Rumours

A rumour circulating in Asia that Facebook was about to close down was brought to your author's attention this morning. Notwithstanding the fact that it is completely false (I'm am sure Mr Zuckerburg can think of at least 50 billion reasons to keep the site going), it set your humble scribe thinking about rumours, Facebook, and the internet in general. The immediate aftermath of the tragic shooting on Saturday displayed humanity's capacity for confusion in all its glory as the Congresswoman was variously alive or dead (as was her assailant) several times, rather like a human and altogether more regrettable version of Schrodiger's Cat. Those who can remember 9/11 with an clarity, will surely recollect that the only certainty in the hours after the attack was the very uncertainty of what was going to happen next. From these holes of confusion grows the rumour, partly reflecting differing perspectives from onlookers, and doubtless taken up by a populace desperate for certainty. For if something is certain, then, at least it can be dealt with and controlled. One cannot control that which may, or may not have happened. So, how does this relate to our present task? Well, without being overly post-modern about things, fiction is a controlled environment. Everything has a precise course, and a definite ending, which surely provides a degree of comfort, whether the audience is huddled round a fire in a cave, or tucked up in bed using an iPad..

Chapter 15

Berlin, January

One of the key principles behind post-war German reconstruction was that the central government should never grow too strong and allow the concentration of power seen under the Nazis. To this end, a Federal constitution was implemented which devolved most authority to the states or Lander, currently numbering 16. These bodies have a considerable degree of autonomy in setting policy in their own territory and in providing essential services.

One of their key responsibilities is the provision of policing, and to this end, each state has its own police force, usually divided into two sections. The Shutzpolizei or Shupo which provides uniformed officers on the beat is, in most instances the first response force. The Kriminalpolizei or Kripo functions more as an investigative unit and is akin to the detective units of other forces.

However, for serious crime, or offences with an international aspect, the Bundeskriminalamt or BKA  gets involved. Its main focuses are terrorism, drug offences and the like, but certain politically sensitive crimes will also be steered its way. Acting as Germany’s FBI, the 5,500 strong force head-quartered in Wiesbaden represents the acme of German policing, and plays host to some of the most sophisticated law enforcement technology on the planet.

The murder of Walter Straub certainly fell under the auspices of the BKA. His death was initially reported by the housekeeper, a Frau Tusslig, who, on recovering from seeing his dead body in the study, immediately phoned the Shupo. They secured the area and arranged for the Kripo to take over the investigation. However, it soon became clear that political sensitivities would be involved in the case, given the profile of the victim, and, choosing self-preservation over the chance of glory, the officer in charge had rung the BKA’s large Berlin office and handed the case over to them.

The battalion of forensic investigators and pathologists had little difficulty in ascertaining the cause of death, the livid hole in the forehead, and the missing chunk of skull and brain made that quite obvious, but finding much more proved difficult. Despite their careful examination of every surface in the house, no unidentified fingerprints were found, and they had little hope of any DNA evidence. The security system had been disarmed, and Herr Staub had failed to head the security company’s advice and install cameras on his property.

One of the BKA’s other responsibilities is to maintain liaison with other police forces worldwide. Indeed, it acts as Interpol’s presence in Germany. As an act of procedure turned last throw of the dice, a junior officer uploaded the details of the crime into the massive computer system in the Wiesbaden basement. Not expecting much, the crime seemed too random, the killer too professional, he was surprised to hear not one, but three beeps eminate from the machine a matter of seconds later.

There had been three incidents, with a total of five murders in Austria recently, all of which bore the killer’s signature. All had been killed by highly accurate shots to the forehead, all described as nearly impossible to replicate. Using fuzzy-logic software designed to mimic human thought patterns, the machine flashed up a potential connection. A German ex-soldier shot through the head in the South of Austria, just outside the house where the daughter of one of the victims and a witness had been staying.

The Austrians had referred the matter to the Federal Ministry of Defence in Bonn, but so far, little had been achieved, save confirmation that the deceased was a former military officer.

It was thus fortunate, when a short Austrian police-officer, dressed from head to toe in black presented herself, and a companion at the main reception in the BKA’s Berlin office. Located in Treptow, Berlin’s most south-easterly borough, the BKA building had resisted the modernisation enforced on the surrounding area after the fall of the Wall. The four storey oblong brick building could only have been built in the thirties, looking like a cottage which had taken growth hormones. The lack of modernity extended to the heating system which rumbled as it struggled to pump water through the antique radiators, leading the visitors to cast longing glances at the shiny glass and steel buildings, with proper heating, which lined the river Spree nearby.

Showing her warrent card to the desk sergeant, she asked to speak to the officer in charge of the Straub murder case. She had come from Vienna and thought there might be a connection with a case she was pursuing. Shown to a waiting area, months old magazines piled on an cheap rickety table, the uncomfortable chairs showing their stuffing through the covers, they waited for half an hour. Eventually, an officer Gruber came to meet them and led them to the incident room.

White boards lined the room, filled with 12 desks. Each board had a different subject, victim, location, forensics etc. The boards were covered in photographs and notes in red marker pen, serving as a constant reminder of the current state of the investigation. Officers manned each desk, many on the phones, the others sifting through files of evidence relating to Herr Straub.

In the corner, willing himself to see a connection that was not there, Senior Agent Bruno Waldheim, stood, lost in thought. 6 feet tall, balding, with a bushy mustache, Waldheim looked the very image of a Prussian Army officer, all that was missing was a helmet with a spike on top and a mononcle. He projected a stern image, doubtless driving his team hard, but his reputation was excellent, both for leadership, and for solving crimes.

Gruber introduced Elena and Simon to his chief and returned to his desk. Waldheim grunted a greeting and, reluctantly, turned away from his white boards and led them to a meeting room in the middle of the building. Sheltered slightly from the cold seeping through the single glazed windows, and with the nearest radiator actually seeming to function, Simon began to warm up for the first time since they arrived.

They had agreed beforehand to let Elena lead the conversation, given her profession, so she leapt straight in.

“I understand that you must be very busy Agent Waldheim. I too am a police officer and know how demanding a murder enquiry is. I am also conducting such an investigation, and think there may be some connection between our murders. One of which involved my father.” Although she had shown little grief over the past few days, Simon detected a slight tremor in her voice. He assumed she had thrown herself into the investigation to prevent herself from dwelling too long on her loss.

Waldheim might have been gruff, but he was human. “You have my condolences, Inspector. The loss of a parent is always a terrible thing. I took the liberty while you were waiting of checking with the Vienna force, and they tell me that you are on compassionate leave. I believe Inspector Haber is investigating your father’s death.”

“That is true, but I myself have been following some leads of which Inspector Haber is not yet aware, and since I happened to find myself in Berlin, it seemed more efficient to to liaise with you myself. Purely in the interests of tidying up this matter more quickly you understand.”

“It is indeed fortunate” the way he accented the word showed his scepticism of her story. “that you find yourself in our city, Inspector. As we both know, sometimes official channels need, how should I put this, circumventing.”

“I quite agree. My father was a diplomat and often did more business over an informal coffee than during a three day summit.” She smiled.

“I’m intrigued that you are here. You see, one of our new-fangled toys, a computer that sifts our data-base and looks for connections, pointed to the recent murders in Vienna, including that of your father as possibly being connected to Herr Straub. Something about the way the victims were shot. I believe you think your man is a top-notch marksman. Our boys have come to the same conclusion about Herr Straub’s killer.”

“Did you find any old books in the house?” Simon asked, earning a warning glance from Elena. Obviously there was an etiqutte to be followed which he had just broken.

“There was lots of old books, first editions and that sort of thing. Even a signed copy of Mein Kampf. That is legal, if not very tasteful. It seems Herr Straub had a thing for the Nazis, although that should not be a surprise.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, his name was not Sraub, for a start. He was really Walter Stroop. His father was in the SS and was responsible for the razing of the Warsaw ghetto during the war. A nasty piece of work, he was hanged by the Poles in 1952.”

“So you think the son took after the father?” Elena continued, beginning to see some light.

“It’s quite possible. The Nazis never really went away, although they have never been able to come back as they were before. Every so often, we hear of some plot to regain power. It never comes to anything, more like background noise on the radio. Given his ancestry, who knows what Straub was up to.”

“Do you think there is a Nazi link to his death?”

“It’s an angle we are pursuing, but we have nothing to suggest that at the moment. Maybe it was a business deal gone wrong. He was a wealthy man, and doubtless had wealthy enemies.”

“Did you find any really old books?” Simon once more interjected.

The others both glared at him. Obviously police-to-police discussions were sacred and not to be disturbed. “I mean, mediaeval manuscripts and the like.”

“No, Dr Pelham, we did not. Why do you keep asking that.”

“We have just come from Greece, where Herr Straub, or Stroop, recently purchased a very rare manuscript from a monastery. I was wondering if you found it.”

“No, nothing like that has turned up. Was it valuable?”

“Very. We think it was the only copy in existence. He paid the monastery over a million euros for it, so he obviously thought it was quite valuable.”

Waldheim sat back and thought. “Over a million euros?”

“Yes, the abbot told us. He was quite happy with the deal. Bought a shiny new television with it.”

“Hmm. Give me a minute.”

He left the room and talked to a couple of the agents in the incident room. Returning shortly, he asked.

“You’re sure it was Straub?”

“Absolutely. The abbot himself identified him.”

“That is odd. We have his financial records, of course, and there is no sign of a million dollars moving out of his accounts. There is no old manuscript in the house, and we’ve checked his safe deposit box. There’s nothing there either. Maybe you can give me a description of this book?”

Simon did so, pleased that his contribution seemed to be worth something. Waldheim took careful notes and promised to look into it further.

“While we’re here” Elena started, trying to regain control of matters. “Can you find out who this man is?”

She handed over a picture of the soldier who had died in her bell tower. “I think official channels are following it up, but it might help things if you could expedite matters?”

“I agree. One good turn deserves another. Give me thirty minutes.”

Waldheim arranged for coffee while they waited. Marginally better than the Viennese Police brew, it at least kept them warm.

Returning to the room, his face was serious. “This is a difficult area, Inspector. There are things which should not be pushed too far, even in today’s Germany, and this is one of them. However, because you have helped me, and I understand your loss, let me tell you this. The man used to be a member of GSG9, our elite special forces team. He left last year, and we think he became a mercenary. It is embarrassing, we usually keep close tabs on these people, but he disappeared. As did his commanding officer, and much of his unit for that matter.”

“What was his commander called?”

‘Major Heinrich Frey. He was a rising star, could have gone all the way to the top they say. Anyway, the Defence Ministry has lost him, and they don’t want anyone to know. He’s got a wife though, or ex-wife actually. She lives in Berlin.”

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.