‘Dr Howard.’
Jack stared at him. ‘Professor Raitz.’
‘Fortunately Rebecca had her passport on her and we were able to fly to Istanbul first class, a distinguished architectural historian and his new girlfriend. I told her we would kill you and Costas if she didn’t behave.’
‘Why are you doing all this?’
‘Because you have something I want.’ His voice was suddenly shrill. ‘Where is it?’
‘You can keep the Goebbels impression for the bathroom mirror, Raitz. It really doesn’t work.’
Raitz clicked his fingers, and Jack was suddenly winded, on his knees on the floor, unable to breathe. He gasped, then struggled up, staggering forward, feeling the throbbing pain in his back where the man behind had slammed into him. As he got up, he scanned the other side of the chamber, facing south-west. He could see another opening in the wall, with rubble in front. That must be it. The entrance to the tunnel. Costas should be there by now. Jack would stall for another few minutes. Then he had to take a gamble.
‘Now. Again,’ Raitz said, bringing his face close to Jack. ‘Where is it?’
‘Why do you want it, Raitz? Your own private collection?’
‘For the Fuhrermuseum,’ Raitz said quietly.
Jack pretended to stifle a laugh. ‘The Trojan swastika? The palladion? What does that have to do with the very dead little Austrian?’
‘It is the key to the greatest hidden art treasures in the world. I will find them, and they will be the centrepiece of my museum, to perpetuate the memory and vision of the Fuhrer for all time.’
‘And your colleague? The one I spoke to on the phone?’
Raitz looked nonplussed for a moment. ‘Of course. He has his own interests. Family interests. Gold, antiquities, not art.’
‘You and I need to talk about that.’
Raitz snapped his fingers again, and the man in the shadows beside Rebecca grabbed her arm and shoved the pistol closer. Raitz took out his own pistol from his overcoat pocket, a small Walther that he fumbled with and cocked. ‘Now. You tell me or Rebecca dies.’
‘You’re getting better at this, Raitz.’ Jack gestured back to the entrance. ‘You didn’t think I was going to come in here with it, did you? I needed to see that Rebecca was here. I’ve hidden it outside. I’ll go and get it. It’s in the black box, as we discovered it in the mine.’
Raitz snapped again. The man behind Jack grabbed him by the neck and pulled him roughly back. ‘Get it,’ Raitz said.
‘By myself. This man stays in here.’
Raitz gestured impatiently. The man let go of Jack, and then moved around in front of him. He was another Russian, like the ones in the mine, a thug. Rebecca had said there were two. The second one was holding the pistol to her head. Jack had seen no others. He turned back towards the entrance, making a show of staggering, still being in pain. He reached the edge of the rubble and pulled out the black box, and then turned and went back, holding it in front of him, displaying the Nazi swastika emblem. As he walked slowly toward the centre of the chamber, he saw out of the corner of his eye something in the dark entrance to the right. It was Costas. Jack looked hard at Rebecca, who stared at him, then he nodded his head, almost imperceptibly. She lowered herself to the ground until she was squatting on her haunches, hands pressed against her ears, head bent over and eyes closed, and began sobbing, loudly. Raitz stepped back towards her, waving his pistol. ‘Shut up, Rebecca.’ She kept sobbing and wailing. ‘Shut up!’ he yelled.
At that moment Jack saw Costas’ Beretta aimed out over the stack of ingots towards the man beside Rebecca. He would have a perfect head shot, with no risk of hitting her as long as she remained crouched, hidden from Costas’ viewpoint. They just needed to divert the man’s attention, to get him to take his aim away from Rebecca, even momentarily. Suddenly Costas bellowed, ‘Hey! Where’s Chechnya!’ The two men and Raitz spun round, and the man beside Rebecca instinctively raised his pistol, aiming it into the darkness. There was a deafening crack from Costas’ Beretta and the man’s head disintegrated, leaving his body slumping over the ingots, his pistol falling from his hand. In the same instant Jack slammed backwards, sending the man behind him reeling. He fell forward, kicked open the box and took out the Webley, rolling over and aiming at the Russian’s chest, low and right as Ben had said. He pulled the trigger and the revolver kicked up, the massive report echoing through the chamber. The man remained upright, staring, a dark patch spreading over the front of his shirt, the hole where the bullet had gone through his sternum clearly visible. Jack saw that he had a Spetznaz tattoo on his wrist. The man suddenly dropped like a stone, leaving a spatter of blood all over the stack of ingots behind him. Jack turned, and saw Raitz staring like a scared rabbit, the Walther dangling from his hand. In one lightning movement Rebecca kicked upwards, catching Raitz full in the crotch. He howled in pain, doubled over and dropped the Walther, which Rebecca snatched up and trained on him. Costas was already there, aiming the Beretta at Raitz’s head. He rolled on the ground, groaning, and then slowly raised himself. Rebecca had come round beside Jack, who took the Walther and lowered the smoking Webley. He hugged her briefly, then pointed her to the entrance Costas had come in through, away from any further bullets. As she went towards it, Raitz raised himself up on his knees. ‘Don’t shoot. Please. Please.’
‘Nobody aims a gun at my daughter,’ Jack said coldly.
‘I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. I never would have harmed her.’
‘Well then, I think we might have to let him live, Costas.’
‘Right-oh.’ Costas kept the Beretta trained.
‘Let me see,’ Jack said. ‘Attempted murder, extortion, kidnapping. On Turkish territory. That means a Turkish prison.’
‘No,’ Raitz whispered. ‘Not that. I’d rather die.’
Costas levelled the Beretta at his eyes, holding it with two hands and sighting it. ‘You’d rather die? Really? Have you got the guts to die?’
‘No, please.’ Raitz fell forward on his knees, sobbing. ‘Don’t shoot.’
Jack held the Webley ready. ‘Better still. We’re in a military zone. That means you come under the jurisdiction of the Turkish military. At least it’ll save you the public humiliation of a trial by jury. You’ll get a tribunal of Turkish officers. They’re good men. I know plenty of them personally. But I don’t need to call in any favours. They’ll see that justice is done.’
‘Just outside Diyarbakir, isn’t it?’ Costas said.
Jack nodded. ‘In the desert on the way to the Armenian border. Just about the worst place in the world. A sweathole in summer, freezing in winter. Maximum-security military prison. Murderers, psychopaths, homosexual rapists, that kind of thing. No human rights there, because the inmates barely count as human. You go in there, you don’t come out. Throw away the key. Simple as that.’
‘We can do a deal,’ Raitz said hoarsely, craning his head up, his eyes desperate. ‘I’ve got original documents, maps. Treasure maps.’
‘Das Agamemnon-Code?’ Jack said.
‘I know nothing about that.’
Costas waved his pistol. ‘We may as well kill him, Jack. This is getting us nowhere. Rebecca, block your ears.’
‘No!’ Raitz begged. ‘Please. I’ll tell you. In a safe in my house. Under the floorboards in the cellar. At the bottom of the stairs.’
Jack kept aiming. ‘Only the one document?’
‘Only one with those words. But there are more. Many more. Photos. Maps to bunkers. A treasure trove. Just don’t hand me over to the Turks. Please God. I can give you the key to untold riches. All the lost treasures of the Nazis.’
‘You mean in the other safe in the study? Or the one behind the bookcase in your office in the Courtauld? Our security guys are pretty adept lock-breakers, wouldn’t you say, Costas? Both safes empty now, I’m afraid.’
‘ Sheisse,’ Raitz muttered, staring at the ground. ‘Sheisse.’ He looked up at Jack again, suddenly defiant, tapping his head. ‘In here. Much more in here. I’ll do a deal with the Turks. Just like Schliemann did.’
‘Schliemann didn’t mess around with the Turks. They were the ones who were using him. Anyway, they won’t believe you, without documentation. And they won’t listen to you where you’re going. Just another insane Westerner babbling away in solitary confinement in a hellhole Eastern prison.’
