The Black Madonna (16 page)

The shadows were shrinking to pencil points on the pavements as Marcus and Nazreem turned the corner onto the broad
Ludwigstrasse
, the great nineteenth-century Italianate boulevard that ended in the Theatiner Church, a hulking monumental symbol in pastel papal yellow of rampant Bavarian Catholicism.

‘What you were saying, you know, about thinking of Jesus as just another prophet,’ Marcus said, acutely aware that he himself would once – long ago now, mercifully – have risked being burned for even discussing such blasphemy in such a bastion of Christendom, ‘it wasn’t always just a Muslim view. It’s not unlike the Arian heresy.’

‘Aryan? Marcus, you are not really bringing the Nazis and their crazy race theories into this?’

‘Hmm? Oh, God no! Not at all. I mean not like that. Not Aryan, with a ‘y’ – Arian in the sense of the heresy comes from Arius, a sort of mad monk.’

‘Who?’

‘Arius was a fourth-century monk from Libya or Egypt who
disputed
the idea of the Trinity, held that Christ might well have been the Son of God, but that meant logically that God existed first and that therefore they couldn’t be one and the same. His followers were called Arians and they concentrated very much on Christ the man.’

‘But they still believed Jesus was divine?’

‘Yes, I think so, but sort of lesser. To be honest, nobody knows exactly what they believed because the cult was wiped out. Arius was condemned as a heretic and fled to Palestine, as it turns out. I’ve heard people say that some of what he preached had echoes in Islam.’

Nazreem looked at him sceptically: ‘I’ve never heard of him.’

‘Well, that might not be true. The reason his name survives is that some of his teaching caught on amongst the German tribes who invaded the early empire after Constantine. Even when the
official
church outlawed it, it remained the belief of the Visigoths in particular.’

‘Which Goths? I never understood early European history.’

‘I’m not surprised. There were two main branches of the German tribes that fell on the Roman Empire, the Visigoths in the West and the Ostrogoths in the East.’

‘You mean like the Wessies and Ossies in modern Germany.’

Marcus laughed. ‘Yes, I suppose so, the same root words anyhow. I’ve never thought of it like that. But the Visigoths ruled Spain for several hundred years, right up until the first Moorish invasions really. That was more or less the end of Arianism.’

‘Spain? Where that other black Madonna is, the one Sister Galina mentioned. I wonder … could there be a connection?’

Marcus gave her a sceptical look: ‘I doubt it. I don’t think the Arians had any time for the cult of Mary as such.’

‘I think they might have been wise. I think that there has been a lot of wool pulled over a lot of people’s eyes for hundreds of years.’

‘Are you trying to tell me, Nazreem, you as a good Muslim, that religion is not about the quest for the truth?’

She stopped for a second and caught his eye: ‘You are teasing me. You know perfectly well that my religion is part of my culture but that over the centuries all religions, that of my culture as well as that of yours, have been used and abused by cynical men for their own ends.’

‘If you say so.’

Nazreem frowned. ‘Don’t tease me here. I believe in God, like I think maybe you do, and I believe there are many ways to do so. But history and archaeology are supposed to be about facts. I do not believe for example like your Christian creationists that God just put dinosaur bones in the earth to test our faith. We must work from the evidence, not in spite of it.’

‘There are plenty of mullahs who would say faith is supreme.’

‘Marcus, you know only too well there are plenty of mullahs who say all sorts of silly things, just as there are Christians, and probably holy men of all sorts of religions who are more than a bit mad – that does not mean we should listen to all of them. The reason God gave us a critical faculty was so we could decide who is talking nonsense and who is not – that is the real test.’

‘And you still want to go back to Altötting. To see the nun, even though you think everything she believes in is phoney.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘It sounded like it to me.’

‘She is a good woman, I think. I would never say anything to insult someone else’s faith. But I need to ask her some more
questions
, subtly perhaps, I do not want to cause offence, but after what this man said, I need to know if there is anything else.’

Marcus let out a long breath. ‘If you want to. But don’t you think there’s something else we have to do?’

‘Like?’

‘Like find out who the hell those characters on the motorbikes were last night. I’ve tried to pretend it was coincidence, that they weren’t checking us out, but after London, and everything I heard yesterday and today, I don’t believe it. You seem to be suggesting somebody may have taken revenge for … for what happened to you … and yet somebody, maybe the same somebody, seems after you. I mean, last night, if they had wanted to they could possibly have killed us. We know they’re not afraid to use guns.’

Nazreem looked down, a cloud over her face.

‘No, of course. You must believe me, I feel horribly guilty about what happened to that man, in the restaurant, in London. You are quite right – it is my fault. I am sorry.’

Marcus put his hand on her shoulder. ‘No, no. It’s not your fault. You weren’t to know a gang of homicidal maniacs were after you. These things happen. But we have to stop something similar
happening
again. Maybe to you next time.’

‘I know that. Believe me, I know that. In fact, right now it’s the only thing I do know.’

‘Look, Nazreem, what is it you’re not telling me? You seem
convinced
there’s a link of some sort between the theft of this statue, whether or not it really was an original of the Madonna, those
nutcases
in London and an atrocity dished up on the desk of some nun here in Germany. But to be honest with you, other than your
presence
I don’t see it, and it was you who brought us here.’

She dropped her head but continued walking and said in a quiet voice: ‘Marcus, you have to believe me on this. I just know. I’m really pleased you’re with me, but you don’t have to be. In fact, it might be better, better for you, if you were to go back to England.’

‘That’s not what I meant. Of course, I’m with you on this. It’s just … it’s just that we have to see things clearly. Look, if this has to do with the statue, it has to do with whoever stole it. You said you
thought the Israelis were involved, but you have to admit those men who came after us in London gave a very different impression.’

‘Yes,’ she said, lifting her head and turning briefly towards him, finally admitting something difficult to herself.

‘So who could have had a reason to steal it, and if they did, why are they still pursuing you? And how does that fit in with what
happened
with the nun.’

‘I don’t know, Marcus. I’m not pretending I have the answers. But …’ She hesitated a moment.

‘But what?

She shook her head.

‘But nothing. I don’t know. I just don’t know.’

Marcus looked at her but she kept her head down, her eyes on the pavement at her feet. Not for the first time in the past few days, he felt that for a woman who claimed she was engaged on a search for the truth, she gave the impression of not always telling it.

The girl behind the hotel reception desk gave them a frosty smile as they entered the lobby. Marcus wondered if they had outstayed their departure time. Maybe it had been eleven a.m. instead of noon. He had initially only booked the rooms for one night. Even now he wasn’t sure if it was worth booking for another or if they would be better advised looking for something in Altötting.

The reason for her attitude, however, was sitting on the other side of the lobby. Marcus hadn’t noticed the two men in the bucket chairs next to the pot plants. But as he approached the reception desk to ask for their room keys, he was instantly aware of the pair standing either side of him. His initial reaction was verging on panic, when the one on his right, a man of about forty with a long thin
moustache
touched him on the arm and said politely in fluent, but heavily accented, English: ‘If we could please have a minute, sir.’

Marcus turned abruptly, his nerves immediately on edge,
wondering
what he might use as a weapon if he needed one. He had just about decided that the heavy ashtray on the reception counter was his only option, when the man who had spoken to him produced an official-looking identity card and held it out to him.

‘Detective Lieutenant Karl Weinert, Bavarian State Police,’ he said formally, pronouncing his rank the American way – ‘loo-tenant’, a man who had obviously picked up a proportion of his English from TV cop shows – ‘and this is my colleague, Detective Hulpe. We would like to talk to you and the young lady, please, just for some minutes.’

The girl behind the reception desk continued to display her frozen grin, but Marcus felt she was already double-checking his credit card details.

Nazreem looked visibly nervous as the second detective took her by the elbow, gently but nonetheless obviously, and led her after Marcus and his colleague towards a small seating area off the lobby.

‘Is there some sort of problem, Lieutenant?’ Marcus was already asking.

‘No more than I think you already know about,’ Weinert replied, motioning for them both to sit. Marcus and Nazreem found
themselves
side by side on a well-sprung leather sofa with Weinert in a chair opposite them on the other side of a small glass-topped coffee table. The second detective remained standing.

‘May I see your passports, please?’ the lieutenant asked.

Marcus was immediately taken aback. ‘I’m sorry, you’ll have to explain what this is about.’

‘Of course, in a minute. But first if I might see your passports?’

Marcus reached inside his jacket pocket and produced his. Nazreem fished inside her shoulder bag and did the same, with the practised sullen resignation of someone used to producing
documents
on demand.

The policeman examined them. ‘I see,’ he said, ‘you are South African, Professor … Fray, is it?’

‘Frey,’ corrected Marcus, ‘pronounced like the German “
frei
”.’

‘Ah yes, of course, Dr Frey,’ Weinert repeated ponderously. ‘And you, Miss Hash-ra-vee,’ he struggled with the pronunciation, ‘are French?’ He eyed her suspiciously as if he did not quite believe it.

Nazreem saw no reason to lie. ‘I am a French citizen,’ she said, ‘but I live in Palestine, in Gaza.’ The policeman handed the
passports
to his colleague who sat down in the other armchair, took out a notebook and began to jot marks in it.

‘Excuse me, but I think you need to tell us what’s going on here. Have we been accused of something?’ Marcus said.

‘I believe you were at Altötting yesterday.’ It was scarcely a
question
but the intonation invited an answer.

‘Yes,’ said Marcus, sensing that these were men’s men who expected him rather than Nazreem to provide the answers.

‘And spent some time talking to Sister Galina at the Institute.’

‘Yes. Is there something wrong with that?’

The policeman looked as if he wished he could say yes. Instead he said: ‘You are aware of the incident that occurred there earlier in the week?’

‘Yes, but I don’t see …’

‘Were you also aware that we had specifically requested that Sister Galina give no interviews?’

‘No, I mean yes. But not at first. One of the other sisters did mention it, but this wasn’t an interview, not like you mean. We’re not reporters or anything like that.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ The policeman’s eyes narrowed. ‘I am taking you at your word, Dr Frey, because you gave the sister at the institute the name of this hotel and it is indeed where we have found you. Therefore I am giving you the benefit of the doubt.’

‘What do you mean, the benefit of the …?’

The policeman waved his objection away. ‘It is an expression. Forgive me. Perhaps I use it wrongly.’ But Marcus did not get the impression he had done.

‘I have to ask you what the nature of your conversation with Sister Galina was and in what way you are involved?’

‘We’re not involved,’ Nazreem interjected. ‘I wanted simply to talk about the Madonna. I am a historian.’

The policeman looked at her trying to weigh up the value of her words. ‘And you also live in Palestine. You are aware that it appears the man who was mutilated was apparently a Palestinian.’

Marcus could hardly keep from swallowing hard. He found himself watching Nazreem with as much anticipation as the two policemen. He had no idea how much she intended or wanted to tell them, but he suspected she had absolutely no desire to go into personal detail.

‘As I understand it, he was a man of violence. We may have lived under occupation for many years, but not everyone believes that violence is the right way to achieve justice.’

The policeman nodded, as if she were a child who had given the right answer to a pre-prepared question in an oral examination, and moved on to the next one.

‘Did you discuss any of this with Sister Galina?’

Nazreem gave him a look of genuine bemusement. ‘No. As I told you, I am a historian. We were discussing the relationship between the relics in Altötting and a recent archaeological find in Palestine.’

Marcus breathed a sigh of relief. She was doing the right thing – telling them as much of the truth as they needed to know. Whatever the problem was here, it would not be solved by inventing some story. If there was any link between the two men on motorbikes who had behaved so threateningly the night before and the thugs who
had pursued them in London, then sooner or later they were going to need police on their side.

‘And this “historical discussion” was successful? You discussed everything you need to, satisfactorily?’

Odd question. Yet again Marcus wondered where all this was leading. Nazreem too seemed perturbed but did the sensible thing and gave an honest answer.

‘Yes, very, but we would like to see her again,’ Nazreem added.

The policeman was watching her intently. ‘So would we,’ he said.

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ Marcus said.

‘Don’t you? Shortly after seven-thirty last night, which I believe was not long after you left her, Sister Galina left the institute for the first time in a week. She told one of the other nuns she was going to pray. For you,’ he said, looking directly at Nazreem. ‘Do you know anything about that?’

After just a moment’s hesitation, Nazreem returned his look and said simply: ‘Yes. I hadn’t asked her to, but she said she would. It was … a personal matter.’

‘I see. The problem is,’ said the policeman, ‘that she hasn’t been seen since.’