when he returns, he won’t even mention Munich.’
Jones climbed the ladder on the far side of the tunnel and opened the secret hatch. Thirty seconds later, he was sitting on the fake tree stump and glancing at his waterproof cell phone. Reception had been nonexistent in the grotto and the tunnel. Now that he was outside, he could finally make a call. He quickly entered a number from memory.
‘Research,’ said Raskin from his office at the Pentagon.
Jones instantly recognized his voice. ‘Randy, my man, it’s David Jones. I wasn’t sure you’d be working this late. I’m glad you’re on duty.’
Raskin typed away furiously. ‘Let me see if I got this straight. You’re happy that I’m working the graveyard shift. That’s awfully sweet of you.’
‘Come on, man. You know I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘Then how did you mean it?’
‘I meant I’m glad you’re the one on duty because I need your expertise.’
Raskin adjusted the microphone on his headset. ‘Damn, DJ, that’s even worse! You’re glad I’m working the graveyard shift because you want to use me. You didn’t even say hello or ask how I’m doing. Yet you expect me to jump to attention.’
Jones groaned. ‘Wow! You, Jon - everyone’s giving me shit today.’
Raskin leaned back in his chair. ‘Please tell me you aren’t getting a divorce. I’m too old for joint custody.’
‘No, nothing serious. Just a disagreement about something we’re doing.’
Raskin played dumb. ‘Something you’re doing, where?’
‘Germany.’
‘Really? What are you doing in Germany?’
‘Long story. I’ll tell you about it some other time.’
‘Maybe you should tell me right now. You know, since you need my help.’
Raskin had a better security clearance than he did, so Jones wasn’t worried about him blabbing to anyone. Still, Jones was reluctant to tell him anything too juicy. ‘I wish I could, but I’m temporarily sworn to secrecy. As soon as I get permission, I’ll be happy to fill you in.’
‘I can respect that. It doesn’t mean I like it, but I can respect it.’
‘So,’ Jones said, ‘about that favour of mine …’
Raskin cracked his knuckles. ‘Fire away.’
‘I’m staring at a receipt from 1886. I was hoping you could tell me a little bit more about the store itself. What business they were in and so on.’
‘What country?’
‘Germany.’
Raskin opened a database on one of his screens. ‘What city?’
‘Munich.’
‘Munich,’ he mumbled as he dragged a chunk of data from one screen to another with his mouse. ‘Please tell me you have a name or address. Otherwise, this is going to take a while.’
‘Actually I have both. The store was called Hauser and Sons, and it was located on a road called Briennerstrasse. It’s the oldest road in Munich.’
‘Whoop-dee-fuckin’-doo. The age of the road doesn’t help at all. But do you know what would help? If you could spell that for me. That would help a bunch.’
Jones laughed and spelled Briennerstrasse. ‘Anything else?’
‘Just give me silence, so I can do my thing.’
The sound of typing filled the line for several seconds. Every once in a while, Raskin would curse at one of his databases, but it was usually followed by some sort of taunt that let the computer know who owned its ass. To Jones, it was like a progress bar on a computer screen. When the taunts increased, it meant Raskin was getting closer to the end.
‘So,’ Raskin eventually said, ‘do you want the good news or the bad news? Because I have a little bit of both.’
‘No games. Just tell me.’
‘Hauser and Sons was a family-owned jewellery store that opened in 1845. It stayed open until 1933 when the National Socialists - i.e. the fucking Nazis - took control of Germany. After that, the city of Munich changed dramatically. As you know, the Allies bombed the shit out of the city during World War Two. I’m talking seventy-plus air raids, not to mention a ground assault. By the time we took control of Munich in 1945, the city was mostly rubble.’
Jones cursed under his breath. He had been confident the receipt would lead them to Camelot. Now he’d have to go down below and admit his mistake to everyone. ‘What about the Hausers? Are any of them still around? Maybe I can—’
‘Hold up! I’m not done. The best part is yet to come.’
‘Sorry, my bad. Please continue.’
Raskin collected his thoughts. ‘As usual, our government felt guilty about blowing up a city, so Uncle Sam rebuilt Munich with American tax dollars. Which, on a personal note, didn’t sit well with my grandparents since they were Jewish.