Dragon (35 page)

“I think,” Pitt murmured through his acoustic speaker, “we’ve just made a lot of people very happy.”

37

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G
ERMANS WERE
characteristically efficient. Within four hours, decontamination experts arrived and set up pumping equipment and laid hose into the treasure gallery. The poisoned atmosphere was quickly and safely drawn into a chemical tank truck parked on the surface. While the cleanup process was in operation, Reinhardt and his men deactivated the phosgene release mechanisms and turned the canisters over to the decontamination crew. Only then did the Navy divers carry their dead to waiting ambulances.

Next, a large aluminum pipe was fed through the opening in the ground like a giant straw and attached to a huge suction pump that soon began draining the water from the subterranean tunnel into a small nearby stream. An excavating crew appeared with their equipment and began digging into the original entry ramp leading down to the bunker that had been filled in at the end of the war.

Mancuso paced the bunker impatiently, stopping every few minutes and peering at the instruments that measured the decreasing levels of the poison gas. Then he’d move to the edge of the ramp and stare at the rapidly receding water. Back and forth, watching the progress, counting the minutes until he could safely enter the gallery containing the Nazis’ plundered loot.

Giordino, true to form, slept the whole time. He found a musty old cot in a former Luftwaffe mechanic’s quarters and promptly sacked out.

After Pitt made his report to Haider and Reinhardt, he killed time by accepting an invitation to a home-cooked meal prepared by Frau Clausen in her warm and comfortable farmhouse. Later he roamed the bunker examining the old aircraft. He stopped and circled one of the Messerschmitt 262s, admiring the slim cigar shape of the fuselage, the triangular vertical stabilizer, and the ungainly jet pods that hung from the razor knifelike wings. Except for the black crosses outlined in white on the wings and fuselage, and the swastika on the tail, the only other marking was a large numeral 9 painted just forward of the cockpit.

The world’s first operational jet fighter, it was produced too late to save Germany, though it scared hell out of the British and American air forces for a few short months.

“It flew as though the angels were pushing.”

Pitt turned at the voice and found Gert Haider standing behind him. The German’s blue eyes were wistfully gazing at the cockpit of the Messerschmitt.

“You look too young to have flown her,” said Pitt.

Haider shook his head. “The words of one of our leading aces during the war, Adolf Galland.”

“Shouldn’t take much work to get them airworthy.”

Haider gazed at the fleet of aircraft that sat in spectral silence in the vast bunker. “The government rarely provides funding for such a project. I’ll be lucky if I can keep five or six of them for museum display.”

“And the others?”

“They’ll be sold or auctioned off to museums and collectors around the world.”

“I wish I could afford to place a bid,” Pitt said yearningly.

Haider looked at him, the arrogance was gone. A canny smile curved his lips. “How many aircraft do you count?”

Pitt stood back and mentally totaled the number of jet craft in the bunker. “I make it forty even.”

“Wrong. It’s thirty-nine.”

Pitt re-counted and again came up with forty. “I hate to disagree, but—” 

Haider waved him off. “If one can be removed when the entry ramp is cleared and transported across the border before I take the official inventory…”

Haider didn’t need to finish his sentence. Pitt heard, but he wasn’t sure he interpreted the meaning. A Me-262 had to be worth over a million dollars in good restorable condition.

“When do you expect to take inventory?” he asked, feeling his way.

“After I catalog the contents of the plundered art.”

“That could take weeks.”

“Possibly longer.”

“Why?” Pitt put to Haider.

“Call it penitence. I was most rude to you earlier. And I feel obligated to reward your courageous effort in reaching the treasure, saving perhaps five lives and preventing me from making a blue-ribbon ass of myself and quite probably losing my job.”

“And you’re offering to look the other way while I steal one.”

“There are so many, one won’t be missed.”

“I’m grateful,” Pitt said sincerely.

Haider looked at him. “I asked a friend in our intelligence service to run a file on you while you were busy in the tunnel. I think a Messerschmitt two-six-two will make a nice addition to your collection and complement your Ford trimotor.”

“Your friend was very thorough.”

“As a collector of fine mechanical relics, I think you will give it the proper respect.”

“It will be restored to original condition,” Pitt promised.

Haider lit a cigarette and leaned casually against a jet pod as he exhaled blue smoke. “I suggest you see about renting a flatbed truck. By tonight the bunker entrance will have been widened enough to tow a plane to the surface. I’m certain Lieutenant Reinhardt and his surviving team will be happy to assist you in removing your latest acquisition.”

Before a stunned and thankful Pitt could say another word, Haider had turned and walked away.

Another eight hours passed before the massive pump suctioned off most of the water and the air in the gallery of wartime loot was safe to breathe. Haider stood on a chair with a bullhorn, briefing his staff of art experts and historians and a gathering of German government officials and politicians who wanted to be in on the discovery. An army of TV and newspaper correspondents was building in Clausen’s now ravaged lettuce field, demanding to enter the bunker. But Haider was under orders from his superior in Bonn. No entry by the news media until the hoard was surveyed.

Beginning at the steel door, the gallery stretched a good half a kilometer. The racks and bins were filled to the far wall and rose four meters high. Despite the water in the tunnel, the entry door had been sealed tightly and the concrete construction was of top quality, so no moisture had penetrated inside. Even the more delicate objects had survived in excellent condition.

The Germans immediately began setting up a photo and conservation laboratory, a workshop, and a records area. After the briefing, Haider moved into the art chamber and directed the activities from a prefabricated office hurriedly assembled and furnished complete with telephones and fax machine.

Unconsciously almost, Pitt shook his head and walked through the now dry tunnel with Mancuso, marveling that so much had been accomplished in less than twenty-four hours.

“Where’s Al?” asked Mancuso.

“Off scrounging a truck.”

Mancuso stared at him with an arched eyebrow. “Not thinking of absconding with a load of masterpieces, are we? If so, I don’t recommend it. The Krauts will shoot you down before you’ve cleared the farm.”

“Not when you have friends in high places.” Pitt smiled.

“I don’t even want to know about it. Whatever your evil scheme, do it after I leave.”

They passed through the entry door into the gallery and stepped into Haider’s closet office that was set off to one side. Haider waved them in and motioned to a pair of camp stools as he conversed in German over one of four telephones. He hung up as they sat down.

“I fully realize you have permission from Chancellor Lange to search for whatever it is you’re after, but before you begin digging through the bins and crates, I’d like to know what it is.”

“We’re only interested in art objects removed from the Japanese embassy in Berlin,” Pitt answered.

“You think they’re here?”

“There was no time to transport them to Japan,” Mancuso explained. “The Russians were encircling the city. The ambassador locked up the building and barely escaped with his staff into Switzerland. Historical records show the antique art that decorated the interior of the embassy was entrusted to the Nazis for safekeeping, and they hid it under an airfield.”

“And you think it may be included with the cache discovered here.”

“We do, yes.”

“Can I ask why the American government is so interested in lost works of Japanese art?”

“I’m sorry,” Pitt said honestly. “We can’t give out that information. But I can assure you our search poses no problems for the German government.”

“I’m thinking of the Japanese. They’ll demand their property be returned.”

“Possession is not our intent,” Mancuso assured Haider. “We only wish to photograph a few pieces.”

“All right, gentlemen.” Haider sighed. He gave Pitt a hard stare. “I trust you, Herr Pitt. We have an agreement. Do what you say, and I’ll guarantee to look the other way.”

As they left Haider’s office, Mancuso whispered, “What was he talking about? What agreement?”

“Recruitment.”

“Recruitment?” Mancuso repeated.

Pitt nodded. “He talked me into joining the Luftwaffe.”

They found the rack containing the inventory from the Japanese embassy about fifty meters back of the sculptured figures that once graced the museums of Europe. The Germans had already installed a string of lamps that ran off a portable generator, throwing light on the great hoard that seemed to stretch into infinity.

The Japanese section was easy to identify, the packing boxes having been marked by kana characters and handcrafted with far more finesse than the crude crates knocked together by the Nazi looters.

“Let’s start with that one,” said Mancuso, pointing to a narrow container. “That looks to be about the right size.”

“You spent time prospecting in Japan. What does it read?”

” ‘Container number four,’ ” Mancuso translated. ” ‘Property of His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor of Japan.’ “ 

“That’s a big help.” Pitt went to work and carefully lifted the lid with a hammer and pry bar. Inside was a small, delicate folding screen depicting birds flying around several mountain peaks. “Definitely not an island.” He shrugged.

He opened two more, but the paintings he pulled into the dim light were of a later period than the sixteenth-century master Masaki Shimzu. Most of the smaller crates were carefully packed with porcelain. There was only one more crate in the rear of the rack that might conceivably hold a painting.

Mancuso showed signs of stress. Sweat was glistening on his forehead and he nervously fidgeted with his pipe. “This better be it,” he muttered. “Or we’ve wasted a lot of time.”

Pitt said nothing but went about his work. This box seemed more heavily constructed than the others. He pried the lid and peered inside. “I see water. I think we’ve got a seascape. Better yet, it’s an island.”

“Thank God. Pull it out, man, let’s see it.”

“Hold on.” There was no ornate outer frame, so Pitt gripped the painting under its rear support and painstakingly eased it out of the crate. Once free, he held it up under the light for inspection.

Mancuso hurriedly pulled a small catalog showing color plates of Masaki Shimzu art from his pocket and flipped through the pages, comparing the photos with the painting. “I’m no expert, but that looks like Shimzu’s style.”

Pitt turned the painting around and studied the other side. “There’s some writing. Can you make it out?”

Mancuso squinted. ” ‘Ajima Island by Masaki Shimzu,’ ” he burst out triumphantly. “We’ve got it, the site of Suma’s command center. Now all we have to do is match its shoreline with satellite photos.”

Mechanically, Pitt’s eyes traveled over the picture Shimzu had painted four hundred and fifty years ago of an island then called Ajima. It would never make a tourist paradise. Steep volcanic rock cliffs towering above pounding surf, no sign of a beach, and almost total absence of vegetation. It looked barren and forbidding, grim and impregnable. There was no way to approach and make a landing from sea or air without detection. A natural fortress, Suma would have it heavily defended against assault.

“Getting inside that rock,” Pitt said thoughtfully, “is going to be damn near impossible. Whoever tries it will surely die.”

The triumphant expression on Mancuso’s face quickly vanished. “Don’t say that,” he murmured. “Don’t even think it.”

Pitt looked into the mining engineer’s eyes. “Why? Gaining entrance is not our problem.”

“But you’re wrong.” He made a weary swipe at the sweat from his forehead. “With teams Cadillac and Honda down the dumper, Jordan has no choice but to send in you and me and Giordino. Think about it.”

Pitt did, and Mancuso was right. It was all too clear now. Wily Jordan had been saving the three of them in reserve for a covert strike on Suma’s nuclear bomb detonation center.

38

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RESIDENT STARED
down at the open file on his desk. His face had a bleak expression as he looked up. “They really intend to set these things off? It’s not a bluff?”

Jordan’s face was impassive as he nodded. “They’re not bluffing.”

“It’s unthinkable.”

Jordan did not answer, but let the President gather his own thoughts. The man never seemed to change. He looked exactly as he did the first day Jordan was introduced to the newly elected senator from Montana. The same lean build, bright blue eyes, the same warm, outgoing personality. The incredible power never fazed him. He was polite and cordial to the White House staff, and seldom missed remembering a birthday.

“It’s not like we’ve ringed their islands with an invasion fleet, for God’s sake.”

“They’ve become paranoid because global opinion has suddenly come down on them,” said Donald Kern. “With China and Russia embracing democracy, the Eastern Bloc countries going independent, South Africa holding free elections, and the Middle East simmering on the back burner, world focus has fallen on the Japanese for going too far too fast.”

Kern nodded. “Their economic aggressiveness hasn’t exactly been tempered with subtlety. The more markets they conquer, the more hard-nosed they become.”

“But you can’t blame them for creating an economic world the way they want it to be,” said Jordan. “Their business ethics are not the same as ours. They see nothing immoral in exploiting commercial opportunities and taking advantage of trade weaknesses, regardless of the flak. The only crime in their eyes is any attempt to prevent their systematic progress. Frankly, we were no different in our overseas trade practices after World War Two.”