Other books in this series:
In the Blood
To the Grave
The Last Queen of England
The Lost Empress
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 Steve Robinson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503954694
ISBN-10: 1503954692
Cover design by Lisa Horton
For my wife Karen
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Prologue
Karwendel Mountains. Bavaria, Germany. November 1973.
He wished now that he had taken the road. The road would have led him down to a town or village where he could have sought help. But he knew that if he had tried to escape by the road, he would already be dead. The mountains, on the other hand, gave him places to hide, but beneath an overcast sky, amidst frozen rocks that were already partly settled with snow, he felt so cold. He pulled his jumper up over his mouth and tried to calm himself. His breath, swirling up into the chill morning air, could certainly give him away. Despite trying to warm his hands in his pockets and in the folds of his jumper, his pale, blueing fingertips were already losing sensation and he had only stopped to rest for a few minutes.
He had to keep moving.
These mountains were no strangers to him. He had spent much of his youth among them, a rope and harness and all manner of equipment to aid his ascent and descent. But he had none of that equipment with him now. He looked up to his right and saw an uninviting snow-capped peak he knew he was ill-prepared for. Yet for now it was the only direction open to him. To his left was a sheer drop of thirty metres or more, and before him in the direction he was heading, away from his pursuers, was a high overhanging rock face, impassable to all but the very best mountaineers. Going up and around it was his only option.
He peered out from his cover, out over the sprawling green valley below him. Looking back he could see no movement among the rocks, and for a moment he wondered whether the people hunting him had given up. It was mere wishful thinking; he knew they would not. There was too much at stake. He blew warm air into his hands in an ineffective attempt to breathe life back into them. He reached beneath his jumper and pulled out the hem of his shirt, which he ripped against the edge of a jagged rock. Then he tore off enough material to wrap around his hands before he began to climb.
The first few metres were relatively easy, barely more than a scramble. After that he had to rely on cracks in the rock to gain any kind of purchase. His progress became slow, and he felt certain he was losing the early advantage he had made over his adversaries. As the angle of ascent became more shallow again he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and he froze, his heart suddenly thumping. A second later he heard a familiar sound and he breathed again. It was a goat, perched at a seemingly impossible angle on the mountain face to his right. He smiled to himself, and then another sound almost caused him to lose his footing. It was a gunshot, loud enough in the quiet, still of the mountains to cause an avalanche in more favourable conditions.
He didn’t dare look back. The fact that he had heard the shot at all meant the bullet had missed him, but it also meant that the hunters had spotted their quarry. He made haste, tempering speed with safety. He would not give whoever had fired the rifle a second shot at a stationary target. He scrambled again, moving higher. He was almost there. Another shot was fired, and this time he saw the bullet ricochet off the rocks above him.
He kept going, knowing that all the while he was out in the open, life or death would be determined only by chance, and the skill of the rifleman below him. A third shot caught his boot. His ankle spun around and he slipped momentarily, but he felt no pain. Looking down, he saw that the bullet must have glanced off his heel. There was a tear in the leather, but nothing more.
Hand over hand he continued to climb the remaining distance, aware now that several of his fingers were cut and bleeding. But before another shot was fired he managed to slip over the high point he had been heading for, dropping from view on the other side, where he lay panting for several seconds. Assessing his new surroundings, he saw the ever-present mountain peaks on his right, and there was now a shallow slope ahead of him, which led his eye to a trail of smoke. It was further down, perhaps half a kilometre away beneath the ledge he had been traversing. He was unable to determine its source, but he thought that where there was smoke there was a strong probability of finding other people—perhaps someone who could help him. His hopes lifted as he began to descend the slope, but then he heard a sound that instantly rekindled his despair. Dogs, at least two of them, were suddenly baying for his blood.
He imagined his pursuers had brought the dogs out from the secluded mountain retreat he had escaped from, further back towards the road. He supposed the beasts were well-suited to the mountains, and he knew it would not take them long to find him. The only question in his mind now was whether he could make it to the source of the smoke before they reached him. He began to run. The loose ground beneath his boots made for treacherous footing and he was soon out of control, barely managing to stay on his feet as his momentum grew. As the slope levelled out and his pace slowed, he ventured closer to the ledge and peered down into the valley, his eyes trained on the smoke trail. He could see a chimney now. It had to be a climbers’ hut and there was clearly someone there. But how to reach it?
The dogs kept howling. They sounded closer and their vicious din spurred him on. He tracked the ledge, looking for a way down. The hut was in full view now, less than a few hundred metres away. On level ground, he knew he could have sprinted to it in no time, but this was not level ground. Fa
r from it. Taking the direct route he saw that there were two steep descents between him and the hut. He saw a wide ledge, perhaps ten metres below him, where the mountain levelled off, then he had to hope there was a way down from there. He lowered himself and began to climb.
The dogs now sounded terrifyingly close—so close that he paused to look back at the slope he had just run down. Then he saw the first of them. He realised they must have found another route, a longer but flatter way around perhaps, but with speed on their side they had quickly made up lost ground. The hound paused momentarily, and as if it had just seen him, it began to bound down the slope after him as the second dog came into view.
He wasted no time. As he descended lower and lower, he thought the angle of his descent would surely slow the dogs down. They would have to find another way again, but he knew it would not stop them. They were so fast that it was only a matter of seconds before they were above him, snapping and growling, their teeth bared, their jowls drooling. At first he thought they would try to follow after him, such was their hunger, but as he sank lower, further distancing himself from them, they hesitated. A moment later they were gone.
The rest of the descent to the ledge below came and went in a blur. He reached it and ran to the next ledge. The hut was so close now that he could smell the wood-smoke coming from the chimney, but it was still tantalisingly out of reach. The way down from here appeared even steeper and he doubted his skills. His hands were shredded, the shirt rags he had wrapped them with now red through with his blood.
He ran along the ledge, looking for a better way down. There was another slope. It was covered with scree from the cliff face. He ran towards it, but as he came closer, he heard the dogs again. They were ahead of him now, picking their way down through the rocks, between him and the slope he was heading for. His first thought was to turn and run back the other way, but he already knew there was no way down for him in that direction, and he supposed that if he tried to climb again, the men driving the dogs would be there waiting for him. So he ran faster, hoping to reach the scree first.
But he did not.
He stopped just a few strides away as the first of the dogs came at him, all snarling teeth and muscle. It pounced and he fell. He tried to hold the beast by the neck, but it was too strong. A moment later he felt its teeth bite into his arm. Then with the other he reached out and found a rock, which he drove hard into the animal’s skull. It whimpered and fell back. He had no time to consider his injured arm. He was on his feet again at once, but now the second dog was bounding and howling towards him. There was only one option open to him and he took it. As the dog arrived, he ran to the scree slope and leapt for his life, hurling himself down onto his stomach. Beneath him the loose stone began to slip and slide, until they were moving together, like water along a fast flowing stream that built and built as he descended further. Both dogs continued after him. He saw one and then the other, sliding with him, but they were no longer in control of their destiny any more than he was.
They slid like this for several fast seconds, rolling in a chaotic tangle of limbs and gnashing teeth, until ahead of him he glimpsed an edge where the scree slope seemed to end abruptly, either to a further slope or perhaps a precipice. Fearing the latter, he began to grapple for purchase, trying to slow himself down. He rolled again and tried to dig the toes of his boots into the stones. He pushed himself up to further arrest his slide. It was working. One of the dogs passed him as he slowed, but he did not appear to be slowing fast enough. The edge was close, and now he could hear the scree cascading like a waterfall, crashing onto the rocks below.
He looked around, certain that he would not be able to stop himself in time. A large rock sat close to the edge, and knowing it was his only hope, he began to roll towards it, sliding fast again as he picked up speed. As he crashed into it, the pain in his chest was intense. He thought he must have broken several ribs. He cried out as he clung to the rock, watching as the dogs continued to slide towards the precipice, howling and gnashing. They whimpered as first one, and then the other slid over the edge, and moments later the dull thuds of their bodies signalled their end.
He could hardly breathe. He supposed one of his broken ribs must have punctured a lung. Slowly, he stood up, clutching his chest. The pain made him dizzy, but he knew he had to keep going. The dogs’ handlers would not be far behind. The hut was close now, the way down to it, easier—perhaps no more than a steep walk if he traversed it in stages. It would take a little longer, but with his injuries he felt it was all he could manage. If his pursuers caught up with him he knew he could no longer outrun or outclimb them.
He chose his path carefully and was soon there. Beside the hut was a narrow, rocky track where he saw an all-terrain vehicle, and with it his salvation. He practically collapsed at the hut’s door. It opened freely. On his hands and knees he looked up to see a man adding another log to the fire.
‘Bitte helfen Sie mir!’ he called, pleading for the man’s help.
As the man turned around to face him, a wry smile creasing his lips, he saw that it was the very man he had been running from. Despair sapped the last of his strength and he crashed to the floor, knowing all was lost.
Chapter One
Present day.
Pacing along a highly polished corridor at the German Heart Centre in Munich, his tan suit still creased from the flight, Jefferson Tayte glanced apprehensively at Jean, and for the umpteenth time he hoped they weren’t too late.
They had flown in from Heathrow Airport that afternoon for an appointment with a ninety-seven-year-old man called Johann Langner, and it had come as a shock to hear that he had suffered a heart attack the day before, not least because Tayte was pinning so much hope on what he believed Langner might be able to tell him.
His excitement over the meeting, and Jean Summer’s hand as she sat beside him in the window seat, had pulled Tayte through the relatively short flight, helping to overcome his fear of flying. Now his stomach was in knots for entirely different reasons.
‘And you’re sure Mr Langner still wants to see us?’ Tayte said to the grey-suited man they were following.
Tayte didn’t know his name, only that he appeared to be a chauffeur of sorts. He was tall like Tayte, but slim like Jean. He’d met them off the plane and taken their bags to the Mercedes that had been waiting for them outside the arrivals terminal, but instead of conveying them to their hotel as Tayte had expected, he’d brought them straight to the hospital. He had Tayte’s suit carrier over one arm and Jean’s backpack was slung across his shoulder.
‘Herr Langner’s instructions were quite explicit,’ the man said, with only the slightest trace of a German accent. ‘He’s sufficiently recovered and wants to see you as soon as possible.’ He slowed down as he turned to face Tayte and added, ‘While he still can.’
Tayte nodded back. He understood that at Johann Langner’s age, and in his present state of ill health, tomorrow might not be an option.
Jean almost had to jog to keep up with Tayte’s long strides. So much so that the tablet PC she’d recently bought nearly fell out of the denim jacket she was wearing over her yellow summer dress. Being a professor of history, she was no stranger to research, and since meeting up with Tayte again in London after his previous assignment, she’d spent the two weeks that followed surfing the Internet at every opportunity, having taken it upon herself to learn all she could about the man Tayte was pinning so much hope on.
‘I read in Der Spiegel,’ she said to the man they were following, ‘that a painting by Matisse has just been sold through Mr Langner’s gallery for a record sum.’
‘Yes, that’s correct,’ the man said. ‘And it was no small achievement on Herr Langner’s part. He started out with next to nothing, and it took several years to make what you would consider to be a proper living, but then both his business and his reputation began to grow. He even managed to reunite a few of the paintings that passed through his hands with their rightful owners after they
had been stolen during the war.’
‘What keeps him going?’ Tayte asked. ‘And can I get some?’
The man gave a small laugh. ‘His son, Rudolf, has managed the business for some years now, but on this occasion Herr Langner handled the sale personally.’
‘Maybe the excitement proved too much for him.’
‘That’s quite possible. It was a lot of money.’
They stopped walking beside a door to their right. The man knocked once, opened it, and set their bags down. Inside, the room was bright, predominantly white, with splashes of pale blue on the few items of furniture and on the blinds at the window, which looked out over a communal recreational garden in full summer bloom.
The bespectacled Johann Langner was sitting up in bed, wired to the electrocardiograph machine beside him, staring at his guests through the right-hand side of his glasses; the left lens was blacked out. He raised a wavering hand, crooked with arthritis, and brushed his wispy white hair back off his brow as Tayte and Jean approached. The man they had been following made the introductions.
‘Herr Langner, this is Mr Tayte, the American genealogist, and his associate, Professor Summer.’
Langner smiled, exaggerating the facial disfigurement around his cheekbones and jawline, revealing crooked teeth that were stained brown from old age and tobacco. ‘I lost it during the war,’ Langner said, clearly noticing that Tayte was staring at the blacked-out lens. In contrast to the man who had just shown them in, his German accent was decidedly pronounced.
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