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Suddenly my door opens and I'm blinking in the blistering midday heat.

Kellerman pulls me out of the car, and then Caleb. He's holding a large mallet with a rubber-coated head. He then goes around to the front and opens the door for Isabel. He smiles broadly as he escorts her to stand with us.

“Now, Ted, let's say this was one of your games,” Kellerman begins. “How would you get past this lock?”

“I thought you said this isn't a game,” I say sourly.

“Right you are!” Kellerman laughs. “Just trying to make things interesting for you.” He takes a small leather case out of his pocket and unzips it. “You know, most people would think a bolt cutter would work on that chain, but that's hard work. Or you could just cut a hole in the fence, but that leaves sharp pokey things, and I'd hate for you to rip your clothes getting inside.”

Kellerman holds out a key.

“Have you ever seen one of these?” he asks.

“A key? Yeah, I think I've seen a few.” I smirk.

Kellerman's face hardens. “I'm disappointed in you, Ted. This is a particular kind of key. Have you heard of a bump key?”

I shake my head.

“They're very useful. If you look carefully, they're cut in a very particular way. Each one matches a certain type of lock. I think this one should be perfect. Okay, here's the tricky part.”

Kellerman walks over to the locked gate and carefully inserts the key.

“You see, if you do this just right, you fool the lock into thinking the tumblers are lined up properly, for just enough time to—”

Kellerman takes the mallet and gives the key a sharp tap, simultaneously turning it to the right. There's a pop and the lock springs open.

“Hey! Got it on the first try. Not too shabby, huh?” Kellerman crows. “Let's get out of this hot sun, shall we?”

Kellerman pushes the heavy gate open, kicking up a cloud of dust.

I cough as I feel my mouth go dry.

Kellerman pushes us toward the hulking warehouse, lying silent and dark.

We approach the entrance and Kellerman reaches into his little leather case and finds a different bump key. Again he expertly turns the key, and the door opens.

“You know where I learned how to do this? YouTube!” laughs Kellerman. “You can find anything there, right?”

Kellerman pushes us into the building and closes the door.

Holding the key he took from me in front of him, Kellerman looks at the letter and number written on it. He motions to a bench by the door.

I peer into the blackness, which appears to hold hundreds of storage units. This could be it.

If we run in different directions and find something sharp to cut the zip ties, he'll never find us.

Kellerman is looking at a map of the various units on the wall, trying to locate Great-Uncle Ted's. Now is our chance.

Maybe our last chance.

“Run for it!” I yell, and the three of us break for the darkness.

I sprint ahead and find myself in a huge warehouse, corridor after corridor stretching in front of me, each one filled with sliding doors to storage units. I run, not daring to look back, praying that my friends have managed to make their way into the welcoming shadows.

I can hear Kellerman cursing and running somewhere in the distance. I turn a corner and sit down, my lungs bursting.

I need time.

I need to gather my thoughts.

I need to escape.

As I sit in the cool, empty warehouse, my eyes now completely accustomed to the dark, I can feel myself calm down.

So long as Caleb and Isabel are also hiding, I'll think of something. I look at the unit closest to me and note with satisfaction that the handle to pull up the door has a sharp edge. Something to avoid, normally (“Those things are dangerous! What were they thinking?”—every mother), but perfect for one thing: cutting plastic.

I position myself and begin to feel for the handle.

“Ted?”

My heart sinks. Somewhere a few rows over, I hear Caleb's tremulous voice.

“He's got me, Ted.” I think of Stan's knife and what he's threatened to do with it.

“Okay, okay!” I call out. “Where are you?”

Kellerman's voice answers, icy cold. “We're at C4. Isabel, I have to hear you as well, unless you want very bad things to happen.”

“Stop!” Isabel's voice echoes through the warehouse, filled with frustration.

I trudge a few rows over and see the arc of a flashlight beam shining back and forth. It settles on me, the brightness making me wince.

“Turn around and let me see if you're still nice and zip-tied,” Kellerman's voice commands. I do as I'm told. The light moves off me and finds Isabel. Her hair is coated in dust, and she stares back defiantly.

We rejoin Kellerman, who has his arm hooked around Caleb, the douk-douk open and ready. He does not look happy.

“That was a rookie move, Ted. Really stupid. You have a nice long life ahead of you unless you try something like that again.”

There is no trace of humor or “Uncle Stan” left in his voice. It's cold and hard.

Somehow, I like it better. I know where I stand with the person in front of me.

Kellerman marches us over to the side of the structure, walking along the wall until we come to a large metal box. He opens it and pulls a large switch.

Instantly, the warehouse floods with light from above. Kellerman flicks off his flashlight. He looks grimly at me. “Okay, let's do this. We're going to row P, unit 14.”

Sorry,
Caleb mouths at me.

Not your fault,
I mouth back, and bump shoulders with him. I'm just glad he's okay.

Counting over to the fourteenth door, Kellerman marches us over and puts the key into the lock at the bottom. He pulls at the door, and there's a deafening screech as the protesting steel grate eases up, revealing a small room. Clearly no one's been here in ages.

Like all the other units, this is nothing more than a concrete bunker, a simple windowless room made of concrete cinder blocks with a thin coat of paint slapped onto them.

Boxes are stacked all around, and signs from forgotten brands of snack foods and beer from the seventies lean against the walls. Shelving units rise high above our heads, holding cartons of old glassware and what look like plumbing supplies. A few cardboard signs advertise snack foods.

“He must have used this to keep the stuff from his store after he closed it down,” I observe, looking around to see if I can spot something—anything—before Kellerman does.

Kellerman pushes us rudely into the unit, flicks on the light switch, and pulls down the grate.

“In the unlikely event someone does decide to come and visit their belongings while we're here, this way we'll have some…privacy,” he states.

He turns to us and motions to the floor.

“Sit. The three of you. And not a word between you. Am I understood?”

We all nod meekly. My heart is thumping.

“This time, Ted. I asked nicely before, but now I'm not going to be so nice,” Kellerman said. “For the last time, what did your great-uncle tell you before he died?”

“It wasn't anything!” I plead. “I swear! I think it was never give up, never stop learning, there's always an answer…and…go for broke!”

“ ‘Go for Broke'—that was the motto of the 442nd Regiment,” Kellerman muses, scanning the contents of the room. “His unit, the one that made it to Austria. And then to Berlin. Where he acquired the thing we're looking for today.”

“Which is what, exactly?” asks Caleb.

“Ask your friend Ted,” Kellerman says impatiently. He walks over to a few cartons and pulls them open.

“Nothing but old liquor bottles,” he says. “It's got to be in one of these.”

Isabel turns to me. “What's he talking about? What did your great-uncle find?”

I look over with a scowl of frustration. “Look, if I knew, I'd tell him! All I know is what you know! He said there was treasure for me to find, but he never said what it was!”

Kellerman studies my face. “Say that again. And look me in the eye.”

I glare at Kellerman and repeat what I said.

Kellerman regards me for a long time. Then a faint grin comes to his lips. “You…you really don't know, then?”

Isabel studies my face for a moment and smiles despite herself. “You know he doesn't. I haven't known Ted that long, but I know he's a lousy liar. Unlike some people.”

“True enough, Isabel. I am a good liar. It comes in handy in my business.”

“I'm assuming it's a work of art of some sort,” I reason. “And something Great-Uncle Ted could move easily. That rules out a painting.”

“Not necessarily,” Isabel counters. “You can roll up a painting. Art thieves do it all the time. Right, Mr. Kellerman, or whatever your name is?”

“Paintings are quite portable, Ted, as your charming friend suggests,” Kellerman responds. “But we're not looking for a painting.”

He moves quickly around the room, tapping the walls, peering into the overhead shelves.

Then he turns to me and bends down. When he speaks, his voice has changed. All of a sudden he's speaking in an English accent, in a low, gruff voice, with a hint of a chuckle. “Mr. Gerson, have you any conception of how much money could be made from the object your great-uncle found?” Either Kellerman is imitating someone, a famous actor I've never heard of…or he's gone around the bend into crazyland.

Best thing, I think, is to play along. “No.”

Kellerman leans in even closer, so I can feel his breath on my face. “Well, sir, if I told you—by gad, if I told you half!—you'd call me a liar!” Kellerman looks from face to face, seeking something. Approval? “Nothing? No one? I guess we have no movie fans here. Isabel, I would have thought you—”

A gasping sound comes from the back of Isabel's throat. She stares in disbelief at our captor. “But…that's a quote from
The Maltese Falcon.
I mean, I knew that. But you're not suggesting…?”

“There was evidence. There were witnesses. People saw it. Even as careful as your great-uncle was, there were some who saw what he had.”

“But the falcon, it's not…It was just a story…,” Isabel stammers.

My fear is undermined by my irritation. “What are you talking about?”

Kellerman bows to Isabel. “The floor is yours, Miss Archer.”

“I told you guys back in the room, remember? In the book, the thing everybody is trying to find is a statue of a falcon, solid gold and covered in priceless jewels of every kind. But the writer of the book made that up!”

“Yes, he did,” agrees Kellerman. “You're absolutely right about that. There was no falcon—”

“So if there is no falcon, how could my great-uncle have taken it?” I demand.

“There was no falcon until 1941. The man Adolf Hitler trusted to loot the treasures of the invaded countries, his right-hand man, Hermann Goering, was a huge fan of mystery novels.
The Maltese Falcon
was one of his favorites. It has been rumored in certain circles that he came up with an audacious little scheme to enrich himself while acquiring items for the Reich. He made his own Maltese Falcon, encrusted with diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and whatever else he could pry out of jewelry intended for the Nazi cause.”

Kellerman pauses to let this sink in. Then, as he goes on opening cartons and peering inside, he continues: “If anyone noticed a few gems missing here or there, well, things get lost in transit. Over time, he amassed quite a collection, and he knew it wouldn't look very good if they were found in his possession. So he had the falcon made, of solid gold, like the one in the book, and had jewelers encrust the object. As a final piece of insurance, he coated the bird in black paint and then hid it among the other treasures in the salt mines of Altaussee.”

“How did you learn all this?” Isabel asks as Kellerman methodically moves two boxes aside to get to what's behind them. All of a sudden we see a display case, glass intact, which I guess once held candy, salty snacks, and cigarettes. Now it's coated in a fine layer of dust. Kellerman picks up a rag and begins to clean it.

“Good question. The jewelers he used were some of the finest in all of Europe.”

“So one of the jewelers talked?” Isabel says.

“Not exactly. You see, Goering made a deal with them: if they did the work, he'd fly them secretly to the United States. Instead, after they finished, he had them killed. Which wasn't so hard in wartime Germany.”

I'm getting tired of the history lesson, but I look over at Isabel, and it dawns on me what she's doing. She knows that every minute we can keep Kellerman talking is a minute in our favor.

Maybe my dad did figure out that something was wrong. Or if we stall long enough, maybe someone will come into the facility, notice the lights are on, and call the police. Anything is possible as long as we keep asking questions.

“So where does my great-uncle figure into all of this?” I ask.

Kellerman has most of the glass cleaned by now. Behind it, clearly visible, is a series of tiles set into the wall. Kellerman peers at them curiously.

“You have to understand, Ted,” Kellerman says as he pushes against the cabinet. “The Nazis were meticulous record keepers. That's one of the gifts they left to the Monuments Men. Every item, every painting and piece of sculpture, every tapestry and necklace was listed and cataloged in giant ledgers. All except one. The falcon. No one knew of its existence.”

The display case won't budge. Kellerman tries pushing harder, but it doesn't give an inch. His forehead is beaded with sweat. He kneels down, his chest heaving.

At last, he catches his breath. He turns to me with a smile.

“Goering was clever, but it didn't occur to him that the jewelers had wives, and children, and that the creation of this extraordinary thing would make for lively dinner conversations and bedtime stories. And even if he had thought of it, he would have assumed those people had perished in the death camps. But even though Goering himself died after the war, some of his victims survived. And rumors began to spread.”

Kellerman mops his forehead with a handkerchief. We look up at him like eager pupils. He's clearly pleased, and continues.

“Meanwhile, a German soldier takes the bird from the salt mines and brings it with him to Berlin. He is killed in combat, and a young American soldier finds a black statue of a bird that has fallen from the dead man's backpack and takes it as a souvenir. Just like thousands of other soldiers take Luger pistols or cigarette lighters or other trinkets.”

“And that man was my great-uncle,” I conclude.

Kellerman takes out his flashlight and peers under the display case. He feels around with his hand.

“Actually, that man was named Howard Brennan. He lost the bird to your great-uncle in a craps game.”

“A
what
game?” Caleb looks up. It's the first thing he's said since we've been brought into the unit. Clearly the word “craps” has sparked something in him.

“A dice game, Caleb. It's called craps. Don't ask me why,” Kellerman says, with a hint of the pleasantness that his voice contained before. Being this close to the end of his quest is obviously putting him in a better mood.

“There were witnesses. Other men in the game. It meant little to them, but once word began to spread that a statue of a bird had changed hands, those who were already searching for it tried to locate the new owner. Finding him was not easy. It took years and years to identify even his first name. Since, of course, he was known in the army as Ted, but was registered under his legal name, Takateru.”