The Doomsday Testament

XLII

‘Here’s to the mouse that chewed.’ Jamie raised his glass and took a deep draught of dark Gose beer as they sat outside a bar across the main square from their hotel.

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Sarah acknowledged. ‘And to not being blown all over the Harz Mountains.’ The grin they exchanged was of the sickly variety and they sat for a while enjoying the novelty of still being alive. ‘I was surprised when she started quoting the journal at us. I didn’t think you’d let it out of your sight.’

He shrugged. ‘They gave it back quickly enough and I didn’t think I had a lot of choice. They confiscated the rucksack as possible evidence. It didn’t seem to matter much, because the journal has taken us as far as it’s going to.’

‘So what happens now?’

It was an odd question. In theory, at least, the Raphael would change their lives. Yet he had an odd empty feeling of anticlimax that he sensed Sarah Grant shared. It was as if the hunt had been their true purpose and the discovery only mattered in the abstract. Even then any joy they could take from it had been overwhelmed by the enormity of the other things they’d found in Walter Brohm’s bunker.

‘I made you a promise last night on the way back here, but it’s a promise that may be difficult to keep,’ Jamie admitted. Privately he was having second thoughts about his rash pledge, but that could wait for another day. ‘I’d like to be able to finish what we started and take the story right to the end. We found the Raphael, but we still don’t know what happened to Walter Brohm. My grandfather’s last mission has a beginning and a middle, but no end. The answers are out there somewhere, but if there’s no more to the diary I’m not sure where else we can go.’

A porter from the hotel approached the table holding a package. ‘This arrived for you this morning, sir. Express delivery.’

Jamie frowned, then remembered his phone call to David and the text he’d sent confirming their new location. With the excitement of the last two days he’d forgotten the young Jew’s promise to dig for more information. He accepted the padded brown envelope and tipped the young man.

‘I hope you’ve not been holding out on me again, Saintclair.’

He saw himself smile in the mirror of her sunglasses. ‘Just a little additional research I commissioned.’ He tore open the envelope and spread the contents out on the table top. Four or five photocopies of faded cuttings from German newspapers with the dates they were filed and the name of the publication apparently written in ink on the original. They were all from the mid to late 1930s. On each of the photocopies, someone had highlighted two words with a yellow marker pen. Walter Brohm.

Sarah dragged her seat round the table so they could read the cuttings together. ‘Tibet?’

‘Yes. Brohm told my grandfather that he had walked in a land of giants and that was where he found it. I asked a friend to check the story out and this is what he came up with.’

‘A well-connected friend?’

‘It looks like he got lucky.’

The reports all documented the same 1937 expedition by a group of German scientists. He scanned the photocopies one at a time in no particular order, but Sarah organized them chronologically and leaned forward in her chair to study them with a scholar’s intensity.

‘Do you notice anything?’ she asked after a few minutes.

‘Only that the papers all hail the triumph of German stamina, ingenuity and scientific achievement over great odds and some of the most difficult terrain in the world. I keep looking for Joseph Goebbels’ byline. The main aim of the trip seems to have been to study the natives. No mention of the occult or seeking the origin of the Aryan race. Why?’

‘In the earliest cutting, which is the announcement that the expedition is going ahead, the report is quite specific about the aims, but, more importantly, the destination, the Guzong crater. But the later editions, after the scientists return, only mention the Changthang Plateau in a wider sense, an area of thousands of square miles. It’s as if they wanted people to forget the original destination.’

‘Or to hide it.’

‘What made you ask for this?’

He took a deep breath. ‘Because Walter Brohm also said he was certain there was more to find.’

She saw what he was thinking before the idea had fully formed in his own head.

‘You can’t be serious.’

But he was.

‘Don’t you see?’ his voice quickened. ‘This is where it all started. It’s where Walter Brohm made his discovery that could change the world. We can’t just stop now. We owe it to my grandfather to find the answer. We owe it to all those people who died in the bunker. We have to find a way to get to this Guzong crater.’

‘It’s crazy.’

‘On the contrary, it’s the logical next step. We can’t go forward, so we retrace Walter Brohm’s steps until we find what he did.’

‘But you don’t have the resources, or the money to finance that kind of trip. Walter Brohm was sponsored by one of Adolf Hitler’s cronies. Somehow I don’t see any rich folks queuing up to hand you cash.’

He’d thought about that. ‘My grandfather’s house will sell eventually. There’ll be some sort of finder’s fee for the Raphael, probably a substantial one. I’ll fund the trip from that.’

‘You are the most obstinate, pig-headed—’

‘I thought you liked the new adventurous me?’

‘Tibet isn’t a place you can just walk in to. The Chinese run it now, and they don’t encourage visitors.’

‘I’ll find a way.’

She shook her head and for a moment he thought he’d lost her. ‘No, we’ll find a way. The Raphael story may not make me rich, but it will help stake an adventure holiday with an eccentric idiot.’

He stared at her. ‘I thought you had what you came for?’

Sarah Grant pushed the sunglasses into her hair and the challenge in the hazel eyes raised the stakes. ‘I thought so, too. Have I?’

For a moment he felt as if his soul had been stripped bare. He’d become closer to this woman in a few short weeks than to anyone he’d ever had a relationship with. The thought of losing her chilled him to the depths of his being. Yes, he had doubts, but about what she was, not who. Finally, he nodded. ‘If you want it.’

‘I thought I’d made that pretty clear, Jamie.’

‘You—’

‘Hi, Miss Sarah Grant, right, and Mr James Saintclair?’

Jamie glared at the intruder, but the tall man who stood a few feet from their table was unruffled by the coolness of his reception. He had dark, almost Polynesian good looks and a helmet of sun-bleached hair that would stay in place even in the highest winds. The smile that showed off his perfect white teeth didn’t budge or the amused — a less trusting person might say mocking — blue eyes lose their sparkle. The tan suit he wore over a cream shirt would have cost Saintclair Fine Arts the best part of a year’s profit and fitted tightly across a swimmer’s muscled shoulders. He spoke English with an American accent. Jamie took one look at him and couldn’t keep the words snake-oil salesman out of his head.

The visitor waited for an acknowledgement and when it wasn’t forthcoming, he nodded approval.

‘Yep, you’re right to be wary, a couple of folks with a valuable commodity on their hands. Guess I’d be much the same if I’d just found that painting.’

‘What makes you think we found a painting?’ Sarah asked innocently.

The smile was replaced by a self-effacing grin. ‘Well, that might be on account of the local police commander pointing you out. Now don’t tell me she would be mistaken? Not after I’ve gone to the trouble of confirming it at the hotel over yonder. That’s the hotel where you sent your pitch on the internet from, right?’ He pulled a card from his pocket. ‘Bob Sumner, I represent the Vanderbilt Corporation.’ Sumner saw she was impressed and the grin broadened. Now Jamie understood the level of cooperation from the police. Vanderbilt was one of the world’s most powerful business corporations: a ruthless global giant that dominated a dozen industries. The kind his heart told him shouldn’t be allowed to exist, but that his head said always would. He read the card. It confirmed that Bob Sumner was the Vanderbilt Media Division’s deputy director of European operations.

‘Might I sit with you?’ the big man requested. ‘I have what I hope you’ll find an interesting proposition.’

Jamie moved to make room at the small table and Sumner slid comfortably into one of the vacant metal seats. Sarah found herself the focus of disconcerting blue eyes.

‘I’ll get right down to business, if you folks don’t mind. Because in an hour the entire European press pack is going to come driving down that road like ol’ Guderian’s panzers and they’ll be just as hard to stop. You’ll notice I’m not hiding the fact that I face opposition for your signature. I’ll also talk to you as a partnership, because as you’ll see, although Miss Grant has offered us a feature story, we envisage substantially more potential. Like I say, you have a commodity which we at Vanderbilt recognize is of substantial value. We respect your right to get the best possible price for it. I flatter myself that the fact the company has sent me is some kind of indication of that and I hope to convince you that Vanderbilt Corporation can deliver the best commercial environment to exploit your story and bring it to a worldwide audience.’

‘I take it that means you’ll put it in your newspaper and pay me for it?’

Sumner motioned to the waiter hovering by the doorway. ‘Can I get you folks anything?’ They shook their heads. ‘Kaffee, bitte.’

The American studied Sarah and shook his head. ‘No, ma’am, not exactly. Vanderbilt Media has one hundred and fifty media outlets worldwide. We would franchise your story, in series form, across all those titles. In addition, we would commission you to write, or cooperate with a ghost writer, on a book bringing together all aspects of the story and the history of the painting.’ He smiled indulgently. ‘Like The Da Vinci Code, but true, profits to be split fifty-fifty.’ Sarah’s eyes widened imperceptibly and Jamie could tell that Bob Sumner’s hard sell was cutting through her armour like a welding torch. ‘Vanderbilt Media also owns or part owns twenty-five satellite and terrestrial television stations. It would be our intention to commission a film documentary tracing your search for the painting from day one. The film would have a substantial budget and be backed by all the resources of Vanderbilt Corporation. We would leave no stone unturned in the search to track the painting’s journey across Europe. We’re also intrigued by this mysterious Nazi bunker you found. I personally would be interested to know how you knew where to look?’ The grin didn’t falter, but just for a millisecond Jamie saw ice chips where there had been none earlier.

‘Maybe when the first cheque arrives, Bob, old boy.’ He emphasized the lazy Cambridge drawl for all he was worth, earning a puzzled glance from Sarah. ‘In the meantime, I don’t think we’ve seen the colour of your money?’

‘Vanderbilt Media has authorized me to offer you two hundred and fifty thousand English pounds for your cooperation in putting this package together, the split to be decided amicably between yourselves.’

Sarah let out a little ‘wow’ at the figure, which was ten times what she’d been offered by anyone else. Jamie only just managed to maintain his poker face. ‘I suppose that’s an acceptable starting point for negotiations,’ he said carefully.

‘There’s also the question of the world tour.’

‘The world tour?’

The big man nodded solemnly. ‘Dependent on the Czartoryski Museum accepting our offer to sponsor the display of Portrait of a Young Man in fourteen major cities across the globe, beginning in Cracow. You would commit to providing insight and publicity on the tour over a four-month period for a stipend to be negotiated.’ He reached into his leather bag. ‘I have contract details he—’

‘No.’ Sarah’s interruption froze the smile on Bob Sumner’s face. ‘The rest of the package sounds attractive, but we won’t be able to commit to any tour. We have further investigations to carry out into the man responsible for bringing the Raphael here.’

Jamie wondered if she was being hasty. The thought of spending four months jetting around the world at the Vanderbilt Corporation’s expense, captivating the unenlightened with his wit and wisdom on the subject of the Raphael, had its attractions. He felt an idea forming, just the faintest hint of a possibility. ‘Maybe there is a way…’ The fathomless blue eyes fixed him. ‘We’ll sign up for the full package, on one condition…’

‘Mr Saintclair, the Vanderbilt Corporation will be paying you a substantial amount of money—’

‘The Raphael story doesn’t begin in Europe, it begins in Asia. The condition is that we will provide you with a location and will form part of the documentary team sent to film there.’

It was an outrageous demand and they both knew it, but Bob Sumner didn’t even blink. ‘I’d have to clear it with my bosses, but I’m not against it in principle. Of course, I’d need to know the exact location we’re talking about.’

Jamie held his stare.

‘Tibet.’