Free The Mask of Troy by David Gibbins Page A

all those who carry on the dream. A Führermuseum, reborn.’
    ‘This document is genuine. You can subject it to all the tests you want. You have all the laboratories of London at your disposal, a scholar of your influence. But you have my word. It was typed in duplicate in the Führerbunker by Adolf Hitler himself, then handed over to Martin Borman for dispersal. It’s dated the fourth of April 1945, less than four weeks before the Führer took his own life. One copy went by motorcycle courier towards Holland. It has never been found. Another went to somewhere near the labour camp where my grandfather worked. He found it on the body of a German officer, and kept it secret all this time, finally revealing it to me only this year, just before his death.’ Saumerre pulled the envelope out, hesitated, then passed it to Raitz, who took it and quickly concealed it under his coat. ‘It has what you want, for your dream. But now. When we contacted you, we asked about anything you might have seen with that swastika on it, the counterclockwise swastika. You said you had something for us?’
    Raitz pulled out a scrap of paper from his pocket. ‘A former Dutch antiquities dealer. Became a police informant. Rebecca Howard contacted him too, because he had an interest in Dürer. When Interpol used me as a consultant I insisted that they send me all of his papers, for my eyes only. I already knew of him for his interest in Schliemann’s treasures. My instinct was right. He had hundreds of Nazi documents. And one, one only, had the reverse swastika on it.’
    ‘I must know. Where is this document?’
    ‘In a safe in my house.’
    ‘Is it a map?’
    ‘It’s some kind of plan, a route. Perhaps underground. The Dutchman may know more. He has gone into hiding.’
    ‘Then that is it,’ Saumerre whispered. ‘I was right, when my grandfather told me the story. He said he had spoken to Jewish inmates who had worked underground. I knew it was in a mine . Our preparations have not been in vain. Guard the document with your life. We will be in touch.’ Saumerre turned to go, but Raitz kept hold of his arm, stopping him.
    ‘One question.’
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘The Nazis always gave top-secret directives names. What did they call this one?’
    ‘Look at the top.’ Saumerre shook away the hand, straightened his coat and walked away, out of sight towards the museum entrance. Raitz glanced around, then quickly unzipped the bag and pulled out the document inside, reading the Gothic letters in red he had glimpsed earlier. Further down, he saw the reverse swastika, a platinum colour. And the words under it. He gasped.
    Das Agamemnon-Code .
    The Agamemnon Code .
    He stood motionless for a moment, staring at the case in front of him, in a daze, looking beyond the pottery, the jewellery, the broken swords and arrowheads, seeing only in his mind’s eye what had once mesmerized him in another museum, years before in Athens, the great golden mask that had been raised from a royal tomb more than a hundred and thirty years ago. He was thinking again what he had thought then. What did Heinrich Schliemann really see when he raised the Mask of Agamemnon?
    Back then, standing in front of that mask, it had been idle speculation, the dream of a student. Now it was part of a deadly path he was on. A path that would burn his name in history. A path that would raise again the glory of the Reich .
    He closed the bag and held it under his coat, as if it were the greatest treasure ever found. He hardly dared think of the signature he knew must lie at the bottom of the document. Soon, he would touch it. That name .
    The signature of a man whose will would be done.
    Heil, mein Führer .

5
    Off the island of Tenedos, the Aegean Sea
     
    F ifteen minutes after Costas had left him on the foredeck of Seaquest II , Jack walked into the conference room below the bridge and pulled the door shut behind him. About thirty of the ship’s crew and scientific personnel