Christmas Greetings

Firstly, let me apologise for my absence from these pages over recent weeks. 'Twas not writers' block, nor anything serious which delayed us, but the interruption of real life in all its technicolour glory. Having said that, we are now in the full swing of the festive season (formerly known as Christmas) and, with a degree of serendipity worth commenting on, we have reached chapter 12, the same number as the days of Christmas (the gap between Jesus' birth and the appearance of the Wise Men, for those who were spared your author's rigorous diet of youthful Sunday School).
In the spirit of giving, consider this the last door of our literary Advent Calendar, sit back, pour some eggnog and enjoy thinking about tomorrow - over-excited children, industrial-scale gluttony and family arguments started by squiffy uncles..
Merry Christmas!!!

Chapter 12

Paris, January

Arriving too late to catch the last flight to Paris from Graz, the nearest airport, they had spent the night at the Grand Hotel Weisler in the centre of town. Elena had decided that it was too dangerous to return to the Schloss. Dining separately in their rooms, they returned to the airport after a short sleep to catch the 6am flight to Paris.

While Vienna and Austria managed to pull off the snowy look, Paris was not quite able to do so. Perhaps it was the proximity to the Atlantic, and the warming breeze of the Gulf Stream, but the pure white snowfall Simon had become used to, had turned to a grey slush as they sat in a taxi negotiating the rush hour on the peripherique. The combination of general dirt and salt turned the sleet that managed to reach the ground into a reddy brown colour, which looked to Simon’s mind like very cold mud.

Despite the recent general strike which had been enthusiastically observed by most of the capital’s workers, they all seemed in a hurry to get to work today, resulting in a cacophony of horns as drivers cut each other up in the attempt to gain a car’s length advantage. Gradually, as they headed west, away from the centre of Paris, the traffic eased and, while not racing along, they managed to make steady progress.

Two hours after they left the airport, they arrived at the outskirts of Versailles. Home to Louis XIV’s massive Palace, and a couple of smaller ones for good measure, the town had become a refuge for the Parisian upper-middle class, as well as the tourists who flocked there to tick off another of the world’s great sites. Turning off the main road into a broad, cobbled side-street, the taxi stopped outside the walls of an impressive villa.

Weiss’ son, according to his obituary had been called Abel, and a check of the Parisian phone directory had revealed only one A Weiss, resident at 14 rue Hardy in Versailles. An old wrought iron gate blocked their path, behind it a gravel path lined by bare chestnut trees headed through a comfortable garden towards the old house. They rang the entry-phone which was answered shortly by a spritely, if elderly sounding lady.

“Mme Weiss?”

“Yes, is that the electrician?”

Simon was flattered that his accent was authentic enough to pass for a tradesman, but he replied “No Mme. We have come from Austria. We would like to speak to you for a moment. Can we come in?”

“You have come from Austria to fix my lights?”

Oh dear. This might be harder than they thought. “Hello?” Another voice took over, male, younger and more in control of its faculties.

Simon introduced themselves and explained once more that they had come from Austria and only wanted a minute of their time, resulting in a clunk and the gate swinging open. Heading down the path, they were met at the door by a short man, in his forties, elegantly dressed in flannels and a red sweater.

“Abel Weiss” he said, kissing Elena’s hand, and shaking Simon’s. Every stereotype of the dapper French lover was ticked, from the pencil mustache, to the elegant dress, to the brown, puppy eyes which managed to be both pleading and playful at the same time.

He showed them in to the yellow drawing room overlooking the garden, an elegant collection of nineteenth century furniture showing his taste. Calling for coffee, he beckoned Elena to the chaise longue, joining her on it, while Simon was given the comfortable, if more distant, armchair.

Coffee was served by a maid carrying a tray of white and pink Sevres china. Abel poured and handed round the cups, before stretching back and clasping his hands behind his head.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit from Austria? If you are interested in business, the factory is more convenient, but my mother does not keep well, so I tend to work from home when I can.”

“It’s a bit complicated” Simon started. He had seen Elena preparing to jump in, her policewoman’s instincts jumping at the chance of an interrogation, but he thought the soft approach would probably go down better.

“We came across your father’s name recently in connection with some work we were doing, and wanted to follow it up. We discovered he had passed away quite recently, so we thought we might talk to you instead.”

“And this work, what is it?” This could be tricky. As in his second meeting with Elena, Simon was conscious of the need not to appear completely insane.

“Well, something went missing recently, a few months after your father’s death, and one of the people who looked after it left a note with your father’s name, so we thought it would be worth following up”

“This object that disappeared, what was it?”

“It was an antique, an old spear. It had been in Germany during the war, then it was returned to Austria by the allies.”

“Well Papa was certainly in Germany during the war, many of my countrymen were, not entirely by choice but I don’t remember him mentioning any spear. The Nazis then had different weapons I believe.” There was an unmistakable tone of bitterness in his voice. He had obviously heard much of his father’s suffering, and could not quite bring himself to forgive it.

But Abel Weiss was nothing if not a salesman, particularly when a pretty woman was involved in the deal, and the first lesson he had learnt in selling was always to help your customer. “Maybe my mother knows something about this. Let me get her. Do you happen to have a picture of this spear by any chance, maybe it will help her remember.”

Reappearing a few minutes later, he was accompanied by a frail, elderly lady, elegantly attired in trousers and twin set. Pearls hung from her ears, and a pair of soft loafers covered her feet. Helping her to a chair, Abel poured another cup of coffee.

“These people have come from Austria, Mama, they want to talk about Papa. Do you know anything about a spear? Did he ever talk about it?” Gesturing at Simon, he took the photograph and showed it to his mother. Although in her eighties, and easing into the grip of senility, Mme Weiss retained her memories, seared into her mind, no doubt, by her experiences, and those of her husband. Taking the photo in her elegant, if slightly trembling hand, she looked at it closely. A spark of recognition flashed across her eyes and the colour drained from her recently rouged cheeks.

“Who are you, what is this about. How dare you?” Agitated, she turned on Simon, no longer the gentle old lady, but something altogether more fierce and aggressive. “I want them out of this house, Abel” she shouted, reaching for her stick.

“Please, Mme Weiss, we mean no disrespect. The spear has been stolen and we want to get it back, we came across your husband’s name and wondered if you might no anything about it.”

“Stolen? When?”

“Just after Christmas”

‘Get it back then, get it back before it is too late.”

“Why Mme? What can you tell us? Why are you so upset?”

Mme Weiss sent her son for her handbag and composed herself. When he returned, she reached inside and withdrew a packet of long, menthol cigarettes. Lighting one, to her son’s obvious displeasure, she exhaled loudly and prepared to speak.

“My husband and I had met before the war but once the Germans came” she glanced at Elena. “we got separated. I was able to stay in France and he was taken to Germany. When the war ended, he was still alive, and made his way back to France where we met again. He was different though. Not just thinner and weaker because of the starvation and constant beatings, different in his mind. Something had changed about him, although I could never work out exactly what it was.

Anyway, as he grew stronger, he started his business and we got engaged. I was so happy, even though I knew he was hiding something, some secret he wouldn’t tell me. The day before our wedding, we went for a walk on the banks of the Seine and sat down on one of the benches overlooking the Ile de France. I was just enjoying the view when he took my hand and said that he had something to tell me.

I was worried it was another girl, Eric was very handsome, but it was nothing like that, it was about the war. Because he was an engineer, Eric had been spared the worst of things in the concentration camps. Yes, he was starved and beaten, but he was valuable, so he had escaped the gas chambers.

He spent most of the war in Buchenwald, but in late 1944, he was moved to a new camp called Mittelbau-Dora. It was near some tunnels which the Germans were turning into an underground factory where they would produce weapons. One day, one of the tunnels was about to collapse, but Eric saw the problem and managed to stop it. The SS were watching and their commander was impressed by his skills, so he arranged for Eric to be transferred from the digging team, to a special projects unit.”

She took another drag of her cigarette and continued.

“The Germans were desperate, and trying anything to win the war. They had missiles and strange-shaped aeroplanes, a huge bell-like thing which they thought was a source of limitless power, all nonsense of course. They also, in the deepest part of the tunnel, had a special room which they called the spear room.

“One day just days before the end of the war, when they were short of labour, Eric was summoned to the spear room, to act as an assistant. Everything was different. There were crowds of SS officers, all the way up to general, and a queue of prisoners shackled to one wall, their arms outstretched. One of the Germans was different to the others, wearing Green robes and a turban. He held an old leather-bound book in one hand and a spear in the other.

He walked down the line, chanting something from the book and when he reached the first prisoner, he stabbed him in the side with the spear. The Germans all crowded around to look at the spear, but nothing seemed to have happened to it, so they carried on, down the line of 20 prisoners.

At the end, they all seemed upset and angry, turning on the man in the robes, asking if he was doing it right, if he hadn’t made any mistakes. He insisted he hadn’t, but one of the Generals didn’t believe him. He saw Eric standing at the back of the room and had his guards bring him over to the wall and string him up in place of one of the others. He put on the robes and turban the other German had been wearing and picked up the book. Eric saw that it was ancient, like papyrus, with a picture on the page of a man on a cross, and a spear sticking out of him. He could make out the word Nyssa in Greek, but that was all.

The German began chanting, hefting the spear, and when he was finished, he drove it into Eric’s side. That was the last he knew. He woke up, days later in an American hospital. The camp had been liberated that night, and Eric was found where he had been left in the tunnel, the only one to survive.

He never knew what they were trying to do, but it scared him. He had grown used to the beatings and the rapes and the shootings, but something about that day scared him. The evil seemed almost other-worldly, like it came from Hell itself.

And so, if someone has taken that spear, you make sure you get it back, for it is evil, through and through.”

She stopped, slightly out of breath. Elena took over, re-assuring her that they would find the spear, and keep it out of the wrong hands. Then they stood up, aware that they had probably imposed enough.

Abel went to call them a taxi and then walked them to the gate.

“I am sorry about my mother. She does get worked up about things. But Papa saw a lot during the war, and I think it all comes back to her.”

“Not at all, she was very helpful. I am sorry for intruding and asking her to relive such terrible memories.” Simon was at his most charming now, a strange smile on his face.

Elena was intrigued, but waited until they were in the taxi before asking him. “What are you so happy about? We flew all the way her for a mad story from a mad woman. We’re no closer to finding the spear. Oh, and where are we going?”

“We’re going to the airport.” He told her and the taxi driver together.

“And she was very useful, very useful indeed.” he was enjoying teasing her like this.

“How? I mean tragic story, but it doesn’t tell us where the lance is, who has it, or anything.”

“No, but it tells us where they’re going.”

“How? And where? This Mittlebau place?”

“No Greece.” Ignoring Elena’s disbelief, Simon continued.”Mme Weiss told us two important things. Firstly, the spear the Germans had did not work. That was not a surprise, because the Order hid it before the Germans entered Austria. It spent the war in some Alpine barn, probably with Heidi.”

“Heidi was Swiss” Elena retorted.

“And secondly, she told us how to operate it.”

“How?”

“Well, obviously the incantation is the key. The chanting the robed soldier read from the book.”

“The big old leather book? There are thousands, millions of those. Hell, I’ve even got a room full of them at the Schloss.”

“But you don’t have this one. She said the word Nyssa. Do you know what that means?”

“No” she confessed, feeling on the back foot for the first time since meeting Simon.

“It refers to Gregory of Nyssa. He was an early Christian saint and bishop, He was also a mystic. If anyone was going to know how to work the lance, it would be him.”

“So what now? Do we go and buy his book?”

“That’s just the point. Old manuscripts survive by chance generally. We only have Tacitus, the Roman historian, because someone chose to use a manuscript to stopper a beer barrel. Survival of manuscripts is very dicey. And old Gregory didn’t do too well.”

“What do you mean?”

“As far as we know, there is only one copy of the works of St Gregory of Nyssa in the world today. No-one has yet bothered to publish the text, although I think someone from Germany is planning to, so we have to go to the original.”

“And that’s in Athens?”

“No, it’s at the top of a stone pillar a couple of hundred miles north of there. But we’ll go to Athens first. I’ll need to see an old friend.”

The Ashes

For those readers not of British or Australian extraction, the most titanic competition in world sport is now underway. Yes, it is time for 5 matches of highest quality Test Cricket to decide whether England can still teach her colonial whippersnappers a thing or two. to be fair, after the first day, the answer seemed to be a resolute no, with a positively supine batting collapse bringing forth worries about imperial decline, the end of the empire, and why England cannot play anymore. However, a superb resurgence on the last two days has now revived memories of the blitz spirit and other such historical achievements. None of this is directly (or even indirectly) relevant to the work at hand, but austerity Britain does not have much to cheer about (except the fact that we're not the Irish), and who doesn't like to see the Aussies being brought down a peg or two?

                                                            Chapter 11

Schloss Stahlberg, Austria

Richard’s funeral took place two days later at the castle. It was a sign of his status that both the President and Chancellor were in attendance, with their respective security forces. Elena had initially been sceptical, but was persuaded that little could happen with the mass of armed police in the vicinity.

Their black armoured Mercedes had swept up the twisting road from the village, disgorging them in the courtyard, from where they followed the gravel pathway round the side to the chapel, where generations of Stahlbergs had been christened, had worshipped and been buried. The burial ground outside was filling up, but there was still space for Richard, as there would be for Elena.

Simon was unsure whether he should attend. He had seen little of Elena since their lunch; she had been taken up with the funeral arrangements. He had spent his time learning about Eric Weiss, but in truth, there was little more to say than he had discovered in the obituary. He had tried to contact the family through the factory they owned, but France was having one of its increasingly frequent general strikes, and there had been no answer.

His questions about the funeral had been answered that morning when he awoke to find a black suit and tie in the wardrobe. He still could not work how Georg managed to deliver things without waking him, but he was glad to have the opportunity to attend. Now, five minutes before it was due to start, he slipped down the path to the chapel, hoping to grab a pew at the back and remain inconspicuous.

There seemed to be two types of mourner. The locals from the village below had turned out in force to pay tribute to the latest generation of their former feudal lords. Their grief seemed genuine, a testament to the warm nature Richard had shown to all he met. The others were obviously important members of Austrian and maybe European politics. They were the ones with the chauffeur-driven cars, the ones looking wistful but not distressed. They were there to say farewell to an esteemed colleague and to be seen to observe the proprieties.

The stone chapel was simply furnished and lit by candles at the end of each pew. Elena sat in the front row, clad in black, the coffin in front of her to the left. The priest from Liebnitz conducted the mass, with the choir singing a requiem. Little light shone through the stained glass windows, making the combination of candles and chanting seem almost mediaeval. At the end of the service, six strong estate workers processed down the aisle, picked up the coffin and carried it gently out of the chapel. Turning right, they moved into the family plot where the grave-diggers had laboured all day to excavate the frozen soil.

The mourners once more split into groups, the locals near the front, and the dignitaries at the back where they could talk discreetly and make a hasty exit back to their cars once the deed was done. The priest conducted the final rites, consigning Richard to the care of his maker, and slowly the coffin was lowered into the ground. The mourners queued up to pay their last respects to Richard and to Elena before heading back up the pathway. Simon insinuated himself into the middle and, taking his leave, headed back to the Schloss.

Under the watchful eye of armed police on the roof and hidden in the vineyard, the President and Chancellor returned to their limousines which sped down the hill, accompanied by outriders and the remaining officers began to pack up their guns and headed for the vans parked a discrete distance down the hill.

One of them, the sniper in the bell tower at the entrance to the estate was slower than the rest, in no hurry to leave his perch and return to the relative warmth of the van. His job was not yet finished, despite the departure of the dignitaries. As Simon rounded the corner, he approached the end of his mission, putting down the binoculars he had used to observe proceedings, and picking up the suppressed Accuracy International AWS 7.62x51mm sniper rifle, fitted with a Schmidt & Bender PMII scope. He had been trained with Zeiss optics, but preferred the Schmidt & Bender as it had been designed specifically for the rifle.

His presence there had been easy to arrange. As the number 2 in Schwartz’s secret militia, he took care of long-range attacks, having trained as a sniper with GSG9, the elite German special forces unit. He still held most of their shooting records, but along with his commander, codename Wolf, he had found private enterprise more profitable and, in the present instance, more congenial to his political inclinations. While Wolf was the expert at close quarter action, he, Fox, always took over when distance was a consideration and so it has been his picture which had been inserted into the stolen warrant card.

Then it had simply been a question of turning up at the local station this morning, claiming to be a replacement for an officer from Vienna who was unable to make it in time. Wolf had arranged that, but it would be days before anyone discovered the real reason for the officer’s absence. Volunteering to take the perch in the tower, he had guaranteed himself privacy and time, two things snipers thrive on. Now, 4 hours after his arrival, it was time to complete his mission.

Centring the scope on the sandy head walking down the path, he slowed his breathing as far as possible. The target was well within range, and with no rain and little wind, it would not be a difficult shot. Slowly exhaling, he squeezed the trigger gently, eye fixed on the target. The trigger almost at the end of the guard, the man’s life span was now measured in micro-seconds.

Click. The trigger reached the full extent of its range, releasing a bullet down the suppressed barrel just as the target jinked out of sight. Damn! Looking up from the rifle, he saw the man he suddenly turned, as if someone had called him back. Perhaps the first time he had ever needed to do so, he hurriedly reloaded the rifle and prepared to take another shot. Preying that no-one had spotted the puff of dust sent up as his previous bullet hit the gravel pathway, he concentrated intently. Reacquiring the target, he exhaled once more, finger again caressing the trigger.

The time between the bullet breaking the glass and crashing its way into the skull was too short for the human brain to comprehend. Travelling at over three times the speed of sound, it ploughed its way through hair, skin, bone, brain and then bone again, killing instantly. The victim fell to the ground where a pool of blood rapidly formed from the back of his head, blown away by the force of the bullet.

Mark hastily disassembled his rifle, an M40A5 with detachable suppressor, standard issue for the US Marine Corps and began to make his way down the tree where he had been hidden for the past several hours. While Iraq had been dusty and unpleasant, at least it was warm, compared to this place. Even with several layers of insulated clothing and ghillie suit, the last several hours had been difficult, but the mission had been accomplished, even if he was not sure what it was. He had been ordered to pre-empt any violence at the funeral and had been about to pack up when he saw the tell-tale explosion of dust from the gravel. Scanning the buildings, he had seen the rifle poking out of the second floor window of the bell tower and instinct had taken over. It was not an instinct he was proud of, but it was one that had saved his life and those of others countless times over the years.

Sneaking through the forest, he made his way down the hill, towards the waiting car. He would drive to Graz, the nearest city, before awaiting further orders. He would also check in with Shelly and tell her that the crop investigation was going more slowly than he had hoped.

Later that evening, Simon became aware of commotion in the Schloss. He was not sure what was going on, but could hear loud voices, voices he did not recognise, and the sound of a large number of people moving around. A knock on the door. Elena. She had never been here. What was going on?

She showed him a picture. “Have you seen this man before?” The picture showed a man in his mid thirties, dark hair, and dark eyes. A scary-looking man, someone experienced in violence.

“No, never. Why?”

“He was found in the bell-tower 2 hours ago. Shot through the head. He left behind a mess on the floor and a sniper rifle.”

“He was a policeman? One of the bodyguards?”

“No Simon, he was not.” He could not remember her calling him Simon before. “He was a former member of the German special forces who resigned last year. The Germans lost track of him, but they think he had used his experience to become a mercenary. It is not uncommon in that line of work. The pay is much better.

“That does not, however, explain why he arrived at Leibnitz police station this morning claiming to be a protection officer from Vienna. I fear Simon that the assassins have tracked you down once more. We will have to leave. Georg will pack a bag for you and we will leave for Paris tonight. Let’s hope that Eric Weiss or his family have some answers.”

With that she got up and left. Simon joined her, heading for the study to pick up his research, the castle which had previously seemed warm and safe now seeming cold and lonely. Packing a backpack with his papers, he waited for Elena in the hallway, drawing little comfort from the police milling through it.

Until next time...

Happy Thanksgiving

To all our American friends, enjoy your annual late November day of rest, look forward to at least another week of eating Turkey, and perhaps more importantly for the rest of us, don't forget to go shopping on Black Friday.

                                                            Chapter 10

Schloss Stahlberg, Liebnitz

Elena had signed out an unmarked car from the pool, and left a message for her boss, saying that she was taking a few days off to arrange things for her father’s funeral. Simon was released into her custody which, as she told him, meant that he had to do what she told him to the letter.

Ignoring his suggestion that they stop by his hotel to pick up his belongings, she wove the car through the empty streets of the capital and headed for the A2 toll road heading south. The Opel, while not glamorous, was efficient and ate up the miles as they headed for safety, the smooth ride combining with the metronomic passing of the street lights to lull Simon to sleep.

As he awoke, the sun was poking its head above the horizon, revealing a postcard -like landscape of farms and forests. No mountains here, the landscape was surprisingly flat, making the area, Elena informed him, the bread-basket of Austria. At the mention of food, his stomach gave an involuntary growl, a sign she said, that he was recovering from his shock.

Driving through the town of Leibnitz, a sleepy country settlement, just waking up, with bakers opening and children dawdling their way to school, Elena passed the white stucco church and headed for a small hill over-looking the city. It had snowed recently here and she was grateful that the fall had not been heavier as she twisted her way up the switchback road.

Ahead lay what looked like a bell-tower, and arch at the bottom through which she drove, coming to a halt slightly further on. The building was four storied, the ground floor surrounded by an arched colonnade. Not looking much like a castle to Simon, there was a noticeable lack of towers and battlements, the beige plasterwork and terracotta tiles reminded him more of Italy and the country houses found in Tuscany.

Getting out of the car, he was surprised to see a vineyard cascading down the hill towards the town. “My father loved the vineyard. He always made sure he was here for the harvest. I’ll show you the cellars later.” Elena slammed her door and headed for the double oak doors “Come with me.”

The hallway had a cold grey stone floor, and heavy wood panelling, the heads of various dead animals dotted about the walls, a reminder of the occupants’ hunting prowess. A couple of ornate portraits, seventeenth century from the look of the clothing, dominated the staircase. A man in late middle age stood next to the table in the middle of the floor. Wearing lederhosen and a short jacket, he was the very model of the Austrian domestic.

“Graeffin, welcome home. I am so sorry for your loss. He was a great man. Who could do such a thing?”

“Thank you Georg, I know. Don’t worry, the police will find him. How are the others?”

“We are all in shock, Graeffin, but we will do anything we can to help you. He was like a father to us all.”

“Thank you. This is Dr Pelham, he will be staying with us for a couple of days.” She gestured to Simon, standing slightly sheepishly near the door. “Please show him to one of the guest rooms.”

“Dr Pelham, I will see you for lunch at 12:30. Get some rest. I think we have much to talk about.” With that, she was off, turning left, through another set of double doors.

“Do you have any luggage sir?” Georg asked.

“No, I don’t. It was a spur of the moment thing.” was the best reply he could manage.

“Very well. Please to follow me.”

Georg led the way up the curving staircase, turning right at the top. He led Simon down a long corridor, or gallery more properly, the outside wall lined with windows, the inside with a selection of French furniture and paintings which would make Versailles blush. Turning right again, Georg led him up another, less grand staircase and down a short passageway before opening a door.

“Your room sir” Covered in fine green silk wallpaper, the room was stocked with heavy wooden furniture, a four poster bed and huge armoire. The dressing table featured a jug and bowl, and seeing his glance, Georg reassured him. “The bathroom is through this door, sir.” pointing to a plain white door on the far wall.

“I will bring clothes for you at 11:45 for your lunch with the Graeffin. And sir, I would suggest you get some sleep, you look terrible”

The servant left the room before Simon could get in a snappy reply about being shot at, and gave him time to reflect on the wisdom of what he had said. He was tired, and the bed looked extremely inviting. Lying back, he fell asleep almost instantly.

Dreaming about being on a yacht, Simon was enjoying the sensation of being rocked by the sea when he heard a voice in his ear suggesting that he might want to get up. Opening his eyes, he saw Georg leaning over him, all pleasant sleepy sensations now overtaken by embarrassment, how had he not heard the man come in the door?

“Good morning again sir. It is time to rise, the countess does not like to be kept waking.”

Sleepily thanking him, Simon got up.

“I have placed some clothes in the wardrobe for you sir. If you leave what you’re wearing in the basket next door, we will take care of it for you. Everything you need is in the bathroom.”

As the servant left, Simon went into the bathroom, choosing between the large white free-standing bath and the shower tucked into the corner. Wrestling with the controls for a moment, he was greeted with a torrent of scalding pure water. Obviously the castle drew its supply from some nearby spring fed by the winter snows.

Feeling awake, he wrapped one of the fluffy towels around his waist and proceeded to shave with the razor Georg had kindly provided. Padding back into the bedroom, he crossed the rug-covered wooden floor to the wardrobe, finding a selection of clean shirts and corduroy trousers, all, miraculously, the right size. Choosing the least old-fashioned combination, he left the room to find Georg waiting to take him to the dining room.

On the first floor, halfway along the grand corridor, they turned through a discreet door and found themselves in a long room, dominated by a massive oak dining table set only for two. At the far end, Elena stood, dressed totally in black, silverware and crystal in front of her. More ancestral portraits lined the walls, interspersed with more hunting trophies, and a couple of the guns which had resulted in them.

Beckoning Simon to the place by her right, she told Georg to serve lunch.

Simon’s attempts to play the good guest fell flat over the first course of consommé with dumplings, and the second of boiled beef and potatoes. Elena was distracted, as well she might be given that her father had been dead for less than a day, but he learned that the castle had been started in the eleventh century and most generations of the family had made some additions. The bit they were currently in dated to the 16th century when the bulk of the building had been completed. More recent generations had concentrated on renovating the cellars and turning the Schloss into a world-class winery.

They retired to the neighbouring drawing room for coffee, sitting slightly adversarily opposite each other on the yellow chintz sofas separated by a mahogany table. Sunlight filtered in through the leaded windows, striking the large gilt mirror which dominated one wall. A display cabinet, full, not of dead animals, but medals, took up the other. “All the awards my family has won go in there, Dr Pelham” she explained. “As you can see, there are rather a lot.”

She was right, the cabinet was full, some of the items, like scrolls and deeds looking particularly old. “Have you contributed any yourself, countess?”

“Only a small one, in the bottom right hand corner. An award for bravery. I was shot making an arrest. It was nothing really, but the papers got hold of it and you know what they are like.” Simon didn’t really, but made sympathetic noises.

“My  father was very proud. Horrified at first, but proud as well. He wanted to keep the bullet, but wasn’t allowed - it was evidence after all.” A slight smile appeared on her face, revealing a couple of hitherto unsuspected dimples.

It soon disappeared, and the efficient police officer took over again. “You are here Dr Pelham because I agree with what you said last night. The murder must be connected to Dr Fleicher’s and to the theft of the Lance. As you are the only member of the Order we know of, you must be the one to recover the object, and lead us to the killers. Do not worry for you safety. The castle is well protected. It is a quiet part of the world here, and strangers stick out easily. No-one comes here in the winter and if they do, we will hear of it quickly. We have no mountains to attract skiers, only pasture for walkers, and you cannot walk when the snow is 10 feet deep.

“I asked Georg to bring in the package you left in the car. Perhaps we can open it here and start to make some progress.” She gestured to the brown-paper wrapped box sitting on the sideboard.

Simon fetched it and, placing it on the table between them, undid the string knot. The box inside was about the size of a paperback, covered in red leather. There was no note. Obviously Richard would have explained it to him when they met.

Opening the box, Simon saw a picture of the lance; it’s black and gold surfaces hinting at the menace it could cause. Below the photo lay a handwritten correspondence card. All it contained, beneath the embossed name and crest was another name, this one written in the now-familiar copperplate script was a name, Eric Weiss and the word Paris.

At least this latest clue was relatively clear, no codes to solve. Obviously, they were to make contact with this Eric Weiss. But who was he? Seeming to read his thoughts, Elena suggested they go to her father’s study where a computer would help them. Passing through the dining room and long corridor, she led him down the stairs and through the right hand doors off the main hallway. Another corridor awaited, panelled, but this one seemed more functional, with fewer portraits of ancient grandees. Opening a door on the right, she took him into a large room lined with bookshelves, the sash windows opening onto the courtyard and the vineyard below.

Booting up the computer, she typed the name into Google, and was immediately offered thousands of sites about the magician Houdini.

“Was Houdini involved with the spear somehow?” she asked.

“Not that I know of. Although, his real name was Erich Weiss, that must be the problem.” One of the flaws of the search engine was that it ranked results by popularity, not necessarily by relevance. It was a frustration that researchers knew well and could only be overcome by patience.

Simon took over and scrolled through the thousands of hits, Houdini having been one of the celebrities of his day. Eventually he found something more recent, but it was an obituary.

Eric Weiss had died the previous year. A holocaust survivor, he had returned to his native France at the end of the war and opened a successful engineering company. He left behind a wife and son who had taken over the business.

Elena sat in the window seat, gazing out of the window. “A dead end then.” she stated blankly.

Simon was thinking, what could be the connection between a Jewish concentration camp survivor and the Lance? Used mainly as slave-labour, how would a prisoner come into contact with what must have been one of the Nazi’s most prized possessions? Putting himself in the Nazi’s shoes, as difficult as that was, he quickly found the answer. If they had wanted the power of the Lance, they would want to test it, particularly to save embarrassment in front of the Fuhrer. They would need to know it worked and that they could control it. If you were a Nazi scientist, who else would you use as a guinea pig than a Jewish prisoner? Mengele did it all the time. That must be the answer. They had to find Eric Weiss’ family.

Until next time...

It's that time again

As Tuesday rolls into Wednesday, we turn once more to the ongoing saga of the The Holy Lance. What will have happened this time? Will our heroes be facing greater peril, and if so, how will they escape? And what of the villain, will his evil machinations reach fruition? Or will there be some last minute intervention, a deus ex machina if you will? Well, of course, we're only on chapter 9, and any sort of resolution lies in the future. However, the only way to find out is to READ ON...

                                                            Chapter 9

Vienna

Sitting in an interview room, Simon was wrapped in a blanket, holding a cup of coffee. It was strange how, no matter where you were, public facilities always served the same, weak nasty brew. Someone, somewhere must be making a fortune out of slowly poisoning the developed world.

Richard’s chauffeur had called an ambulance after the assailant fled, but in truth, there was nothing they could do. They were followed by the police who sealed off the area and insisted that Simon accompany them to the nearest station. His interview had been perfunctory; he could not give them any details about the attacker because he had not really seen him. It was hard to give them any information about a man in black in the middle of the night. He had been asked about his meeting with Richard and brushed them off with talk of college old boys, suspecting that mention of the Order of the Golden Eagle and the 12 secret treasures would not further his cause.

And then the shock had taken over. His body, like any other animal’s, had been flooded with the hormone epinephrine as the attack started, giving him heightened ability to either fight or flee. But, as the danger had subsided when his attacker fled, so did the flow of hormones, leaving his body exhausted from its recent overdose. He began to struggle to focus on the questions, his mind racing, but he was not sure where it was going. He started to sweat, his heart racing again.

The officer, sympathetic for once, had stopped the interview, seeing his distress. A blanket was provided, along with the drink, and Simon was left on his own, while a doctor was sought. Left on his own, he had time to think. Why would anyone want to kill Richard? Well, he didn’t know him that well, so there could be many reasons. Business deal gone bad, affair gone wrong, maybe he’d just really pissed someone off.

But if that was the case, why had the assassin turned his gun on Simon. He couldn’t see anything about him, he was no danger, so why try to shoot him? While he knew nothing really about Richard, he did know about himself. He did no business, was not having an affair (more’s the pity), and hadn’t really upset anyone, so there was no real reason to want him dead.

In the 14th century, William of Ockham had famously come up with his razor, a philosophical principle which, simply put, states that the simplest explanation is the best. In Simon’s case, there was only one simple explanation, and he did not like it. There was something about the Order of the Golden Eagle that was leading someone to kill its members. A membership which counted him among it. Dr Fleicher, Richard, and two attempts on his own life, the Order obviously had some powerful enemies.

What was it about the Order which could upset someone so much? Well, any organisation which controlled such important objects, assuming they actually existed, would certainly attract jealousy. But was jealousy enough to kill for? Well, jealous lovers killed every day, but those were crimes of passion, not acts of cold blooded murder like the one he had witnessed this evening.

Thinking back to his conversation with Richard, he thought of the lance. Its loss had seemed to upset the old man, but he did not seem concerned. What was it he had said? “The Order has certain resources.” They were going to get it back. Richard was obviously expected to find the Lance again and return it to Vienna. That must be why he was killed, to stop him reclaiming the Lance. First the criminals had taken it, then they decided to take out the competition. Unfortunately for Simon, he was the competition, or at least they thought he was.

And that created problems. If these people thought Simon was a danger to them, they would obviously not hesitate to kill him. Now, Simon knew he was no threat, but how could he convince them of that? The only way would be to find them, and that was way beyond his pay-grade. He could hardly take out an advert in a newspaper informing them that he was no danger and could they please leave him alone. The only way he would be safe, was when they had been found, either by the police, or by Simon himself. He was snookered. There was no way out of this situation, apart from finding the criminals.

The enormity of his new reality was dawning on him, when the door opened. Instead of the sympathetic officer who had seen him earlier, he was now joined by the blonde inspector from the museum, still freakishly attractive despite the late hour. Although, her eyes were no longer the sparkling blue he remembered, they were bloodshot, as if from tears or maybe it was just the hour.

“Who are you? Why are you here?” Obviously she had chosen the business-like approach over sympathy and subtlety.

“You know who I am.” he replied. “Simon Pelham. I teach Roman history at Oxford.”

“Do not push me Dr Pelham, I am not in the mood. You arrive here yesterday lunchtime, and you try to have a meeting with a dead man. You then go out for dinner and your companion is killed. You are like the angel of death, Dr Pelham and I want to know why.”

Simon wanted to know why as well, and he thought he was on his way, but did he want to share it with this policewoman. On the plus side, he might be able to get her protection, and any help might lead to these criminals being caught earlier, and not being able to hunt him down and kill him. On the other hand, what could he tell her, he was now a member of the Order, and, although he was not sure, he was pretty sure that was meant to be a secret. Furthermore, how could he persuade her of the truth when most of the objects Richard had talked about did not, as far as the world knew, exist.

“Before you try to think of your next story, or decide to carry on bluffing about Ancient History and Oxford, Dr Pelham, you should know something. Richard zu Stahlberg was my father and I will not stop until I find his killer. And that means that I will follow any lead to reach him. At the moment Dr Pelham, you are my only lead, and I will make life very unpleasant for you unless you tell me everything. And you may as well start with why this box was on my father’s desk when I went to his apartment”

She handed over a small package, wrapped in brown paper, Simon’s name on it in an elegant hand, the same writing as the envelope sent to the hotel earlier. The walls of the small, pale green room seemed to draw closer, the light from the fluorescent strip suddenly seeming colder. The frosted, barred window offered no comfort, looking out into the blackness outside. What could be in the box? It probably wasn’t a birthday present, given that his birthday was in July, and all the messages he had received recently had brought decidedly unpleasant outcomes. Also, should he open it in front of her? What if there was something which he couldn’t explain? What if it got him into more trouble?

And yet, what if she could help? He would need help; otherwise he would end up dead, or on the run. Neither of those seemed like a good option. Feeling trapped once more, an emotion he was becoming uncomfortably familiar with, he decided to level with her.

“Let me start at the beginning.” He led her through the letter, the attack, his solving of the code, the trip to the bank, his trip to Austria and dinner. He told her of Richard’s conversation, about the Order, the treasures and the Lance. And then he took her through Richard’s last minutes, how they had planned to meet again and go to the museum. Maybe that was where he had planned to give Simon the package.

“Did he give you any reason to think he was in danger?”

“None at all, he seemed quite relaxed.”

“Can you think of any reason why this happened? Did he mention anything that you can think of? Anything at all?”

Simon decided it was time to change the direction of the conversation. Richard was dead, and he was alive, recognition of that fact would be welcome, along with some protection from the homicidal maniacs who were chasing him.  He told the inspector of his recent thoughts, that the deaths of her father and Dr Fleicher were related to the theft of the lance. And, in case it was not obvious, he made sure that she understood that he was next on the list. Someone was trying to stop the Order from recovering the lance, and they were not above stooping to murder.

Elena sat there, her hands supporting her head, gazing into the distance at a spot just above Simon’s head. It was scarcely plausible the story this academic told her, and yet, something about it rang true. Her father had secrets, that much she did know. There were times when she was not allowed in his study, unannounced visitors from all parts of the world. Sudden trips to undisclosed places. She had never doubted his love, and had grown to accept that side of his personality, just as he had come to accept her stubbornness.

What if it was true? If he was a member of the Order, it was presumably for a reason. If he was right, maybe he could help them solve this, help her avenge her father’s death. They certainly needed help. Forensics had turned up nothing in the museum, and she was far from confident that they would find anything outside the restaurant. Maybe this was not the sort of case that regular police-work could crack, maybe a different sort of approach was needed.

And what of the doctor’s safety? With an assassin, and a skilled one at that, in the city, she was worried about her ability to protect him here, and Dr Pelham had just become something highly worthy of protection. She could keep him in the police station, but would he be safe there? What was to stop the killer infiltrating them here? She was under no illusions about the skills of the average Viennese copper. If she lost him, she would lose her one link to this crime and her chance to solve it.

It was a risk, but she would have to take it. Maybe it was the grief, but she could think of no other alternative. Getting up, “Follow me” she told him. “And don’t forget the package?”

“Where are we going?” he asked, sweeping it into his arms?

“Somewhere safe. You and I are going to be seeing rather a lot of each other until this is over, Dr Pelham” she said opening the door and sweeping down the corridor, leaving him to trail in her wake.

Until next time...