Soul Intent (9 page)

“At least you have somebody in your soul line. Ned was right—you are luckier than him.”

Good point. I tried to picture Ned Callaghan, opal miner, his wife and child recently dead, reaching out to Soul Identity in the hopes of leaving a trace of his life for the future. How dare I be disappointed?

I’d have to find out more about Ned, so I could honor his memory. I turned the paper over and saw more writing on the back. “Hold on,” I said, “there’s more.”

Surviveing a mine cavein

Last year at full moon I et me tucker and headed back to me claim, as the opal bug was biting me hard. I clumb down the hole with pick and shovel, and found a ratter named Raddy scratchin my walls trying to pinch my opals. Fair dinkum.

I was sore, so I swung me pick at him. He swung back, then one of us fell into the main prop and caused a cavein. Next thing I know, all but me boots were berried in potch and stone.

That ratter pulled me out of the rubbell, but the tunnel was blocked and we were diggin for eight days in the dark with nothin but our own piss to drink and memories to eat.

The tunnel kept collapseing, so me and Raddy dug out to Old Man Cleats hole fifteen chain away. We were knackered and almost dead, but still manged to scare the piss out of him when we showd up in his claim.

We staid alive by not quittin. One dug wile the other slept until we got out. The lads say thats how we kept from going batty.

Now Raddy the ratter and me are mates. He spun a good tale about Soul Identity, and sed this story would do for a memory. Hope it helps.

I looked up and grinned. “Now that’s a story.” I laid the paper and the hammer in the cart and closed the door.

Val smiled.

As I was returning the wooden proof box to the top of the cart, I noticed that it had been sitting on top of a small stack of papers with a Post-it note attached. I pulled off the note and read it out loud.

 “Scott—a copy of the journal I showed you this morning, in case I am prevented from giving you the original—Archie.”

Son of a gun. I let out a laugh. “We must have been born lucky.”

“That was pretty clever of Mr. Morgan,” Val said.

“And it explains why the receptionist said she was expecting me.” I flipped through the stack. Each sheet held a copy of two pages of the now-destroyed journal.

I put the wooden box away, but I rolled up the copied journal and stuffed it in my pocket. “Score this round for Archie,” I said.

seventeen

Present Day

Sterling, Massachusetts

We checked into the guesthouse that evening. George and Sue led Val and me to a large, palatial suite on the top floor of the brand-new three story building.

This guesthouse had been built on the same site as the one Feret’s henchmen had blown up last year.

“We reopened last month, and we’ve saved this room for you two to break in.” George smiled. “Before you ask, I want you to know I personally verified that the hot water functions properly.”

“Did you include a gadget room?” I asked.

He winked. “With an even better couch than before.”

“Georgie, let’s leave these two alone,” Sue said. She handed us each a key. “We’ll see you at breakfast.”

We parked ourselves at the dining table. I handed Val the copied journal and fired up my laptop. “Let’s see if we can figure this out,” I said.

She flipped through the sheets. “Do you think it’s a cipher?”

“It depends on the audience.”

She frowned. “Explain.”

“If it’s a targeted message to somebody else, then it’s encrypted, and it will be a bear for us to break. But if it’s a diary the author wants to re-read someday, it’s either just an alphabet and language we don’t recognize, or it’s encoded with a simple substitution scheme.”

“Which do you think it is?”

I took the journal and flipped through the pages. “It’s Madame Flora’s diary. See this word on the first page?”

She nodded.

“It’s also one of the first words on every few pages. It’s probably a date. Any decent encryption algorithm would have randomized it.”

“Do you think you can figure it out?”

I smiled. “Of course I can.”

Famous last words. I glanced up at Val an hour later. “I’ve gotten nowhere,” I said.

She closed her laptop. “What did you find?”

“Nothing. I can’t find any system that uses numbers like this.”

 She frowned. “What if they’re letters? Roman numerals use letters.”

That was interesting. I took a look at the journal again; the word I thought was a date contained characters that were also used in the text.

I searched the Web for information on letters representing numbers. While Latin used I, V, and X to represent one, five, and ten, the more ancient Hebrew and Greek languages used their first nine letters to represent one through nine, the next nine letters to represent ten through ninety, and the next set to represent one hundred through nine hundred.

“But these letters aren’t Roman, Greek, or Hebrew,” I said.

There was a knock at the door, and as Val got up, I tucked the copy of the journal into my laptop bag.

“Flora, what a surprise,” Val said. “Come on in.”

Madame Flora frowned. “I need to talk to Scott.” She entered the room and stood in front of me, hands on her hips.

“Hello, Madame Flora,” I said. I wondered if she felt more in control now that she had destroyed the journal.

“Stop your investigation,” she said.

I pointed to the chair next to me. “Let’s talk about it.”

After she sat, I asked, “Why’s it bothering you?”

She stared at me. “You have to ask after what you heard today?”

“I heard that Hermann Goering joined Soul Identity and opened a soul line collection before they hung him at Nuremberg.”

“Actually, he committed suicide,” Madame Flora said. “Just a few hours ahead of the hangman.”

I hadn’t known that. But it didn’t really matter. “I also heard that his money and memories have gone missing, and a cryptic journal has appeared,” I said.

“That journal doesn’t matter,” she said quickly.

Of course it didn’t, now that she thought she had destroyed it.

“I think the journal holds the key,” I said. “I’m going to ask Archie for it tomorrow.”

I watched her try to hide the smile lifting the corners of her lips. “You can ask, but I can guarantee you that he won’t let you read it.”

I couldn’t wait to wave my copy into her smug face. But only after I figured it out.

She stared at me. “You two are in grave danger.”

“Danger?” Val asked.

Madame Flora faced her and spoke with an ominous voice. “Even over sixty years later, the Nazis are waiting to pounce once Hermann Goering’s belongings surface.”

“How would they know that Soul Identity has them?” I asked.

“They just do,” she said.

I waited for her to elaborate.

“If you had any sense, you’d steer clear of these dangerous people,” she said.

“Do you think they broke in and raided Goering’s collection?” I asked.

“I suppose it’s possible.”

Again she had avoided a straight answer. I crossed my arms. “Then they wouldn’t be waiting to pounce, would they?”

That seemed to catch her. “I…I don’t know.” She stared at the table for a minute. “You need to know about the mess you’re stepping into. Let me tell you how evil these Nazis are.”

eighteen

September 1946

Nuremberg, Occupied Germany

They sat in the back of the darkened room, watching Flora’s grandmother trace Goering’s irises onto a proof sheet. Three of the five images had come out clear, so even if the projector overheated and melted a slide, there were two backups available.

James leaned close. “I’ve heard that the Nazi underground is poking into Goering’s affairs,” he whispered to Flora.

She shrugged. “I don’t care any more.” She had compromised her principles to save Baba, and now the Reichsmarschall had won. She felt sick to her stomach, and she didn’t want to talk about it.

But James apparently still cared. “They claim Goering promised to give the gold back,” he said, “but he changed his mind after he was indicted.”

It was somewhat interesting after all. She threw a glance at Baba, then turned back to James. “How do you know they’re Nazis?” she whispered.

“The Schutzstaffel tattoo.”

This elite SS military group was responsible, Flora learned during the trials, for the party’s race-centric activities, including the enslavement and killing of the Jews, Gypsies, priests, and homosexuals. Unfortunately for most SS members, they had their blood type tattooed on the underside of their left arms. Flora thought it ironic the Allies were using these symbols of German practicality to identify and imprison the most vicious Nazis.

Baba turned around. “Is the paint ready?” she asked.

“Sorry, Baba.” Flora glanced up at Hermann Goering’s pale blue projected eyes, then squeezed the tubes of paint onto the palette and mixed in the turpentine. She handed Baba the palette, then transferred the proof sheet to the easel.

“Let’s let the projector cool down a tad,” James said. He pulled the plug and the room went dark.

An hour later, Flora and James sat in the back and watched Baba paint Goering’s eyes.

Flora couldn’t stop thinking about the Nazi underground. If they could demonstrate that Goering had stolen their gold, Mr. Morgan would have to stop the deposit.

Was it too much to hope for? She looked at James. “Do the Nazis know we have the gold?”

“They suspect we do, but I didn’t confirm it.”

“I want to talk to them,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “These guys are too dangerous.”

She grabbed his arm. “We have to try. We can’t let that monster win.”

James stared at her.

She silently willed him to say yes.

He nodded his head. “I’ll set up a meeting.”

Flora darted a glance at Baba, then leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

nineteen

September 1946

Nuremberg, Occupied Germany

James set up the meeting with the Nazis for today, the last Saturday of September. The defense had rested in the war crimes trial, and the world awaited the verdict. Mr. Morgan was busy working out transfer details with Soul Identity’s Swiss depositary representatives. Flora and James had the day off.

James drove the Jeep onto the main street. “It should take us thirty minutes to get there,” he said.

Flora sat next to him and thought about what she would ask the Nazis.

“I still don’t see why we need to talk to them,” James said.

Why was this so hard for him to understand? “Once they admit Goering stole the gold from them, Mr. Morgan won’t deposit it.”

James shook his head. “They’d never admit that.”

“They want the gold, don’t they?”

“Of course.”

Flora smiled. “So we tell them they can’t have it unless we get the truth about its origins.”

James glanced at her, then back at the road. He looked at her again. “How old are you, hon?”

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen.” He shook his head. “Well, I guess I was pretty naïve, too, ten years ago.”