‘NAZI TRAP KILLS 12, INJURES 30’

Definitely not the sort of headline you would expect in the twenty-first century. Standing in the concourse at Wrocław Główny railway station, Professor Isaac Hemmerlin slid his finger across the face of his tablet, darting past the ads to get at the body of the article as travelers streamed around him. On a bank of television screens above, the news reported the latest developments both by anchorman and ticker tape. Everything being in Polish though rendered it useless.

According to the Times, the process of cutting through the concrete triggered some sort of mechanism, setting off a series of cascading explosives that collapsed a grid of tunnels purposely constructed underneath the area directly in front of the barrier. The end result produced a massive a fifty-foot-deep sink hole approximately three hundred feet wide that sunk a large portion of the entire treasure recovery operation.

“Excuse me, Professor Hemmerlin?”

Glancing up, Isaac sighted a tall, young Asian woman dressed in a heavy dark gray pea coat, matching knitted slouchy beanie, and mid-calf dark leather boots. With the beanie pulled down over her ears, much of her raven hair remained out of sight other than the occasional errant lock. The attire mostly swallowed her whole, giving her the appearance of an elongated charcoal marshmallow with legs. She could easily qualify as being beautiful, if she smiled.

Isaac nervously adjusted his glasses. They enjoyed spending more time on the end of his nose rather than the bridge. “Yes?”

“Tommy Ohara. Interpol.” She stuck out a burgundy leather gloved hand.

“Uh, yeah, hi.” He clasped it gently for a moment, looking away nervously. “I wasn’t expecting-”

“-a woman? It happens. Nickname.” The hand returned immediately to her coat pocket. She glanced down at his luggage, a single rollaway carry-on. “That all?”

“I travel light.” Isaac shrugged. “Though, to be honest, I can’t see why I’ll be here more than a day or two. As I said in our e-mails, I don’t really have anything to offer your investigation.”

“You could.” Short and to the point, businesslike. She turned and motioned for him to follow towards the exit.

“Professor, a paper?”

A newsstand situated near the exit offered a variety of papers and periodicals. The Times clearly stood out as the only English offering.

“No, thanks, I’m good.”

Several coins jingled against the counter regardless. “D4,” she toned, poking the corner of the paper against his chest. “I will take your bag.”

Isaac fumbled with the pages as the two exited the concourse, the agent leading the way. With D4 being so deep into the fold, he had to rely on following the carry-on in front of him with one eye, while the other searched for the commanded page.

“What exactly am I looking for on D4?”

“You will see.”

See what? An ad for an overpriced watch? How an outdated hairstyle was making a comeback? Holding up the paper fully spread, Isaac looked all the part of the lost international tourist, sans the map, as he scanned for whatever was supposed to jump out at him. Nothing. He could feel his stomach churn with anxiety.

“Where?”

“Keep walking.”

Suddenly it dawned upon him that there was nothing in the paper. It was just a way of conveniently blending him into the crowd as they moved briskly through the square.

“Is this really necessary?”

“Yes.”

“But I’m just an undergrad chemistry-”

“Professor!”