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“There’s a dead guy on the ground.”
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Sam aimed the beam of his flashlight into the space. Even though Remi had warned him, the sight of a mummified Nazi soldier was not what he’d expected. The man had been shot in the forehead, his body mostly preserved by the cool air circulating in the tunnel. “Totenkopf,” Sam said, noting the skull and crossbones insignia on the man’s collar. It was a duplicate of the insignia that Gustaw had found near the forest entrance. “Could have been a prison camp guard brought in to oversee the work. I wonder who killed him?”
“And why?” Remi added.
“Russians, maybe?” Gustaw said. “When they were rousting the Nazis after the war?”
“Interesting theory,” Sam replied, shining his light around the cavern, noticing the stacks of wooden crates filled with canned goods. “If it was the Russians, they would’ve stripped it of anything of value. Definitely the food. There’s enough canned goods here for an army.” In fact, the crates, lined up several deep along the wall, were about the shape and size of a railcar. Gustaw looked over at Sam. “I suppose this explains why we saw what we did on the ground penetrating radar. That Renard lost his life over canned food—”
“He lost his life,” Sam said, “because there are evil people in the world.”
“I know . . .”
“Look at this,” Remi said, her attention fixed on the floor beside the desk. “An Enigma machine. A shame someone destroyed it.”
Sam glanced over to see a splintered crate and, within it, the remnants of the machine, some of the wiring exposed near the front, the keys and rotors smashed to bits.
Sergei walked up next to Sam. “What’s an Enigma machine?” he asked.
“For codes,” Sam said, leaning down and picking up one of the smashed rotors. “Sort of like a typewriter to send out ciphered messages.” He showed the rotor to Sergei, pointing out the few letters that hadn’t been scraped off the circumference. “Each rotor had the alphabet on it,” he said. “This machine used three rotors at one time. Some of them used four. A message was typed in and coded by the rotors. The person on the receiving end needed to know which rotors were used and in what order to decode the message.”
Remi moved to the desk, picking up a green book, opening it. “Maybe the dead Nazi was in charge of inventory control . . .” She turned a page. “A list of what’s in the cans.”
Sergei looked over her shoulder. “I don’t suppose there’s a listing of treasure chests . . . ?”
“Unfortunately, no.” She glanced at Sam as he tossed the broken rotor onto the Enigma pile. “If I had to guess, they were preparing the ultimate bomb shelter. With what’s listed here, and the water they diverted, they could live for months.” She set down the book, then opened the top desk drawer. “Fountain pen, pencils . . .”
Sam walked over to the dead soldier, crouching down beside him for a closer look. “I’d say he was executed.”
“Maybe he was an embezzler,” Sergei said. “Lesson learned.”
“Doesn’t make sense,” Sam replied. “Why seal the chamber, break the Enigma machine, and leave all that food behind . . . ?”
Gustaw reached into one of the crates, pulling out a can. “Only one explanation. They didn’t want anyone to find it or know what it was for. There has to be a reason.”
“If,” Remi said, “this is the location from the Königsberg map, maybe he was killed for the same reason that all those guards were kil
led at Königsberg castle. Dead men tell no tales.”
Sam looked up at her. “That is the best explanation yet.”
She smiled.
“Don’t let your head swell. If you’re correct, we still have to figure out what secret he was protecting.” He patted the dead man’s pockets. Finding nothing of significance, he stood, looking around the room. “Let’s do an inventory. Maybe something will turn up. Remi, finish going through the desk. We’ll search the crates.”
After looking through a half dozen, Sam glanced over at Remi, who was crouched beneath the desk. “What’s wrong?”
“Trying to get this drawer out,” she said, pushing at it from beneath. “I’m hoping there’s a false bottom. It won’t—” There was a soft click, and the drawer slid out. “Bingo.”
She scooted out, then stood, a slight frown on her face as she reached into the drawer. “One gold bar—”
“Not bad,” Sam said.
“If it’s the rumored Romanov Ransom, there’s not much of it here,” she replied, pulling out a thick stack of bills and placing it next to the gold. “A key. And this . . .” She held up a familiar-looking square tin, placing it on the desk. “Typewriter ribbon . . . Clearly, this is the favored Nazi brand.” She opened the tin. “Surprise! Typewriter ribbon.”
Sam picked up the tarnished brass skeleton key, turning it over in his hand. “A key and money.”