Stalin's Riches

SLIP—SNAP!

The sound bounced mercilessly from wall to cool, damp wall as if it’d go on forever. Abigail just stood there, holding her breathe, fists clenched, as she pressed her flashlight against her chest, snuffing its flame.

Damn branch, she thought to herself, convinced even the sound of her thoughts would betray her location. She couldn’t afford to be caught, not now—not ever.

Keeping all light at bay just for good measure, she felt her way back onto the rusted train track, cursing the branch beneath her foot again. Yes, walking the tracks was slowing her down, but it kept her off the noisy tunnel floor, which was littered with all sorts of forest debris. The tunnel had succumbed to mother nature’s crushing grip years ago, its stone walls unable to keep tree roots and vermin from trespassing into its former pristine glory. The wooden beams girding the steal tracks to the floor had all but given way, like the strength of a battered old man. She moved deeper in, letting her flashlight ever so slightly peek around her cupped palm.

As she placed one foot in front of the other, the slight weight in her breast pocket caused by her faded research journal gave her some semblance of comfort. She knew what she was doing, and she convinced herself of that. The number of hours she’d spent scribbling in and pouring back over what she’d written in that little book had all but robbed the leather binding’s former jet-black color. Mixed in with other mostly illegible jottings, she’d repeated the reason for this evening’s mortal walk: Dare tempt her snares and peril, revel in the spoils of her sacred vessels.

She knew the crude rhyme better than her own name at this point. After years of study, reconnaissance, and the occasional bribe, she had finally gotten her chance to test the integrity of those words. The Ural Mountains were not the least bit forgiving to get to, let alone survive in. If the biting cold nights didn’t kill you, the Russian patrols wouldn’t hesitate to finish the job. They didn’t like nosey people, especially American people. Legend had it, during the height of WWII, Stalin brazenly started taking money from the national treasury to ensure himself a lavish life even if he was forced into hiding. Of the billions stolen, not a single Ruble had been found, but Abigail was convinced she’d located the long-lost treasure trove. She’d uprooted her life right after her undergrad, applying for a student visa to Ural Federal University under the guise of studying geography. Every spare minute and every university holiday was spent researching under a secure VPN; she couldn’t risk the Russian authorities seeing her search history.

With only days left on her visa, thirteen failed searches under her belt, and one stint in jail for trespassing, which she’d gotten out of by playing the dumb American student, she couldn’t afford to be wrong. The authorities were clear, one more offense and she would be charged with espionage, a crime whose close relative was the death penalty. The death penalty was the least of her concerns because she was trespassing on an abandoned military installation, so being shot on sight was just as guaranteed as winter guarantees snow.

Abigail’s mind raced as she continued down the track, her toes growing increasingly numb with every step. Did the tunnel have security cameras? Not that she’d seen, but she wouldn’t put it past the paranoid regime to rig even an abandoned site with some level of security measures: the most likely being sound or light sensors set to alert the nearest sentry at the slightest hint of trouble. This specific tunnel was started at the end of WWI to continue the train routes, but Abigail could not find where the tracks reemerged out from under the mountain in all her research. She’d read about construction materials entering for years during interlude between the World Wars, but any updates of progress on the national transportation feat stopped abruptly in 1941. Conclusion: Stalin altered the plans from a mere train tunnel to a stronghold for his hidden fortune.

Three and a half pain staking miles into the tunnel, Abigale froze. Staring back at her was a ten-by-eight-foot metal door, or what was left of one. Rust had all but eaten its way through it. She let her flashlight turn the night of the cave into day as she looked around for any tripwires and a clear path from the tracks to the door. “This is it. It has to be it!” she whispered to no one but the lonely tunnel. Her heartbeat was in her neck as she inched toward the door and pulled at what was left of the handle. The steel's temperature quickly penetrated her gloves, and the sweat she was working up started to freeze as it rolled down her forehead. The door finally budged, but the sound of its opening was deafening after hours of silence.

She panicked and started into the room, not noticing the tripwire that had snapped at the top of the door. Her beam of light fluttered around the ample space, covered in dirt, vegetation, and exhilarating history. Standing at the threshold, her light came across a large metal vessel with a biohazard sign barely visible. What better place to hide something than in a barrel that no one dared open. The thought of a chemical agent being housed in the barrel instead of riches only flitted through her mind for a second, the rush of the chase overtaking any logical reservations. Running over to the barrel, she pulled out an oversized knife from her backpack and plunged it as hard as she could into the tin top. In awkward up and down motions, she cut her way through the lid, dropping the knife when she thought she could pry it back like a can of sardines. There, at the bottom of the barrel, lay an ornate wooden box. She ripped out her black journal and thumbed to a sketch in the middle of the pages. She couldn’t believe how similar the box was to the drawing she made off the scattered legends’ description of Stalin’s personal “cigar” box, which he carried with him everywhere.

In disbelief, she reached in and lifted the box out. With a flick of the wrist and a flutter of the heart, she opened the lid to behold its contents. Her excitement deafened her to the sound of sentries racing down the tunnel. She set the box down on the barrel and held its contents close to her face. A small note, a bound stack of bills, all large denominations—at least a million Rubles, which amounted to roughly twenty thousand US dollars, and a brass key. The note didn’t waste time, only two sentences, and Abigale’s expert eye quickly deduced it was in Stalin’s own hand. “All you need to get me my money. The rest is in—” CRACK! A sharp pain pierced her spine and her vision quickly dimmed.

I’m rich, she thought as her grip relaxed, its contents spilling to the blood-stained dirt. Stalin’s riches were only but for a moment hers to revel in.