David Gibbins - The Mask of Troy

‘We will provide you with security. They call themselves Totenkopfe, after the Nazi death’s-head units. But they are mainly Russians. Ex-military. Mercenaries. Thugs for hire.’

‘They will do any dirty work.’

‘You need have no worry. That is out of your hands.’

‘There will be no killing?’ Raitz asked anxiously.

Saumerre peered at him, his eyebrows raised. ‘My friend. You forget your heritage. Your legacy. Why you are here.’ He paused, then put a hand on his arm. ‘As I said. You need have no worry.’

‘These Totenkopfe. They can be controlled?’

‘The ones you will see will be mere employees. Their leaders are united by their common allegiance to your cause. They swear to uphold the Nero Decree, Hitler’s order to destroy Germany, to have the thousand-year Reich or nothing. But this of course is fantasy. We have used them before in our business dealings in eastern Europe, and have found them more than willing to forgo ideology if the stack of gold bars is high enough. And this time it will be higher than any they have ever seen.’

‘And what if we don’t find it? Who do they blame?’

‘Business is about risks. You modify your plans. But that will not be necessary.’

‘Will there be anyone else?’

‘I believe you will be assisted by a colleague. By several colleagues.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The place you will be going may require technical expertise. Skills that few have to the level required.’

‘These are your people too?’

Saumerre looked at his watch. ‘Exactly twenty-four hours from now, you will know.’ He paused, looked round, listened, then opened his coat and withdrew the document case. ‘And now for what you want. On the twenty-ninth of April 1945, Adolf Hitler issued his final will and testament from his bunker in Berlin. We know you have often spoken of it, to sympathizers, to the secret network of friends you have developed over the years, others who share the same legacy, the same passion. That’s how we came to know of you. We were seeking just such a man.’

‘Go on.’

‘When my contact told you to meet me here, the message said that I would pass on all that you needed to realize the dream, to create the museum the Fuhrer so craved, to fulfil his legacy.’

‘Yes. Yes.’ Raitz gripped Saumerre’s arm tight, his eyes blazing. ‘A secret museum in Bavaria, in the mountains he so loved. A shrine, a rallying point for all those who carry on the dream. A Fuhrermuseum, reborn.’

‘This document is genuine. You can subject it to all the tests you want. You have all the laboratories of London at your disposal, a scholar of your influence. But you have my word. It was typed in duplicate in the Fuhrerbunker by Adolf Hitler himself, then handed over to Martin Borman for dispersal. It’s dated the fourth of April 1945, less than four weeks before the Fuhrer took his own life. One copy went by motorcycle courier towards Holland. It has never been found. Another went to somewhere near the labour camp where my grandfather worked. He found it on the body of a German officer, and kept it secret all this time, finally revealing it to me only this year, just before his death.’ Saumerre pulled the envelope out, hesitated, then passed it to Raitz, who took it and quickly concealed it under his coat. ‘It has what you want, for your dream. But now. When we contacted you, we asked about anything you might have seen with that swastika on it, the counterclockwise swastika. You said you had something for us?’

Raitz pulled out a scrap of paper from his pocket. ‘A former Dutch antiquities dealer. Became a police informant. Rebecca Howard contacted him too, because he had an interest in Durer. When Interpol used me as a consultant I insisted that they send me all of his papers, for my eyes only. I already knew of him for his interest in Schliemann’s treasures. My instinct was right. He had hundreds of Nazi documents. And one, one only, had the reverse swastika on it.’

‘I must know. Where is this document?’

‘In a safe in my house.’

‘Is it a map?’

‘It’s some kind of plan, a route. Perhaps underground. The Dutchman may know more. He has gone into hiding.’

‘Then that is it,’ Saumerre whispered. ‘I was right, when my grandfather told me the story. He said he had spoken to Jewish inmates who had worked underground. I knew it was in a mine. Our preparations have not been in vain. Guard the document with your life. We will be in touch.’ Saumerre turned to go, but Raitz kept hold of his arm, stopping him.

‘One question.’

‘What is it?’

‘The Nazis always gave top-secret directives names. What did they call this one?’

‘Look at the top.’ Saumerre shook away the hand, straightened his coat and walked away, out of sight towards the museum entrance. Raitz glanced around, then quickly unzipped the bag and pulled out the document inside, reading the Gothic letters in red he had glimpsed earlier. Further down, he saw the reverse swastika, a platinum colour. And the words under it. He gasped.

Das Agamemnon-Code.

The Agamemnon Code.

He stood motionless for a moment, staring at the case in front of him, in a daze, looking beyond the pottery, the jewellery, the broken swords and arrowheads, seeing only in his mind’s eye what had once mesmerized him in another museum, years before in Athens, the great golden mask that had been raised from a royal tomb more than a hundred and thirty years ago. He was thinking again what he had thought then. What did Heinrich Schliemann really see when he raised the Mask of Agamemnon?

Back then, standing in front of that mask, it had been idle speculation, the dream of a student. Now it was part of a deadly path he was on. A path that would burn his name in history. A path that would raise again the glory of the Reich.

He closed the bag and held it under his coat, as if it were the greatest treasure ever found. He hardly dared think of the signature he knew must lie at the bottom of the document. Soon, he would touch it. That name.

The signature of a man whose will would be done.

Heil, mein Fuhrer.

F ifteen minutes after Costas had left him on the foredeck of Seaquest II, Jack walked into the conference room below the bridge and pulled the door shut behind him. About thirty of the ship’s crew and scientific personnel were seated on plastic chairs facing a table with a laptop computer and an old-fashioned overhead transparency projector. On the wall behind it was a screen showing the British Admiralty chart of the north-east Aegean, with their position highlighted. Jack reached the front and turned round. Costas was seated at the far left of the front row, talking with two of his submersibles technicians, but he stopped when he saw Jack and leaned forward intently. Seated directly in front of Jack was Dr Jacob Lanowski, their CGI simulations expert and all-round genius, the main reason for the briefing. Lanowski was staring expectantly at Jack through thick round glasses, nervously sweeping his long lank hair from his face, clutching a sheaf of notes and transparency sheets. Jack smiled at him, glanced at his watch and held up his hand. ‘Captain Macalister tells me we have twenty minutes before the ship is fully stabilized over the site and the docking bay is ready. Costas and I will be doing the dive, but this is a team effort and every one of you is a part of it.’

He turned and aimed a light-pointer at Troy on the map. ‘I called this briefing mainly to let Dr Lanowski give us a run-down on the bathymetry and sedimentology. But some of you are recent arrivals and still don’t know the reason we’re here, so I want to spend a few minutes talking about that. And there’s a connection with what Dr Lanowski’s going to tell you, an incredible connection. Even I haven’t had the full picture yet.’ He beamed at Lanowski, who looked around, smiling awkwardly at the others, before dropping his sheaf of papers and scrabbling to pick them up. Jack glanced at Costas, who had raised his eyes to the ceiling. Not for the first time Jack wondered if their resident genius would last the course.