The Templar Prophecy (27 page)

SIXTY-TWO

Udo Zirkeler's men spread through the ground-floor level of Haus Walküre like a horde of locusts. Hart had a grandstand view of the bedlam from his position behind the makeshift barricade he and Effi had constructed at the top of the stairs. Thanks to the Z-bend construction of the staircase, they weren't as yet visible to the men below.

Hart motioned at the shotgun Effi was pointing at his chest. Then he pointed towards the spare bed frame blocking the stairwell. ‘Shall I take this down for you? I might be tempted to kick it onto Zirkeler's head otherwise. And I wouldn't want you to shoot me for such a pathetic reason as that.'

‘Leave it where it is. I don't want you moving.' Effi's concentration was fixed on Hart. She seemed entirely unmoved by the crashing and banging coming from downstairs as Zirkeler's men quartered the house.

An unwanted mental image came to Hart of what it must have been like for Jewish families when the SS or the Gestapo
came to round them up in the middle of the night. Or for the East German intelligentsia when the Stasi came to call. All thugs were alike, he decided. They clattered and shouted and wrecked things. They imposed themselves.

Hart turned his back on the chaos happening downstairs and faced Effi. They would reach the first floor soon. He wondered idly what form his death would take. A beating? A tumble down the stairs? Or would he and Amira be taken to another place entirely and involved in a fake road accident? He was sorry now that he had borrowed Frau Erlichmann's vintage Auto Union. It was unlikely, given their present situation, that she would get it back in quite the same pristine condition as before. ‘You didn't call the police, did you, Effi? Or the ambulance service? You were just talking into a dead phone.'

‘You are joking, surely?'

Hart gave a hollow laugh. ‘Yes. The joke does seem to be on me, doesn't it?' He met Effi's eyes directly for the first time since she had turned the shotgun on him. ‘I vanquished all my doubts about you, Effi. I suffocated them at birth. All my doubts about your party. About your politics. About your Nazi antecedents. I wouldn't listen to my friends. I wouldn't even listen to my own bloody instincts when every bone in my body was screaming “red flag” at me. How does it feel to pull the wool over someone's eyes so categorically, Effi? Does it give you a sense of power? Of dominion? I was so desperate to believe you were who I wanted you to be that I steered my own people in the wrong direction in order to protect you. What a fool you must have thought me.'

‘That's the understatement of the year. But you've got one thing wrong, Johnny. You weren't desperate to protect me. You were desperate to get inside my pants. I've rarely met a man as cock-driven as you. Men like you ought to be made to carry a warning sign. “Idiot on the prowl.”'

Hart shook his head from side to side like a man who has been sucker-punched in a bar brawl. He used the movement to disguise a quick glance down the stairs. Udo Zirkeler was striding up the staircase towards them, a broad grin on his face. Hart knew that if he was to have any chance of getting his point across, he needed to do it in a hurry.

‘Amira Eisenberger may be bleeding internally, Effi. If you don't get her to a doctor soon, it may be too late. She's a world-famous journalist. You do realize that, don't you? You might be able to duck out from under the other murders done in your name, but not this one. Her newspaper will crucify you if anything happens to her. You'll never be let alone. They'll bring you and your party down one way or the other. Don't let Zirkeler destroy you. Do something decent for a change. You can still pull this back from the brink if you act now. Shoot the bastard.'

Udo Zirkeler pushed the bedstead to one side and squeezed through the gap between it and the stair head. His SS uniform looked obscene against the studied modernity of Effi's show house. Like a scorpion on a piece of nougat, Hart decided.

Zirkeler clocked the situation between Effi and Hart and signalled to his men to wait downstairs for him. His smile was the smile of the victor.

‘Eisenberger, you say? That's a Jewish name, isn't it? She
will be no great loss to humanity, then. My grandfather used to call the Jews “worm-eaters”. You know why?'

Hart shook his head. ‘No. But I suspect you are about to tell me.' He was still looking at Effi. Urging her with his eyes to turn the gun on Zirkeler. But he knew she wouldn't. He felt disgusted with himself. With his own witlessness. With his self-serving blindness. He deserved to die. But Amira didn't.

Zirkeler gave Hart his best Burt Lancaster grin. ‘He saw a group of Yids one day scratching in the ground during a train stopover in Poland. This interested him. So he went over to take a look. The Yids extracted some wriggling red worms from the hole they had made. Fifteen centimetres long, he said. Like miniature snakes. Then they ate them. Just threw them down their throats like savages. Like you would throw back an egg. He told me their Adam's apples rose and fell like jackhammers.'

Hart stared at Zirkeler. He could feel himself seething. This was the man who had crucified his father. Who had returned to Guatemala to kill two innocent people because they might know something to his disadvantage.

‘That's what happens when you starve people, Udo. That's what happens when you strip them of their humanity and brutalize them.'

‘Jews have no humanity. You are labouring under a delusion.'

Hart took a deep breath. His right eye began to tick. All his attention was focused on Zirkeler. He needed to control himself and keep a lid on his temper, or Amira was lost. ‘So, now that we've got that bit out of the way, may I ask what you intend doing with us?'

‘What do you think?'

Hart shrugged. His neck felt as if two vices had been attached at either side of his trapezius muscles. ‘So that's why you want your men to stay downstairs? Are you sure they will go along with you so easily? I suspect most of them will never have killed before. How can you be certain they won't lose their nerve at the last moment and turn you in to the authorities? This is Germany, Udo. Not Guatemala. And Amira Eisenberger is a celebrated journalist. There's a crucial difference between beating someone up and killing them. One is called GBH and will fetch you five years, tops. The other is a capital offence and will get you life.' Hart began to shout so that the men downstairs could hear him. ‘This man is going to kill us. Are you going to stand by and watch this? You will be a part of it. Killing sticks to a person. You'll be accessories before the fact. You can say goodbye to your families. Your loved ones. Your lives.'

Udo Zirkeler snatched the .410 from Effi's hands and upended it, just as Hart had hoped he would, preparing to strike him in the face with the butt.

Hart dropped to one knee and drew the Roth-Steyr from beneath his jacket.

Zirkeler froze. Effi backed towards the bedroom.

‘Stand still. Both of you.' Hart swung the gun barrel in an arc. ‘Udo, order your men outside. And tell them to shut the fucking door behind them.'

Zirkeler laughed. ‘Why would I do that? I recognize the type of pistol you are holding. It's a Roth-Steyr. Must be a hundred
years old if it's a day. If you fire it, it will blow up in your face.'

Hart could feel his throat cramping with tension. When he spoke, his voice came out in a hoarse whisper. ‘Then why aren't you turning that .410 round, Udo? Two seconds would do it. I can't tell you how stupid you look standing there with your crappy little uniform and your inverted squirrel gun.' Hart straightened up from his crouch. He took a step backwards so that he would be out of range if Zirkeler changed his mind and tried to swing at him. ‘Drop the gun now, Udo. I would dearly love an excuse to kill you.'

Zirkeler glared at Hart. He stretched the wait to about half a minute, as though a part of him expected Hart to back down and lower his pistol out of sheer funk. Then he slowly unfolded his hands and placed the .410 on top of the upturned bed.

Hart backed up to the stair head so that the men downstairs could see his pistol. ‘Clear out of the house. All of you. The police are on their way. If you get out now, you've got a chance of not being caught up in this. If you stay put, you'll go to jail. It's a simple choice.'

Hart counted the men out the door. He made it seven. He tried to work out how many might be left inside, bearing in mind the two who had run away and the two he had injured near the factory. But it was useless. He could still be one or two out. He didn't dare usher his prisoners downstairs for fear of being bushwhacked.

‘Effi. Throw me your phone.'

‘I left it downstairs. Do you want me to go and fetch it?'

Zirkeler laughed. A single, vulpine bark. ‘What do you think
of your girlfriend now, eh? Do you mean to send her to jail too? Or are you simply going to shoot her? The police aren't coming. We both know that. Everything is still to play for here.'

Hart could see Zirkeler struggling with whether it was worth risking a malfunction of the pistol or not. The shotgun was on the far side of the bedstead, about three feet from his left arm. Hart remembered the rusted spring in the Roth-Steyr's ammunition clip. The three remaining bullets might have been in place since 1918. The bastard was probably right – it would blow up if used. Or simply misfire.

He waved the pistol at Zirkeler. ‘Back away.'

‘No. We are staying here. You will have to shoot us.'

Amira lurched through the bedroom door. Her face, save for a livid bruise on one temple and a three-inch graze on her chin, was as pale as a shroud.

Zirkeler turned round to face her. ‘Ah. The Jewess.'

‘Amira, stay where you are. Don't move.'

Amira stumbled forwards into the hallway, toppling to one knee.

Zirkeler twisted in place. At first it looked as though he might be going for the shotgun, but he went for Amira instead.

Hart gritted his teeth and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. The hammer was rusted solid. Hart tried to force it backwards with his thumb, but to no avail.

Effi sprinted past him, heading for the .410. Hart tripped her up. She struck the floor with a crash and went sprawling. Hart reached for the stock of the .410 and swung the shotgun round.

Zirkeler was holding his SS knife to Amira's throat. ‘Another impasse. No?'

Hart felt the absurdity of his position begin to overwhelm him. All these people are living in a fantasyland, he told himself. And I'm a part of it. I'm standing in a house in Bavaria wielding a squirrel gun, whilst a man wearing an SS uniform is holding a knife to Amira's neck. How did I get here? What am I doing? How do I get out of this without killing someone? Or getting killed myself?

Effi picked herself up off the floor. ‘How could you do that to me? I'm carrying your baby. You might have given me a spontaneous abortion.'

Hart's brain began to fizz and pop inside his head. ‘My baby? What are you talking about?'

‘I missed my period. And I never miss them. So I did a test. I was going to tell you later today over a bottle of champagne. You shouldn't have thrown me to the floor like that, Johnny.' Effi's voice had reverted to the tone he knew so well. A tone that promised the world and all its treasures to whoever succeeded in gratifying its owner. ‘You must think of our son's future now. This woman is almost dead. Let Udo dispose of her. Then you can join us. Marry me. Give him your name. What is her life compared to ours?'

Zirkeler let out another of his barking laughs. ‘He's made you pregnant, has he? And you want him to marry you? That's rich. I'm so happy for you both. You know she let me fuck her too, Englishman? You're not the only one who's pulled that particular chain. Far from it.'

Effi ignored him. ‘This baby is yours, Johnny. You're the only man I've known these past few weeks. We made this baby the first time we made love, when I was at the peak of my fertility cycle. I wanted your son. Now I want him to carry your name. To be a baron like you. The hereditary guardian of the Holy Lance.'

Hart felt like upending the shotgun and sucking on the barrel. He was faced with Zirkeler's grinning face on one side, and Effi's earnest one on the other. They were both equally mad.

There was a sudden commotion outside the house. Shouts. Curses. The sound of running feet on gravel. Hart craned his head to one side so that he could see downstairs.

Two of Zirkeler's men sprinted towards the front door from where they had been hiding. He had been right about the shortfall in numbers then. The two had been lying in wait for him. He'd have been ambushed if he'd ventured downstairs.

‘You see? The police are here.'

‘Not the police. They don't arrive by osmosis.' Zirkeler's body language suggested that he was dealing with a congenital idiot. ‘Someone else is joining the party. Maybe that old bitch at the Alpenruh called in some of her leftist friends? I knew I should have killed her when I had the chance.' Zirkeler glared at Effi. Then he twisted the tip of his knife so that it drew blood from Amira's neck. ‘Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. Time is running out for your little Jewess.'

Hart straightened up. ‘How do you want to play this?' Despite his words, all he could think about was that Effi
was pregnant. And by intent. She'd drawn him into her web right from the outset. She was like the Lorelei, luring sailors to their doom on the Rhine. No wonder she'd found him so devastatingly attractive. He couldn't have presented himself better if he'd tried. He'd been a title with a cock attached.

‘What you do is you put down the shotgun. You know you can't risk using it. The spread would hit your Jewess. I shall count to ten. On ten I'm going to slice through your girlfriend's carotid artery. Then I'm going to throw her at you.' Udo Zirkeler moved into a more comfortable position behind Amira, so that his entire body, save for his feet, was hidden behind her.