Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [23]
“You are right about that. It was eye-catching, wasn’t it?”
“Caught mine, certainly.”
“In which newspaper?”
I hadn’t really expected him to fall for it. He chuckled. “That would be telling. So what’s the scam, love?”
I told him.
The story sounded even more tenuous and fantastic than I had realized. John didn’t sneer or snicker, but he wasn’t enthusiastic either. Lips pursed, he shook his head. “Is that all you’ve got? It’s a picturesque scenario, my dear, but…”
“I can show you the photograph,” I said. “If the jewels are copies, they are damned good ones.”
“No need,” John said abstractedly. “You’re the expert; I accept your conclusions.”
I was absurdly flattered by the compliment; he didn’t hand them out freely. Then he added, looking at me from under those curly long lashes, “Did you by chance wonder whether I sent you the photo?”
I shrugged. “Your name does leap to mind whenever the question of art forgery arises.”
“Thank you,” John said sincerely. His brow clouded; he then said in a wistful voice, “I’m ashamed I didn’t think of it. It could be the quintessential swindle of all time. Do you know what happened in Berlin on the night of May first, 1945?”
“Yes,” I said shortly. I don’t neglect essential research, even if it doesn’t make for pleasant reading. “At least I know the outlines. Some of the most prized objects from the Berlin museums, including the Trojan gold, were in a bomb shelter in the Tiergarten bunker. It was a fortress—massive concrete walls, antiaircraft batteries bristling from walls and roof—”
“Containing troop quarters, a hospital, and an air-raid shelter for fifteen thousand people,” John said. “Because of its strong fortifications and its location, in the grounds of the zoo in central Berlin, it was one of the last places to be taken. In fact, it wasn’t taken; the commandant surrendered after the general order had gone out at midnight on the first of May. The Russians entered the bunker several hours later—before dawn.”
“So it was still dark,” I said. “Raining, too—”
“Rain was the least of it.” John lit another cigarette. “The city was a scene from the inferno—church spires burning like giant candles, Russian tanks rumbling along Unter den Linden and the Wilhelmstrasse, screaming mobs fighting their way through the flaming, rubble-strewn streets. There was a heavy artillery bombardment, and hand-to-hand fighting, throughout the zoo and park area. The commandant of the Tiergarten bunker told his men that those who wanted to try breaking out before the surrender could do so.”
“So people were going in and out—”
“Mostly in,” John said. “What you must realize is that the Russians were not a homogeneous group. The first ones to reach Berlin were highly disciplined shock troops; the terrified inhabitants, expecting the worst, were surprised and relieved when they were treated with relative decency. The second wave was something else again—a motley medley of illiterate tribesmen from the steppes—Karelians, Kazakhs, Tatars, Mongols, you name it—who could barely speak Russian and who had never seen a light bulb or a W.C.”
“I know that. And I don’t want to hear—”
John went on as if I had not spoken, his voice, as cool and dispassionate as that of a lecturer. “There were thirty thousand people crammed into the shelter in the bunker—twice the number it had been designed to hold. There were patients in the hospital, nurses, doctors, guards. The commandant handed over the keys; the Russians went in. Then, to coin a phrase, all hell broke loose. Patients were shot in their beds, nurses—” He broke off at my involuntary gesture of protest and a bleak smile touched his lips. “War is hell, as they say. While all this was going on, the Russian troops reached the third level, where the museum treasures were stored.
“What happened then is anybody’s guess. The Soviets never turned over the museum pieces to the joint commission on missing and stolen art. Some of them have resurfaced since, but it is conceivable that the gold of Troy is still thriftily stored away in a