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...

Allo ma chums

For some reason the author found his thoughts turning to Antione de Caunes this weekend, the cheeky French chappy best known to anglophone audiences from the truly execrable Friday night television programme Eurotrash. But of course, appearances can be deceptive, and M. de Caunes had an altogether more serious career on the other side of the Channel (or should that be Manche?) where he functioned more as a Jeremy Paxmanesque figure. This may not seem immediately relevant to the current work, but surely we all have different sides which are displayed in different ways? It was merely M. de Caunes' fortune that he got paid for it.

                                                            Chapter 8

South Kensington, London,

Ortwin Schwartz looked at the blinking numbers on his screen one last time and turned it off. He should not be doing this anymore, he had one hundred people working for him, all of whom were more than capable, but he could not resist. Making money was like a drug, and he was still good at it. Another 5 million dollars had been added to the pot today, more than satisfactory in anyone’s terms. Not that the pot was all his of course, the Schwartz group was a $10 billion hedge fund giant, with clients ranging from wealthy individuals to charities, but a decent amount of it was his own money.

Leaving his glass and steel desk, he moved over to the mahogany shelves and poured himself a brandy, intending to relax for a bit before bed. His wife had already retired for the evening, but he did not mind, their marriage had always been based on his money and her looks and connections. They had 2 fine children together, and that was enough. Both had kept their side of the bargain.

Reviewing the day’s trades, he was particularly pleased with his silver position; he relaxed on the antique Chesterfield sofa, and let his mind wander. A journey which was rudely interrupted by the ringing of the third phone on his desk. Walking over, he picked up the cordless receiver and listened to the unaccented voice at the end.

“The old man has retired.”

“Good, and the younger?”

“There was an interruption; he refused to sign the papers.”

“I trust you will make sure that he does so soonest.”

“Of course, sir”

The caller clicked off, as he always did. Security was the man’s obsession, as well it might be and telephones always made him wary. Although the Echelon programme run by the American National Security Agency and its allies, such as Britain, was designed to intercept satellite communications and most modern calls were carried by optical fibre, there was also the chance, no the likelihood, that they had found a way to intercept those as well. All conversations were brief and their meaning disguised.

Ortwin hung up, dissatisfied. He had learnt from years of trading the markets that there are things which cannot be anticipated, but still, the secret was to react to them and adjust one’s position accordingly. It looked like this was one of these moments.

In a way too, he was sad, he had met the old man a few times, had liked him. There was something about Stahlberg which was infectious, a twinkle in the eye, a conspiratorial wink. He was not an easy man to dislike, and Ortwin had not done so. But, it was necessary, like closing a losing position. One had to do the deed and move on, no regrets. The secret to success in the markets was not so much the trades that made money, but avoiding those which lost it. Ortwin was an expert at this, with an almost sixth-sense for a losing position, and Richard had the potential to be a seriously losing position, something which could not be tolerated.

His study in the Georgian era white stucco townhouse was off-limits to all but a select few and the wall opposite the desk was dominated by a portrait of his father. The fact that it could not be displayed elsewhere rankled deeply with Ortwin and was something he was now in the process of changing. Still, even with today’s partial victory, he could raise his glass to the old man. At fifty years old, Ortwin Schwartz had ascended to the top of one slippery pole and was about to complete his father’s journey to the top of another, infinitely higher.

Removing his rim-less glasses, and running his hand through his thick grey hair, Ortwin thought back to his childhood, many miles from London, and even more from his father’s birthplace in what was now Poland. It was, in many ways, an idyllic childhood. His father 60 when he was born, the product of a late marriage to a much younger woman. His mother was part of the local Spanish elite, fiery, wavy hair cascading down her back. Her greatest delight had been horses, and his father had given her every opportunity to indulge it, purchasing the finest Arabians for their 20,000 acre ranch in the pampas.

It had also been her downfall. He remembered the day, when he was five, as the chief groom rushed into their house, straight for his father’s study. The doors closed, somehow he had known the news was bad. His father rushed out, heading for the jeep parked outside. On his return, he had taken Ortwin aside and broken the news. “It is just you and me now, son.” And that was the last they spoke of it.

But it was not all sorrow. The estate gave plenty of room for the boy to run around and explore, quickly mastering both European and South American styles of riding. There was a steady stream of visitors, generals, politicians and the like who were sufficiently in awe of his father to spend time with Ortwin, always playing with him and bringing gifts of toy soldiers. Then there were the other families in the region, not exactly neighbours given the size of their properties, but every so often, they would have parties and fetes and gather to celebrate the old days and the old ways.

A clever young man, it had not taken Ortwin too long to discover the truth about his father and his friends, so the discussion they had on his thirteenth birthday did not contain many surprises, the general outlines were already known. Starting gently, with observations about the differences between them and the natives in the region, his father had started to tell him about his own country, Germany, and the Nordic gods who lived there in the forests and castles. He told him about his nation’s rise to power and the corrupt alliances which had brought it low. And he told him how, once more, Germany would rise again.

“Were you in the war, father?” Ortwin had asked.

As by way of answer, his father reached into his ornate desk and pulled out a letter-opener. Handing it to his son, he told him to have a look at it closely. The top handle was black, with two runic S on the top. On the handle itself, an eagle with spread wings gripped a swastika. The blade itself bore an inscription, “Meine Ehre Heist Treue”. It was not a letter opener at all, it was a dagger given to members of the SS.

“Let me tell you all about me, that you may know all about yourself.”

He had been born in Stettin in what was now Poland in 1901. Too young to fight in World War 1, he had studied engineering at university, both at Stettin and in Munich. Disgusted by the state of Germany after the war, a war which need not have been lost, the Depression and further suffering of his homeland led him to join the Nazi Party in 1932.

When Hitler came to power, he had taken a job in the Air Ministry under Goering, building the air force that Germany was not allowed to have. He also joined the SS, receiving his dagger on May 20, 1933 from Himmler himself. The SS leader had liked the young engineer, and poached him to run the construction of the concentration camps, a task he achieved with his trademark efficiency.

The entry of America into the war made Hitler desperate for new, advanced weaponry, and there was only one man to turn to. He had built the vast Mittelwerk complex underground in Thuringia, where concentration camp labour enabled the cream of German scientists to produce new weapons, in a last throw of the dice to end the war in Germany’s favour. All their efforts, though proved futile.

As 1945 wore on, and allied tanks rolled closer to Berlin, his father, by now in charge of all advanced weapons projects had commandeered the only remaining Junkers Ju 390, the Reich’s experimental long-range aircraft designed for bombing raids on New York. Filling it with as many papers and samples of engineering as he could find, his father had arranged for his driver to swear a statement testifying to his death, and flown to Africa, with a skeleton crew and some close brother officers.

From there, it was a short hop to Argentina, where the government had welcomed them with open arms, particularly once they had seen samples of the knowledge the refugees brought with them. New identities and estates had been arranged for the now honoured guests, and the Germans turned their attention to updating the Argentine military. Although they had not managed to give President Peron the atomic bomb he so dreamed of, the Americans having taken most of the nuclear scientists for their Paperclip project, they had done enough to earn a very comfortable retirement, free from prying eyes.

“You had a new identity, you said father? What is our real name?” the boy had asked.

‘Kammler. I am SS General Hans Kammler, and you are my son.”

From that day on, Ortwin had learned all he could about Germany, about the Nazi ideology which had so scared the world, about the injustices that he would set right. Groomed as an heir, he imbibed deeply from his father and their friends, learning to respect, even love Adolf Hitler. And, like the young Hannibal, millennia previously, he swore an oath to avenge his country’s defeat.

When his father had died, he used his wealth and connections to parlay his way into the trading world, for which he discovered a real talent. Always seemingly one step ahead of the market, he had taken his inheritance and set up on his own. With his skills, his diligence, and occasionally, a little help from his father’s contacts, he had been able to found one of the great companies in his field.

And yet it was not enough. He ached to wipe of the stain of humiliation from his fatherland, his real fatherland. His first trip there, as a 25 year-old had been an eye-opener. Despite the differences between his home in the pampas and the glass and steel towers of modern Frankfurt, Ortwin felt at home in a way he had never done before. He knew what he had to do, and he knew his path was right.

On his deathbed, the general had told Ortwin of his final task for the Fuhrer, to gain the power of the Holy Lance. The scientists had read all the papers and were convinced it would be a true wunderwaffe, a war-ending technological break-through. But they could not unlock its power, despite all their best attempts. In a last desperate attempt to forestall defeat, the Ahnenerbe, the secret SS department in charge of occult investigations, had been charged with finding out how to operate it, but cut off by encircling American forces, they had failed.

Ortwin would not. He would regain control of the lance and learn how to use it to save Germany from itself, and re-start the thousand year Reich. Looking at the silver briefcase beneath his desk, he was partially there. He had the Lance, and he had scholars working on its powers. Now, all he had to do was make sure that no-one else found it. Turning off the light, he headed upstairs, trusting that his employee in Vienna could tie up that one final loose end.

Until next time...

TGI The Holy Lance

As Friday winds round once more, our thoughts naturally turn to the weekend. A pleasant 48 hours of time to ourselves where we cast off the shackles of work and indulge ourselves. Of course, that idyllic view does not match reality often. Those with children will know how demanding of our time they can be, when 5 days of absence must be made up in 2. However, once they are tucked up in bed (and hopefully decide to stay there), there is the chance for some "me time" and what better way to spend it that with the latest instalment of The Holy Lance?

                                                            Chapter 7

Vienna

The use of the term “Until now” sounded ominous, so Simon decided that an interjection would be good at this point.

“The 12 objects, what are they? Or can’t you tell me?”

Richard looked at the young man in front of him. He had reached the age when he went to more funerals than weddings or christenings, and most people were young to him. Of medium build, perhaps a little overweight, Simon did not cut a particularly impressive figure, with his shabby, though doubtless fashionable, attire. But Richard felt that, in this case, appearances might be deceptive. There was a sharp intelligence hidden in the blue eyes, peeking out from the sandy mop of hair. And there was the attitude. Given what he had just been told, some hesitation might be in order, but Simon had jumped straight in, grappling with Richard’s story rather than trying to deny it. Maybe Jonathan had made a wiser choice than he first thought.

“Of course I can tell you Simon, you are one of us now. As I said, they are ancient objects of unbelievable power, worshipped by people throughout the ages. The oldest is the sarcophagus of Cheops, which most people think was stolen from the Great Pyramid. It was not stolen, merely removed by those wise enough to fear its power.

“There is the Ark of the Covenant, which contrary to popular belief, is not in some American Army storage depot.” Richard allowed himself a chuckle, showing that he was not totally ignorant of popular culture.

“That’s in Ethiopia, isn’t it?” Simon had read a couple of books which told of the Ethiopians‘ belief that one of their princes had taken the Ark with him, back to their homeland, after the Queen of Sheba had left Solomon. To this day, devotees believe it is kept in a special temple, seen only by its guardian priest, in the highland town of Dollabella. Requests for proof are met by appeals to faith, and the stalemate continues, to the benefit of the tourist trade.

“Bit further South actually, Zimbabwe. One of you colleagues managed to find it, clever man, but no-one paid any attention. Thank God, who knows what the madman over there would do with it if he knew he had it.

“Your country plays host to Excalibur, the sword of King Arthur, while Japan holds the sacred mirror Yata no Kagami, part of the Imperial regalia.

“In Saudi Arabia, in plain sight of millions, the Black Stone of the Kaaba, while in Turkey, the Sultan’s Palace hosts the Staff of Moses.

In Italy, the Turin Shroud really is the burial shroud of Jesus, while the Golden Plates of Joseph Smith actually were given to him by angels. We also look after the lost Eagle of Varus”

“But that was recovered in 41 AD. The Romans got all their eagles back.”

Referring to the fateful battle of the Teutoburg Forest in 9AD, a force of three Roman legions had been wiped out in an ambush by the German chieftain Varus. He had taken the three legionary standards or eagles causing the emperor Augustus to bang his head against the wall in rage and shame. The first two had been recovered soon after, with the third only being found 32 years later. From that day onwards, neither the legions’ names or numbers were ever used again, so great was the shame of their defeat, and Rome’s attempted expansion across the Rhine came to an abrupt and final halt.

“You should not believe all you read in the history books, Simon, especially not those written by the Romans. My Germanic ancestors were not the painted savages they portray...

Our Spanish friends protect the Golden headdress of Moteczuma, while the Chinese have the Sword of Qin Shi, the first emperor. As you can see, these are impressive, mystical objects. Treasures which cannot be allowed to fall into the wrong hands.”

“That’s only eleven; you said there were twelve objects.” Once more Richard was struck by Simon’s acuity, even if, in the scheme of things, it was a small blessing.

“That is the problem.” Richard sighed. The burden of the Order’s failure to protect its treasures lay with him. “It is a sad time that you have joined the order, for we have failed. The twelfth object has been stolen. We have lost the spear of Longinus.”

Simon had some questions by this stage. He was as much of a fan of conspiracy theories as the next man, but this was all taking it a bit too far. “But most of these things are fakes, if they ever existed. All the tests prove beyond doubt that these treasures we still have are copies, they’re not the originals. If there were any originals to begin with.”

“What better way to keep them safe than to tell everyone they are worthless? You are right, every so often, these treasures are tested by science, and science always pronounces them fake. ‘They were made far too late for them to be authentic’ the reports always say. We all know this. But Simon, think. Would you bother to steal something you thought was a fake? The best safety for these objects is for people to think them fakes. We know something of manipulating the minds of man.” Another chuckle, less avuncular this time, more cynical.

Simon took his point, but was not satisfied. “OK, say that’s true, why are some of the treasures on display and others hidden or lost?”

“It depends on the culture they come from. Some of the pieces have always been on display, others have always been hidden. The Order seeks only to protect the objects, not to control access to them. If they have been on display, let them remain so. If the world thinks them lost, let them stay hidden. Think of the risks if, say, Excalibur suddenly appeared. The sword of King Arthur, with all its mystical power. What thief in the world could resist an object like that?”

“But isn’t it a risk, leaving some of these treasures in the public domain as it were?”

‘Yes, as the Spear shows, it was. But having been on display for so long, we decided that removing it would cause more trouble than it was worth. If the public could no longer see it, they would start to look for it and the last thing we wanted was some treasure hunter blundering his way across it.”

“What’s the story with the spear? I don’t know too much about it.”

“The Spear of Destiny, the Habsburg Lance or, to give it it’s proper name, the Spear of Longinus, is the spear which the centurion Longinus used to pierce the side of Christ on the cross. According to St John, the Jews did not want the bodies to remain on the cross overnight as the next day was the Sabbath. The Romans broke the legs of the two thieves crucified with Jesus, to hasten their deaths, but when they came to Christ, they thought he was already dead. To make sure he was, the centurion took his spear and pierced his side. Out of the wound poured blood and water. Longinus himself took this as a miracle, although modern science has other ideas, and became one of the first Christians, moving into exile in North Africa.

There the lance remained for the next several hundred years, allowing other “relics” to take its place, until the Moorish expansion drove the family into exile in Italy. Seeking a guarantee for their safety, they offered their most prize possession to the Lombard King who ruled the area around Milan. At that point, the Lance became part of the regalia of the kings and was used when Charlemagne was crowned in 774. From that point, it belonged to the Holy Roman Emperor and was kept in the royal treasury, first in Prague, then in Nuremburg when the capital moved there in 1424. It stayed there peacefully for 300 years, an object of devotion and a sign of power.

And then came Napoleon. He was obsessed with power, obsessed with the occult - why else did he spend so much time messing around in Egypt? He was looking for the wisdom of the ancients. Ha. He found nothing.”

Simon was about to interject that Napoleon had found the Rosetta stone, allowing the decryption of hieroglyphs, and started Egyptology as a serious field of study, so the expedition could not be called a total loss, but felt the old man was on a roll and let him continue.

“However, he returned to Europe and turned his attention elsewhere, there were plenty of relics he could still acquire. In those days, every cathedral had something important, bones from saints and the like, but only one had the spear. And so he marched on Nuremburg. The council panicked and sent the spear, and the rest of the imperial regalia to Austria, to the Habsburgs for safe keeping. Where they remained, safe from the Corsican megalomaniac. After the threat receded, the Nuremburgers asked for them back, but what could one city do against the might of the Austro-Hungarian Empire?”

“Didn’t Hitler take it after the Anschluss?” Simon was beginning to remember some of the legend now, the product of a television documentary which promised answers but left only questions.

“Some people think that the Spear caused Hitler. He certainly saw it when he was a painter in Vienna, and it does seem to have obsessed him from that point on. You see, the Spear is, forgive the pun, double edged. It gives great power, but sometimes at the cost of sanity. But you are right, when Germany and Austria were united in 1938, one of Hitler’s first acts was to have the Spear moved to Berlin.

“But the good councillors of Nuremburg were not the only ones who could foresee danger. The Order arranged for a replica of the Spear to be made, and the night before the Germans crossed the border, it was swapped and the original spent the war safely hidden in an alpine barn, sharing its home with the cows. The Americans and their General Patton were kind enough to return it after the war, but they did not realise they were only handing back a 7 year old fake. Ah the Americans, so literal sometimes.”

The old man leaned back and paused for breath. “You must forgive me. I am an old man and get tired easily. How long are you staying in Vienna?”

“The police have told me not to leave for a day or two, so I thought I’d do a bit of sight-seeing. There are some interesting collections in the museum I’d like to see. Collections of the non-legendary sort I mean”

“Excellent. If you will allow me to impose, I will send my driver to pick you up tomorrow at 10. We can tour the museum together; it would be a treat to get an expert’s guide to the Roman collection. And we can talk more. Is that agreeable?”

There was almost a hint of vulnerability there, an old man needing to escape his burdens, and Simon relented. “Of course. Ten o’clock would be fine.”

“Now, if you will excuse me, I must head home. By the way, please call me Richard. That is my name, Richard zu Stahlberg. I hope you can forgive the Schmidt nonsense, but I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course Richard, I’m sure in your position, I would do something similar.”

The bill was swiftly dispatched and the two headed to the lobby where their coats were waiting. Simon might have been embarrassed by the contrast between his coat and Richard’s loden, but something about the old man made such comparisons irrelevant. Or maybe it was the wine. Walking down the long hall way, the temperature dropped steadily until they entered the raw chill of the cloudless night.

“Allow me to drop you at your hotel, no need for a taxi.” The old man turned and waved at a large black Mercedes, parked just up the road on the other side of the quiet street. The only other vehicle was a courier motorbike, doubtless dropping off some urgent package, and the only pedestrians a tall man muffled in black against the cold. Vienna had obviously shut down for the evening.

The man started to move across the street, causing the Mercedes to slow before it picked them up. The man, well over six feet by the look of him, raised his hand as he crossed, as if in greeting.

But his hand stopped halfway. His hand which ended in a long, narrow metal object. A gun.

Phut. The supressed Glock 22 coughed, smoke billowing from the chamber, like breath, on this freezing evening.

Simon heard no cry, but felt Richard’s blood spattering his cheek as the old man wobbled then began to sink to the ground.

Turning now, the gunman looked directly at Simon, his gun still raised.

A sudden noise caused both to look to their right. Past the Mercedes which was braking quickly at the sight of its dead owner, the courier sped on his motorbike, driving right at the assassin. The killer tried to adjust his aim, to take out the new threat, but the closure speed was too fast.  The motorcyclist knocked the gun out of his hand almost like a mediaeval jouster. Slowing the bike in a skid, the rescuer revved the engine, aiming again for the murderer like a bull for a toreador. The man ran, back on the pavement and round a corner. The motorcyclist decided not give chase, turned again and roared off down the street.

Turning to Richard, his chauffeur now running to help, Simon supported him under his neck. The wound went straight through the middle of the old man’s forehead. He was dead.

Enjoy the weekend