Discovery

by Maurice Barkley

  The more recent notebooks dealt more with Carl's speculation than with any of Gunter's stories.

  There are many gaps to fill in. Gunter mentioned The Secret Path, but he was unclear about the meaning. I had to discover that for myself. Where were they going in South America? Who was waiting for them?

  “That's the meat of it,” M1 said, as he poured a round of coffee for us. “I wish he'd said more about that friend thing. We'll keep it in mind. It's apparent, although not positive, that Carl is looking for treasure somewhere in Egypt. The sunken sub is tantalizing, but extremely unlikely. One does not go looking for a sunken ship with ground penetrating radar.

  “Look at it this way: Although not precise, Carl recently discovered something that gave him a good idea of the location of the tomb. He believes the GPR unit will pinpoint the place to dig. Now, considering the current political environment over there, he will have to keep a low profile and maintain absolute secrecy. No large labor crews. The site will require camouflage during excavation to hide from satellites. Chances are he has secured more than one storage location to hide the loot until they can move it out of the country.

  “We assume Carl and Roy are the only people in that assemblage, however large, that know anything at all about the Nazi treasure. At most, some of them might suspect that they will be excavating an archeological site in an unlawful manner. I'm sure Carl has paid them well for their silence and has promised a large bonus on completion.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” M2 added, “if the bonus Roy has in mind is a bullet in the head.”

  We all sat quietly for a time, thinking about what M1 had just said.

  I broke the silence. “Did Carl say any more about those two important passengers on the big transport plane?”

  “No, nothing,” M1 said. “Anyway, we’ll meet with Alice and hash things out.”

  For the remainder of the flight we reviewed our findings at the Manheim residence. We speculated about the possibility of Anna Manheim's involvement in the whole scheme, especially since she was now somewhere in Germany.

  “Are you looking for her?” Jean asked.

  “Oh yes,” M1 said. “We have an unofficial source that is very good at that sort of thing. We want to locate her without too many people knowing we're curious.”

  CHAPTER 10

  We landed on the roof and hustled down to the small conference room well before sundown. We expected to walk into a busy room with Wesley mumbling to himself as all his fingers danced over the laptop keys and the four assistants working their phones, but Alice was there alone. There were just a few papers and a plastic cup on the table. I introduced her to Jean and, after the usual niceties, we sat down to determine our next moves.

  “Wesley took the laptop to his lab,” Alice said. “He hasn't been able to find anything on the hard drive other than that blue icon. He put together a team to dig deeper. The other four specialists are now on standby because you guys are moving so fast they have little or nothing to do. Upper management is giddy with delight at our performance and that’s why they’re not here. If we get bogged down, you can be sure they'll show up snorting fire. By the way, that dancing man cartoon translated to Roy, that's another nail for the pine box we're preparing for him.” Alice asked if anyone wanted coffee, tea or a sandwich. We shook our heads. “See if you all agree with this assessment. The white van left GPR just over two weeks ago. Give it two days to get to Texas. Since both sides monitor aircraft flights near the border, my guess is that Carl transferred the gadget to a vehicle licensed in Mexico. He'll then continue south to Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica and on to the Panama Canal. He’ll have all of the proper documentation, provided by Roy.

  “This leg of the trip could take him a week, road conditions being what they are down there. We assume Roy will join him along the way. By prearrangement, once at the Canal Zone, Carl and Roy will board a ship, probably a freighter, for an ocean voyage. Their destination will be either someplace on the west coast of Africa or through the Strait of Gibraltar. The latter choice will take them to a port on the coast of Egypt. There's risk in either path, but those of us here who know, believe these are the likely routes. We estimate the trip would consume a week or more. What this means is there's a good chance Carl is still en route and may not arrive at the desert location for five or six more days.”

  “With luck, we may get there first,” M2 said.

  “Yeah,” M1 said, “if only we knew where there was.”

  “Although we're trying,” Alice said, “the chances of finding our quarry are extremely remote. I think we must now follow Carl's older trail starting from the Canal Zone. Next will be Germany to see if we can find the Hollow Mountain and locate that spot in the desert.” Alice leaned back and laced her fingers behind her head. “What think you?”

  “It's logical based on what we have,” M2 said. “I spent some time in Germany and toured some of the ruins of underground factories. They were very extensive. I remember one that could house a small town. Some, having had the entrances destroyed by explosives, are long abandoned. I'm afraid there are too many to search in a few days.”

  “That's why the Canal Zone will be your next stop,” Alice said. “You'll be going to the city of Colón on the Atlantic entrance to the canal. We have a contact there looking for Gunter, but her reports aren't very promising. She learned that he's probably over ninety years old and still lives there, but she can't locate him. I need your eyes and ears on site. Her name is Bebe and she's reliable.”

  “I’ve seen her picture,” M2 interrupted, “and she’s a looker.”

  Jean glanced at me and then included the boys. “Let me remind you all,” she said, “to keep your eye on the ball, not on the babe.”

  Alice picked up the loose papers. “The three of you report to Bill's Garage at 11:00 p.m. tonight. There's no point in leaving now. You'd arrive there before dawn. Jean, you're not going, you'll be here processing all day tomorrow. Meanwhile, let's all go to dinner on me. How about Atsas? I'm lusting for some well-done goat.”

  Before we left the conference room, M2 gave me a fully loaded Cobra derringer big bore .38 special and a leg holster.

  “It's hot down there,” he said, “and we'll be wearing thin, short sleeved shirts. Your .45 and shoulder holster will remain on the airplane. This cigar case holds twenty rounds and two cigars. Put it in your back pocket. Oh, and here's your passport. It's real, no fake names today.”

  We made a quick stop at our hotel. Alice showed Jean to her room while the rest of us did a fast wash-up and change. Properly fragrant, we all taxied over to the Atsas Restaurant where everything was the same. There were the same waiters, same good food and the same ouzo. In all, it was a wonderful evening. I was with the best of friends. It was an evening at Batts times two.

  My energy level remained high as the boys and I said goodnight to the girls at 10:00 p.m. We took another taxi to a huge but anonymous hanger, far from the passenger terminal at Reagan International. M2 told me they called the place Bill's Garage because they didn't want to advertise the presence of an FBI transportation facility.

  We presented our credentials to a guard who was expecting us and entered a small door near the left front corner. Inside was a miniature, cluttered office with window walls on the sides facing the interior. The humble name belied the true nature of what I saw inside. It was mostly a single, vast open space.

  I counted seven helicopters of various sizes and designs, five small private jets and a scattering of propeller driven aircraft including a really big four-engine transport. It too had propellers. All seven helicopters fit neatly under its high wings with room left over for a service truck.

  A large but trim, gray haired veteran sat behind a battered metal desk smoking a king-sized briar pipe. He looked like a character from Terry and the Pirates. I couldn't help seeing a prominent No Smoking sign sitting on the corner of that very desk—it almost seemed deliberate. He wore a well-used, brown leather jacket
over a tan safari shirt with a pair of pilot style sunglasses hooked over one pocket. A crumpled World War II officer's hat perching comfortably on the back of his head completed the picture. I thought to myself that this guy really belongs back in the thirties or forties.

  He stood up. “My name is Harry and I’m your pilot. Follow me, please.” We each received a quick handshake as we walked to the private jet that was the first in line. A man was attaching the tow bar of a little tractor to the jet's front wheel. I saw the monster hangar door rising dramatically toward the upper regions of the building. The co-pilot was already on board and at her station. As the fuselage door closed I felt a slight jerk as the little tractor began to tow us from the hangar.

  This was my first ride in a private jet. As we rose up into the night sky I had a beautiful view of the city. Harry had demonstrated the reclining seats and we proceeded to snooze the night away.

  CHAPTER 11

  Waking up in a fast moving vehicle, high in the sky can be very disorienting, but Harry was there. He served us a steaming mug of superior coffee and the world soon righted itself.

  “You old timers need a good jolt of caffeine to get things going,” M2 said.

  The two marines chuckled and I, without thinking, challenged them to fifty pushups.

  Harry raised an eyebrow at me. “I know my limits, so I'll keep count for you three kids.”

  I made it to thirty-seven while the boys breezed past me for the full fifty. M1, the arrogant bum, did the last ten one handed, just to rub it in. Still, I think it surprised them that the oldster was in such good shape. Harry left us with a thumbs-up and we returned to our coffee. It was almost 9:00 a.m. Washington time. I glanced at my bare wrist and reminded myself to get a cheap wristwatch if I ever got time to run to a store.

  A bright, sunny day greeted us as we touched down at the Enrique Adolfo Jiménez Airport. We left our luggage and most of our firepower on the aircraft and headed for town in our shirtsleeves. It had been years since I had been this far south. I was enjoying everything I saw, including a flock of pelicans that buzzed our open taxi as we drove to Cristobal Harbor. It was just like the movies: sandy beaches, the ever present palm trees and a fresh breeze blowing in from the east. I saw a mix of modern residential and commercial buildings, but it still had the look and feel of an exotic foreign port.

  Our taxi dropped us off at an intersection near the entrance to a peninsula-sized dock. It was a large, central structure; thrusting straight out into the harbor with smaller docks sticking out of the left side. Ships from large freighters to rowboats crowded every open space as far as I could see. We were standing to the left of the big dock, on a railed walkway that paralleled the beach. I saw open water to our front and a roadway to our back. It was not at all crowded, but there was a smattering of people on the walkway and on the limited waterfront.

  As we stood there trying to look like tourists, I noticed a rather attractive woman coming toward us from the dock area. Here was a mature Carmen Miranda: slim, but shapely with a confident, purposeful stride. Like compass needles near a magnet, we could not help but turn in her direction. My pals quickly took off their dark sunglasses and struck a casual pose, ready to greet this beauty that surely was our contact here in Colón. It would be great to have a video of this priceless event. Our lovely lady approached quite close only to pass by without a flicker of recognition or interest. The three compass needles swung further around to watch her shapely caboose sway smoothly on down the walkway and out of our lives.

  Before we had time to even give forth with a sigh of regret, we heard a jolly chuckle coming from behind. We swung around and then had to look down. There in front of us was a small and slender older woman, milk chocolate brown and a bit wrinkled, but a thousand miles from ugly. Her features were not at all distinct, but somehow I got the feeling that her ancestry was Aztec. She had obviously been walking behind the vision we were looking at, using her for cover. Her bright red dress with a matching bandana gave the impression she could have been on her way to a fiesta. The color of her clothing went well with the violet cast to her eyes.

  “You,” she said, deciding M1 was her best bet.

  “Dirty,” M1 replied.

  “Rat,” she finished.

  This proved she had been talking to Alice who in turn set this up with M1 without telling me. More of this need to know business.

  M2 nudged me with his elbow and said, in a low voice, “I knew the first one was not Bebe, but I almost wish it was.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Bebe,” M1 said.

  “Likewise, I am sure,” she replied. “This makes Bebe very happy. Not only for the money, you see, but to have a chance to exercise my English. Do you want to go to the Gunter Weis residence right now or would you like a cool drink?”

  “To his home please,” M1 said. “As always, we are in a hurry.”

  “Ah, you Americans,” she said, with a wave of her hand, “always in a rush. You will never look as good as I do when you grow old.” She paused and looked at me with one eyebrow raised. “Except maybe for you my white-haired Yankee. You sit next to me in the taxi, yes?”

  That said, she turned, waved back toward the dock and a bright yellow vehicle, festooned with flowers, accelerated in our direction. While we waited, M1 finished the introductions. M2 again nudged me with his elbow and whispered, “Remember, we're goodwill ambassadors as well as agents. Be nice to the natives.”

  I was sure he was kidding, but not positive, and besides, she was, without exaggeration, very beautiful and I saw no ring on her finger. Mine was back home in a drawer. Did that make us even? This was not a good time to think about that problem, so I set it aside. The taxi was an open box with a parasol roof. There was a single seat next to the driver and two bench seats behind him. Bebe waved M1 and M2 into the second seat and pushed me into the one in back. She gave the driver instructions in what I assume was Portuguese or Spanish, then hopped into the back seat and landed squarely and deliberately on my lap. She flicked a strand of curly black hair from her eyes, flung one arm around my neck and looked deep into my eyes. “Now, isn't this nice?”

  I smiled back, not knowing what else to do, but I did notice that up close, she had faint freckles on her cheeks and nose.

  “I like this job,” she said conversationally, “and I make the most of it because life is short and one must not hesitate. Do you not agree?”

  I smiled wider, not knowing what else to do. Those freckles were fascinating. She looked up at me quizzically, her head cocked to one side. Seconds later she pulled my head down and planted a queen-sized kiss, square on my mouth. Her kiss lasted some longer than the average. I kissed back, not knowing what else to do. I was too close to see the freckles, but one could get lost in those violet eyes.

  Still welded together, I felt the taxi slow to a stop. There was much clearing of throats from the seat in front of us. Bebe relaxed her arm and pulled back a bit, thus ending a monumental event. Wow—six minutes with Bebe and I’d made more progress than in six years living next door to Molly Watson. With her other hand she removed my left hand that had a wide finger grip on her small, but very shapely butt. I swear my hand did that of its own volition. I did not order it to go there.

  “You are in a rush, Yankee,” she breathed into my ear. “When you are alone and not in such a hurry, you come back.”

  All I could see were those lovely freckles.

  As I climbed from the seat I reflected, with much satisfaction, that I had had a successful romantic encounter and I had not said a single word. I was indeed one of the strong and silent types.

  We were now in a quiet residential part of Colón. The lush plants and trees all but hid many of the small, multicolored stucco houses, tucked snugly behind short wooden fences.

  “That is his house,” Bebe nodded toward a dull yellow structure squatting in a tiny unkempt yard. “I have been looking for the old man since Alice called me. His neighbors tell me he must be over ninety and he never l
eaves his house until late afternoon. He goes to the cantina where he drinks himself stupid, and then he comes home. He talks to no one and no one visits. Nobody has seen him for several days, but then, nobody cares. He is probably in there now. I will wait here for you.”

  M1 took the lead and I trailed well behind. There was no attempt at stealth. He simply walked up on the small porch and knocked on the door. There was no reply. After three more attempts, he tried the doorknob with no success. M2 took over with his mystery tool and in moments we were in the house, rubber gloves and all. This was my second illegal entry in as many days.

  “Breathe through your mouth,” M1 said.

  His advice was not necessary. The air was thick with the stench of rotten meat that had been cooking in the tropic heat. The place was a mess, as if it had been subject to a ferocious search. Nothing remained unopened. Whoever did this just threw stuff on the floor. The boys gave the room a quick once-over while I stood with my T-shirt pulled up over my mouth, trying not to gag. The area doubled as a living room and a bedroom, but it was hard to tell what the normal furniture arrangement had looked like. We all kept our noses covered when we went to the kitchen/dining room.

  A long-dead body was there, sitting slumped over a dining table in the center of the room. I could see no food, but the signs of drink were plentiful. Glasses and bottles were thrown in every direction, one more sign of the savage search. After a look-see, M1 waved us out of the back door where we could talk without puking.

  “Things are becoming serious, James. Now we know the kind of men we are tailing. Someone, and I think we know who, strangled the poor fish in there to keep him from talking. Although we don't have his picture, the corpse has to be Gunter. It's too bad he let Roy into his house. He and probably Carl tossed the place to make sure he had nothing that would document his story. They may also have been looking for any remaining gold. Other than his bar bill I don't imagine his expenses are all that great, but still, the money to sustain him for all these years came from those gold coins. We'll take a good look at the contents in the kitchen then go on to the cantina to talk to the bartender. I'll check Gunter's pockets, look for tattoos or whatever. You two go over the rest of the room.”