The Cathar Secret: A Lang Reilly Thriller (43 page)

     "Where?" Wynn-Three demanded. "I don't see her!"

     "Just on the other side of this hill," Heim comforted as he struggled to his feet.

     The boy said something Heim did not understand but it didn't matter. The snow Heim had displaced as he stood had revealed what he had stumbled over:

     The stump of an old tree.

     A double-trunk tree, one that, at its height, would have formed a "V."

     Heim frantically used his feet to scrape away snow where the wind had already made it thin.

     "I want my mommy," Wynn-Three sobbed.

     Heim stopped what he was doing to try to soothe the child before he became hysterical and difficult to control. "She should be here any minute. Wouldn't she be surprised if you have built her big snowman?"

     The little boy swallowed a couple of sobs and seemed to be considering the possibility.

     Then, with a child's literal thought, "You said you were
taking
me to
her.
"

     Heim put his arm around him, squeezing gently. "Either way, you see her in few minutes. Hurry, I'll get the snow, you build."

     The child appeared to be at least temporarily satisfied, scooping up the snow as Heim moved it around. In less than a minute, Heim's boot touched something that was not mountain rock, something linear. He bent over, using his hands to uncover a single rusted iron rail. Using his feet again, he followed the rail a few meters until it ended at the base of
what he had assumed was another windbuilt mound of snow, this one blown against a steep incline.

     Using his hands, he scraped away the snow to discover rocks blocking what had been a manmade hole in the sheer rock. Ignoring the tearing of the flesh of his fingers, he slid a hand between two stones and pulled. They would not budge.

     "When is Mommy coming?" Wynn-Three whined again.

     Heim pulled his right hand from its task and groped for the Luger. He no longer had need for the boy but then realized that the Luger would be too loud, too much chance of someone hearing the shot and coming to investigate. He had another idea.

     He squatted. "Come here and I'll whisper something in your ear."

     "No, you'll stand slowly and turn to face me."

     The voice came from behind him.

     Doing as commanded, he saw Otto and Gratz, the latter with a gun in his hand. The line of snow-covered boulders just down slope had hidden their approach.

     
"Danke, Herr Doktor!"
Gratz was smiling though there was no warmth in it. "Thanks for finding the mine for us. We'll take over from here."

     Heim thought quickly. "I thought the three of us would distract the child, so I brought him here myself after the old woman found him in the snow. I always intended to . . ."

     "Bad man!" Wynn-Three screamed, recognizing Gratz. "He's a
bad
man!"

     Gratz nodded, not taking his eyes off Heim, and Otto snatched up a kicking, struggling, crying Wynn-Three. "I'm sure you had honorable intentions,
Herr Doktor
, so honorable, I'm going to let you have the honor of removing those stones. But first . . ."

     Another nod to Otto who, one arm holding Wynn-Three, used the other to pat Heim down. He stepped back, the Luger in his hand.

     "And if your intentions were so honorable toward us, why did you need that antique?" he mocked.

     A glance from the doctor to Wynn-Three answered that question.

     Gratz tisked-tisked. "Shoot a child? But then, I suppose shooting a child in your earlier days would have been an act of mercy. Now, see what you can do about moving some of those rocks."

     Heim held up both hands, one bleeding from the abrasions it had received. "I have already tried. They are too heavy."

     Gratz nodded to Otto. "See if you can help the old man."

     Holding the collar of Wynn-Three's jacket with one hand and the pistol with the other, Gratz watched the two men struggle for a few minutes.

     He was looking down the slope, aware it was only a matter of time before someone, most likely the ski patrol, saw them from an angle not obstructed by the boulders. Then he heard a triumphant grunt.

     "It moved!" Otto said excitedly.

     Sure enough, Gratz could see one of the rough stones at chest level move slightly in response to the tugging of Otto and Heim. He was trying to decide whether to risk putting the gun away and helping when there was a grinding sound, and a rock the size of a soccer ball tumbled from somewhere above the men's heads, then another.

     "Look out!"

     The warning died in Gratz's throat as a top section of stones collapsed. Heim moved with a quickness surprising for his age. Otto was not so fortunate. With a sickening thump, one struck his head, knocking him flat in the snow, which was rapidly turning crimson from the gash in the man's forehead.

     "Bad man dead," Wynn-Three announced with unmistakable satisfaction.

     With an eye on the gun in Gratz's hand, Heim knelt beside Otto, feeling for a pulse.

     He looked up, shaking his head. "He is badly hurt. He will not survive without immediate medical attention."

     "Your concern is deeply touching but we do not have the time." Gratz gestured with the gun. Heim noted it was a Mauser, the same vintage as his own Luger. "Drag him over to those stones and help me stuff him inside before someone sees us."

     The cascade of rock had left a hole at the top of the pile of stone that just might have been large enough for a man's body. To get Otto through, Gratz needed both hands. He could not hold either Wynn-Three or the Mauser.

     Jamming his weapon into the top of his pants, he turned to the child. "You stay right here, understand?"

     "My mommy is coming," Wynn-Three said defiantly. "And you'll be sorry."

     The two men strained lifting the limp body and finally succeeded in pushing it through the opening.

     By the time Gratz had turned back around, Wynn-Three was a good twenty yards away and running as fast as his short legs would carry him through the loose snow. Gratz drew the pistol from his waistband.

     "Do not be stupid," Heim cautioned, pushing the weapon aside. "A shot on this side of the mountain will echo all the way into the town. You might as well call the police yourself."

     "But the child will talk . . ."

     It took Heim about three minutes to catch up to Wynn-Three. "Not if we keep him with us until it is more . . . convenient to dispose of him."

     "'We?'"

     Heim had the little boy and was dragging him back uphill. "We. You have two choices: you can shoot me here and now and bring every policeman and ski patrol within ten kilometers, or we can enter the mine together."

     Gratz nodded, not happy, but unable to think of a better plan. He took Wynn-Three from the doctor. "Very well. I will give you a boost up to the hole and see if you can wiggle inside. Then I will hand the boy through before I come."

     "Won't go!" Wynn-Three announced. "My mommy's coming."

     Holding onto the lip of the hole, Heim's feet pushed against the lower stones of the rough surface until his upper body was inside. His lower torso flopping like a freshly landed fish, he wriggled through, landing with an audible thud on the other side.

     "You all right?" Gratz called nervously.

     Indeed he was, well enough to be searching quickly through Otto's clothes until he found what he was looking for. He hardly noticed the man had stopped breathing and his skin was already chilled.

     Stepping back up to the stone pile, he stood on a rock so his face was at the opening. "All is well. Hand the child up."

     Wynn-Three easily fit through in spite of his wriggling and screams of protest. Holding onto the boy, Heim watched Gratz struggle.

     "I think I am stuck!"

     Heim had anticipated that an old mine shaft might well be dark. He snapped on a flashlight he had brought along. "I also think you are stuck."

     Though not too powerful, the flashlight was more than adequate to show Gratz's face getting red. "Take an arm, pull."

     "I will have to let go of the child."

     "Where do you think he will go? Pull!"

     Heim almost expected the pop of a cork leaving a bottle as Gratz's bulk, with Heim's assistance, finally squeezed through. He stood, gulping for air as though he had surfaced from a deep dive.

     Heim was already painting the walls with his flashlight. He stood aside, beckoning Gratz to lead the way down a gentle slope that ended in darkness. "After you."

     Too late, Gratz realized what was about to happen. His hand went to the Mauser stuck in his waistband but Heim already had the Luger he had taken back from Otto pointed at Gratz's head.

     Gratz started to say something when a neat, round, red hole appeared between his eyes and the sound of a shot bounced from wall to wall, seeming to move forward into the dark until after Gratz had slumped into a heap on the stone floor. The noise, as well as a scream from Wynn-Three, would be muffled efficiently by the mineshaft.

     Stepping over Gratz as though he were avoiding a pile of garbage, Heim played his light down the shaft, thinking. This would be a perfect place to dispose of the little boy, too. Unlikely any of the three bodies would ever be discovered.

     But.

     What if someone had noticed him and Wynn-Three on the lift?

     But.

     What if that somebody saw him return without the child?

     Better to take care of the little boy later. There must be hundreds of mountain lakes nearby, a thousand deserted valleys.

     The boy was near hysterical with fear. Heim shook him like a terrier with a rat. "Hush, you little shit! Another squeak out of you and you will join those two!"

     Wynn-Three had never been so addressed. Teeth clicked as he snapped his mouth shut, staring with terrified, tear-filled eyes. Heim snatched his hand and followed the beam of the flashlight.

     A few minutes later, the two entered a chamber so large the light did not reach the far wall. The ceiling, though, was barely four meters high. Rusty rails went off in four different directions, tunnels leading to different parts of the mine.

     Heim was sweeping the darkness with the light when something caught his attention. Keeping the light's beam steady, he focused on whatever had reflected it. Was that the glitter of gold? Dragging Wynn-Three, he took eager, rapid steps toward the object until he could make it out. Bending over, he nudged it with an exploratory foot.

     A strip of gold? No, part of a gilt picture frame. The other half was not far away, lying beside a wooden crate that was missing one side. The only thing of interest about it was the eagle stenciled on one side, its wings spread, its talons clutching a swastika, the seal of the Third Reich. With foreboding, Heim probed the darkness, revealing hundreds of similar crates, all open, all empty.

     But one, two, three smaller boxes of cardboard looked to be intact. With an eagerness bordering on desperation, Heim tore one open and gasped. It was stacked with neatly bound bills, currency. A bolt of excitement shot through his body, only to end in the dull pain of disappointment. Reichsmarks, the money of Nazi Germany. Totally worthless.

     The Allied Office of Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives, the Monument Men, had been here long ago. At the end of World War II, the volume of art, jewelry, antiques, and other valuables looted from Jews and conquered countries had been so immense that a special office had been set up in an attempt to restore the objects to their rightful owners. Or, more likely, the heirs of the rightful owners.

     Heim felt the weight of disappointment that seemed to press him downwards. If the Monument Men had been here, there would be nothing of value remaining. He felt a surge of rage toward Wynn-Three, the devil's child that had led him on this chase that had been as dangerous as it had been fruitless. He was gripping the Luger when he realized his irrational anger was about to overcome his earlier reasoning. There would be ample time to dispose of the child.

     Turning, he shuffled with the step of an old man toward the entrance, dragging Wynn-Three along.

Oberkoenigsburg

L
ANG REILLY WAS STUDYING THE MAP
of the ski area available at all lifts. The old man and child had been out of view so long, he was beginning to think there might be an alternate route down.

     But no, there was no access to the bottom other than the way up they had taken. Not without climbing the bare ridge at the top and jumping into the abyss.

     He was considering the possibility he had simply missed the pair on their way down when he caught sight of them. There at the top of the lift were a man and boy, the latter's face clearly visible but too far away to distinguish.

     Thankful to finally be doing something other than freezing, he quickly climbed the stairs back into the A-frame and stepped out onto the deck still crowded with sun-worshiping skiers. The view was slightly better than below but still too far away to make out the faces. Then he saw one of those ubiquitous coin-operated telescopes. There was one small problem: a woman who looked like a sack of potatoes in bulky ski wear was using the binoculars.

     Lang approached, clearing his throat.

     She paid him no attention, occupied with whatever she saw at the bottom of the lower lift.

     The pair in the chairlift were getting closer.

     "Excuse me," he said in German.

     No response.

     
"Mein Gott!"
Lang exclaimed. "Brad Pitt!"

     The woman spun around, as though she had suddenly been pinched on her ample posterior, expecting to see the movie star. "
Wo?
Where?"

     Lang jerked a thumb over his shoulder, neatly stepping up to the eyepiece. A bolt of excitement went through him like an electrical shock as he swung the scope around, centering on the chairlift. Now that the collar to the little boy's ski jacket was down there was no doubt. He was looking at Wynn-Three.