over and roughly jerked the man’s head up, then took the bottle and poured the water into his face. Brandeis spluttered and coughed, then swallowed a few times. The Russian let go and Brandeis lurched forward, snorting water out of his nose. He looked up. ‘Let me go, please, I beg you.’ He coughed, and retched again. His voice was hoarse. ‘I just want to go. I won’t say anything to anyone. Look at my life now. I’m little more than a down-and-out. My friends are all drunks and street people. Who would believe my stories anyway? Please, just let me go.’

  ‘Finish what you have to say.’

  The man looked towards the window, blinking the water from his eyes, then took a shuddering breath. ‘All right. When the old Jew showed me the document, I saw at once that it was genuine. I saw those words. Das Agamemnon-Code. I couldn’t believe it. At last, I thought. Surely a connection with Schliemann. That word Agamemnon, from Homer. But could it just be coincidence? The Nazis loved codes. Agamemnon was a hero for them. It was possible, though, just possible, that it referred to the hidden treasures of Schliemann. I paid the man for it. I asked him over and over to recount the story of how he had found it, every detail, and the story remained the same.’

  ‘Which was?’ Saumerre said quietly.

  Brandeis panted, grimacing in pain. ‘Okay. Near the end of the war, in April 1945, he’d been a prisoner near Belsen, in a nearby labour camp in a forest. He was there when survivors from Auschwitz were marched in. With them was a Luftwaffe officer, who’d come with them all the way from Poland. It was unusual, as the camps were run by the SS, not the air force or the army. At first I thought that maybe the officer had seen the writing on the wall with the Soviet advance, and accompanied the prisoners as an excuse to escape west himself, to give himself up to the British or Canadian troops in that sector. But I soon realized there was more to it than that. To this day I still don’t know what lay at the bottom of it, but I believe he was on a mission.’

  Saumerre leaned forward intently. ‘This is important. Was he carrying anything with him? A package, a bag? Anything?’

  ‘No. I asked the old man that too. Apparently they left in an enormous hurry from Auschwitz. Even the officers had to forage on the way.’

  Saumerre stared at Brandeis. ‘So no treasure was taken from Poland. Good. Good.’

  Brandeis winced, and shook his head. ‘No treasure.’

  ‘And? The officer? What next?”

  ‘It’s a myth that the Luftwaffe and Wehrmacht officer corps were reluctant Nazis. There were fanatics among them. He may have been one. A British patrol arrived unexpectedly at the camp, SAS I think, a day or so before the actual liberation. The old Jew said it sent the officer into a panic. He shot at the British and tried to escape into the forest, but was gunned down. Maybe there was something secret there he had to get to, something he had to do, something to hide. Maybe he expected to be shown no mercy in that place, even though he was not SS. He was probably right. The Jew said the British officer in charge personally shot all the SS who tried to surrender. After the patrol had left, the Jew went to the German officer’s body and found that document, a single sheet of paper with those words in red at the top. That’s all I know. It’s some kind of map. A map to something hidden, possibly underground. There are no labels, only a series of joined lines, and distances in metres. I have no idea where.’

  Saumerre looked hard at him, then sighed and rocked back on his feet. He clicked his fingers. The Russian came up and grabbed Brandeis’ right hand again. ‘No,’ the man begged. ‘You promised. No.’<
br />
  ‘What did you say? No idea where?’ Saumerre repeated, drumming on his knee, then raising his own right hand in front of him, stretching and admiring his fingers. ‘No idea? Really?’

  ‘All right. All right. Please. Tell him to let go.’ Saumerre nodded, and the Russian backed off again. ‘I can’t take much more of this.’ Brandeis swallowed hard. ‘The old Jew said he’d talked to some of the new arrivals, from Auschwitz. He asked about the Luftwaffe officer because it was so unusual. One of the prisoners was the sole survivor from a specialized labour camp near Auschwitz. An aero engine assembly plant. It turned out that the officer had been in charge there. It makes sense, an air force officer. They used Jewish slave labour. They’d shut it down as the Russians advanced. That was it.’

  ‘Where?’ Saumerre stretched his fingers again, inspecting them closely.

  ‘Okay. Okay. This really is it.’

  ‘I will keep my word. No more fingers broken.’

  ‘I have a lot more I can give you. A lot more information. Hidden old master paintings. Gold. We can work together.’

  ‘Let’s finish this one first.’

  ‘All right.’ Brandeis lifted his broken hand, shaking. ‘You’ll get me a doctor?’ He jerked his head behind him. ‘And these Russians? I’ll never see them again? That one?’

  ‘Never again. And I’ll see you get the best possible care. But first.’

  ‘All right. The assembly plant. He said it was near Krakow. About fifty kilometres from Auschwitz. A salt mine. A huge underground salt mine.’

  Saumerre looked at the professor, his eyes gleaming. ‘We have it. We have it.’ He turned to the man in the chair. ‘Have you told anyone else about this? Anyone?’

  Brandeis looked defiant again. ‘Of course not. In my line of business, you never tell anyone what you know. Never. Unless you find mutual interests. Those you can trust. Future business partners. Like you. Your boss.’

  He looked at Raitz, who instantly sensed something. He had spent all his working life dealing with people like this. He knew their minds better than anyone else in this room. These shady dealers were like the treasure-hunters of old. Some of them would talk, some would leave clues, but some would carry their secrets to the grave. He kept his eyes glued on Brandeis, and put his hand on Saumerre’s arm. ‘Saumerre. We need to talk. A moment.’

  ‘Not now, Raitz. We have what we want.’ Saumerre showed a flash of anger. He pushed Raitz away impatiently and leaned forward. ‘The old Jew?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘His family?’

  ‘Family? What family? Auschwitz.’

  Saumerre straightened up. ‘Thank you.’

  Brandeis craned his head up. ‘You’ll never get deep enough into the mine, you know. I went there. It’s the Wieliczka mine. The World Heritage site, full of salt sculptures. I managed to work out the German officer’s map. I got to the deepest accessible part, the end of the tunnel complex open to tourists. Beyond that, the guide said it was totally inaccessible, underwater. It’s flooded since the Nazis were there. Where the map leads, it’s at least a hundred metres under water. There are only a few people in the world who can do that kind of exploration. You’ll never get anyone in there.’

  ‘Oh, I think we will.’

  ‘You’d need technical divers. People with cave-diving skills. People who know how to hunt for treasure. Whatever’s down there is probably booby-trapped. You know the Nero Decree? The Nazis even booby-trapped their hidden treasures, to destroy them. The thousand-year Reich, or nothing. And you’d have to involve the Polish authorities. You can’t just sneak into that mine. You’d need exceptional people to search it.’ He managed to jerk his head back. ‘Not like these thugs. Not like that Spetsnaz.’

  ‘Exceptional people,’ Saumerre repeated, smiling. ‘Exceptional people.’ He pulled on a pair of leather gloves. ‘I believe your present predicament, your change of career, was caused by a girl? The black-market art tycoon becomes a police informant, and then a pavement artist? Yes?’

  ‘You mean Rebecca Howard?’ The man was hesitant. ‘She came to see me in Amsterdam. About returning a stolen Dürer from the Howard Gallery. Raitz will know about that. She met him too. Actually, she didn’t like him much. She said he was a nasty piece of goods. She thought he was weak, too. Pretty shrewd, if you ask me. That’s kids for you.’ He jerked his head at Raitz again, then looked conspiratorially at Saumerre. ‘I’d ditch this guy if I were you. Don’t trust him an inch. Never did buy that spin on his Nazi family past. He’s still one of them. Look at him. You can see the weakness in his eyes.’

  Saumerre said nothing, but did up his coat. Brandeis looked suddenly frightened again. ‘I only turned informer because I was being threatened. A new Mafia boss, from Kazakhstan. Kazakhs don’t know the etiquette. Not like you people. Your boss. Which one is he? Please tell me. They all owe me favours. With Russians, real Russians, I can do good business. Just tell me. But the girl helped me to disappear for a while. Got me where I am now, which is better than a prison cell or the bottom of a canal. Daughter of Jack Howard, the famous marine archaeologist.’ Brandeis stopped, and stared. He went deathly pale. His voice was a whisper. ‘Good God. You can’t. Do what you like with me, but you can’t. Leave her out of this.’

  Saumerre nodded at the Russian, who had been in a barely restrained rage, his fists balled. His English was evidently good enough to understand what Brandeis had said about him. He came up silently behind the chair, pulling a small automatic pistol from under his jacket and holding it close to his leg, the long black silencer pointing down. He raised it, hesitated for a moment, then in one lightning movement reached his arm round Brandeis’ neck and jerked it up and to the right, holding it there. Brandeis made a choking noise, and the Russian jerked again. There was a sickening crack, and he let go of the head. It lolled down, eyes open, blood and mucus dripping from the mouth. The Russian stood back, grunted, and held up the pistol, jerking his other thumb at the corpse. ‘Less blood my way.’

  ‘Take him away.’ Saumerre waved his hand dismissively. The Russian shoved the pistol into his jacket and the other two came up to help him. They lifted the chair and carried it with the body out of the door. Raitz leaned one hand against the wall, feeling faint. It had all happened so quickly. He had never seen anyone killed before. He was sweating, shaking. He turned to Saumerre. ‘He had more to tell us. More gold to find. He could have led us on a treasure trail. Isn’t that what you want? You and your people? What is it with this single lead, this code?’

  Saumerre looked at him pityingly. ‘What, you don’t have the stomach for this? For killing? You disappoint me, Raitz. Remember what your revered Führer said. This man was subhuman. He was a Jew. Now, to business. The Howard girl.’

  Raitz had a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. If they could do this, what was in store for her? He grasped Saumerre by the shoulder. ‘She will not be harmed, right? Nothing like this. That was not part of the deal. This was not what I wanted.’

  Saumerre pushed the hand away, and looked at him with contempt. ‘What on earth are you thinking? You naïve academic. A kidnapping works this way: you threaten to kill your victim, right? You make them feel pain. You make their loved ones know they feel pain. And hey presto, you have a result.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Then? Then? What then?’ Saumerre spat the word out with scorn. ‘You are a sentimentalist, Professor. Not a good Nazi.’

  Raitz straightened up, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers. ‘You are wrong. I serve the memory of the Führer. The thousand-year Reich.’

  Saumerre looked at him appraisingly. ‘And everything else is dispensable?’

  ‘Nothing is more important than the cause.’

  ‘That is exactly how we think too. Maybe we can still do business, Professor. Maybe we can.’ He flipped open his phone. ‘You know this girl, correct? She will recognize you?’

  ‘As I told you. She came to see me at the institute to talk about th
e return of that Dürer to Germany. We had lunch. A good Aryan girl, on her father’s side.’

  ‘Forget that Aryan nonsense. Just remember this. A date, a time, a place. Tomorrow evening, seven p.m., the County Hall Marriott. Her school group is assembling there. You will greet her like an old friend. Pure coincidence that you are there, some academic meeting in the hotel just finished. It concerns Nazi art, your speciality. And you happen to have something extraordinary, something you think her father would be fascinated to know about. She’ll always want to please him. Use that. Tell her you have pictures of a Nazi bunker, full of ancient antiquities.’

  ‘She’ll have security. That was an issue when she came to see me before. She should have involved IMU security, but she didn’t.’

  ‘She has no reason to be suspicious of you. And you just said it. She doesn’t like security. There are two entrances to the hotel. One is from Westminster Bridge Road, the main entrance. The other is Belvedere Road. You’ll tell her your car is there. The pictures are locked inside. She only needs to step out on to the pavement. My men will take it from there.’

  ‘Where will you take her?’

  ‘Where will you take her. You wish to keep my Russian friends from doing her harm? It will be your part of the bargain. I remain anonymous. You will take her out of the country. I will give you instructions. Somewhere close to Dr Howard’s heart. Meanwhile, he and his Greek friend will do a little job for us. A job from which they will not return. And I need to be ready to take what they find.’

  ‘And we will both have what we want.’

  ‘If it leads us to where I think it will lead us, then you will have your art, for your secret Führermuseum. And I will have my treasure.’

  ‘And if not?’

  ‘You doubt me?’

  ‘I didn’t trust Brandeis. I was trying to tell you. That story from the old Jew. Brandeis wasn’t telling us everything. When you asked whether the German officer had taken anything else with him from Poland. I could see it in his eyes.’