Dominique quickly reordered the place-names and then read them back.
"Budapest — 15/12, Gyor — 4/2, Brennberg — 30/3, Vienna — 3/4, Linz — 9/4, Salzburg — 13/4, Hopfgarten — 15/4, Brixlegg — 21/4, Werfen — 16/5."
"Look" — Tom had placed a small pin in each place as it had been read out—"the place-names move east to west as if this is some sort of itinerary. A journey that was made or planned from Budapest, across Europe, to… well, look where it was headed until it got to Brixlegg." Tom pointed to the border just a hundred miles from the small village.
"Switzerland." Archie this time.
"And by the looks of things it almost made it, but then turned back to Werfen." Tom tapped the map with his neatly clipped right index finger. "We should go and see Lasche again, find out whether he knows anything about this."
"What about that?" asked Archie, pointing at the L shape that Tom had faintly penciled on the map.
"We'll ask him about that too."
"Whatever Lasche knows, I doubt it'll explain why this map was hidden behind armor-plated security with a couple of town names circled in invisible ink," observed Dominique.
"Not invisible ink," Dhutta said, his voice suddenly serious. "Although the tint has faded over time, in my experience there is only one substance that you would expect to fluoresce less than its surroundings and yet show up under black light in this way."
"Which is…?" asked Archie.
"Blood."
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
It was, as Tom had remembered, an awe-inspiring sight — battle flags shimmering from the rafters, petals of Napoleonic swords winking from the walls, polished pistols reclining in display cases like fine jewelery. To Archie, though, it was all new, and he had leaped from piece to piece like an eager child.
"Where did he get all this stuff?" Tom knew that Archie was attempting a whisper. It wasn't working. His increasingly excited voice whistled noisily in the room's stillness. But Tom understood why he was trying, at least. On his previous visit Tom had been struck by the polished martial grandeur of his surroundings; this time it was the dark, soulless intensity that overwhelmed him.
The room, he could see now, nurtured a leaden heaviness that reminded him of an El Greco painting. It had a strange, haunting quality that hinted at death, without ever fully expressing it. Tom felt that his presence was somehow inappropriate, that he had stumbled into the forbidden annex to some secret library and was having to balance the desire to find his way out with a terrifying hunger to study the exhibits for as long as he could before he got caught. Under the circumstances, a whisper seemed the very least the room required.
"Have you seen this?" The suit of armor Archie had paused in front of was an intriguing piece that seemed to be seated rather than standing. The black lacquer that had originally covered it had long since cracked and crumbled, although the faded remains of intricately painted gold characters could still be seen on the wide, fearsome helmet and the chest plate. The arms and the neck were also made from metal, wide flat links tied together with colored string. The remainder, however, seemed to be made of bamboo and patterned cloth.
"It's samurai," Archie explained breathlessly, although Tom had already worked that much out for himself. "From the helmet design, I'd say Muromacho Period. Fifteenth, maybe fourteenth century. Must be worth a small fortune."
"Rather a large fortune, in fact, Mr. Connolly."
Lasche had entered the room unseen and was now advancing rapidly toward them in his electric wheelchair. Archie spun around, clearly surprised that Lasche had known who he was.
"Yes, I know who you are." Lasche gave a rasping laugh. "When you pay as much as I do to supplement my collection, it's essential to know all the key players. You, I was given to understand, are one of the best."
"Was. I've retired now. We both have, haven't we, Tom?"
Tom didn't answer. He had noticed that Lasche's voice was surprisingly strong, compared to their last meeting. And his breathing, while still strained and wheezy, seemed much improved; almost normal.
"It's good of you to see me again, Herr Lasche. You seem… much better."
"Full blood transfusion." Lasche gave a red-gummed smile. "I have one every four weeks. For a few days I almost feel human again." He stroked the front of his jacket, and Tom noticed that he had swapped his pajamas and dressing gown for a suit and tie, although the top button had been left undone to allow the shirt's starched fabric to accommodate the fleshy folds of his neck.
"Why is he back here?" Lasche's nurse growled from the doorway.
"Forgive Heinrich" — Lasche gave a small shake of his head—"he is very protective. His question, however, is an appropriate one. Why have you returned, Mr. Kirk? I hope it is not regarding the Order, for you will have made a wasted journey. You have already quite exhausted the little I know."
"Only indirectly, I can assure you. It is regarding a map. Or perhaps, more accurately, a journey. A train journey."
"A train journey?" Lasche wet his white lips with a flick of his tongue. "You certainly have the gift of the mysterious. I suppose I will have to hear you out, one final time."
Lasche steered his chair back over to the other side of the room and parked himself behind his desk, indicating with a wave that they should sit opposite, his gruesome lamp still casting its sickly glow.
"Now, tell me about your train journey."
"We came across a map. A railway map. It seemed to indicate a train journey that was made in the war."
"And no doubt you think it leads to some fantastic hidden treasure," Lasche said dismissively. "Some long-lost masterpiece."
"Why do you say that?" Tom couldn't mask his surprise. Did Lasche know more than he was letting on?
"Because why else would you, of all people, be here, Mr. Kirk? You know your history. You know that Hitler understood the cultural significance of art — its emotional pull on people's imaginations and their sense of identity. War offered him an opportunity to reshape the world's perception of great art."
"You're talking about Sonderauftrag Linz, aren't you?" said Tom. "The unit dedicated to building an art collection that exemplified everything that was best about Aryan art."
"Sonderauftrag Linz yes, but also Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg and the SS-Ahnenerbe. They all played their part in the most sophisticated, well planned, and thoroughly executed theft in history. The plunder of Europe and the genocide of its Jews walked hand in hand. Millions of items were taken. Tens of thousands remain lost to this day. Hundreds still surface every year, never having been returned to their rightful owners. And now I expect you think you may have found some small crumb that has fallen from their table."
"All we think we've found at the moment is a train journey," Tom said firmly. "A journey that we hoped you might know something about. Perhaps if we read you the names of the places the train passed through…"
Lasche scratched his head, the pink skin flaking in several places under his touch and dropping to his collar.
"I very much doubt it. Of all the millions of journeys that were made during that period, why should one mean more to me than another?"
"Because we think this one might have been special," Tom said confidently, although he realized with a sinking heart that Lasche was probably right, and that this was even more of a long shot than he'd first feared.
"Then by all means, read away." Lasche shrugged. "But I wouldn't hold out too much hope."
Tom began to read from the list Dominique had prepared. "Budapest, Gyor, Brennberg, Vienna, Linz…" Lasche's face remained impassive, just a little shake of his head with the mention of each successive name to indicate that they meant nothing to him. "…Salzburg, Hopfgarten," Tom continued. "Brixlegg, Werfen."