The Templar Succession

by Mario Reading

  ‘Will you help me?’

  Hart threw his hands up in the air. ‘Help you? How can I help you? What you are asking me is insane.’

  Biljana cocked her head to one side as a person does who is estimating whether or not the individual they are talking to has a somewhat limited mental capacity. ‘You said you last saw him at the monastery. The one in Kosovo. The one you call Visoki Decˇani. Take me there then. We can talk to the monks. Maybe they will know what happened to him?’

  Hart shook his head. ‘That was fifteen years ago, Biljana. And even if we found him, what good would it do? What would you be after? Revenge? Is that it? Because I refuse to have anything to do with that. I will not help you blight the remainder of your life. That would be letting the bastard win. He and his kind did what they did to produce exactly this kind of response in their victims. The whole thing was prejudged. Coldly calculated. Like what the Russians did to German women at the end of the Second World War. And even if he is alive somewhere, he won’t be interested in you. You’ll be tearing yourself to bits for nothing. Trust me in this. Go back home. Think over my offer. It won’t involve you in anything. But it will mean that if anything ever happens to me, you will be taken care of. They do insurances for us, you see. War risk. Hostage taking. Death by misadventure. Only our immediate families can benefit.’

  ‘So you think you are going to die too?’

  Hart rolled his eyes. ‘No. I’m not saying that. Of course I’m not. But look at you. You’re fifteen years old. You’ve just found out that your father is a rapist and a war criminal. I would have spared you that, believe me…’

  ‘And you would have been wrong.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. It’s not for me to decide. But what is done is done. Why not let sleeping dogs lie? Come back to England with me. I want you to meet someone. Amira Eisenberger. She’s a journalist. And a good friend. She could be of enormous help to you in any career you later choose. You can go to college. The whole world is open to you. You just have to reach out and grab it.’

  ‘Will you take me to Visoki Decˇani?’

  Hart flipped the lid of the coffee pot down with a bang. He cleaned his hands on a paper napkin, balled the napkin up, and stuffed it into his cup. ‘No, Biljana. I’ve told you. No. Wild horses wouldn’t drag me back to that place.’

  FORTY-SIX

  ‘So you told her about her father?’ Amira’s voice was pitched an octave higher than its usual smoky drawl.

  ‘I thought it was her right to know.’

  ‘You never could keep your trap shut about anything.’

  Hart let that one slide by. Amira was never happier than when she had a reason to castigate him for things she would have done in exactly the same way were she in his place.

  ‘But what, in heaven’s name, caused you to go one further and agree to help her track him down?’ she said.

  ‘I couldn’t have her going off on her own. She’s fifteen, for Pete’s sake.’

  ‘So you let a fifteen-year-old girl pin you against the wall and force you to do her will?’

  ‘It wasn’t quite like that.’

  ‘It sounds very much like it to me.’

  ‘Listen. I shot myself in the foot. I let slip the name of the monastery where I left her mother. It didn’t seem significant to me at the time. But of course the moment she had it, she fixed on it. She had a trail. Wild horses couldn’t have stopped her then.’

  Hart hunkered back against his pillows. He was sitting up in bed, fully clothed, trying to figure out how to escape from the disastrous mess he had got himself into. Amira was his first – and only – port of call.

  ‘So what do you expect from me?’ Her tone was heavily ironical.

  ‘Some advice? A plan, even?’ There was a protracted silence. ‘Are you still there, Amira?’

  ‘I’m thinking.’

  ‘Thank God for small mercies.’

  There was a harrumph from the other end of the line. Then the sound of a match being lit. A pause while she took the first drag of her cigarette. ‘Yes. I can see that. Someone thinking must make a welcome change from your perspective.’

  Hart knew better than to comment when Amira was in full flow. He switched the phone to loudspeaker mode and rested it on his knee. He cocked his head to one side and stared at it as one would stare at a strange-looking beetle that has deplaned from out of nowhere.

  ‘Listen, Marco Polo. Did you personally witness the Captain murder those unarmed people on the track when he was following you and Lumnije?’

  ‘No. But I heard the shots.’

  ‘Not good enough. Did you see him rape anybody?’

  ‘No.’

  Amira gave a grunt. ‘Did you see him kill anybody at all? The two women who escaped, for instance?’

  ‘There were three women. And no. I told you. I saw him try to murder someone. Me. But I didn’t witness him actually killing anybody.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘I’m getting at whether we can turn this whole thing to our advantage. Capture ourselves a war criminal. Bring the bastard to justice.’

  ‘He’s Biljana’s father, for Pete’s sake.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘I can’t serve two masters, Amira. I’ve agreed to try and help her find him. When I’ve done that, I’ll need to take my cue from her as to what I do next. Not from you.’

  ‘Has anyone ever told you that you’re a big girl’s blouse?’

  ‘Yes. You.’

  ‘I knew the insult sounded familiar.’

  Hart caught the sound of a soft knock on his bedroom door. ‘She’s here. Biljana’s here. I have to go. We can talk more later.’

  ‘So you’re really intending to take her to the monastery with you?’

  ‘I’ve got no choice. She’s set to go anyway. And I owe this much to her mother. With any luck the trail will go cold there and that will be an end to it.’

  ‘And what if it doesn’t?’

  ‘I’ll jump that fence when I come to it,’ said Hart. ‘Look, I have to go.’

  ‘Wait. One more thing before you open the door.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The Captain is the scum of the earth, isn’t he?’ Amira had on her journalist’s voice again.

  ‘Yes. He’s one of the worst. He used to boast to Lumnije about the bestial things he’d done during the war. As if it might give him kudos with her. Turn her on. He tried the same trick on me when I had him handcuffed. Probably hoping I’d go crazy with the horror of it and give him an opening. The guy is a mass murderer. He’s filth. He’s the crud you find in the dishwasher filter.’

  ‘Elegantly put.’ Amira hesitated. ‘But Lumnije’s dead, isn’t she? So there are no witnesses left to what he did?’

  ‘Yes. She is. And no. There aren’t. None that I know of, at least. But there’ll be living victims scattered right across the Balkans if half of what Lumnije told me is true. They won’t be that hard to round up now that the Serbs are gone. The War Crimes Commission will have collected interviews and affidavits. That’s what they do, don’t they, when a conflict is over?’

  ‘All right, then,’ said Amira. ‘Go to the monastery. See what you can find out. I’ll do some digging here.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  Amira laughed. ‘Because I am first and foremost a journalist, lunk head. And because I’ve learnt a few things about you in the past few years. One thing in particular.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Where you go, stories go.’

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Visoki Decˇani Monastery was sealed off when Hart and Biljana arrived at the gates, forty-eight hours later. Half a dozen KFOR vehicles were blocking the main entrance, alongside two blue Carabinieri Land Rovers.

  ‘What’s going
on?’ Hart asked one of the heavily camouflaged Italian troops guarding the entrance. He flashed his press pass to avoid the soldier closing him down. NATO’s peacekeeping operations were a bureaucratic nightmare, and Kosovo Force was one of the worst. Veteran journalists called it the ‘snake with two heads’.

  ‘The abbot is showing our admiral and some other VIPs round the monastery.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  The soldier hesitated.

  ‘Off the record,’ said Hart. ‘My niece and I just want to visit the monastery as tourists. I’m not here on any assignment. We’d like to know whether or not we stand a chance of being allowed in today. If we don’t, we’ll clear off. You could save us a lot of trouble by simply answering my question.’

  The soldier nodded. His eyes travelled over Biljana in an automatic masculine assessment. Biljana made a face and turned her back on him. She glared out at the surrounding forest as if she expected it to burst into flames at any moment as the result of a napalm attack.

  The soldier gave a half smile, as though he and Hart, both being men, would understand what had just occurred without any need for further explanation. ‘Last week the KLA threatened to burn this place down. There is nothing new in this. A year ago the monastery was attacked by a man with rifle grenades. By visiting like this, KFOR are showing these fucking Albanian whoresons that they take guarding the monastery seriously. This place is a UNESCO Endangered World Heritage Site, you know?’

  ‘My niece is Albanian,’ said Hart. He stared at the soldier, his gaze unwavering.

  The soldier stared back. ‘I’m sorry. I really am. But sometimes we can’t pick our relatives.’

  The admiral’s arrival, accompanied by the abbot and a number of his long-haired, black-frocked priests, plus a phalanx of men in brown, beige and off-grey acrylic summer-weight suits, neutralized the imminent showdown between Hart and the Italian soldier.

  ‘You were going to hit him, I could see it,’ Biljana said later, when the admiral and his KFOR escort had disappeared in a cloud of dust back towards Pec´. ‘You didn’t like what he said about me and you were going to hit him.’

  ‘One doesn’t hit armed soldiers.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. I could see it in your eyes. You were angry. You are still angry.’

  ‘Shows how dumb men can be,’ said Hart. ‘I’d avoid them if I were you.’

  Biljana wrinkled her nose. ‘He was quite handsome, though, in a Genghis Khan kind of a way.’

  Hart gave her a look.

  Biljana stared directly back at him. When she was certain she had his full attention, she fluttered her eyelashes melodramatically.

  The abbot cleared his throat.

  Hart turned to greet him. He managed to wipe the burgeoning grin off his face. Biljana’s expression turned abruptly serious too.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ said the abbot. ‘You wish to see around the monastery perhaps?’

  ‘We were hoping to see the tomb of St Stefan. Yes. But we will come back tomorrow if it is more convenient.’

  ‘No. No.’ The abbot waved one hand. He toyed with the cross hanging on a silver chain around his neck. ‘I will not hear of it. We have already delayed you quite sufficiently. I shall show you and your daughter round personally.’

  ‘My name is John Hart, Father. And this is Biljana Dardan. But I must tell you that Biljana is not my daughter. She is the daughter of a close friend, recently deceased.’

  The abbot made a sad face and inclined his head. ‘Biljana? That is an Albanian name, no?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Biljana. ‘Albanian Muslim.’

  ‘All are welcome here,’ said the abbot, pretending that he had not noticed her prickliness. ‘Christians. Muslims. Buddhists. Jews. Just so long as they are not wearing explosive vests, of course.’

  FORTY-EIGHT

  The monastery seemed unchanged since Hart had last seen it. It was a shade neater, perhaps, with the grass tended just a little closer to perfection. But the stones still looked as if they had been scrubbed by invisible hands, and the trees as though they had been pruned by someone with a mania for expressive topiary. The vines on the hillside behind the monastery stood to attention like Napoleon’s Imperial Guard, and the river flowed clean and crisp through the valley as if it alone might wash away the discordant memories that infected the place.

  Hart caught himself staring, despite his best intentions, towards the room in which he had said his last goodbyes to Lumnije on the final morning of his sojourn at the monastery. The memory remained fresh, as though it had occurred only a few days before.

  He glanced guiltily at Biljana, as though she might somehow succeed in picking up the memory by osmosis and making it her own, but she was staring across the hillside, her expression blank.

  ‘This is not the first time I have been here,’ Hart said to the abbot.

  ‘I’m afraid I do not remember you,’ said the abbot, frowning. ‘No. I definitely do not remember.’

  ‘You were probably not here then,’ said Hart. ‘It was fifteen years ago.’

  ‘Oh, I was here,’ said the abbot. ‘Only I looked like Peter over there.’ He pointed to one of his young priests. ‘I didn’t have this impressive hat for a start. Neither did I have grey hair.’

  Hart laughed. ‘I don’t remember you either, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Ah. That is the way of things.’ The abbot stopped by the open abbey door. ‘This was during the war, no?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hart. ‘I left someone here. A war victim. This young lady’s mother, in fact.’

  The abbot turned his gaze towards Biljana. ‘Your mother?’

  Biljana nodded silently.

  ‘We were being pursued at the time. By a man called the Captain. A war criminal. A killer.’

  ‘A Serbian?’

  Hart nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘And he pursued you here?’

  ‘Yes. But your abbot kindly took us in. I owe the monastery my life. Biljana’s mother too.’

  The abbot smiled. ‘Yes. That happened much around this time. Our Venerable Father Visarion was a holy man. A good man. To him all human beings were created equal in the likeness and love of God.’

  ‘No. He got that bit wrong. The Captain wasn’t. No one can convince me of that one. God missed a trick with the Captain. The same sort of trick he missed with Adolf Eichmann. And Idi Amin. And Saddam Hussein.’

  The abbot inclined his head. He was not going to offer any argument.

  ‘So we have come here to ask—’

  ‘About your mother?’ The abbot was staring at Biljana again, as though her face might reveal some secret that only he held the key to.

  ‘No. About my father,’ she said.

  ‘Your father? But I don’t follow you.’

  ‘The Captain was my father. Now that my mother is dead, I want to find him.’

  ‘Understandable. Quite understandable,’ said the abbot. ‘A child needs both its parents. Even if one of them leaves much to be desired.’

  ‘The Captain raped my mother, Father Maksim. After killing my grandmother and my grandfather and my uncle before my mother’s eyes. That is how he came to be my father. And that is why I wish to find him.’

  The abbot looked at her for a long time. ‘So you do not wish to see the tomb of St Stefan?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I see.’

  Hart watched the abbot carefully. But Father Maksim was giving nothing away.

  ‘You will dine with us tonight?’ the abbot said at last. ‘We could offer you a good stew. Our own wine and rakia. Accommodation. We have a guest dormitory, you know. Would this be acceptable to you both?’

  ‘Very acceptable,’ said Hart, more quickly than he had originally intended, but with more relief in his voice than he either cared, or knew, how to express. ‘Very acceptable indeed.�
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  FORTY-NINE

  The rakia was the best grape brandy Hart had ever tasted. Biljana, no doubt still under the influence of her trip to Paris, managed to force down a little red wine with every appearance of relish. The fourteen monks, most of them surprisingly young men, did not stint themselves either. The stew was a mixture of rabbit, venison and local beef. It was heavily spiced, more in the Hungarian than the Kosovan style. The accompanying vegetables were fresh from the farm. For pudding they ate homemade yoghourt sweetened with local honey. The monks, who had not eaten since eight-thirty that morning, ate as only young men who have been working in the fields all day, or painting icons, or making candles, can.

  Hart followed each face, each movement the monks made. After an hour, an elderly woman came in to clear away for the guests. Each monk took away his own plate and tumbler, leaving the half dozen outsiders to finish their coffee alone.

  The abbot beckoned to Hart.

  Hart glanced at Biljana, then stood up.

  ‘None of my monks are able to help you,’ the abbot said, leaning close. ‘I have asked them. I am the only one of our community still here from that time. Apart from the archimandrite, our spiritual leader. And he is on a retreat and will speak to no one.’

  ‘So why did you ask us to stay over, Father?’

  The abbot indicated the serving lady with an inclination of the head. ‘Because of Maria. She has been here for forty-seven years. She remembers the Captain well. Which is scarcely surprising, in the circumstances. For she is related to him.’

  Hart looked across at Biljana to see if she had heard, but she was immersed in a pamphlet detailing the history of the monastery. ‘She’s the Captain’s relation?’

  ‘She is the Captain’s great-aunt, I believe. This is not something…’ The abbot hesitated, lowering his voice even more. ‘Shall we say that this is not something of which our lovely Maria boasts. My sense is that she will not speak of it to you either. But…’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘You and Biljana are our guests. It seems only reasonable to apprise you of such facts that are certain to my knowledge. The rest is up to you.’ The abbot backed away a little and inclined his head. ‘I must regretfully say goodbye to you now. We have busy nights here at the monastery. And tomorrow I must attend committees. The day after as well. So I shall not be here to say goodbye to you. This, too, I regret.’