The Templar Prophecy (12 page)

TWENTY-THREE

‘But you don't speak any German. What are you going to do? Knock on Effi Rache's front door, wave a fake passport at her and say, “I am Johannes von Hartelius, hereditary guardian of the Holy Lance, and I have come here to fulfil my destiny?” Only you'll be saying it in English, of course.' Amira cracked one of her rare smiles. ‘You'd better hope she's a polyglot.'

Hart stared out of the window. It was raining. Hart liked the rain. It might serve to keep the police indoors. ‘I can learn.'

‘What? An entire language?'

‘Enough to get along with. I can use my own father's backstory to explain why I was brought up in England and speak hardly any German. My father's parents famously died in a plane crash and he was left an orphan. There was utter chaos in Germany immediately after the end of the war so records are hard to come by. I can say the Yanks farmed him out to a US couple, but he didn't take their name because he still had his German passport. Then, as an adult, he came to work in England and married an
Englishwoman. They had me. Then he died. And so did she. But before he died he told me about the origins of the von Hartelius name. How my ancestor had been made hereditary guardian of the Holy Lance by Frederick Barbarossa's son. I'm the spitting image of my grandfather. And pretty close to the same age he was when he died. Maybe your researcher can find more pictures of him? Any taken during the war years will do. Once they see those, I'll be home dry.'

‘You really think so?'

‘No. But it's all I've got. Can you get me the passport, Amira? Without it, I'm dead in the water.'

‘Johannes Freiherr von Hartelius.' Amira squinted at her iPad. ‘That's the way it says German titles have to be written on official documents. They are part of the surname since 1919, not a prefix to it. You're actually a Reichsfreiherr, because your title was awarded under the aegis of the Holy Roman Empire, but that doesn't have to go on your passport. In Germany they will call you Baron.'

‘Why are you frowning?'

‘Because I never suspected you were an aristocrat. I hate aristocrats. I would never have slept with you if I had known you were an aristocrat.'

‘Thanks. I know you're joking, but thanks.'

‘I'm not joking.'

‘Well, I'm not an aristocrat.'

‘By birth you are.'

‘I didn't know about my birth until I talked to Colel Cimi. So it doesn't count.'

‘Still. The fact is there.'

Hart stood up. He was tired. Deep-down tired. With the sort of tiredness he used to get as a young man after a day spent climbing in the Cuillin Hills. He was nearing forty, though, and the tiredness needed to be placated, not ignored. ‘I can't argue with you any more, Amira. I need my bed. Where am I sleeping?'

‘In the spare room.'

‘I thought as much. Is it because I am an aristocrat?'

‘No, John. It's because I need to work. I'm going to arrange to get you your passport. I know a man who knows a man. I'm going to explain the situation to my editor,
sub rosa
, and trust that she doesn't pick up the telephone and dial 112. The passport is going to cost us, and I'll have to do it clandestinely, not through the newspaper. If I'm lucky, she'll allocate me expenses with no questions asked. If I'm unlucky, we'll have to pay for it ourselves. Do you have any savings?'

‘No.'

‘What do you mean? You can't spend everything you earn?'

‘My mother is in the early stages of dementia, Amira, and the NHS aren't interested in her. It takes nine months to get an appointment with a consultant, and they're few and far between. So I'm paying for her care privately. There are new drugs out there that can slow things down, but they haven't been passed by NICE yet, so I buy them for her on the open market. That doesn't leave me with much to play with by the end of the month. Plus I'm a freelance photojournalist, not even a stringer – you don't get closer to the bottom of the food
chain than that. And I've been out of work since Syria. Maybe I could go back to Guatemala and put my father's house on the market? Would that do? Or ask your editor for a salary? Or sell my sperm to a sperm bank?'

‘Just go to bed, John.'

TWENTY-FOUR

Udo Zirkeler looked at the twelve young men surrounding him with an active, avuncular interest. He called them his ‘apostles', and he was ridiculously proud of them. All of them were over six feet tall – some as tall as six foot six. All were neatly turned out, with short hair, clean-shaven faces, good skin and good teeth. All except one.

‘Why have you shaved your head, Jochen?'

Jochen Sturmeier blushed. He was sixteen years old and a new recruit to Udo's little band of brothers. ‘I thought that's what was wanted?'

‘I explained what was wanted when we recruited you from the orphanage. We want you to look normal. Not like a skinhead or a skullhead or a slaphead. No tattoos. No studs. No rings. No chains. No Dr Martens. No Lonsdales. And no fucking razor cuts. What part of that didn't you understand?'

Jochen was already red. He turned redder.

‘I'm tempted to leave you behind.'

‘But it's Friday night.'

‘You should have thought of that before you told the barber to set the switch to zero on his electric razor.'

‘Please, Udo.'

‘We'll take a vote on it. How many of you want Jochen with us on our outing? Bearing in mind that his decision could put us all at risk?'

Not a single hand went up.

‘Excellent. You can come, Jochen.'

‘But no one put their hand up.'

‘Exactly. I am in command here. Whoever told you this is a democracy needs their head examined.'

There was an explosion of laughter from around the room. Udo beamed. He held them in the palm of his hand now. ‘Get out the bottle.'

One of the young men hurried out of the room and returned with an old-fashioned narrow-waisted Coca Cola bottle.

‘Now spread these pieces of paper out in a circle for me.'

Another of the young men laid the papers out in a tight circle on the floor, leaving just enough room for the bottle in the centre. Each piece of paper had a word written on it. Homo. Turk. Jew. African. Black. Asian. Journalist. Gypsy. RFWDL. Muslim. ZOG. Pole.

‘What's RFWDL, Udo?'

‘Random Fuckers We Don't Like.'

‘Ah.'

‘What's the difference between Africans and Blacks, Udo?'

‘Africans are Africans – they can include Maghrebins,
Arabs, Libyans, Tunisians, Egyptians, what have you. Blacks are any other Blacks. We split them up because it gives them two chances of being chosen. Just like with the Jews and the ZOGS.'

‘What are the ZOGS?'

‘Jews who are members of the Zionist Occupation Government.'

‘What's that?'

‘Nothing to trouble your head about. It'll all be explained when the time comes. Spin the bottle, Jochen. Let's see who we hit tonight.'

Jochen spun the bottle. It stopped at Homo.

Udo looked disappointed. ‘We did Homos two weeks ago. Did you spin it properly?'

‘I did, Udo. I spun it hard.'

‘Then the gods want us to hit Homos again. That's all there is to it.' He handed the first young man a further sheaf of papers. ‘Destroy that lot and put these down instead.'

The young man did as he was told. The papers all held the names of towns. Altomünster. Bruck. Dachau. Ebersberg. Erding. Freising. Fürstenbruck. Gräfelfing. Grünwald. Ismaning. Kirchseeon. Markt Schwaben. Obershleißheim. Pullach im Isartal. Sauerlach. Schäftlarn.

‘Why these, Udo?'

‘I chose them at random. They are all in the Munich area, but poorly policed and with little or no CCTV. The internet will give us the addresses of Homo clubs in whichever one we choose. Lenzi, spin the bottle.'

Lenzi spun the bottle. Everyone in the room followed it with their eyes.

‘It's Ismaning, Udo.'

‘Good. Any of you ever been there?'

‘No,' said one. ‘I only know it's got a river.'

‘Perfect. We can sail in.'

Everybody laughed.

‘Shall I destroy these papers too, Udo?'

‘Why? They only have towns written on them. Who could make anything of that? We'll hold them over till next time. Sibbe, have you got the pickaxe handles?'

‘Yes, Udo. Thirteen of them. Packed together in a clump, like for a garden delivery. Zip-tied with nylon. Easier to cut that way.'

‘Lighter fuel?'

‘Two sachets.'

‘Matches?'

‘A plastic lighter.'

‘I want matches, Sibbe. Plastic lighters carry fingerprints.'

‘Yes, Udo.'

‘You all ready?'

Each man stood to attention.

Udo eyed them one by one, the same way his father used to eye Udo's outstretched fingers before every mealtime to make sure they were clean.

‘Excellent, lads.
Banzai!'

TWENTY-FIVE

They parked the vans at three separate spots on the outskirts of Ismaning, transferring from one van to the other as each was dropped off.

‘Every one of you has the keys to all three vehicles?'

‘Yes, Udo.'

‘Then put on these brown T-shirts and brown work trousers over your other clothes. And the polythene shoe covers.'

There was silence whilst the young men dressed.

‘Now pass out the pickaxe handles.'

Sibbe handed each man one of the handles. They were three feet long and made of hickory wood, with a flared, weighted base. Each weighed two and half pounds.

‘Time check?'

‘Ten to one.'

‘What time does the club close?'

‘Three o'clock. Sometimes they have a lockdown. Probably when they are having a sex orgy.'

Everyone laughed. There was a palpable air of expectation amongst the group.

‘Arms and legs only. No blows to the head or back. No blows to the heart. No blows to the neck. We don't want anyone killed. We just want them discouraged. Got it?'

‘Yes, Udo.'

‘And we do it at a run. Fast in, fast out. Each team leader is responsible for ensuring his team get back to their designated van.'

‘Yes, Udo.'

‘Are we ready?'

Each man tapped the head of his helve on the ground.

‘Put on your dust masks.'

Each man slid on his white plastic dust mask.

‘Now go!'

There was a swish and patter as Udo's gang ran down the street.

TWENTY-SIX

Hermann Ewarden was kissing his boyfriend Jürgen out by the Leather Bar car park when he heard the strange swishing sound. He straightened up, frowning.

The next thing he saw was half a dozen men wearing dust masks breasting the corner. They ran in phalanx, with what looked like baseball bats held across their chests like rifles.

For a split second Hermann found himself unable to move. An unwanted mental image came to him of something he had seen in a documentary. The image he remembered was of a long unbroken line of police running towards some rioters. They looked unstoppable. The image had frightened him at the time. The reality frightened him even more.

Hermann took Jürgen by the hand and began to run. Two of the men broke off and began to pursue the couple. Hermann upped his speed but Jürgen soon dropped his hand and began to fall behind. Hermann was a jogger and Jürgen was not. Jürgen spent most of his time in front of the mirror.

‘Go, Hermann. Go. Call the police.' Jürgen was crying.

Hermann pulled up. He waited until Jürgen caught up to him, then turned to confront the two men. He pushed Jürgen a little to the rear of his right shoulder. ‘Why are you chasing us? Why do you want to hurt us? What have we done to you?'

One of the men slowed down. The other man, seeing his partner falter, slowed down too. The men faced each other at a distance of five metres.

When Hermann saw that the men in dust masks were carrying pickaxe handles, something died in him. He watched the two men across from him with a sense of deep sadness. ‘Please leave my friend alone. If you have to hit someone, hit me.' Hermann could sense Jürgen feeling for his hand. He grasped Jürgen's hand and squeezed it back. In the distance, screams could be heard, and the smashing of glass. ‘Why are you doing this?'

One of the men confronting them began to back away. ‘I can't do it, Sibbe. Not like this. I say we leave them.'

‘Don't use my name, you fool.'

‘I'm sorry, Sibbe.'

‘Jesus. You're such an idiot. They'll call the police if we don't nobble them.'

‘Someone will be doing that already. You can count on it. One of the others.'

Jürgen moved fractionally further behind Hermann's arm. ‘Please don't hurt us.'

The second man – the older, more angry one, Hermann decided – cast a look back over his shoulder.

‘Place your phones on the ground and back away.'

Hermann and Jürgen placed their phones on the ground and backed away from them. ‘Thank you. Thank you both.'

The man stepped forward and brought the butt of his pickaxe down on the phones. For a moment it looked as though he would change his mind about not hurting them. Then he stepped backwards again. ‘Now run. The only reason we haven't broken your legs is because we did Homos two weeks ago. We're ahead of the game.'

Hermann and Jürgen eased away from their aggressors, their eyes moving from their broken phones to the pickaxe handles and back again.

‘You're not such bad people,' said Hermann. ‘But you shouldn't be doing this. Why hurt people you don't know?'

‘Shh, Hermann. Shh. Please,' said Jürgen. ‘They'll change their minds.' He was sobbing uncontrollably now.

Jochen and Sibbe turned on their heels and began to jog back towards the bar.

‘What are we going to say to Udo, Sibbe?'

‘What do you think? That we caught them and broke their elbows. No one will know any better if neither of us cracks.'

‘I won't crack.'

‘Neither will I.'

‘Why didn't we hit them, Sibbe? Why did you let me persuade you?'

Sibbe shook his head. ‘Because my brother's a pretty boy too. Just like the younger one of those two. And my mother loves him like crazy. I just couldn't do it. Not when they
turned round and faced us like that. I can do it in the heat of the moment. Or when Udo is watching me. But I can't do it cold like that. They suddenly became real people. I have a nightmare that we're going to do my brother and his lot one day. Then what do I do?'

‘I don't know, Sibbe.'

‘Neither do I.'