The Templar Prophecy (25 page)

FIFTY-EIGHT

The car was an Auto Union 1000 saloon. It was painted a sickly green colour. At first glance it reminded Hart of an upturned bowl of mushy peas. When he got over his initial shock, he estimated that the vehicle dated back to around 1960, give or take a few years. But the bodywork and trim were intact, and the engine, when he tried the ignition, turned over sweetly, once he had remembered to use the choke.

He drove out of the garage towards the main road. The streets were deserted. Whatever passed for nightlife in Bad Wiessee had put itself to bed long ago. Frau Erlichmann had given him detailed instructions on how to reach the factory, so he turned down by the new casino and northwards along the lake's edge. The moon was at its fullest, and its glow shadowed the car like a wartime searchlight as he headed towards Gmund.

Fifteen minutes took him to the large farmhouse, Gut Kaltenbrunn, that Frau Erlichmann had given him as a
marker. The turnoff to Effi Rache's factory was less than a kilometre down the road. Hart pulled down a track about half a kilometre short of where he estimated the factory to be and turned the Auto Union round to face the road. It was a useless precaution. At nought to sixty in around a minute and a half, he suspected that he wouldn't be going anywhere fast – even if the hounds of hell were on his trail.

He switched off the headlights and got out of the car. Looking around, he soon realized that he would have no need of the torch Frau Erlichmann had lent him – thanks to the full moon, everything was lit up with a ghostly white light as if in the aftermath of an unexpected snowfall. Hart elected to take the torch with him anyway, just for the added sense of security it gave him to be holding something in his hands. He tapped the pocket holding the pistol superstitiously. The damned thing looked like a fancy cigar lighter. If he ever got to aim it at someone, they would probably burst out laughing.

He set off for the factory on foot. Three hundred metres down the road he came upon a hire car, parked in a lay-by. He tried the doors. Locked. He switched on the torch and looked inside. Nothing. The car was as clean as the moment it had been picked up from the rental agency. Hart had little doubt that it was the hire car Amira had told him about. He switched off his torch and hurried onwards.

When he found himself approaching the factory turning, he broke away from the road and cut through a small plantation of pines that led down towards the lake edge. As he dodged through the trees, he felt a burgeoning sense
of urgency, as if some primeval instinct was cutting in and taking over.

Hart sensed the factory before he saw it. The building was lit up like an oil refinery, the glow from a series of arc lights reflecting back off the trees in front of him like the aftereffects of a forest fire. He sank to his knees and crawled to the edge of the treeline. Spotlights reflected off the half-dozen assorted vans and cars parked in a fan formation near the front entrance.

Hart cursed beneath his breath. Was Amira still hidden up here on the periphery somewhere, watching what was happening? Or was she down near the lion's den? Hart wished he had a long-lens camera with him so that he could photograph the cars and their number plates. But he had not even thought to bring a pen and a notebook. And his pay-asyou-go phone would be less than useless at this distance for taking snaps. Maybe if he got closer?

The factory had been built tight up against the lakeside, so Hart was forced to make a complete semi-circle, keeping well out of the light bath emanating from the security lamps. No sign of Amira. One part of him had been half expecting her to call out from whatever hiding place she had chosen for herself. Another part of him acknowledged that the chances of her still being out here on the hillside were a thousand to one.

He checked his watch. Three thirty. He had maybe four hours leeway before Effi woke up and began to wonder where he had gone.

Hart looked around for guards, or a watchman, or someone coming out to relieve himself. But the outside area was clear. Whoever had arrived in the cars was inside the factory.

Hart chose his approach carefully. He would come in from the direction of the lake. A raised walkway ran down from the factory towards a boathouse. A sailing boat with a shipped mast floated a little way out, attached to a mooring buoy. An electro-boat was tethered on one side of the jetty, and a wooden rowing boat on the other. The boathouse gates were shut and locked, so Hart had no idea what might be inside. There was no wind to speak of, and the lake was as flat as glass.

Hart crept down to the shoreline and eased himself in amongst the reeds. Within seconds he was up to his knees in mud. He tried to flatten himself on top of the mud and crawl, but it soon became clear that he must either sink into the morass or swim. Hart acknowledged
force majeure
and allowed the lake to carry him away from the reed bed. Once he was out into the open channel, he struck for the jetty, keeping his head just above the surface of the water. The night was warm and the water was temperate. He would dry out eventually.

Two minutes later he was in place. He cross-handed his way along the hull of the electro-boat, ducked under the end of the jetty, and swam round the boathouse. He had decided long before that the lights were less intrusive on the side of the jetty where the rowing boat was tethered.

When he was safely ashore, but still in the lee of the jetty, Hart began to crawl. He felt achingly vulnerable. The factory was built on two storeys. He would be as good as invisible from
the ground floor, but anyone stepping out onto the second-floor balcony could not fail to see him.

After what seemed like an eternity of slithering, Hart pressed himself tightly against the outer shell of the building and addressed his second problem – how to get inside the factory. He craned his neck upwards and outwards to check for opened windows. Nothing.

Hart dropped to his knees and began crawling round the periphery of the building. He felt all sorts of a fool. Maybe Amira was watching him from the treeline and wondering what the hell he was doing? At any given moment he expected Udo Zirkeler to walk round the factory corner and kick him in the head. Or maybe come up behind him and kick him in the balls. Frankly, he deserved it. A more inept sneak thief there never was.

Hart had already borne down on the shattered glass with the full weight of his leading hand before he realized what it was. He squeezed his damaged hand between his free arm and his flank and rocked in silent agony. When the first wave of pain began to wear off, he scrabbled around in his jacket pocket and retrieved his wringing wet handkerchief. Great, now he would probably get an infection to add to his disastrous start. Pneumonia, an infection and Weil's disease. He picked out the worst of the broken glass and wrapped the handkerchief tightly round his throbbing hand.

Hart craned his head to see where the glass had come from. Someone had smashed through the door pane above him. Amira? It had to be. It was hardly likely that a total stranger
would choose exactly the night Amira was staking out the factory to conduct a break-in. And what would he be after, anyway? Swimming-pool chemicals? Sauna tabs? Detergent?

Hart lurched to his feet. He pressed himself as tightly as he could against the wall and poked his head round the shattered doorframe, feeling ridiculously vulnerable. Like an ant on a sheet of white paper. What with the moon and the floodlights, anyone stationed on the perimeter of the factory would be able to see him more clearly than they would even in the daytime. He needed to get inside. Fast.

When he was quite certain that no one was present in the room beyond the door, Hart took off his sodden leather jacket, laid it over the shattered frame, and scissored his way inside. He shrugged the jacket back on again for warmth. He was already shivering despite the relative balminess of the night. His hand had gone from just throbbing to painfully aching.

Hart avoided the residue of broken glass inside the doorway as best he could and squelched across the factory office towards an open door on the far side of the room. The office lights were off, but the glow from the next room illuminated a haphazard pile of cardboard boxes that had toppled down and were now half-blocking the exit.

Hart came at the doorway from an angle, intending to use the boxes as camouflage. Halfway across the floor he began to pick up male voices from the room beyond. He ducked behind one of the fallen boxes and tried to discern what was being said. But the voices were too far away, and his German too basic, to make any useful inferences.

Hart crept as close to the door as he dared. It was only then that he saw the blood. It was lit up by a direct shaft of light, which was somehow managing to find its way between two of the boxes. Hart reached down and touched it. It was drying fast, but it was still damp enough to leave a ghostly imprint on his fingertip.

Hart edged back into the shadows. What had happened here? That it was Amira's blood he had no doubt. Why else was her phone not switched on? Had the boxes fallen on her? Or had she been surprised after breaking in? Maybe she had cut herself climbing over the doorframe, just as he had, and was still at liberty somewhere? Whatever had happened, she was in trouble. The mass of cars and the three o'clock in the morning strobe-lit exterior of the factory attested to that fact. Hart knew that he must contact the police. Now. And to hell with Amira's scoop.

He took out his phone and checked for a signal. The VDU screen was a uniform grey, like a television set once the channel has gone dead for the night. Hart gave the phone a shake and tried again. He was now able to make out a definite waterline behind the plastic shield. Damn it to hell. He'd been immersed in water for more than thirty metres with the phone still in his pocket. What had he expected? It was a cheap over-the-counter job. Hardly waterproof. The sort of crap that wouldn't even survive a four-foot drop from a tabletop.

Hart put the phone back in his pocket. Maybe it would shake itself like a dog later on and come back to life? In the interim, he needed to do something. He could hardly sit here on the floor until someone found him.

Hart looked about. Straight above him was an old-fashioned transom window, designed to allow light to filter between the warehouse and the office. Hart stood up and began to construct a stepladder out of the boxes, layering first four, then three, then two, so that he'd have something resembling a pyramid to climb up on. Some of the boxes were surprisingly heavy, as though they contained sacks of chemicals. The hefting restarted the bleeding in his hand.

When he was satisfied that the structure might hold his weight, Hart eased himself up the boxes until his eye was parallel to the transom. He now had a perfect view of the interior of the warehouse. He counted a dozen men in the room beyond, standing about fifty feet from him. Udo Zirkeler was at the centre, dressed in some sort of black uniform. He was shouting at one of the men and pointing to something on the ground below them. But Zirkeler's body was masking the object he was pointing at.

Hart shifted to one side to get a better look. Just as he was settling into a more strategical position, he felt the boxes below him shift, as if one of them was only partially filled and had given way under the deadweight above it. Hart threw out an arm to steady himself against the transom frame, but it was too late. The boxes collapsed like a deck of cards, with Hart leading the way.

A split second before he fell, Hart was able to see that the object curled up on the ground at Zirkeler's feet was Amira Eisenberger.

FIFTY-NINE

Hart didn't hang around to see what effect his fall would have on Zirkeler's men. He sprinted back through the office, straddled the door, hovered for a moment between the lake and the forest, and chose the lake. He could hear his pursuers pounding across the warehouse floor behind him. He had counted twelve of them. If he headed for the forest, they would encircle him. The lake was his only chance.

Hart made for the jetty. He pounded over the slats and threw himself into the electro-boat. Zirkeler and his gang were fifty yards behind him and closing fast. Hart cast off the mooring line, switched on the motor, and then rammed the shift into forwards. The electro-boat inched away from the dock. A brisk walk would have been faster.

One of Zirkeler's men took a running header from the jetty behind him. He hit the water in a classic racing dive. In three strokes he was nearly up to the stern of the electro-boat. Hart threw the fluke anchor at him. The anchor glanced off the
man's shoulder. The man snatched hold of the anchor line and began to pull himself, hand over hand, towards the retreating boat. Hart picked up the emergency oar and brought it down hard on the man's head. He went under.

Hart heard the roar of a powerful marine engine from inside the boathouse.

‘Oh shit.'

By this time, the electro-boat was riding almost parallel to the moored sailing boat with the shipped mast. Hart knew that he had only moments in which to act. He stripped off his belt and secured the electro-boat's steering wheel to the forwards shift lever. He estimated that the electro-boat would pass within about five feet of the moored sailing boat. Hart waited for the right moment and then slipped into the water, keeping his silhouette as low to the gunwale as he could. Zirkeler's men were manhandling open the boathouse doors. Maybe they wouldn't see him?

Hart paddled round to the far side of the sailing boat and ducked under its hull. The unmanned electro-boat continued on at a stately five knots in the direction of Tegernsee. Hart offered up a heartfelt prayer to the Lady of the Lake.

A thirty-foot Riva Slipper Launch roared out of the boathouse, packed with Zirkeler's men. Twenty seconds took it past the moored sailing boat and out into the lake.

Hart struck for the shore, the Riva's wake buffeting him from side to side as he swam. The picture of Amira lying curled up on the ground at Zirkeler's feet was replaying itself in his head. He reached the jetty and sprinted up the
plank-board walkway towards the factory. He didn't bother looking behind him. Whatever would be, would be.

He reached the shattered door. Zirkeler and his men had left it wide open. Hart took the pistol from his pocket and held it out in front of him. He sidestepped round the door. There was no one on guard in the outer office.

Hart strode the length of the room, hesitated for a moment by the door where the boxes had collapsed, and then charged through regardless.

Two young men were standing over Amira. He recognized them from the Gasthof zur Hirschtal car park. They'd been the ones accompanying Zirkeler when Frau Erlichmann's grandson and his friends had staged their piece of theatre.

Hart waved the pistol at them. ‘Both of you. On the floor. Now.'

Jochen looked across at Sibbe. He spoke in German. ‘What do we do now? He has a pistol.'

Hart replied in English. ‘What you do now is you lie down on the floor with your hands and legs spread out like starfish. Wounded or unwounded. It's your choice. I haven't got time to argue with you.' Hart levelled his pistol at the boys to back up his threat. ‘You're furthest away.' He pointed the gun at Sibbe. ‘You get it first. And don't pretend you don't understand me. That's the way to dusty death.' He kept the barrel moving between the two of them so that neither of the boys could get a close look at it.

When he saw them begin to drop, he sank to one knee and felt for a pulse on Amira's neck. But the throbbing from his
damaged hand and the residual cold from his swim meant that he could feel nothing.

‘What did you fuckers do to her?'

Sibbe was already stretched out on the floor. He looked relieved to be taking orders again. He craned his head backwards to answer. ‘We didn't do anything to her. It was Lenzi. He lashed out at her in the dark and knocked her out. It was lucky you came in when you did. Udo was talking about putting her in a cage and locking her in the laboratory. Like a human guinea pig. We weren't happy with that. But Udo never listens to us about anything. It's just a waste of breath talking to him.'

Hart's stomach was knotted with anxiety. He felt almost nauseous. ‘I want you to get up again. Both of you. You're going to carry her out to the cars between you. She needs a hospital. Fast.'

Jochen shook his head. ‘You'll never make it. Udo will come back. Then he will kill you both. Then he will kill us for letting you take her.'

‘Pick her up, I said.'

Jochen was the first to get up. He shrugged and signalled to Sibbe. A brief shake of the head as if to say, ‘Why bother? We're doomed either way.'

Hart saw the movement. ‘Pick her up. If you don't, I will shoot each one of you in the knee.'

‘Then you will never get her out of here.'

‘But I'll have the satisfaction of knowing that you are both crippled for life.'

Sibbe helped Jochen to his feet. Both boys were white-faced. Sibbe reached down and took Amira's feet. Jochen took her shoulders.

‘Right. Get a move on. I can hear the Riva coming back.'

The two boys carried Amira towards the main factory entrance.

Hart kept darting looks behind him. He expected Zirkeler and his men to come running into the warehouse at any moment. He had counted nine on the Riva. Ten with Zirkeler. Ten too many.

When they were out by the cars, Hart made a quick inspection for keys. Not a single car was unlocked.

‘Head up towards the road.' He waved with his pistol.

‘Believe me. This is not a good idea. Udo will be mad as hell.'

‘I am mad as hell already.'

‘But you are not Udo.'

Hart shepherded the two boys and their burden up the track towards the main road. He was counting on Amira having her car keys on her. The Auto Union, he knew, would be less than useless in a road pursuit.

Hart heard the clatter of boots on the wooden slats of the jetty. Zirkeler and his party were less than a hundred metres behind them, heading for the rear of the factory. Hart and his party still hadn't been seen, thanks to the false darkness at the edge of the spotlighted area.

‘Move, damn you!' Hart hissed at the two boys.

As they reached the crest of the hill, the four of them were
bathed in headlights from the road. Hart threw up his arm to shade his eyes. Had Amira managed to call the police before she was attacked? Maybe whoever was heading towards them would agree to spirit him and Amira away?

The car approaching them slewed across the track, effectively blocking them in.

Hart straight-armed the pistol out ahead of him. ‘Get out of the car. Now. Keep your hands in the air where I can see them. Don't touch the ignition.'

Hart reached the driver's side of the car. All his concentration was on whoever was inside.

The two boys behind him exchanged glances. They laid their cargo almost tenderly onto the ground and sprinted away from the factory and towards the main road.

Hart let them go. It was probably the most sensible move the two of them had made in their entire lives. Now he had only the man in the driver's seat to think about.

‘You.' He waved his absurd pre-First World War pistol at the driver, who was already halfway out of the car. ‘You follow them. Do not head towards the factory. This way you don't get shot.'

‘Ich spreche kein Englisch.'
The man was grinning.

Hart brought the barrel of the Roth-Steyr down across his temple. The man pitched forward onto the gravel. Hart grabbed the collar of his shirt and dragged him away from the car, towards a drainage ditch. The man was still struggling, but ineffectually.

Hart doubled back and gathered Amira in his arms. She was moving almost languidly now, like a person drifting in deep
water. ‘I've got you. I'm getting you out of here. You're going to be all right.' His voice lacked conviction. Its susurration was almost lost in the pre-dawn emptiness.

He cast a backwards glance towards the factory. Men were getting into cars and doors were slamming. There was to be no more pursuing him on foot. Everyone had seen the headlights on the hill and knew what they might portend.

His new car was a nondescript Ford. On the upside, he estimated that it was a good forty-five years younger than the Auto Union. On the downside, it probably boasted about one hundred brake horsepower. Some of the cars he had seen parked in front of the factory would be double that.

Hart gunned the engine and headed towards the highway. He could see the reflection from the headlights behind him swooping and skating off the trees above his head.

When he reached the main road he turned left, back towards Bad Wiessee. Effi would know which was the nearest hospital. And her house had been specially designed to keep out intruders – she'd told him as much, and explained some of the security workings to him. Hart was a realist. He knew that trying to outrun six or seven more powerful cars than his own was a lost cause. They'd have him off the road in under two kilometres. Better to head for somewhere he knew. He and Effi could barricade themselves upstairs whilst they were waiting for the police.

He also remembered noticing what had looked like a shotgun cabinet in Effi's father's study. He would get the key from her. From the top of the stairs, with a suitable barrier in place, the three of them could fend off a small army.