The Templar Prophecy

by Mario Reading

  ‘They’ve been holding an all-night party perhaps? I’m sorry, Señor, but you have missed all the fun. There is only the cleaning up to do now. The drink is drunk and the girls are gone.’ The taxi driver slapped the steering wheel again, this time with a downward flicking motion, as if he was shaking excess water off his fingertips. He grinned, showing three widely separated teeth. ‘Asi es la vida, eh? Such is life.’

  Hart felt the first faint stirrings of unease. ‘Stay here, please. I’ll be back in twenty minutes. My plane leaves in two hours. We shall have to hurry if my visit takes any longer.’

  ‘No problema,’ said the taxi driver. ‘I have my newspaper. I have the capacity to sleep. And I sleep like a baby whenever the meter is running, that I promise you. Tick, tick, tick, tick.’

  Hart started towards the house, leaving the man cackling at his own joke. It was an odd thing about the lights, though. The day was sunny – not overcast at all. Maybe the electrician was testing the circuits? Or maybe there had been a power cut and the juice had just been switched back on again?

  Hart stepped into the hall. He half opened his mouth to call out but he got no further. Santiago was sprawled lengthways across a pile of books. He had been slashed across the face and down one side of the chest with a sharp weapon. Hart could see the white of exposed bone through the gristle. The blow must have nicked Santiago’s intestines because the stench was overwhelming. Hart steadied himself against the wall and began to dry retch.

  This couldn’t be happening. Not twice. Not twice in one week. Hart drew a hand down his face. It came away covered in cold sweat.

  He stepped over Santiago’s body and hurried down the hall. He searched anxiously through the familiar bedrooms but they were all empty. Pillaged, but empty. The French windows leading to the garden were wide open.

  Hart ran towards the barranca. Had Colel Cimi managed to escape? Was she hiding in the grounds? Should he call out to her? Or was Santiago’s murderer still on the premises?

  Some instinct drew Hart to the lip of the gully leading down to the falls. Colel Cimi had shown him the place the afternoon before. It had been her special spot. The place she went to when she was upset or worried. The place she called ‘the gateway to my soul’.

  He stood at the edge of the barranca and looked down. A body floated face downwards in the pool below the falls. Long black hair spread out in a starburst all around it.

  Hart plunged down the scree slope, arms akimbo, not caring when he lost both of his shoes in his flailing downhill progress. When he reached the pool he plunged in. It took him ten strokes to reach the body.

  The instant he took hold of Colel Cimi’s head, he knew that she was dead. Her neck was loose and her eyes were closed. Her mouth was pursed as if in prayer.

  Hart pressed her body to his chest and kicked backwards towards the shore. Colel Cimi seemed as light as air in his hands.

  He carried her up the path towards the house, hardly noticing that his bare feet were being laced to shreds on the volcanic stones. Once inside, he carried her to her bedroom and laid her on the bed. He stood over her, gasping and choking, his face contorted with grief.

  Slowly, tentatively, Hart began to return to a state of rational consciousness. First he remembered the taxi and its driver waiting for him outside. Then he recalled the original purpose of his journey, which was to get him to the airport in time for his plane back to London. He realized that if the taxi driver decided to venture into the house for some reason – to use the lavatory, say, or to check how much longer he was going to be – he could not fail to spot Santiago’s body. Then Hart would be forced to remake the acquaintance of the chief of police. And this time he would not get off so lightly.

  An Inglés accused of murder in Guatemala? The chief would clean him out. Together with any friends and family who were foolish enough to cough up even the smallest portion of the mordida bribe that would be the only way to secure his acquittal. That was the way things worked in countries like Guatemala. Hart knew how it went down. He’d witnessed it for himself just a few days before in Syria – and many times further down the line.

  He looked down at the bed. Colel Cimi was dead. Santiago too. Nothing could change that. Nothing could bring them back. But at least he now understood why they had been killed. One look around Colel Cimi’s bedroom answered that question for him. The place was a wreck. Every drawer and cupboard had been torn open. Each pillow slit. Even the mattress had been eviscerated, as if whoever had done it enjoyed the mayhem and the effect it would leave behind. But why had they waited so long after his father’s murder? Why hadn’t the murderer come whilst he was still there and added him to the bag? Hart shook his head in despair.

  The reason for all three deaths must lie in the suitcase his grandfather and grandmother had spirited out of Berlin in April 1945, just hours before the victorious Russian Army had begun violating the city in revenge for the Siege of Stalingrad. The person or persons responsible for their deaths must be linked to the descendants of the man to whom the suitcase had originally been consigned. These were the people his father had contacted in his manic state. These were the people responsible.

  But that was as far as his logic managed to carry him. Hart had neither a name nor an address for the perpetrators. And any clues left behind in his father’s or in Colel Cimi’s house were long gone. Where should he start looking? What should he do? How should he respond?

  Hart hobbled into the drawing room. He searched through the detritus littering the floor until he found the photograph of his sister that Colel Cimi had shown him. The frame was broken and the glass was cracked, but Carmen’s photograph was blessedly intact. Hart took it out of its frame and flattened it carefully between the pages of a discarded magazine. He slipped the magazine inside his shirt, making sure that the photograph was snug against his belly and in no danger of being creased.

  He picked his way down the corridor and into Santiago’s bedroom. He scrabbled around in the mess left by the murderer until he found a matching pair of open-backed mules and some socks. He put them on over his bloodstained feet. Then he swept an eiderdown off the floor and shook it clear of dust. He covered Santiago’s body with it. He returned down the corridor and did the same for Colel Cimi. Then he stepped into the sunlit yard.

  The taxi driver was sleeping. He was using his newspaper as a sunscreen.

  Hart eased himself into the back of the cab. He propped the door open with his foot whilst he swept the damp hair back from his forehead. Then he allowed the door to fall shut.

  The driver straightened up, his newspaper disintegrating into leaves around him.

  ‘I am ready, Señor,’ said Hart. He passed a fifty dollar bill across the seatback. ‘My plane leaves in less than an hour. And it is a matter of the greatest possible urgency that I get on it.’

  TWENTY

  Hart called Amira Eisenberger from one of the few remaining payphones at Miami Airport.

  ‘Ah. The prodigal son returns,’ she said. ‘Have you saved any more damsels in distress recently? Leapt in front of any more bullets?’

  ‘Where are you, Amira?’

  ‘I’m in London. In bed. With my lovers. Both of them. They have promised to intercede if anyone tries to shoot me again. No bullet will be able to penetrate their muscle-bound bodies, so I am safe at last. Ah, the perils of being a woman. Where are you?’

  Hart rolled his eyes. So it was going to be like that? ‘I’m in Miami. Between planes. I thought you’d be on a new assignment by now.’

  Amira sighed. ‘Before they send you on a new assignment, John, you have to suggest a story to them. Or have one suggested to you. That’s the disadvantage of being an actual journalist rather than a glorified paparazzo. I am researching four possible stories as we speak. When I find one that suits my editor, she will encourage me to research it in more depth. Then, if I am very lucky, she will buy me a ticket and allocate me some expense money. Only then will I be going anywhere. But I forget. I’m talkin
g to a photojournalist. Someone who hasn’t put pen to paper since he left high school. You just aim your thing at them and then you press the trigger, don’t you? And then they pay you. Typical man.’

  Hart closed his eyes. So Amira was still angry with him? And perfectly capable of hanging up if it suited her mood. He needed to go for the jugular. ‘I’ve got a story for you. You can junk your other leads. This one is big.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. Boy reunites with father after thirty-five years. That’ll guarantee me a double-page byline, won’t it? I can see the headlines now. A tender reunion took place in Central America between photojournalist John Hart and his errant father. Tears were shed and promises exchanged. Hart’s father apologized for his many years of mutism: “I am so moved at seeing my son again that I can’t find the words to express it.”’

  Hart squinted at the phone. Jesus. The situation was worse than he’d imagined. He mustn’t lose his temper. That would play straight into Amira’s hands. She was the sort of woman who took her own time with everything. Obstinacy was a political statement with her – things were only done and dusted when Amira Eisenberger decided they were done and dusted.

  ‘How about this for a headline? Photojournalist’s father crucified. Lethal spear wound discovered on right of ribcage. Two further deaths believed connected to the first. Victim’s son on the run.’

  Amira broke in on his litany. ‘That’s not funny. I don’t write for the tabloids, remember? I am what passes for a serious journalist. If you want to play those sorts of games, why not chat up Martha Ferret, or whatever her stupid name is. She’s just your sort of woman. Winsome, mincing, and the exact age to settle down and raise a family. She writes just the sort of sensationalist tripe you are talking about, too. I don’t.’

  ‘Did you listen to anything I just said?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. I suppose you want me to collect you from Heathrow and save you the taxi fare? Is that why you are calling me? I can’t imagine for what other reason.’

  Hart counted slowly to five before he answered. ‘No, Amira. I’ve decided to come in through Paris, not London. After that I’m going to travel as a foot passenger on the ferry from Dunkerque to Dover. There’s more chance they won’t scan passports that way. I really may be wanted for murder in Guatemala, and via that through Interpol. So I can’t afford to take any chances.’

  ‘Have you gone mad? Cross-channel ferries? Murder? What did they feed you over there in Guatemala? Ayahuasca?’

  ‘Sorry, Amira. They’re just calling my flight. I’ve got to hurry. Work your way back through the conversation we’ve just had and think about it. Particularly what I told you about the killings. And you might want to research something called the Holy Lance whilst you’re at it – the one that pierced Jesus’s side and possibly my father’s. And then link it somehow to Adolf Hitler. When you’ve done that, drag whatever you find back into the present day. You’re good at that sort of thing. Sayonara.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  Richmond, England

  26 JULY 2012

  Amira picked Hart up near Richmond Hospital. She drove silently for some time and refused to look at him.

  ‘It’s nice to see you too,’ said Hart.

  Amira swivelled round in the driver’s seat. ‘You are wanted for murder in Guatemala. You weren’t joking.’

  ‘No. I wasn’t joking. But I didn’t kill anybody.’

  ‘Would you like to explain that?’

  Hart threw his head back against the headrest. ‘Explain? I wish I could.’

  Something flashed across Amira’s eyes. She switched into journalistic mode without skipping a beat. Her eyes took on the piercing stare with which a cat will mesmerize its prey. ‘You’ve lost weight. Have you been ill?’

  Hart groaned. Amira was right on the button as usual. He knew just where she was coming from. He’d been on a number of assignments with her as her photographer. There was an art to the give-and-take of asking questions – a necessary rhythm – that Amira possessed in spades. It was a sort of questioning by numbers. It was accompanied by a hefty dose of professional detachment and an even sharper eye. What had he expected? Sympathy?

  ‘You remember the malaria I picked up in Sierra Leone?’ he said. ‘Well, it came back. The woman and her chauffeur that were killed saw me through the relapse. She was my father’s mistress. She told me many things.’ Hart faltered. ‘She told me I had a sister, Amira. She was called Carmen. She died when she was seven years old. Of meningitis. Look. This is her picture.’ He scrabbled in his jacket pocket. ‘I wish I’d known her. Why didn’t my father tell me? I could have travelled to Guatemala and met her. Maybe I could have done something? Helped her in some way? Even just been there?’

  Amira stopped the car in a lay-by. She turned to Hart and laid her hand on his arm. But there was caution in her action – as if she might pull back if Hart responded inappropriately to her touch.

  She studied the picture. ‘She’s beautiful. And she does look a bit like you. But I’m sorry. You can’t go on like this. Go to the police. Explain things. It will soon become clear to them that you are innocent.’

  Hart slid the photograph back inside its protective cover and put it into his holdall. His expression turned to granite. ‘Do the UK and Guatemala have an extradition treaty? Come on. I know you’ll have done your homework.’

  Amira reached into her handbag and fished out a cigarette. She lit it, cracked open the window, and wafted the smoke out with one hand. ‘Yes. They do. Since the thirteenth of January 1883. For the Mutual Surrender of Fugitive Criminals.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘But you didn’t kill anybody.’

  ‘We’re talking about Guatemala, Amira, not the European Union. Everything points to me. I even left my shoes at the scene of the crime. There are prints from my bloodstained feet all over the ranch. My DNA will be everywhere. Over the beds. In the bathroom. In the kitchen. The police chief will be beside himself with joy thinking of all the extra income he will earn in bribes. He simply can’t afford to let this one pass.’

  ‘DNA? In Guatemala? You must be kidding.’

  ‘There were three murders, Amira. Three.’

  ‘In a country of thirteen million people? Which boasted 5681 murders last year, with scarcely a single killer brought to justice? You see? I have done my homework. Have you ever tried to find an ant in a bowl of wild rice? That’s what it’ll seem like to whoever inherits this case. Your father was dead before you even arrived in the country. They can’t pin his murder on you unless you dropped in by balloon.’

  ‘They’ll still contact Interpol. They’ll still flash my name up on their Most Wanted list as a possible suspect in the final two killings. I left by plane and in a hurry. My name appears in black and white on the passenger list. My taxi driver will be able to identify me and testify that I spent three-quarters of an hour in a house containing two dead people and then tipped him fifty bucks to speed me to the airport.’

  ‘Then go to the police first. Before they come to you.’

  Hart shook his head. ‘No. I won’t do that. I’m going to pursue these people myself. To the grave, if necessary. I owe that much to Colel Cimi. I owe that much to Santiago. And in a curious sort of a way, I owe it to my father, too.’ Hart stared out of the window. His face was bleak. ‘What else did you discover?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the Holy Lance, Amira. And all the other stuff I asked you to check out. Don’t kid a kidder.’

  Amira gave a long sigh. ‘This isn’t the right place for it. We’ll use my flat as yours is probably surrounded by a SWAT team. The actual debriefing had better wait, though. You’re jet-lagged, post-malarial, and probably still in shock. When did you last eat?’

  ‘I don’t need food. I need answers. And quickly.’ Hart cast her a sidelong glance. ‘Are you sure you want to risk having a possible murderer on your premises? Becoming an accessory after the fact? It could mean the end of your career.’

&
nbsp; Amira laughed. ‘You must know me better than that by now, John.’ She crashed the gears as she changed up. ‘It could mean a story.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Amira sat across from Hart in the kitchen area of her flat and watched him not eating. Instead he drank coffee. Mug after mug of coffee. Until his hands shook from the caffeine, and his eyes stared out of red-rimmed shells.

  She tried to put herself in his shoes, but she found it impossible. Hart was the most tender-minded man she had ever met, and she was a tough-minded woman who detested ‘niceness’. It was a disastrous combination. Her decision to abort their child hung between the two of them like a rotting corpse.

  ‘They call their association the Lanzen Brüderschaft – the Brotherhood of the Lance. Despite its name, their leader is a woman. Elfriede Rache. She’s the thirty-three-year-old granddaughter of Heinrich Rache, who was one of Adolf Hitler’s first lieutenants. Rache began in the SA under Ernst Röhm, then betrayed Röhm to Hitler on the Night of the Long Knives in 1934. Röhm was a true revolutionary – meaning he wanted a redistribution of wealth from rich to poor. Rache and Hitler were as far from revolutionaries as you could get. Hitler because he understood that power and loyalty needed to be bought and paid for, and Rache because he was a multi-millionaire by inheritance and despised homosexuals, which Röhm was.’

  ‘No more Mr Nice Guy, then.’

  Amira ignored him. ‘The Raches were Bavarian industrialists. They still own a small chemical factory in Gmund that makes spa products, but most of their holdings were bought out in the 1960s. Rache Junior then went on to found the LB in 1970, subsidizing it out of his newfound wealth. Rache Senior had left him a mansion and extensive landholdings in Bad Wiessee and the surrounding area, which his granddaughter has now inherited following her father’s death, together with all their accumulated loot elsewhere. And there’s a lot of it, believe me. Grandfather Rache was entertaining some of Röhm’s cronies in the same house when Hitler came calling on the Night of the Long Knives. The whole thing was pre-planned. A trap. After that he was Hitler’s man until the end. The Americans inherited him, but for some reason his name was never put forward for the Nuremberg Trials. Which probably means he collaborated with his American interrogators and named names. Whatever. For some reason he was allowed to hold on to both his fortune and his landholdings after the war and pass them on to his son.’