The Schliemann Legacy (29 page)

Not pausing to enjoy the terrorist's death, David rolled across the sand and grabbed his rifle. Coming up on one knee, he turned the barrel on the bushes bordering the property. He scanned back and forth but could see no one.

Dropping the gun again, he ran to the side of the house. Katrina was just coming to. Gently he carried her away from the burning house and then went back for the other girl. She was unconscious but breathing evenly. David dragged her into the shade of the palms beside Katrina.

"Duman?" Katrina asked.

"Quite dead. If you can move, we'll take the boat. You need a doctor."

"I'm mobile," Katrina said, standing to prove it. She winced and cradled her arm. "But I'll take that doctor. I think my arm is broken. Where is the treasure?"

"Duman said we stole it. I think it was under the tarp. Likely some Jamaican has it and doesn't even know what it is."

"What about her?" David asked, pointing at the unconscious Helene.

"I have no idea who the hell she is. One of his women, I guess. All I know is, she tried to kill me."

"Then leave her. Let the Jamaicans work it out. It will give them something to do other than look for us."

David started toward the bushes. "I want to see if our savior left anything behind."

Before he took two steps, they could already hear the sirens approaching. Looking annoyed, Katrina shook her head and headed for the boat. "No time."

Taking the boat, David steered away from the sound of the approaching sirens, staying close to the coast and it sparse covering of palm trees. Katrina dragged the tarp over what had once been Duman.

EPILOGUE

I WANT TO GO HOME, AND CAN THINK OF NOTHING ELSE.

THE ODYSSEY-BOOK V

EPILOGUE

TWO MONTHS LATER

Katrina stared at the beauty of the incredible view. Rows of citrus trees lined the flat area below. A complicated irrigation system watered the thirsty plants that produced the Kibbutz's famous fruit. The grove, a legacy left by David's adopted father, stretched farther every year. The number of trees had quadrupled since the old man had died. According to Kibbutz members, the next two years would see the grove expand to twice its present size.

Katrina looked past the orchard at the endless desert, amazed that the reddish barren ground could be so lovely. In her mind, she could see the floor of the desert covered with the vegetation of the future. She gripped David's arm as an idea struck her.

"Can we be married right here?" she asked.

David laughed, pointing at the ring on her finger. It was the gold band she had picked up at Heiden's. She had been hesitant to use it because of what it might mean to David. He had insisted because he knew it represented her past - not his. His past could finally rest. "We already are married," he reminded her.

"I know, but I want to do it again - on this spot."

He tenderly brushed her hand with his lips. The arm had healed over the past two months, leaving her only slightly stiff. "Whatever you wish. I'm so glad you're happy here."

Katrina's dark brown eyes seemed to penetrate his soul. "Are you happy here?" she asked.

"I'm happy anywhere, as long as you are with me."

Katrina smiled.

"What?" David asked.

"The call from Assi?" Katrina asked.

"Oh, no, nothing like that. He was just giving me an update, if you could call it that. He was rather insistent that we visit this weekend. Said he had something to run by me that he thought might be of interest."

"About Duman?"

"No, likely a new training class or some such thing. Nothing about Duman, there hasn't been a peep. Nobody has taken credit for the kill. Most think that I did it and that I'm trying to cover it up for some reason. Assi couldn't care less since it has solved his problems. Bringing in Duman has given Assi some much-needed breathing room."

"And the treasure?"

"Again, nothing," David said. "Duman thought we had taken it. Where it is now is anyone's guess."

"I would have loved to have seen the treasure," Katrina said wistfully.

Katrina was about to speak again when several gleeful cries from behind made her turn. Children swarmed around Katrina and led her back to the Jeep. As he followed them, David considered her question about his happiness.

The truth was, he had never been happier. He wanted to stay with Katrina forever. After their marriage, he had been content to move to the Kibbutz. He had even enjoyed supervising the occasional training session. Katrina would join him as an instructor as soon as she received her clearance. All was well. Last night, even the visiting Major Yaacov Sigura had pronounced David "domesticated".

David was unsure whether to cringe or smile at the pronouncement but he was sure his days as an active agent of the Mossad were behind him. With Katrina in his life, he doubted there was another mission that could interest him enough.

* * * * *

Martin Erhart hurried into Mardinaud's office and slipped behind the computer console. He had been busy helping his wife settle into their new home when he received the summons from his boss. She adored the new place and he was pleased with how often she demonstrated her new joy and the inventive ways she demonstrated her gratitude. She assumed he had received a bonus and a promotion. The rest of the world thought the money was an inheritance from his wife's late "Uncle Ivan" - totally documented even if the documents were technically forgeries. Luckily, Mardinaud was too consumed with the latest tidbit of information to be overly concerned about Martin's recent wealth. For the sake of his own health, Martin hoped that would continue.

Henri Mardinaud looked up at the large screen as Martin Erhart typed in the retrieval codes. A name flashed on the computer screen. "Sammon Abdel Nasser," the information broker read aloud.

Mardinaud leaned back into the chesterfield and sighed deeply. "Sammon Abdel Nasser," he repeated. He smiled. "A Jew using an Arabic name. The man has a sense of style. I'll have to give him that."

Martin turned around in his chair. "I contacted Assi Levy, as you instructed."

"Very good." The fat man leaned farther back on the couch and rested his head. He shut his eyes and appeared to go to doze off.

"What will David Morritt do when he finds out who Sammon really is?" Martin asked.

Mardinaud pulled his head up and looked at his assistant. "He'll come after him, of course," the Frenchman replied, a wicked grin forming on his face. "Then, the game will begin."

* * * * *

April 22, 1996

Moscow, Russia

Since the end of World War II, the Soviet Government has denied accusations that its soldiers looted Germany following the surrender of the Nazis. In fact, the various governments have adamantly denied the suggestion that troops gathered treasures during the invasion. However, in a reversal of that position, the Soviet Government has admitted to possessing over 300,000 pieces of art, more than two million rare books and countless other items
liberated
from Germany at the end of the war. According to a government spokesman, the looted items have been housed in basement archives for over fifty years.

A further twist to this story comes as Helene Kadner, a minor celebrity from the early 1980s, has filed suit in the International Court of Justice in The Hauge for the return of some of that looted treasure. According to documents released by the Soviets, along with impressionist paintings by Manet, Renoir and Matisse and a rare Gutenberg Bible are 260 pieces of Trojan gold, treasure discovered by the German archaeologist Heinrich Schliemann. The discovery of the Schliemann artifacts actually casts further doubt on the story of Helene Kadner.

Following her arrest by Jamaican authorities in the early 1980s, Helene Kadner claimed to have been the lover of the international Turkish terrorist, Duman. According to Ms. Kadner's story, which became a best-selling book and a hit movie despite having no real evidence, she was the granddaughter of an escaped Nazi war criminal, one Friedrich Heiden. Heiden supposedly acquired the treasure during his escape from Nazi Germany in the last months of the Second World War.

According to Ms. Kadner's account, Duman seduced her to gain entry to her grandfather's home and stole the treasure out from under the noses of the Medellín Cartel. After escaping to Jamaica, Duman disappeared with the treasure after he thwarted an assassination attempt by the Cartel by detonating the home they were living in.

Ms. Kadner's supporters point out that since the time in question Duman has not surfaced. In fact, anonymous, highly placed US Government sources have confirmed Duman's death - though not in Jamaica. The various stories have the terrorist killed by several different groups including the DST, a CIA hit squad, the Greeks and the Mossad. Meanwhile, critics argue the public should not be duped by so-called "non-fiction" and hope that the existence of the treasure in the hands of the Russians will finally put the young woman's fanciful tale to rest.

Excerpt from

Two Graves

By D.A. Graystone

Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.

- Chinese Proverb

Chapter 1

The boy lunged. “Out of the way, loser!” he yelled.

Preston stumbled backwards off the sidewalk and plopped onto the damp grass. His butt hit hard; his hands barely stopped him from going flat on his back. He snapped an arm over his face, turning away from his attackers. But the four teenagers were already continuing down the sidewalk.

He was already forgotten.

Embarrassment flooded his system. The heat on his face contrasted with the cold of his ass as the dampness from the grass soaked through the seat of his pants. Struggling to his feet, he pulled at his jacket, hoping it would cover the wet stain. The red in his mottled cheeks deepened as he watched his would-be attackers saunter down the street.

The boys wore matching brown leather vests with a white crest painted on the back. They moved together – a pack of animals ready to take on anyone who crossed their path. Their laughter cut through him. Laughter directed at him – the geek, lard butt, weirdo, jerk, and tub. He was used to that. People had been laughing at him for forty years. He checked the retreating figures once more before turning away. He shuddered.

“Little bastards,” he said to the night. “Just lucky I wasn’t more prepared. Kick that dick into next week.”

He
should
have done something to the delinquents, he thought. But, he had been outnumbered. Yet again, his subconscious had registered the unbalanced odds and stopped him.

“You got lucky this time,” he said down the street after the retreating punks. He kept his voice pitched low – no need to disturb the neighborhood.

He looked down at his shaking hands. He shoved them deep in his jacket pockets, fixed his eyes on the sidewalk just ahead of his Hush Puppies and started toward the store again.

He had always walked this way. Concentrating on his feet, trying to will them straight. Duck feet. How many times had the other kids teased him about his splayed walk? His footprints in the snow prompted the comment, “Hey, at least one duck stayed for the winter!”

He envied the others with their cocky walks. They always stared straight ahead, welcoming, even
daring
, eye contact but not him. Too much risk, too much pain resulted from the briefest eye contact.

His life had been one long walk through terror.

He had been the brunt of every joke, on the receiving end of some form of terrorism all his life. Laughter, taunting, teasing or worse.

So very often, it was so much worse – bruises, cuts, broken bones. If he inventoried his body, he could remember each injury, each moment of pain, each humiliation.

Yes, he knew fear. He knew it intimately. He knew every heart pounding, sweaty moment of true terror.

Fear dominated his life. Stalking him, it was his constant companion.

Fear kept him safe. Fear was his protector but not his friend.

No, it was the other, darker emotion that he reveled in.

Rage.

Fear kept him safe but rage kept him sane.

At the store, he took a carton of orange juice up to the counter and felt the anger build. He let it grow, develop. He felt the heat form in his belly instead of his cheeks.

“Is that everything?” the young clerk asked.

“Obviously,” he answered tersely, relishing the spill of anger.

If I wanted more, I’d put it on the Goddamn counter!

His mind played the entire conversation out as he tapped the counter, impatiently waiting for his change. He snatched the juice without waiting for a bag.

“You’re welcome,” came the sarcastic voice from behind him.

Mumbling obscenities through the closed door, he started for home. He felt the rage seething and roiling in his body. His pace quickened, his body hunched over, his eyes unseeing. His blood boiled with the rage.

Sweet, sweet rage.

His mind whirled with what he might have done to those boys. He imagined the satisfying crack of bone, the whoosh of air, the whimpering and the begging. And then there would be the blood. And that smart mouth clerk. He pictured how a few sharp staples would take care of him and his
you’re
welcome
!

He kicked at a stone, sending it into the side of a car. The small thud wasn’t satisfying. He needed to hit, crush and inflict pain. His mind flicked to his neighbor’s cat. The feel of the tiny bones under the heavy mat of fur, the slow squeeze…

“Hey!” He froze in mid stride, his head snapping up, suddenly face to face with the boy.

The rage drained instantly from his body, threatening to take his suddenly too full bladder with it. All-consuming fear instantly replaced the rage. Sweat clamped his shirt to his back and ran down his spine and into the crack of his ass. His palms grew slippery against the carton of juice. He felt his bowels suddenly loosen as he searched for safety.