The Secret Crown (2010) (10 page)

Kaiser shook his head. ‘I found nothing like that.’

‘I’m glad. We don’t want to find any Nazi symbols.’

‘What about the crates? Wouldn’t they be marked?’

‘Without a doubt. As I said, they branded everything - including people.’

The comment hung in the air like a black cloud, nearly as palpable as the stench from the outer chamber. Even though Payne, Jones and Kaiser had served in the military, none of them could fully comprehend the death and destruction of World War Two. It had swept across Europe like a deadly wave, leaving absolute destruction in its wake.

‘So,’ Payne said, trying to lighten the mood, ‘tell us about your epiphany.’

Ulster smiled. ‘I was wondering when you’d bring that up. Fortunately, this is the perfect time to discuss it. Please, if you don’t mind, can you show me the open crate?’

Payne walked into the right-hand corner and held his flashlight above the van Gogh crate. During the night, the lid had been closed to protect the paintings inside. ‘It’s this one here.’

Ulster reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of
XXL
latex gloves that he had to stretch and pull over his chubby fingers. When he was done, he looked like a surgeon ready to operate. ‘When you told me about this crate, I initially panicked. Not only was I familiar with the paintings, but I knew all of them had been lost during World War Two.’

Ulster paused for a moment while he opened the crate. Just as Payne had promised, the underbelly of the lid had been marked with the Ulster coat of arms. Even though he had been expecting to see it, its presence still took his breath away.

Jones cleared his throat. ‘Go on.’

Ulster blinked a few times. ‘Wait, where was I?’

‘You were talking about the paintings.’

Ulster handed the lid to Jones, and then thumbed through the canvases in the crate. ‘Late last night, once I had a chance to ruminate a bit, I realized something crucial about one painting in particular.’

‘Which one?’ Kaiser wondered.

Ulster pulled out the masterpiece and held it in the air. As he did, he admired its beauty. ‘
Still Life: Vase with Five Sunflowers
, painted by Vincent van Gogh in August 1888.’

Kaiser nodded. That matched the information he had learned from one of his sources. ‘Supposedly it was destroyed by fire in an air raid, way back in 1945.’

‘That is true,’ Ulster admitted. ‘But you’ve omitted the most important part of the story - at least as it pertains to my family. Where did this bombing occur?’

Kaiser shrugged. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’

Ulster grinned. ‘Ashiya, Japan.’

Payne furrowed his brow. ‘Did you say
Japan
?’

Ulster nodded. ‘It was owned by a Japanese industrialist.’

‘If that’s the case, how did the Nazis get their hands on it?’

Ulster grinned even wider. ‘Who said they did?’

Silence filled the back chamber as they waited for Ulster’s explanation, each of them wondering how a painting from Japan, believed to be destroyed in World War Two, had ended up in a secret bunker in Bavaria. Anxious to clear his grandfather’s name, Ulster explained: ‘Even though Germany and Japan were Axis powers, their relationship was based on a common enemy and little else. Other than a few diplomats stationed near Tokyo, there weren’t many Nazis in the Far East. Ground troops were far more valuable in Europe.’

Payne, who had a great understanding of the war from his Naval Academy education, nodded in agreement. ‘Japan wanted to control the Pacific. Germany wanted to conquer everything else. Their alliance was one of convenience, nothing more.’

‘If that’s the case, how did the painting end up here?’ Kaiser asked.

Ulster returned the masterpiece to the crate before he answered. ‘Towards the end of the war, Japan was repeatedly warned about an Allied super-weapon, capable of wiping out an entire city in a single blast. Fearing the destruction of their most important treasures, members of the Japanese upper class scrambled to protect their assets. Those who doubted the rumours hid their heirlooms in basements and bank vaults, more concerned about invading troops than atomic bombs. But those who believed the stories about the bomb made arrangements with men like my grandfather who were willing to protect their treasures until after the war.’

Payne grimaced. ‘Why didn’t you mention that last night?’

‘Why? Because I didn’t have any proof. Over the years, I’ve heard dozens of stories about my grandfather’s escape to Switzerland in the early 1930s. I know he returned to northern Austria and southern Germany a few years later and helped many of his friends get to safety, leading them through the Alps to evade Nazi patrols. According to my father, the people who made the journey weren’t allowed to bring anything with them except the most basic supplies. Everything else - heirlooms, artwork, jewellery - was stashed before they left.’ Ulster glanced around the bunker, wondering how something so large had been built without detection. ‘That’s what this place was for. To protect the treasures that were left behind.’

Payne rubbed his eyes, still not understanding Ulster’s happiness. As far as he could tell, they still faced a major uphill battle to clear his family’s name. ‘Please forgive my scepticism, but where’s your proof? Right now all we have is a crate filled with artwork that may or may not have been looted by your grandfather and fifty other crates filled with God knows what. Obviously I’m on your side and willing to give your family the benefit of the doubt, but the rest of the world is going to require a lot more evidence than a few anecdotes from the war.’

Ulster smiled, hoping to ease his concerns. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’

‘Really? Then why are you so damn happy?’

‘As I mentioned earlier, I lacked tangible evidence at the time of your call, but things have since changed. Fearing the worst, I spent the entire night going through my grandfather’s papers, searching for anything that had to do with Japan. Early this morning, about an hour before my departure, I stumbled across a folder filled with correspondence from the rightful owner of the van Gogh. Suffice it to say, my grandfather was named legal guardian of the painting way back in 1945, and he figured out a way to smuggle it overseas. Once my lawyers sort through the paperwork, we will formally return the painting to Japan.’

‘Hold up,’ Payne growled. ‘That doesn’t make any sense. Why would someone smuggle a work of art
into
Nazi Germany? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.’

Ulster laughed. ‘I thought the same thing until I read through the correspondence. Towards the end of the war, most Japanese shipping lanes were blocked by Allied troops, so there was very little getting in or out of the country. That is, except for a distribution channel from Tokyo to Munich controlled by the Nazis. Apparently, this was how German diplomats and their supplies were ferried back and forth between Europe and the Far East. I’m not sure who thought of it - whether it was my grandfather or the man who owned the van Gogh - but they forged Nazi paperwork and used their route to get the painting out of Japan.’

‘That’s awesome,’ said Jones, who loved hearing stories about the war, especially when the Nazis were made to look like fools. ‘What happened then?’

‘If you look at a map, this bunker is between Munich and the Austrian border. If I had to guess, my grandfather didn’t want to subject the artefacts to an arduous trip across the Alps, so he stored them here. Sadly, he must’ve passed away before he had the chance to retrieve them.’

Kaiser pointed towards the open crate. ‘What do you know about the other van Goghs? Did you find their paperwork, too?’

‘To be honest, I didn’t have time to look. The paperwork from Japan stood out to me because it was so different from all the others. Once I get back to the Archives, I’m sure I’ll find documentation for all of the other artefacts - now that I know what to search for.’

‘And what if you don’t?’ Payne asked.

A look of determination filled Ulster’s face. ‘If I don’t, I’ll use every source I have to track down the names of the rightful owners. Thanks to my grandfather, these artefacts have survived the war. The least I can do is honour his memory and finish what he started.’

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.

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.’