29
The Fargos’ flight to Wroclaw early the next morning took a little over two hours. Sam invited Sergei, who happened to be fluent in Polish, to come along with them.
As usual, the ever-efficient Selma had their rental car waiting for them the moment they cleared the airport. From there, they drove straight to Walbrzych, catching sight of the majestic pink and gray thirteenth-century cliff-top Castle Ksiaz as they neared the city. It was even more impressive up close as they walked through its vast courtyard and ornamental gardens.
Sam looked around the gardens, then into the castle. “Divide and conquer?”
“Good idea,” Remi said.
While she knew enough Polish to get by on her own, Sam was going to need Sergei’s help. “You check inside, Remi. Sergei and I will see if we can find someone out here who knows him.”
She left. Eventually, he and Sergei found a gardener, tending a bed of roses.
“Excuse me,” Sam said. “We’re looking for someone named Renard Kowalski.”
The gardener glanced over, his gaze taking them in, before turning back to the flowers, clipping off the faded red blooms.
Sergei repeated the question in Polish. Their conversation was short and, apparently, from the expression on Sergei’s face, surprising. He turned to Sam, lowering his voice. “Didn’t see that coming. The guy’s dead.”
“Kowalski? What happened?”
“A hunting accident. He says they don’t talk about it. No one does.”
Sam eyed the man who seemed a little too eager to get back to work. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. He wouldn’t even give me the name of anyone who knew him.”
“Let’s find someone else who can help.” But the pattern repeated with the next two employees. “It’d be nice to find out what’s going on. Maybe Remi’s having better luck.” He texted her, and she answered, saying she’d be about fifteen more minutes. When she did emerge from the castle, walking down the stairs, it was with a group of tourists led by a guide.
Remi waved them over. “Very knowledgeable,” she whispered as Sam and Sergei joined her at the back of the group. “Talking about access to the tunnels being out here. Maybe when she’s finished, she’ll be able to tell us something.”
The young woman waited for everyone to gather around. “Here,” she said, her English thickly accented, “at the conclusion of our tour, in what is called the Honorary Courtyard, is another of the access points to the chambers. One is fifteen meters down, the other fifty. Both were part of Project Riese, a vast series of tunnels built by the Nazis using prisoners of war from the nearby camps. The headquarters for the project was located in the castle. Beneath our very feet,” she said, sweeping her hand in front of her, “the Nazis built a lift that led to the chambers below. The shaft has since been filled. To this day, no one knows the true purpose of the tunnels.” She answered several questions from the group, told them to enjoy the gardens, then waited patiently as they wandered off. Finally, noticing Remi, Sam, and Sergei still standing there, she smiled. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Yes,” Remi said. “We’re looking for someone who might have known Renard Kowalski.”
An almost imperceptible look clouded the woman’s eyes. Sam couldn’t tell if it was fear, sadness, or a combination of the two. “I honestly can’t tell you,” she said.
“Can’t?” Sam asked. “Or won’t? The man worked here. I’d think someone might know something about him.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken. My understanding is, it was more that his presence was tolerated. He came many days out of the year, searching the castle and the grounds for evidence of the Gold Train—which he never found. He became something of a legend around here for it. But, no, he never worked here.”
“He was killed, though?” Sam asked.
“A hunting accident. Tragically, his hobby searching the woods for evidence of this train is what killed him.”
She started to turn away, clearly in a hurry to get out of there.
Remi reached out, touching her arm. “Please. Is there anyone who might help us? Anyone who knew him and what he was working on?”
The woman hesitated, looking around—perhaps to see who was watching—before focusing on Remi. “There is one man who knew him well.”
“How do we get in touch with him?”
“You don’t. He doesn’t talk to anyone. He’s—how do you say it . . . ? The word for someone who lives alone, avoiding society . . . ?”
“Recluse?”
“That’s it. But . . . crazy. Dangerous, even. Some even say he’s the one who killed Renard Kowalski.”