Wish to Die

By Robert Walton

An archaeologist plunges into a hunt for the Amber Room—the famed looted treasure from WWII-era Russia—in this fast-paced international thriller.

The sunny Greek countryside and a beautiful woman might seem like the ingredients for a perfect vacation. But intrepid archaeologist Harry Thursday seems unable to have a good time if someone isn’t trying to kill him. . . .

Fortunately, an international cold case dating back to World War II is warming up again. Back then, the Russian Amber Room and a hoard of diamonds worth 200 million dollars were stolen from Göring’s Kunstschutz commander, Erich Koch.

Now, over thirty years later, Russian art historian Elina Kulinov is attempting to recover these items when Harry Thursday stumbles along—and he joins her in a race against a Philadelphia museum and SMERSH. With everyone looking for the same items, who will get to them first? And who will be left empty-handed—or dead?

Praise for the Harry Tuesday novels
 
“A well-written, action-packed thriller, with enough twists and surprises to keep you turning the page.” —Carmen Finestra, producer of Home Improvement
 
“Highly recommended for fans of Douglas Preston and James Rollins.” —Bella Wright, Best Thriller
 
“[A] page-turner.” —Serious Reading Magazine

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jul 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781620069356

Robert Walton

Robert Walton is a retired teacher with thirty-six years of service at San Lorenzo Middle School. He and Phyllis, his wife of 40 years, reside in King City, California. They have two sons - Jeremy, professor of Anthropology at Georgetown University, and Jon, artist and photographer in New York City. Robert is a life-long rock-climber and mountaineer. He’s made numerous ascents in the Sierra Nevada and Yosemite. Three of his short stories about climbing were published in the Sierra Club's "Ascent". His short story "Dogwood Dream" won first place in New Millennium Writing's 2011 short fiction contest. His novella "Vienna Station" won the Galaxy prize and is available for Kindle on Amazon. Most recently, his short story "Like a thorny Child" won the Central Coast Writers spring writing contest.

Book preview

Places like Książ

After the failed Battle of Stalingrad in February of 1943, the Aryan race—the superpower Adolf Hitler named the Third Reich—began to falter and lose ground to the Soviet Union. Falter, some would say only if they misunderstood the real reason for the invasion. The Germans had organized a very expensive raiding expedition—reminiscent, on a larger scale, of the Viking raids eleven hundred years prior—called Operation Barbarossa. It would be an understatement to say the Germans miscalculated the reaction from the rest of the world.

To help Hitler loot Europe, Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring used the Schutzstaffel, the Nazis’ Protection Squadron commonly referred to as the SS. Göring also used well-known Jewish art dealers from Paris and Amsterdam to turn physical art into cash for the Nazis. Such volume took time, and the Germans used caves, tunnels, and castles throughout Europe to temporarily house much of the valuables stolen. Places like Książ survived Nazi destruction and Allied bombings, and they are still intact today, offering tourists a brief look into that part of history.

After the invasion of the Ukrainian territories, Rosenberg appointed Erich Koch, at the urging of Göring, as the Gauleiter and Oberpräsident of East Prussia and the Reichskommissar of Ukraine. Koch gave a Ukrainian art expert, Tatiana Kul’Zhenko, responsibility for extracting 900 paintings and 450 icons from three Russian museums in Kyiv and shipping them to Königsberg.

As the enemy advanced, the Nazis retreated, taking as much with them as they could, often destroying what they couldn’t carry. To avoid such destruction, the American Office of Strategic Services (OSS) and British Secret Service placed spies within the inner circles of the SS’s Kunstschutz: the German Army Art Protection.

One thing in particular caught the eye of Erich Koch: the Russian Amber Room. Once a gift from the Prussian Emperor Fredrick William I to the Russian Tsar Peter the Great, the six thousand tons of amber that comprised the Amber Room were, under the direction of famed amber expert Dr. Alfred Rohde, dismantled, shipped to Königsberg, and reassembled there. As Germany fled, Koch had the room dismantled once more and packed into forty-seven crates. He had the crates moved twenty-five miles south of Königsberg to Wildenhoff Castle—known here as Schloss Wildenhoff—the property of Countess von Schwerin, who graciously allowed Kul’Zhenko and the SS to occupy her family estate.

The Amber Room’s final destination was to be Weimar, Germany. It never made it.

This story takes place in 1981, thirty-six years after the end of WWII.

Schloss Wildenhoff

January 1945 – 25 miles south of Königsberg

The Eastern Front

It looked like a place where trains came to die. Lines of cars waiting to be shipped off to some corner of the shrinking Third Reich were well hidden by the forest through which the depot passed. Word had arrived by telegraph ahead of the Soviets’ advance for all transit to be halted. What had not already been moved would be destroyed.

SS-Hauptsturmführer Theo Möller of the Kunstschutz drove the truck holding seventy-eight crates of art from Schloss Wildenhoff—including the forty-seven crates holding the Amber Room—to the depot to be loaded onto a train bound for Weimar, Germany.

Möller worked for the Kunsberg Battalion of Göring’s German Foreign Office. It was his responsibility to see to the security of the Wildenhoff art marked for survival.

Möller also worked for the OSS as a spy.

The snow had just finished laying another six inches over the already thick covering. A heavy fog crept eerily through the forest. Möller and his team approached the office of the commandant, the truck grinding over the frozen ground. The smell of diesel exhaust permeated the air. They got out of the truck and stood looking around. Their steamy breath seemed to add to the thick fog.

An old caboose had been transformed into a heated office. Once a well-organized transit system, the Wildenhoff Depot now looked like a disheveled victim of war. Cars that couldn’t be moved by rail had been shoved out of the way and lay empty, some pushed over onto their sides and their wheels removed so they would be useless to the Russians. Here and there a crooked lamppost tried to push a dim light through the fog. Creaking iron rails moaned in the night as trains were jockeyed onto tracks bound for Germany or the Baltic coast.

The plump Commandant Jonas Merkel commanded the depot. He and Captain Theo Möller sat in front of the coal stove of the caboose drinking vodka and eating cold potatoes. Meanwhile, the soldiers stood out in the damp fog huddling around a fire that burned in an old petrol barrel and smoking captured Soviet cigarettes. They talked more about the women they’d had and the food they’d eaten than the battles they’d fought. Always they mused about going home after the war. If they resented their circumstances, none would say so.

Herr Hauptsturmführer, Merkel said. A tired logistics engineer who had advanced his way from Gefreiter to Hauptmann, the commandant wanted only to do his job and return each night to his fat wife and unwed daughter.

He pulled a laced kerchief from his vest pocket and patted the sweat from his face, holding it for a second longer to catch his wife’s scent. The orders from Berlin have halted all transport after midnight tonight.

Möller said nothing and only looked directly into the commandant’s fat, piggy eyes. Nervously, Merkel continued, Ev . . . ev . . . everything that has not shipped is to be destroyed at dawn. No t-trains may depart after that time.

Without the help of the round engineer, the Gauleiter’s shipment would be delayed and possibly never make it back to Germany. Möller held the commandant’s orders in his hand; they could not be rescinded under the threat of treason. But he hoped the commandant would not dare challenge an SS officer of such credential.

You understand, Herr Hauptmann, Möller said, my orders come directly from Reichsmarschall Göring. He lit a cigarette, held it to his mouth, and looked at the commandant as he exhaled a long plume of smoke. Merkel grew pale. His blunt nose looked like the backside of a pig sitting in his thick mustache.

Möller watched as beads of sweat began to pour down his round cheeks. He looked like a pudding melting in a fire; Möller smiled and chuckled quietly. The commandant shook even more.

B-b-but it is treason to disobey orders from Berlin—Herr Hauptsturmführer.

Möller’s expression turned grey, his brows furrowed, and his gaze pierced the commandant. The Reichsmarschall wants this truckload of art to return to Germany, Hauptmann. It would be a shame to delay your transfer from the Russian Front because you disobeyed a direct order.

Merkel’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. Herr Möller, he said, trying to be firm of his convictions, I could be shot. I am sorry; I—I could be shot.

Merkel had worked his way up with hard work and dedication to orders. Möller looked thoughtfully at him for a moment, realizing this was going nowhere, and then he pulled a small leather bag out of his overcoat and threw it on the table.

Go ahead, Merkel, Möller said, this time with less threat. Maybe this will assuage any fear of reprisal from Berlin.

Merkel picked up the bag and poured its contents into his fat hand. He seemed to stop breathing—and Möller knew he had his transport secured. There’s three pounds of gold there, he said. Gold fillings, but gold is gold nonetheless. He laughed a short, nervous laugh, trying not to reveal to the commandant that he had no legal authority whatsoever to do this. In fact, as a spy for the American OSS, everything he did was less than legal.

But of course, Herr Hauptsturmführer . . . I . . . I never . . . I mean, of course I would never disobey Herr Göring. Merkel spoke with music in his voice, his jowls swaying from side to side like the face of a hound dog. He smiled broadly and stood up, clicking his heels.

Of course, Möller said just as musically. Then he whispered, Reichskommissar Koch wants these forty-seven specific crates shipped to Gdańsk, where they will be transferred to another line for transport elsewhere. The rest must go directly to Weimar. As soon as possible. He returned the cigarette to his mouth, his eye squinted from the smoke, and he put his hands together in a praying position. How many men can you spare?

I’m afraid, Herr Möller, that I am seriously understaffed. I—I couldn’t spare— He paused to take a deep breath, licked his fat lips, and swallowed. Will four be enough?

The Hauptsturmführer opened the stove door and threw his cigarette into the fire. Then, standing, he straightened his overcoat and finished his vodka. Wonderful, Herr Commandant. How soon can you get the trains ready to load? My men will help, of course.

The fat man walked over to the near wall where he kept his requisitions and shipping orders. Möller looked around at a room filled with clipboards, maps and documents, family photos, and even a framed van Cleve, all proclaiming the successful career of the host.

Perhaps, the commandant began, using his kerchief to wipe his forehead dry, here is a train that can move immediately. He pulled a clipboard off the wall and held it out as evidence. It has other cargo on it, marked for demolition. He sounded encouraged. That could take you as far as Gdańsk, until we can secure a train for Weimar. We must be quick. The Russians are closing off the southeastern portion of the Black Forest.

Excellent, Möller said, slapping him on the back. Excellent job. I will let the Reichsmarschall know how cooperative you have been. Perhaps hurry your transfer a little. He held up his hand, measuring a tiny distance with his fingers.

The commandant barked his orders, and soon the soldiers loaded the forty-seven crates onto the train bound for Gdańsk.

* * *

Tatiana Kul’Zhenko was worried, not because her superior Dr. Alfred Rohde had fled to Weimar more than two weeks earlier, but because she feared her precious art would not survive the Russian invasion. Inside Schloss Wildenhoff’s great hall, the crates were stacked according to destination and content. She’d spent weeks labeling the boxes based on their country of origin and the type of art they contained—like paintings, statues, amber—and she’d even added an extra level of security by including the geographic coordinates.

Outside, the snow fell fine and light. What remained of a large desk burned in the fireplace of the large bedroom that had been converted into an office on the second floor; the oil used to heat the mansion had long ago been spent. Tatiana stood on the balcony, rubbing her belly in a circular motion. She had blond hair and grey eyes, and despite being nine months pregnant, she’d managed to keep her trim, athletic form.

Paul, she called the Hauptsturmführer. Möller had just returned from sending the cargo to Gdańsk, and he’d been helping the soldiers prepare the castle for the Russians. He wore tall, black, leather boots but no coat, and braces held up his pants. He brushed his light, ash-colored hair from his face. Frau Kul’Zhenko.

I’m hungry, she said, watching the snow fall. Dinner will be served shortly. Mary is preparing her best borsch and kielbasa.

What? No potatoes? He winked and raised one eyebrow.

No more potatoes, please. She’s been hiding it for this day. She smiled and tilted her head slightly, and her eyes brightened. Then she walked over to the fireplace and held her hands to the heat, rubbing them together.

Moments later, she sighed and looked over her shoulder at him. They’ll be here soon enough. The thought of the Russians coming made her uneasy. Did everything go well at the depot?

Yes. Yes, it went well. A little bribe for the fat man and he forgot for whom he worked.

Then we have to leave soon. Before they arrive. She knew that if the Soviets caught her, she’d go to prison for treason and theft, among other things.

If she listened very closely, she could almost hear the dull thud of distant Soviet artillery. Rubbing her belly, she walked out of the room.

A Day for Tears and Bombs

Möller found her in the cellar in the waning hours. She sat on a chest with her hands to her face and her knees drawn up as far as the baby would allow. I’ve been moving them around into piles all afternoon, she said with a heavy sigh. Rows of neatly piled artwork lined one side of the room; the rest of the room was filled with piles of discarded works of art. She looked hysterical.

Deep beneath the castle, going down at least three hundred feet below the basement, miles of tunnels had been packed with treasures destined to become part of history. And here she sat, chilled without a wrap, lamenting the loss.

Word came in from Olsztyn, Tatiana. SMERSH is looking for you and the doctor. We have to leave now and not wait for the evening.

But this has to come, she said. She straddled the chest as though it were a horse, with her hands on the pommel.

Möller didn’t answer. He walked over to the heavy brick archway and into the wine cellar, pulled an old bottle from a shelf, and blew off the dust. He felt the moment. With the war ending for Germany, his time imbedding himself in the ranks of the SS had been well spent. The cannon fire could still be heard through the thick basement walls.

He looked at Tatiana, and she slowly raised her eyes to his. Do you think they blame me for their misfortunes?

You are Russian. If they hate you, it’s only because you are Russian. Me they hate because I wear a German uniform. He looked at the bottle in his hand. But of course . . . a Riesling. Still, I wanted everyone to like me. He barked out a quick laugh. Even the soldiers under me.

No, Paul, you treated them well—and for that much, they loved you. You’re not a Nazi. She smiled, curling the edges of her lips up sharply, showing dimples. You promised you’d tell me who you are—what your real name is—when the end came. It is near now. Who are you, really?

The man who fell in love with you.

No, really, Paul. Tell me.

There’s a man called Hugh Blaine—

I know that name.

You should; he is very influential. I had a relationship with him and Erich Koch before the war. The OSS recruited me because of that. Soon, I found myself taking part in Operation Barbarossa, as a member of the Kunsberg Battalion, because of Koch. I used the Polish underground to obtain critical intelligence, which I passed on to the OSS. When I found out you hated Koch and the Germans, I couldn’t believe it. I had already fallen in love with you.

She smiled and gently cradled his chin in her soft hand. I know, and I love you for it, Paul. She paused and looked away. He blushed and fiddled with the bottle of wine. Will it work, do you think?

It will. Trust me. The Germans are far too busy running for their lives to be worried about such details. As long as Koch trusts you, we will do it. He put his finger to his pursed lips, one eyebrow raised. I’m glad we’re doing this. I thrive on the thrill of risk. You don’t mind, do you?

No, of course not. Besides, if the Germans get me, I’ll be shot. The Soviets will throw me in Siberia. Either way, I do it for my countrymen. She looked at him pityingly. And for your thrill, dear Hauptsturmführer.

A brief break in the clouds threw soft afternoon light through the tiny window, making the lines of her face softer, her lips fuller. Won’t you come back with me? he asked. You’d be safe.

No. We won’t be safe if we’re together. Besides, I belong in Mother Russia, not in the American States.

United States. It’s the United States of America, not American States.

That indomitable country overseas.

So far, I hope it is. He sipped the wine he had poured and watched as she did the same.

We could use a good Roquefort, she said as she held the wine up to the window.

What do you know about French cheese? he asked, amused.

You forget, I lived in the house of Koch. There isn’t much he can’t get from his precious Third Reich.

Möller put down his glass and held her firmly with his hands. Come home with me, Tatiana. Marry me. Let me make an honest woman out of you.

What a wife I would be. Mrs. Paul Möller.

He dropped his head. Oh, he said, but it sounded more like exasperation. But I seem to have lied once too often.

Lied? What do you mean?

You wouldn’t believe me; not now. He sat down next to her and said nothing else, as if the matter had been resolved.

Is there a Mrs. Möller already?

He would tell her everything, but for now he continued the lie. You already met her, in Königsberg. Remember the photograph—the girl taking the picture? I only told you there wasn’t a Mrs. Möller to convince myself that you might love me. And here I am asking you to come to the States with me. Like a fool.

She remained silent for a while and put her hand on his shoulder. She is beautiful, your wife. It’s not that; I can’t love you anyway, darling.

You don’t love him, he said, nodding toward her stomach.

I thought I did, once. She rubbed her belly and then laughed lightly. At least I thought so nine months ago. Do you love her?

Once, but now . . .

What’s changed?

It’s all a lie. This war and everything. But I love you, too.

You don’t know the NKGB. You’ll be collateral damage. Let’s just pretend we were once in love. Two star-crossed souls caught up in a terrible war who fell in love, suddenly were separated, and never saw one another again. Let’s leave it at that.

He pouted and turned his head away.

Oh, I hurt your feelings. I’m sorry, Paul. I do love you. Then, changing the subject, she said, I hope it goes well. I have to keep telling myself it is for Russia we do this. Even if it isn’t. She suddenly threw her head back and laughed gently, her eyes glistening.

I had word they would intercept anything bound for Krakow, he said. We should be okay. Hopefully our train will make it to Gdańsk and we can transfer the forty-seven crates to Greece before they get sent to Weimar. Then you and I will disappear and reunite with the amber. He poured more wine and emptied the bottle.

Stealing from Koch has its dangers, but the end result is worth it. Still, tell me we are doing the right thing.

He smiled and brushed her hair aside. Of course. The plan is foolproof. What could go wrong?

Outside the room, in the darkness of the basement, two soldiers appeared. They