A Tsar's Gold (Parker Chase Book 6) Read online

  One young mother with a newborn strapped to her chest and a cell phone pressed to her ear dodged around Parker on her way into the Berlin airport. He blinked against the morning sun as tires screeched and a Land Rover shuddered to a stop in front of him. Parker smiled. I know that kind of car. Exactly like the ones Jane drove on her estate in Scotland. The window rolled down to reveal a face from his recent past, though in truth her ties stretched much farther, back to a life he could never have again.

  Jane waved at him from behind the wheel. “Apologies for the late arrival. Now get in.” Parker tossed his single carry-on in the rear seat and followed orders, unable to buckle his seat belt before Jane floored it into the rapidly moving traffic and zoomed off. Parker assumed they were headed toward downtown, though in truth he had no clue; he couldn’t read the road signs. When Jane merged onto a highway, she let out a groan and rolled one of her shoulders.

  “Are you okay?” Parker asked. “That sounds painful.”

  “You’re to blame for my troubles. After you left Scotland, I took your suggestion and went to a Krav Maga class.”

  The self-defense fighting discipline had been Parker’s physical outlet after his collegiate football days ended, a way to stay in shape and release the tension and frustration from his career as an investment banker. Long hours and difficult clients gave him plenty of motivation for hitting the mats every chance he got, though he’d never intended it to be more than a hobby. Over a decade later, a brown belt was in his gym bag, the second-highest ranking the discipline offered.

  “I bet you’re in better shape than before I met you.”

  Jane laughed. “I lasted one class. It was awful. But since you asked, I’m in the best shape of my life. Not from Krav Maga, thank goodness. I picked up another training regimen. Heard about it from a colleague. It’s exercise using the Scottish Highland staff.”

  “Scottish Highland staff?”

  “A tool of Scots for centuries,” she said. “They look like walking sticks, but with enough practice you can disarm a gunman before they know what’s coming. Also, the training is a hell of a workout.”

  “Sounds interesting, and way out of my league. Maybe you can show me when we’re done figuring out why those Russians wanted to kill Carl.”

  Jane gave him a sidelong look. He didn’t take the bait, instead turning to the window to appreciate Berlin’s contrast of burnt terra cotta roofs beside glass and steel buildings, old and new living in harmony. Pretty enough, though it wasn’t quite the same as driving through the Fort Pitt tunnels and having the soaring Pittsburgh skyline jump up and grab your attention with both hands. He realized Jane still hadn’t responded.

  “I’m not looking for trouble, Jane. Just answers.”

  “Forgive me, Parker, but I don’t believe you. If there’s anything you taught me, it’s that we aren’t assured of safety. If a threat exists, better to…how did you put it? ‘Play offense instead of defense’?”

  “Good advice. Sounds like something I’d say.” He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair.

  “I like the haircut,” Jane said. “Are those gray hairs at your temples?” She raised an eyebrow. “All those adventures are catching up with you.”

  Parker had had a ponytail when they’d first met. Or, as Jane had referred to it, a man bun. “I looked awful. It had to go. And yes, those are gray hairs. Likely from hanging around with you.”

  “Men cause far more gray hairs than women ever will.” She winked. “I should know, having to deal with you. As for the man bun, all I can say is you were having a rough time.”

  The casual reference to his darkest period would have been unwelcome coming from almost anyone else. From Jane, the sympathy came through. “Yes, I was.” Parker blinked. “Glad you like the haircut.” He pointed toward the approaching city. “Where are we headed?”

  The shrill ringing of a phone filled the car before she could answer. Parker’s spirits lifted when he spotted the name on her vehicle’s touchscreen. “Is that him?”

  “None other,” Jane said. “He demanded you be available to talk before we get too busy.” She connected the call. “Good morning, Hugh. How’s the house?”

  “Cold and lonely without you, lass.” A brogue thick enough to clog pipes rang out. “Did you find that American yet?”

  Parker practically shouted. “Hugh Burton. My friend, how are you?”

  “A touch bored without you around to cause trouble,” Hugh said. “Though my aching bones are not complaining much. Old men appreciate a quiet day, Mr. Chase.”

  “There’s nothing old about you, Hugh. My hand still hurts from that grip of yours.” The caretaker of Jane’s family castle, Hugh had snow-white hair, a beard worthy of Santa, and was one of the strongest men Parker had ever met. The guy was well past seventy and could probably bench three hundred pounds with ease. “Glad to hear you’re healed.”

  “You mean that little bump on the head?” He harrumphed with feeling. “Not even worth remembering. Like a baby’s touch.”

  Only Hugh would refer to an assassin nearly bashing his brains out as a ‘baby’s touch’. “We came out all right in the end, though.”

  “That we did. That we did.” Barking sounded in the background. “Easy, Tory. Down, boy.”

  “How’s my favorite dog?” Parker asked. “I miss that boy every day. Can’t believe he didn’t want to come to America.” When Parker had lived in Scotland for half a year, he had adopted a terrier mix. The hairy guy had fallen in love with Jane, and she’d asked if Parker would let her adopt him. He agreed. The mutt followed Jane everywhere.

  “Hungry, as ever. He is anxious for a walk in the bracing air. A dog never forgets a good master. You must come see him soon.” Parker promised he would.

  “Keep your eyes open, the both of you.” Hugh’s words grew softer. “You are not moving about unarmed, I hope.”

  “Guns are hard to come by in Germany,” Parker said. “But we aren’t completely defenseless. I understand Jane is now versed in Highland staff fighting.”

  Hugh gave another of his trademark harrumphs. “Lot of good that will do against a bullet.”

  “Don’t worry,” Jane said. “We aren’t looking for trouble.”

  “In my experience, lass, trouble comes to you.” Hugh clicked off.

  “They don’t make them like Hugh anymore,” Parker said.

  “No, they don’t.” Jane pointed to a road sign. “Our exit is two kilometers ahead. From there it’s not far to the emergency contact address you got from Carl’s bank. The last address for Carl’s sister isn’t far from there.”

  “The sister’s name is Margot and the son’s is Otto. And this is a ten-year-old address.”

  “Then let’s hope Margot hasn’t moved.” A short time later she signaled as the exit appeared. “What about the boy in Carl’s photo? Any luck finding out more about him?”

  “None,” Parker said. “We have nothing to go on other than a name. Otto.”

  Long shadows from the morning sun fell halfway across the street as Jane exited the expressway and drove into a neighborhood of three-story row homes. Small shops and coffeehouses looked over most intersections, with an impressive number of bicycles resting against the homes. Few pedestrians filled the narrow walkways, most already at work for the day. They passed a city park that stretched for an entire square block. Trees lined the perimeter, leaves of every color exploding in the fall sun.

  “This is the street,” Jane said. This section of the neighborhood had single-family lots, with standalone houses along either side. A gray-haired couple on one front porch waved as they passed. Jane waved back. Parker, the city dweller, did not.

  “That house looks familiar.” They rolled to a stop in front of the house from Carl’s picture. “That’s the same license plate as in the photo,” Parker said. “This is the place.”

  A couple in matching coats passed on the sidewalk, two dachshunds with their noses to the concrete leading the way. Orange leaves
skittered at their feet as the wind picked up. Parker turned his collar up. “You’ll have to do the talking,” he said. “There’s no guarantee his sister even knows Carl is dead. Tread lightly.”

  Jane clamped onto his arm, stopping him in his tracks. “Two things. First, I know. This will be emotional either way. Second, you need to get out of America more often. Most people around the world aren’t like Americans. They speak more than one language. Guess which is the most common?”

  Parker didn’t acknowledge the not-so-subtle dig. Don’t be the stereotypical American, doofus. Be smarter. He held out a hand toward the door. “Ladies first.”

  “Don’t be salty,” Jane said. “I’ll have you in shape soon enough.” She winked, then brushed past and headed up the front steps to ring the doorbell. An appropriately muted tone sounded, scarcely audible through the door. The noise faded as they stood. Parker looked to Jane, who looked back at him. She shrugged, reaching for the doorbell once more.

  The door handle turned. They both took a step back as the door opened to reveal a man both recognized, yet had never met. “Guten Morgen. Kann ich Ihnen helfen?”

  It was Otto. No doubt. Aged twenty years from the snapshot, now with more gray hair than black. Glasses rested atop his nose, but the eyes behind them had the same light evident in the memento Carl had kept. As Jane responded in the same language, Parker heard his name, and then a familiar phrase. “Sprechen Sie Englisch?”

  “Of course,” Otto replied in perfect English. “If that is easier for you.”

  Parker signed inwardly. He really needed to learn another language.

  Jane switched back to English. “We’re looking for a man named Otto.”

  “There are many men with that name in Berlin,” Otto said. “I am one.” He frowned slightly at Parker. “Do I know you?”

  “No,” Parker said. “As Jane said, my name is Parker.” Otto accepted the proffered hand, his grip relaxed, uncertain. “I knew a man who I think was your uncle. Carl Ellis. He lived in Pittsburgh for some time.”

  Now suspicion bloomed full on Otto’s face. “Why are you asking about my uncle? I have not seen him in years.”

  Parker glanced at Jane. Right guy. Why’s he so defensive about Carl?

  “Have you spoken with him?” Parker asked.

  “I do not see how that is your concern.” Otto crossed his arms. “Did he send you here?”

  Jane took the lead. “Otto, I’m afraid we have bad news.”

  Just like that, he knew. Otto’s face fell with his arms, shoulders slumping forward. “Oh.” Then he pushed the door open wide. “Perhaps you should come inside.”

  He led them to a sitting room that appeared never to have been used, but was nonetheless cleaned regularly with ruthless efficiency. Pristine chairs surrounded a wooden table stained so brown it was nearly black. Not a single dust mote flitted through the sunlight cascading in waves through open blinds.

  Otto indicated two chairs. “Please, have a seat.” Once they all did, his glasses came off, and Otto pinched the bridge of his nose. “When did it happen?”

  “Three days ago,” Parker said.

  Otto replaced his glasses. “I see.” He stood. “I’ll make coffee.” He walked into the adjacent room, leaving Parker and Jane alone. Neither spoke as a grinder whirred, water burbled, then the familiar aroma reached them. Only after Otto placed a tray with cups and a steaming pot on the table did they continue.

  “Is Margot your mother and Carl’s sister?” Parker asked.

  “She was,” Otto said. “My mother died two years ago.”

  “Our condolences,” Parker said. “We had no idea.”

  He acknowledged the words with a raised hand. “She lived a good life, though I miss her dearly. Thank you.” He switched gears in a flash, plainly not wanting to dwell on the topic. “How did you know my uncle?”

  “He banked with my father. I never actually met your uncle until this week.”

  Otto contemplated the mug in front of him without touching it. A child’s happy cries could be heard outside, muted through the window. Then his head shot up. “This week? You said he died only three days ago.”

  “Which is why I flew to Berlin to speak with you,” Parker said.

  He recapped everything, from Carl bringing the gold bar to his office, to the altercation in the street that had gone horribly wrong and left two men dead. Parker paused and took a breath.

  “I went to your uncle’s house. Given how he had described his wishes for the transaction – that it take place at his home – I suspected his request was much more private than most.”

  He and Jane had discussed this earlier. Carl Ellis had clearly been a private man wishing to avoid any unnecessary scrutiny. The question then was, how would his relatives feel about the situation? Were they as private as Carl had been? Parker hadn’t come in any professional capacity. Getting information depended on convincing Otto he had the man’s best interests in mind. To do that, they needed his trust. And after thinking through the matter from every angle, they had agreed on how to get it.

  “Nobody was there, and Carl hadn’t mentioned any relatives. Given he’d been murdered, I made a decision. I hope you understand.”

  “You broke into my uncle’s house.” Otto stared at Parker. “Unless he gave you a key.”

  Otto didn’t miss much. “I didn’t see any other option.”

  His words went unanswered. Otto’s gaze flipped from Parker to Jane, taking their measure. A grandfather clock tolled the quarter hour. Then Otto sipped his coffee. “I appreciate your discretion in this matter. My uncle was a very private man.”

  The weight on Parker’s chest evaporated. “My clients value their privacy in all matters.”

  “Then my uncle chose wisely in coming to you,” Otto said. “Please, go on.”

  Otto barely reacted when Parker told him about finding the basement office filled with memorabilia, journals and gold. He laughed about the gold-filled lockbox. “My uncle was many things,” he said. “Trusting of others concerning his money was not one of them.” Only when Parker moved on to the Russian-speaking intruders did Otto finally show surprise.

  “You’re sure they were Russian?”

  “I never actually saw them,” Parker said. “But they spoke Russian. I could hear that much.”

  “Same as the man who killed him,” Otto said. “You have the rest of his gold?”

  Parker shook his head. “I took one bar with German writing because it was different from the one he brought to my office. That had Russian writing. My hope is the authorities arrived in time to scare off the other two men. Considering they would have to find the lockbox first, which they couldn’t open without Carl’s key, my guess is it’s still there. Carrying it out would be tough – it was bolted to the desk and weighed hundreds of pounds.”

  Otto finished his coffee. “First, thank you for what you did. Respecting my uncle’s privacy is a serious matter. It is reassuring you chose to investigate his murder without involving the authorities. Second, you went to great effort to travel from America.” Here he looked at Jane. “Though I must ask if you came from elsewhere, given your accent.”

  “Edinburgh,” Jane said. “Parker and I were involved in a situation earlier this year, one not totally unlike your uncle’s. Also, he does not speak German.”

  “A wise choice, then. If my uncle trusted your judgment, Parker, I will do the same. Now, I assume you have questions for me. Perhaps if you will listen to a story, many of them will be answered.” He stood and walked to a side table, retrieved a bottle and returned. “Would you like a measure of brandy?” Jane declined, but Parker accepted. “This helps guard against the cold,” Otto said. Whether or not that was the true reason for his bracing addition to the coffee, Parker didn’t care. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees as Otto began to speak.

  “My uncle served his country in the war, as did most men his age, in many different capacities. Much of what I know about his military experience co
mes from my mother, though my uncle never disputed her accounts when we spoke.” Otto sipped his spiked coffee. “To start, my uncle’s true name was Claus Elser. He became Carl Ellis after immigrating to America. Before the war, he was the finance director at a museum in Berlin, managing accounts and budgets. Then Germany invaded Poland.”

  Parker sipped the coffee in front of him, warmth spreading to his belly as the brandy coursed through. “Was your uncle in the military before 1939?”

  “No. My uncle detested violence. I cannot imagine how he felt. But it is not as though he had much choice. The Nazis came to him. You did not refuse their request.”

  “He was recruited?” Jane asked.

  Otto nodded. “My uncle also had a thorough knowledge of the art world. Art, antiquities, artifacts. As museums are always short on cash, he was required to understand the value of a piece. Such a combination of financial and artistic knowledge was uncommon, and was what brought him to the attention of the Reichsleiter Rosenberg Taskforce.”

  “I’ve heard of them,” Jane said. “Alfred Rosenberg led the group. They stole art and other cultural artifacts from occupied territories. Hermann Göring basically used the group as his personal art collectors.”

  “That is correct,” Otto said.

  Parker raised a hand. “Göring I’ve heard of. Rosenberg?” He looked to Jane. “Remind me about him.”

  “Alfred Rosenberg was one of the main proponents, if not the main proponent, of the ‘master race’ ideology Hitler and other Nazi leaders used to justify their atrocities. Rosenberg ran the task force Otto mentioned, a group developed specifically to steal art and cultural items. They looted conquered countries and took the plunder back to Germany. The very best pieces ended up with high-ranking Nazis, often Göring.”

  “You are a student of history,” Otto said. “Entirely accurate on all counts.”

  “I’m a professor, actually. That’s how Parker and I met.” She didn’t go into further detail, and Otto didn’t press.

  Parker decided to ask a delicate question that had been buzzing in his head. “Any idea why your uncle changed his name in America? Other than his having been a Nazi, that is.”