A beautiful theory

Like all truly great insights, T H Huxley's dictum that in science "many a beautiful theory is killed by an ugly fact" has application beyond the narrow bounds to which it was originally applied. This weekend saw the death of two favourite beautiful theories, both killed in a particularly ugly manner. The England cricket team's abject surrender of the one-day series against Australia gave lie to the euphoria which followed their Ashes victory and stopped in its tracks the supposedly inevitable progress from that triumph to a World Cup victory in February. However, while cricket followers can at least argue that one day matches are a modern stain on an ancient and lovely game, Andy Murray's supporters have a slightly harder task. Yes, he is unfortunate to be playing at the same time as Federer and Nadal, but Djokovic seems an equally impossible task. Of course, form is temporary, but on Sunday's display, the gulf in class between the two finalists must be insurmountable. True, some players have lost more Grand Slam finals before triumphing, but does anyone seriously think that Murray is Agassi quality? The best we can hope for, I fear, is an Ivanisevic-like triumph as the dusty old warhorse is wheeled out to record a fluky and improbable triumph before heading into the setting sun. However, enough of this intrusion of ugly facts into our more poetic imaginings. Let us return to the novel, where good guys always win (or do they???)

Chapter 24

Thuringia

Dr Friedrich Genscher looked out of the window of the glossy black Sikorsky S-76C++ helicopter in a mixture of awe and trepidation. Awe, that the unwieldy beast was capable of flying so smoothly and with such comfort over the snowy forest below. Trepidation because, like most people, he only thought about helicopters when they crashed or were engaged in some military skirmish.

Ortwin caught his eye. ‘Comfortable, Dr Genscher?” he asked, sitting back in his cream leather seat, whiskey in hand.

“Very much so, Herr Schwartz”, the academic mumbled.

“First time?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. You are presumably used to these contraptions, Herr Schwartz?”

“Yes, I can remember the first one I saw. My father bought it for the ranch in Argentina. It was supposed to revolutionise cattle farming. Probably would have done, if the damn thing hadn’t blown up the day after we got it.” Ortwin smiled as the academic grew paler. “Of course, things have come a long way since then. They’re much safer now.”

Genscher turned to the window once more and tried to dispel the image of twisted metal and charred bodies from his mind. The doctor was used to being in control, whether of his studies, his students, or of life in general, and that was the one thing that flying most clearly took from you.

Klaus, sitting across the aisle, caught his boss’s eye. They were both pleased at the doctor’s discomfort, neither finding him much other than pompous. Still, he had skills, and they were useful to the project, so his palpable displeasure was an added bonus.

Attempting to make small talk to relieve his anxiety, Genscher asked. “So the book is on the helicopter? It might be useful if I could see it.”

“I’m afraid the book is not with us, Doctor, but with some friends. I thought it best to keep them apart until it was really necessary. We don’t want someone else to reap the reward of all our hard work now, do we?”

“Quite so, quite so. Herr Schwartz. Very sensible.” Genscher, put in his place, turned to the window once more.

The helicopter started to descend, accompanied by a groaning sound as the wheels were released from the fuselage. Genscher gave a start at the noise, causing more unspoken mirth amongst his travelling companions. Ortwin wondered if one who was so scared of a helicopter would have the stomach for what was to come, but was confident that Max would ensure that the academic did his duty, come what may.

While the ODE may not have paid much attention to the paths leading to the Mittelwerk, one of their first tasks had been to clear and pave an area for use as a helipad. Sceptical observers, had there been any, might have pointed out that this was an odd priority for a museum, but they would have forgotten that it was a museum built by a billionaire. A 300 metre square area had been cleared of trees, and it was into this that Ortwin’s helicopter nestled, sinking below the sightline of any curious observers.

Ortwin and Klaus unbuckled their belts as soon as they felt the tarmac beneath them, Genscher, waiting until the rotors had stopped, just to be absolutely certain. Reaching into the overhead locker, Klaus grabbed the metallic briefcase and fell in behind Ortwin as they prepared for the doors to be opened and the steps lowered. Genscher joined them, relieved to be back on the ground, but with growing apprehension as to what might follow.

Max was waiting for them, and extended his arm in salute. Dressed all in black, it was hard not to see him as an SS officer, as he would be, when Ortwin’s plan came to fruition. Turning smartly, he led them across the tarmaced square towards the treeline. The pathway had been swept clear of snow and it was a clear day, just as well since all except Max were wearing business attire. 50 metres into the forest, a squat concrete structure lay waiting, its steel door open. Entering its fluorescent lit interior, the party proceeded down a flight of steel stairs, into a well illuminated corridor. The smooth rock walls were painted a uniform shade of white, reminding Genscher of some sort of sanitorium. Stopping at the third door on the left, Max bade them enter what had been transformed into the reception room.

The fluorescent lights had been replaced by standard lamps, giving much needed relief to the eyes. A simple rug covered the floor, while leather armchairs were dotted around the centre of the room. At the back, a solid oak board table was surrounded by chairs, and, to one side, a picture of Adolf Hitler gave his imprimatur to the events which would take place there.

“Very cosy” Ortwin remarked.

“Thanks you sir. I’ve done as you asked and left the case on the table. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll arrange for some refreshments.”

Ortwin nodded, and shrugged off his coat, the temperature in the bunker being a comfortable 65 degrees. The others did likewise, and Klaus moved to the table, depositing his case next to its sister. For the first time in years, the lance and the book were side by side. Ortwin felt a swell of pride. He had done it. He had done what his father had, but he would succeed where the elder Kammler had failed. How could he not? He had time, he had money and he had another 60 years of technological advances to bring to bear on the project.

Max returned, followed by a soldier bearing a pot of coffee and some mugs. Ortwin found the contrast between the power he was about to unleash, and the chipped metal mugs amusing, but soon, he would have no interest in such things, he would have more important matters at hand. Still, it was important to show control. Much as he wanted to snatch up the lance and utter the incantation, he forced himself to take a coffee and indulge in some banter with Klaus and Max, Dr Genscher standing apart to one side, obviously desperate like himself to get started.

Eventually, when he could wait no longer, Ortwin turned to Genscher and said. “OK, Doctor, I think we should proceed. Your present is in the left hand case.”

Nodding, Genscher moved over to the table and put his own, battered brown case on top of it. Opening it, he withdrew a pair of white gloves, tweezers, two triangular pieces of foam and a digital device looking like an alarm clock.

Placing the two foam triangle together, he formed a book rest, but before opening the case, he pressed a button on top of his electronic device and waited for it to give him a reading. “If you need to know the time, Doctor Genscher, I have a watch” Ortwin interjected, uncertain about the reason for the delay.

Genscher turned and gave him a dry smile. “Herr Schwartz, I too have a watch, but this gadget is much more than that. I need to see what it says before I can proceed. Please, I am the expert in these matters.”

Ortwin was about to interject that expert or not, Genscher was being extremely well paid, when the object emitted a loud beep. Lifting up his spectacles, the doctor peered at the read-out, and pronounced himself satisfied. Reaching for his gloves, he began to pull them on.

“What was all that about?” Ortwin demanded.

“Her Schwartz, you may be a very good financier, but you would make a very poor paleographer. I, on the other hand, am an expert in ancient manuscripts, with the publications and academic standing to show for it. You do not read an ancient book as if it were some copy of The Economist. You must realise that the current manuscript is unique, we have a duty to treat it properly, so that we may preserve it for all mankind.” Genscher was on a roll now, enjoying the chance to show off his knoweldge.

“Ancient manuscripts, such as this one, were not written on paper, they were generally written on parchment, or animal skin to you. Once the animal was skinned, the hide was treated with lime, and all the hair removed. The skin was then stretched and dried. It is a wonderful surface to write on, particularly the finer examples, which we call vellum, but it often does not last very well. The hide gets dry and can crack. I presume, Herr Schwartz, that you do not wish this to happen before we read the document?”

Ortwin nodded.

“Very good. The object you referred to is a combined thermometer and hygrometer. Our book, or folio as we experts would refer to it, is old, and we do not know what condition it is in. Thus, I had to check the environment in this bunker before I could safely expose the document to the air. If it is too dry, there is a risk the pages could crack, equally, if it is too moist, the manuscript will be prone to mold. Too hot and it will dry out, too cold, and it will become brittle. However, you are in luck. The humidity is 57%, and the temperature 18 degrees. These readings are exactly in line with UNESCO guidelines. We may open the case.”

Ortwin resented the doctor showing off, but then again, how often was it that a librarian had an audience? Let the man enjoy his moment in the sun, Max would know what to do later.

Gloves on, Dr Genscher, carefully laid the left hand case on its flat side and opened the locks.Opening it, he saw the old book, carefully sealed in a ziplock plastic bag, snuggly nestling in a foam surround.

‘Good, the object has been transported as I instructed.” Carefully lifting the plastic bag from the case, he slowly opened it and extracted the book. Placing it delicately on the book-rest, he reached for the tweezers.

“We think it is on around page 200.” Klaus said, aware that Ortwin wanted the process to hurry up.

Perring over his spectacles, like a disdainful owl, Genscher snorted. “Dear boy, this is not some sort of paperback to be leafed through. This is an artwork and needs to be treated carefully. Besides, mediaeval books do not have page numbers. Now please all be quiet so I can concentrate. The next bit is always the most delicate.”

Turning his back on the audience, Genscher slowly opened the book, revealing a page with two columns of hand-written script. A large, ornate letter A was at the top of the left side, with what seemed to be flowers growing from it, and a deer poking out between the legs of the letter. Colourful patterns formed a border all the way round the text.

“Wow, it’s beautiful” Klaus said.

“What else do you expect for 2 million Euro? Jackie Collins? Harry Potter?” Genschr snorted again. “You must remember that these manuscripts were produced in libraries which, in the old days, were almost exclusively in monasteries.” Genscher permitted himself a smile. “In the old times, I myself would have been a monk” Although given his sallow complexion, greasy hair, and generally unpleasant demeanour, it was hard to believe that he would have noticed much difference in his lifestyle.

“The scribes saw their manuscripts as a way to celebrate the glory of God, so they decorated them with things from His creation. You’ll see more as we move on.” Using the tweezers, he took hold of the top corner of the page, and painstakingly turned it over. The process was repeated for the next thirty minutes, as Genscher worked his way through the pages. Those who consider paint-drying dangerously exciting should try watching a man turn the leaves of a book and Ortwin was getting increasingly angry, every fibre screaming that he should just have Max shoot the pompous librarian and take over himself. However, he restrained himself with the thought that he would have his subordinate draw out the man’s execution to the same length of time.

Finally, after they had all lost count of how many pages they had seen, Genscher turned over a leaf to reveal a full page drawing of the Crucifixion. The image was unmistakable. The sky was  red, and a figure naked except for a loincloth was hanging from a cross, head bent to one side, a crown of thorns on top. Nails stuck out of his hands and ankles, while below his a crowd gathered. The perspective, as so often in old documents, was wrong, but there was no taking away from the beauty of the image. Out of the man’s side, in the midst of a gush of red and white, stuck the unmistakable handle of a spear, swathed in white light.

Domino Theory

Watching the events in Egypt (and the foreign correspondents flaunting their machismo like middle managers running the bulls in Pamplona), your author's mind was whisked back to Indochina (as it then was) in the 1950's. After the admittedly pretty poor display by the French Great Army, the Americans decided they had to support the South Vietnamese to establish a bulwark against communism on the theory that if one nation fell, it's neighbours were sure to follow. With Algeria, if not entirely converted to democracy, at least showing signs of being on the way, commentators (and not a few dictators) are wondering whether the Athenians' great idea will prove as contagious as Marx' altogether less successful vision. What certainly is contagious, although surprisingly attended by fewer journalists, is the spread of the current blog which has attracted readership from many, and unexpected parts of the globe. Long may it continue, so please spread the word to anyone you know who is able to read (or even those who can't, the stats are not judgemental...). As a reward, here comes the latest chapter.

Chapter 23

Berlin

Simon and Elena met for lunch in the Quadriga Lounge of the hotel. Simon was beginning to get slightly stir-crazy, every minute he spent there reminding him of the ordeal of the previous evening. However, Waldheim had made it perfectly clear that leaving would not be tolerated, so he had spent the rest of the morning idly channel surfing the standard offerings of any international hotel. After seeing the headline news on CNN for the fourth time, he decided to at least explore his surroundings slightly, and plucked up the courage to invite Elena to join him.

The restaurant was named for the chariot which stood atop the nearby Brandenburg gate, the last remaining of the old entrances to the city. Like Berlin itself, the statue had a dubious history, having been stolen by Napoleon, merely 13 years after it had been made. Returned after the Emperor’s defeat, it had become a symbol of Prussian militarism, the olive wreath which originally crowned it being replaced by an Iron Cross. As such, it had made a convenient target for the Russians as they attacked Berlin at the end of the war. Presumably under pressure from their Soviet masters, the East German government had failed to replace it after the war, leaving that task till after reunification.

There was little sign of militarism or violence in the restaurant, although the prices could certainly rouse one to anger, as its neutral tones looked out over the snowy courtyard. Bright and airy, there was little to distract the attention of the businessmen and ladies who lunched who made up the clientele.

Simon usually felt out of place in such institutions, although the events of the past few weeks were making him more accustomed to them. Fortunately, he knew he was not the focus of attention today as the room noticeably quietened as Elena showed her bruised face at the door and proceeded to the table Simon had procured.

After a gap of several seconds, the other guests leaned in over their tables, the level of noise rising once more. Simon got up and seated Elena, aware that the others were watching him, and returned to his own place.

“They’re watching to see if I attack you again.” He said in an attempt to break the ice.

“What?”

“All these people, they’re busily talking away, assuming that I’m some sort of wife-beater and you’re my battered bride.”

“In your dreams.” Elena retorted, her hand reaching for her bruised cheek.

“Although...let’s give them something else to talk about.”

Simon was puzzled, until she started laughing and leaned over the table to plant a large kiss on his cheek, accompanied by a large cry of “Darling!!”

Elena was right, the assumptions of most of the other customers, all of whom had been discretely observing them were now thoroughly scrambled, and they returned to their conversations, trying to concoct new theories which would take account of the new evidence.

Smiling, she picked up her menu and read it carefully, announcing that her appetite had fully returned. She suggested that they both order currywurst, something of a Berlin speciality. Like most Britons, Simon’s ears tended to prick up at the mention of curry, and he agreed with alacrity. Sadly, doctors ordered prohibited any alcohol so both contented themselves with Cokes.

Some foods are meant to be cheap, and any attempt to use more expensive ingredients tends to diminish the charm of the original. What had started out in the post war rationing period as a pork hot dog covered in a mixture of curry sauce and curry powder, should have stayed that way, the hotel’s attempt to improve the ingredients merely serving to lessen the flavour. It was, however, filing, and neither Simon or Elena felt the need for pudding after reaching the end of their sausages.

“Waldheim was right, you know” Elena said, wiping the last of the gloopy sauce from the corner of her mouth. She was obviously not a fan of spicy food, and ordered a second Coke to cool down.

“Hmm?”

“He was right, we need to figure out what is going on here.” All signs of the playful Elena, tweaking the noses of the Berlin bourgeoisie had gone, the police officer taking over.

“What’s going on is we’ve narrowly escaped from a complete psychopath, in case you’ve forgotten what happened last night.”

Elena’s hand once more moved unconsciously to her bruised cheek, and she started to redden, not from embarrassment.

“I haven’t forgotten at all.” she snapped. “In case you need to be reminded, I was the one being molested by that animal while you just sat there.”

She had a point, but Simon was not in the mood to let it rest. “I was trying to come up with a plan”

“You were coming up with a plan? How much more were you going to allow him to do to me before this plan started then?”

Simon tried to think of a retort, but failed, his only reply a sheepish expression. “You’re right, I’m sorry. It must have been awful. I suppose I feel bad, not being able to do anything.”

Surprisingly, Elena reached across the table and took his hand. “I’m sorry too, I shouldn’t have snapped like that. I’m still a bit shaken, I guess. I’m not used to being in that position.”

Simon was about to make a slightly crude joke about positions before thinking the better of it, so he squeezed her hand instead. Smiling, he said “I know, I know, it will take time to get over. I’m sure there are people you can talk to if you need to. Waldheim’s probably got a whole fleet of them waiting.”

“Sadly, Simon, I don’t think the Germans are as keen on that, how do you say it ‘touchy-feely’ stuff as you Brits. But you’re right, I’m sure it will be alright given time. That was what my father would say anyway.”

“You’re right, I can’t really imagine Waldheim on a psychiatrist’s couch.” Simon said, attempting to lighten the atmosphere. “Walrus are not noted for their capacity for self-reflection.”

Elena smiled, despite herself.

“But you are right, we do need to try to work out what’s going on, before someone tries to kill us again.”

“The way I see it, there are three threads here.” Elena leaned forward, fully engaged now, the moment of weakness forgotten.

“One strand concerns the lance. We know that it has been stolen, and we know that the book from Greece has something to do with it. The other strand concerns these German soldiers who seem to want to kill us. They seem more interested in you, and I’m just an unfortunate passerby, as it were. There’s also the matter of the sniper who seems to enjoy hunting the soldiers”

“I think the book is the most important thing. From what Mme Weiss told us in Paris, the book tells you how to unlock the powers of the lance. Without it, it’s just a lump of old metal.”

“That’s a strange way for an archaeologist to describe a historic artifact.” Elena smiled playfully.

“I’m a historian, not an archaeologist. They spend their time outside, digging up holes in the rain, hoping desperately to find bits of some old chamber pot. I stay nice and warm in my library and think great thoughts. Archeologists are the binmen of ancient studies; useful enough, but you wouldn’t want your daughter to marry one.”

Elena found that dose of academic prejudice funny, and allowed herself a laugh.

“The point I’m trying to make is, the spear is just a spear unless you find some way to harness its power. There are thousands of ancient spears in museums. It is the book, and what it contains that makes this one special.”

“How do we even know that the spear has powers anyway, what if this is all just a wild goose chase?”

“I don’t know. Certainly, throughout history, the lance has been venerated, and not just in the way that all these old relics were venerated, you know saints’ fingertips and the like. There’s always been a tradition that the spear had some sort of power. And it’s not just because it was Jesus. There are other relics from him, like the Turin Shroud, but none of them has ever been thought to possess mystical powers.

“When I had dinner with your father, he said something interesting. We were talking about the beginnings of the Order, and he said that scientists had used their new techniques and confirmed that the objects the Order guards did have special powers. This was about 140 years ago, so science had advanced a lot, but was obviously nowhere near as knowledgeable as it is today. So, if these scientists could detect these powers using their techniques, they must be pretty obvious.”

“Do you think they recorded their results?” Elena was interested, losing herself in Simon’s disquisition.

“I’m sure they would have. Scientists always record everything. It’s their way to make sure no-one can try to steal their discoveries. There’s none more jealous than a scientist with a discovery to protect.”

“So what about the book then? Why’s that so important?”

“Like I said, it seems to contain some ancient ritual which unlocks the power that the Lance holds. Without it, you can obviously tell that the power is there, we know that from the Victorian scientists, but you can’t use it.

Gregory of Nyssa was a mystic, he was interested in illumination and the infinite. Not the sort of things we think of as particularly Christian. We know he lived in Turkey, but that he travelled a lot around the Mediterranean. He was a Bishop, and it is quite possible he met Longinus’ family on his travels. I presume they told him about the spear. Given his other interests, it must have fascinated him. I bet he persuaded them to tell him about it and how to use it.”

“Why didn’t he just take it himself?”

“Although he was a bit weird, he seems to have been a genuinely holy man, so I don’t think he would have wanted to, even if he could have. However, I’m sure he recorded what they told him, that’s why the book is so important.”

“And what about the soldiers? Why are they so keen to kill you?”

“As far as I can tell, they’re not just trying to kill me.”

Elena blushed slightly.

“No, I don’t mean you, I think they’re only interested in you because of me. I think they’re really interested in the Order. From what you’ve said, the same person shot the guards in the museum, Dr Fleicher and your father, and would have killed me if that courier had not intervened. We are all members of the Order. Your father made it pretty clear that the Order would get the lance back, so I imagine these soldiers have got the lance and are trying to eliminate the competition. I think the guy who keeps shooting them is part of another group, also trying to get the lance. I think we’ve fallen into some sort of mob war here.”

Simon turned over the previous day’s events in his mind and remembered something odd.

“Our friend from last night mentioned that he had met me before, so presumably he was the one who attacked me at College. But I wasn’t a member of the Order then, so why would they want to kill me? I can understand after I met your father, but not before. I’d only just got Jonathan’s letter.”

“Obviously they knew you were about to join the Order and wanted you out of the way.”

Simon’s mind was racing. She had a point, no matter how much he might dislike it, it was hard to fault her logic. Unfortunately, there was only one conclusion to draw.

“There’s only one way they could have known. There must be a traitor in the Order.”

And did those feet...

Always a fan of Jerusalem, the song that is, not the city, your author was reminded of the the dark, satanic mills by the release of the UK's GDP figures yesterday. While they may not exist any longer, their modern equivalents (doubtless more environmentally friendly), do not seem to be functioning at full steam,despite the best efforts of the politicians to pretend otherwise. One swallow does not summer make as the old adage goes, but on the other hand, each journey begins with a single step. What is certain is that the ante has been raised over the Coalition's VAT rise and its impact on the economy. With such uncertainty, it is a pleasure to return to our fictional universe where if there is any unpleasantness to be suffered, at it least it is by mere characters, rather than people.

Chapter 22

The Thuringian Forest

The men had rested well in the surprisingly comfortable quarters in the mountain. Further down the hall, a fully equipped kitchen was stocked with meals-ready-to-eat, the staple diet of soldiers and astronauts. If not exactly gourmet cuisine, it was at least nourishing and had provided the men with the fuel they would need to complete their next task. They had one more mission to complete before Ortwin arrived, and 24 hours to do so.

After they had breakfasted, Ortwin called the men together and explained their next task. They were divided into three teams which departed the facility at 30 minute intervals so as not to draw any unwanted attention. Once they had completed their mission, they were to return to the mine, one member of each team being given the code for the massive steel door.

The first team had possibly the easiest task, their destination being the pretty town of Nordhausen merely 3 kilometres down the hill. An ancient market town, it dated back to the 900’s, although the best efforts of the RAF in 1945 had pretty much levelled the mediaeval buildings. Given that the town’s two main products were tobacco and alcohol, some felt there was a degree of karma at work.

After a period of benign neglect when the town had been part of East Germany, reunification had brought the reconstruction of the mediaeval buildings, if not the main industries. It was to this small, rural, slightly plastic and disneyfied version of the past that three professional killers drove on a cold January morning.

Like so much of small-town Germany, Nordhausen was suffering from the global economic depression. In truth, the town had been suffering since re-unification. The guaranteed state support that had kept the outdated and inefficient manufacturing industries had been withdrawn, and market forces had unleashed their full Darwinian power. Like most of the East, unemployment had soared as businesses had failed and although the Federal government had tried its best to help out, over 20% of the population received some sort of income support.

In this environment, there were plenty of people who were willing to do almost anything for some extra cash. Sadly, for one, their greed would literally be the death of them.

The men spent 30 minutes wandering the town, before selecting their target. They had been walking past a newsagent. Inside, they saw a man hand a card to the agent, give her some coins, and leave, hands deep in pockets, slouching into the distance. Minutes later, the newsagent pinned the card to the noticeboard in her shop window. It was offering freelance gardening services at 10euros per hour. It ended with a name, Peter Lautner, and a mobile phone number.

Typical of an Ossie, one of them thought. Who in their right mind would hire a gardener when the snow lay feet deep on the ground? However, they had been trained no to overlook an opportunity when one presented itself. The leader of the group called the number and was pleased when the man’s initial suspicion turned to gratitude when he explained that he had found the card in the window and was in urgent need of some assistance with gardening.

Peter was only too happy to oblige, particularly when he learned that the gardening in question was in a heated greenhouse, and he would be protected from the elements. They arranged to meet him 30 minutes later in the main square of the town. He had no family whom he had to worry about.

In due course, they spotted Lautner, shuffling into the square carrying a large green canvas holdall. Out of the bag poked a pair of garden shears which drew a smile from his new employers. There would, of course, be no need for him to use them, but his enthusiasm seemed almost sweet.

One of the men got out of the jeep and approached Lautner who was looking around anxiously, hoping fervently that the call had not been a hoax. Greeting him, he led the gardener to the jeep. If Lautner was surprised to be driven to his job in a blacked out car with three other men, he showed no sign of it. Presumably the lure of some extra euros had dulled his critical faculties, although from his appearance, they were hardly the sharpest to start with.

He had never been in such a luxurious vehicle, and allowed himself to look around, taking in the leather and the electronics which littered the dashboard, all of which were a far cry from his father’s Trabant. All of which also served to distract him from his fellow passenger in the back seat.

Which was unfortunate, because had he payed more attention, he might have seen a hand slip from a pocket, a hand holding a handkerchief. As it was, the first he knew of it as he looked out of the window, was a slight sweet smell which suddenly appeared. He was turning around when a strong hand clamped a handkerchief over his mouth, and the world went black.

About the same time as Peter was losing consciousness, another black jeep was pulling into the university town of Gottingen, where the Brothers Grimm had taught. Untouched during the war in a gentleman’s agreement which also sapred Oxford and Cambridge, the highly pedestrianised town retained much of its eighteenth century character. This made the team’s task slightly more difficulty, as there was little chance of them bundling some poor unfortunate into a car.

However, about a mile to the West of the city centre lay the large station, built in the monolithic style of the nineteenth century. As one of the stops on the main North South line, the station was a bustling place, and the men knew that such places always attract beggars.

The men got out of the car and walked across the broad forecourt towards the sandstone station. As they had thought, there were several unfortunates dotted here and there, trying to unlock the wallets of the stony-faced commuters. While some countries tolerate begging, Germany was not one of them, and none of the men looked like they had met with much success.

One of the beggars had a crudely made sign in front of him, announcing that he was a war veteran. While none of the men were enthusiastic about kidnapping another soldier, it would be easier for them to form some degree of trust with him, and besides, he would, in some way, be serving Germany once more.

Approaching him, they struck up a conversation and discovered that he had served in Afghanistan. He failed to fit back into society after his discharge, and had drifted through a succession of lowly paid jobs. It was not right, all those foreigners had stolen the jobs from good, honest Germans who had proven their dedication to the country.

In other circumstances, the men would have been impressed, but they had a mission, and could not afford to bring too much attention to themselves. As old comrades, they suggested the man might like to join them for lunch, re-live some of the good old days in ‘stan. He accepted with alacrity, the thought of a full stomach overcoming any worries he might have had. He got up and tucked his sign under his arm, joining them in the walk to the car.

Parked in a far corner of the carpark, there were no passersby to observe as one of the men withdrew a metal box with prongs protruding from it as they reached the jeep. Applying it to their guest’s back, one jolt was all it took to crumple his legs. A quick blow to the back of his neck was enough to take care of the rest of him. Helped by a colleague, they dumped the man into the jeep’s boot and bound his hands and feet. A minute later, the jeep sped out of the carpark.

Max had headed in the other direction and was currently hunting his prey through the streets of Halle, the birthplace of Handel and traditional centre of Germany’s salt industry. The chemical plants which had long dominated the town had closed down, leaving Halle as another post-industrial town looking for a role. Unemployment was high, a fact Max was banking on.

He would have much preferred that his target be Jewish or Turkish, or any of the other races that preyed on the German people, but knew that he could not be choosy. He could hardly ask his potential victims for their racial origin, that would attract far too much attention. He would take who he could find.

He spotted a suitable candidate sitting on a park bench. Straggy grey hair fell down over his weather-beaten face, his nose red and bulbous. He was wearing a green army surplus jacket and his shoes were millimetres away from complete collapse. He cradled a beer can in a brown paper bag, tacking occasional slugs from it.

Max reached into his backpack and withdrew a bottle. Holding it in front of him, he approached the man who eyed him suspiciously. Offering the drunk the bottle, Max was struck by his initial suspicion. However, as elsewhere, desperation was the better part of valour, and the drunk snatched the bottle from him.

Greedily gulping down the beer, he soon emptied the bottle. Remembering his manners, he thanked Max.

“Are you a missionary?” he asked.

Max chuckled. “Do you know many missionaries who go around handing out beer?”

The man smiled. “Fair enough. Who are you then?”

“A friend who likes to take care of those in need.  Did you like the beer?”

“Lovely it was, a pilsner, my favourite.” Every German had his own preferred variety of beer, a matter debated back and forth across pubs the length and breadth of the land.

“I have more in car, if you want some.”

The offer was received with the alacrity of a child taking an ice cream. The man stood up and waited for Max to lead him to the car.

Max smiled at his new friend’s eagerness, but was also pleased. The car was only a couple of hundred metres away, but there was no telling how quickly the man could move. He was under time pressure before the drugs in the beer took effect. Fortunately, the man was steadier than he looked, and they made rapid progress to the jeep.

Max unlocked the car and opened the door for his new friend. He offered the man a seat, and went to the boot to get another beer. There was no knowing how long the drugs would take to have an effect, so he decided to give him another dose. There was no need, however, as, by the time he returned, the drunk had fallen into a deep, chemically-assisted sleep.

He would stay unconscious for long enough for the men to return to the Mittelwerk, so they drove off, keen to return to their new home, and confirm the progress of the other teams.