Finally able to relax, Becker laid his weapon to the side and touched the boar with his bare hands. There was something about a fresh kill – when the body was still warm and the blood had not yet dried – that satisfied something deep inside him, a primal urge that had been embedded in his DNA by long-lost ancestors who had hunted for food, not sport. Whether it was the adrenaline rush from the chase or the power he felt when he ended a life, hunting was the only time he truly felt alive.
Ironically, it was the thing that led to his death.
The first time Becker heard the noise, he didn’t know what it was. He paused for a moment, scanning the terrain, making sure another animal hadn’t smelled the blood and come looking for a meal. He knew these mountains were home to wolves and bears and a number of other creatures that would love to sink their teeth into a fresh chunk of meat – whether that meat came from a boar or a hunter. Either way, Becker was ready to defend his turf.
But he wasn’t ready for this.
Before he could run, or jump, or react in any way, the unthinkable happened. A loud crack emerged from the ground beneath his feet and the earth suddenly opened. Becker fell first, plunging deep into the man-made cavern under the forest floor. He was followed by dirt, debris and, finally, the boar. If the order had been reversed, Becker would have lived to tell the tale with nothing more than a few cuts and bruises because the massive boar would have cushioned his fall. But sometimes the universe has a wicked sense of humour, a way of correcting wrongs in the most ironic ways possible, and that’s what happened in this case.
A split second after Becker hit the ground, the boar landed on top of him.
Two tusks followed by 600 pounds of meat.
If Becker had survived the fall, his subsequent discovery would have made him a wealthy man and a hero in his native Germany. But because of his death, several more people would lose their lives as the rest of the world scrambled to discover what had been hidden in the Bavarian Alps and forgotten by time.
2
Saturday, 18 September
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Thirty feet below the surface of the Ohio River, the man probed the riverbed, hoping to find the object before a lack of oxygen forced him to ascend. He had been scouring the rocks for more than four minutes, which was a remarkable length of time to be submerged without air – especially considering the adverse conditions of the waterway.
Thanks to a mid-week thunderstorm that had caused minor flooding in the region, the current was unusually swift. It tugged on his shoulders like an invisible spectre. To remain in place, he had to swim hard, his arms and legs pumping like pistons. Eventually, his movements stirred up the sediment round him, turning the bottom of the river into a murky mess.
One moment it was as clear as vodka, the next it looked like beer.
Equipped with goggles that barely helped, he probed the silt for anything shiny. He found an empty can and a few coins but not the object he was looking for. Yet he didn’t get frustrated. If anything, his lack of success sharpened his focus and made him more determined. This was a trait he had possessed since childhood, an unwavering spirit that kept him going when lesser men would quit. A quality that had lifted him to the top of his profession.
A trait that made him dangerous.
In the darkness behind him, something large brushed against his feet. He turned quickly and searched for a suspect. Weighing over twenty pounds and nearly three feet in length, the channel catfish had four pairs of barbels near its nostrils that looked like whiskers. Known for their ugliness and indiscriminate appetite, the catfish swam next to him for several seconds before it darted away. All the while he wondered if the fish had swallowed the sunken treasure and was simply there to taunt him. During his years in the Special Forces, he had heard so many fish stories from navy personnel that he didn’t know what to believe. Even if only 1 per cent of them were true, then anything was possible underwater.
No longer distracted by the catfish, he continued his search. From the burning in his lungs, he knew he had less than a minute before he would have to surface – but he refused to do so empty-handed. With a powerful kick, he propelled himself closer to the riverbed, careful not to scrape himself on the rocks that dotted the terrain. Then, using his boat’s anchor as a starting point, he allowed the current to push him downriver for a few seconds so he could gauge its strength. Since it was strong enough to move him, a 240-pound man, there was no telling how far it might have moved the artefact. Ten feet? Twenty feet? Maybe even fifty? Or would its size and shape prevent it from being affected at all?
From experience he knew weapons sank fairly straight, regardless of the force of the river. Drop a gun or knife in a body of water, and it would sink directly to the bottom – even in a strong current. But something this small? He had no idea where it would land or what it would do when it got there.
In the end, all he could do was guess and hope for the best.
Careful not to stir up more sediment as he coasted along, he let the river guide him, hoping it would lead him in the right direction, praying it would take him to the treasure. With every passing second, his lungs burned more and more until it felt he had inhaled a flame.
Time was running out, and he knew it.
If he didn’t give up now, he would soon be dead.
Reluctantly, he tucked his legs underneath him, ready to launch himself from the riverbed, when he felt something metallic under his foot. Without looking, he reached down and grabbed it, then propelled himself towards the world above. Time seemed to stand still as he swam and kicked his way through the murky water, unsure where he was or how far he had to go until he reached the river’s surface. The instant he did, he gasped for air, filling his lungs with breath after breath until the burning subsided. Until he knew he would survive.
Then, and only then, did he notice the world around him.
The city of Pittsburgh to his east. The football stadium to the north.
And the crowded boat that had waited for his return.
‘So?’ someone asked. ‘Did you find it?’
Too tired to speak, Jonathon Payne simply nodded and lifted the lost bottle opener over his head. The instant he did, the partygoers erupted – not only would they be able to open the remaining bottles of beer, but most of them had wagered on the success of his mission.
‘Shit!’ shouted David Jones, who had lost big money on his best friend. Although DJ had served with Payne in the military and knew what he was capable of, he hadn’t thought anyone could find such a small object on his first dive into the murky river. ‘Hold up! Let me see it.’
Payne swam slowly to the boat and handed it to Jones. ‘Please don’t drop it again.’
‘What do you mean again? I didn’t drop it the first time.’
‘Well, someone did, and it happened on your watch.’
‘My watch? Why is it my watch? It’s your boat.’
Payne used the dive ladder on the back of his yacht to climb out of the water. Per tradition, he threw a party on the last weekend of summer to commemorate the end of the boating season. After today, his boat would be dry-docked for the cold months ahead.
‘As captain of this vessel, I’m putting you in charge of the bottle opener.’
Jones handed him a towel. ‘And what if I decline?’
‘Then you’re in charge of clean up.’
‘Screw that! I don’t do garbage. I’ll guard this opener with my life.’
‘Yeah,’ Payne grunted, ‘I had a feeling you’d say that.’
To the outside world, the two of them didn’t appear to have much in common, but that had more to do with their looks than anything else. Payne was a hulking six foot four with muscle stacked upon muscle, his white skin was littered with bullet holes and stab wounds, his brown hair perfectly dishevelled. He had the look of a gridiron legend, an ex-athlete who had lived his life to the fullest but still had more worlds to conquer. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he had decided to sharpen the handle and use it as a weapon, serving several years in the military until his grandfather died and left him the controlling interest of his family’s corporation.
Unfortunately, he had been craving adventure ever since.
Jones, too, was an adrenaline junkie, but he looked more like an office clerk than an officer. Known for his brain instead of his brawn, he possessed the wiry build of a track star, someone who could run a marathon without breaking a sweat but wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. Although his mocha skin and soft facial features made him look delicate, Jones was lethal on the battlefield, having completed the same military training as Payne.
In fact, the two of them used to lead the MANIACs, an elite Special Forces unit comprised of the top soldiers from the Marines, Army, Navy, Intelligence, Air Force and Coast Guard. Whether it was personnel recovery, unconventional warfare or counter-guerrilla sabotage, the MANIACs were the best of the best. The bogeymen no one talked about. The government’s secret weapon. And even though they had retired a few years earlier, the duo was still deadly.
‘By the way,’ Jones said, ‘I heard your phone ringing when you were underwater. What a fabulous ringtone. Is that a Menudo song?’
Payne growled and shook his head in frustration. A few weeks earlier, someone had figured out a way to change the ringtone on Payne’s phone through a wireless connection. No matter what Payne did to stop it – including purchasing a new phone and even changing his number – the culprit kept uploading the most embarrassing ringtones possible. Apparently the latest was a song from Menudo, the Puerto Rican boy band that had launched many pop stars.
‘Did you answer it?’ Payne asked, confident that Jones was guilty.
Jones laughed. ‘Of course not. I’d never touch your phone.’
3