by sarvar. bhat
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it should either be on the left ring finger of the recipient, if he’s still alive that is, or ...’
‘Or what?’
‘In the event of death, the ring should have been removed for preservation at Himmler’s castle at Wewelsburg in memory of the ring holder.’
‘Fascinating.’
‘You know, the rings of SS officers fallen in battle were kept at a special shrine at the castle. In 1944, Himmler ordered the rings to be sealed inside a mountain near Wewelsburg to prevent their capture by the advancing Allies. The rings have never been found.’
‘What a story.’
‘I think it’s my turn now’, said Jack, handing back the ring. ‘Let’s go upstairs to my study. I want to show you something.’
‘How exciting, not etchings I hope, Jana joked, following Jack up the narrow stairs leading to the attic.
‘No. I only show my etchings to young chicks.’
‘Thanks, Jack.’
CHAPTER 3
The study was tidy and well designed, with lots of light flooding in through a large dormer window facing the courtyard. ‘Welcome to the engine room,’ said Jack, pointing to a long workbench crammed with computer screens, laser printers, a fax machine and an array of photographic equipment. Several large photographs were pinned to a whiteboard next to the window.
‘How come your study’s so tidy and the rest of the place is such a mess?’ said Jana, looking around.
‘Priorities. It still amazes me what you can do with computers these days’, said Jack, ignoring her. ‘Let me show you what I’ve found out so far’, he added, reaching for a laser torch and pointing it at one of the photographs on the whiteboard.
‘As you can see, this is an enlargement of the photo from the cottage. I took a close-up of it with my digital camera and enhanced it. Let’s begin with the man in the uniform. Tell me what you see’, Jack suggested.
‘I see a German officer wearing the uniform of the SS. Highly decorated, with a Ritterkreuz—a Knight’s Cross—right here.’ Jana pointed to the throat of the officer in the picture.
‘Rank?’
‘Sturmbannfuehrer—Major.’
‘Age?’
‘Young. Early thirties, I’d say.’
‘Go on, how tall?’
‘Quite tall, but I’d have to guess of course ...’
‘I can tell you he’s at least five foot eleven inches’, Jack explained.
‘How can you be so precise?’
‘Do you see this armband?’ he asked, holding up another enlargement showing only the upper body of the officer. ‘This is the Adolf Hitler armband on his cuff. It was worn only by members of the Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler—Hitler’s bodyguard, the pride of the Waffen SS, the cream of the Aryan super race. They had to be at least five foot eleven to be eligible to join. Tall lads, as you would expect. Goosestepping shorties just wouldn’t have been quite the same—right?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘This is interesting. Come, look at the hand holding the gun.’
‘He’s wearing a ring. This one you think?’ Jana asked, holding up the Totenkopf ring.
‘Looks like it. I didn’t notice it before. This ties in with the other contents of the box. I took photos of everything.’ Jack pointed to a group of smaller pictures on the board in front of them. ‘The most impressive item is the medal—the Ritterkreuz. See? The officer in the photo is wearing one just like it—here.’ Jana nodded. ‘It was awarded for acts of great courage’, said Jack. ‘Now, what about the unfortunate boy. What do you see?’
‘I see a naked youth—about fifteen I’d say—hanging upside down from a tree branch with the rope or wire wound around his testicles. It’s the only thing holding him up. It’s horrific. Also, his hands are tied behind his back and his head is shaved. He’s frightfully thin. Look at his ribs’, she said, and shuddered. ‘You can count them!’
‘What else?’
‘Well, there’s a gun pointed at his head, and a nasty-looking Doberman’, said Jana, tracing the outline of the large dog crouching on the ground next to the boy.
‘What about the geography?’
‘Alpine, I’d say. Stunning. Those mountains are massive and that’s heavy snow cover on top and pine forests down to the edge of a lake ... Austrian or Swiss perhaps? Rather large, judging by the size of the boat over here.’
‘Not bad’, said Jack, clapping his hands in mock applause. ‘It’s a Swiss lake actually.’
‘Oh? How do you know that?’
‘The boat. Here, look. I’ve prepared several enlargements. Unfortunately, I couldn’t disperse the fog to get a better image. Computers are good, but not that good—yet. That’s a powerful motor cruiser tied up at the jetty; fast, sleek, expensive. The sort of thing you’d expect to find moored in front of one of those exclusive hotels on a Swiss lake. And here’s the proof’, he said, pointing to the stern of the boat.
‘A flag. But I can’t make out any pattern or design, it’s too blurred.’
‘Try this.’ Jack handed her another enlargement.
‘It’s a cross; the Swiss flag!’ Jana exclaimed, getting excited. ‘This is really quite something. I’ve told you before, you’re in the wrong business. You should be a sleuth.’
‘There’s more’, said Jack. ‘The officer has something tucked under his arm. See?’ he said, pointing. ‘It’s an unusual shape. That’s what intrigued me.’
‘It’s too small and most of it is hidden. I can’t see what it is.’
‘Then try this, Inspector, it’s one of my more sophisticated tools of trade’, said Jack, handing her a magnifying glass.
‘Amazing. It looks like a violin case.’
‘Precisely. Not exactly what you’d expect to find, is it? A gun in one hand and a violin case in the other. Quite a guy.’
‘You said it. Surely, there can’t be any more, I’m exhausted.’
‘Just one more item, and a fascinating one at that’, Jack promised. ‘Here, look at the dog. Look at his collar. It’s wide and shiny, possibly made of some type of metal, and there are pointed studs and a leather band underneath.’
‘You’re right, it must be metal’, Jana agreed, looking through the magnifying glass.
Jack was tempted to stroke her hair, but pulled back his hand. Standing so close to Jana, seeing the gentle curve of her neck, the tiny shell of her ear, smelling her familiar scent—musky and exciting—brought back memories of lazy Sunday mornings wickedly spent in bed a long time ago. But that was in another life, he reminded himself.
‘How unusual’, said Jana. ‘It’s engraved on the top here. You can just see the letters R–E–I. I wonder what it means.’
‘It could be initials, or the end of an inscription. A name perhaps, with the rest of the writing continuing on the other side of the dog’s neck’, Jack suggested.
Jana walked to the window and looked down into the overgrown courtyard below. ‘Jack, have you been able to find out who owns the cottage, or rather what’s left of it?’ she asked.
‘That wasn’t hard; my title search is right here. The property is registered in the name of Wotan Holdings Pty Limited. The shareholders and directors are Eric and Heinrich Newman.’
‘Apparently, father and son. Sir Eric has agreed to see me; I have an appointment with him tomorrow at his home,’ said Jana.
‘It’s Sir Eric, is it?’ It was Jack’s turn to look impressed. ‘I don’t suppose I could come along?’ he asked hopefully.
‘That wouldn’t be such a good idea. It’ll be a formal police visit.’ Jack’s face sank. ‘Come on, Jack, don’t look so disappointed.’
‘Easy for you. Just flash a badge and walk straight in.’
‘I’ll tell you all about it after. We have a deal, remember?’
‘We do?’ Jack said. ‘I didn’t know we’d agreed.’
‘Let me put it this way, if we have, you can come with me to visit Miss Abramowitz if you
like. I’m going to see her now.’
‘And who might that be?’
‘She’s the lady who wrote to your editor claiming to have recognised the officer in the photograph’, Jana replied casually. ‘The paper notified the police straight away. That’s really why I came to see you’, she explained.
Jack looked thunderstruck. ‘The bastard didn’t tell me. You’re joking, surely?’
Jana opened her handbag and gave Jack a copy of the Abramowitz letter. He read it and hurried to the door. ‘Bloody hell, what are you waiting for?’ he reprimanded her, looking for his car keys.
‘What about the window?’
‘I’ll fix it later. Let’s go.’
* * *
Did you enjoy this sample?
The Empress Holds the Key is now available on my website at this link
http://gabrielfarago.com.au/my-books/the-empress-holds-the-key/
Encouraged by the reception of The Empress Holds the Key, I released my next thriller–The Disappearance of Anna Popov—in 2014.
When Jack Rogan, celebrated author and journalist, stumbles on a mysterious clue pointing to the tragic disappearance of two girls from Alice Springs, he can’t resist investigating.
Rogan is joined by three friends: Rebecca Armstrong, his New York literary agent; Andrew Simpson, a retired Aboriginal police officer; and Cassandra, an enigmatic psychic, as he follows the trail of the missing girls into the remote Dreamtime wilderness of outback Australia.
Soon past the point of no return, they enter a dark web of superstition and are drawn into the upside-down-world of an outlaw bikie gang where the ruler is an evil master, outcasts are heroes, and cruelty and violence is admired and rewarded.
Cassandra, though, has a secret agenda of her own. Using her occult powers to avenge an old, deep wrong, she sets the scene for an epic showdown where the stakes are high and the loser faces death and oblivion.
Will Rogan succeed? Will a desperate mother’s prayers be answered? Will a lost daughter be found? Or will the forces of evil crush all their hopes and dreams?
Gabriel Farago
Leura, Blue Mountains, Australia
THE DISAPPEARANCE OF
ANNA POPOV
A dark, page-turning psychological thriller
Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 3
Gabriel Farago
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I first came across the story of Jandamarra and the Bunuba Resistance in the remote Kimberley in Western Australia. Leaning against a 700-year-old boab tree with my Aboriginal guide—a Bunuba elder—I was looking up at the tall cliffs guarding the entrance to Windjana Gorge; his country. We had just visited some stunning Aboriginal rock art—haunting paintings thought to be more than twenty thousand years old. Rising like a fortress out of the glare, the tall cliffs—remnants of an ancient Devonian reef—formed a forbidding barrier between his world and mine.
‘This is where it all happened’, the old man said, pointing into the deep gorge cut through the rock by the Lennard River. ‘And it wasn’t that long ago. Jandamarra’s cave is just up there.’
Jandamarra was an Aboriginal freedom fighter in the 1890s who refused to surrender his country and his freedom to the white settlers pushing relentlessly north.
As the shadows lengthened, I listened to the remarkable story of first contact between the Bunuba and the early Australian pastoralists. It was a stirring tale of heroism and despair, unspeakable brutality and acts of great courage. It was the final chapter in the long history of a proud people. With the story ending in tragedy, the painful words turned into a whisper of defeat, falling from the lips of one of its last true elders. Caught between two worlds, Jandamarra had tried to find a way of embracing the new, but the old was in his blood and could not be denied.
This conflict is by no means over. It exists today. Colliding cultures send ripples of discord far into the future and affect generations. It is as relevant today as it was in Jandamarra’s time. The stage is the same, so is the plot. Only the actors are different.
As the embers of our campfire turned slowly to ash, I began to wonder ... What if Jandamarra had lived today? What if ...?
Gabriel Farago
Leura, Blue Mountains, Australia
PROLOGUE
Alice Springs: January 2005
Anna had been dancing in The Shed the night she disappeared. The Shed was a notorious watering hole frequented mainly by thirsty truckies. It called itself a bush pub, but that was an exaggeration. It was more like a long wooden bar with a corrugated iron roof held up by gnarled fence posts and barbed wire. There were no walls. The floor, hard as rock, was red desert earth compacted by thousands of feet shuffling their owners to the bar for a drink. Because the beer was always cold and the steaks were huge and cheap, the place was always packed. More recently, however, there was one more added attraction: backpackers, mainly girls, touring the outback. Looking for cheap grog and adventure, the young nomads had made The Shed their own. Located three kilometres out of Alice, it was within easy walking distance of the youth hostels and budget motels popular with tourists.
A local bush band was playing country and western music and the mouth-watering aroma of frying onions and sizzling sausages drifted across from the barbecue. It was very hot and very late.
‘Beer, mate?’ asked the barmaid, sizing up the tall, dark stranger.
The handsome Aboriginal took off his broad-rimmed drover’s hat, wiped his forehead with a red handkerchief and nodded. ‘One for your friend as well?’ she asked, pointing to the huge snake wound around his neck and shoulders.
‘No thanks; she’s driving’, he said, affectionately stroking the exquisite python.
Standing at the other end of the bar, a group of truckies were eyeing off the girls on the improvised dance floor. ‘Look, the sheilas have to dance with each other ’cause there’re no blokes here having a go’, said one, downing another beer.
‘I bet you can’t get them to dance with you, mate; not even one’, said another, patting his friend on the hairy beer gut bulging over his shorts. ‘Just look at you, you slob.’
‘Sure can.’
‘Oh yeah? You’re all talk. What’s it worth?’
‘Ten rounds’,
The others laughed.
‘You’re on.’
The man slammed down his glass, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and belched loudly. Pulling down his singlet to cover part of his protruding gut, he slipped his thongs back on and shuffled unsteadily towards the dance floor.
Barefoot and wearing the briefest of shorts and a tight-fitting pink T-shirt accentuating her firm breasts, Anna, her silky blonde hair swishing against the tips of her tanned shoulder blades, was dancing with her friend Julia. Anna was looking for freedom; Julia for the adventures that the novelty of travel to remote places invariably offered. The Shed had it all: excitement, danger, and the lure of the unknown far away from the watchful eyes of fretting parents and curious friends. Enjoying her favourite Dixie Chicks song, Anna swayed from side to side with her eyes closed, letting the familiar beat of the music carry her away. When it stopped and she opened her eyes, she almost bumped into the grotesque fat man towering over her.
‘How about a dance, luv?’ said the fat man, his bald head glistening with sweat.
‘No thanks’, she snapped, turning away. ‘He’s gross’, she whispered to Julia. ‘Let’s take a break.’
As his mates at the bar roared laughing, a flash of anger raced across the face of the fat truckie. ‘Come on, sweetie, just one. Be a good sport’, he persisted, putting a heavy, sweaty hand on Anna’s shoulder.
‘Get off me!’ shouted Anna, pushing the fleshy hand away in disgust.
His mates at the bar began to whistle and hoot. Instead of walking away, the fat man grabbed Anna from behind, spun her around and lifted her up like a rag doll. Pressing her against his huge chest, he lumbered awkwardly around the dance floor like a dancing bear performing his tricks at the fair.
The man with the snake sipped his beer and watched the odd couple stagger across the dance floor. Slowly, he unwound the python, lifted it over his head and gently put it down on the bar.
‘Look after her for me, luv’, he said to the barmaid. ‘She’s harmless. I’ll be right back.’ He walked slowly over to the dance floor. ‘That’s enough, mate. Put her down’, he said, patting the fat man on the back.
The truckie turned his head and glared, his bloodshot eyes slightly unfocused. ‘Fuck off, darkie. This is none of your business’, he hissed angrily.
The snake man’s right hand shot up in silent reply and grabbed the fat man’s ear. ‘I don’t think you heard me’, he said, twisting the ear. ‘Let her go.’
The fat man let go of Anna, clenched his fists and spun around.
The tall man let go of the ear and stepped back.
The fat man charged—120 kilos of rage.
Like most professional fighters, the tall man had the waist of a ballerina and the shoulders of a weightlifter. Rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, he stood poised like a cat watching its prey. He sidestepped the charge easily, letting the fat man crash into the bar.
‘Fight, you fucking coward!’ bellowed the fat man, picking himself up.
‘Okay.’
The tall man exploded into action. The first punch, delivered by his left fist, landed on his opponent’s beer gut and went deep. The second, delivered by his right, caught the fat man on the left cheek and broke a bone. The fight was over in an instant. Two more massive blows, one to the chin and one to the nose, finished the truckie off.
‘Anyone else?’ the tall man asked, squaring his shoulders. No one stepped forward. ‘He had it coming. It’s over. Get back to your beers.’
The tall man walked to the far end of the bar, uncoiled the snake, which had wound itself around a post, and slung it over his shoulders.