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Germany
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Maxie had not been mistaken in identifying Maddock’s annoyance during their phone conversation, but he had misread its underlying cause. Maddock, who had received the call well after midnight, had been speaking in front of an audience. He, Leopov and Petrov, were sharing a hotel room, and while the others could not hear Maxie’s side of the conversation, Maddock had chosen his words—and his tone—deliberately to avoid revealing too much to the others, or more precisely, to Petrov.
As Bones had intuited from Maddock’s cryptic Star Wars reference, Maddock did not completely trust that luck had been the deciding factor in their escape from Telesh’s villa. The mere fact that the Russian gangster had left them alone and unguarded in their makeshift prison was suspicious enough to make him think that Telesh might be tracking them somehow in the hope that they would lead him to Lia Markova. That was one reason for his decision to delay a reunion with the rest of the team in order to pursue the myth of Helen’s Charm across two continents.
From the ruins of Hisarlik, they had flown to Berlin to visit the Pergamon Museum, where Priam’s Treasure had been displayed until World War II. A helpful docent reiterated the tale of how the artifacts had come to the museum, and subsequently been lost, but was not able to provide any deeper insights. When the Red Army had seized the treasure from a secure bunker under the Berlin Zoo in 1945, they had also taken all records pertaining to the collection’s provenance. The docent then suggested that, if they wished to know more about the man who had discovered the ruins and the treasure of ancient Troy, they might want to visit the Heinrich-Schliemann Museum in Ankershagen, a small town about a hundred miles to the north.
As it was already late afternoon, Maddock had decided to spend the night in Berlin and make the two-hour drive in the morning. For added security they had booked a single hotel room, and, as they had done every night since escaping Telesh’s compound, he and Leopov took turns standing watch throughout the night. Petrov had been contentedly sawing logs when Maxie’s call came in; the ringing had roused him.
Maddock’s distrust of Petrov and his fears for Lia’s safety were not however, his only reasons for balking at Maxie’s direction to come in from the cold. The truth of the matter was that Maddock’s desire to find Helen’s Charm, or at the very least, learn the truth about it, had grown tremendously since visiting Hisarlik.
Over the years, he and Bones had been involved in their share of crazy treasure hunts, and from time to time, he had even entertained the notion of making a second career of it when he retired from the Navy. The idea had never been more than just an idle fancy. The Navy—the Team—had been his life for so long that thinking about giving it up had always felt like contemplating the amputation of a limb.
Lately, not so much.
They got an early start and made the drive north in just a little over two hours, taking their time since the museum did not open until ten o’clock. Ankershagen was a sleepy, rural community, surrounded by farmland, with little to offer in the way of traveler amenities. That it was the birthplace of famed archaeologist Heinrich Schliemann was the town’s sole claim to fame, even though the family had moved away during his second year of life.
The Heinrich-Schliemann Museum was situated in the farmhouse where Schliemann had been born in 1822, across the road from the church where his father, a Lutheran pastor, had preached. There was no designated parking area, so they pulled off on the roadside and proceeded down a paved path to the museum. The repurposed farmhouse was guarded by a towering, if crude, mock-up of the Trojan Horse. A flight of ladder-like stairs rose up into the beast’s barrel-shaped interior. Its tail was a playground slide.
After paying the nominal admission fee, they moved inside to examine the museum’s collection which was about as spare as Maddock expected. There were several display cases with replicas of Schliemann’s most famous discoveries—Priam’s Treasure, the Mask of Agamemnon—and informational placards in German, English and French describing important biographical details. The walls were hung with portraits and photographs of the museum’s namesake. The earliest pictures showed a bookish man with a bold, sweeping mustache, wearing a top hat and fur coat. Later images revealed his slight build and thinning hair. No one would have mistaken Schliemann for Indiana Jones.
Maddock’s attention was drawn to a photograph that did not feature Heinrich Schliemann but rather an unsmiling, though not unattractive young woman in a high-necked dress, wearing the golden diadem and necklaces that had, if Schliemann was to be believed, once belonged to Helen of Troy.
Maddock didn’t need to read the card next to the picture to know who it was. “Schliemann’s wife.”
“His second wife, actually,” intoned a heavily accented voice from behind them. It was the museum staffer who had sold them their tickets, a pleasant looking middle-aged man with ruddy features and big, weather-worn hands. He looked more like a farmer than a curator. The little plastic badge over his shirt pocket read simply: Lars.
“Forgive my intrusion,” Lars went on. “We are slow today and nothing passes the time like conversation. It would please me to answer any questions you may have.”
Maddock resisted the impulse to simply blurt out the most pressing question, and instead grasped the thread Lars had offered. “What happened to his first wife?”
“First wife was Russian,” supplied Petrov. “From St. Petersburg.”
Lars nodded. “That’s correct. Her name was Ekaterina. Henry—that’s what he preferred to be called—moved to Russia in 1844 as an agent for an import/export company. He learned to speak Russian fluently in a matter of just a few weeks—he had genius for learning languages—and became a Russian citizen. He was quite successful for many years, but in 1850, his brother Ludwig died in California while prospecting for gold. Henry traveled there to pay his respects, and soon realized that there was a great business opportunity in the gold fields. He started a bank in Sacramento, and in six months, earned his first fortune.”
There was no mistaking the admiration in Lars’ tone. “He returned to Russia as a wealthy gentleman, and not long after met and married Ekaterina. They had three children together, but the marriage was not a happy one. He continued to have great success in business however, and was able to retire at just thirty-six years of age to pursue his true passion—archaeology. You see, even as a young boy, Henry was obsessed with the story of the Trojan war. He learned Greek so that he could read Homer in the original language.”
Petrov raised an eyebrow at this assertion. “Original language was not modern Greek,” he murmured.
Lars, evidently missing the aside, continued speaking. “He studied the ancient texts and from them, and with help from a friend—an Englishman named Calvert—identified Hisarlik as the site of ancient Troy. While he was waiting for permission to begin excavating, he decided that he needed a partner and companion who was as familiar with Homer as he was. Since Ekaterina would not grant him a divorce in Russia, in 1869, he returned to America, where the law permitted him to divorce her, and then asked his friend, Theokletos Vimpos, Archbishop of Athens, to find him a Greek woman to marry. He was quite insistent that his new wife be a Greek woman, conversant in the works of the poet. Vimpos submitted pictures of three candidates, including his niece.” He gestured to the photograph. “Sophia Engastromenos. Henry immediately fell in love with her, though he was concerned about the difference in age. He was thirty years her elder.”
Leopov’s forehead wrinkled as she made a quick calculation and then her eyebrows shot up, aghast. “She was just a teenager.”
“Seventeen years old,” confirmed Lars.
Maddock was similarly dismayed. “So in addition to being a grave robber, he also robbed the cradle.” He winced as he spoke the words; it sounded like something Bones might say, though perhaps more colorfully.
Lars raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Do not rush to judgment. It was a different time.” He fixed his gaze on Maddock. “Remember, just a few years before, your own countrymen fought a war for the right to keep human beings as property.” He let the accusation hang for a moment before continuing. “In Greek culture, at the time, it was customary for parents to arrange marriage of their children, and Sophia was of age. The bride’s family was expected to provide a substantial dowry. The Engastromenos family had a very successful drapery business for many years, but had fallen on hard times and Sophia’s prospects for finding a husband were not good. Then along comes a wealthy foreigner who asks nothing more than a woman with whom he can discuss Greek history and mythology.”
“Right,” said a still-skeptical Leopov, eyeing the portrait of the woman adorned with the Jewels of Helen. “He only loved her for her mind.”
“By all accounts, she grew to love him, and there is no doubt that she did assist with the excavations in Troy and Mycenae. She was there with him when he discovered those—” He gestured to the display case containing the replica of the diadem. “And helped him move the pieces off site to prevent them from being stolen.”
“I thought that story about her smuggling them in her shawl was just a myth,” Leopov countered. “Wasn’t she in Athens when he found the treasure?”
“Attending her father’s funeral,” confirmed Petrov with a nod.
The words “father’s funeral” triggered a pang of grief for Maddock, but he hid it behind a stoic mask.
Lars shook his head. “That is not correct. Sophia’s father died in early May of 1873. Sophia did travel to Athens, but returned to Hisarlik shortly thereafter at the urging of her husband. On May 14, he wrote to her, encouraging her to return to Hisarlik to find solace in their shared work. She left the next day. She was most definitely there on May 31, when they discovered the golden treasure outside the walls of Priam’s palace.”
“The treasure was outside the palace?”
“Yes. Under a bronze shield. There were the metal clasps and handles of a chest, but the wood had burned. Henry surmised that a party of soldiers may have been trying to flee the sacking of the palace with the treasures, but were forced to leave it behind.” He paused a moment and then returned to the earlier subject. “May 31, 1873 was Saturday, which is why they had the site to themselves. They worked through the night to clean and remove the treasure which they packed in with Sophia’s clothing. I suspect that is what Henry meant when he jokingly said that they smuggled the treasure out under Sophia’s shawl.”
Maddock, recalling their earlier conversation on the subject, glanced over at Leopov. While Lars’ account was by no means definitive, it seemed to confirm Schliemann’s original claim rather than his later recantation. “You seem very sure of the details.”
Lars nodded. “We have the written account of both Henry and Sophia to confirm it.”
Maddock seized on this. “You have those written accounts here I take it?”
Lars nodded energetically. “We have an extensive collection of Sophia’s correspondences with Henry and her family, as well as many of his journals.” He paused a beat and then, with a little less enthusiasm, added, “Facsimiles, of course.”
“Does the phrase ‘Helen’s Charm’ appear anywhere?”
If the question caught Lars off guard, he did not let it show. “I don’t recall that expression, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. I can check our reference index if you would like.”
“Please do,” Maddock said.
As Lars hurried off to conduct his search, Leopov turned to him. “In 1873, she would have been twenty-one years old. A beautiful young woman, she would not have needed a magic charm to distract a customs inspector.”
Maddock glanced at the portrait again. “I’m not sure I’d use the word ‘beautiful.’”
Leopov gave him a wry smile, and he realized she had interpreted his comment as flattery.
“I just mean she’s not my type,” he amended.
“Obviously she was Schliemann’s type,” Petrov said, laughing.
“Trust me,” Leopov said. “She is very beautiful. Women know. Don’t be fooled by her serious expression. Nobody ever smiled in old photographs. Besides, this was never meant to be a portrait of her. She is just a mannequin, displaying Helen’s Jewels.”
Leopov’s comment prompted Maddock to study the portrait more closely. He compared it with the contents of the display case containing the replica of the diadems. “What’s missing from this picture?”
Leopov shrugged. “Helen’s Charm?”
“If it’s as important as we think, it would have been the most valuable piece in the collection. Even more valuable than all the gold. So why isn’t it in this picture?”
“We don’t even know what Helen’s Charm was,” Leopov challenged. “Or if it existed at all.”
Maddock shook his head. “Let’s just take it as given that it did. Hitler somehow recognized it. Telesh figured it out. The answer has to be here.” He studied the photograph again. “We’re just not seeing...”
He trailed off as he realized there was actually one item in the photograph that had not been reproduced as a replica and which was not listed in the official catalog of Priam’s Treasure.
Before he could elaborate, Lars returned. “I am sorry, my friends, but I could not find a reference to Helen’s Charm in the index. That does not necessarily mean that the expression is not to be found in the primary documents, but the only way to know for sure would be to read them all.” He spread his hands in a guilty gesture. “And now, I must take leave of you. There is a tour bus arriving shortly.”
Maddock thanked him for his labors and the background information. When he was gone, Leopov prompted, “You saw something. What?”
He blinked and then turned to her. “I’m not sure. Maybe nothing.”
“Dane, I know that look.”
He shot a glance at Petrov, wondering if he dared trust the man with the revelation, and decided that having the historian’s input was worth the risk. “It sounds like they really did smuggle the treasure out by hiding it in Sophia’s clothes, but why did Schliemann say they hid it under her shawl?”
“Perhaps he was trying to give the story a theatrical flair.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he was unconsciously revealing something that he didn’t mean to share. Like a Freudian slip. And when he realized what he had done, he backtracked. Claimed that Sophia hadn’t been there when obviously she had been.”
Leopov nodded patiently. “Okay, so what’s the big secret?”
“I’m no fashion expert, so feel free to correct me. A shawl is like a cloak... A blanket that you wear over your shoulders, right?”
Leopov nodded. “More or less.”
Maddock pointed to the photograph. “Is she wearing a shawl in that picture?”
They all took another look. “Hard to say,” Leopov said.
“It is very plain looking dress,” agreed Petrov. “As you say, Helen’s Jewels are the important thing. Not the woman.”
“What color would you say it is?”
Petrov answered quickly. “Black.”
Leopov’s response was less certain. “I don’t think it is black. Her hair is black. The dress is lighter. But it’s a black and white photograph. There’s no way to know for sure.”
“Could it be red?”
She shrugged. “Could be.”
“What if that dress is part of the treasure,” Maddock said. “What if it’s made from fabric they discovered along with the treasure. A shawl or cloak that might have once been worn by Helen.”
Leopov and Petrov exchanged a dubious glance. Petrov finally spoke. “Is not so crazy,” he said guardedly. “Shawl was a common accessory for Greek women in ancient times. You see in statues from the period. And garments were of great value to ancient people. They were often given as gifts along with precious metals and jewels.”
“In all the paintings I’ve seen, Helen is usually depicted either as nude or wearing a red cloak,” Maddock continued. “Let’s say Schliemann finds the cloak with all the other treasure. He’s a smart guy. He knows how valuable it really is, but he also knows that people won’t be as excited about an old shawl as they are all the gold and silver. So, he decides to make a gift of it to his ‘Helen.’ Lars said that Sophia’s father had a drapery business, right? Sewing was probably the simplest thing in the world for her. She could have stitched the fabric into a dress.”
Leopov raised her hands. “I’m sure she could have. What difference does it make?”
“All right, just bear with me here. What do we know about Helen? Aside from the fact that she was beautiful. Face that launched a thousand ships, et cetera?”
“She was daughter of Zeus and Leda,” said Petrov. “Leda was human woman. Queen of Sparta. Zeus came to her in form of a swan and seduced her. She laid eggs.”
Maddock suppressed a smile. He was grateful that Bones wasn’t around to hear that.
“Same night, king lays with her. Nine months later, eggs hatch and babies are borne. Two sets of twins. From eggs come Helen and Pollux. Natural borne human offspring are Castor and Clytemnestra, who became queen of Mycenae.”
“Helen was a demigod,” Maddock said. “And in all the myths, aren’t the gods always giving special gifts to their children to protect them from other jealous gods?”
Petrov laughed. “Zeus’ wife Hera delighted in tormenting the product of her husband’s adulterous liaisons. She drove Herakles to madness.”
Maddock nodded. “So maybe Helen’s cloak... Her red cloak... Gave her an extra boost that made her irresistible.”
Leopov was less enthusiastic. “Lars said the chest with the treasure had burned in the fire. How would a cloak survive?”
“If it was a divine gift, it might have been indestructible. Or at least, impervious to flame. Or maybe Schliemann was wrong about the fire.”
“He was probably wrong about a lot of things. Helen... The Trojan War... It’s all just mythology. Superstitious nonsense. None of it really happened.”
“I’m not saying it did, but belief is a powerful thing. Schliemann was a believer. Maybe Sophia, too. And when they found that stuff, maybe their belief that it really had belonged to Helen, daughter of Zeus, gave them a boost of charisma that helped them sneak the treasure out. Maybe Schliemann directly attributed their success to the fact that his wife was wearing Helen’s shawl—Helen’s Charm. And maybe that story, which Schliemann let slip once or twice, grew with the telling until, fifty years later, a young Austrian political activist heard about it and decided it would be a powerful symbol for his new revolutionary movement.”
“I don’t think Hitler ever wore a red shawl,” remarked Leopov, dryly.
“He didn’t wear it.” Maddock could barely contain his excitement. When he had first entertained the notion, it had seemed so farfetched, but as he had laid out his hypothesis, step by step, his certainty grew like a wildfire. “Think about it. What would Adolf Hitler do with a big piece of red fabric?”
Leopov gaped at him. “You’re kidding? You think he made it into a Nazi flag?”
“Not just any flag. The flag he carried into the Munich beerhall.”
Petrov was nodding eagerly. “Of course. It makes perfect sense. The Blutfahne.”
“Blutfahne,” echoed Leopov. “Blood flag?”
“The Beer Hall Putsch ended when Munich police fired on the marching Nazis. The man carrying the swastika flag of the Sturmabteilung was wounded and dropped the flag. Another mortally wounded stormtrooper fell on the flag, staining it with his blood. From that moment forward, it became the most sacred relic of the Nazi party. Was used in ceremonies to consecrate new flags. Party members swore loyalty before it. Last time it was seen in public was October 1944, when Himmler conducted induction ceremony for the Volkssturm—the army of old men and boys raised up as the last defense of Berlin. Many of them did not even have weapons, but they fought to bitter end against Red Army.”
“The Blood Flag disappeared after that,” Maddock added. “Neo-Nazis would love to get their hands on it.”
“Himmler must have taken it with him when he fled Berlin,” said Petrov.
Maddock agreed. “Of all the Nazi leaders, he was the one that really bought into the occult. But there’s no record of it being found when he was captured.”
Petrov was nodding. “Remember what Lia found? Why Sergei Yukovitch wants her? Gestapo Müller caught up to Himmler near Bremervorde. He must have taken Blood Flag with him. That is the thing of ‘great importance,’ mentioned in the interrogation transcript. The Blood Flag. Helen’s Charm. They are same thing.”
Leopov inclined her head in a grudging acknowledgment of the deduction. “Now we know what it is. We still don’t know where it is.”
“It is wherever Müller took it,” replied Petrov. “KGB always believed American intelligence agents captured him. Turned him.”
Maddock shook his head. “Bones and the others have been working with Lia to track him down. The working theory is that he escaped Germany on a U-boat and headed for Argentina. Whether or not he made it is another question.” He thought about the call from Maxie the previous night. Had the fleeing Gestapo leader made it to Villa Gessell, carrying with him the most sacred relic of the Third Reich, and with it, the means to seduce a new generation of followers?
“Hopefully,” he went on, “Müller and the Blood Flag ended up in the deepest part of the ocean, beyond any hope of recovery.”
“Sergei Yukovitch is very determined man,” Petrov said.
Maddock sighed. “You’re right. We have to make sure that he can never get his hands on it. Or anyone else.”
“And how will you do that?”
“Find it first,” Maddock said, decisively. “Destroy it. Even if it is nothing more than a symbol, it’s a symbol that needs to be erased from existence.” He nodded toward the exit. “We’ll rendezvous with Bones and the others. Pool our knowledge and hopefully figure it out.”
As they headed outside, he dug out his phone and dialed Maxie’s number. It rang four times before going to voicemail. As the greeting played, Maddock struggled to order his swirling thoughts into a succinct message. He gazed out across the lawn where a large bus was unloading passengers. Further out, a few more cars had lined up behind their rental on the roadside, their occupants already mingling with the tour group. Several people were taking pictures in front of the Trojan Horse replica.
One face in the crowd seemed to leap out at Maddock.
That he noticed her at all might have easily enough been explained by the fact that she was gorgeous—slender, raven-haired, with high Slavic cheekbones and full lips. She looked like she belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine, or on the arm of a tycoon. Her attractiveness in fact was what had caught his eye the first time he’d noticed her the previous day.
This second convergence in as many days might have been simple coincidence, but Maddock wasn’t inclined to take any chances. He put his phone away, and changed course, angling away from the group toward the lawn in front of the museum building.
“Stay calm,” he said in a low voice. “I think we picked up a shadow.”
Leopov laughed as if he’d just said something hilarious, then covered her mouth as she looked at him. “Where?”
Maddock feigned laughter as well. “The brunette at my ten o’clock. About fifty yards away. Saw her yesterday at the museum in Berlin. Might be nothing, but let’s not take any chances. We’ll duck around behind the museum and wait to see what she does.”
Petrov craned his head around to look directly at the woman.
“Don’t be so obvious,” Maddock hissed.
Instead of heeding the advice, Petrov suddenly stepped away from them, moving at a near jog in the woman’s direction. As he moved, he cupped a hand to his mouth, and shouted, “Nadia! They know!” and then added something in Russian.
The woman flinched as if in embarrassment at being outed, but then regained her composure and fixed her gaze on Maddock and Leopov. She said something he couldn’t hear and made an overhand gesture. Two burly figures detached from the crowd and started toward them. Even though their faces were mostly hidden under the brims of large floppy hats, Maddock immediately recognized them as the pair of thugs that had chased him in Moscow—Tweedledee and Tweedledum.