The lost symphony, p.35
The Lost Symphony, page 35
After walking along a maze of narrow underground corridors and down winding, candlelit stairs that would have confused all but the initiated, they came to a heavy, iron-studded wooden door. The old monk took a large key out of his habit, unlocked the door and stepped into a small chamber. The other monks followed him inside and formed a protective semicircle around a stone sarcophagus standing in the middle.
Illuminated by a single candle on top of the heavy marble lid, Wolfbauer could see a beautiful icon resting on a blue velvet cushion next to the candle.
The old monk pointed to the icon. ‘This is the icon of the Theotokos of Tikhvin,’ he said. Then he stepped forward, bent down, and kissed the icon.
Slowly, Wolfbauer walked around the sarcophagus without taking his eyes off the stunning icon, its gold riza reflecting the candlelight and making the Madonna’s halo sparkle. Impressive, he thought, but not what I’m looking for.
Wolfbauer stopped in front of the old monk and looked at him with his piercing, ice-blue eyes. It was time to introduce the real reason he had rushed to Tikhvin. He was hoping it wasn’t too late and the monks hadn’t already removed, or safely hidden, the treasure he was after.
‘Thank you for showing me this,’ said Wolfbauer. ‘But this is not why I have come here.’ He paused to let this sink in. ‘I believe you are the custodians of another precious icon, placed into your care by the abbot of the Novo-Tikhvinsky Convent in Yekaterinburg twenty years ago. That’s correct, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ said the old monk, his voice quivering with apprehension and fear.
‘But I think you do,’ said Wolfbauer, his voice emotionless like the cold steel of his dagger attached to his belt. ‘I am talking about Kazanskaya Bogomater, Our Lady of Kazan, who turned into the Weeping Madonna of Kazan after she had been stolen from the Convent of the Theotokos in Kazan in 1904,’ continued Wolfbauer quietly, ‘and was brought here for safekeeping in 1920 after she had been recovered.’ He was showing the old man just how well informed he was. A tried and tested strategy he had used many times. By revealing precise details about a small part of the whole story, he gave the impression he knew a lot more than he did. This usually created an air of uncertainty and fear, eventually resulting in capitulation by those he tried to intimidate and control. But not so on this occasion. The old monk shook his head and stood there in silence. Defiant.
‘I see,’ said Wolfbauer. ‘I will ask one more time: where is the Weeping Madonna of Kazan?’
The old monk didn’t reply.
‘Have it your way.’ Wolfbauer picked up the burning candle, held it up and looked at the old monk. ‘This is on your head. I hope you can live with it, old man,’ whispered Wolfbauer, and held the burning candle against the exposed wooden parts of the icon. The monks looked on in horror as the flame began to lick the serene face of the Madonna – threatening to ignite it – and candle wax began dripping onto the velvet cushion like tears.
‘No! Stop!’ shouted the old monk and held up his hands.
Smiling, Wolfbauer withdrew the candle.
The old monk said something to his brethren and pointed to the sarcophagus. The monks stepped forward. First, the old monk lifted the icon and the cushion off the sarcophagus and placed it carefully on the ground. Then he gripped the edge of the stone lid with both hands. The others did the same and began to slowly turn the heavy lid, creating an opening big enough to be able to see inside.
Looking defeated, the old monk let go of the lid and pointed into the sarcophagus. ‘Kazanskaya Bogomater,’ he said, sadness in his voice, and stepped aside.
60
Berghof, Obersalzberg, Berchtesgaden: 1941
Hitler stood in front of the sprawling picture window in the conference room of the Berghof – his Alpine fortress on the Obersalzberg in the Bavarian Alps near Berchtesgaden – and looked pensively across to the Untersberg, one of his favourite mountains. Usually, this spectacular yet familiar view seemed to calm him, but not this time. Operation Barbarossa, the invasion of the Soviet Union, was going badly.
The largest invasion force in military history had failed to achieve its objective and had stalled. A furious Hitler, who had spent weeks at the Wolfsschanze, his headquarters in East Prussia, directing the campaign, needed some time to think, away from his generals and the depressing reports of huge casualties and setbacks. And the best way to do that was to spend a few days in his beloved Berghof, a comfortable Bavarian chalet where he felt at ease, and spent more time during the war than anywhere else.
Hitler’s adjutant knocked and entered. ‘Major Wolfbauer has arrived,’ he said. ‘Shall I show him in?’
‘Please do, and bring us some tea.’
Moments later, Wolfbauer entered, stood to attention by the door and saluted. To be granted a private audience with the Fuehrer in the Berghof was a rare honour. Hitler looked at Wolfbauer and smiled. Give me a thousand men like him and I could conquer the world, he thought.
‘How was Tikhvin?’ asked Hitler.
‘Eventful, Mein Fuehrer. Ancient walls and secretive monks were guarding a great treasure I have been trying to find for a long time.’
‘And have you?’
Wolfbauer pointed to an embossed leather case under his arm he’d had specially made for the icon. ‘I have,’ he said.
‘Some good news at last. My generals are imbeciles; men without vision who do not understand that you cannot build a Reich without struggle and sacrifice. You cannot have a glorious future without blood. We sent three million men into battle together with six hundred thousand motorised vehicles – an unheard-of number – to conquer the western Soviet Union and clear the territory of Slavic people and populate it with Germans. My vision! Lebensraum for Germany. But my generals don’t seem to understand. All I hear are their excuses; nothing but excuses!’
Wolfbauer listened in silence as Hitler became progressively agitated. His monologues and tirades were legendary and could last for hours.
‘Look at the Russians. They know what sacrifice means. They are dying by the hundreds of thousands, yet still they are coming. Relentless waves of primitive people armed with only the most basic weapons, and my generals cannot crush them. What is it these Russians have that we don’t? What do you think, Herr Major?’
Wolfbauer took his time before replying. ‘Faith?’ he ventured. ‘I have seen it firsthand.’
Hitler nodded and looked thoughtfully out the window. ‘Faith, you say? We believe in destiny; that’s stronger, surely! No matter,’ he said and turned around. ‘What have you got for me?’
‘Something we’ve discussed before, Mein Fuehrer.’ Wolfbauer placed the leather case carefully on a table by the window and opened it. ‘The legendary Weeping Madonna of Kazan,’ he announced and stepped back.
‘You found it!’ Hitler walked over to the table and looked at the icon in the leather case. Then he lifted it out of the case and held it up.
‘Magnificent,’ he said, admiring the intricate, yet unusually solid silver-gilt frame. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘The icon is very old and has a remarkable history. It dates from the thirteenth century and was brought to Russia from Constantinople.’
Wolfbauer then gave a brief outline of the icon’s history he had carefully prepared earlier. He only touched on the highlights because he didn’t want to overwhelm the Fuehrer with too much historic detail he wouldn’t be interested in. What Hitler really wanted to know was not so much the history of the icon, but its reputed spiritual power and the reason it had been venerated throughout Russia for centuries. In short, he wanted to know if it could be useful to him.
‘One of the main reasons the icon has occupied such a prominent position within the Russian Orthodox Church for such a long time,’ said Wolfbauer, sounding more and more like the pedantic academic he was, ‘and has enjoyed such popularity and is, to this very day, considered the Holy Protectress of Russia is this …’
Hitler was listening with interest. He put the icon back on the table, ran his fingertips over the heavy frame and looked expectantly at Wolfbauer.
‘Numerous miracles have been attributed to the icon over the centuries, but none were more significant and are now firmly embedded in the national psyche than those linked to military matters.’
Wolfbauer paused to let this sink in because he knew from previous encounters with the Fuehrer that this was the subject of particular interest to him.
‘Famous Russian military commanders like Dmitri Pozharsky and Mikhail Kutuzov attributed their success in repelling invasions by superior forces, to the intervention of the Virgin Mary. Both commanders had prayed in front of the icon and asked for help.’
Hitler nodded, deep in thought, but didn’t interrupt.
‘Keeping Russia safe during the Polish invasion of 1612, the Swedish invasion of 1709 and, most importantly, Napoleon’s invasion of 1812 and repelling the invaders was all attributed to the intervention of Kazanskaya Bogomater, the Holy Protectress of Russia—’
‘And do you think they are praying to her now and asking for help and protection?’ asked Hitler.
‘I questioned the monks at the monastery about that and the answer was yes. They seemed genuinely shocked when I took possession of the icon and told them I would take it back to Germany.’
‘How did they react?’
‘They looked terrified.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘Yes. They said if the icon were to leave Russia, great calamities would befall the country. Apparently, that has happened before.’
‘In what way?’ demanded Hitler, becoming excited.
‘In 1904, the icon was stolen from the Convent of the Theotokos in Kazan and disappeared for a number of years. This was seen as a sign, heralding coming disasters. The Revolution of 1905, Russia’s humiliating defeat in the Russo–Japanese War, and the millions of deaths during World War I that followed, were all attributed to this.’
‘Interesting ...’ said Hitler. ‘Not all weapons require bullets. Do you know I spent some of my happiest times here on the Obersalzberg? It was right here in the Berghof that many of my great projects were conceived and ripened,’ reminisced Hitler. ‘This is where I had my best moments of inspiration.’ He looked dreamily at the icon on the table. ‘Could this be another one of those moments, I wonder?’
Hitler again looked out the window, searching for the answer in the timeless beauty of the mountains. Perhaps the Madonna has changed sides? he mused. And all we have to do to break the Russian spirit is to let Russia know this has happened. Then he turned around and faced Wolfbauer.
‘You have done Germany a great service, Herr Major,’ he said. ‘I know I can always rely on you. You are not like my generals. Quarrelling weaklings, all of them! But enough of that.’
Hitler pointed to a settee and two leather chairs. ‘Come, let’s have some tea, and you must tell me more about that monastery and those monks.’
‘Thank you, Mein Fuehrer,’ said Wolfbauer, glowing with pride. Such praise from Hitler was rare.
61
Gatekeeper’s Cottage, Kuragin chateau: 6 March 2017
The countess turned restlessly in her bed, unable to get back to sleep. It was still dark outside and too early to get up. For the second night running, bad dreams had haunted her sleep. Instead of fading away, Dupree’s disturbing suspicions regarding Alina that in some strange way mirrored her own, had become stronger and had even invaded her sleep. Dupree had been very tight-lipped about the police visit to Alina’s flat the day before and what, if anything, had been discovered. This had only heightened her apprehension.
The countess was slowly drifting back to sleep when her phone rang. Drowsy, she reluctantly reached for her mobile on the bedside table and answered it. It was Dupree.
‘I am sorry to disturb you this early, Katerina, but I have something here that can’t wait.’
‘Do you know what time it is?’
‘Yes; it’s almost six. I just had a phone call from Lapointe.’
The countess sat up, instantly awake, a shiver of fear tingling down her back. ‘What about?’
‘Alina.’
‘What about Alina?’
‘Some things are better discussed face to face.’
‘I’ll be right over.’
‘I’ll put on some coffee.’
Wearing her gardening gumboots and a fur coat over her dressing gown to keep warm, the countess hurried across to the Gatekeeper’s Cottage. Dupree was waiting for her at the door and opened it. ‘Come in. I’ve rekindled the fire and the coffee is almost ready,’ he said.
‘Thank God for that; it’s freezing.’
The countess walked over to the fire to warm her hands. Dupree joined her moments later and handed her a mug of hot coffee.
‘You look worried,’ said the countess, sipping her coffee.
‘With good reason, I’m afraid.’
‘Are you going to tell me, or are you going to kill me slowly with suspense?’ said the countess, trying to introduce a little levity into the tense situation.
‘I find myself in a very difficult position,’ began Dupree.
‘How so?’
‘I’ve just been told something in absolute confidence I am strictly forbidden to share with anyone at this stage, because it could seriously jeopardise our investigation.’
‘Yes?’
‘On the other hand, our friendship …’
‘I understand,’ said the countess and put her hand on Dupree’s arm. ‘You are facing a loyalty dilemma, right?’
‘Very perceptive of you.’
‘Yet you’ve asked me to come here at this hour?’
‘Yes, because I have already made up my mind.’
‘To tell me?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve discovered something!’
‘Yes.’
‘Please tell me! I haven’t slept a wink since our talk the other day. And then the raid on top of it ...’
‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid; very bad.’
‘Come on, Claude, tell me!’
Dupree took a deep breath and stared into the fire. ‘One of the most promising pieces of evidence in the Amber Safe murder was a single strand of hair found under Aubert’s fingernails. It was enough for a reliable DNA sample.’
‘Jack told me.’
‘Forensics had a close look at Alina’s flat the other day and secured enough material to extract DNA. From a toothbrush and a comb, and a few other things.’
‘And?’
‘They compared the samples.’ Dupree turned to face the countess. ‘A perfect match.’
‘What are you saying?
‘The person who was present in the Amber Safe when Aubert was murdered, and the person living in that flat in Montmartre, are one and the same.’
‘Alina,’ whispered the countess, looking shocked. ‘Does this make her the murderer?’
‘Most probably.’
‘My God; Jack!’
Dupree nodded.
‘What does all this mean? Where does that leave us right now? What are we going to do?’
‘That’s the second dilemma; the more serious one.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Consider this: if we ring Jack now, confront him with the evidence and warn him about Alina, he may do something rash and put himself into greater danger than he probably already is. We know what Alina is capable of. Profilers have done a comprehensive analysis of the two murders. A textbook psychopath pattern.’
‘What are you telling me?’
‘If cornered, she’ll kill him without hesitation, and they are sure she has a minder.’
‘What; someone who pulls the strings and tells her what to do?’
‘Yes.’
‘Someone like the Black Widow you’ve been talking about?’
‘Exactly. It all fits.’
‘The woman you met the other day?’
‘Could be. She had one of Alina’s paintings in her study.’
‘Is that all?’
‘No, there’s more.’
‘Tell me.’
‘A lifetime of intuition and gut feeling when it comes to the criminal mind and how it works.’
‘Mon Dieu! What do you suggest we do?’
‘We have to think this over carefully. Jack did say he was about to come back after Yekaterinburg.’
‘Yes. Apparently, the visit to the monastery was very successful and has shown him the way,’ said the countess.
‘There’s an arrest warrant out for Alina. Her real name is Anielka, by the way. As soon as she enters Europe, she’ll be arrested. That’s why I was told to keep all this to myself, for now.’
‘I understand, but if Jack finds out that we knew about Alina all along and didn’t tell him, what do you think he—?’
‘That’s the third dilemma,’ Dupree cut in. ‘We have to be very careful here, and there isn’t much time. You know Jack much better than I. What do you think we should do?’
‘Jack is a straight-up-and-down kind of guy. A wonderful friend who would give you his last shirt. His friends are his life, and he treasures friendship above all else. You know what I mean.’
‘I do.’
‘I think he would want to know. He would expect us to tell him, but there’s a wild card here.’
‘What kind of wild card?’
‘He’s totally infatuated with Alina. I’ve not seen him like this before.’
‘In love?’
‘Not sure. That’s why I’m hesitating. I don’t know how he will react, and what he will do if we tell him. Extreme emotions can do strange things to a man; I’ve seen it. And if we don’t tell him, I don’t know what impact that would have on our friendship, which I treasure. Jack’s family; I would give more than my last shirt to shield him from all this.’
