‘The Teutoburg Forest, Varus’ legions in AD 9,’ Dillen murmured. ‘Three crack Roman legions totally annihilated by the Germans. Same neck of the woods, I think, in upper Saxony. You were pretty obsessed with it at school, always seemed to bring it up in class.’
‘Now you know why,’ Hugh said. ‘The problem was, the main road of our planned advance ran through the western edge of the forest. We couldn’t bypass it without big delays. We had to take that road. The ceasefire would only last long enough for essential consolidation, to strengthen our line for a massive push. That was the priority for Corps HQ, regardless of what Intelligence wanted. Sometimes we felt Intelligence actually would have preferred us to halt, so they could find as much as possible before the Nazis destroyed it. We knew there was a whole secret war going on that we knew very little about. But we were soldiers, and we just wanted the war won. And keeping the momentum going wasn’t just a matter of reaching Berlin before the Russians. We were all terribly apprehensive about what the Germans might have up their sleeves. We remembered Hitler’s “all or nothing” speech about the Reich at Nuremberg before the war. He’d already unleashed the V-2 rocket against London. You’ve no idea how terrifying those weapons were. We didn’t know about Nazi research into nuclear weapons then, but V-1 rockets with deadly gas or biological payloads would have been enough. And we knew that as long as there was a single fanatical Nazi at large, then all hell could be unleashed. That’s why we fought the war to the bitter end. That’s why our bombers flattened the cities. That’s why we killed the enemy until there was no one left to kill. We felt we were fighting a desperate battle for humankind, a battle against impending doomsday.’
‘So you never did try to find Peter,’ Dillen said.
Hugh paused, swallowing hard. He shook his head. ‘The schedule when Peter and Lewes left HQ for the camp only allowed a thirty-six-hour ceasefire. A five-hundred raid by the RAF was planned on the forest the following night. But as we were recovering Lewes’ body, an SAS patrol came down the road, my own chaps. They’d bivvied that night on the far edge of the forest and had watched small groups of German troops moving in, with Panzerfaust anti-tank rockets and what looked like demolition charges, probably for taking down trees over the road. They confirmed what Corps feared would happen. So the whole schedule was brought forward. The decision had already been made to clear out the camp anyway, and that was done in a matter of hours. The RAF raid was advanced to that night. One and a half thousand tons of airburst high explosive, as well as incendiaries and four-thousand-pound impact HE. The camp was obliterated. The forest as far as the nearest firebreaks burned for weeks, a total firestorm. The German army units that had infiltrated the forest ceased to exist. But the road through was clear for our advance. Corps HQ had got the result they wanted. Probably hundreds, even thousands of Allied troops spared.’
‘But no sign of Peter and the American,’ Rebecca said quietly.
‘It was all down to me. I was the one who took the intelligence about the German troop build-up from the SAS patrol to Corps HQ,’ Hugh replied. ‘It was my responsibility. I could have decided to process Lewes’ effects first. An hour’s delay in passing on the intelligence and it would have been too late to reschedule the bomber raid. It might have given Peter a chance to get out, if he was still alive. But I went straight to HQ. That’s the worst thing. I was responsible for Peter’s death. Five years cheating death on the battlefield, and it was something I did that killed him. I’ve tried so hard to block it off, all my life, but I just can’t.’ He put his head in his hands, and took a shuddering breath. Rebecca leaned over and put her hand on his. He let his hands slip off his head and looked at her, his eyes red-rimmed. He took another deep breath, straightened up and wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said hoarsely, clearing his throat. ‘Stupid of me. Embarrassing. Not like me at all. Anyway, all that’s history now, isn’t it?’
‘Peter might well have been dead already,’ Dillen said. ‘If there were enemy troops in that forest, and renegade SS camp guards. That might have been why Lewes was driving back alone.’
‘And he would never have forgiven you if you hadn’t taken that intelligence straight back,’ Rebecca said. ‘From what you’ve said, he was the kind of guy who would have put the lives of all those men way ahead of his own, the soldiers who would have died fighting in the forest if the Germans had been allowed another day to get established.’
‘What happened to the drawing?’ Dillen asked.
Hugh blinked hard, wiped his eyes again and cleared his throat. ‘I put it in my battledress tunic pocket. After I passed on the SAS intel to HQ, everything was a whirlwind. HQ was packed up immediately and moved out. I knew Peter’s fate was sealed, but I hadn’t yet connected myself with it. I’d passed on the intel without thinking. It was my absolute duty. And I was in a poor way, really. Then the malaria really whacked me, dropped me stone cold. Next thing I remember was coming to in a hospital in France three weeks later, hearing the church bells ringing. The war was over.’
‘And you still had the drawing?’ Rebecca whispered.
‘Carefully folded with my belongings,’ Hugh said. ‘And I still have it. Over there, on my desk.’
‘Can we see it?’ Dillen asked.
Hugh gestured at the table. Rebecca got up and went over, scanning the papers. She pointed at a yellowed sheet of notepaper beside the computer screen, and Hugh nodded. She carefully picked it up, and stared at it, then looked at Dillen, her eyes wet with tears. ‘These two people, holding hands. I know they’re the girl’s parents, because . . .’ Dillen stood up and put his hand on her shoulder. She sniffed and wiped her eyes, looking apologetically at Hugh. ‘Stupid of me, now. Sorry.’ She swallowed, and blinked hard. ‘It’s just that when I was a little girl, her age, I grew up without my dad, and my mum had sent me away to my foster parents in America to keep me from the Mafia world she’d grown up in. I often used to daydream, and I drew pictures like this. We were always together, holding hands, we three.’
Hugh stared out of the window. ‘She would have been about seventeen when I saw her, but this is like a drawing made by a child, a little girl. After the war, I found out that most of the children I saw in those camps had survived Auschwitz, where they had seen their parents selected at the railhead for immediate gassing. Those children had been kept alive for some reason. I was told that this girl was in the orchestra. And worse. There was a brothel. But drawings like these preserved the last memory they had of their parents, as if they were still little children. As if their whole world had ended at that moment on the railhead.’
Dillen leaned over, and stared at the drawing. ‘How strange,’ he said. ‘A reverse swastika. She’s drawn it above her, and coloured it gold and silver.’
Rebecca took a deep breath, and blinked hard. ‘A swastika,’ she said, swallowing. ‘So, what’s the big deal about that? Isn’t that what you’d expect? The hated symbol?’
Hugh spoke quietly. ‘The last time I saw Peter, the last time I ever spoke to him, was those few moments we had in Corps HQ when I handed over this drawing. He and I both saw that reverse swastika at the same moment. We were both suddenly overcome with excitement. That’s how I try to remember him. To understand why we were excited, I have to tell you about an extraordinary discovery at Mycenae.’
‘Mycenae,’ Rebecca exclaimed, sniffing. ‘Huh?’
‘Before the war. When Peter and I were digging there.’
‘You mean when he made the dedication in the book.’
‘A lifetime before everything I’ve been telling you. But what I’m about to say may be the key to the whole mystery. The key that may unlock Troy, but also open up a terrifying discovery. Are you with me?’
Dillen nodded, looked at his watch, then got up. ‘Before that. Quick breather to call Jack for an update.’
‘Are you all right?’ Rebecca said to Hugh, putting her hand on his arm. ‘This must be so difficult for you. Are you tired?’
<
br /> ‘After all these years bottling it up, I feel I’ve been waiting a lifetime to tell this,’ Hugh said. ‘I’m not going anywhere. And a breather gives me time to do another brew-up.’
‘Give Dad my love,’ Rebecca said to Dillen. ‘And everyone else.’
‘Will do.’ Dillen opened the door and turned back. ‘Fifteen minutes.’
Hugh checked his watch, and leaned over the fire. ‘No more, no less. Your drink will be ready.’
14
Dillen pushed open the door into Hugh’s flat and pocketed his phone. He had caught Jack on Seaquest II just before diving, uncertain about the state of the Aquapods. The schedule off Tenedos had been delayed a few hours to allow a Turkish navy minesweeper with an underwater demolition team to remove the mine from the shipwreck. Mustafa, the IMU Turkish liaison, had also arrived, and there had been delicate negotiations with the Turkish commander to convince him that it was feasible to float and tow off the mine, rather than detonate it where it was. The commander had refused to have his divers in the water while the mine was being shifted, and Jack had completely understood. He had taken the man into the lecture room and shown him a picture of Monticelli’s Shield of Achilles. That had done the trick, in combination with Costas taking the navy team on a tour of Seaquest II’s equipment to show them the other available options. Eventually two Turkish divers had gone down to attach lifting bags to the mine, but the actual job of raising it was being done using IMU’s remote-operated vehicle.
It had been going on at that very moment, while they were on the phone; Jack was on Seaquest II’s foredeck describing it to Dillen. The minesweeper had blast protection so had remained on site, but Seaquest II had stood off two miles to the south of Tenedos on Captain Macalister’s insistence. Meanwhile there was an issue with the electronics on one of the Aquapods. Dillen could sense the tension in Jack’s voice. He was glad he was not there. The good news was that Hiebermeyer had made some kind of breakthrough in the underground passageway at Troy. Jack was going to fill Dillen in at the end of the day, when Dillen would also be able to run through anything new that Hugh might have told them. Dillen had held off mentioning the mysterious swastika until Hugh had explained the connection with Mycenae. And by then Jack and Costas should have completed their dive. If the equipment glitch was sorted out, this could be another day of huge excitement.
Dillen stood for a moment, trying to think ahead. His mind was in a turmoil. He did not know what the next few days might hold for him. Much would rest on what Hugh told them now. He would return here as planned after taking Rebecca to London, to spend time with Hugh on the translation, but only to get it started and to map a course of action. The pressure was already on at Troy to get results, with the deadline of the military exercise looming, and now he felt another line of investigation was going to cascade before them and require his involvement, with Jack and the rest of the team fully committed in the field. And they needed to keep ahead of the game before word leaked out that they were on any kind of new trail, not at Troy this time but in the shadowy underworld of present-day Europe.
He closed the door behind him, and sat down. Hugh handed him another steaming mug. ‘Call get through?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Good show. Are they diving?’
Dillen looked at his watch. ‘Scheduled for fourteen thirty local time. They’re planning to use the one-man submersibles, the Aquapods.’
‘Blast it all. If only I were younger. Jack got me into a drysuit and tank in the IMU pool a few years ago, and it was wonderful. At least he keeps me up to date, with that gizmo.’ He pointed at the computer half submerged under the stacks of papers on his table. ‘Real-time video. Not for this project, though, it seems.’
‘Media blackout,’ Rebecca said. ‘Too many bad guys watching. But I’m sure Dad will link you up as soon as it’s safe.’
‘Do you want to have a proper rest before talking more?’ Dillen asked.
‘Good Lord, no. Let’s carry on.’
‘To Mycenae, then.’
Hugh leaned forward. ‘All right. The summer of 1938. One of the foremen on the excavation had actually known Schliemann. Had actually known him. The foreman was frail and crippled, too arthritic to dig any more, a kind of camp elder. But as a boy, he’d been the one who first showed Schliemann the mound at Hissarlik when Schliemann went there in 1868. It was astonishing to hear his account. It wasn’t Schliemann who discovered Troy. It wasn’t even Frank Calvert, the British consul who led him to the site. The local people had always known about it. A clan in the village of Hissarlik claimed they were descended from Hector, the Trojan prince. Schliemann knew the power of local legend, and of course he believed that real history lay behind myth. And he knew the power of dreams in childhood. That had been where his own quest had begun, as a little boy in a town in Germany, dreaming of Troy. So when he went to Hissarlik, the first thing he did was to go to the children. He offered them riches beyond their imagination, to open up the world to them as the world had once been opened up to him. And the boy who became the crippled old man had taken the bait.’
‘And afterwards he followed Schliemann to Mycenae?’ Rebecca asked.
Hugh nodded. ‘The boy’s father was a Greek sailor his mother had met in nearby Çanakkale, and the boy could pass himself off as a Greek or a Turk. Schliemann was as good as his word and took the boy on as a kind of protégé, teaching him to read, teaching him English and German, showing him the tricks that had led Schliemann himself to wealth and fame. But the boy was unambitious and content to remain by Schliemann’s side. After the great man’s death, he never rose above excavation foreman, working for the German and British archaeologists who followed in Schliemann’s wake. But what he did tell us was fascinating. He knew perfectly well that Schliemann and Sophia had dug secretly at Troy. And he told us the Ottoman authorities knew too.’
‘So the Ottomans turned a blind eye?’ Dillen said.
‘It was more than that. At Hissarlik, the local Ottoman vizier threatened to expose the boy’s Greek paternity if he didn’t inform on Schliemann. That was why the man opened up to us, all those years later, when he knew he was close to death. All his life he’d felt as if he’d betrayed Schliemann’s trust, and he wanted to ease his burden and tell those he felt might forgive him. But Schliemann like many showmen was too absorbed in his own self-image to realize that others were playing him as well. He was a huge international celebrity, a powerful tool for regimes aspiring to improve their status in the world. The Ottoman court in Constantinople was a decaying beast by the 1870s, but was still a byword for intrigue. It suited the Ottomans to know that Schliemann had dug secretly at Troy and found treasure he had spirited away. One day they might use that knowledge as leverage to make him play their game, to enlist him to help blow their trumpet abroad. The Ottomans were well aware of their bad reputation. Schliemann’s friend Prime Minister Gladstone of Britain was particularly antagonistic towards them. Schliemann unwittingly became a pawn in the world of international power politics. The Greeks allowed him to dig at Mycenae so they could keep up with the Turks, to allow Greece to lay claim to her own share of the Trojan War myth and the Schliemann celebrity juggernaut. Everyone knew that. But that was only what the world was allowed to see. Behind the scenes, the Greeks were playing the same game as the Turks.’
‘You mean Schliemann dug secretly at Mycenae too?’ Rebecca said.
Hugh leaned towards them, his voice low. ‘One night in 1876, just before the excavation closed for the season, Schliemann and Sophia got the Greek inspector of antiquities - the ephor - blind drunk, and secretly made their way up to the citadel. Or so they thought. The ephor wasn’t really drunk. And the boy, by then a teenager and spying for the Greeks as well, was sent to follow them. He said Schliemann was always visible at night at Mycenae because he loved to stand like Agamemnon at the highest point of the ruins, staring out towards the sea. The boy watched Schliemann and Sophia descend with their tools into the royal shaft
grave, the place where a few days later the world would watch as Schliemann raised the golden mask of Agamemnon.’
‘The boy saw that?’ Rebecca whispered.
Hugh nodded. ‘Then, almost fifteen years later, he watched Schliemann and Sophia do the same at Troy, secretly digging again, night after night. Schliemann should have known he would be watched. Maybe he did. Maybe that was part of his game. Once, when the boy was small and watched the great trench being dug through Troy, Schliemann joked that he was not the descendant of Hector but of Homer himself, always watching, perched above like an ancient bard, playing his toy pipes. The Greeks at Mycenae said that about Schliemann, too. The ephor told the boy that Schliemann was a poet, and Sophia was his muse. He said the Greeks had a soft spot for foreign poets coming to their shores, like Byron. He said that was really why they tolerated Schliemann. Do you remember, James, when you were a small boy and I first told you the stories of Homer, I said that we were poets too, and that one day you would sit on the walls of Troy and see the ghosts of heroes, and hear the bellow of Agamemnon?’
Dillen stared at Hugh. ‘I do remember. You should have seen me at Troy, yesterday. But tell us what the boy saw.’
‘This is where it really gets extraordinary. At Mycenae that night, he watched Schliemann and Sophia emerge from the shaft grave and then disappear down the hillside. When he thought they’d gone, he crept down to have a look himself. He saw the Mask of Agamemnon freshly revealed, and he lifted it. Imagine it. A small boy alone, seeing that. Just then he heard low voices above, and he quickly replaced the mask and hid himself in the back of the shaft, inside another grave. Schliemann and Sophia came back down the ladder carrying a bundle. There was much digging and exertion, and half an hour later they left, this time for good. The boy waited a long time, then came out and looked again. The earth had been tamped down as if it had never been disturbed, and even had water poured on it to look as if it had been rained on. He dug down where he’d seen the mask, and uncovered it again, and that was when he saw what he hadn’t seen before, a human skeleton underneath. He hadn’t seen it because it hadn’t been there before. He realized what Schliemann and Sophia had brought with them, in the bundle. They’d brought a skeleton and buried it under the mask.’
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