The Tombs Page 13

  Bako laughed aloud and punched the air above his desk. “Five treasures!” He would be one of the richest men in Europe. His mind raced. Of course he knew the place where the world was lost. Anyone would know that. It was the site of Attila’s defeat, the battlefield where Aëtius and the Visigoths joined forces to stop his advance on Paris!

  Then he remembered something unpleasant. His enemies had been trapped in that stone chamber with the message scraped into the iron sheet. They had gotten out alive. They would be rushing to Châlons right now. There was no time to waste.

  Bako snatched up his phone and dialed 33, the code for France, and then a private number. It was the cell phone of Étienne Le Clerc.

  “’Allo?”

  “Étienne!”

  “Hello, Arpad,” he said wearily. “You have caught me at dinner. Is there trouble?”

  “There is only opportunity. I’ve discovered the location of one of Attila’s hidden treasures. It’s in a place where you can easily help me get it. But there are other people rushing to get there before I do.”

  “So you’re planning to win the race by substituting a person who was born at the finish line? How much do I get?”

  “You will have a third of this treasure, but I must see all of it—everything that is found—before we split it.”

  Bako could almost hear Étienne Le Clerc’s shoulders shrugging. “Oui, bien sûr. But I’ll need specific information on where it is. I’m not going to dig up half of France searching for it. Who, and how many, are the competition?”

  “There are an American couple named Sam and Remi Fargo. They’re amateur treasure hunters. They’ve joined with a German archaeology professor named Albrecht Fischer. I’ll send you their pictures by e-mail. And there’s a Hungarian taxi driver named Tibor Lazar. I don’t think they’ll bring anyone else. They’ll want to slip into France, find the treasure, and get out.”

  “And where is the treasure to be found?”

  “Before I tell you, are you sure you’re willing and able to do this and to stick to my terms?”

  “We must both look at everything and then each take half.”

  “I said one-third!”

  “You said ‘split.’ To me, that means ‘split down the middle.’ I’m taking all of the risk and doing all of the work. And I’m doing it in my own backyard.”

  “Oh, all right. We don’t have time to argue, and there will be more wealth than we can spend in our two lifetimes. Take half. But no matter what you learn during all this, it remains a secret.”

  “Oui.”

  “The treasure must be buried on the field of the Battle of the Catalaunian Plains, at Châlons-en-Champagne. Look for a buried chamber on the east side of the high stone outcropping in the center of the field near the Marne River. It should show up with metal detectors.”

  “Will do, my friend. When we’ve dug up the treasure, I’ll call you.”

  “Good,” said Arpad. “And when the Fargos and their party arrive, please do what you can to solve that problem too.”

  “If they were to have a fatal accident, it would be a pity, but these things do happen sometimes. If it does, I’ll expect additional monetary consideration. Men who can and will do this sort of thing don’t come cheap.”

  “I’ll be waiting. Thank you, Étienne.”

  Bako clicked his cell phone to end the call and put it in his inner coat pocket. He was feeling like a great general who had just committed a corps of foreign troops to the distant wing of his battle, neatly outmaneuvering his opponents and trapping them. He had acted decisively, even ruthlessly, a little like Attila.

  He thought about Étienne Le Clerc. He was an unapologetic gangster, not a legitimate businessman who cut a few corners. He lived very well by a combination of several schemes that Bako knew about—money laundering, melting stolen jewelry into bars and selling the loose gems, counterfeiting several currencies and trading them outside their home markets for euros, smuggling Bako’s prescription drugs into France—and probably other schemes Bako didn’t know about. Le Clerc had dozens of operatives, dealers, smugglers, and enforcers in his organization and they were already in France, not far from the place where the world was lost.

  Great conquests weren’t made by battle alone but just as often by shrewd alliances. Attila would have understood that and recognized him as a kindred spirit worthy of being his heir.

  VERONA-BRESCIA, ITALY

  SAM AND REMI FLEW TO ROME AND FROM THERE TO VERONA. They picked up the rental car that Selma Wondrash had reserved for them and drove westward out of the city around thirty kilometers to the resort city of Peschiera del Garda on the south shore of Lake Garda. When they arrived, Remi put down the guidebook she had been reading and said, “Let’s get out near the marina and walk.”

  Rolling hills surrounded the southern end of the lake. The marina was large, with graceful sailboats rocking gently so that their masts moved like metronomes. Sam and Remi could hear the soft sound of rings and pulleys swinging against the aluminum masts in the light summer breeze. The little town on the big lake indeed had a vacation feel to it. From here, it seemed to be all boats and hotels.

  “What did you learn in the guidebooks?” Sam asked.

  “The lake is the biggest in Italy, thirty-four miles long. The upper end is surrounded by mountains, but down here there are lots of beaches. The water enters in the north and flows out in the Mincio River here in Peschiera del Garda, and a bit farther on it flows into the Po River.”

  “So we’re getting close,” said Sam. “The account Albrecht e-mailed us says Pope Leo I went with his delegation to meet Attila south of Lake Garda where the Mincio River meets the Po.”

  They walked along the pebble beach past several docks and a café. The buildings they could see were mostly two to four stories high, and old. They were painted white, pink, and yellow. There was a sixteenth-century brick wall around the old boundaries of the city, with walkways on top. They found a parking lot outside the walls that had a garden with Peschiera del Garda spelled out in flowers at the main gate and then a pedestrian mall where there were cafés and shops.

  “How are we going to find the spot?” Remi asked.

  “The usual ways, I guess. We start with the things that were already here in 452.”

  “The town was founded in the first century, so it was already three hundred years old when Attila arrived.”

  “It was just a little village along the shore. Without much warning, out of the north comes Attila the Hun, of all people, at the head of a huge army of horsemen. He had just devastated much of northern Italy on his way here.”

  “The people were probably too busy running to look at him closely,” said Remi. “I know I would have been.”

  “Me too. That’s how Venice was founded. People running from Attila as he came down from the north hid on the islands. When he left, they didn’t.”

  “Okay, smart guy,” she said. “The towns around here have changed. But the place where the river leaves the lake must be the same.”

  “That’s logical.”

  Remi said, “So Attila and about fifty or a hundred thousand warriors and their horses and wagons came this far south, loaded with the plunder of northern Italy. They camped south of here where the Mincio ran into the Po. Then the Roman delegation, consisting of Pope Leo, the Consul Avienus, and the Prefect Trigetius, arrived. What the two sides said to each other was never revealed. All the accounts are guesswork. What we know is that because Italy was in the middle of a famine, there was not much food for the Huns to steal. There was also an epidemic, and many of the Huns already had fallen sick. Marcian, the new emperor of the Eastern Roman Empire, was encroaching on the Danube, which would threaten the Hun strongholds. For whatever combination of reasons, Attila and his men packed up and returned north, giving up his chance to rescue Honoria f
rom her brother and gain control of the Roman Empire.”

  “Let’s think a minute,” said Sam. “He’s heading home. But he hopes to come back in a year or two and conquer Rome. He’s loaded down with loot from northern Italy. So he leaves a treasure to resupply his troops on his next attempt. Where would he leave it?”

  “At the place where he stopped to camp,” Remi said. “It’s as far south as he got. That’s the place where he could safely and secretly bury whatever he wanted to. And if he was going to use it to resupply his army, the road to Rome is the place to do it.”

  “Right.”

  “So we agree. It’s where the Mincio meets the Po?”

  “I think so. The place where he turned back has got to be where the world was lost.”

  “Let’s start with the west side of the Mincio. If you’re coming down Lake Garda, that’s the less mountainous side, so it’s the most sensible way to travel.”

  “All right,” said Sam. “Let’s go check into our hotel. On the way, we can tell Selma to track down the equipment we’ll need.”

  As they walked toward their car, Remi called Selma in California and put her on speaker.

  “Hi, Remi.”

  “Hi, Selma. We’re here in Peschiera del Garda and we think we know where to search. But we’ll need a handheld magnetometer and a good metal detector.”

  “They’re waiting in your hotel. I ordered two of each.”

  “Why, thank you, Selma,” said Remi.

  “Once I saw the pictures of the big iron slabs, I knew you’d be needing detectors. Anything else you want, just let me know.”

  “You got it,” said Remi. “Has Albrecht arrived yet?”

  “Not yet. His plane arrives in about two hours. Pete and Wendy are going to pick him up. We’ve got his room ready and plenty of space and computer equipment set up.”

  “Thanks, Selma,” said Sam. “We’ll start work this afternoon.”

  Remi added, “We’ll call and let you know if anything turns up. Has Bako moved yet?”

  “You’re safe for the moment. Tibor says that Bako and his men are still in Szeged. If they understood the message, they’re in no hurry to get to Italy.”

  “That’s the best news of the day,” said Remi.

  “Glad to oblige. I’ll talk to you if anything changes,” Selma said and then hung up.

  Remi put the phone away and they drove to their hotel, a white building on the beach with a cordon of bright red beach umbrellas that made it look as though it belonged a few miles to the east on the Adriatic. After checking into the hotel and examining their equipment, Remi and Sam went to see the concierge, a fifty-year-old woman wearing a tailored gray suit with the hotel’s logo on the left lapel. “May I help you?” she said, her lightly tinted glasses glinting.

  “I understand that this area is full of bicycle paths,” said Sam. “Is there one that runs the length of the Mincio River?”

  “Oh, yes,” said the concierge. “It begins where the river flows out of the harbor and runs all the way through Mantua and beyond. I’ve done the ride myself many times. It’s about twenty-five miles.”

  “When you say ‘and beyond,’ what do you mean? How far beyond?”

  “There’s a natural stopping point at Mantua where the river becomes three lakes. But you could continue eight miles to the place where the Mincio continues to the Po.” She reached into the top drawer of her desk and handed Sam a map. “The bicycle route is marked and shows you just where to go.”

  “Thank you,” said Sam. He gave a little bow. “Mille grazie.”

  The concierge laughed. “You make a good Italian. Once you get to know this place, you might not want to go home.”

  “I’ll try to be a good guest,” he said. To Remi he said, “Let’s get some bicycles.”

  They walked along an old canal, following the map, to a bicycle shop. At first, everything in the shop seemed to be the sort of gear used by professional racers. But when the proprietor saw Remi walk past a three-thousand-euro bike and ask for something a bit more comfortable for touring, he showed them some sturdy, practical mountain bikes with thick, knobby tires and well-padded seats. They picked out a pair, with his advice, bought backpacks, and threw in some visors to keep the sun out of their eyes. Sam also bought a variety of accessories—lights, reflectors, and other items that attached to bicycles, and a portable set of bicycle tools.

  They rode their new bicycles back to their hotel, then walked them into the elevator and took them to their floor. When they had the bicycles in their room, he attached the magnetometers in such a way that no one looking at the bicycles would know that there was anything unusual about them. The telescoped magnetometer poles looked like reinforced bicycle crossbars, and the sensors extended just a few inches in front of the handlebars.

  He removed the two metal detectors from their boxes but kept them stored unassembled in the two backpacks.

  As they were preparing, Sam’s cell phone buzzed. He switched on the speaker. “Yes?”

  “Sam? It’s me, Albrecht.”

  “Are you in California yet?”

  “Yes. I’m in your house, with Selma. Since I left you, I’ve spent some time studying the available satellite photography and aerial mapping of the spot where you’re looking, and I’ve rechecked some of the written sources.”

  “What can you tell us?”

  “There are several versions of the story but a few things we know for certain. One is that Attila left a trail of destruction in the northern part of Italy and came down the west side. There were no roads on the east side until the 1930s, which is an indication of what the landscape is like.”

  “Remi figured that out,” said Sam. “And since the Huns didn’t leave a written history, we’re guessing the best sources are the people who kept track of Pope Leo I. They list the cities Attila sacked and destroyed. Mantua is the last one.”

  “Leo met him on the Mincio where it empties into the Po. The Pope had come from the southeast, and since he was the supplicant, he went to Attila’s camp.”

  “How will we know where the camp was?”

  “Your coordinates are 45° 4' 17.91" north, 10° 58' .01" east. Attila had between fifty and a hundred thousand fighters. That means at least a hundred thousand horses and innumerable cattle, sheep, and goats. They would be lined up along the river, drinking and grazing. The encampment would be on a fairly flat piece of ground, but elevated to keep from flooding.”

  Selma said, “We put the camp’s tents about two hundred yards from the confluence, stretching west along the north side of the Po.”

  Remi said, “Why the north side?”

  “Attila had just come down from the north, and they knew that no force was left behind them. The only possible threat would have been a Roman army somewhere to the south, so they would have kept the river to the south of them as a barrier.”

  “Okay,” said Remi. “North side of the Po, west side of the Mincio. Flattish ground, look for the highest spot on it.”

  “That’s right,” said Albrecht. “We’re still trying to decide how Attila’s men could have buried the treasure secretly.”

  “We have a couple of ideas,” Sam said. “We’ll let you know if we’re right. What’s the latest on Arpad Bako?”

  “Still no movement. Tibor positively identified Bako going into his office as usual this morning and coming back from lunch in the afternoon. He had four of his security men with him.”

  “Great. Please let us know if anything changes. By now, Bako should have read the inscription in the false tomb and he ought to be moving.”

  “Maybe he’s not as good at this as we are,” Selma said.

  “I’m just hoping he’s not better.”

  “We’d better get going,” said Remi.

  “I heard that,” sai
d Selma. “We’ll be waiting for news.”

  Early the next morning, Sam and Remi dressed in tourist clothes: shorts, T-shirts, and athletic shoes, with their sun visors and sunglasses. In another five minutes they were out on the road, heading for the Mincio River.

  An old, level towpath bordered the river and made it a favorite ride for bicyclists. Sam and Remi pedaled along the paved path with dozens of others, admiring the beauty of the city and the equally beautiful Lombardy landscape, the flat fields nearby and low rolling hills in the middle distance, with a row of trees growing along each bank of the river. There were houses that must have dated from the Middle Ages and old vineyards with vines strung on poles and overhead wires. They stopped at a pleasant spot beneath the trees along the river and ate their picnic lunch.

  They reached Lago Superiore, the first of the lakes, at one-thirty p.m. and rode along its southern shore into the center of Mantua. They found a sidewalk café where they could rest and have espressos and pastries in view of the second lake, Lago di Mezzo, then rode over the Via Lagnasco bridge to SS 482, the Via Ostiglia.

  “Eight more miles,” said Remi. “This is glorious. I don’t feel tired at all.”

  “It occurred to me that we’ve been following the river downstream,” said Sam. “Does that suggest anything to you?”

  “Yes. That we’ll be pedaling uphill all the way back to Peschiera del Garda,” Remi said. “Or we’ll have to find another way.”

  After an hour of easy pedaling, they could see the destination. The Po ran west to east and was wider than the Mincio. On both sides of the Mincio were cultivated vegetable and grain fields as far as they could see, except for the field at its confluence, which had been plowed but not yet planted. The trees were all along the riverbeds.

  Sam and Remi dismounted from their bicycles and studied the landscape. “This is a good place not to be noticed,” said Remi. “I can’t even see a building on this side. Albrecht said to stay on the west side of the Mincio, north of the Po. All we need to find now is a fifteen-hundred-year-old campsite.”