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Remi watched as he turned the tracing paper about, trying to match the other end of the Z to some city. “And what truth would that be?”
“That we still don’t know where it leads. Not unless we can figure out how the map was positioned on the table when that tracing was made.”
“Actually,” Miron said, “I believe we can. It makes sense that the map would be positioned with north at the top, and the person making the tracing would be standing at the south.”
“Agreed,” Sam said. “But it’s a round table. How do we know where they were standing?”
“Because the same man who drew the route on the original map that my grandfather copied, signed his name on the requisition order for the trucks to take the treasure there. Chances are good that, being in charge, he sat in the same chair each time. That would be here,” he said, pointing to the edge of the table near Sam’s right elbow. “You can see his signature. Obermann Ludwig Strassmair.”
Almost at once, Sam, Remi, and Sergei leaned in, examining the tabletop, trying to see what it was Miron was talking about. Sure enough, the signature, though faint, was there for all to see. Signed and dated 31 January 1945. Sam moved the map so the bottom was positioned near the man’s signature, then slid it up so that the edge of the bottom of the zigzag line started where Königsberg castle was circled on the map. The top of the zigzag landed between the two German cities of Breslau and Waldenburg, both now part of Poland and currently known as Wroclaw and Walbrzych.
“Ludwig Strassmair,” Miron said, “commanded one of the prison camps in that area. It makes sense he’d move the treasure to somewhere familiar to him.”
“What else do you know about him?” Sam asked.
“At the end of the war, he was one of several officers instrumental in the deaths of thousands of German civilians. Strassmair and the others refused to allow them to flee Königsberg before the Russians invaded.” Miron let out a tired sigh. “The treasures stored at the castle were another matter entirely. That, he made sure, was saved before the Russians came. Most, my grandfather believed, was to finance something called Unternehmen Werwolf. Have you heard of it?”
“Operation Werewolf,” Sam said. It was supposed to be an elite troop of Germans trained to use clandestine guerrilla tactics against the Allied Forces behind enemy lines. “Everything I’d read suggested that the program failed. More propaganda than reality.”
“It definitely existed,” Miron said. “Not quite how they planned or how history painted it. At the close of the war, those operatives who weren’t discovered by the Allied Forces ended up helping run the ratlines to assist the Nazis’ escape. The reason I bring it up is that I believe Obermann Ludwig Strassmair, the officer who requisitioned the trucks, was a member of this group. The trucks with their treasures, with the Romanov Ransom, were meant for this operation. More important, the Nazis intended that there’d be no survivors. They executed every person who was aware of the trucks’ existence.”
“But your grandfather . . . ?” Sergei said. “How did he survive?”
“The bullet only grazed him,” Miron replied, touching the left side of his chest to indicate where his grandfather had been shot. “When a Nazi guard fell on top of him, he played dead, staying beneath the body until the last truck was gone.”
“And Obermann Strassmair?” Sam asked.
“Declared a Nazi war criminal after the war. Never arrested—not that they didn’t search, mind you.”
“What do you think happened to him?”
“I think he succeeded in his mission. To secure the Romanov Ransom and the other treasures, laying the groundwork for their retrieval after the war. Their sole purpose was to make sure they could recover it all when they needed to for Unternehmen Werwolf.”
He tapped the map. “History paints the Werwolf members as more a nuisance than any real threat. To his dying day, my grandfather believed the Werwolf guard continued on, passing their secrets to subsequent generations for one sole purpose: to watch over the stolen treasures of the Third Reich for whatever purpose they’ve deemed. What that is, I don’t know.”
“And what do you think?” Sam asked.
“I believe the threat of the Guard is real, even to this day. I think they’re behind the attacks on Andrei and his book. They’re dangerous. And that doesn’t take into account anyone else on the search for this treasure. There could very well be others.”
“So we’ve found out,” Remi said.
Sam eyed the tracing paper, with its route landing right between both cities. There was a lot of space between the two, and the accuracy of the location depended on guesswork. “Bottom line. Where would you be looking for this treasure? Wroclaw or Walbrzych?”
“Personally, I’d go with Walbrzych. It is, after all, home of the legendary Gold Train in Poland.”
“But so many have looked,” Sergei said. “They found nothing there.”
“And yet, the rumors still persist. There must be a reason.” He removed the tracing paper from the map, then took a pen and circled one area. “Here, near Ksiaz castle, is where I’d start. It was part of Project Riese, a network of tunnels and bunkers that the Nazis built throughout the mountains, including beneath the castle.”
“Great,” Remi said to Sam. “More tunnels.”
“Show me a country in Europe that doesn’t have them,” Sam said.
“Still,” Sergei added, “it’s a good place to hide a treasure.”
Remi made a scoffing noise. “What about a good old-fashioned desert island?”
“Ignore her,” Sam said. “She’s a little tunnel weary after getting lost in a few below Nottingham.” They’d been searching for King John’s Treasure at the time. “About this Castle Ksiaz,” he said, returning his attention to the map and Miron, “why there and not at the sixty-fifth-kilometer marker on the line from Wroclaw to Walbrzych? If we’re going with rumors, isn’t that where everyone else thinks the Gold Train is? Even our attempt at placing the route on the map shows it’s somewhere in between.”