The Collectors - Book Four: Diamonds and Sand (The Collectors Series 4) (3 page)

             
“But he’ll never know. Will he?”

Part Two

Chapter One

Pangbourne, River Thames, England 2012

Petros and Maria lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.

“Don’t you have an appointment with Rabbi Levy this morning
?” said Maria.

He swung his legs out of the bed. “Plenty of time. I’m going for a run with Dog and I’ll shower when I get back.”

Maria sat and brushed a free-spirited hair from her face. “Alysa’s awake and singing nursery rhymes at full volume. No peace for the wicked.”

Dressed in his track
suit, he perched on the edge of the bed. “No doubt he’ll be asking for another collection.”

“
Will you do it?”

“
Depends.”

“On what?”

“My wife and Bear.”

“Have I ever said no?”

“Not yet.”

She sidled across the bed and pulled him down, planting a kiss on his lips. “It’
s what you do. Go for your run.”

***

Petros met Bear Morris outside the Rabbi’s Georgian house.

             
“I put my money on Russia,” said Bear.

             
“Poland. Bet you a tenner.”

             
“You’re on.”

             
Petros pressed the doorbell. From inside the chimes came clear and loud.

             
“Is he looking at us?” asked Bear.

             
Petros peered at the security viewer and smiled at the image of a one-eyed man checking him out. “These days it’s wise to have a peek before opening your door.”

             
Rabbi Levy, a short, ruddy-cheeked man with a long beard opened the door. “Petros, Bear, shalom. Come into my office. I’ll ask Martha to make coffee.”

             
Oak-panelling covered three walls of the office, on the other an overflowing bookshelf. A dark wood desk and two chairs occupied the centre. Rabbi Levy relaxed in a brown leather recliner on his side of the desk, and motioned for them to sit.

             
The rabbi leaned back holding a book in his hands. “This,” he held up a tatty black book, “was brought to me by the grandson of a deceased Polish rabbi.” He smiled. “Hand-written in ancient Hebrew.

“
From a transcription I understand but unknown to the occupying German army. The artefacts from many synagogues before being looted and destroyed were collected and hidden underground. With the demise of the ghetto all knowledge of this act of defiance vanished.”

             
“Why don’t you pass this information to the authorities?”

             
“Treasure hunters. Four people are aware of this; the Chief Rabbi, you two and I. Today, many of the young of Poland do not admit that he or she is Jewish. For many years after the war a Jew could not feel safe in Poland. Pope John Paul did more to attack anti-Semitism than any other person in the past two thousand years. But if a whisper of hidden treasure became known, half of Warsaw would be digging holes in the ground.”

             
“The war ended seventy years ago. Why so long?” asked Petros.

             
He held up the book. “This writer died during 1943. He strapped the book to the body of his six-year-old son and told him to run for his life. Somehow the boy escaped using the secret paths in and out of the ghetto. A farmer found him malnourished and unconscious, sixty miles from Warsaw, took him in, and raised him as a Catholic and one of his own. No one could read the book but it remained a relic from days best forgotten. The boy married a local girl and they produced one son. He was given the book to keep and in time researched the language and on discovering he was a Jew by lineage, kept quiet. Later in life he came to England to work. A few weeks ago this man died, his son found a package addressed to the Chief Rabbi. Needless to say, this is confidential information.”

             
“After all these years, you have faith that it’s still there?” said Petros.

             
“Yes. The ghetto after the war remained a wasteland. The interesting part of this tale is the artefacts, according to this book, are located somewhere under the Little Ghetto which remains almost just about untouched.”

             
“I thought you said they destroyed the ghetto,” said Bear.

             
“Most people think that. By chance, the Nozyk Synagogue survived as a stable and storehouse. Why destroy something useful?”

             
“If, and I stress if, we go to Poland and we find whatever, what do we do with it?” said Petros.

             
“The Rabbi of Nozyk Synagogue will decide what to do.”

             
“Why us? Our services don’t come cheap,” said Petros.

             
“You’ve anticipated my next question. The Chief Rabbi has agreed to meet your costs and pay you both one thousand pounds a day for a maximum of ten days.”

             
Petros gave this collection a few minutes’ thought. In the ten years since he and Bear formed the company, they had on many occasions taken on collections of an individual nature. He made up his mind.

             
“Rabbi, give me a couple of days and I’ll go and find your missing treasure.”

             
“Do I have a vote?” said Bear as he shifted his gaze from the window to Petros.

             
The door opened and Martha entered with a tray of coffee and biscuits. She placed the tray on the rabbi’s desk.

             
“We’ll help ourselves. Thank you,” said rabbi Levy.

             
Martha nodded and left the room.

             
Petros fidgeted in his chair. “Your decision, Bear, but I’m going. I owe the Rabbi for his help in the past.”

             
“You can be annoyingly condescending sometimes,” said Bear.

             
“Are you coming or not?”

             
“Someone has to watch your back and God gave me the job. Rabbi, where do we start digging?”

             
“Drink your coffee. Under the Nozyk Synagogue and from the directions in the book a tunnel leads from the main storm drain to a vault. The problem is the drain runs straight through the old Jewish market square from under the Catholic Church to the Yiddish theatre. You will have to find the vault’s entrance constructed at the beginning of the war.”

             
“Sewers aren’t my favourite place,” said Petros.

             
“Storm drains are or should be separate and distinct from sewers. So you should be safe,” said Rabbi Levy.             

             
“Methane is a by-product of decomposition, one spark and bang,” said Petros. “I accept this is a storm drain and maybe free of gas but these old systems have a habit of joining together in the most unusual places.”

             
“I’m sure you will find this collection quite easy. The tunnels are of red brick construction and those who hid the artefacts marked the entrance with a Swastika in black bricks.”

             
Petros leaned back in his chair. “Strange, that they marked the location with the sign of their persecutors?”

The r
abbi grinned. “What better sign to use? You see the swastika as the Nazi regime. Before it was corrupted, it was a powerful symbol with positive meanings. In Warsaw, the Germans were afraid of the sewers. In fact they lived in continual fear of resistance fighters jumping out of the drains and attacking them.”

Petros’ eyes showed surprise. “We’ll need a couple of days. One more thin
g, the assistance of the local rabbi would help.”

“I
’ll arrange a meeting. Let me know what hotel you’ll be staying in?”

“No problem,” said Bear. “Can you have a copy of the directions in the book e-mai
led? I appreciate they’re vague but it’ll give us somewhere to start.”

“
Of course, anything else?”

“I’ll let you know when we
’re leaving,” said Petros.

Chapter Two

             
“I’m Alicja’s father, Aleksy. I promise you, if you don’t like it, you can have it at no charge,” said a middle-aged man with a powerful build and white hair tied in a ponytail. “I give you my special Bigos Stew with home baked bread. You’ll not leave hungry.”

             
Petros and Bear sat and waited for their stew.

             
Aleksy returned with two steaming bowls. “Here you are. Smell the aroma, meat with perfect vegetables. None better.”

             
“Looks good. Smells wonderful and I bet it tastes delicious,” said Bear as he ripped a large chunk of bread from the loaf.

             
Petros took a mouthful and ate. “Must admit it’s hot and tasty.” He glanced at his watch. “You’ve thirty minutes to get it down your neck.”

             
“If you shut up, I’d manage to eat two platefuls in that time.”

             
Aleksy watched Petros and Bear leave. He turned to his young son. “I like those men but they’re not tourists.”

             
“What makes you say that, father?”

             
He shrugged. “Tourists take their time. Those two were in a hurry.”

***

At Plac Grzybowski Petros and Bear waited outside the Jewish theatre.

“There’s our man,” said Petros.
“Tall, black hair, dark suit with a funny coloured tie.”

“
How do you know?”

“He's
examined a printout, looked at us and returned the paper to his jacket pocket. I noted he’s wearing a skull cap.”

“Mr Kyriades and Mr Morris, Jacob Baron.
I recognize you from the fax Rabbi Levy sent.” They shook hands. “I understand you need assistance.”

             
“You could say that. Have you been told why we are here?”

             
“I have, but after so long, it might be a waste of time. Rabbi Levy and I go back many years and I promised to help. What do you need?”

             
“Far more than you can imagine,” said Petros. “Is there somewhere we can sit and talk?”

             
“There’s a small café to the right of the Catholic church. Will that do?”

             
“Anywhere we can be undisturbed,” said Petros.

             
Jacob pulled a packet of cigarettes from his trouser pocket, offered them, removed and lit one. “Nasty habit but the authorities have banned smoking almost everywhere.”

             
They chatted while they strolled to the café, found an empty table and sat. Jacob puffed at his cigarette and waved to attract a waiter. On their left, a glass door led to the inside where couples talked. A waiter arrived; they ordered three teas. He returned a few minutes’ later and placed three mugs on the table.

             
“Enjoy the tea,” said Jacob. “Now how can I help?”

             
“Bear and I need a workmen’s tent, sledgehammers, chisels, strong bags and some battery-operated head lamps.”

             
“I will ask my father, he works for the city.”

             
“Won’t he ask why you need them?” said Bear.

             
“Of course and I will tell him I’m with two men whose parents escaped through the labyrinth during the war. I arrange guided tours for inquisitive tourists. Any money I make goes to a children’s home. The difference, where you want to go is not my usual route.”

             
Petros grinned. “Rabbi Levy told us you’d help. He forgot to mention the guided tours.”             

             
“He has a wicked sense of humour. In this instance, I agree the tent will be useful. I’ll obtain some hazard notices. When do you want to go into the tunnels?”

             
Petros looked at Bear. “The sooner the better. To be honest we don’t hold out much hope, but we like Rabbi Levy. He’s a first-class man.”

             
“I’ll meet you outside the Nozyk synagogue at nine tomorrow,” said Jacob.

             
“We’ll be there”, said Bear. “Booted and suited.”

             
Jacob coughed and attempted to conceal a laugh. “What do you mean?”

             
“Ready to go,” said Petros. “See you.”

***

The forecasted rain had yet to arrive but dark clouds scudded across a grey sky as Petros and Bear, dressed as workmen, strolled along Twarda Street.

             
Petros’ gaze fixed on a red tent and the hazard barriers which enclosed the dummy restricted vicinity. “Jacob’s been busy.”

             
Bear nodded and smiled.

             
Two minutes later, Petros lifted the flap and peered in. “Good morning.”

             
Jacob, dressed as a workman, raised his head. “Coffee’s just made, want some? I brought three mugs?”

             
Large droplets of rain spattered the ground as they entered and sat on a plank of wood laid across two buckets.

             
“Always look and act the part and no one notices,” said Jacob. “We’ll have our coffee and you two can start.”

             
“You’re not coming with us?”

             
“The foreman always stays up top, in case of problems. If a police officer pokes his head in, I can fend off any questions. An empty tent would arouse undue interest.”

             
Petros frowned as rain drummed on the tent.

             
“Don’t worry, the old tunnels in this region are no longer in use. Bit of advice, if your feet get wet, get out. You’ll need these.” He handed over two sacks. “This one contains torches and headlamps, one gas detector; if it buzzes run. The other, club hammers, bolt cutter, chisels and crowbar, but most important, the radio. If you get into trouble, use it. Last but not least, hardhats.”

             
The look of appreciation developed on Petros’ face as he took and fitted the white plastic hat. “You’ve thought of everything Jacob. Thank you.” He turned to Bear. “Finished your coffee?”

             
Bear drank the remaining dregs in one gulp. “I have now. Let’s go. As you’re scrawny, I’ll go first; if I get stuck you can give me a shove.”

             
“I’m built for speed.”

             
“Maria says you take your time.”

“
Shut up and shove your fat arse through that hole.”

             
“Such terms of endearment and I thought we were friends.”

             
Petros watched as Bear descended the metal ladder bolted to the brick wall.

             
“I’m at the bottom. Lower the bag.”

             
“I’ll bring it with me.” Petros entered the shaft and at the bottom inhaled. “Smells fresh.” He dipped into the bag, retrieved the torches and handed one to Bear. He gazed around the tunnel and remarked, “In view of when this was built it’s in great condition.”

             
“It’s bone dry. Which way, left or right?”

             
Petros familiarized himself with the rough drawn map and the square above. “Left. Remember we are searching for a swastika built into the wall with black bricks.”

             
With no distance given on the map, they passed through the tunnel with ease, checking the brickwork as they went.

             
At a T-junction Bear stopped. “Which way?”

             
Petros paused. “This junction isn’t shown. Maybe we’ve come too far.”

             
“I suggest we go right and have a gander.”

             
“Lead on,” said Petros.

             
Bear stopped and shone his torch over an iron gate to his right. “Padlocked. Bolt cutters, PK.”

             
The padlock fell to the floor as Bear heaved the gate open. “Come on, might as well check this out.”

             
“By the look of it no one’s been along here in years and there’s a distinct pong in the air.”

             
“Go to the top of the class, PK.”

             
Again, the two men inspected the walls.

             
“It’s a dead end,” said Bear as he shifted his beam from side to side. “Next.”

             
In a further tunnel swathes of cables adorned the roof making it awkward to negotiate.

             
On arriving at another junction, they stopped. “Been here before,” said Petros. “Jacob should be thirty metres or so,” he pointed, “in that direction.”

             
Bear checked his watch. “Time for a coffee break.” He ascended the iron ladder,

             
“Find anything?” said Jacob.

             
“No,” said Bear.

             
“My friend decided on a coffee break.”

             
Bear caught Jacob’s eye. “Any chance you could nip across to that café and buy half a dozen filled rolls for lunch.”

             
“Half a dozen?”

             
“Well if you want some, better make it a round dozen,” said Bear.

             
“Here, take this,” said Petros as he handed over a few large denomination notes.

             
“I’ll get some coffee while I’m there,” said Jacob.

***

Petros finished his coffee and placed his mug on the ground. “Time to lift and shift.”

             
“Those rolls were delicious.”

             
“Thought you’d like the Polish sausage and salad with American mayo,” said Jacob.

             
“Stop looking at me, PK.”

             
“Get your fat arse down the ladder.”

             
Petros followed Bear. At the bottom they turned right. Other much smaller tunnels intersected theirs.

             
“Have you noticed for the last thirty or so metres the gradual slope and the pong in the air?” said Petros.

             
“I have but the explosion meter registers zero.” He glanced at the surrounding brickwork. “Well, well, I don’t believe it. A black swastika.”

             
“Where? I didn’t see it,” said Petros.

             
“Whoever built the tunnel positioned it in the best possible place. On the roof. Who in their right mind glances up when strolling through a tunnel? You always look where you place your feet.”