Name Days

Your author was reminded this morning that today is his Name Day. To be more accurate, he learned that it is the Name Day of someone whose name is cognate with his own, thus sparking off a small and dim light in the recesses of his mind. A Name Day, for those unfamiliar with the custom, is an Orthodox celebration based on the feast of the saint who shares one's Christian name. It is traditional to send good wishes and small presents on the occasion, although your author is so removed from the centres of such customs that these have been noticeably lacking so far, unless one counts the result from the Sydney Cricket Ground. As with much of Orthodoxy, a legacy your author has long thought of the ancient pagan religions once current in that part of the world, to receive, one must also give. The usual gift is a cake offered to one's family/schoolmates/colleagues as appropriate, but the distributed nature of the internet renders this complex as any food offering would doubtless be squashed and rotting by the time it arrived, on the off chance it made it through customs. Thus, I offer the latest instalment of the current work as my Name Day present; perhaps not as exciting as a cake, but doubtless better for your health.

Chapter 14

Athens, January

A missed connection resulted in another night in an airport hotel, where Elena had at least consented to have dinner with him. While the food was several times better than that served in a comparable British establishment, the conversation was still slightly frosty. There was an slight thaw, but, overall, it was not yet time to put away the overcoat and don flip-flops. There was, however, a hint of an opening, Simon thought as he readied for bed, reminding himself that the brain was the body’s biggest organ.

A traumatic flight on Olympic airlines, the aircrew seeming to act as a microcosm of the industrial problems of the whole nation, deposited them at the airport, built, perhaps ironically, by the Germans for the Olympics of 2000. The event had been a great success, but added a layer of debt which the already creaking edifice of public finances could not support. Not that anyone was willing to admit this, national pride being paramount. The more rational approach was to protest budget cuts and strike at every opportunity.

The latest such episode explained the 2 hour wait for a taxi, the circuitous route into town, and the burned out street furniture which littered the streets. Their hotel, the Grande Bretagne, was central, but came with the disadvantage that it was on the main square, which seemed to serve as the focal point for public protest. A large, neo-classical stone edifice, it had long been the place to stay, counting Winston Churchill as an honoured and frequent guest in his dotage. Managing to arrive in a gap between protests, they left their bags and hunkered down for the evening. The sounds of chanting outside were at odds with the sedate atmosphere of the hotel, though a couple of boarded up windows suggested that they could not escape the modern world totally. Simon thought of Marie Antoinette, looking out of Versailles as the mob marched out from Paris, and shivered.

The next morning, after a quick breakfast, they hurried down Panepistimeiou Avenue, past more burnt out buildings and banks, the detritus of previous protests still littering the street. Simon had been here many times before, what Ancient Historian could not, but there was something different this time. The strikes had left refuse uncollected for weeks, the bags piling up haphazardly. Although it was cold, nature could not be held back and the smell was turning from merely noticeable to downright unpleasant. Combined with the heavy grey sky, threatening but not quite achieving rain, the impression was distinctly post-apocalyptic, a society on the verge of collapse.

On the right, in complete contrast to its dowdy modern surroundings, the classical buildings of Athens University stood back from the street. Seemingly a reminder of earlier, better times, their white marble facing had a purity missing from their modern neighbours. Strolling up the steps, Simon opened the door and, confronted by a dozing security guard, asked him where he could find the office of Dr Zographos. Disgruntled by the disturbance, he guard muttered something and pointed to his left down a long marble corridor.

“It’s very quiet. Where are all the students?” she asked as they searched for Dr Zographos’ office.

“Oh, they don’t teach here, you don’t want students making the place untidy. The campus is out of town. Costa has an office here because he is a dean, and because he knew the right people to bribe.”

A wood and glass door was marked with Dr K Zographos, Dean. Simon knocked and was greeted by a gruff “Ela”. Entering, he was confronted by a room which made his own look tidy, papers on every surface, books heaped on shelves and the floor, and a selection of wine and ouzo bottles scattered on the remaining flat surfaces. Facing them was a large human bottom, head bent to the floor, hands rummaging through a pile of papers.

“Ti thelete?”

“Kicking your arse would be a good start, but a hello will suffice”

The head surfaced, turned and broke into a broad smile. “Simon, you came” The doctor was short, dark hair streaked with grey, brown eyes hidden behind thick spectacles. His open mouth revealed the sort of teeth which can only be acquired by years of heavy smoking. Sure enough, a cigarette was in one hand, so he used the other to envelop Simon in a bear hug, crushing a couple of ribs.

Spotting Elena standing unsure on the threshold, Costa deposited the cigarette in a nearby ashtray, smoothed down his hair, and strode forward. Taking her hand, he bent down and kissed it, taking long enough over the procedure to make her uncomfortable. She subtly reclaimed her hand and murmured something polite.

The Professor was off again, throwing papers off an antique sofa and looking around flustered.

Beckoning them to sit, he carried on his search until he found his quarry, a bottle of three star Metaxa Brandy. Scooping up three glasses of dubious cleanliness, he filled them and handed them round.

“It is so good to see you my friend. You should have told me you were coming, and with such a pretty lady” a lascivious glance in Elena’s direction. “I would have tidied the place up. Anyway, I remember your favourite drink, no?”

“I did tell you I was coming, when I phoned you yesterday, you old pirate. And you know what I think about Metaxa, the last time I had it, I passed out for two days.”

“I didn’t think your phone-call was serious. And the Metaxa, well you didn’t really miss anything.”

“Have you got the letter?”

“Yes, yes, I have it. On the desk.” Zographos indicated the government issue ply-wood and steel contraption in the corner, although given the depth of the papers on it, it could take hours to find any particular letter.

“Why the rush? Why not relax a bit, you must be tired. Let me finish up, the we go for some ouzo, some mezedes and some glendi, some fun.” Another look at Elena which convinced her that the academic thought himself some sort of lothario.

“We’re in a bit of a hurry, old friend. We need to get there as soon as possible. If you could just give me the letter, we’ll be on our way. We’ll be back in a day or so. And then we can have as much glendi as you can handle.”

Placated, Zographos found the letter surprisingly quickly and bade them farewell, Elena receiving a hug from a pair of wandering hands.

“What do his students think of him?” she said as they walked back down the corridor.

‘He doesn’t have any.”

“What? He teaches in a University.”

“ No he works in a University, there’s a difference. You see Greece was ruled by a rather nasty junta in the sixties and seventies. The students, as students do, took umbrage to this and some of them barricaded themselves in the Polytechnic, just down the road. There was a siege and the army was sent in, and many of the students were killed. It was the spark that set off the uprising that overthrew the junta and restored democracy.

“Ever since then, the students have known that they have the power to overthrow the government, and everyone retains this misty-eyed gratitude for their sacrifice, so there’s a compromise. Pretty much anyone can go to university, but they don’t expect to be taught anything. So no-one teaches them. Costa sits in his office and thinks great thoughts most of the time. He might give the odd lecture, but no-one takes it very seriously.”

They headed back to the hotel and picked up the hire car Simon had arranged. With a change of clothes in the back, and Costa’s letter in glove-box, they set off for their destination.

Five hours later, they turned off the National Road, Greece’s motorway, and headed across the plains of Thessaly. Simon had been happy to let Elena drive, her police training enabling her to cope with the traffic, and now the goats they occasionally found in front of them. While the modern drabness had of central Athens had been replaced with a more buccolic, if more mediaeval panorama of huts, shepherds and olive groves, the next turn took them back to pre-historic times.

The flatness of the plain was giving way to the slopes of the Pindos mountains, when they came across the towering sandstone columns of Meteora. Standing alone in the plain, like supports for a building someone had forgotten to build, the pillars soared skywards, seeming to touch the clouds on this cool grey day. Created over the past 60 million years as rain and wind had cut their way through the original plateau, leaving just the pillars intact, they had fascinated men for centuries. Ironic then that the Ancient Greeks had forgotten to mention them in any of their writings.

Even Elena was impressed, her policewoman’s sense of the everyday over come by the majesty of the sight. “Is this where we’re going?”

“Yep, head for that one on the left. Grand Meteoron.”

Elena followed the road as it twisted and turned up a steep hill, reaching a car park, three hundred metres above the plain. Together, letter tucked into Simon’s breast pocket, they crossed the narrow metal bridge which was all that connected the monastery, and the pillar if was built on, to the rest of the world.

“How did they do it?” Elena asked, seeing the fully-fledged monastery across the bridge and wondering how its makers had constructed it 1000 feet in the air.

“With a lot of difficulty. Everything they needed had to be brought up from below by winch or on ladders. The bridge was only built in the 20th century. And yet, they built dormitories, kitchens, a winery, chapels, everything they needed to be a functioning monastery. It goes to show how much they loved God, I suppose.”

Entering through a small archway, Simon looked for a monk who might understand English. Seeing a young man, his beard not yet fully grown, wearing robes, he approached him and asked him to give Zographos’ letter to the abbot. He lead them into a small courtyard and bade them wait, while he entered a large wooden door which looked like it had been in place since the monastery opened in the 1300’s.

Returning a few minutes later, he asked them to follow him, his English the impeccable brand which can only be acquired by long hours of exposure to American television. Leading them down a narrow stone corridor, candles lining the wall, he led them through another heavy wooden door into the abbot’s study.

The priest’s girth, and the decanter of wine on the table behind him suggested strongly that his order did not believe in abstinence from at least some delights of the flesh. A long, bushy beard hung below his hooked nose, on top of which a pair of wire spectacles balanced. Making the sign of the cross, he asked them to sit, his brown eyes examining each closely.

The young priest poured a glass of wine for each of them and retired. The white-washed room was large and simply furnished, but surprising details such as the Apple computer and LCD television attracted Simon’s notice. They seemed an odd contrast to both the age of the buildings, and the simple icon of Mary and Jesus which hung on the wall.

“You find it hard, no?” the abbot asked?

“You came to see a priest in a monastery, but you find computers and televisions.”

“I wasn’t expecting that certainly.”

‘Times change Dr Pelham. It is only recently that your friend’ he nodded at Elena.” would have been allowed here. Even now, there are no females on the Holy Mountain.” Elena was used to a degree of sexism, but it was usually unspoken, and certainly not so overt. The abbot was right, however. Mount Athos, in the North of Greece, was a monastic community dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Despite this, no female, human or even animal, had been allowed on the peninsula since the third century.

“Our brothers who built this place did so to escape the world, to find more perfect communion with God, away from the ravages of mankind But these days, the ravages seem so bad, that it is only by opening to the world that we can best serve God. I am Ephraim, abbot of this monastery, and I should like to help you, Dr Pelham. Dr Zographos is an old friend, although not one who could easily adapt to the rigours of monastic life, I think. His friend is my friend.’

“Thank you, Father Ephraim. Dr Zographos is holy in mind, if not body.” The two shared a wry smile.

“Drink, please, it is our own wine, something to occupy my brothers during the long days. And something which the tourists love to buy.” The rich red wine, almost port like, was delicious, the product, the abbot told them of the particular geology of the region. Something Simon was all too willing to believe, perched at the top of a 1000 foot pillar.

“Now, how may I help you? Costa mentioned something about a manuscript.”

“Yes, I believe you have the works of St Gregory of Nyssa in your library. I know they are very rare, maybe even the only copy. But they are vital for my research. I came across a reference to a brown leather-bound manuscript in my studies, and, I know it is a lot to ask, but I would be most grateful if I could see it. If you would allow me to take a photograph, it would make a superb plate in my new book.’

“And what is this book about, Dr Pelham?”

“The influence of Rome on early Christian mysticism.” Simon hoped the monk did not push too much further, as he was approaching the end of his ability to improvise.

“A worthy subject, Dr Pelham, and one on which the work in question could, no doubt, illuminate you greatly.”

Simon smiled.

“There is, however, a problem.” Ah, Simon should have expected this. Doubtless the priest wanted some sort of compensation for his trouble but he was unsure of the going rate for bribing a monk.

“I would be more than happy to include full attribution in my book. And we could make a contribution to the upkeep of this beautiful monastery and the good deeds you do in it.” Flattery seemed like a good start.

“That is very kind of you Doctor, and Brother Michael who showed you in will be glad to discuss any donation that you might care to make. But the problem is more serious than that. We do not have the work anymore.”

“What? I thought it had been returned after the war. I heard that there were plans for a full scholarly edition to be published.”

“Indeed, there are Doctor Pelham, but we will not be publishing it. You see, we recently sold the manuscript. The monastery has many other treasures, but looking after them costs money. Money which tourists, even those as generous as yourself, do not raise. Last month, we were approached by a collector who wanted to buy the volume you mentioned. He wanted to donate it to a university in his country who would allow scholars to read it and discover its treasures. It was a hard decision, but we could not afford to publish the work ourselves, and it seemed wrong to keep the work hidden from the public. It is so beautiful after all. His offer was very hard to resist, and in the end, it seemed best for all if we accepted it.”

Simon now realised the reason behind the television and computer.

“Can we ask who this man is?” Elena jumped in, possibly the first woman to speak in the walls’ six hundred year life. “Which university is it going to?”

“It was to be given to the University of Teubingen after the buyer’s death. Sadly, it will be there very soon.”

The monk reached for the remote control of the television and turned it on, choosing the BBC World News. “Leading German Industrialist shot in Berlin” was the first item.

Happy New Year

With the Naughties now safely behind us (to be replaced by what? The Onties?), festivities concluded and hangovers cured, it is time to look forward to another year of highs and lows, sorrow and joy. Doubtless much will remain unchanged, the global economy will limp on, old women everywhere will coo over the Royal Wedding, the War on Terror will continue to be a score draw and Andy Murray will fail to win Wimbledon.
Amongst all this continuity, it is only fitting that the Holy Lance does its bit for conformity and continues publishing the best novel about an Oxford academic, a missing relic and sinister Nazis this side of the last such novel.

  Chapter 13

Berlin

The dark Mercedes with the blacked out windows drew up underneath the maroon awning of the Adlon Hotel. Hitler’s favourite in the 1930’s, its history was in many ways a parable for Germany. Largely ruined during the War, fate had left it in the Eastern Zone, and in tune with their socialist sensbilities, it had been turned from a Grand Hotel (the model, indeed, for the Greta Garbo film of that name) into a dormitory for apprentices. Taken over by an investment firm after the collapse of the Wall, it had been restored to something approaching its former glory, a monumental slab of beige sandstone topped by a green copper roof.

Sitting on Unter den Linden, Berlin’s main thoroughfare, merely yards from the Brandenburg Gate, the hotel was easily the best in the City, and was the only place Ortwin would stay. Certainly, its location in the middle of town had its inconveniences, his journey delayed by a demonstration protesting Germany’s latest bail-out of its poorer, more indolent Mediterranean cousins. However, it also afforded him the opportunity to take the temperature of the street. There was real anger here, the people were fed up with their money being given to the spongers in the South, particularly at a time when their own jobs were uncertain. It was akin to the wave of popular resentment that another German had ridden to power, and he planned to do exactly the same.

Passing through the marble lobby with its surprisingly low vaulted ceiling, he turned along the corridor, his entourage in his wake. He had brought Klaus with him, his executive secretary, and Maria, his personal secretary. She was 6 feet tall, blonde and statuesque. A former champion skier, she could not type to save her life, but there were certain other compensations he would make use of in his top-floor suite after the meeting.

Carrying a silver briefcase in his hand, he pushed through the double doors into the meeting room. The room had a black and white chequer-board floor, plants around the walls and classical statuary dotted tastefully amongst the ferns. The glass dome in the high ceiling let in little light given the time of day, but in the early morning, the winergarten would have been bathed in the sun’s rays reflecting off its cream walls.

His entry caused the assembled guests to stop their murmured chatter and turn to face their host. Beckoning to the long dinner table in the centre of the room, he deposited his case with Klaus and sat at the head. Arrayed before him were the leaders of German society, some bankers, more industrialists and a smattering of politicians. All men of a certain age, they were united not merely by success, but by ancestry, a fact all were keen to conceal, but from which all had profited.

Casual chatter persisted through dinner. The men had all known each other for years, so the social pleasantries of questions about wives, children and grand-children lasted for a while. As dinner progressed, however, conversation took on a more serious note. Aware of the tensions on the streets, these men shared the frustrations of their employees, there views remarkably similar. Unlike the others though, these men believed they could change things. They could make Germany strong again, strong and feared. No longer the crutch for their lazy Southern neighbours, Germany would once more take its leadership role on the continent.

They could not have tried this earlier. The re-unification had taken too much treasure, more than most of them had expected. But 20 years had passed now. East Germany had been thoroughly digested. In some ways, the pain had been a blessing. Germany’s attention had turned inwards, her thoughts and money turned East. There had been neither the time or the means to join the Anglo-Saxons in their explosion of debt. Unfortunately, Germany’s neighbours had not been so distracted and had gorged themselves at a seemingly never-ending trough. And now they expected Germany to bail them out.

The politicians had acquiesced, too worried about the fall-out on their precious European Union, successfully deluding themselves that they were behaving responsibly. They were not, and the people knew it. Ortwin and his friends knew it and were prepared to use it to their advantage. All the children of senior members of the Reich, they had been groomed to assume power. Patient men, they had waited for years for their chance, and now they had it. They would not let it pass them by. All the people wanted was a strongman, someone tough enough to stand up to their neighbours, cut them off and look after Germany and the Germans.

As the plates were cleared after pudding, and the waiters filtered out, Klaus rose and tapped his glass with a spoon.

‘Mein Herren, Herr Schwartz would like to address you all.’

They all turned towards Ortwin who stood and acknowledged the smattering of applause. raising his hand, he started.

“My friends, my brothers, thank you for joining me here tonight. We have, as always, eaten well and talked well, but tonight is about more than that. Tonight is the last night for talking. For tomorrow will be the time for action, action to reclaim our fatherland, to realise our fathers’ ambitions and to make Germany great again.

For too long now, we have sat by and watched as our leaders” he spat out the word.” have led us down the path of weakness and corruption. No longer. The German is an Aryan. He is tough, he is strong. He does not need to be held back by these begging ingrates. Germany must stand up for herself.

But Germany cannot stand up for herself if she is impure. Our fathers knew that only purity would save us. And they got so close, but now their work is being thrown away. Look outside these windows, look at all the Turks, look at all the Slavs who have flooded this country, looking for jobs, German jobs, taking away our national pride. We must be rid of them” He banged his fist on the table, surprising those who knew him to be a mild-mannered man usually.

“I have seen the people outside, I have seen how they hate this life, shackled by their European neighbours, their pride stolen by these foreign interlopers. They are ready my brothers, ready to rise up, and ready to cast off those chains. All they need is leadership, a vision, someone to take them where they want to go. My brothers, we will give them what they want. We will fulfil our fathers’ wishes. We will take back Germany and we will make her strong again.” He was almost shouting now, reaching the end of his speech. “Eine Reich, Eine Volk, Eine Deutscheland.” And his hand raised in the salute, copied from the Romans, which had been so feared 80 years before.

Banging the table in rapturous applause, most of his colleagues stood and roared their delight, but their was one exception. Near the end of the table, a dark-haired, slight man stayed resolutely seated, an expression of distaste painted on his features. An accountant by trade, he had no truck with the grandiose visions of the others, he preferred the mundane, particularly if he could count it.

Relaxing after the adrenaline rush of his speech, Ortwin turned his attention on the outlier, fixing him with a harsh stare. “You do not agree Walter?”, contempt dripping from his tongue.

“Ortwin, friends, I do agree with you. I do not like, any more than the rest of you the present situation in our country. But we are a democracy. This is what has been chosen, and we must make the best of it. By all means, work to change things, but this, this attempt to go back to the past, to our fathers’ time, this is foolishness. Those days are gone. The world is different now, we are different now, let the world be.”

“You have gone soft.” Ortwin barked. “What would your father say? The man who cleared the Warsaw ghetto?”

“He cannot say anything. He was hanged by the Poles 60 years ago. He is in the past, where all of this should remain. I have helped you, as we all have, because we want what is best for our country, but that cannot be a return to those old days. Now, if you will excuse me.” he dabbed his mouth with a napkin pushed back his chair and headed for the door as the others started clapping again. Ortwin nodded at Klaus and he followed Walter out of the room. Catching up with him, he apologised for his boss’s outburst and accompanied him to the main entrance leaving him in the care of the doorman. Crossing the lobby once more, he winked at a dark-haired man casually reading a magazine and headed back inside the winergarten.

They were still applauding as he re-entered, but seeing him, Ortwin raised his hand to calm them. “Does anyone else wish to leave?” They all sat down, just as he knew they would. Walter had always been the weak link. A great businessman, but not resolute enough for politics. His loss was no loss.

“In one way, our friend was right. Times are different, people are different. These are sceptical times, my friends, we need to win their trust.” A murmur of approval. Germany was no different to any other democracy in the West, people were no longer divided into left and right, they were just anti-politicians in general.

“But we will do that, we will give them something they can rally round, something they can believe in, something they will follow.

You may remember, my father was in charge of the Fuhrer’s secret projects at the end of the war. Most of them were mad, flying saucers and the like, suggested by that fool Goering. But one of them, one of them, the Fuhrer’s passion, had potential. Had they just had more time, they would have unlocked its secrets and it would have hurled the allies back to the sea and the Urals. It was a source of the most unbelievable power, capable of levelling mountains and anmihilating armies. Used properly, it would have guaranteed the Thousand Year Reich.

It was lost at the end of the War, its guardian never made the flight they took, the flight to safety, and the Americans recaptured it. But we all know the Americans, so clever and yet so stupid” wry smiles amongst the audience. “They never knew what they had, and never tried to use it.”

“Well their loss is our gain. And gain we will. In a few weeks, I will reveal to the German people the true wunderwaffe of Adolf Hitler. And I will re-found the Thousand Year Reich.”

Another round of applause but more hesitant this time. They were confused.

One of them plucked up the courage to ask the question coursing through every head. “What is this thing? What have you found Ortwin?”

Ortwin nodded at Klaus who reached under the table and withdrew his briefcase. Clearing space among the plates, he placed it facing down the table. Flipping open the locks, he opened the silver case. Inside, resting on a layer of foam, lay the Lance, its black tip swathed in gold reflecting malevolently in the candlelight.

Christmas Greetings

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

Chapter 12

Paris, January

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

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

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

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

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

“Mme Weiss?”

“Yes, is that the electrician?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This object that disappeared, what was it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stolen? When?”

“Just after Christmas”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She took another drag of her cigarette and continued.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How? And where? This Mittlebau place?”

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

“Heidi was Swiss” Elena retorted.

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

“How?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

“And that’s in Athens?”

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