The Schliemann Legacy (5 page)

"However, I have my own theory on that . . ."

Katrina stopped paying attention to what the man was saying. Watching the professor fascinated her more than listening to his words. The small, gray haired man had become more and more animated as he warmed to his audience. Unable to remain seated, Milner stalked about the tent, his hands flying in all directions as he spoke. His cultured English accent was at odds with the wide eyed expression and elaborate gestures. Perspiration ran down the man's cheeks and into his bushy beard. As he paced briskly across the canvas floor, loose dust floated from his hair and stuck to his face like pancake makeup. The professor looked like a comical silent film star as he described the man he had deified.

"And what happened to the treasure after Schliemann smuggled it into Greece?" George asked.

The question broke the logical stream of the lecture, leaving the professor mildly flustered. Deflated for the moment, he returned to his chair. "Well, this does jump ahead several years, you understand. The treasure remained hidden in Greece for a time. Schliemann distributed the various pieces to his wife's relatives for safekeeping. She was Greek, you know. When the Turks finally agreed to a price for the artifacts, Schliemann paid them five times the contracted price. Fully five times! That was the kind of man he was. And yet, people still call him a thief. Generous, I call him. I'd like to see what the Turks would have done in his place."

Milner sat quietly for a second and then shook his head. Looking embarrassed, he hurriedly continued. "In any case, Schliemann was now free to display the treasure. He took the collection to several places around the world, but eventually he became dissatisfied with its promotion. A feeling which, by all accounts, was justified. He decided to return to Germany.

"All the time the treasure was on display, Schliemann was trying to get back into the good graces of the German government. He wanted the recognition that had always eluded him in that country. As a bribe to the government, he donated the entire collection of artifacts to Germany. Schliemann brought the treasure to Berlin in 1881 and displayed it in the Berlin Ethnological Museum. The treasure remained in the city until the war. The Second World War, that is."

Milner again stood and paced about the tent. The mysterious look on his face made Katrina smile.

"The treasure disappeared during the war. Just vanished," the professor said, snapping his fingers. "Of course, there are many theories about where it went. The Russians were the first to arrive at the museum's underground bunkers. They may have secreted the treasure away to avoid splitting it with the Allies. Most believe the Berlin bombings buried the collection. Personally, I think the Russians took it and melted it down. Either way, it seems to be gone forever."

The professor droned on for another twenty minutes before George finally rose and shook the professor's hand. "Well, thank you, Professor. You've been very helpful."

Milner sat down in his chair and stared at George. Once again, he put his fingertips together. "I ask myself," he said, "why would an official of the Greek government come all the way out here to discuss Schliemann and the treasure of Troy? You had a long, hot drive from Athens - too long and too hot. I have heard that Greek Intelligence prefers an oral report from a so called 'authority' over more pedestrian forms of research. You Greeks always have enjoyed a good tale, haven't you? And yet, why would Schliemann and the artifacts from Troy - a treasure that disappeared forty years ago - interest Greek Intelligence? Has someone rediscovered the treasure?"

"As I said, thank you, Professor. We have taken up enough of your valuable time." George motioned at the activity through the tent door. "I wouldn't want to be responsible for keeping you from your dig. I will mention your consideration and
continued cooperation
to the proper officials."

Milner looked from the smiling man to the ruins. He had dealt with foreign governments long enough to recognize a threat when he heard it. Even one so veiled in niceties. Continued cooperation! British law required him to report anything such as this to the government. However, as a dedicated archaeologist, he had to consider his personal future in Greece.

Professor Milner nodded at George and smiled.

* * * * *

George stopped at a seaside café on the way back to Athens. Following the accepted Greek tradition, Katrina and he ignored the menus and wandered into the kitchen. The chef greeted them like relatives and beamed as George circled the huge tub of hot water. Peering through the steam at the various pots sitting in the water, George complimented each dish. The chef devoured the praise. George sampled the contents of several pots and ordered his meal. By the time he led Katrina out of the kitchen, he and the chef were fast friends.

The waitress placed the obligatory glasses of water and small cups of Turkish coffee on their table. After she left, Katrina cursed at George. "Damn you, that old professor was right. You do know where the treasure is."

George just shrugged and smiled. Katrina glanced off into space, dreaming about finding the treasure. Lord, to bring those artifacts back to Greece. The history they represented, the history they substantiated. They represented Greece at its best. How could anyone resist such an opportunity? "Where are the artifacts?" Katrina demanded.

"
We
don't know, but Henri Mardinaud does. Or so he says."

"That fat bastard? I've heard of him. Will I have to deal with him?" Katrina asked.

"I'm afraid so. But don't rely on rumors. In person, he is much worse. Your meeting is tomorrow. You fly to Munich tonight."

The waitress brought the food and George quickly sampled everything. He clasped his hands together and held them to his heart. The grinning chef gave the waitress a loving shove and pointed at George. The white clad man looked elated as he walked back into his hot kitchen.

"How did I get this job?" Katrina asked.

"You deserve the chance. I know Alex's death was not your fault - even if Stefandis won't admit it. Katrina, you have done excellent work in analysis. You deserve another chance in the field. I'm just glad you stayed with us."

Katrina looked down at her food. "Your confidence means a lot to me. I must admit, I considered quitting. Possibly even emigrating somewhere if they'd let me." She was silent for a moment before looking back up at George. "Who am I working with?"

George told her through a mouthful of food. When she asked him to repeat himself, he swallowed and said, "Nobody."

"What? I'm going out alone?"

George heard the catch in her voice and again worried about her confidence. "That's the only way Stefandis would agree to your reactivation," he said. "He doesn't care if you find the treasure. And, frankly, he would be overjoyed if you failed." George patted her hand and looked into her eyes. "Prove him wrong, will you?"

Chapter 5 - PARIS

Duman loved wearing leather-soled shoes in Paris. Nothing compared with their slap on wet cobblestones. The rain had stopped early in the afternoon, but the pavement was still damp. Small puddles, scattered here and there, added a faint splash to the slap. The sound relaxed him and added to his excellent disposition. Today was sure to be profitable.

Less than two hours ago, he had received a carefully routed communiqué from Henri Mardinaud. The fat Frenchman had used a network usually reserved for emergencies. Apparently, the information broker thought he had something of importance. What Mardinaud was doing in Germany, Duman could not guess, but he would fly to Munich this evening to find out. That left time to run a small errand for Chanda before leaving for the airport.

Duman paused in front of a small shop and examined his reflection in the window. His complexion, unusually light for a Turk, blended well with the tinted hair. However, the bearded jaw made him look older than his thirty one years. He would be happy to leave Paris and discard the identity, even if it meant leaving Chanda behind. Until then, Charles Davoust wore a beard and today, Duman was Davoust. Requiring many identities was just one of the prices he paid for his vision of a free world.

Duman stepped away from the window, continued along Rue de la Ferronnerie, and stopped in front of number eleven. Although the building looked ordinary, it was special to Duman. For him, this visit was almost a religious experience. He had several such personal shrines throughout the world. He gazed at the structure and remembered its history.

In 1610, François Ravaillac, a schoolmaster and mystic, had assassinated King Henri IV in this small home, committing one of the most significant acts in the history of the common people. Alone, the small man had demonstrated the way of the people - violence. It was the same course Duman continued to tread, walking in the footsteps of the great men in history.

Duman believed in the common people and their right to rule their own destiny. But he knew the common people could not achieve this goal without help. Oppression kept them weak, too consumed with daily survival to fight. They needed the strength only he could provide. He would seed the way to victory.

The Turk had dedicated his life to the struggle for universal freedom - his every action designed to rid the world of its oppressors. In small nations like Haiti and Jamaica, he supplied the political gangs with weapons and expertise. In the streets of the so-called superpowers, his hidden armies spread hatred and bitterness, massing for the final revolt. The battle would be long and required violence and shock.
Terror
! Someday, Duman knew, he would be a hero of the people, just like François Ravaillac. He possessed the drive, the skill and the patience.

Reluctantly, he continued down the street. Although this area north of Ravaillac's home was unfamiliar to him, Duman enjoyed the peaceful quiet of the pedestrian only streets. He didn't really mind running this errand for Chanda. He knew she was busy with school right now, her studies proceeding faster than even she had hoped. Duman enjoyed doing little things for her. He was proud of his young beauty and she gave him the pleasure he could not easily find.

Not that Duman ever allowed himself the luxury of falling in love. What he felt for Chanda fell far short of love. Love required too much trust. Chanda was a convenience. He provided her with an apartment and lived with her whenever he was in Paris. He considered the relationship a worthwhile and acceptable risk.

Duman skirted the crowds at the main entrance of the Square des Innocents. His dislike of crowds and persistent caution sent him around to one of the smaller alleys. He stopped himself as he started to step into the crowded square. A sudden unease crept along his spine and his hand sought the reassuring bulk of the Mauser under his coat.

Church bells tolled the hour. Duman jumped. Every nerve in his body screamed in warning. Duman remembered his unfamiliarity with the streets - the unfamiliar
pedestrian
streets. He edged into the shadows of the alley and scanned the square.

Chanda had sent him here, he reminded himself. He had come willingly, as a favor to her. But now, he could see the men who did not belong to the street, neither tourists nor locals. Like him, they wore coats on this warm summer day. Beneath those coats, Duman was certain they carried Model D MAB pistols, the preferred gun of the DST, the group responsible for antiterrorist activity within France. He spotted five agents.

Duman cursed himself for not suspecting Chanda or this location. Had the conspirators sent him to a deserted area, he would have fled immediately. Instead, the DST had risked many innocent lives to capture him. Was the French government that desperate to quell the anger of a panicking public? The plan was frightening in its audacity. Only Alain, the director of the DST, would have the nerve to order such a move.

They had played him expertly and he had almost stepped into their trap.

He started to edge back down the alley. Suddenly, a DST agent stepped out of the bright sunshine of the square into the alley. He noticed Duman's movement and squinted into the shadows. Duman yanked the Mauser from its holster and fired twice. The noise was deafening. The first bullet shattered the man's skull, killing him instantly. The second bullet hit his right shoulder and sent him twirling back into the square.

Women began to scream. In seconds, panic spread through the square. People scattered, trying to escape. The screaming masses blocked the DST men. Their urgently shouted commands and brandished guns only added to the frenzy. By the time they reached their fallen comrade, Duman was emerging onto Boulevard de Sebastopol.

Sprinting to the edge of the busy street, the terrorist looked for a car to steal. He knew the DST men were close behind, but the bumper-to-bumper traffic left him no escape. Sirens wailed in the nearby streets. Vaulting the hoods of the stopped cars, Duman crossed the road in seconds. Just down Aubry le Boucher, the Turk could see the Beaubourg and salvation. Hundreds of people wandered on the front lawn of the art gallery, watching the varied entertainment. Duman holstered his gun. He did not want panic, not yet.

The terrorist worked his way into the throng and watched the DST agents fall in behind him. Protected by the crowd, he searched for his target. He moved in front of two young street musicians and stopped behind a homely woman dressed in a bulging, white pantsuit.

The musicians were playing Claude Bolling's
Picnic Suite
, one of Duman's favorite pieces. Moving to the fluid music, he slipped a knife from under his pant leg, turned, and smiled at the DST. Frantically, they worked toward him through the milling crowd.

Duman grabbed the woman in front of him, wrapped his left hand around the woman's forehead, and drew the blade across her throat. Bright red blood gushed from the gaping wound and soaked into the white cloth. Duman held the woman by her hair and displayed her to the crowd.

The earlier hysteria in the square was mild compared with the bedlam created on the lawn. People ran in all directions, trampling others in their haste. The DST lost Duman in the crush.