The Doomsday Testament (19 page)

A hand ripped the tape from his mouth.

‘Get up,’ Sarah hissed. ‘We don’t have much time.’ She turned him over and worked at the cuffs that were biting into his wrist. Christ, Houdini had nothing on her. With a click they came free. Then he remembered Gustav. Of course, Gustav would have had the key.

‘Gustav?’

‘He’s out, but not for long. Not like this guy.’

Jamie sat up and she helped him to his feet. Only now did he notice that the tall man was beside him,
lying
very still and with his head at an awkward angle. He had blood on his face and more was leaking from the back of his head to form a dark pool on the cobbles. He heard a gasp from above, and turned to find the German museum guide Magda looking down from the bridge, the expression on her face a mix of fear and horror. She was out of uniform in jeans and a tan jacket over a white T-shirt, and still held the shovel she must have used to brain Gustav. His mind told him she shouldn’t be there, and neither should the shovel, but Sarah didn’t give him time to think about it. She hauled him up the slope and across the road towards their escape route.

‘Hurry.’

Magda dropped her ironmongery and took Jamie’s other arm. ‘I came back for my keys,’ the German girl explained breathlessly. ‘I thought I had dropped them somewhere. Then I heard noises from the
Obergruppenführersaal
. I was frightened, but I decided to check. It was my duty, yes?’ Yes, Jamie thought, and thank Christ for that. ‘These men, they were saying terrible things. I think they would kill you both. So I had to do something. I am not brave, but I could not let it happen here again. You understand?’

Before he could answer Sarah muttered a curse and turned back.

‘Keep going,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll catch up.’

While Magda kept him upright on legs that still felt like rubber bands, Jamie glanced back to see Sarah rummaging beside the dark lump that must have been
Gustav
. As she did, a lamp clicked on in the courtyard and she was instantly bathed in bright yellow light. She straightened and ran towards them carrying her rucksack by its straps in her right hand. They had almost reached the trees and the slope that would take them back to the car, when they heard the first shout. Jamie would have stopped to help Sarah, but Magda pushed him forwards over the lip of the slope and into the first bushes. As he raised a hand to help her down, the blonde girl turned to check Sarah’s position. Apparently satisfied that the other girl would make it safely, she reached out to take Jamie’s hand. Her eyes met his and he could have sworn there was a twinkle in them; the eyes of someone caught in a great adventure and not quite sure what to make of it. Lips pursed as if she was trying not to smile at the ludicrousness of their situation.

It was just the faintest noise. A soft thud and the sort of ‘pffff’ you hear when compressed air escapes as a mechanic tests tyre pressure. Jamie felt fine liquid spray his face and Magda let out a short, outraged gasp. He would swear that he never heard a shot. A small spot of red appeared over the left breast of the museum guide’s T-shirt and he watched disbelievingly as it grew wider. Without another sound Magda toppled forward into his arms.

‘Move. They’re coming.’ Sarah came down the slope at the run, but slowed when she saw Magda’s limp body.

Jamie shook his head. ‘I—’

‘We have to keep moving, Jamie.’ Urgency made her breathless. ‘And you need to keep it together. It won’t do
Magda
any good if Frederick gets his hands on us again. Take her to the car and I’ll try to slow them.’

‘How?’

She shook her head. ‘Don’t argue. Just go.’

Reluctantly, he stumbled down the hill with the injured girl in his arms. His storm-battered mind fought to understand everything that had happened. A few minutes earlier they were about to be tortured to death. He had killed a man, or he might have killed him. Magda had been shot. He tried to check her pulse, but there was no response and he could feel the dampness on his chest where her blood had soaked through his shirt. With a feeling of hopelessness, he laid the body at the base of the slope, avoiding the dull, accusing eyes. My fault, he thought. I killed her. Not Frederick. Not Sarah. Jamie Saintclair killed her with his idiotic quest. And now . . . ?

The firecracker snap of a small-calibre weapon, followed instantly by a scream of agony, broke through his grief. It was a man’s scream. He bundled himself into the car and a moment later Sarah tumbled out of the darkness and jumped in beside him, throwing her rucksack on the floor at her feet. He put the engine into gear, accelerating away before the door was properly closed and praying that Frederick hadn’t left anyone to watch the road. Sarah glanced into the back seat and choked back a sob. ‘Where is Magda?’

He kept his eyes on the road. Couldn’t have met hers even if he hadn’t been driving. ‘I thought it was for the best. We wouldn’t . . . She was dead. Frederick will have
ways
of tidying things like this up. He can’t afford to have his holy of holies splashed all over the front page of
Bild Zeitung
. Magda . . .’ He shook his head. What else was there to say?

The adrenalin surge from whatever had happened on the hillside was fading and Sarah slumped forward with her head on the dashboard. Her voice was muffled so he could barely make out the individual words.

‘I shot a man.’

‘What?’ His voice sounded shrill in his own ears, but he remembered the scream and realized that he’d already known. He modified the question. ‘Why?’

‘To delay them. They were coming. They would have got to the car before we could escape. So I shot him in the leg.’

‘That seems fair enough.’ Not in the real world, maybe, but certainly in this madhouse they had stumbled into.

She raised her head and he knew she was looking at him. ‘I took the gun from the one you . . . the one who fell. I grew up with guns. I learned to shoot when I was just a kid. I hid behind a tree and when he came past I pointed it at his leg and shot him.’

‘Frederick?’ he said hopefully.

She shook her head and began to cry. ‘Poor Magda.’

‘Yes, poor Magda.’

He drove for an hour, but the road signs might as well have been invisible. His eyes were more on the mirror than the road ahead and he switched between the autobahn, major roads and minor ones, taking exits
and
turns at random. He was confident they weren’t being followed. Hopefully.

‘Where are we going?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Not back to the hotel?’

‘No. They’d be waiting for us.’

‘Unless they thought we’d gone to the police?’

He shook his head. ‘The one I . . . the tall one. I think I recognized his face from earlier today. Near the hotel. He was in one of those blue and white police cars they have here.’

‘What do we do now?’

‘I don’t know.’ It was the second time he’d admitted as much. The truth was that he hadn’t known what he was doing right from the start.

‘So when are you going to tell me about this journal?’

THEY MUST HAVE
travelled south, because by the time they reached the outskirts of the small German town the sun was coming up over the hills to their left. A sign informed him he was entering Fulda, but left him little the wiser. He avoided directions to the town centre and instead looked for an industrial area where he knew he’d find one of those cheap hotels that lorry drivers use when they don’t want to sleep in their cabs; the type that caters for arrivals at any time of the day or night and the receptionist is too bored or too tired to ask questions. When he found it, he parked the little Japanese compact in the corner furthest away from the hotel building and part-shielded from the road by a pair of green recycling bins. Sarah’s face was deathly pale and from the set of her lips he knew she was thinking about Magda.

He switched off the engine and they sat in a silent purgatory of exhaustion and disbelief, allowing the minutes to pass.

‘Do you feel up to booking in?’ he said eventually.
‘They
may not be too fussy here, but I doubt I’ll be welcome looking like this.’

She turned to look at him, and he saw her flinch as she took in the blood that stained the front of his shirt and jacket. Her dark hair hung lank across her cheeks and weariness and grief had sharpened the planes of her face making her look like an urchin from a Dickens novel. She reached into a pocket to retrieve a tiny white handkerchief, spat on it and wiped at his face and cheeks. The gesture was almost motherly and he would have smiled except the linen came away pink and he remembered the wet spray as Magda had been shot. He felt as if he was going to be sick. Sarah’s frown deepened as she noticed something else. She reached up to the side of his head and gently searched amongst his hair. He felt a sharp pain as she tugged at some object embedded in his scalp and her hand came away holding a sliver of white.

‘Bloody hell.’

‘Upper left incisor, I’d say.’ They stared at it and suddenly they were both laughing, at first almost hysterically, but gradually the tension drained away as if someone had opened a valve.

‘Book a room for a week. If they’re suspicious they’ll want to get a couple of nights’ rent before they turn us in to anybody.’

‘You mean the cops?’

‘No, I mean anybody.’

The room was modern and clean. It had one double bed with a single bunk above, and just about enough room to sidle between the bed, a small chest of drawers and a sink that comprised the rest of the furniture. A sign informed them that the communal bathroom was along the hall. Jamie would have preferred a room on the upper floors, but this had been the only one available. It had a small square window, set high enough for privacy, which faced on to trees beyond the car park. Once Sarah had booked in and smuggled him past reception they had been too tired to feel anything but relief. Jamie closed the curtain while Sarah kicked off her shoes and lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. For a few moments he stood over her, wondering at the sheer resilience packed into that small, almost childlike body. He looked from the bed up to the bunk bed. To hell with it. He peeled off his bloodstained shirt, replaced it with the slightly less stained jacket and lay down beside her. Before he lost consciousness a little voice kept demanding: What the hell are we going to do now?

He was woken by someone blowing gently into his ear, which was a pleasant contrast to the dream where he had just been placed into an implement of torture straight out of the
Pit and the Pendulum
. Blearily, he opened his eyes and found himself under the scrutiny of two liquid orbs of gold-flecked walnut.

‘I hope you didn’t take any liberties while I was asleep, Jamie Saintclair.’ Sarah lay on her side with her head supported by her right hand, but he knew she
hadn’t
woken in that position because it was clear she had washed her hair and done those things that women do to their face that turns attractive into beautiful. She spoke lightly, but he felt a sizzle of electricity in the air that had nothing to do with the fact they were on the run. It struck him that now was the moment to act on the impulse he’d felt since virtually the first moment he’d cast eyes on her. Then he was struck by something even more fundamental.

‘What’s for breakfast?’

She swung herself off the bed and he raised himself as she produced two enormous pastries from a paper bag and complemented them with two cardboard cups that contained, if his nose didn’t deceive him, about a gallon each of tarry German coffee. ‘I’ve been busy. We’re in a town called Fulda.’

He nodded, remembering the sign from yesterday, or was it last night, or possibly this morning?

She nibbled delicately on her pastry. ‘Nice place, lots of great architecture according to the girl at the coffee house.’ Jamie stared at her. He’d assumed the food had come from somewhere in the hotel. He stood up and pulled back the curtain a fraction of an inch so that he could see across the gravel car park. She glared at him. ‘I’m not stupid, Jamie. I didn’t take any chances and nobody followed me back.’

He ignored her and continued his check. There didn’t seem to be anything unusual. No one sitting in cars reading yesterday’s newspaper. ‘It was still a risk.’

‘You’d rather not eat?’

He laughed and bit into the
kuchen
. It was sweet and flaky and when he added a tentative sip of scalding liquid he felt instantly revived. ‘I don’t plan to be here long enough to see the sights.’

‘I guessed that. So I washed your shirt – just don’t expect service like this every day, OK. But maybe you should . . . umm, clean up first and see what you can do with the jacket before you put it back on.’

The hint made him suddenly aware he was wearing yesterday’s underwear. He sniffed and caught a whiff of stale sweat and something else that was instantly recognizable, a mixture of rotting fish meal and wet metal; fear and blood. His fear. Magda’s blood. ‘We need new clothes.’

She nodded. ‘And a lot of other things. When we’ve eaten and you’ve freshened up, maybe we could talk about it?’

An hour later they were sitting on opposite sides of the bed with the two rucksacks between them. Sarah pulled out her laptop and linked to the hotel’s wi-fi connection.

‘I did a little research on this Vril thing our friend Frederick mentioned. It’s another of Himmler’s pet cults and all tied up with his obsession with the creation of the Aryan race. The cult was founded by a bunch of guys who’d read a nineteenth-century book called
The Coming Race
by some crazy English baron called Edward Bulwer-Lytton. It was a work of fiction that speculated on a long lost master race emerging to rule the world. You can see where we’re going here, huh?
The
Vril Society ticked all the boxes for Himmler, but the important thing for us is that the energy that gave the Vril their mythical powers was said to be from the Black Sun and the aim of the Vril Society was to find the key to that power.’

Jamie felt the room go cold. ‘So what exactly was the Black Sun? Obviously it wasn’t just a symbol.’