The Templar Prophecy (15 page)

THIRTY-FOUR

Effi Rache sat between her two girlfriends at the Gasthof zur Hirschtal and tried not to look at the man dining alone at the window table ten feet away from her. But each time she looked away, her attention was drawn back to him again. There was something familiar about him. Some distant memory associated with the way he looked.

‘Do you know who he is?' she whispered to her friend, Margrit Hanauer. ‘I've seen him before. I know it. Is he an actor?'

Margrit leant to one side and opened her handbag. As she did so she glanced across at the man. ‘No. But he's handsome enough. He looks like Brad Pitt. Only with a widow's peak instead of a straight hairline. Do you fancy him, then? Do you want me to go over and fetch him for you?'

Effi punched Margrit lightly under the table. ‘Don't be so stupid.' But she kept on looking at him. It would come back to her eventually, this elusive memory. But why didn't he look up?
Everybody knew who she was. The other diners had clocked her straight away. But he seemed lost in whatever he was reading and didn't appear to know that she was in the room.

A flurry began on a table at the far side of the panelled dining room. Effi glanced over. Three young men were eating Sauerbraten and drinking steins of beer with schnapps chasers. One of the young men was pointing across to her and saying something in a loud voice to his companions, who were trying to restrain him.

Effi was used to this. People either supported her or hated her. There was no middle ground. This meant that she encountered an equal mixture of anger and adulation everywhere she went. It rarely got out of hand, though. The Bavarians still held to the habits of formal courtesy that they had inherited from their forebears. But politics fuelled by drink was another matter entirely.

The boy made as if to get up from his seat but his friends dragged him down again. Margrit rolled her eyes, and Effi's other friend, Alena, made a face and took out her phone. ‘Shall I call Udo?'

‘God, no. We involve that little shit and our name is mud. He'd probably wreck the place and lose us fifty votes. Let these people dig their own grave. They don't need any help from us.'

The uproar was getting worse. The other diners had become aware of the problem and were glancing across the dining room with a mixture of disapproval and apprehension. The manageress was preparing to involve herself. One of the chefs had emerged from the kitchen and was monitoring proceedings.

The young man broke away from his companions and made across the floor towards Effi's table.

‘Oh God. Maybe you had better call Udo after all.'

Alena ducked down and began making the call.

‘You fucking fascist whore.' The young man was shouting as he walked. He was pointing his finger at Effi. ‘You know who this bitch is, everybody? She's the person who is trying to send Germany seventy years into the past. She's trying to turn back the clock to the good old Hitlerzeit.'

The manageress had reached the young man by this time and had put out a hand to calm him down, but he shrugged her off and kept walking.

‘She wants all the Turks out. The Poles out. The Romanians out. She wants the Jews out, and the Muslims out, and the gays and lesbians out. She probably wants you all out too. She wants to keep Germany for herself and her cronies. Well, I know her little plan. We're not going to let her in. You mustn't either. We've been here before. We don't want to go down that path again.'

He had reached Effi's table by this time. He hammered on it with his hand.

Effi and her girlfriends stood up. Effi's face was white with rage, but she refused to back away. Her girlfriends stood a little behind her and to one side. Alena had finished making her call and slipped her phone back into her handbag.

Effi took a step forward and made as if to walk past her aggressor towards the exit.

It was then that the young man hit her. It wasn't a hard
blow – more like a lazy slap. But the sound echoed through the dining room like a thunderclap.

Hart stood up. He approached the young man from the rear, snatched his arms from behind him, and eased upwards, so that both arms were straightened out to their full extent and pushing against the shoulder sockets.

‘Do you understand English?'

‘
Ja. Ja.'
The boy seesawed his head. His eyes were wide open and his lips drawn back in pain.

‘If you move a muscle I'll dislocate your arms. I mean this.' Hart looked towards Effi. Their eyes met for the first time. ‘This man struck you without provocation. There are witnesses. Do you intend to prosecute?'

Effi shook her head. ‘No. He didn't really hurt me. He only surprised me, that's all. It was nothing.' Her English was lightly accented and fluent. Finishing-school English. She spoke deliberately, with an emphasis on the consonants. The tone she took made it clear to everybody that she wished to avoid a scandal, whether they understood English or not.

Hart ducked his head towards the young man's companions. ‘One of you pay the bill. The other one come over here. Hands held out where I can see them. Then you take him and you leave. If you turn round before you get to the door, or begin shouting again, or cause any trouble at all, the manageress will call the police. We'll see which car you leave in. We'll have the number. So it won't take long for them to come calling.'

Both boys nodded. One of them got out his wallet and began counting out some money on the table. The other
couldn't seem to decide whether to make for the door or go and rescue his friend.

‘Don't spend too long thinking about it. Come over here and take him off my hands. And I repeat, if either of you makes a single aggressive move, this thing will escalate to the next stage. There'll be no comeback from that. Is that clear?'

The boys put on surly faces, but neither showed any hint of intended aggression. One of the boys walked towards Hart and stopped a few paces away from him.

‘Here. He's yours.' Hart released the boy with a light shove.

The boy turned round. For one moment it looked as though he intended to continue his rant.

Hart opened his hands expectantly. He never took his eyes off the boy's face. ‘You're what – seventeen? Eighteen? Take this any further and you'll wreck your life. Walk out the door and you can make up any story you want about today. Show off to your friends. Play the hero. But in here, things are real. There are witnesses. Why not pretend you're a grown-up for a change?'

Hart turned round and walked back to his table. He picked up his book and began to read. From time to time he spooned a forkful of food into his mouth. He could feel the atmosphere simmering and seething around him.

It was only when the clapping began from the other diners that Hart realized the boys had taken the hint and made good their escape. He ducked his head a little in acknowledgment of the applause, and then went back to reading his book. The boys glared at him through the window as they passed by outside.

‘Excuse me.'

Hart looked up.

‘I want to thank you. For what you did.' Effi Rache was looking at him intently.

Hart could feel the testosterone triggered by the altercation still surging through him. Effi Rache was a beautiful woman. Physically – apart from her hair colouring, for he had always mistrusted blondes and favoured brunettes – she was close to his ideal. Deep-blue eyes, an emphatic waist, small breasts, and a pronounced bottom, which her spray-on jeans did little to conceal. She stood beside him, flanked by her two clones, and he could literally smell the sex on her. The feeling astonished him. He wanted to grab her by the hair, force her head back, and claim his prize. The feeling was both primitive and overwhelming.

Hart stood up. He allowed no shadow of what he felt to pass over his face, but the sexual chemistry between the two of them was palpable. He was aware of Effi's girlfriends looking quizzically at her. If this was the woman responsible for the deaths of his father, Santiago and Colel Cimi, then fate had afforded her a very efficient form of camouflage.

‘You are English. So you probably do not know who I am. My name is Elfriede Rache.' She held out her hand.

Hart took it. ‘I'm English, yes. But of German descent. My name is Johannes von Hartelius. And of course I know who you are. Our grandparents were neighbours once upon a time.'

‘So you've come back to visit?'

‘No. I've come back to claim my castle.'

THIRTY-FIVE

Udo Zirkeler had only been able to gather up Sibbe and Jochen out of his usual gang at such short notice – his two weakest reeds. This was typical. There would come a time when he'd have a barracks-full to choose from, like his grandfather had had before him. But that was far into the future. For the time being, he would have to make do with what he had.

He drew up in front of the Gasthof zur Hirschtal and ordered his men to pile out. It wasn't often that Effi called on him personally any more, and he wanted to milk the moment for all it was worth. Effi's friend Alena liked him, he knew. If he stayed close to her he would stay close to Effi. Then he could dump Alena when things got interesting.

Effi and the two women were talking to a man in the parking place of the Gasthof. Was this the guy who was causing the trouble? Udo took an instant dislike to him. The man had the patrician look that always hit Udo's top note. Tall, limber,
good-looking. The sort of man who knew the world was his oyster, and wanted champagne with it. Officer class.

Udo ran towards the group, Sibbe and Jochen trailing in his wake.

Alena broke away towards him, one hand held high to slow him down. ‘It's all right, Udo. They're gone. This man chased them off for us.'

Udo pulled up near the group, panting. He was not a tall man, but he was heavily muscled, thanks to endless workouts and protein mixes, and running was no longer his forte.

‘Chased them off?'

‘There were three of them. One of them gave us a lot of grief. The baron saw them off.'

‘The baron?' Udo's heart sank. The man was a fucking baron. Good-looking and a baron. And he'd seen off Effi's assailants. Jealousy flared through Udo's body like a poison. ‘Where are the bastards? I'll follow them home and turn them into rissoles. Do you have their number plate? I'll call Munter at police HQ. He owes us a favour.'

‘No, you won't.' Effi turned away from the baron to concentrate on Udo. As she did so she flared her eyes at Udo in a clear message that he should shut up.

Udo was immune to messages. He could see the man looking at Effi possessively. See his eyes travelling across Effi's bottom. Resting on the back of Effi's head. Udo knew just what to look for in his competitors. Knew just how their minds worked. His own worked in exactly the same way. When men did gallant things, they expected prizes.

‘Why won't I?'

‘Because we can't afford bad publicity before the European elections. And any public episode where someone turns against the LB is bad publicity. We can't win. Our opponents rub their hands in glee and applaud our aggressor. That's the sort of logic we must put up with. We must remain whiter than white.'

‘I'll drive you home, then. Sibbe and Jochen can accompany your two friends.'

‘No, thank you, Udo. Margrit will take Alena back in her car. The baron is going to drive me home in mine. It seems we are neighbours again.'

‘Neighbours again? What are you talking about?'

‘I'm sorry, Udo, my mistake. May I present Johannes Freiherr von Hartelius. He is staying at the Alpenruh whilst he negotiates about the future of his castle. I believe his great-grandfather employed your great-grandfather in his Freikorps after the First World War, so you two will have a great deal in common. Life is strange, isn't it? The baron is the very man I have been wanting to meet.'

THIRTY-SIX

‘Why are you staying at the Alpenruh with that ghastly old woman? You could be staying at Bachmair's. Or the Überfahrt.'

‘It's an odd thing to do, I know, but my grandparents loved the place. They used to go there in its heyday, during the 1930s. I thought it would be amusing.'

‘But she's a communist.'

‘She must be nearly ninety. I suspect she's no longer a threat to the German state. But I'll keep my eyes and ears open nonetheless.'

‘Now you're teasing me. But I'm serious.'

‘I know you are. And so am I. I really will keep a watchful eye out in case she's passing messages to the Russians. I suspect she'll do it by hanging out sheets in a certain order. Like Morse code. I think I saw that once in an early Hitchcock film. It's a cast-iron technique, I gather.'

Effi had been evaluating and then matching her response to
what she believed men wanted all her life. This was how she got what she wanted. She knew better, therefore, than to follow that line of argument any further. ‘May I ask you another question? But you give me a serious answer this time. Agreed?'

Hart smiled. ‘You can ask me anything you like. But I can't promise to be serious.' He was stretched out in an original 1950s Charles Eames armchair, his feet up on the rest. He had a glass of Delamain XO cognac in his hand. He'd passed on the Second World War vintage SS
Stumpen
cigar from her late father's humidor, which Effi had offered him with an ironical laugh. No point in overdoing it at this stage. But he didn't feel as relaxed as he looked.

Effi Rache's drawing room ran the full length of the main floor of the house. Everything in it was either black or white. White carpets, freshly painted white walls, black furniture, black ornaments. The kitchen had been shunted downstairs, where the cellars had originally been. A swooping open staircase led up to what Hart assumed were two further floors of bedrooms and an attic.

‘The question I want to ask is how do you speak no German? Your family is one of the oldest in Bavaria. And this is a country of old families. Our Wittelsbach kings first ruled in 1180. Your title stems from ten years later. Your grandfather was a war hero. Your grandmother one of our greatest female fliers. Where have you been all this time? What happened to your father, for instance?'

Hart had known it was coming, but he was still unprepared for it. He was not a gifted actor. His forte had always been humour.
The light riposte that deflected attention from more serious underlying issues. The sort of wit that went down so badly with Amira. There was a part of him now that wished he hadn't broken off contact with her quite so abruptly. She'd been right on the button when she'd told him preparation was everything in these cases. It would have been comforting to know that she was somewhere in the background, watching out for him.

‘But how do you know I am who I say I am?' He shrugged. ‘I might be an impostor. I might have made up my name on the spur of the moment just to impress you.'

Effi burst out laughing. She stood up and walked towards the floor-to-ceiling library section at the far end of her drawing room. ‘Did you see me looking at you oddly before that little brat started shouting at me?'

‘No. I was reading. I didn't notice you at all.'

Effi gave Hart a little pout from across her shoulder. She was aware of Hart's sexual interest in her, and was pleased to be able to display herself to him in a domestic setting. She held no illusions whatsoever about the effect of her beauty and desirability on men. They were a given. But it was Alpha males that appealed to her. Effi had no time for losers. ‘Well, I was. Staring at you, I mean. Because you reminded me of someone. Someone I have been looking at all my life.'

Hart leant forward. What was she talking about? How could she have been looking at him all her life? He dropped his feet off the Eames foot-rest. Then he stood up, placed his glass of cognac on the table, and followed Effi through to the library section.

It didn't take him long to realize that Effi's way of walking – the movement of her hips, the sway of her bottom, the bounce of her hair – was having the most ridiculous effect on him. Maybe it was the mixture of cognac and beer after a long spell of virtual teetotalism? Maybe it was the fact that he hadn't had sex for more than three months and he missed it badly? Or maybe it was sheer bloody perversity? Whatever the reason, Hart found himself speculating on what Effi might look like beneath her spray-on jeans, and her boots, and her Cracker Barrel blouse. Looking at her, as she walked in front of him, it was inconceivable that she'd had anything to do with the murder of his father. The thug who had come running up with his two acolytes when they were in the car park? Him, yes. But her? Never.

A vision of Amira flashed through his consciousness and he felt a momentary pang of guilt. But she'd made it clear she didn't want him any more. Thought he wished to own her, when nothing was further from his mind. And their affair had been something of an on/off concern over the last ten years. Off more than on, lately. In fact, in the past twelve months it couldn't even be called an affair. More a sort of extended farewell.

Effi stopped at a gap between two floor-to-ceiling book-shelves. The actual wall was invisible from the rest of the room, so that one had to stand directly in front of it to see inside. And it could be covered, at will, by a sliding bookcase. The wall space itself was festooned with photographs, almost like a shrine. Hart recognized Goebbels, Himmler, Bormann and Speer, all posing unsmilingly and in official black and
white. In each photograph they stood near a black-haired man in civilian clothes. He, too, was unsmiling, as if there were more important attributes to life than surface charm. In just one photograph – the near-ubiquitous one alongside Adolf Hitler – was the man wearing what amounted to a uniform. And this time he was grinning broadly. As if the Führer had just cracked a very good joke.

Maybe Hitler had just explained to him about the Wannsee conference? Hart squinted at the snapshots over Effi's shoulder. All I know for certain, he told himself, is that when she turns round to look at me I must pretend that such a wall and such photographs are part of the normal fabric of my life. My grandfather and my grandmother inhabited this world. I must act as if I am used to it. That I have come to terms with it long ago.

‘That is my grandfather, Heinrich Rache. This is the memorial my father made to him.'

Despite all his resolutions, Hart found himself lost for words. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. ‘But he is dark-haired, and you are blonde.'

‘My grandmother was a Jargenried. Jargenried women always throw blonde children. That is why my grandfather chose her.'

‘Ah.'

‘But my grandfather's photo is not the one I want you to see.' She bent down.

Effi's perfume floated up to him in waves. Hart suspected that she had taken the time to freshen up whilst she was out
in the kitchen getting his drink. The position she was now taking, crouched beneath him and hunched a little forward, was inflammatory in the extreme, and plainly done with intent. It meant that Effi's jeans were stretched tightly across the rounded swell of her buttocks so that Hart could just make out the braided top of her red silk underwear poking over the hem. He moved a little closer.

‘Here it is. I knew I would find it.' Effi stood up.

Hart had virtually boxed her into the shrine by this time.

When Effi realized how close Hart was standing to her she gave a triumphant little smile. ‘It was on the very bottom row. Just where a child would be able to see it.' She swivelled the photograph round and held it to her chest like a school prize.

It was a wider-angled copy of the same photograph Hart had found beneath his father's desk in Antigua. This was the uncropped version, however, with four figures on it instead of two. An out-of-uniform Heinrich Rache was standing off to one side with a grotesquely fat, exotically uniformed Hermann Goering. Both men were beaming possessively at the two beautiful people standing by the aeroplane.

Effi touched the photograph with her fingernail, carefully picking out Johannes von Hartelius's head. ‘Your grandfather.' She placed the same finger on the bridge of Hart's nose. ‘You. No difference. Two peas in a pod. What do you say to that, Baron?'

Hart caught Effi's finger in his hand and bit down on it, as a cat will bite down on its owner's hand when it wishes to play. Effi pretended to snatch it away, but Hart held onto
it, making a tunnel of his own hand. The symbolism was explicit and unmistakeable. Hart held Effi's gaze with his own in order to drive the message even further home. ‘You have me bang to rights. Did you like this photograph when you were a child?'

Effi backed a little tighter against the wall. She canted her hips marginally forward so that she wouldn't disturb the photographs behind her. Just far enough, in fact, to confirm that Hart was genuinely excited by her closeness to him. When she was satisfied that she had his complete attention, she said, ‘I thought it was the most romantic thing I had ever seen. I wanted to be your grandmother. In that exact same flying suit she is wearing. With all the fur around the collar. But naked underneath. And I wanted to have a man like your grandfather loving me.'

‘That doesn't sound like a little girl talking.'

‘I matured early.'

‘I can see that.'

‘Do you like what you see, Baron?'

‘I don't know yet. I must see more of it before I decide.'

‘How are we going to arrange that?'

‘I can think of one approach that might work.' Hart leant forward. He cradled Effi's head in his hand and ran the fingers of his other hand through her hair, smoothing it away from her forehead. Then he guided her gently towards him.

Effi let him take the lead. Dominant in her public life, she enjoyed feeling dominated in private. Men who were afraid of asserting their masculinity disgusted her. She allowed Hart to
kiss her. Then, after only a moment's expedient submission, she kissed him passionately back.

He responded instantly, crushing her against the wall, not caring if her grandfather's photo collection fell off in a heap or was smashed to smithereens.

Effi writhed beneath him, her hands entwined in his hair.

Hart ground his hips into hers, the full length of his body measured against hers as if she was already on the floor, and he on top of her.

Outside the house, Udo Zirkeler circled like an angry lion. As the minutes and then the hours ticked by, he became more and more incensed. When the lights went on in the upstairs bedroom, he kicked out at the nearest thing he could find, which happened to be a birdhouse. The birdhouse snapped in two. Udo stamped on it, then heeled what remained of the birdhouse into the ground.

There was little chance of anyone hearing. Haus Walküre, like all well-made Bavarian homes, had double-paned windows against the long winters. And Effi's windows were firmly sealed against Udo. Just like her heart.