Prologue
“Gold is the corpse of value.”
— Neal Stephenson
The thing about Nazi gold is that it never stays buried for long. Someone always knows. Someone always talks. And someone always dies trying to find it. I’d been in Prague for exactly four months, thirteen days, and six hours when the package arrived. Not that I was counting. Not that every morning I woke up checking the news for reports of Order operatives hunting former treasure hunters who’d embarrassed them on a global scale. Definitely not that. The package was small—shoebox-sized, wrapped in brown paper, no return address. Just my fake name typed on a label: Michael Harrison, Software Consultant. I should’ve thrown it away immediately. Should’ve called Sophie Marchand and asked if this was some kind of test. Should’ve done literally anything except what I did. Which was open it. Inside: a photograph. Black and white. Circa 1945. Showed a train—armored, massive, disappearing into a tunnel carved through mountain rock. And written on the back in faded ink: Der Goldzug. Wałbrzych. Sie wissen. The Gold Train. Wałbrzych. They know. My hands started shaking. I knew this story. Everyone in the treasure hunting world knew this story. In 1945, as the Nazi regime collapsed, they’d loaded a train with gold, art, and looted treasures from across occupied Europe. Sent it into the mountains of Lower Silesia. And it vanished. Decades of searches had found nothing. The Polish government had investigated. Private treasure hunters had died trying. The train had become legend—probably fictional, definitely dangerous to pursue. And someone had just sent me proof it existed. Along with a warning that the Order knew I had it. My burner phone buzzed. Text from Mila’s encrypted number. Got a weird package today. Tell me you got one too and I’m not being specifically targeted. I typed back: What was in yours? Map coordinates. Somewhere in Poland. And a note saying “Finish what they started.” Who’s “they”? No idea. But I’m assuming it’s not good news. My laptop pinged. Email from an address I didn’t recognize. Subject: You’re Welcome Mr. Karver, Consider this a gift. Information the Order has been suppressing for seventy years. Information your father was close to finding before we silenced him. The Gold Train exists. We know where it is. And now, so do you. You have two choices: pursue this and die like your father, or walk away and live as Michael Harrison forever. Boring. Safe. Forgotten. We’re betting you’re too much like Richard Karver to choose safety. Prove us wrong. — A Friend P.S. Your colleague Ms. Thompson received the same package. As did Ms. Langly and Dr. Martinez. We’ve given you all the pieces. Let’s see if you’re smart enough to put them together before we stop you. I stared at the screen, rage and fear competing for dominance. This was a trap. Obviously. The Order wanted revenge for our exposing them, wanted to lure us into another impossible situation where they could eliminate us quietly. But it was also bait I couldn’t ignore. Because if the Gold Train was real—if it contained evidence the Order had been suppressing, evidence about my father’s death—then I had to know. Even if it killed me. My phone rang. Mila. “Please tell me you’re thinking this is a terrible idea,” she said by way of greeting. “It’s a terrible idea.” “But you’re doing it anyway.” “I’m doing it anyway.” “That’s what I thought.” I could hear her smile through the phone. “When do we leave?” “Give me forty-eight hours to contact the others. Then we meet in Wrocław.” “Poland in November. Wonderful. I’ll pack my hypothermia gear.” “You don’t have hypothermia gear.” “Then I’ll buy some. With what money, I don’t know, but I’ll figure it out.” She paused. “Kase, this feels different. More personal. Like someone’s playing a game with us.” “I know.” “And we’re playing anyway.” “We don’t have a choice. If the Order knows about this train, they’ll either find it or destroy it. Either way, the truth disappears.” “The truth about what?” “That’s what we’re going to find out.” I hung up and stared at the photograph again. The train. The tunnel. The mountain that had kept secrets for seventy years. My father had been close to this. I was sure of it now. The Order had mentioned him specifically, taunted me with his death. Whatever was on that train, it was connected to everything we’d uncovered about colonial atrocities, historical suppression, and the families who’d built empires on stolen wealth. The Nazi gold was just the beginning. I pulled out my laptop and started researching. Wałbrzych, Poland. Lower Silesia. The Owl Mountains. Dozens of Nazi tunnels and bunkers built in the final days of the war. Project Riese—Giant—an underground complex that was never finished. And somewhere in those mountains: a train that shouldn’t exist, carrying secrets that were supposed to stay buried. I thought about walking away. About staying Michael Harrison, living small, surviving instead of fighting. Then I thought about my father. About Victoria Laurent. About everyone the Order had silenced. And I started packing. Prague’s coffee shops and terrible pastries would have to wait. I had a train to find.
