The Isis Covenant

XX

‘Herr Saintclair? Fräulein Fisher? Please take a seat.’

‘Thank you, Herr Direktor.’

‘You enjoyed your tour of the Neues Museum?’

Danny Fisher gave him her brightest smile. ‘It was fascinating,’ she assured him, attempting to disguise the fact that after her tours of the Pergamon Museum and the Altes Museum on Berlin’s aptly named Museum Island, she was footsore and all but museumed out.

‘We are very proud of our facility,’ the director continued. ‘You will know that we have only just reopened after many years of work and an enormous amount of effort?’

‘Of course,’ Jamie chimed in with a little flattery of his own. ‘The displays are magnificent.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I was particularly interested in your Egyptian collection.’

‘A favourite of mine, also.’ Their host nodded gravely. ‘It was not possible to recreate the original Egyptian courtyard, but our bust of Nefertiti is world-renowned. It is probably the finest example of its kind. Now, how can I help you?’

Jamie took a deep breath. ‘We are interested in the museum during the period between nineteen thirty-nine and nineteen forty-five.’

‘Then I am afraid you may be on a wasted mission.’ The other man frowned and his fingers played absently with a gold fountain pen. ‘You see, the Neues Museum closed on the outbreak of war and never reopened. Fortunately, in common with the other museums on the island, our greatest treasures were evacuated, first to the basement of the Zoo flak tower, which was the strongest and most secure building in Berlin, and later to the salt mines in Thuringia. Only the least valuable artefacts remained and most of these were lost in the bombing raids that almost completely destroyed the building in November nineteen forty-three and February ’forty-five.’

They’d had a similar answer at their previous meetings. Still, Jamie decided to persist. ‘I’m trying to discover the whereabouts of an artefact that might have gone missing during that time, perhaps in the latter stages of the war.’

‘Missing, Mr Saintclair?’ The director gave a bitter laugh. ‘You joke with me, surely. For ten years, everything was missing. The contents of all three museums were “liberated” to Soviet Russia. Some of the items, such as the Pergamon Altar, were returned in the late fifties and restored to their original positions, or as much as was possible, taking into account the destruction of the buildings that housed them. Other, smaller, but still valuable artefacts were not returned for many years. Some are still missing.’

Jamie apologized. ‘I meant to be neither foolish nor naive, Herr Direktor, only to place the question in its widest possible context. Perhaps it would help if I was more specific.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘The artefact in question would be an Egyptian crown, mounted with the cow’s horns that typically represent the goddess Isis, but …’ he hesitated, ‘with some form of precious stone replacing the metal sun disk.’

He expected the other man to laugh, as the other two museum chiefs had, but the director surprised him by frowning and picking up the telephone on his desk.

‘Could you bring me the contacts file, please, Gerda? Thank you.’ He pursed his thin lips. ‘The Neues Museum has been open for less than a year, Herr Saintclair, but we have been on site for several, dealing with many questions. Your enquiry has reminded me of one of them.’

A young secretary appeared and placed a green file on his desk. He picked it up and waved it.

‘Of course, everything must be on computer, but in many ways I am a very old-fashioned man and some things I prefer to keep on paper.’ He began leafing through the sheets in the file. ‘Yes, here it is. June, two thousand and seven. A researcher for a very eminent English historian presented himself in person to make the enquiry. The … specific question he asked … was … yes: At any point during the latter stages of the Second World War did the museum lose, mislay or have stolen an Egyptian artefact, specifically,’ he smiled from Jamie to Danny, ‘a crown, probably of the later period, and adorned with cow’s horns and inscribed with the Eye of Horus. Of course, our answer was negative,’ he said apologetically, ‘as it must be now. As far as I am aware, the museum has never had contact with any such artefact, unless it was in the form of a frieze. There, does that satisfy you?’

‘May I ask who the English historian was?’ Fisher said.

The director pondered for only a second. ‘Of course, it is no secret and, in any case, I know that the book he was researching has recently been published. His name is Sir William Melrose.’

‘We need to speak with this Melrose guy to find out what he knows that we don’t.’ Danny’s voice betrayed her excitement. ‘For the first time I feel as if we’re actually making some progress.’

‘You’re right, Jamie agreed. ‘But there’s no point in rushing back to London now. His office said he’d be in Japan until the end of the week. We might as well enjoy Berlin while we have the chance. I thought we could visit the site of the Reichschancellery this afternoon and then maybe try the Reichstag?’

‘Sure, but can we find a bar first? My feet feel as if I’ve walked to Egypt and back. Did you notice the researcher’s question referred to the Eye of Horus?’

‘Yes,’ Jamie admitted. ‘But I don’t think it means anything. You have to remember that neither Melrose nor his researcher had seen the actual crown, all they had was a loose description from a jeweller whose world was disintegrating around him. If the jeweller said it was inscribed with an eye, Melrose, who isn’t an Egyptian expert, would automatically conclude it was the most common version. The Eye of Horus.’

They walked to Schlossplatz and turned into the Unter den Linden, where they found a suitable bar to rest their legs. Jamie ordered two beers and a plate of bratwurst, which they ate with fresh bread and mustard that was so hot it must have come out of a volcano.

‘Okay, Saintclair,’ Danny laughed as she wafted her mouth with the back of her hand, ‘I feel like I’ve been tanked up with rocket fuel. This gal is ready for anything.’

They walked together up the famous street towards Pariser Platz and the Brandenburg Gate, stopping now and again to look in shop windows. Occasionally, Jamie swept the streets for the two girls who had followed them the previous day, but either they had improved their surveillance techniques or he and Danny were on their own.

‘Do you ever feel as if this is just a game compared to what you usually do back home?’ he asked. The electric-blue eyes studied him for a long moment and he had a feeling she was trying to read his mind for the real question behind the question.

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘For one thing, I needed a break. I’ve been working non-stop for about nine months now and I could feel myself burning out. A change of scenery is just what the doc ordered. And it’s not a game. I said today that I felt we were making progress and that wasn’t just garden manure. Look, I’ve probably worked on a hundred murder cases. A lot of them are simple. You have a suspect, you have a motive and you have evidence to make it stick. But there are plenty like this, where you start with nothing and it takes time to build a case. Okay, it’s not the kind of case the department likes, but if you stand your ground, don’t allow yourself to be sidetracked and keep right on going, whatever happens, then the chances are you’ll get there in the end. I’m not a quitter, Jamie. Tell me you aren’t, either?’

‘I’m not a quitter, Danny.’

She kissed him on the lips, slow at first, but then hard and deep, so it took his breath away.

‘I knew that, idiot. Now where is this place?’

‘This is the Wilhelmstrasse, where Melrose said the jeweller was offered the Crown. It should be round here.’ He led the way along a narrow alleyway off the main street. ‘Don’t expect too much,’ he warned.

They reached their destination. For once Danny Fisher was lost for words. It took her a full minute to find the ones she needed.

‘Hitler’s bunker — the place where he died — is a parking lot?’

They gazed around the flat open space surrounded by grubby apartment blocks built decades before. Rows of parking bays filled with Mercedes and VWs and Fiats and Renaults were separated by low wooden rails and surrounded by shrubs and spindly trees. It seemed a terribly banal use for a piece of ground that had seen the end of a generation of evil that had consumed tens of millions of innocents.

‘The Russians would have wanted to obliterate it, but the bunker was constructed with two-metre-thick reinforced concrete. It looks as if the German Democratic Republic decided the best way to wipe it from history was to bury it.’ Jamie stepped off the road as a dark van advertising an electrical business swept into the car park and found a bay close by. The driver opened his window, lit a cigarette and started reading a newspaper at the sports pages. ‘In some ways it makes sense. Why leave something that could become a shrine to a monster?’

‘So this is where it happened.’ Danny Fisher looked around at the blank windows of the tower blocks, her expression somewhere between awe and sadness. ‘Berndt Hartmann was here all those years ago. But did he have the Crown of Isis?’ She swivelled to face Jamie and he took her in his arms. ‘Do you ever wish you could turn back time?’

Before he could answer, a silver car drew in behind them and he heard the click of the door opening. ‘Jamie Saintclair!’

The voice was so full of genuine pleasure that he turned to meet it with a smile. At the same time his mind was trying to work out who he knew in Berlin and wondering at the coincidence that they’d met. Then he remembered that when you’re investigating a murder there are no coincidences. It took a millisecond for the features to register.

Danny Fisher saw him freeze. ‘Jamie?’

‘Run, Danny!’

But he knew it was already too late. You couldn’t escape the ghosts of your past.

He faced up to the man from the car, tensed and in a fighting crouch, ready for what was certain to come. At his back the sound of the sliding door in the van’s side was followed by a rush of feet and a sharp cry that told him Danny Fisher was taking on whoever had emerged. The temptation was to turn and help, but he knew that the real danger was here in the man in the dark suit with the thin smile.

‘What do you want, Frederick?’

‘Why you, Mr Saintclair. You.’

In the same second his arms were pinned to his side and his world went black as some kind of evil-smelling hood was pulled over his head. At least two men dragged him off his feet and threw him bodily into the van where more hands were waiting to pinion his wrists with plastic ties. He felt a bolt of pain as his back was rammed against the metal side of the van. He sensed that Danny must be somewhere opposite him and he opened his mouth to give her some pointless reassurance.

‘Dan—’

Bright colours exploded in his head as something very hard hit him on the side of the skull.

‘No move. No speak. Or you get hurt proper, huh?’

The words were in heavily accented English and in a tone that convinced him the owner meant what he said. Better, in any case, to wait and preserve his strength. That was the advice from the escape and evasion instructors. Then again, they also said the best time to escape was in the minutes after you were captured. Conclusion? The E and A course had been a complete waste of nine hours in the freezing cold, plus four tied to a boiling radiator with a bright light in his eyes and four hulking paras taking turns to kick him in the balls.

As the van sped away, Jamie’s racing mind fought for calm. Two minutes ago they’d been standing in the drizzle chatting about an East German car park. Now they were trussed up like Christmas turkeys in the back of a van going who knew where and at the mercy of …? Somewhere beyond the shock, his subconscious was working on that question. Frederick. How could it be Frederick? Frederick should be in jail or in hell, where he belonged. Frederick shouldn’t be walking the streets of Berlin. Frederick was, or had been, the leader of the paramilitary wing of the Vril Society, a shady neo-Nazi organization whose origins went back beyond the Second World War. Taking its lead from Heinrich Himmler, the Vril Society was dedicated to discovering the source of the Aryan race and tapping the mythical powers of its founders. At least that’s what they claimed. For Jamie Saintclair, Frederick and his kind were the devil spawn of men like Bodo Ritter and Hitler. When they were bored they’d go out and take over someone else’s country and the more blood spilled, the more glorious the victory. Not that knowing his enemy gave him much comfort. Frederick was not only ruthless, but cruel, with ice water in his veins and not a shred of pity in his make-up. The last time Jamie had seen him had been outside the Frauenkirche in Dresden, bathed in the blue flashing lights of a dozen police cars, trying to explain away a crate of machine pistols and at least two dead bodies. The questions queued up in his head. How had the Vril tracked him down? Was this kidnap to do with the attack in London? Or the Crown of Isis? The Crown was exactly the kind of artefact that would interest a society who got their kicks from secret rituals in the basement of Himmler’s planned SS Disneyland at Wewelsburg Castle. It was even possible that Ritter himself had been a member of the society. His mind reeled with a dozen unlikely possibilities. In all of them the outcome was better than the most likely, and the one he feared most. That this was about simple revenge.

A few feet away, Danny Fisher cursed herself for a fool. She should have reacted more quickly. She’d been lulled by the smile on Jamie’s face as he’d turned to meet the man from the car. When the four guys had jumped from the van, she’d got in just one good hit before they’d swamped her. Now she was helpless to fight the suffocating hood or the plastic ties that were biting into her wrists. The ties stirred a memory and her mind was momentarily filled with that scene of horror back in the Brooklyn house. The Hartmanns had been pinioned with plastic ties just like these before … Well, whatever happened she would not submit to that. Better off dead. She didn’t know how, but, if it came to it, she’d find a way. She attempted to use the van’s motion and the pressure on her back to figure out how far and in what direction they were travelling, but the map in her head was soon a scrambled mess. Hell, she could barely have found her way back to the hotel. Fear gnawed at her insides, but that was only natural. Anybody who wasn’t scared in a situation like this was either lying or lobotomized. It was a question of ruling your fear and not allowing it to rule you. She hung on to the certainty that as long as you continued to function, there was a chance. And all she needed was one chance. But Christ, she was lonely. She hadn’t even been certain Jamie was in the van until she’d heard the German scumball tell him to shut up. For the moment, she didn’t let the whys or wherefores occupy her. Whether it was about the Crown of Isis or the contract out on him didn’t matter. This was about Jamie. Thinking about his reassuring presence brought her a moment of strength. She had a suspicion their kidnappers might be underestimating Mr Jamie Saintclair. Beneath that slightly bumbling academic exterior she’d sensed a hardness, a kind of titanium core, that wasn’t like other men she’d known. If it came to it, she decided, she could rely on Jamie Saintclair to go the extra mile. All they needed was one chance.