Driving a black SUV with German plates, the man pulled onto the grass near the side of the road and rolled down his tinted window. For the fourth day in a row, a helicopter had landed in the open field near the base of Zugspitze, the peak that towered above Garmisch-Partenkirchen. But unlike the previous trips, this chopper had arrived from the south.
More curious than alarmed, he grabbed the binoculars from his passenger seat and studied the strange scene at the foot of the mountain. No people. No trucks. No movement of any kind. Just a luxury helicopter sitting in the middle of a pasture, less than twenty feet from an unmarked trail. During the ski season, he was used to the uber-wealthy flying into town to enjoy the Olympic-quality ski slopes, but he had never seen this much activity in September. Obviously, something unusual was going on. But he didn’t know what.
Zooming in on the tail number, he hoped to determine the helicopter’s country of origin. From his time in the military, he knew every rotorcraft registered in Germany started with the letter D, followed by a hyphen and four additional letters. Yet this designation was different. Not only did two letters (HB) precede the hyphen, but three letters followed it. Although the 2-3 structure was fairly common around the world, he didn’t recognize the first two letters.
‘HB,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Where in the hell is HB?’
After jotting the five-letter code into his notebook, he pulled out his phone and called an associate who worked in customs at Berlin Tegel Airport, the largest international airport in Germany. His friend had access to the aircraft registration database and was willing to look up tail numbers for the promise of a free beer. All things considered, it was money well spent. For the price of the first round, he would learn the name and address of the helicopter’s owner. From there, he would be able to determine if this situation was worth pursuing.
That is, if this was even a situation.
Because right now it was just a helicopter in a field.
15
Halogen lights, powered by a portable generator that purred in the outer chamber, lit the back room like the afternoon sun. Within seconds, the temperature started to rise in the confined space. Not wanting to sweat like Ulster on their hike up the mountain, Payne removed his long-sleeved shirt and threw it into the corner, anxious to begin the next phase of their journey.
Using its rope handles, Jones and Kaiser carried a three-foot-square crate to the centre of the room where Payne waited with a crowbar. Muscles bulging against his undershirt, Payne slid the bar under the lid and popped it open with a mere flick of his wrists.
The feel of iron in his hands and the rumble of a distant motor reminded him of his teenage years in Pittsburgh. While most of his friends earned money by cutting grass or working the roller coasters at Kennywood Park, he had spent his summers slaving away in the brutal heat of his family’s factories. According to his grandfather, what better way to learn the business than from the bottom up? Picked on by all the union workers, his shifts were so long and gruelling it made his Plebe year at the academy seem easy by comparison.
Yet looking back on it, he wouldn’t have changed a thing.
Those summers had hardened him like steel.
Tossing the crowbar aside, Payne eased his fingers under the lid and carefully removed it. Like the van Gogh crate, the underbelly of the lid had been branded with the Ulster family crest. The guardian eagle looked particularly fierce in the glow of the halogen lights, as if the bird was furious about being sealed inside a box for more than sixty years. But none of the men – not even Ulster himself – cared about the coat of arms. Instead, their attention was focused solely on the contents of the crate. Eager to glimpse what was inside, the four of them crowded round the box like hungry orphans opening their only present on Christmas morning. Expecting to find famous paintings or fancy jewellery, they were crushed to discover a crate filled with nothing but old books and a stack of documents all written in German.
To Jones, it was the equivalent of receiving an ugly reindeer sweater instead of the video game he had been hoping for. ‘What the fuck? We flew all the way from America, and this box is filled with homework.’
Payne and Kaiser said nothing, but they were thinking the same thing.
Meanwhile, Ulster bent over the crate, hoping to determine why these items had been stored in a protective bunker since World War Two. Still wearing his latex gloves, he picked up the first object that caught his eye – a decorative, leather-bound journal embossed with Conrad Ulster’s initials – and flipped through its weathered pages. Having spent most of the night going through his grandfather’s papers, Ulster instantly recognized the handwriting.
‘What is it?’ Payne wondered.
Ulster shrugged as he scanned the text for clues. ‘Obviously I’ve never seen it before, but it definitely belonged to my grandfather. I think it’s some kind of daily log.’
Payne stared at Ulster. ‘Like a diary?’
‘Somewhat, but not really.’
‘Well, that narrows it down,’ Jones cracked.
Ulster glanced up at them to explain. ‘It has the structure of a diary – dozens of dated entries over a period of two or three years – yet it’s lacking personal reflection of any kind. Instead, it’s filled with a series of clinical observations, as if he was systematically searching for something in the surrounding hills. Unfortunately, I don’t know what he was looking for because most of his entries appear to be written in code.’
Jones took a guess. ‘Maybe he was looking for Hogzilla. I bet that fucker was alive back then. Probably got that big by eating Nazis.’
Payne rolled his eyes. ‘Why do you say stuff like that?’
Jones shrugged. ‘I get bored easily. Plus, I like pissing you off.’
‘Well, it’s working.’
He grinned. ‘I can tell.’
Payne took a deep breath, trying to remember why Jones was his best friend. At that particular moment, nothing came to mind. ‘If you’re that bored, why don’t you go and open the next crate? The sooner we know what we’re dealing with, the better.’
‘But do so carefully. There’s no telling what’s in here,’ Ulster pleaded.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle,’ Jones assured him as he walked towards the back corner. ‘And unlike some people I know, I won’t have to take off my shirt to use a crowbar.’
Payne glanced at Kaiser. ‘Please do me a favour and help him out. The only physical labour he’s performed all year involved Internet porn and a box of tissues.’
‘I heard that,’ Jones yelled from the back of the room.
Fighting a smile, Payne apologized to Ulster. ‘Anyway, what were you saying?’
‘If you give me a while, I might be able to put the code into some kind of context based on the other documents in this crate. But for all I know, it might be a total waste of time. He could have been charting Nazi patrols or planning a future escape.’
‘It’s not a waste of time.’
‘I meant in terms of finding additional treasure.’
‘Listen,’ Payne said as he crouched next to Ulster, ‘as far as I’m concerned, protecting your family name is the number-one priority here. Do whatever you need to do. If that means digging through this crate and looking for information, you have my blessing.’
Ulster stared at the journal in his hands. For as long as he could remember, he had hoped to discover a detailed account of his grandfather’s exploits during World War Two. Over the years, he had heard many rumours from secondary sources, but nothing had been supported by fact. Now, after all this time, he might have found the mother lode. As far as his family was concerned, the book in his hand was far more valuable than a crate filled with van Goghs.
‘Maybe for a little while,’ Ulster said sheepishly. ‘But please let me know if you need my assistance. I’ll be happy to answer any questions, particularly involving my grandfather.’
‘Jon,’ Jones called from the back of the room.
Payne signalled for him to wait. He would be there shortly. ‘The same goes for you. If you need anything, just let me know. Remember, we’re here for you, not for the treasure.’
‘Jon,’ Jones called a little bit louder, ‘you should see this.’
Payne growled in frustration. ‘In a minute. I’m talking to Petr.’
Ulster shooed him away. ‘Go! Tend to David. He needs you more than I. For the time being, I have everything I need: a box of books and my grandfather’s journal. I couldn’t be happier.’
Payne smiled, glad that everything had worked out for Ulster. He knew how much time and energy Ulster had put into the Archives and realized how quickly it would have fallen apart if his grandfather had conspired with the Nazis. Thankfully, that did not seem to be the case. Now Payne could shift his focus to the rest of the crates. If, as they expected, the crates were filled with heirlooms that had been hidden from the Nazis, Payne would love nothing more than to return them to the rightful owners. That simple act would make his entire year.
‘Jon!’ Jones yelled. ‘You need to see this now.’
Still annoyed by Jones’s earlier behaviour, Payne was tempted to make him wait another few minutes out of spite, but the urgency in his friend’s voice told him it was important.
‘What’s wrong?’ Payne grumbled.