

# The Children of the Valley

## JD Ferguson

First published in the United Kingdom on Smashwords in 2017 by J.D.

Copyright © J.D. Ferguson 2016

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

On July 16th 1945, the United States Army conducted the first detonation of a nuclear weapon at the White Sands Proving Ground in the Joranda del Muerta desert in the New Mexico desert. Informally referred to as "The Gadget," the implosion-design plutonium device was of the same conceptual design as the 'Fat Man' bomb that would be dropped over Nagasaki a few weeks later on August 9th. This test at White Sands, the true dawn of the Atomic Age was later recalled by J Robert Oppenheimer, 'The Father of The Atomic Bomb.'

"We knew the world would not be the same. A few people laughed, a few people cried. Most people were silent. I remembered the line from the Hindu Scripture, the Bhagavad-Gita; Vishnu is trying to persuade the Prince that he should do his duty, and to impress him, takes on his multi-armed form and says, " _Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds." I suppose we all thought that, one way or another_."

# PROLOGUE

Mission Control Houston Texas 20th July 1969

On July 20 1969 the Lunar Module Eagle separated from the Command Module Columbia. Command Module Pilot Michael Collins, alone aboard Columbia, inspected the Lunar landing Module Eagle as it pirouetted before him to ensure the craft was not damaged. As the final descent began, Commander Neil Armstrong and Edwin "Buzz" Aldrin found that they were passing landmarks on the surface four seconds early and reported that they were "long"; they would land miles west of their target point.

Designer of the Saturn V rocket, Werner Von Braun, felt the eyes of not just a nation, but of the world upon him. He lit a cigarette and hoped nobody would notice him leaving the control room through the one-way security door. Anyone who needed to answer the call of nature was free to leave the Mission Control room, but if they did, they would be unable to return until such time as the conscientious Mission Director Gene Kranz deemed it 'safe' to do so.

Von Braun had seen enough. His Saturn V rocket had done its job, carrying the three man crew from the Florida sunshine to lunar orbit. The final few miles to the surface required the dry precision of applied mathematics coupled with the pioneering spirit of the old West. In the antechamber between Mission Control and the seething pit of the press, Von Braun was pleased to find his mentor, relaxed as always, marvelling at the new-fangled polystyrene cup his coffee had been served in.

"Last minute problems, Werner?" Hans Kammler was more interested in the heat co-efficient of his coffee cup than in the finer points of lunar navigation.

"Eagle is running long. They may miss the landing zone."

Kammler sucked hard on his own cigarette. "Well, they insisted in putting a civilian research pilot in command. This situation was always on the cards."

"At least Aldrin is at his shoulder. With luck on our side, we will not be forced to fall back on the contingency scenario."

"The contingency scenario? You can only imagine what President Nixon said when he was presented with that 'doomsday option?'

"Surely he is a pragmatist, not like our dear lamented President Kennedy. Nixon will do what is best for the nation."

"I trust Lovell and Anders out at Area 51 are of the same mind?" Kammler glanced at his watch, knowing that time was running out for Apollo 11.

"By all accounts, Lovell and Anders are true patriots. They know full well what is at stake. Should The Eagle fail to touch down in one piece, they are fully aware that history will remember them as Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin."

"No matter how this day ends, Werner, you should be proud."

"Even though it may end in disaster?"

"Disaster? No, Werner, it will end as a triumph of scientific and technological wonder or as a triumph of state sponsored propaganda; the realisation of Kennedy's promise to the American people and a victory in the undeclared war with The Soviet Union without a shot being fired. Either way, you and I will be long dead and buried before the next appreciable stride in space exploration is undertaken."

"But surely, with the moon conquered now in 1969, the inner planets will be the next achievements by 1980 and by the end of the century, who knows what shall be the limit of our new frontier?"

Kammler screwed up his face and dropped the cigarette stub into his coffee cup. "Our technological achievements are at the very limit of our scientific understanding. Until such times as we can unlock the key to new and untapped scientific boundaries, our spirit of exploration will remain shackled by the chains of our lack of vision."

"But what of our other work? Work that has lain dormant since 1945."

Kammler grunted. "I am too old to tamper with nature, Werner."

"Surely the American Government would give anything for the power Die Glocke could unleash?"

"Enough, Werner! The keys to the gates of hell are best left where they are, buried in a forgotten hole in the mountains of Switzerland."

At that point, the door to mission control opened behind Von Braun and Mission Director Gene Kranz could be heard calling his name from the one way door.

"We will talk no more of such things, old friend. Are we agreed?" Kammler clapped a heavy hand on Von Braun's back. Von Braun nodded. "Then, shall we go? I believe history is awaiting our presence."

Switzerland 2014

The cylinders were rotating at an impossible velocity, blurring to a single violet mass, no longer sitting on the plinth, but suspended in the middle of the chamber, creating a spinning whirlpool of infinite dreams, defying logic, defying nature, defying God. A sight of horrifying, terrifying beauty forced all eyes to be drawn to the eye of the storm, to the very heart of darkness.

When the project director cut the power feed to the chamber, the violet eye of the storm quickly divided once more into the two defined cylinder shapes and the humming sound grew louder, before the test chamber returned to silence and the device became once more inanimate – two lead cylinders inside a metal pyramid frame, supported on a firm stone plinth.

Technician Tessa Kirchler watched an episode of _NCIS Los Angeles_ on her laptop before returning to the test chamber. Being a Thursday, it was Marco's day off, so it fell to her more than capable hands to ensure the cylinders of Xerum 325 were retrieved from the dormant test chamber and returned safely to the security of the temperature controlled storage room on the lower level. Fifteen minutes was what Marco had told her was the safe time-lapse before retrieval of the cylinders, though he normally waited for twenty-five or thirty so as not to attract the wrath of the director. Tessa was aware that the device had never before been run at the high power level of that day's test, so with nobody else around to impress, she waited until the end credits were rolling on her favourite cop show before she pulled on the protective gloves and goggles and re-entered the solemn silence of the test chamber. After the first few paces, she found she could no longer retain a focus on the cylinders and removed the protective goggles. That didn't help her vision and she looked up, thinking that someone must have switched off the main chamber lights. An odd tingling in her stomach made her grab at her waist before a surge of hot bile rose up her throat. Tessa's sense of balance deserted her and she reached out to brace her fall, though in truth she was falling backwards. She needn't have worried, as eternity broke her fall. The Twenty-two year old physics graduate from Bern was dead before she hit the ground.

Switzerland 1945

The searing pain in Greta's side was overwhelming. Clutching at the hot mass of blood and material, she tried desperately to get to her feet, but there was no power in her legs and her head was spinning. The detonator was only twenty feet away but the chasm was unbridgeable. She crawled on her knees through the deep, clinging snow, all the time, the sound of the train growing louder in her ears. "Anna, Anna!" it was all she could do to call out her sister's name. Even through the fog of the sense-numbing pain, Greta was only too aware of that which she could not change. Her sister, her inspiration, Anna, was dead.

Whispered memories echo through the shimmering silence, forgotten hopes and dreams drifting in the endless void of time.

"I no longer remember how old I am. All I know is that my life has spanned many, many years. Were it not for the pain at the centre of my soul, it would be easy to forget that I am still alive at all.

Something is stirring deep in the heart of the mountains. However hard we try to forget the past, bury our guilt at the end of the valley, we cannot hide forever from the truth. Sooner or later everyone must pay for their mistakes, their crimes, their sins. I fear the past may be coming back to haunt us all."

Yes, yes, I can hear you.

Who said that?

Anna, is that you?

# CHAPTER 1

INTERLAKEN December 1944

A fingernail moon, manicured almost to vanishing point, drew the eye upwards to the dark, looming behemoth, eerie in the shadow of mother earth. On the opposite arc of the glorious midnight canopy, mighty Jupiter proudly held court, basking in the solar limelight so denied of earth's barren companion. Tranquillity Base, still a silent wilderness in the empty shadows of eternity; Armstrong's footprint, yet to make the giant leap from the dreams of Jules Verne to the decaying celluloid of history. It would be a brief moment in time when Einstein's theory, Von Braun's vision and Oppenheimer's nightmare, converged to alter the destiny of a primitive race striving to hold back the tide of progress.

The awe-inspiring winter sky held a fascination that played with both the heart and the mind. The text book names for the recognised constellations did little to diminish their mystery and splendour; the incomprehensible distances could not be bridged by even the most clinical of human minds. Still, she gazed and wondered, with so many questions that would never be answered; the only truth was the comforting mystery of fate in the ever expanding cosmos.

Greta Bircher pulled the beige, woollen shawl tight around her chest and exhaled a pall of blue-grey smoke into the crystal clear air. In surroundings of such familiar tranquillity, she always found it difficult, if not impossible, to comprehend the unfolding Armageddon on the other side of the mountains. The silent nights on the pastures that enveloped the town offered not the merest hint of the death and destruction beyond the confines of neutrality; the persistent rumours of biblical horrors in the east, while unsettling, surely nothing but the propaganda machine gone mad.

"I thought this was where I would find you."

Greta's shoulders tensed at the sound of her elder sister's voice. "I wish you wouldn't creep up on me like that." Instinctively, Greta dropped the cigarette to the ground and crushed the smouldering remnants under the sole of her scuffed leather shoe.

Blonde haired Anna, at twenty-eight was two years older than her raven haired sister. "You know you aren't fooling anyone. Father smells the smoke from your clothes, despite that cheap French scent you drown yourself in. But, naturally, he is never going to say anything to his darling Greta."

"Shouldn't you be entertaining the guests, Anna? Singing those dreadful Cole Porter songs while flashing your cleavage for the dirty old men from the valley?"

Anna shook her head despairingly. "Very funny, dear sister, considering you are the one they all ask for when they are ordering their Jagertee."

"You and I both know it is mother they really want."

"Yes, but mother is dead and they need to accept that, as you do."

"How can I accept that which cannot be true?"

"If you do not, my dear Greta, it will destroy you." Anna hated the tension that had grown between her and her sister since the sudden death of their beloved mother from a brain haemorrhage six months previously. The glamorous forty-eight year old had been the heartbeat of the Hotel Europe and the sisters' bickering was doing little to help their heartbroken father's struggle to maintain the hotel's place as the premier establishment in Interlaken.

"It's a beautiful night, don't you think? You can really appreciate the stars with the new moon just visible." Greta longed for solitude and the soothing comfort blanket of nicotine.

"Father wants you, Greta." Anna placed a hand on her sister's shoulder in a half-hearted echo of their closeness in happier times. "We have guests – important guests."

Greta sighed deeply. Who could possibly be calling at the hotel at ten minutes to midnight that would cause her father to send for her? "Who could be so important?"

"Soldiers, Greta; German soldiers."

"Not again?" Greta turned and looked into her sister's watery blue eyes, the tension all too obvious despite the forced bravado. "Kammler?"

"Guten Abend, Doctor Kammler."

"Ah, Herr Bircher, I was just admiring this great hunting scene." Hans Kammler gestured to the Ibex hunting oil painting which hung over the fireplace.

"You enjoy hunting, Doctor Kammler?" The proprietor of the Hotel Europe chose his words with care and fought hard to maintain the well-practiced disposition of the genial but professional host.

"But of course," Kammler smiled wickedly, removing the peaked cap and tucking it under his left arm. The sight of the Death's Head cap badge never failed to send a shiver down Bircher's spine. The SS General was an unwelcome guest. "By the way, I was troubled to learn of the passing of your dear wife."

Eugen Bircher didn't look at Kammler but kept staring at the picture hoping the moment would pass.

"So where is the beautiful Fraulein Anna this evening?"

Bircher swallowed hard against the lump in his throat at the mention of his eldest daughter's name. "I believe she may have retired for the night, Herr Doctor."

"Such a pity as, of course, she has the voice of an angel, Doctor Bircher." The German checked the time on his wrist watch rather over theatrically. "You must forgive me arriving at such a late hour, but I admit I will miss her company at dinner."

"As will I, Herr Doctor." Bircher gestured towards the dining room door.

"Ah, of course, we must not keep the chef waiting any longer." Kammler slapped his ample waist and licked his lips in an unintentionally lascivious manner. He nodded in the direction of his silent adjutant, Major Brandt, who took a leather seat in the foyer, where he would await his master's return like an obedient puppy.

Bircher had been ordered by the Mayor to meet with the Nazi scientist yet again in his hotel and he would obey even if he would readily have had the chef poison him at a spur.

"Thank you, Frauline Bircher." Kammler nodded politely to Greta after she had topped up his wine glass. She threw him a forced smile in return and retreated to the kitchen.

"She is a true beauty, indeed. Very like her mother, I think."

Bircher didn't reply but took a shallow sip from his glass, conscious of the prickly heat under his collar brought on by a somewhat protracted silence.

"The war is lost, Herr Bircher."

"Really?" Bircher's look of surprise would have impressed Sam Goldwyn, had the doyen of Hollywood been at the next table.

"Oh, come now. Even in the velvet wrapped cocoon in which you Swiss have spent the last six years, you cannot have failed to be aware of the irresistible march of the Allies since the 6th June?"

"D-Day?"

"I am glad to find you are not completely ignorant of world events." Kammler picked a piece of gristle from between his front teeth and cast it to the carpet, before draining the remnants of his second glass of claret. "If only Eisenhower and Montgomery could get their bloody act together, there may be a chance they will take Berlin intact and end the madness with some degree of civility, but I fear their petty bickering will allow Stalin's subhuman hoards to overrun the Fatherland and bring Dante's Inferno to bear on the German people."

Bircher swallowed hard, playing with his own plate of cold meats and cheese.

"The Fuhrer's thousand year Reich has only a few months at best, before it is swept away by the tide of history and there is still so very much to do."

"I must confess, Dr Kammler, but I find myself at a loss to see how a humble hotelier such as me can....."

"Oh, come now, Herr Bircher. You should not be so modest. Do not think we are ungrateful for the assistance you have given us with the storage of all those paintings and, how should I put it, more precious items."

"Naturally, Dr Kammler, if you have more merchandise to deposit, I am sure I can talk to the Mayor and arrangements can be made as before."

Kammler held up his hand. "I fear a few million dollars of Jewish gold is going to be of little use."

Bircher was unable to disguise his growing feeling of intrigue.

"I was hoping to tap into your contacts in the world of construction."

"Construction? I am not sure I follow you, Dr Kammler."

"My dear Bircher. I am involved in many important scientific projects; projects that must not fall into the hands of the Communists; projects that must not die with the fall of Germany. Your brother, I believe, was responsible for the construction of the Sphinx Observatory?"

"At Junfraujoch? Yes, Bircher and Raeber AG was the primary contractor on that project." Bircher affirmed with some pride.

"That was a truly remarkable feat of engineering, if I may say so; to carry out such a project at over eleven and a half thousand feet above sea level."

"Yes, it is certainly something we Swiss can take great pride in."

"I couldn't agree more." Kammler helped himself to another generous glass of the velvety, red wine. "Likewise, I am sure you would agree it offers an opportunity to become much more than a place of astronomical research. Such an isolated location could provide the perfect location for sensitive research."

"Sensitive, Dr Kammler?"

"The kind of research best carried out away from the public gaze."

"And from that of the authorities also?" Bircher was beginning to realise where Kammler was going with the conversation.

"Now you are beginning to comprehend the nature of my visit." Kammler took a Havana cigar from a silver holder, without offering one to his host and expertly clipped the end before taking two matches to light the tightly rolled tobacco leaves.

"What I am looking for is an underground laboratory and plentiful storage for equipment and supplies."

Bircher cleared his throat and held up a hand. "I must ask you, Dr Kammler to clarify if the project of which you talk would be civilian or military?"

Kammler grinned though his teeth while sucking hard on the cigar. "Civilian, of course; after all, we military men will very soon be seeking alternative employment within the civilian sector."

Bircher was always particular to choose his words with great care when conversing with the Nazi General, but after Kammler's assertion that Hitler's Reich was on the verge of defeat, he felt emboldened to push the arrogant General. "Does this have anything to do with your friend Von Braun's rocket program?"

Kammler raised an eyebrow but he in truth admired the fact the Swiss hotelier was not easily bowed in his presence. "That traitor would hand over years of work to the highest bidder in a flash. The only reason he is still alive is that he is without doubt a genius in his field." He rolled his tongue against the inside his cheek at the thought of a problem that still needed to be dealt with. "No, this has nothing to do with rocket development."

"The atomic bomb, perhaps?"

"My dear Bircher, you are allowing your imagination to run away with you."

"I read the newspapers, Herr Doctor. There are rumours the Americans already have a viable weapon."

Kammler swept his hand in the air as if swatting a fly. "Atomic bomb, atomic bomb; in theory, a very effective weapon, but nothing a hundred fully laden bombers cannot already deploy in a single raid. No, the research my people are involved in will change the world. It will catapult science hundreds of year into the future overnight, but only if we can be allowed to continue with our work unmolested. If this work was to fall into the hands of Comrade Stalin, he would have the ability to wipe out the rest of humanity at the stroke of a pen and don't doubt for one moment, he would not hesitate to do it. Yes, many in the free world believe the German's are the aggressor, the evil plague on the world but they will very soon come to realise that we are all that stands between Stalin and global domination. When the Fuhrer is gone, who will stand up to the red peril? Perhaps it will be the great President Roosevelt, with his Jewish plague, or maybe that buffoon, Churchill?"

# CHAPTER 2

Daniel Lieberman would do anything for a quiet life. If something was too much trouble, he preferred to ignore it in the hope it would simply go away. Of course, it never did. It, whatever it was, would eat away at his soul and consequentially deny him the peace he so craved.

"You would have made a fine Jew," his father Jakob used to taunt with his usual cheeky grin. "What a pity I married that pious, Papish old hag in the corner."

"I heard that, Jakob Lieberman." Daniel's mother shook her head in a show of mock disgust and continued with the arduous task of pressing her husband's suit. As Judaism is passed down the maternal line, Daniel was, whether his father liked it or not, a dyed in the wool Catholic. Sixty year old Lieberman did not mind that his only son did not share his religion, especially in such dark times, when more than ever the world had become a cold house for the children of Abraham.

"The hour is late, Daniel", Marie-Therese Lieberman drooped the crisply creased trousers over the wooden rail by the stove.

"I just want to finish this chapter, if that's OK Mother?" Daniel looked up from the kitchen table where he was reading by the light of a flickering oil lamp.

"More childish rubbish, I suppose?"

"The Thirty-Nine Steps," Daniel flashed her a glimpse of the dog-eared dust cover.

"Hmmph!" she grunted. "Your time would be better served reading the classics. In that way, you might learn something about the world."

Jakob clapped his son on the back and winked conspiratorially. "Now my dear wife, it is a way for him to escape into a world of adventure, away from the tedium of life in the mountains."

"Adventure is it? Just think yourself fortunate that Switzerland has been spared from this awful war, or you would have all the adventure you want."

The conversation was interrupted by a rap at the front door. "Who can that be at this time of the night?" Jakob scrutinized his silver plated pocket-watch, squinting through steel rimmed pince-nez.

"I'll go," Daniel slipped a leather book marker between the pages of John Buchan's thriller, content that Hannay's fate could wait until tomorrow.

The man standing on the doorstep was only a couple of years older than Daniel but to a casual observer the close cropped hair and neatly trimmed beard added another decade. "Daniel, we need to talk, now," he spoke in a low yet insistent tone.

"Who is it?" Marie-Therese called out from the kitchen.

"It's Karl!" Daniel shouted over his shoulder.

"Tell him to go away." Marie-Therese was suspicious of Daniel's friends, forever dragging her son off at odd times of the day and night, to do what, she did not know. If they were going to the local tavern she would have understood but she rarely smelled alcohol on her son's breath.

"I'm going for a walk, Mother. I shan't be long." Daniel grabbed his coat from the wooden stand and closed the front door behind him.

Karl Manheim led the way down the cinder path to the road which ran from the hamlet of Bonigen back along the edge of Lake Brienz to Interlaken. He offered a cigarette to Daniel which was accepted enthusiastically.

"So, what's on your mind, Karl?"

Manheim scoured the length of the darkened road in both directions. All was as it should be. All was silent. "Kammler is back."

"The Nazi General?" Daniel felt his pulse quicken.

Karl put a finger to his lips to reinforce the need for discretion.

"Where?"

"The Hotel Europe."

"How do you know?"

"Anna arrived home from work about half an hour ago."

"What is he doing here this time I wonder? Looking for a home for more of his precious art treasures?"

"Who knows?" Karl drew hard on his cigarette "Anna's father is a bloody fool, Daniel."

"He's not a Nazi sympathiser, though, surely?"

"I don't believe so, but that bastard Schneider, our high and mighty Mayor, is most definitely an honorary member of SS."

"What are you going to do?"

"We need to know exactly what he is up to. By all accounts, the war is going badly for the Germans. Perhaps they have concluded that the time is now right for the invasion of Switzerland."

"But Hitler knows that is practically a strategic impossibility. It is the terrain of this land that has kept us safe up until now."

Manheim snorted. "Don't believe everything you read, my friend. Trust me; it is very much a strategic possibility."

A solitary point of light caught Daniel's eye and he looked out across the vast, inky wilderness of Lake Brienz. A film of newly formed ice reached several yards from the shore out into the water, yet, at least one foolhardy fisherman, most likely driven by the cruel wartime economics, had decided to risk the treacherous waters in order to provide for his family.

"I envy you, Karl." Daniel threw his half-smoked cigarette on the ground. "You have a beautiful wife and a wonderful, precious son. What do I have?"

"You will have everything I have and more, but all in good time."

"I wish I had your faith."

"And therein lies your problem, Daniel. You need to have more faith in yourself."

"Not all this again?" Daniel sighed.

"Greta likes you. I can see it. Anna can see it too."

"She has a funny way of showing it."

"Ah, she is still young Daniel and you know these girls do not make it easy for us men. You need to be persistent. Prove to her that you are prepared to fall to the ground and kiss her feet."

"Literally?"

"If that is what it takes, then yes."

"She can't even look me in the eye."

"That, my young friend, is because she is so intimidated by your stunning good looks." Karl took hold of Daniel's chin and blew him a kiss. For his part, Daniel looked like he was chewing on the sharp end of a wasp.

"Daniel, my mother thinks you are the most handsome man in the Bernese Oberland. Hell, even Anna is forever telling me how lucky I am that she did not choose you over me."

Karl also noticed the lamp on the lonely fishing boat, now nearing the edge of the lake over by Manlichen. "Anyway, you had better get back home to the Holy Mother."

"Karl." Daniel raised an eyebrow at mention of the nickname his friends had for his mother.

"Tomorrow you and I should go hunting together. How does that sound?"

Again Daniel's eye was drawn by the light on the fishing boat, all of a sudden extinguished. The fisherman was off home to bed and Daniel must do likewise. "Good night, Karl."

"I will see in the morning about nine o'clock?" With that, Karl turned back towards Bonigen.

"Good night," Daniel reiterated and trudged back for home.

Old Otto Pelletier, a fisherman from Brienz at the far end of the lake would not miss his boat until morning. Major Bauman and his team of six handpicked commandos moved with silence and stealth, leaving the beached craft and made their way like ghosts to the cover of the tree line. The die had been cast.

"How is the Jew?" Anna was still awake when her husband returned from his meeting by the banks of Lake Brienz.

"He's not a Jew." Karl Manheim sat on the edge of the bed and unbuttoned his shirt.

Anna snorted. "He will not last five minutes when the Nazis come, never mind that St. Christopher's medal he wears round his neck."

Karl made no reply as he knew Anna was right.

"That is why we will fight if we have to, for Daniel and for our precious child." Anna's blue eyes softened when she looked over in the direction of the carved wooden cot, where their son, Heinrich, slept soundly.

"Perhaps we should kill Kammler now and be done with it," Karl spoke with little conviction as he climbed beneath the sheets into the welcoming heat of his beautiful wife's arms.

"No, Karl," she kissed him on the lips. "We need to find out what he is doing here again. Killing one man won't prevent an invasion."

"But it could start a war. I know the lesson from history my darling. Sarajevo 1914; the shot heard round the world." Karl struggled to make his words coherent with Anna's persistent tongue forcefully parting his lips. The hour lying alone in bed waiting his return from the Lieberman's house had allowed her fears for the future to play on her mind to the point where she was determined to make every day count; every moment in Karl's strong arms count. Only then would she be able to switch off properly and get to sleep.

# CHAPTER 3

Edinburgh March 2014

"So why didn't you sleep with her?" Kate Alexander was brushing her long blonde hair as she walked into the room. Her tall, well-toned frame owed much to her youth as Britain's top Alpine ski racer, a legacy she had always tried to live up to, whether in the gym, the pool or walking in her beloved Cairngorms. A black eye pencil and tasteful red lipstick was all required to accentuate her dramatic beauty and defy the reality of her fifty-one years.

"Excuse me?" Even after twenty-six years of marriage her husband never failed to be stirred by the presence of the beautiful chef-owner of Edinburgh's leading restaurant, _Kate's Chateau_.

"Well, you've been carrying a flame for that woman for the past thirty years and yet you just walked away? I mean nobody would have had to know."

"Kate, come on, for God's sake." John had returned two weeks earlier from Sarajevo, where Claudine Leffray, Chief Prosecutor for the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY) had been brutally murdered in her hotel room in Sarajevo, while there with John on a failed attempt to have Serbian war criminal Mavro Vladic handed over by the Bosnian authorities so he could stand trial in the UN war crimes court. John's trip to the capital of Bosnia-Herzegovina had been complicated further by a chance reunion with Angela Hofmeister, a former Swiss skier and now television presenter who he had met in the same city during the Winter Olympics of 1984 when she was competing in the downhill event and he was there with friends on a trip that was planned to support Kate on her attempt to win a slalom gold for Britain. Kate, however, blew out her knee at the final race prior to the Winter Olympics and had to watch her Sarajevo dreams melt from her bed with her leg in plaster. John and Angela had embarked on a passionate relationship, resulting in their engagement a year later. Soon after though, everything foundered on the rock of jealousy and regret when a mistake combined with a misunderstanding robbed them both of a future together that was filled with promise and fuelled by love.

Kate persisted. "I'm serious. The way you've left things, it's still the itch that hasn't been scratched."

"You know I would never be unfaithful to you."

"I know that, but one has to ask the question is that because you love me so much or because you are scared of what I would do to you if you ever were unfaithful?"

John swallowed hard, picking his next words with extra care, but before he was able to conjure up a suitable reply, Kate's stony expression cracked and melted into a chuckle.

"I'm only teasing. Christ, you don't have to clam up when I try to poke a bit of fun at you. God knows, she was an attractive girl so I'm sure she's probably still worth looking at it. If you ask me, I would say you missed an opportunity there darling." She ruffled his hair and kissed him on the forehead. "I know I'm the only woman for you." She walked through to the kitchen, wiggling her hips playfully. "God knows you'd be lost without me."

John wasn't watching after her and so didn't notice when she grabbed the door frame for support when a split second sensation of falling came over her. It was such a fleeting experience, by the time Kate reached the kettle, she wasn't sure if it had even happened. Had she nearly fainted? It was not the first time she had been ambushed by such an episode and each time it was over in a flash; no pain, no feeling at all, except for a brief lack of sensation, of nothingness.

"Coffee?" she called out, filling the kettle.

"Yes, please," John replied. He was trying to concentrate on the _Super Rugby_ match between the Natal Sharks and Queensland Reds; the cream of Southern Hemisphere club rugby. He had only recently begun to take an interest since he hoped to gain an understanding of why the home nations consistently failed to be a match for Australia, South Africa and the mighty All Blacks. It wasn't long before his mind wandered from the high energy competition and back to his hotel room in Sarajevo; Angela crying in his arms.

" _I've been such a fool."_

" _No, you haven't," John said, stroking her hair._

" _Seeing you again after all these years has taken me by surprise. I have been so low these past few months. My self-esteem has been non-existent. You make me feel important. You make me feel special in the way you look at me, in the way you talk to me. You must think I am so pathetic?"_

" _Angela," he took her face in his hands. "I think you are an extraordinary woman. I cannot begin to understand what you have been through."_

" _What I have been through? My skiing career can be summed up as promise unfulfilled. My marriage is a disaster and the only good thing in my life, Maria, isn't even my real daughter. Hell, I don't know, but that's not really the life I envisaged when I was growing up."_

" _Angela, you really are putting a negative slant on things. Let me see; you were a World Champion ski racer, a successful television presenter and a brave, strong woman who rescued a child from the hell of Bosnia. Granted, you did marry Erich Stahl, but nobody's perfect."_

" _Oh John, Kate is such a lucky woman."_

" _Don't tell her that."_

" _I'm serious; you have a way of making problems seem not so bad. You have a diluting personality."_

" _I've never heard that one before, but I like it." He wiped a tear from her cheek. "Don't let life get on top of you, Angela. You have so much to give."_

"You haven't touched your coffee," Kate nudged him in the ribs.

"Sorry, I was miles away." He reached for the mug that was no longer steaming.

"Are you thinking about Vladic again?"

"He murdered Claudine Leffray, Kate and he is not going to get away with it; not this time."

"OK, so he gets away with the slaughter of hundreds of innocent civilians, but the moment he kills a senior UN figure, he's for the high jump? That perspective does not hold up well to close scrutiny, you know?"

John blew out his cheeks. "I know how it sounds when put like that, but in many ways it will be easier to hang Claudine's assassination round his neck than would be the slaughter that took place in the Bosnian civil war."

"Especially since most of his victims were Moslem?" Kate raised an eyebrow, enjoying the effect her insistent probing was having on John's normal calm air of authority. Teasing was for children and as such, below Kate's horizon of habit. Badgering her husband with an air of hostility purely for amusement was, for her, purely a release mechanism. While having the potential to spoil a good evening in, it reinforced her status as keeper of the flame of morality within the four walls of the Alexander household.

Kate laughed to release him from the spell that gripped his windpipe. "Bloody hell, John, how do you expect to face up to a hardened war criminal if you crumble every time I say boo to you?"

"Nobody else has the effect on me that you do."

"And what effect would that be?" She got up and sat astride his thighs.

"I'm putty in your hands, aren't I?"

"Just you remember your place." She kissed him with a passion that took him by surprise.

# CHAPTER 4

The Hague, the Netherlands 2014

Scheveningen jail is a temporary holding bay for some of the world's most notorious war crimes suspects. Situated in the picturesque seaside town of the same name, it was part of an old wartime prison where Dutch resistance fighters were imprisoned by the Nazis.

It was here that the former Bosnian Serb General, Milan Kostalic, had been a resident since the final days of 2011. Spending most of his time reading English language newspapers – the London Times and the Washington Post being his choice for essential daily consumption – Kostalic's contact with other prisoners was restricted to the pursuit of such banalities as playing chess and passing comment on the weather or the food served up in the communal canteen. Any discussions on potentially sensitive subjects such as politics were actively discouraged by the prison authorities.

It had taken over a year for Kostalic to grow to accept his incarceration and now, three years later, he had to admit he found the relatively luxurious surroundings made it difficult to dispute the facility's tag as the _Hague Hilton_. Occupying 56E at the far end of the building from Kostalic's cell, the political leader of the Bosnian Serbs during the war between 1992 and 1995, Radovan Karadic, was another high profile resident at Scheveningen. He and General Kostalic would pass each other in the corridors but with their cells on different wings, they had little or no time to engage in meaningful discussion.

Judges during the early phases of Kostalic's trial rejected arguments for dropping the most serious charges of genocide. The eleven main charges against Kostalic, including genocide as well as crimes against humanity, dated back to the darkest days of the Bosnian civil war of 1992 -1995. Most specifically, he was accused of the massacre of more than seven thousand Bosniak men and boys at Srebrenica; Europe's worst atrocity since the aftermath of World War II. He was also charged in connection with the forty-four month siege of Sarajevo during which more than ten thousand people died.

His co-accused, named in many of the charge papers, was the still at large Butcher of Bijeljina, Mavro Vladic. Vladic, a regional military enforcer, shared Kostalic's dream of an ethnically pure Serbian state carved from the territory of Bosnia-Herzegovina and viewed himself in the tradition of the romantic, epic Serb patriots who had fought for centuries to liberate the Serb nation from foreign domination and exploitation.

Kostalic's defence counsel had secured his client access to an unlisted cell phone, with which he was able to have regular contact with his family and various associates back home in Serbia.

A two day old copy of the London Times lay open at the second page where a photograph of the attractive, middle aged French woman headed the report of her murder in a Sarajevo hotel room.

"That bitch Leffray got exactly what she deserved," Kostalic hissed down the phone. "It is because of her that I have had my freedom taken from me. It is only right and proper that in return she should have her life taken from her. Though I have to say, it may have been better to have arranged some sort of accident. Stabbed to death in her room at your hotel? For this they will track you down to the ends of the earth, but I suppose my butcher has to live up to his name. Where are you now?"

"I cannot say, General."

"Of course not," Kostalic rubbed his chin, irked by the patch of stubble missed by his electric shaver. Bladed razors, no matter how blunt, were strictly forbidden for inmates of Scheveningen. "I have a friend in a safe country, someone who would be prepared to offer you sanctuary, if you are interested."

"I am listening."

"My friend knows a lot about you."

"He reads the newspapers."

"I mean he knows a lot about you and your family history."

"I am not sure I understand General."

"Did you know that your grandmother has been receiving money every month since 1951 from an organisation by the name of Stille Hilfe?"

"What is that? It sounds German."

"German it is indeed. It leads me to ask the question as to why the grandmother of one of my most capable military commanders has been financed for the past sixty years from a Nazi slush fund. Tell me, what do you know of your grandmother's experiences during the Second World War?"

"I know she fought bravely with the great Marshall Tito's partisans and was wounded I think, though I confess she did not like to talk about the war."

"Your grandmother was for a time a prisoner, a slave worker at a secret German weapons facility known as Mittlewerk. Many thousands perished there from disease, exhaustion or were murdered by the guards. Your grandmother, on the other hand survived."

"She is a very strong woman."

"Undoubtedly she is. How else could she have escaped?"

"Escaped?"

"She made it back to her family several months before the Mittlewerk facility was abandoned in the face of the advancing Red Army. Quite a journey even for a strong young woman trapped in enemy territory." Kostalic paused, all the time trying to gauge Vladic's level of interest in what he was recounting. "Your own mother's birth certificate would appear to place the time of her conception during her period of incarceration."

"What are you saying, General? That my grandmother was raped by one of the guards?"

"Or by a fellow prisoner? That may be true, but one has to ask the question as to just who would have had the means to help her escape and then the position and the power to make sure she and that child would be financially secure for the rest of their lives?"

"This Nazi fund you spoke of?"

"Set up by the daughter of Himmler, a lady by the name of Gudrun Burwitz. You would be surprised by the names of the many people of influence who are contributors to her organisation. Even I was surprised but that can keep for another time. The majority of donations in the early years came from South America and the United States. No real surprise, as South America was the destination of choice for many of the Nazis who escaped the hangman at Nuremberg and the USA was were the allies spirited away all the top scientists under Operation Paperclip."

"I am still at a loss, General."

"The main contributor to the American funding was for many years a man called Hans Kammler. A General in the SS, Kammler was also the commandant of Mittlewerk."

"And you think the reason he paid money to this Nazi group was to support my grandmother?"

"Exactly, it is the only logical conclusion."

"It sounds like a Hollywood movie plot to me."

"You can judge for yourself. My friend who I am putting you in touch with is married to Kammler's granddaughter; his official granddaughter. She runs a scientific research laboratory high in the mountains of the Swiss Alps. This place just happens to be the location of a rumoured Nazi weapons research site from the dying months of the war."

"In neutral Switzerland, that does not seem very likely."

"Not if taken at face value, but this period in the history of that particular region of Switzerland is shrouded in mystery. What is publically known is there was a train crash in early 1945 which resulted in the deaths of many people, mostly schoolchildren. The people of the area do not like to talk about the events of that night, but clearly there is more to the history of this place than cheese and cowbells."

Vladic was not one to be stirred by anything beyond his two golden rules of power and money, yet something in General Kostalic's story intrigued him; appealed to the young man who had left home to fight for the cause of the greater Serbia with only the naive courage of youth and the treasured memento given him by his grandmother on the morning of his departure to join the then Colonel Kostalic's just crusade against the enemy within; the true followers of the prophet from the East. "I am yours to command, General Kostalic."

"I will get the details to you through the usual channel."

Djakovica, Bosnia-Herzegovina 2014

Now eighty-nine years old, Irina Ivanovic was confined to bed, having suffered a series of minor strokes in her mid-eighties, though none of those events had succeeded in dulling her mind.

"I have not seen you in such a long time, my dear grandson," She attempted a smile. "When you left for war back in ninety-two, it broke your poor mother's heart. When they said all those terrible things about you, it killed her. My poor Betja, she never understood that what you did, you did for her, for me and for all us true Serbs. You are a true patriot, my darling Mavro." She reached out a bony, trembling hand and held it suspended until he took it in his own. "I am proud of you for being a man who is not afraid to stand up for what he believes in. I know your grandfather would have been very proud of you."

"You are not referring to grandpa Ivica, are you?" He held the Nazi dagger in his free hand and let the overhead light catch the gleaming blade.

Her eyes followed the movement of the steel. "What you are holding in your hand was my passport to freedom; my way out of a fate of bondage and certain death." Her eyes met Vladic's once more. "The weak perished by the thousand; starved, raped, murdered or simply lay down and succumbed. I was strong, Mavro. I was strong and I survived."

"Who gave you this dagger?"

"The only one who could."

"So it was him? It was Kammler?"

"To me he was just another Nazi officer. He told me his name was Hans."

"Why you, grandmother? Why did he help you escape? Why did he give you this?" He knew the answer but wanted he hear her say it; need to hear her say it.

"I was carrying his child."

"I am sure it would have been simpler for him just to have you killed."

"Much simpler."

"Then why?"

She sighed. "Even in the darkest of hearts, there is still a flickering flame of little light that burns strongly; that refuses to be extinguished." She closed her eyes. "I am tired Mavro. It drains my little energy to talk of these things. Let me sleep now."

# CHAPTER 5

Interlaken July 2014

Desolation isolation, a hollow smile born of false elation. Bipolar hints at two extremes when all she really feels is nothing. Is she on the verge of a breakdown or wallowing helplessly in the morass of the lonely aftermath of the crash? The heroine of the ski slopes; the fearless army officer; the glamorous TV presenter and the battered wife, relentlessly haunted by the ghosts of the past.

Angela's ribcage ached sweetly as she drew the smoke deep into her lungs, her legs tingling with each dreamy exhalation. The comfort of knowing she was slowly killing herself.

A few people who self-harm may go on to commit suicide - generally this is not what they intend to do. In fact self-harm can be seen as the 'opposite' of suicide as it is often a way of coping with life rather than of giving up on it.

Self-harm is often also referred to by other names such as deliberate self-harm, attempted suicide, para-suicide, self-mutilation and self-injury. Talking or reading about self-harm can sometimes become confusing because researchers and health professionals often use these terms to mean different things. A research article or report will usually define exactly how it is using any specialised terms.

It wasn't made of steel, some sort of aluminium composite perhaps, but in the right hands could no doubt have been employed as a lethal weapon. Embossed with a single word "China" the implement was one of those double-headed hammers the chefs on television use to beat the hell out of chicken breasts or sirloin steaks to tenderise the meat. She looked long and hard at the rough face with its array of fifty-six symmetrically distributed little pyramids of pain but decided as usual that it would never look accidental and without any further hesitation brought the smooth face down hard on the pale flesh which rested on the polished granite work surface. After a second blow, she realised that she was not using sufficient force and a stronger swing of the hammer saw the third blow cause her to wince and bite her lip. That would do for the moment. She pulled the sleeve back down and fastened the cuff of the red silk shirt with the eighteen carat gold cufflink.

The vermillion thundercloud spilled across the mountain, shutting out the sunlight as if a scythe had been taken to the idyll of another July evening. The pine trees above the village were swallowed up first before the large water droplets began leaving half inch wide patches of dark on the hot tarmac. The storm would freshen up the suffocating air but initially the oppressive atmosphere was choking and only reinforced her feeling of isolation.

Although it was a little before six, Angela had managed to drink a half bottle of vodka during the three quarters of an hour since returning from her daily walk by the lake and she now had just over an hour to wallow in the numbness of her pain and the pain of her numbness before Maria came through the front door and she had relinquished any expectations that she could play the smiling mother role yet again. That shattered illusion of maternal led domesticity no longer disappointed Angela's daughter, now a woman in her own right, who was becoming accustomed to assuming the role of 'mother', while Angela continued her slide into a wasteful existence of regret and self-pity. Thankfully she didn't have to hide her cigarette habit at home, although Maria had now noticed her Marlboro consumption had risen from ten a day to nearer forty; at least she didn't have to worry about the smell of smoke in the house and using the empty Diet Coke tins as ash-trays was a simple way of hiding many excess butts.

It had been clear to Maria for months that her mother was battling depression, albeit successfully enough for the outside world not to notice. The catalyst for the breakdown had been the shattering, violent assault inflicted on Angela by her husband, the local Chief of Police Erich Stahl. The subsequent reunion with her one time fiancé John Alexander, bridging a gap of almost thirty years, had merely poured fuel on the fire. The untimely reminder of a brief but happy period in her life had only hammered home the sense of disappointment that tormented Angela through her late forties. Growing up, Maria was astounded by Angela's capacity and thirst for knowledge. When not at work for the Swiss television network, Angela devoured books like they were going out of fashion; novels, mostly prize winning literary fiction or historical epics alternated with biographies or the memoirs of her journalistic heroes. Sunday afternoons were spent trawling the multi-supplemented weekly newspapers from London and New York. If there was any time to spare, Angela, dismissive of reality television and the crass misery of cheap soap operas, would channel hop between National Geographic and various history channels, in eternal fascination of a new perspective on Hitler, Stalin or the Kennedy assassination.

Now, Maria couldn't remember the last time she saw her mother with a book or newspaper in her hand. The television was never switched on unless by Maria. So far as Maria could see her mother had abandoned every aspect of her life that had once given her pleasure or fulfilment. She had ceased to live and was now simply existing; living the same day over and over again in the hope that somewhere around the corner was what?

"Mum, would it really make you happy if he left his family for you? What would you do? I mean you're too old to have children. You could go and visit the grave together, I suppose; try not to run into your husband." Maria knew she was being unfair but she hated seeing her mother like this and would see it as a minor victory if she could at least make Angela angry. As had become her habitual response to difficult situations, Angela gazed into the distance and pulled hard on the day's forty-second cigarette.

"I need to get to work," Maria sighed. "Friday; I am on night shift."

"With Peter?"

Maria was surprised that Angela had registered the fact she even had a boyfriend. "Yes Mum, with Peter."

Maria paused. Waiting for Angela to tell her to be careful or warn her of the dangers of mixing work with relationships but there was nothing forthcoming. Whether from her sullen mood or the admission that she was not exactly an expert on relationships, Maria couldn't tell, so she simply planted a light kiss on Angela's forehead and went to her room to change.

INTERLAKEN December 1944

The Lady of Winter stalked the frozen pastures and the forests of pine, petrified by relentless ice, her crystalline breath exhaling unforgiving renewal, cleansing both land and soul of the corruptions of appetite and pleasure. Beneath the breathless blue of the eternal ocean, human weakness could be forgiven for permitting a little self-indulgence in fragile certainties and a future far from the hopes and dreams that struggled in the shadows just beyond the horizon.

Look up to the night sky and you will see a myriad of familiar, comforting patterns. Constellations, an otherwise pointless word of scientific complication we are all introduced to at the earliest possible age. The infinite cosmos of infinite stars, yet our dark ceiling is characterised by a mere handful of works of art which far surpass the works of Da Vinci, Constable or Dali. The Sistine Chapel will eventually crumble under the march of Mohammed's anti-crusaders and the Louvre will fall victim to mid twenty-first century economic depression, yet the mighty hunter will prevail and The Plough will continue to point the way to the Pole Star, giving order to chaos and guiding the hand of the post-industrial engineers, who will have only the fruit of the land as salvation once the promised nirvana of cyberspace has evaporated in the latent, slowly decaying gamma rays of 9-47.

Anna was a student of history, while Greta much preferred to fill her head with fantastical tales of century slipping arm chairs and tall green strangers reaching the hand of friendship from beyond the clouds, all the while with a ray gun behind their backs. Anna feared the rise of Adolph Hitler; Greta feared the Emperor Ming.

Returning from the cinema following the latest weekly instalment of Buster Crabbe's heroic defence of mother earth, Greta imagined herself as a European Dale Arden, sultry and alluring, the shriek of laser canon echoing through her dreams, while Anna's nightmares heard only the deathly scream of the Stuka dive bombers. The Spanish civil war had paved the way for modern warfare. The innocent residents of the sleepy Basque town of Guernica had already suffered an undeserved cataclysm. Anna was determined to ensure neutral Switzerland would not burn in a similar caldron of evil.

Major Jurgen Bauman hated the snow. A highly decorated veteran with a chip on his shoulder, Bauman was determined that this would be his opportunity to serve the Fuhrer in a way that would be remembered for generations. The sub-zero temperatures exaggerated the pain in his foot where a ricocheting bullet had saved him from the unfolding disaster at Stalingrad in November of 1942. By the time he was ready to be returned to the front, there was no front to be returned to. General Paulus had surrendered to Soviet forces on 31st January 1943 and what remained of the once invincible German 6th Army was marched away on frostbitten toes into Stalin's welcoming arms. Bauman thought them all coward; unworthy of true warriors such as himself. Unknown to him, of the 107,000 'cowards,' only six thousand would ever see Germany again.

"Coffee, Major?" Corporal Fritz Stoezl offered the tin canteen of barely hot liquid to the commander. Bauman shook his head. Stoezl returned to the secluded crevasse where the rest of the men were gathered around a small fire.

Stoezl was the one member of the team Bauman did not fully trust. He came with the reputation of being an expert in hand to hand combat; the silent kill with blade or piano wire his trademark. Bauman found him dangerous, possibly bordering on psychopathic. If their mission was to succeed, stealth, control, efficiency and unquestionable loyalty to Bauman would be essential. The Major could not afford to be distracted from his goal by having to keep a wary eye on one of his men.

He trained the binoculars once more on the airfield far below on the valley floor. Just beyond the village of Lauterbrunnen, the barely defended facility was their objective. To take and hold the airfield and disable the two Swiss intercept fighter planes – all that stood in the way of the safe landing of General Kammler's transport plane. For now, he needed to find somewhere for his team to take shelter for five days and nights. With the new moon on the wax, they had no choice but to come in so long prior to the transport, but high on the plateau outside Wengen, it should not prove difficult to remain secluded.

"I will contact you by telegram tomorrow or the next day at the latest, Herr Bircher." Kammler shook his hand firmly outside the front door of the hotel. A light dusting of snow had freshened up the white covered roofs and awnings along the Hoheweg; the blue sky of the day before replaced by a colourless, featureless grey ceiling. "That should give you enough time to assemble the team of construction workers and engineers we will require to proceed with the project. When I return, I will be accompanied by a number of colleagues, scientists, security experts, that type of thing."

Bircher swallowed hard. "I will make the necessary arrangement, Herr Doctor."

"Good, then our business for the moment is concluded. Brandt?" He gestured for the major to lead the way down the lane to the main road. From there, it was short walk to the train station.

Bircher had not noticed Greta standing behind him, just inside the door.

"I trust you enjoyed your stay, Herr General?" Greta called out, addressing Kammler by his military rank.

Bircher froze when Kammler stopped and turned on his heel, staring coldly at Greta. After a moment which was just a little too long for comfort, he nodded formally and replied, "Thank you Frauline. The warmth of your hospitality has been overwhelming." At that, he turned away and resumed his quick paced walk in the direction of Interlaken Ost train station.

When Bircher turned around to look at his daughter, she had lit a cigarette and was drawing the smoke into her lungs with the elegant poise of her namesake Greta Garbo.

"I hope you do not live to regret this foolhardy streak in you. I pray your bravado does not get one of us killed some day, I really do."

During the seven minute walk to the train station, anyone the two German officers met would either cross to the other side of the road if there was time, or if not, then look away or drop something on purpose by way of giving credence to their act of avoidance.

"Are they scared or embarrassed to meet our eye, sir?" Major Brandt asked softly.

"Both. Don't be fooled by these simple country folk. They are men and woman just the same as you will find in France, Russia, England and even our great Fatherland; there are the strong, the weak, those who will cower in our path and those who will fight. Oh yes, Major, these Swiss peasants will not capitulate without a fight."

"Is there any news of Delta team?" The Major was particular to cover his mouth when he mumbled the question, just in case a keen set of eyes had been tasked to lip read.

"Not so far, but now that the Reich Marshall himself has taken overall control of the operation, providing he has not overdosed on opium, everything should be going according to plan.

# CHAPTER 6

Interlaken July 1944

"It is the finest restaurant in all of Interlaken, Herr General." Hans Schneider enthused with his trademark exaggerated hand gestures. "Oh, but I am embarrassing our host." He clapped Eugen Bircher on the back. "Forgive me, old friend, but your kitchen does serve the finest veal in all of the Bernese Oberland. I am certain the General agrees?"

Kammler picked a piece of gristle from between his teeth and examined it before dropping it onto the edge of his plate. "I'm sure you are right, Herr Schneider." Kammler's adjutant, Major Brandt continually swept the restaurant with his callous eyes, paying little attention to the food before him.

Bircher cleared his throat and nervously took a sip of wine. Their special German visitor was out of uniform but the SS pin on the lapel of his jacket was sufficient to send a chill through the nineteenth century, cloistered tranquillity of The Hotel Europe.

Erika Bircher was the closest thing Interlaken had to a movie star. While the Golden Age took a firm grip of the mushrooming movie business that continued to buck the trend of austerity in 1930's Hollywood, every corner of the civilised world craved their own doyens of celluloid glamour to match the unattainable glamour of celebrated icons such as Gary Cooper, Greta Garbo, Jean Harlow and Vivien Leigh. The unsophisticated townsfolk of Interlaken and its hinterland flocked to the Hotel Europe drawn by Frau Bircher's culinary excellence, her sultry singing voice and her celebrated beauty. She had refused point blank to accompany her husband to that evening's dinner with the Nazi General and Mayor Schneider; the latter, an old army colleague who pretended to be Eugen's friend but was little better in her estimation than this Kammler person. She observed them casually from her perch on a bar stool, the end of the cigarette holder between pouting, crimson lips. She knew the Nazi had noticed her. She had worn her black cocktail dress for the occasion, her raven hair resting on milky shoulders. The familiar swing of Cole Porter's 1936 composition, ' _I've got you under my skin_ ,' crackled from the well-used gramophone, imbibing the restaurant with an air of modern sophistication before giving way to the sultry strains of ' _Every time We Say Goodbye_ ,' proving that despite the war, America was still capable of pumping out three minute snapshots of Hollywood glamour. Taken from Billy Rose's Broadway musical, ' _Seven Lively Arts_ ,' the heartfelt ballad had found a way of taking the cinematic tear-jerker to the streets. To some, Erika among them, this populist blend of musical theatre and sincere replication of the silver screen sing-a-long favourites was a brand new strand of performing arts with the potential for mass popular appeal. Everyone was familiar with the classical composers and the repetitive hymns of youth but the new brand of music from across the Atlantic looked sure to very soon replace the charming soliloquies of folklore with a seductive barrage of the popular sounds of a new and vibrant age.

"You understand, Eugen that we must help the General in any way we can?" Schneider looked at Bircher and then at the General, as though expecting some sort of support to his point.

"Do not look so worried, Herr Bircher," Kammler spoke. "It is nothing more than a few worthless paintings we are hoping to trust to your safekeeping."

"But surely, if they are worthless, then why would there be the need for this safe keeping Herr General?" Bircher decided he was going to enjoy the veal no matter what. "There is clearly something that you are not telling us."

Major Brandt sighed deeply and Kammler forced a smile. "As a show of our good faith, Herr Bircher, we have arranged for a small down payment to be deposited into your bank account this evening. It is up to you if and where you deem fit to hang these pictures."

"Fear not, Herr General, we will distribute these works of art discretely, will we not, Eugen?" Schneider was doing his utmost to convince Bircher to acquiesce to the General's request.

"You have a very high class establishment, Herr Bircher." Kammler addressed his host. "I am certain these simple pictures will not look out of place."

Bircher suddenly had the feeling that his collar was too tight, but regardless, lifted the bottle of Cabernet-Sauvignon and refilled the glasses of Kammler and Major Brandt.

It was a little after eleven when Kammler and Brandt retired for the night, retreating to their second floor rooms, for which the General had been more than happy to pay the going rate, before Bircher had brushed off the mere idea of paying as soon as the German had begun leafing through the bundle of bank notes inside his leather pocket book.

"Most kind, Herr Bircher, I am sure," Kammler shook hands with their host, while Brandt, to Bircher's growing feeling of suffocation, said nothing. The SS officer's watchful, watery features, moved in the shadow cast by the General; at all times the eyes and ears of their master, Reichsfuhrer Himmler. For his part, Major Brandt distrusted the Swiss hotelier intensely. The way he avoided making eye contact with Brandt was hardly the natural demeanour of a faithful ally of the Reich. Schneider was a spiteful weasel but his devotion to the creed of National Socialism oozed from every pore of his body, so they would just need to have faith in his judgement and proceed with the first consignment as soon as possible. Time was short and there were no other options on the table.

"You will be leaving early Herr General?" Bircher asked.

"We will be on the 6.50 train to Zurich in the morning."

"If you require breakfast, I can have coffee and fresh bread...."

Kammler raised a hand. "That will not be necessary. Your hospitality this evening has been more than enough to send us on our way back to Germany completely satisfied."

"When can we expect the first delivery Herr General?" Schneider asked, struggling into his heavy overcoat.

"We will be making the arrangements immediately on our return to Berlin, so I would expect things to fall into place within the next two to three weeks."

"Eugen, that will be perfectly acceptable to you, I imagine?"

Bircher grinned weakly through gritted teeth. "Perfectly."

"Good, then all is set." Schneider clapped his hands in theatrical fashion. "In that case gentlemen, I will bid you goodnight and safe journey."

"Goodnight, Herr Schneider." Kammler raised his right arm discreetly. "Heil Hitler!"

Schneider shocked Bircher by fully outstretching his arm and with a glow of pride on his face he replied with gusto, "Heil Hitler, General!"

Kammler nodded respectfully at the gesture, while Major Brandt allowed his lip to curl in the closest imitation of a smile he was capable of.

From the back of the office, where she had retreated, racked by a severe headache, Erika looked on in disgust and rage at the public display of a Nazi salute in her hotel. Had she not felt so fragile and shaky on her legs due to the severity of the headache, which had been flaring up at times over the past few days, she would have marched out to the reception area and made her feelings abundantly clear to all present. These Nazis did not intimidate her in the slightest. She listened to the news reports and read the newspapers. The war had turned against them and it would not be long before they would be ground into the dust.

Maybe it was the adrenaline released by her flare of anger, but Erika's headache quickly subsided, so she went to the kitchen to help her daughters tidy up. She was ready to pounce when her husband ambled wearily into the kitchen a few minutes later, loosening his neck tie.

"How could you, Eugen? How could you allow that monster into our hotel; into our home?" Erika Bircher could not disguise her rage at the sight of her husband dining with the Nazi General. "I cannot believe you are so weak as to let that snake Schneider walk all over you."

"What choice did I have?"

"What choice? You tell the mayor to go to hell and do his own dirty work."

Greta carried a tray of dirty plates into the kitchen, pretending not to notice her parents' argument. Her sister Anna was in the restaurant, laying fresh table cloths for the next morning's breakfast.

"Erika, please! Keep your voice down. You know that it was only with the Mayor's support that we were able to renew our licence?"

"Do you really expect me to believe that rubbish? Well, do you? We both know the Carlton, the Schweizerhof and the Du Lac had no problems when it came to obtaining their new entertainments licence. And why was that? Could it be that Schneider had more sense than to ask their owners to do a few favours for him in return for his much sought after signature?"

"Erika, you are talking of that which you do not understand."

"Oh I understand perfectly, Eugen. My husband is a weak, pathetic fool whose moral compass has become thrown, blinded by flattery and vague promises of a share in the dividend. The dividend? You bring shame on us Eugen; on us and our daughters."

"Please, Erika. I know how this looks, but the world is not black and white as you would have it."

"That much is abundantly clear."

Bircher sighed wearily. He could not deny any of the accusations his wife levelled at him. Nobody hated Eugen Bircher more than he did himself. All he wanted was the best for his wife and daughters, but in striving for that end he risked betraying not just the Bircher family but all the people of Interlaken and beyond.

Erika stubbed her cigarette out in the crystal ash tray and stormed out of the kitchen. Bircher shook his head in despair and loosened his neck tie, unbuttoning the collar of his shirt. He envied the young men of the Oberland who had gone off to war, whether to fight on the side of the Allies or follow the Pied Piper of Berlin. A gun in their hands and orders from above, the catechism of the war was simple – kill or be killed. For the middle aged, armchair generals who fought the war behind the lines, the complexities of misguided allegiances and clouded memories made war a complicated and dirty business.

# CHAPTER 7

The Austro Italian Front October 1917

In August 1917 Germany's Chief of the General Staff Paul von Hindenburg concluded that if the Austro-Hungarian Empire was to remain in the war, it would require German military support to tip the balance on the Italian front. A new 14th Army was formed, with nine Austrian and six German divisions, commanded by a German, Otto von Below. In September three experts from the Imperial General Staff led by the chemist Otto Hahn travelled to the front along the Isonzo River to seek out a viable site for a proposed gas attack.

The Battle of Caporetto on the Austro-Italian front (also known as the Twelfth Battle of the Isonzo), began on the 24th of October 1917, close to the town of Kobarid, now in north-western Slovenia, but at the time part of the Austrian Littoral. Unfavourable weather conditions had delayed the attack for forty-eight hours, but come the 24th the wind had dropped and a blanket of mist had descended across the front.

At exactly 02.00, nine hundred metal tubes dug into a reverse slope behind the German line were triggered electrically to simultaneously fire canisters containing 600 ml of chlorine and phosgene gases, smothering the Italian trenches in the valley in a dense cloud of poison. Knowing that their gas masks could protect them only for two hours or less, the defenders fled for their lives, though some five hundred lay dead or dying, abandoned to their fate by their fear stricken comrades.

The front remained eerily quiet for the next few hours, the Germans awaiting dawn's early light, when all the Italian wire and trenches due to be attacked were to be peppered with mortar fire.

"What the hell are you two idiots doing here anyway?" Captain von Schellenberg used cupped hands to shield the brief flare from the match. He was running low on cigarettes but felt a pang of sympathy for the two young infantrymen who were passing the remains of a smouldering butt between them.

"To ensure the Bolsheviks don't get any ideas about re-entering the war, sir." Hans Schneider spoke with a degree of articulate confidence that impressed the officer.

"And we are as German as you, Captain." Eugen Bircher, a twenty-two year old chipped in before dropping the end of the cigarette in to the mud before he burnt his fingers.

"Oh really, Bircher?" Schellenberg raised an eyebrow. "You Swiss are neutral for God's sake. You should be at home on your farms. Maybe someday, if you are fortunate enough to survive this slaughterhouse, you will find another way to serve the cause of the Greater Germany. In the new European order after the war, the Fatherland will be most powerful nation on continental Europe, along with the Austro-Hungarian Empire, of course," he waved a gloved hand dismissively. "When the British and the French sue for peace, you can be certain that our glorious leader the Kaiser will ensure we are the beneficiaries of the most favourable of terms. After all, as you so rightly point out, who else would be strong enough to stand firm in the face of the Bolshevik revolution? Intelligent young men such as you are wasted standing in the mud, clutching a rifle. Only this morning I was mentioning to my fellow officers, Lieutenants Kammler and Rommel, how it is one of the tragedies of this Great War that our nation has been robbed of so many valuable and irreplaceable men."

"Then we should all keep our heads down sir; your good self also included." Schneider said with a stiff salute to the Captain.

Schellenberg struck a match so he could look at his watch then offered both a cigarette, the last two in his case.

"Sir, we shouldn't," Bircher said. Even in the dark, he could see the silver cigarette case would then be empty.

"Do not concern yourself private. I have plenty more stashed under my mattress." Schellenberg felt a brief wave of panic at the sight of his last two cigarettes resting in other men's lips. The battle was at hand and he was much too proud to ask Major Von Altman for a few from his ever bountiful supply. In any case, there wasn't time.

Eugen Bircher had conditioned himself to be able to sleep standing up. Even if only for a few short minutes, sleep was the only refuge the front line soldier had from the relentless fear of imminent death. In the worst moments of fear and loneliness he held on to the picture in his mind's eye of his young wife Erika, sitting by the fireside with their beautiful daughter Anna, not yet a year old tugging at her blonde locks. In the latest letter he had received from home, Erika had imparted to him the joyous news that she was pregnant again and she expressed the hope for Eugen's sake that they be blessed with a son ' _as I know you would hate to live in a house filled with tiresome and demanding women_.' Bircher had smiled on reading those words. He felt so blessed already. Erika was the most celebrated beauty in Interlaken. He still had not worked out how he had managed to win her heart. Little Anna was her mother in miniature and would go on to break a thousand hearts, his own included he did not doubt.

He was dragged abruptly and violently back into the reality of the trench by the earth shaking as though the ground were about to open up beneath his feet and swallow the entire German division.

"Christ almighty!" Schneider screamed and grabbed hold of Bircher so as not to lose his balance. "What the hell is going on?"

"We have detonated mines under the Italian positions. Our engineers have been tunnelling for weeks." Lieutenant Hans Kammler said before scaling the wooden ladder next to where Bircher was leaning so he could observe the damage to the enemy's position. "Science and technology, lads; that is the future of warfare. The days of the humble infantryman running across the wasteland clutching a rifle will soon be consigned to history." Kammler climbed back down a look of satisfaction on his face. "But not yet." He turned and looked for Sergeant Meine. "Sergeant! Send the word down the line. Prepare to attack!"

# CHAPTER 8

Interlaken July 1944

In an earlier life, Adolf Hitler was an unsuccessful artist who had been denied admission to the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts. Despite this, he still considered himself to be a connoisseur. In his autobiographical manifesto, _Mein Kampf_ , in which he laid out his political ideology and plans for the future of Germany, he ferociously attacked all forms of modern art as a degenerate pursuit, which he considered the frivolous product of a decadent Twentieth Century society. When in 1933 Hitler was elected Chancellor of Germany, he found himself in the position to be able to enforce this aesthetic ideal on the entire German nation. The types of art that were favoured amongst the Nazi party hierarchy were classical portraits and landscapes by the Old Masters, more particularly those of Germanic origin. All examples of modern art that did not match this ideal were dubbed works of degenerate art by the Third Reich, and all examples that were found in Germany's state museums were to be sold or destroyed. With the revenue levied from these sales, the Fuhrer's objective was to establish a European Art Museum in Linz. At the same time, other leading figures in the Nazi regime, such as Reichs Marschall Hermann Goering and Foreign Affairs Minister von Ribbentrop, were also intent on taking advantage of Germany's military conquests to further develop their own private art collections.

By 1944, the Third Reich had amassed hundreds of thousands of objects from the occupied nations and stored them in several key locations, such as Musée Jeu de Paume in Paris and the Nazi headquarters in Munich. As the Allied forces began to gain the advantage in the war and concentrated on bombing Germany's cities and historic institutions, the Reich began to take steps of storing the artworks in salt mines and caves for protection from Allied bombing raids. These mines and caves offered the appropriate humidity and temperature conditions for the storage of artworks. Well known repositories of this kind were mines in Merkers, Altaussee and Siegen. These mines were not only used for the storage of looted art but also of art that had been in Germany and Austria before the beginning of Nazi rule. Degenerate art was legally banned by the Nazis from entering Germany, and so any significant pieces so designated were held in what was called the _Martyr's Room_ at the Jeu de Paume.

With the looted degenerate art sold onwards via Switzerland, much of Paul Rosenberg's professional dealership and personal collection was scattered across Europe. Even today, as many as seventy of his paintings are still recorded as 'missing', including: the large Picasso watercolour _Naked Woman on the Beach_ , painted in Provence in 1923; seven works by Matisse; and the _Portrait of Gabrielle Diot_ by Degas.

Bircher looked at the watercolour hanging on the wall outside the restaurant. The obtrusive and uninhibited sexuality of the work looked totally misplaced amongst the conservative turn of the century décor of the Hotel Europe. He would never have laid claim to be an authority or even an enthusiastic amateur admirer of art, yet there was something about the expansive work by the renowned Spanish artist Pablo Picasso that simply demanded the attention of anyone who happened to fall within its sphere of influence. He felt sure that given a few weeks, the ' _Naked Woman on the Beach_ ' would recede from the overt consciousness and find a secure and discreet residency below the highly polished surface of the slaves to conscience who emboldened Swiss neutrality. He offered the Matisse directly opposite a mere cursory glance and flatly refused to be seduced by the soft pornography of the Degas. Kammler had never raised the subject of the value of the paintings so Bircher could only wonder. What was certain was the works on full display were worth vastly more than the hotel that had become their private, temporary gallery.

"Father! Father!" He immediately recognized the panic in Greta's voice, accompanied by the heavy drum of her heels on the staircase.

"What is it?" He walked hurriedly along the hall and met her at the foot of the stairs.

"It is mother. She has collapsed!" Greta was ghostly pale and visibly trembling.

Bircher followed his daughter up the stairs to the first floor room he shared with his wife. Erika Bircher was lying motionless on the floor of the bedroom with Anna crouched over her, tears streaked down both cheeks.

"I was below in the office when I heard a loud thump from above. I knew it didn't sound right. When I got here this is how I found her.

Bircher hunkered down and took Erika's wrist in his hand to check for a pulse, though he already knew it to be a futile exercise. His wife's mouth was open, her eyes staring lifelessly into nothingness, a trail of blood running from each nostril.

"I will call Dr Kohler." Greta turned to leave the bedroom.

"I'm afraid it is too late for that," he spoke in barely more than a murmur, but Greta heard and comprehended because he was only confirming what was clear to all of them. "You're mother has left us."

July 1944 Interlaken

July's shimmering breath soothed the skin with delicate frissons of pleasure. The unfathomable contradiction to the razor sharp chill of winter, tinged as it is with excitement and danger. Eyes closed against the unyielding sun, shutting out the accidental tourists, their features blurred by the heat haze. Time to enjoy and cherish the waves lapping on the banks of Lake Brienz, the Swiss national flag fluttering at the stern of the paddle steamer; the carefree laughter of children, an afterthought obscured by the ragged line of pine trees.

The deceptive idyll of life in the Bernese Oberland was little more than an impossible dream; a small slice of Eden just outside the gates of hell. With the fires of Armageddon raging beyond the mountains, leaving the seeds of the future among the ashes of greed and hypocrisy, the fate of nations was being rewritten by the new emperors of technological innovation. Reach for the stars and pull heaven crashing down around you.

The perfection of silence was broken by the scratching tones of Father Huber. Next to Greta a tearful Anna was being comforted by her husband Karl, while her father stood in stoic silence. Greta felt ill at ease that she had not shed a single tear during either the church service or at the graveside. She was accustomed to crying freely at funerals, even those of people barely known onto her, but the sudden death of her mother was so beyond the boundaries of credulity that her brain had simply dismissed it as a deception. So it was as though in the two days since her mother's death, Greta had been merely a casual observer to the grief and pain endured by her sister and father. Anna was always so strong; it disturbed Greta to see her break down. That was not the big sister she knew. The octogenarian clergyman invited Eugen Bircher to step forward and cast the first handful of sundried earth upon the wooden casket. It scattered across the polished surface with a dull sense of finality. Anna bent forward and let fall from her hands the simple posy of mountain daisies before retreating into Karl's comforting arms. Greta sensed the hairs on the back of her neck rise under the expectant gaze of the eyes that urged her to complete the traditional gestures from the immediate family. With a deep breath of fortitude, Erika Bircher's youngest daughter scooped up a handful of soil from the piles that surrounded the freshly dug grave and dropped it on the coffin lid. "Goodbye Mother," she whispered at the same time crossing herself with due deference.

One by one the mourners approached the graveside with their own tokens of respect. Most came forward to comfort the family. The strengthening breeze carried a chill down from the glacier causing Greta to pull the light shawl tight around he shoulders. The cinder path that wended its way back to the town was so dry that the breeze lifted the surface in a series of twisting vortices, reminding her of smaller versions of the mighty tornado that swept Dorothy to the Wizard's Land of Oz. At that memory jolt, the first hint of a tear found a meandering route to the corner of her eye. She remembered the evening so clearly. It had been the longest queue anyone could recall outside Interlaken's only cinema. Children alive with the glow of expectation; Erika drawn by the new song she couldn't wait to add to her live repertoire; Greta there because mother insisted they go as a family. There's a land that I dreamt of, once in a lullaby. Greta prayed her mother was there now.

Mayor Schneider was approaching Eugen, his hand outstretched, the well-rehearsed expression of studied empathy more a lesson in stark insincerity. Greta couldn't bear having to look at the man who had surely been part responsible for the death of her mother. Anna felt the same, if not more so, but was more astute at playing the bigger game than her younger sibling. With sublime timing, Daniel Lieberman came walking towards her. Greta walked forward to meet him. "Daniel, it is so good of you to come. Are your parents here?"

"Of course," he took her by both hands. "I will call them over."

"No, take me to them."

Daniel led her by the hand to where his parents had been momentarily distracted, looking at a headstone for a relative who had perished in The Great War of 1914 to 1918. Greta glanced over her shoulder to see the Mayor embracing Anna and felt slightly surprised when they parted without Anna having stuck a bread knife between his ribs. Satisfied she had managed to successfully miss the pleasure of the Mayor's pathetic, unwelcome platitudes, Greta warmly accepted the sympathies of the Liebermans.

# CHAPTER 9

Interlaken 1944

"What's the matter, Greta? You have had that far off look in your eyes all the way through dinner." Eugen Bircher faced each passing day in outward denial of the condition of his recent widowhood. If anything, he was almost beginning to enjoy his new found status. The sympathetic smiles from the leading lights among the farmers wives association, the endless handshakes and embraces after Mass and the frequent dinner invites all served to ease the burden of loss. The pan fried veal tasted every bit as good as always, in spite of the empty chair at the dinner table.

Sunday dinner was sacrosanct within the Bircher household. It was the ninety minutes once a week when the guests were left to fend for themselves. It was the ninety minutes once a week when their thirst would not be quenched at the hotel bar, their complaints of flies in their room would fall on deaf ears. It was the ninety minutes a week that Karl would happily have swapped places with the number of his childhood friends who had joined De Gaulle's Free French Army and were taking the fight to the Nazi menace on the Western Front. He did not do the family thing well and only his deep love for Anna guaranteed his weekly attendance at Herr Bircher's table. He could not however deny the quality of the food and wine and hoped his host took his silence as an affirmation of the excellence of the meal.

Anna too had struggled to ignore her sister's darkening mood over the recent days, but was all too aware of Greta's ability to throw up an impenetrable shield around her when life was not meeting her exacting standards.

"Greta!" Anna spoke up. "Father is talking to you." Karl placed a hand on Anna's arm, his way of imploring his wife to remain calm.

Greta turned to face her sister. "I do not need to be prompted by you, Anna. I may be your little sister but I am no longer the baby."

"No-one is calling you a baby Greta but our dear father has been through a very difficult time and the least he has the right to expect is a degree of reverence from his children."

Greta recognised the necessity to swallow her pride, if only for the sake of family harmony. "I can assure you Anna, and you too Father, that I intended no disrespect by my mood. It is just I find myself racked with feelings of guilt at the passing of our dear Mother."

"Guilt; but what have you to reproach yourself for?" Anna asked.

"All that I am guilty of is having loved her too much and missed her too little. This is the contradiction with which I struggle." Greta sighed.

"It is only natural Greta that you should find it difficult to come easily to terms with the death of our Mother. After all, for several years now, your relationship has been anything but perfect."

"That doesn't mean I did not love her. It doesn't mean that I do not love her still."

"No-one is trying to say that, Greta." Anna was born with their mother's mannerisms as well as her radical views of a libertarian and shared Europe. "And no-one is expecting you to deal with Mother's death on your own."

More determined than ever not to show any demonstrative signs of weakness, Greta returned her attention to the sliced, fried veal and ate with a renewed sense of calm assuredness.

The empty seat at the table stood as a monument to Erika Bircher – her inner strength, her femininity, her daughters and her timeless beauty.

Greta considered the main question for a while. Despite her own brand of right thinking liberalism, the pro-Nazi National Party had swept to power in the canton of Bern the previous autumn, bringing with it a well-reasoned argument to bolster the views of Herr Hitler within the pastures and glaciers of Swiss neutrality.

"I feel guilty," Greta spoke up. "I feel guilty that I could not assist our dear mother in her struggle against the evil that has been visited upon us."

"I must confess that I am not sure I know what you mean, Greta," Eugen took a drink of wine from his glass.

"No Father, I did not expect that you would."

"Daughter, there is a tone to your voice of accusation and I am not sure that I am fond of that ill placed sentiment."

Greta lifted Anna's smouldering cigarette from the ashtray in the centre of the table. "It seems foolish but now that Mother is dead and I can smoke without fear of incurring her ire, the attraction is suddenly gone."

"Your mother did not want you to smoke because she read an article a few years ago that claimed cigarettes are bad for the health; something about a link to cancer of the lungs."

"When all the evidence tells of the health benefits of tobacco," Anna shrugged.

"I will go to my room and pray for Mother's soul. Dead at forty-seven; perhaps there is some truth to that article. " Greta got to her feet.

"Good for you Greta," Anna nodded encouragingly.

"I would much rather we finish the discussion about this evil that has been visited upon us." Eugen Bircher said, no longer having Erika to act as a buffer between his daughters and his habitual weakness of character.

"Another time, Father; if you don't mind?" Greta inspected closely the burning end of the cigarette she had lifted before extinguishing it in the base of the brushed silver ash-tray, a wedding present a quarter of a century ago to her parents from the then deputy town clerk, Hans Schneider.

Greta smoothed her dress and made a comb of splayed fingers to tidy her hair as best she could. As was usual following her clandestine trysts, she was left with a mix of confusion, guilt and panic that, in spite of their care, eventually luck would desert them and........ no; she was determined not to dwell on that thought. She enjoyed the physical attention Hans Hofmeister was only too willing to dish up. In truth, she felt little for the earthy, blunt and foul mouthed young man, so unlike the shy, handsome Daniel Lieberman. Now there was a man she could imagine loving; sharing a life with. He just always seemed to be distant and never showed any interest in her in a romantic way.

When Greta arrived through the front door of the hotel, Anna just happened to be walking past carrying a dirty wine glass she had found on a window ledge. She pulled a length of straw from Greta's hair and patted her sister on the stomach. "Why Greta, I could swear you are putting on weight. You should be more careful what you put in that pretty mouth of yours."

Greta shook her head in disgust, pushing past Anna and going upstairs.

Mayor of Interlaken, Hans Schneider pushed his back against the upright of his leather bound chair and regarded Hans Hofmeister with a degree of poorly disguised disdain. "You are very close to the younger of the Bircher sisters, I understand?"

Hofmeister's thin lipped silence neither confirmed nor denied the open secret.

"The sister Anna's husband is somewhat of an undesirable. Always up to no good – a communist agitator, it is said. I would appreciate any information you could bring to my attention regarding his activities. Anything suspicious, you understand. Naturally you may expect to be rewarded handsomely for your service to the state."

Interlaken Dec 1944

"That is enough, Greta!" Bircher spoke in a loud whisper. "Do not interfere in that which you do not understand."

"What exactly is it that I do not understand father?" Passion burned in Greta's green eyes. "That you are entertaining the enemies of freedom here in our home yet again."

"They are not our enemies, Greta."

"Don't be a fool, Father." Greta was trying to keep her voice down but since Dr Kammler and Major Brandt had been given adjacent rooms on the top floor of the hotel, the kitchen was a secure venue for a family row. "They would crush Switzerland like a fly. God only knows why they haven't?"

Bircher ran his fingers through his thinning hair. "I have no choice Greta. You need to understand."

"Mother didn't."

"Please don't bring your Mother into this." He slammed his hand hard on wooden table where the meat was prepared. "Why can't you be more like your sister; polite and respectful?"

"Anna feels just the way I do about the Nazis. She just has a different way of showing it."

# CHAPTER 10

Edinburgh 2014

February, the all too easily disregarded four week link between the depths of Winter and the irresistible march of spring, struggled valiantly to breathe life back into the darkest recesses of the countryside. The suffocating darkness receded daily, giving centre stage to grey, misty mornings and optimistic sunsets, which followed the schoolchildren home instead of leading them by the hand to fire-lit kitchen tables. The process of purification of the land, following the full moon of the fifteenth, was the inspiration for the month's origins in classical Roman culture.

It started out as nothing; the merest hint of random discomfort at the base of the skull, where the neck muscles can tense and ache at any time. It was there for a few days; it left for a few weeks; it stayed for a few days; it left for a few days; it stayed. A splitting headache that neither paracetamol nor codeine would relieve. Maybe if she hadn't tolerated it in silence for so many months; maybe.

The four spires of the cathedral punctured the arcing blue canopy of blue in an act of ecclesiastical acupuncture, infusing the morning sky with the remembered prayer of over seven hundred years. The sunlight warmed the stone walls and projected familiar shadows across the well grazed meadow.

John loved to watch Kate when she was too absorbed to notice. Her fingers tapped out a rhythmical rattle on the keyboard. Quickly, he became transfixed by the effortless quality of a beauty most women spend their every waking hour trying to attain. Everything she did to deny her gift only served to enhance what she attempted to disguise. With reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose and hair casually tied up with a bobble, Kate was deep in concentration and unaware John had taken a seat at the other end of the kitchen table. Definitely, she was at her most alluring without make-up and dressed in a crumpled old t-shirt and washed out jeans.

A particularly well laden truck rolled by on the main road, breaking the spell and Kate glanced up. "I didn't hear you come in."

"You're in a world of your own. I didn't dare interrupt."

"I can't think straight this afternoon." She closed over the laptop lid and removed her glasses. "Why don't you put the kettle on?"

John got up and began filling the kettle at the sink. "Tea or coffee?"

"Coffee, as long as you remember I want to drink it and not tarmac the driveway with it." Kate gave him a flutter of her eyelashes and polished the lenses of her glasses with the edge of her t-shirt.

John, as was the case with the majority of the domestic chores, had become the family's culinary expert. Kate, in spite of being one of the country's leading chefs, had never possessed the inclination or patience to conjure up anything more challenging than chilli con carne or spaghetti bolognaise for family meals, and quickly growing sick of the fact that John never seemed to eat her creations, she had happily ceded the kitchen to her willing husband.

One of John's most impressive inventions was grilled salmon steaks in a mustard seed coating, on a bed of sweet potato and after a couple of abortive experiments with lamb cutlets, had settled on this particular dish for Kate's birthday dinner. As she was at her restaurant in the city and not due home until eleven o'clock, John had been able to persuade the girls to make themselves scarce and concentrate on creating a faultless meal. With the television on mute, and the soothing sound of Faith Hill's country infused soft rock throbbing easily from the hi-fi speakers, John was the master of his domain, pausing intermittently to take a sip of the ice cold Chablis he had opened for the occasion.

As the clock on the wall ticked round to eleven o'clock, John put two Denby dinner plates into the low oven so they would be hot for serving and checked the salmon. Another two minutes and they would be perfect.

Two hours later, John drained the last drops from his wine glass and removed the uneaten meal from the low oven. To have left it any longer would ensure the salmon had the texture of rubber and in any case he could always re-heat it in the microwave for Kate when she came in. He dropped the empty Chablis bottle into the flip-top bin and opened the fridge where there was a second bottle on the top shelf. He took it out, the cool condensation moistening his palm and grabbed the corkscrew from the cutlery drawer. As usual he was trying desperately not be angered by his wife's casual disregard for his feelings not to mention that of their daughters. It seemed sometimes that Kate viewed the simple act of phoning home to let her loved ones know that she would be late as the act of an apologist rather than a power player. He had bought her a mobile phone back in 1997 when they were still an elitist toy so they could keep in touch but she hardly ever had the thing switched on. John, on the other hand, was expected to be contactable 24/7 and was frequently taken to task whenever he could not be reached.

With a childish persistence John tried her mobile for the fifth time and felt like screaming at the simple recorded greeting, " _This is Kate, please leave a message_...." Her long diluted Edinburgh University accent was barely perceptible but the intonation, the almost musical phrasing of her words still betrayed her Highland roots. John poured himself a brimming glass of wine and walked from the kitchen to the living room, as always averting his eyes from the heavy gold framed photograph.

The family portrait above the fireplace was the constant reminder of the perfect family they had once been. Rebecca's raven haired radiance is the focal point of the studio photograph and even at a year old was every bit the captivating and demanding beauty she had inherited from her mother. Kirsty was only three and looked rather bemused on her proud father's lap, and the always radiant and photogenic Kate offered the movie star smile, enhanced by the atypical fullness to her face as at that time she had not lost all the two stone gained when carrying Rebecca..

John strained his ears to satisfy himself that the girls were asleep upstairs and then collapsed in the armchair closest to the television. Gulping down the wine, he casually flicked through the satellite channels in search of nothing in particular, eventually settling on the brat-pack classic movie ' _About Last Night,_ ' starring the young Rob Lowe and Demi Moore. We all have 'comfort-zone' viewing and this had always been one of John's. He loved nothing better than wallowing in the nostalgia of eighties clothing, music and the naïve, innocent fantasies of a young man who in 1986 could only dream of meeting someone like Demi Moore. Twenty years on and life with a woman who Demi Moore would envy was an ongoing tortuous rollercoaster of emotions where the trials of the celluloid Danny and Debbie would have proved a light relief.

# CHAPTER 11

LAKE PLACID 17th February 1980

The small village high in the Adirondack Mountains in Essex County, upstate New York, had previously hosted the Winter Olympics way back in 1932, so it was no surprise when it was chosen to host the winter games of 1980. History remembers the games for the so called _'Miracle on Ice_ ,' when the USA ice hockey team composed of collegiate players defeated the mighty Soviet Red Machine four goals to three in the final to take the gold medal. This feat all but eclipsed the astonishing achievement of American speed skater Eric Heiden, who took an incredible five gold's for the host nation.

Whiteface Mountain in Wilmington was the venue for the Alpine skiing events. The programme was launched by the blue ribbon event, the men's downhill taking place on Valentine's Day. The hosts had to settle for a credible fifth place for the un-fancied Pete Patterson, who trailed in a place behind the Swiss favourite Peter Mueller, while the surprise Gold Medallist, Austrian Leonhard Stock, ensured the narrow streets of Lake Placid echoed to the sound of cowbells.

Three days later, the women gathered at the top of the Whiteface course, with few commentators anticipating anything but a demonstration in downhill skiing from the mighty Austrian Anne-Marie Moser-Proll.

The USA's hopes rested on the shoulders of Heidi Preuss, who came into the games on the back of some of the best form of her career. The fourth pick in their team was a seventeen year old rookie from Mammoth, California. Cindy Johnson had demonstrated a rare talent for downhill skiing on the Rockies Challenge tour the previous winter and after only four races on the World Cup circuit in Europe, she had been thrown a wild card entry to challenge the European girls on her home snow.

"I don't know about you but I feel sick." Cindy spoke to the girl who sat next to her in the cable car which bore the competitors to the top of Whiteface Mountain.

"I'm sorry, my English is not good," the shy brunette shrugged.

"I'm Cindy, and don't worry, my English is not very good either."

The girl who was dressed in the same ski suit as the great Swiss racer Marie-Therese Nadig laughed. "My name is Angela. You are American?"

Cindy dropped her head. "Yeah, I had kind of hoped nobody would have noticed. You know, I really think the people here think I can win this thing."

"Why can't you?"

"Duh, me beat Moser-Proll and Nadig? Are you for real?"

"If you don't believe you can beat them, why take part at all?"

"As much as I don't ski for other people, I feel I have let so many people down by crashing out in the GS. I am completely rubbish at the slalom, so the downhill is my best chance to fulfil the promise I have shown."

Angela Hofmeister, the youngest member of the Swiss team, was glad simply to have the luxury of a conversation with a fellow competitor. Her mentor Maria Agostini had been forced to miss the games through injury, leaving Angela as another willing, but unworthy disciple of the Swiss number one Marie-Therese Nadig. Angela felt in the bubbly, blonde American, a kindred spirit and she wrestled with her basic grasp of English in an effort to say something of meaning to her.

"You should not be scared of competition Cindy"

The American ran a hand though her firm hold wave and looked at the young Swiss woman with the warmth of an unexpected kinship. "They say the humbling moments are in many ways where we learn the most, and it's all about how you take that experience forward in a positive way. I know that whatever happens today, it is important that I don't allow it to define the rest of my career."

Angela chuckled. "If only my English was better, I am sure I would have understood much of what you just said."

"I'm sorry I can say it again slower, if you like?"

"I think we have arrived," Angela said as she got to her feet.

"We can continue this conversation at the medal ceremony." Cindy sounded convinced by her own unfounded bravado.

"Good luck," Angela said casually, even though deep inside she had the strangest feeling the casual meeting with the larger than life American would have repercussions that would long outlast the artificial limitations of the Winter Olympics of 1980.

The bulk of the crowd was already beginning to melt away by the time racer number forty-three crossed the finish line in twenty-first place. With only three non-finishers, it was a highly credible placing for the young Swiss racer Angela Hofmeister, but the home fans had witnessed their medal favourite, Heidi Preuss, miss out of bronze by the narrowest of margins and their new, young hope, Cindy Johnson, crash out all too predictably. The worthy mid-field performances by the new breed of European girls held no great attraction for the partisan home fans.

Angela removed her helmet in the finish area and gasped to regain her breath. She was more disappointed with the position than with the time. Compared to the previous two days training runs, her time would have been good enough for eleventh place.

AVIEMORE, SCOTLAND 17th February 1980

In February 1980, Sunday tea times were all about _The Antiques Roadshow_ and _Songs of Praise;_ ham salad with lettuce and hard boiled eggs, stained a deep red by the sliced beetroot. The alternative was _Ski Sunday_ which had become compulsive, impulsive and obsessive viewing for its growing cult of followers.

"Katie, the skiing is coming on!" Miranda Magowan called from the foot of the stairs.

With _Abba's Greatest Hits Volume 2_ on her record player, seventeen year old Kate had long since abandoned her homework of tedious differentiation and integration, losing herself in the haunting soundscape of her favourite song, 1978's _'Eagle_.'

' _Fly high like a bird in the sky_......." The sentiment propelled Kate's ambitions to be a successful ski racer. The exhilaration of feeling her skis chatter across the ice crusted snow on Cairngorm Mountain provided the perfect counterbalance in her life to the intense, claustrophobic intellectual prison of fulfilling her parent's academic expectations. Her father Ed, a local GP, had his eldest daughter lined up to become the new Dr Magowan; to ensure the proud lineage laid down by his father would be carried proudly into the twenty-first century; her mother Miranda already liked the sound of enthusing at coffee mornings, of the achievements of her daughter. Ski racing was, for her parents, an unwelcome distraction that would inevitably evaporate along with the other childish dreams of fame and fortune.

Miranda banged on the wall with the side of her closed first. She could hear the music emanating from Kate's bedroom but knew how much her daughter wanted to watch the women's downhill, the latest highlight of the BBC's coverage of the Winter Olympics. "For goodness sake, Kate, I won't call you again."

Lying on her bed, Kate disseminated the banging on the wall from the drum beat of the hypnotic music. She leaned out of bed and lifted the stylus, plunging her room into stark silence. "Coming!" she called out with sufficient calm to give the impression she had been waiting for the call.

Like so many skiing fans across the globe, Kate had been hooked by the Innsbruck games of 1976, when Franz Klammer rode the golden wave to superstardom and the slalom specialist, German Rosi Mittermaier triumphed in the women's downhill, the only victory in the high speed discipline of her career. Yes, it was a long way from the tame, slushy slopes of Aviemore to the dry powder of Lake Placid, but Kate viewed the gap as a challenge rather than an insurmountable chasm.

As usual she practically fell down the stairs, such was her eagerness to soak up every minute of the event as it was beamed live by satellite from the USA.

"How's the studying coming on?" Kate's father asked in a rather stilted fashion, as though following the script of a second rate television drama.

"Good," she replied.

"Yes, darling, we could just about hear how well you were getting on over the music." Miranda said with a smile, poking fun more at her husband than at her daughter.

David Vine set the scene for Ron Pickering's ever informed commentary. Kate sat at the end of the settee closest to the television, her knees pulled up beneath her chin. She was captivated instantly by the speed, danger and glamour of the exhilarating sport, set against the backdrop of a magical, fairy-tale winter wonderland. The only disappointment was the shortness of the ski season, ending as it did in early March, with a promise to return in early December. December? It might has well have been a lifetime away for the seventeen year old Kate.

EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND 17th February 1980

When the great Swiss racer Peter Mueller, crashed out in spectacular fashion, just before the finish line of the Men's Downhill in Wengen, Switzerland, John Alexander had no idea of the impact and influence the sport of skiing and that country would have on his life over the next thirty years. That clip of Mueller's fall still gets shown to this day on TV retrospectives, but looks so old and grainy it could have come from the 1950's, but on the day it was broadcast, the colours were vibrant, the yellow cat suit and red helmet stark against the white snow and dark green pine trees.

Over the following weeks, John became familiar with the different racers; his personal favourite being the 'Crazy Cannuck,' Canadian Steve Podborski. In Orange racing suit and black helmet, his wild, on the edge style was more instantly appealing than the smoother, technical approach of the classy Europeans such as Mueller or the Austrian rising star Harti Weirather. This was also the era of the legendary Swedish slalom racer Ingmar Stenmark, who appeared to win every single week. Of the disciplines, it was always the downhill John wanted to see. The slalom and giant slalom seemed like the type of skiing anyone could do whereas the downhill with its speeds of up to eighty miles an hour was like watching Jody Scheckter without his Ferrari or Kenny Roberts without his Yamaha.

Then there was the Women's Downhill, which as a racing spectacle was every bit as exciting and there was the added bonus that when the competitors removed their crash helmets in the finish area they all seemed to be beautiful blonde haired, blue eyed Germans and Scandinavians, or raven haired sultry French girls or tanned Italian chicks with cheeks bones chiselled from purest marble.

It came as a big disappointment that the ski season was so short, and when BBC's _Ski Sunday_ came to an end in March, John was distraught at the prospect of waiting eight months for its return.

# CHAPTER 12

Edinburgh 1983

Inspired by the style of The Runaways and The Go Go's and infused with the multi-layered power pop of Abba, the rising all-girl group Xanadu were beginning to send ripples through the underground club scene of Edinburgh's student heartland. A quartet of supreme young musicians; drummer Fiona, bass player Lizzie, guitarist Jane and keyboard player Margo provided the pulsating rhythmic and melodic backdrop to the dazzling vocals of Charlotte, Anya and the true star of the band, lead singer Maggie. The nineteen year old was blessed with an effortlessly powerful voice that had the elasticity to be able to combine the soaring crystalline melody of Agnetha Faltskog and Barbara Streisand with the soul diva swagger of Tina Turner and Chaka Khan; the bigger the song, the bigger Maggie's performance. She delighted in recreating the multi-layered harmonies of Abba. With Charlotte and Anya flanking her on stage, the three together guaranteed each song took on its own identity as a piece of unabashed sexual theatre. The audience couldn't get enough of Xanadu. All that the band needed were their own original songs and the big time would surely be just around the corner.

The basement bar of _The Venue_ was accessed by way of a grubby, wooden door in the shadow of the railway bridge.

"In here; are you serious?" John felt rather twitchy, as if eyes were watching them from the shadows.

"It's your city John. I am just a simple girl from the Highlands. Don't tell me you're worried someone is going to jump out of the shadows and stick a flick-knife in your gut?"

"That's a lovely thought Kate."

"If you want to see the best band in town, this is the sort of place you are going to have to come to. Were you expecting to go to _The Playhouse_? This isn't _Runrig_ , you know. This is better, way, way better." Kate pushed the door open.

A young woman with spiked black hair, thick eyeliner and clad in a ripped white t-shirt and leather bikers jacket sat on a chair behind what appeared to be an old school desk, complete with ink well and graffiti ingrained in red and blue biro. She greeted Kate with a heavy hint of suspicion, her conservative attire of clean jeans and white V-neck jumper rather out of place on rock night at _The Venue_. Of course, when you had the look and figure of Kate Magowan, what you wear never came into question. "Two quid each," the young woman snorted as if to add a level of authenticity to her punk credentials.

John fished a few bank notes from his pocket and reeled off four dog-eared pound notes.

"Wrists." The punk demanded and stamped them both on the white skin of their upturned wrists with a purple coloured logo, as illegible as it was pointless. Nobody was likely to make it past the guardian of _The Venue_ without having first coughed up the entrance fee.

John and Kate proceeded down the dark, dingy corridor, round a right hand corner and down another flight of stairs.

"I wouldn't want to be caught down her in the event of a fire." John wondered aloud how fresh air had even found its way to the very bowels of the old city.

There were only a few seats in the long bar room, but the majority of the hundred or so patrons were gathered near the bar, huddled in small groups, talking, drinking or smoking.

"Don't even think about it," Kate nudged John in the ribs. She could see his eyes drawn to the cigarette machine by the bathroom door. "Come on, there are a couple of free seats at the far side."

She led the way to the seats and sat elegantly, smiling inwardly at the male heads turning in unison to follow her progress across the room.

"This band had better be good," John said blowing out his cheeks. "Or these guys are going to spend the entire evening watching you."

"And how would you feel about that?"

John cleared his throat. "What would you like to drink?"

"Orange juice – Britvic 55 maybe. Why don't you get yourself a beer?"

"Thanks," he grinned. "I'll spoil myself this once."

John was pleasantly surprised at how quickly he was served at the bar. Possibly the associated kudos that went with escorting the best looking girl in the place had helped to boost his standing.

A huge black drape suspended from the ceiling obscured the stage from the audience. Emblazoned across the material was the name ' _XANADU_.'

"Why so shy?" John pointed at the makeshift curtain, behind which they could hear the band readying their kit, tuning guitars, testing cymbal separation, all interspersed by random keyboard chords.

"Their show, the visuals are a little bit different from the norm," Kate leaned and spoke in his ear. "This band is going to make quite an impact on you, just wait and see."

The air of expectation began to rise, reaching a crescendo as the clock ticked past ten-thirty. The main lights went out, leaving control of the stage lighting system in the expert hands of grizzled lighting technician Barney McCloud. John could sense the shadowy figures taking their places on stage, still protected by the black drape. The instantly recognisable guitar intro to Abba's 1979 smash, ' _Gimme, Gimme, Gimme_ ,' cut through the smoke filled air and sucked the breath from the audience, by now swollen to over three-hundred. Centre stage stood a sumptuous figure hugged in leopard skin Lycra; blue eye shadow giving an alluring frame to wide blue eyes that concurrently both captivated and taunted. Perfectly toned legs straddled the microphone stand; delicious curves tested the Lycra fabric and the hair-sprayed platinum mane didn't detract from the high cheek boned and full, cherry lipped beauty.

" _Half past twelve_ ,..........."

Kate was relishing John's reaction, as he fell instantly under the spell of the lead singer. The other six band members were all very attractive girls, from the feisty redhead Jane cutting shapes on her Fender Stratocaster to the olive skinned Jordanian singer Anja El-Hassan, but such was the gravitational force at the centre of Xanadu's universe, the other girls faded into the background of multi-coloured effects and swirling guitar licks. The stage belonged absolutely and completely to Maggie. It had not escaped John's attention that the lead singer had on several occasions looked directly at him and Kate, and indeed had made direct eye contact with him more than once. He put this down as her way of seducing the audience, drawing them into her world. Whatever, it was having the desired effect. Dynamic seduction; fuelled by the rhythm of the music; harmony and melody in a holy communion of passion and drama, where every muscle moved in perfect synchronicity, flowing effortlessly beneath the shimmering fabric.

"So what do you think of my sister?"

"That's your sister?" John tried hard to keep his mouth from falling open, agape at the undeniable beauty.

"On second thoughts, don't answer that," Kate was forced to concede, inwardly if nothing else, as to the obvious nature of her sister's finer points.

"She's an incredible singer," John was pleased with his measured observation.

Kate raised an eyebrow. "It's OK; I know she has every guy in this bar in the palm of her hand. I would be more than a little worried if you were any different."

John scrutinized Kate. "I bet you can sing too?"

"We used to do the whole Abba thing when we were at school."

"Why did you stop?"

"I grew out of it, I guess. The skiing took over my life and university, as well. In any case, I'm not cut out for standing in front of people. I just don't have Maggie's balls."

"Where is she hiding them?"

Kate glared at John and punched him playfully on the upper arm.

"I am so glad I finally have the opportunity to meet one of Kate's friends. I don't know, you almost think I'm embarrassment to her, the way she keeps me out of her social life."

"Nice boys like you want to stay away from girls like my sister." Kate raised an eyebrow.

"Is that a fact, Catherine? And what sort of girl should this 'nice' boy be staying close to? The cool, intelligent, domineering type perhaps?" Maggie sat on John's lap and draped an arm around his shoulders. "Do you know our parents are so proud of this lady? Grade A across the board in her higher exams, studying medicine at university and all set to follow in dear Daddy's footsteps. Kate the champion skier – I nearly forgot about that. And then of course there's me, the difficult second daughter; the wild child."

Kate sipped her orange juice and shook her head in despair at her sister's performance. "Give John a break, will you Mags? You're frightening him."

"I'm not, am I?" Maggie poked the tip of her tongue in John's ear. "I can if you'd like me to."

John looked at Kate helplessly, but she shrugged as if to say, 'you deal with it.'

"Anyway, I can't believe you haven't, you know, got it together yet," Maggie teased.

"We're flat mates, Maggie," Kate replied.

"Take my advice, big sister; snap this one up before someone else does"

"I think my sister is a genius, with all the flaws that come with that tag." Kate spoke over the background music that pumped from the PA system during the interval.

"I can't believe you've never told me about Maggie before."

"I prefer to keep my personal life, just that – personal. There's no harm in that, is there?"

"Surely when your sister is this amazingly talented girl, you would be screaming her name from the rooftops?"

"Perhaps, but it isn't really anyone else's business to know that my sister got pregnant at sixteen and our mother forced her to have an abortion?"

John did not know what to say. "Shit, maybe that was for the best."

"For our parents, maybe, but for Maggie? I think it is the pain that drives her and it scares the hell out of me."

John took a long drink from his glass.

Kate decided to shift the conversation back to her. "Do you think I'm a good skier?"

"How can I answer that? You must be a great skier. Just look at what you have achieved."

"I was talking to Konrad Bartelski a few days ago. Have you heard of him? He finished second in the Val Gardena downhill two years ago; by far the best ever result for a British skier. He said, _'Kate, I am the most successful British ski racer ever and am known only to my team mates and the viewers of Ski Sunday. You will be a household name like Sebastian Coe or Torvill and Dean_.'"

"Wow!"

"I would love that. I know everyone sees me as my father's daughter, the new Dr Magowan in the making, but I really don't want to spend my life listening to other peoples' problems. I want to be successful. I want people to admire me, but not for being intelligent or sensible."

"I know how you feel. I can sympathise."

"If I only had a sliver of Maggie's extrovert nature, I reckon I could achieve anything."

"I think you are a very special girl Kate."

"Are you sure you don't mind the way we are?"

"The way we are?"

"You know, friends? It's just that I'm not ready to give enough of myself to a relationship- not with university and skiing. It is a once in a lifetime opportunity and it's all beginning to come together for me."

"Kate, I love spending time with you, talking to you, looking at you."

Kate blushed. "Yeah, but I'll bet you fancy my sister. I'll bet you would love to have her as your girlfriend."

"She _is_ quite something."

Kate smiled, her white teeth dazzling in the dark. "Maybe someday I will have to marry you just to protect you from the misery of a life spent with a woman like Maggie," but her words were drowned out by the band opening up the second half of the set with Blondie's _'Heart of Glass_.'

"What was that?" John asked, his mouth at her ear.

"Nothing important," Kate replied.

# CHAPTER 13

EDINBURGH- February 1992

"I want a baby, John." Kate's words exploded through the silence of the comforting tranquillity of the centrally heated air, jolting John from the listless dreamscape of post coital emptiness.

"I want a baby so badly," she continued. "Whenever I see a pregnant woman walk into the restaurant or struggle past me in the street with rosy cheeks and two stone of comfort eating sapping their sexuality, I crave to be like them. I know it sounds odd, but I suppose its maternal instinct overriding common sense."

John could happily have drifted off to sleep but he could tell Kate had been building up to this for a few days. "OK then let's have a baby."

"If you really mean it then we are going to have to be serious about this and try really hard."

"I know."

"I mean, we stopped using condoms after the wedding and I'm not pregnant yet." Her demanding blue eyes drilled into him as though accusing him of proving a failure in that department. "We need to start paying proper attention to my ovulation cycle and make sure we concentrate on the days when I am most fertile. Now, do you think you are up to the task?"

"Very funny Kate," John loved it when she leaned over him and her golden hair tumbled about his face. "Only you could turn the act of lovemaking into a science."

"It is a science. Forget all that other nonsense. It is simple biology."

"That's funny; and there was me under the impression all this time that it was about love."

"The process of human procreation is absolutely a science. We can make love, or whatever, on all the other days."

John was still easily hurt by Kate's tendency to kill any sense of romance by her sharp, analytical brain, always putting the practical before the emotional. He tried hard not to show it.

"I'm hungry." Kate climbed off him and padded across the carpet and into the en-suite bathroom, leaving the door wide open so as to continue the conversation.

"There's the leftovers of last night's Chinese and a pepperoni pizza in the freezer." John was getting a touch of the nibbles himself.

"No, I am in the mood for something decadent; something sweet. I fancy some ice cream, the good stuff from Genaro's."

He sighed silently. "OK, I will go out and get it now. What flavour would you like?"

Kate flushed the toilet and reappeared, framed in the doorway to the bathroom; backlit by the hundred watt bulb that was too bright for the compact en-suite. "On no, my darling; I want you to stay exactly where you are and be sure to be ready for me when I return." The wicked smile she cast in his direction was neither sincere nor demonstrably false. It was though, classic Kate. She picked up John's striped shirt from the floor and pulled it on, not bothering to first don a bra. Over this she put on her black V-neck along with black trousers. "I won't be long, I promise." She departed without a kiss but left him in little doubt of her expectations in the twenty minutes or so he had to recuperate before her return.

Archie Galloway watched as the late evening traffic crawled away from the lights at the end of Princes Street. A double-decker bus muscled its way into the lead ahead of two black taxis, the second of which was indicating as though to pull up in front of the entrance to the hotel. Archie gathered himself and moved towards the revolving doors, only to relax again on seeing the taxi glide past to stop at the steps down to Waverly Station. At sixty, Archie was a former Regimental Sergeant Major in the Black Watch, and indeed still proudly wore the regimental dress kilt every day in his job as doorman of the city's renowned Balmoral Hotel. Having seen active service in West Germany, Aden and Northern Ireland, Archie had seen comrades die but had never flinched in the face of danger. His duty to regiment, Queen and country was the badge of honour he carried in his strong, engaging manner and the pride with which he carried out his duties at Edinburgh's premier hotel.

"You must give me the recipe for your ice-cream." Kate poked a finger into the tub of double chocolate and mint and licked the creamy delight with a smack of her lips.

"You think I am crazy?" Genaro Ananio had left his native Naples thirty years before, yet still spoke with the thick Italian accent of a first time tourist.

"I'm sure we could do a deal Genaro. What do you think? Let's say twenty per cent for you...."

"Oh wonderful, the generosity of the beautiful lady knows no bounds." The seventy year old threw his hands in the air in a clichéd display of Latin displeasure.

Kate could feel she was on a roll. "But Genaro, when I get my Michelin star – and I will get my Michelin star, I will be able to charge £10.95 for two scoops of your unbeatable ice-cream. Think about it; that's going to make you about a pound a scoop." Kate licked another finger full of the delectable product and fluttered her eyelashes at the aging ice-cream king of East Lothian.

"God help that nice husband of yours. That is all I can say!" Genaro ran his fingers though his slicked back silver hair.

"Sounds like we have a deal?"

"Come see me, but only if you get that Michelin star."

"What do you mean, _if_ I get it?"

"OK, OK, when you get it. Mama Mia!" Genaro adored Kate and envied John. Nothing more than an old man's fantasies yet he knew deep down that Kate was a special woman as well as being a special chef. The coveted Michelin star could not be far along the road for the dynamic princess of Edinburgh's culinary scene. He had little doubt that Kate's confidence in her own ability was well placed.

"Don't fret, Genaro, I am not here on business tonight. This visit is purely pleasure."

"Great, but it is never easy to tell the difference with you."

"Just remember we had this conversation, OK? Someday soon I will be back with a contract for you to sign."

"Go; go before I fall in love with you," he roared with laughter. "Go back to that husband of yours and tell him that he is the luckiest man in Edinburgh."

"Oh, he knows that, Genaro. He's always known that." Kate went back out into the chill of the evening and retraced her steps, taking the shortcut through Edinburgh's Waverley train Station.

The punch came with such violent force that Kate had no chance to brace herself. The impact forced the air out of her lungs and she staggered on legs that were suddenly giving way beneath her. She sagged immediately down on her knees onto the pavement. A Reebok clad foot lashed out and landed a rubber heel to her left temple, sending Kate sprawling backwards into the secluded entry of a souvenir shop. The back of her head came down hard on the concrete step and she almost blacked out.

"Fucking hell, Spider, there was no need for that!" The second youth, who had been staying out of sight behind Kate, berated the first assailant with a guttural Pilton accent.

"Just grab her bag, will ya'!" The older, hooded individual looked up and down the length of the alleyway at the secluded, unfashionable cloisters of Waverly Train Station, to scope if their chosen escape route was clear. The younger man picked up Kate's shoulder bag and her two attackers made off in the direction of Princes Gardens.

It was all over before Kate knew what had hit her. It was common knowledge that the city centre had experienced an upsurge in muggings since the turn of the year, fuelled mainly by the drug problem that was striving daily to tarnish Edinburgh's image as one of Europe's tourism capitals. Kate had never considered the threat worthy of particular concern. Stunned, she felt the back of her head and was more than relieved not to feel any blood. She had been lucky. Still gasping to regain her breath, Kate made use of the window ledge of the souvenir shop to pull herself to her feet. A wave of nausea swept over her and she became aware of the sharp, burning pain in her stomach. That single punch must have caused more damage than she at first thought the case. With nothing but muscle memory to carry her along the alleyway and out onto Princes Street, it was clear to Kate that she would not be able to make it home. In spite of everything, that much was beginning to dawn on her. She was in need of help; she was in need of help fast. The searing pain in her midriff was burning with a frightening quality and she was beginning to shake with a combination of fear and shock. Before her hand felt the warm blood beginning to seep through the fabric of her clothes, the horror hit home that there had been a blade, buried within the fist that slammed into her. The entrance of The Balmoral Hotel was only yards away. Would her legs hold out long enough for Kate to reach there? A couple on a passing bus pointed and laughed at what they assumed a woman embarrassing herself, suffering the effects of too many gin and tonics after work.

Archie Galloway's keen senses combined with a lifetime's experiences ensured alarm bells sounded in his head as the blonde haired woman staggered into the revolving doors and slumped to the floor, unable to muster sufficient strength to push the weighty door in front of her. This was no sad Friday evening lush. The golden hair was too well cut, the make-up too elegantly applied, in spite of the pain that twisted her attractive features. He sprang into action. "Alex, I'm going to need some help here!" he called out for the assistance of the porter, who had just emerged from the elevator, carrying a heaped tray of soiled dinner dishes.

Archie eased round the revolving door sufficiently to enable him to grab the limp body of the woman under the arms and drag her through onto the floor of the hotel foyer.

Kate cried out in pain. Archie saw the blood and calculated instantly that the woman was the victim of a knife wound. By this time, the porter had arrived next to Archie, standing mouth agog at the sight.

"Phone 999, Alex. And quickly man, for God's sake!" The porter obeyed.

"It's OK, now. We will take care of you madam. My name's Archie. What's yours?"

"Kate," she gasped, in between shortening breaths.

"You've been in the wars Kate. Now I want you to lie perfectly still. The ambulance is on its way."

"I think I've been stabbed. They stole my bag." Kate was trembling from head to foot as her body went into shock.

"Don't you worry about that now? Just you try and stay calm. I need to take a look at that wound, OK? I'm going to have to cut your clothes." Archie produced a Swiss Army Knife from his blazer pocket, a legacy of his years in the military. With great care he used the scissors to cut through the material of her jumper and shirt beneath, both layers now soaked in deep red blood. The wound was a clean penetration of less than one inch in length on the right side of Kate's stomach. Blood oozed rhythmically in sync with the beating of her heart. It was impossible to assess how deep the knife had intruded and what level of internal damage had been caused.

"I came as quickly as possible," Maggie embraced John with a kiss on the cheek. "What the hell's going on?"

"She's still in theatre." John's instinct was to melt into the arms of his sister-in-law but he managed to keep to the script.

"Jesus, have they told you anything?" Maggie's thinly disguised panic helped keep the moment real.

"All I know is that she requires emergency surgery to try to stop the internal bleeding." John could not hide the tremble in his voice. "They took her down about an hour ago."

"Come on, let's get you sat down before you fall down," Maggie led him to the blue vinyl covered chairs rowed against the antiseptic wall. She left an empty seat between them so there was room to manoeuvre; space to work with. Kate's younger sister was, much to her own angst, a little overweight, but was endowed with the suitable curves to carry the extra two stone with an easy air of sensual femininity. In common with Kate, Maggie was blessed with entrancing blue eyes, and along with silken nut brown hair, the twenty-seven year old simply demanded the attention of the beholder.

Maggie was dying for a cigarette but to give in to her all-consuming vice would necessitate a trip to the ground floor and the aimless shuffle among the pink fur slippers of the expectant mothers and cancer patients, exchanging miseries beyond the glass doors. She sought temporary salvation in the warmth of John's hand. She took it in her own and felt his gratitude at the comforting warmth in her touch. "How are you holding up?"

John rubbed his chin. "It's all a blur, Maggie. One minute we were at home enjoying a quiet night in and the next thing I know, here I am....."

Maggie squeezed his hand tightly. The connection was like a lifeline to the solitary island on which he had felt stranded since getting the phone call from the Balmoral Hotel.

"Why don't you go and get a coffee or something?" John said. "I presume you came straight from work?"

Maggie shook her head. "I've only just got here, for God's sake. I'm not about to leave you on your own again." Maggie's latest job was as a barmaid at the Beehive, a popular bar in Edinburgh's Grassmarket. The bar manager Jim Stewart, had little patience for female staff constantly deserting their post due to domestic crises, but Maggie's excuse had been original, if nothing, so he had acquiesced to her request for the rest of the night off.

"It was very good of you to come," John said, placing his free hand on top of hers. "I know things haven't exactly been rosy between you and Kate for a while now."

"Jesus, she's still my big sister John. And you are still my brother-in-law, are you not?"

"And very proud of it," he replied.

The pack of Marlboro was now screaming from the pocket of her black leather jacket. "Kate is a very strong hearted woman. She is going to be just fine."

"She's lost a hell of a lot of blood. Her BP was through the floor when they got her here."

"How did you find out what had happened?"

The doorman at the Balmoral Hotel rang the house. Kate made it there after the attack and was able to tell him the house number before she passed out."

"Shit!"

"It seems the doorman is ex-army, so he knew a lot about trauma injuries. It was him who told me Kate had been stabbed. Two guys attacked her outside the station and took her bag. Christ, all she had with her was some loose change and the tub of ice cream from Genaro's." John shook his head and shut his eyes in an effort to hold back the tidal wave of reality. "What if she dies, Maggie?"

"That is not going to happen, do you understand me?"

He nodded weakly.

"Look at me, John," she insisted until he met her gaze. "Kate is not going to die, trust me on that one. Now say you believe me."

"I believe you," he murmured in little more than a whisper, but it was enough to satisfy her.

Time held its breath as though waiting for a guiding hand, showing the path of order through the chaos. Reluctantly, Maggie released his hand, the approaching figure of a green gowned medic breaking the spell.

"Mr Alexander? I am Robin Meriwether, one of the surgical team."

John rose to meet head on whatever card fate was about to deal.

"The good news is your wife is out of theatre and the procedure went as well as we could have hoped for. We were successful in stopping the internal haemorrhage. She has been very lucky; there was no damage to any of her vital organs. We had to remove about ten inches of her small intestine but I would be hopeful she should make a full recovery. The next forty-eight hours are critical, though. Infection is always a major risk factor."

"When can we see Kate?" Maggie asked, allowing John time to digest the machine gun delivery of the surgeon.

"She will be in recovery for the next two hours, while the anaesthetic wears off and then she will be transferred to our high dependency suite in ICU."

# CHAPTER 14

Kate's Chateau, Edinburgh 2014

Steph MacDonald was the Scottish National Party's trump card on the wider UK platform. Unlike the First and Deputy First Ministers, the flamboyant Minister for Health in the Scottish Government radiated an irresistible magnetism that drew in rather than repelled opponents of the independence movement. The pro-union groundswell distrusted the SNP's heavyweight leader and his yapping sidekick, but Steph McDonald's impassioned championing of the argument for independence drew in admirers from all political and social persuasions.

"Kate, the vote in September is going to be close, closer than anyone imagines."

Kate smiled and shook her head. "You're delusional, Steph. You'll be lucky to get thirty percent."

"As I was saying, it will be closer than anyone imagines, and that includes you. So what we need to help tilt the balance in our favour are as many celebrity endorsements as possible."

"Well you've got Connery and Connolly signed up. Who else could you possible need?"

"You."

"Oh don't be ridiculous, Steph. A 'D' list celebrity chef? What do you want me to do, have an independence buffet night? Cullen skink followed by haggis, neaps and tatties all washed down with a wee dram o' Glen Fiddich?"

Steph laughed ebulliently. "No, darlin', just agree to me using your name on our election literature."

"I don't think John would be too impressed."

"Don't tell me you've been hiding a wee redcoat in your bed all these years."

Kate rolled her tongue. "My husband claims to be above politics. He says if he had to be pigeonholed it would be as a US Democrat."

"Bill Clinton?"

"Hillary actually. He's a big fan, but if you ask me he's more of a bloody Blair-ite than he would ever admit. Pro-union, pro-Europe; reach the hand of friendship to Putin and Assad."

"A mealy mouthed liberal?"

"He maintains he takes a historical, geo-political view, whereas the rest of us are too short-sighted and parochial." Kate skewered a crouton from her Caesar salad.

"You don't think your illustrious leader may be playing with fire, do you, he and his sidekick, the honourable fish lady?"

"I'm not sure I follow."

"You don't think there is a danger of this place ending up like Northern Ireland?"

"Hunger strikes and car-bombs? For Christ's sake, Kate. This is Scotland for goodness sake!"

"And what happens after the vote? Whichever side wins, there is going to be loser; a sizeable portion of the population left bitter and resentful of the outcome. Half the population see themselves as British first and Scottish second, or equal anyway. They aren't going to surrender the Union Jack without a fight."

"Interesting choice of vocabulary, Kate."

"Steph, what about the Orange Order, the Rangers and Hearts fans who take over Glasgow and Edinburgh every Saturday afternoon?

"I trust you aren't stripping the argument down to a Protestant versus Catholic thing?"

"I'm sure that was never your intention, but Nationalism, in whatever guise, tends to bring out the worst in people."

"You're beginning to sound like your husband, Kate."

"Something is bound to have rubbed off in the thirty years we've been together."

"Well, that aside, Kate, can I use your name?"

Kate swept the hair from her eyes and sighed at the surge of the throbbing pain in her head. "Of course you can."

"I'll maybe add his too, if only for badness."

"I don't think that would go down too well with his bosses at The Hague."

"What did you say?" Steph looked at Kate, a puzzled expression furrowing her brow.

Kate blinked. "I said I don't think his masters in The Hague would be too pleased. Why, what did you think I said?"

"You said the word 'I' and then your lips moved as though you were trying to form a word."

The dizziness that followed close on the heels of the pain surge had passed so quickly Kate thought she had imagined it; she was certain Steph couldn't possibly have noticed anything.

"Actually, you look a bit peaky, Kate. Are you feeling OK?"

"Of course, I've just a lot going on in my head at the moment." Kate set down her fork and with a trembling hand took a sip of water from the crystal tumbler.

For the first time, Steph saw beyond the glossy cover girl image of her long-time friend who had managed to hold back the ravages of middle age, never looking a day over thirty. For the first time, Steph thought Kate's blue eyes that little bit duller, the lines around her eyes more pronounced, the skin of her porcelain cheeks, grey and paper thin beneath an uncommon layer of make-up. Fatigue, stress or illness? Too many forced smiles from the cauldron of energy with little time for weakness in others. Something wasn't right. "Have you been to see the doctor yet?"

Kate feigned surprise. "Doctor, God no, it's just a bit of a headache. A migraine most likely. Mum used to get them, remember?"

"I remember, but a migraine doesn't make you lose the power of speech." Steph leaned in across the table and lowered her voice as she was aware Kate was glancing around to make sure nobody was within earshot. "Seriously Kate; how long have you been taking these migraines?"

"A few months."

"Months? Christ almighty, get yourself to the doctor in the morning or go to casualty now. I'll take you."

Kate held up both hands and made a gesture encouraging Steph to settle down. "OK, OK, I'll go to see my GP."

"You'd better, and I bet John knows nothing about this? Though he's probably never around long enough to notice if something's wrong, or care enough to notice, for that matter."

"That's not fair, of course he cares. He's had a hell of a lot on these past few months, what with the fallout from what happened in Sarajevo."

"Hmm, I still think he would be better spending his time here supporting you in running this place. John is going to wake up one morning and realise his beautiful, amazing wife is an old lady and his fabulous girls are working mothers trying their best to juggle their career with their homes. He'll be bloody sorry then, let me tell you."

Kate took another sip of her water and thought of John and how miserable working in the restaurant had made him. No, his career had never quite panned out the way he had hoped and when the unexpected opportunity arose to work as a translator for the ICTY, Kate had been delighted for him. He needed his own place in the world, especially as she was so successful in her own right. He needed to be John Alexander and not Kate's willing, subservient husband. If it meant their marriage had become less than perfect, it was a price she was willing to pay.

Edinburgh September 2014

John always hesitated before taking a call on his mobile whenever it was from an unknown number; it could never be good news.

"Hello?" the soft east Lothian accent just detectable in the drawn out emphasis on the 'o' sound.

"John?" The familiar voice was hesitant, almost apologetic.

He swallowed hard and set down the glass of overpriced airport Chardonnay. "Hello Angela." Had it really been six months since he had said goodbye to her? The reunion after a gap of almost thirty years ending in nothing more than rekindled regret.

"I am sorry for calling you, John. I know I had promised not to, but...."

John could tell immediately there was something wrong. "Angela, what is it?"

"He's here, John. He's here in Interlaken."

John went through the motions by way of the scripted response, "Who is there?" though he knew full well by the cold sweat that had broken out on his forehead.

"Vladic."

The name hung in the air between the Swiss Alps and where he sat in the departure lounge of Edinburgh Airport. _The Butcher of Bijeljina_ , the murderer of Maria's family; the assassin of Claudine Leffray had resurfaced in Angela's home town. Could it be coincidence?

"I'm scared, John. I am scared for Maria," her voice trembled. "Why is he here?"

He kept his own voice steady. "I don't know. It may be perfectly innocent." He cringed at his pathetic attempt at reassurance. "Have you told the local police about this?"

"My God, John, have you forgotten who the Chief of Police is here?"

"Erich, of course." He admonished himself for forgetting that local police commander was her violent ex-husband, the mighty former ski racer Erich Stahl.

"Maria is a police officer now."

"Really, that's great."

"But I cannot risk telling her in case she does something foolish."

"Of course, I understand."

"Please John I called you because I just do not know what to do." Angela had fought hard to stem the tears, but her distress was more audible with every passing second.

John sighed heavily, his brain spinning from the twin pronged assault of the revelation that Vladic had turned up in Switzerland and that he was actually talking to Angela. "I will make some enquiries. I only hope I can find someone who will take this seriously."

"Take it seriously?" She sounded incredulous. "Seriously that the monster who massacred hundreds of innocent people is dining out in the finest restaurants in The Bernese Oberland?"

John was distracted by the beep signifying an incoming text message. It was from Kate. ' _Need you to call me_.' The message was straight and to the point in typical Kate style.'

"Listen Angela, I still have your number. I need to go now but I will call you back later today."

"You promise?"

"Yes, I promise." He knew how hollow the words sounded but since she had phoned him, she was clearly desperate, so he couldn't let her down this time.

He scrolled down to Kate's mobile number and pressed the call button.

"Kate, hi."

"Are you still in Edinburgh?"

"Yes, the flight is delayed for an hour. Why?"

"I need you to come home, John. I need you to come home right now."

# CHAPTER 15

Edinburgh 2014

If Maggie and John had one thing in common, it was their mutual hatred of Alexander Graham Bell's world changing communication device; the miracle of science and engineering that gradually began to cause the planet to shrink. Street by street, village by village, country by country, from the earth to the moon. As with every great invention, there is always a down side; the motor car – road carnage; gunpowder – The Somme; the aeroplane – 9/11. With the telephone came intrusion. No longer could bad news be held at bay by the wooden gate at the end of the garden. Now every few seconds, you are tortured by various beeps and vibrations from your shirt pocket or handbag. ' _Bring milk on your way home - Just eaten my second apple of the day- Happy Birthday - Gran passed away two minutes ago_.'

A job where the telephone was the absolute focal point of your world was by so much the least suitable role for Maggie that even after three years, she reached from under the covers to fumble for the snooze button in total denial that the pretty blue eyed woman who worked at the surgery and was such a hit with the patients had anything to do with her. Yes, she was popular with her colleagues, the reception staff and medical professionals alike. Yes, the patients loved her, literally in the case of some of the hypertensive and type 2 diabetics, navigating a stormy course through their mid-life crises. Second hand affection, though, was scant consolation for a working life of such abject misery as to manifest itself in actual pain. The off-licence on the way home was the daily prize, the welcome pressure valve that focussed her mind from three o'clock onwards. A bottle of Chardonnay and a packet of twenty would dress up the evening ahead in a haze of deserved relaxation. By eleven thirty, Maggie could collapse in bed, suitably sanitised of the acquired pain of the day and clear headed enough, if only just, to be able to wipe the slate clean and reset the counter to zero. Three paracetamol washed down with a glass of iced water and she would be ready by morning to walk through hell all over again.

The clock in the bottom corner of the computer screen read 08.29. Just seconds until the phones switched over from the out-of hours call service and the health of twelve thousand of Edinburgh's finest would fall into the remit of Janet, Noreen and Maggie.

Maggie stared at the phone and took a long slug from the can of diet cola that sat on the desk. Without the cold invigorating fizz, nerves and panic would dry her mouth to the point where speech would be rendered impossible save for a tacky, embarrassing slur. Even after tens of thousands of calls, the first of the day filled her heart with dread.

"I hate this job. I hate my fucking life!" Maggie rhymed over and over before the first ring. Maggie hated wearing a headset preferring instead to pick up the receiver with every call. Her excuse was that if she wore the headset, there was the danger she would get up from her seat and end up trailing the whole telephone off the desk. The truth was that by refusing to don the obligatory call-centre issue headset, she was in fact reinforcing her own sense of denial that she was a medical receptionist.

Maggie grabbed the receiver with a vigour that belied her temerity. The mere fact she hated answering the phone only made her all the more keen to answer it before anyone else could.

"Morningside surgery, Maggie speaking?"

Silence. This usually meant the caller had been hoping to speak to one of the other receptionists and were disappointed that they had got through to Maggie; either that or they drunk, high, insane, or a combination of all three.

"Good morning," she repeated.

"Hi, great. Sorry, Maggie, it's me."

"Kate! Is everything alright? I didn't expect to hear your voice on the end of the phone."

"Well, I was hoping to get an appointment with one of the doctors."

"It's a couple of weeks for pre-booked appointments at the moment. Would that be OK?"

Kate hesitated and cleared her throat. "I was actually hoping that someone could see me today."

"We would only have the emergency clinic right after the morning surgery. Is it an emergency?" Maggie felt really uncomfortable asking these mundane, routine questions of her sister. She was equally unsettled by the foreknowledge that Kate was worried about something. The indestructible tower of strength that was her big sister wouldn't ring the doctor on a whim. She was the antithesis of the ranks of the worried well who tortured Maggie and her colleagues on a daily basis.

"Kate, can you hold on for a moment. I am going to transfer you to one of the other girls."

"For God's sake, Maggie, I'm only asking for you to put me down for an appointment to see the doctor."

"I know, but there's an issue of confidentiality here. I can't discuss your condition because I am your sister. I'm sure you understand."

"Fine, Maggie. Whatever, just as long as I can get to see someone today." Kate sounded angry though Maggie sensed the bluster was just her way of masking her fear and uncertainty.

Maggie transferred the call to Janet's extension and watched as Kate's name appeared on the morning emergency clinic for 11.30. Though she didn't want to, Maggie clicked on the time slot to reveal the reason entered by Janet. Severe ongoing headache, nausea and black outs.

Maggie could feel her breath tighten and she wished she hadn't looked.

Gordon Blair had done his GP training at Kate's father's practice in Aviemore and now, twenty years later, he was the senior partner at the Morningside Surgery. It was his day to take the emergency clinic and understandably it had not clicked with him when he saw the name Mrs Catherine Alexander on the clinic list that it was in fact the daughter of his old mentor, Ed Magowan.

Dr Blair was initially fascinated at how Kate's appearance had not changed one iota from the jaw dropping beauty he remembered from the few Magowan family occasions he had been fortunate enough to be invited to. It wasn't long before his clinician's intuition was able to see past the impossibly high cheekbones and the hypnotic blue eyes. The lady sitting in front of him was frightened.

"How long has this being going on, Kate?"

"Maybe six months."

"Six months?" Dr Blair was making a few scribbled notes on the jotter in front of him. He preferred to avoid tapping on his computer keyboard in front of the patients unless absolutely necessary. He wanted to differentiate a visit to the doctor from one to the local bank or travel agent. "Headaches and nausea can be symptoms of many things, most of which are little to be concerned about. It's these blackouts that worry me more. You say they have come on for no reason and pass very quickly?"

"In an instant, mostly. They pass so quickly that nobody even notices."

"But you do?"

Kate nodded. "And there is never any warning? No pain or weakness?"

"Nothing at all."

Dr Blair tapped the end of his biro on the surface of his desk. "I am going to send you for a brain scan, just to rule out anything that needs addressed."

"Ok, so I guess it will be a while before I am called?"

"Kate, I am putting this through as a red flag request."

"I don't like the sound of that."

"It will be done within the week."

"And if it's clear?"

"Come back and see me."

Kate nodded. "And if it's not?"

"As I said, I have no reason to suspect it will be anything but clear. So, we will just take things as they come, yes?"

"Thank you." Kate went to get up.

"You know Kate, I was on my honeymoon when your father passed away. I am sorry I didn't make contact with your mother when I got home. How is she?"

"Mum died last year."

"Ah, sorry, I kind of walked into that, didn't I?"

"No, it was happier for her in the end."

"She can't have been very old, though?"

"Seventy-eight."

"That surprises me. I always had your mother pegged down as a teenage bride."

"She never did look her age, not until the strokes anyway. I couldn't stand to end up like she did; helpless, useless, a human being in ruination."

"Strokes are pretty awful things, Kate."

"I suppose there are lots of conditions just as terrible or worse? You must have to deal with a lot of heartache and misery in this room."

Gordon shrugged and reached to the printer on his desk and lifted a single prescription sheet. "These are the strongest painkillers I can prescribe for headaches. Don't exceed the dosage, please. It won't be long before you get called for the scan."

Kate took the green and white sheet and tucked it into her shoulder bag. "Again, it was very good of you to see me at such short notice."

"We'll talk after you've had the scan, OK?"

Kate nodded and left the consultation room.

"I am going to London next week," Kate announced. "I got a call from James Martin this morning."

"The James Martin?" John asked, knowing full well who Kate was referring too.

"He's asked me to appear on _Saturday Kitchen_."

"Wow, what did you say?"

"Why, I told him where he could stick his high profile, flagship outlet for any ambitious chef in the country."

John chuckled. "What are you going to cook?"

Kate blew out her cheeks. "Haven't a clue, but to be honest I'm more worried about embarrassing myself in the omelette challenge."

"But darling, you just have to........"

"I know, I just have to glare at an egg and it will cook in a second, but somehow I don't think my temper will count for much on national television, do you?"

# CHAPTER 16

London 2014

' _The journey is better than arriving at your destination_ ;' Kate definitely remembered reading that somewhere, or was it just another of John's pseudo-poetic pronouncements? He delivered his trademark truisms with such clarity and sense of gravitas that no-one ever had cause to doubt the validity of their basis, not even Kate. She trusted him implicitly in everything, loved him dearly despite his shortcomings, which weren't really shortcomings at all, rather failures to live up to her unrealistically lofty expectations. Whether or not the source of that particular saying had been her husband or the _Mail on Sunday_ , Kate wanted to place it on record that she absolutely and categorically disputed it. The journey was nothing but a necessary evil – a re-occurring hardship to be endured but definitely not enjoyed; the price to be paid for the desire or necessity of being somewhere else. Holiday, business trip, family affairs or unpalatable, discreet personal commitments all demanded time, patience, discomfort, stress and anger in varying degrees. Trains, planes and automobiles were little more than the miserable conduits to a full and gregarious lifestyle and the other side of the mirror to the innocent musings of Steve Martin and John Candy. No wonder Judith Chalmers faded from our television screens. No wonder John's career as a travel writer foundered.

The clinging, stale heat of the London Underground sapped her energy and soaked her clothes. Is there a mathematical limit to the number of people who can cram into a tube carriage before two strangers make accidental eye contact and the microcosm of discomfort ripples from that initial intrusive epicentre and quickly has everyone rustling newspapers or finger-painting on smart screens? But there is no signal down here in the bowels of New Jerusalem's mighty capital, alongside the sewers and forgotten air raid shelters. Mutual understanding sustained the pretence of life in the subterranean Wi-Fi free zone, all praying for over-ground relief only a few short stops away. All this panic and fear because two strangers dared admit, for a brief moment in time, that they were both members of the human race.

Kate cursed her decision to take the tube from St. Pancras Station, to go down into the darkness. It had been a decision taken in search of the anonymity afforded by the underground. A taxi was too personal. She should have walked; put on her sunglasses and walked. She would have been in the fresh air, in the sunlight, inconspicuous in the throng of humanity, being bumped by backpacks and toe crushed by pushchairs. Anything; anything else would have been better than this.

High speed, commuter travel in the twenty-first century was supposed to take place in air-conditioned, glass and steel fantasies of architectural visionaries. At least, that had been what Asimov and H.G. Wells had promised.

Effortlessly elegant, that was how Kate had been described in the _Sunday Telegraph's_ food and lifestyle supplement. God, if they could see me now! If only they knew the truth. Anxiety was an unfamiliar companion to Kate. It was a flaw in the character of everyone else; a pet hate she bemoaned and dismissed with alacrity. Suck it up. Pull yourself together. It's not supposed to be easy. For Christ's sake, I will do it myself!

The predator had stalked its victim, dipping in and out of her peripheral vision or the half dreams of REM sleep, eventually finding a weakness and seeping into the bone marrow, bypassing the emotional defences, constricting her windpipe.

Please stop! I need to get out! I need to see the sky. I want to scream out "I am Kate Alexander and I am still here!"

A sweaty palm tightly gripped the overhead rail as the brakes tested everyone's balance. It is difficult to be prepared for sudden inertia when you are transfixed on a two inch screen or your shoe laces.

The white tiled walls of Westminster Station, decorated with framed fly posters for West End shows, blurred to still life behind the waiting faces, brandishing their triple-set luggage, burkas and scowls. Tradition dictates they will let the passengers disembark before rushing to grab the only vacant seat, but impatience takes over and Kate, a blonde, beautiful and fragile lady is half spun round by an unapologetic pinstriped thirty-something, who in any other setting would hold the door for the woman he couldn't avoid noticing and give anything for a glimmer of a smile or whispered thank you.

Kate's eyes, mistrustful of her travelling companions vanishing like sheep through the first opening on the left, studied the overhead signs until she was satisfied. Way Out.

She emerged at last from the shadowy concrete steps of Westminster Tube Station into the world city rapture of London in the throes of Friday evening rush hour. An oppressive canopy of heat pressed down from the unforgiving blue sky, quickening the pulse and temper of the impossible swarm of life that vied for every inch of the tarmac expanse of Westminster Bridge. Already uncomfortable with the fabric of her blouse clinging to the perspiration between her shoulder blades, she gave up trying to trail her weekend case behind her and lifted it in her right hand, her eyes firmly fixed on the sanctuary of her hotel, situated in the County Hall complex on the South bank of the Thames. The tempting aroma of fried onions demanded attention above the diesel fumes; temptation from a hot dog stall that was causing an inconvenient bottle neck in the two-way flow of commuters, sightseers, students and those whose sole purpose appeared to be simply to pack the streets of the capital.

Kate's romantic vision of London was habitually shattered within thirty seconds of arrival. Her mother's favourite film had been the thirties classic Waterloo Bridge starring Vivien Leigh and Robert Taylor, and it was from the love story played out in black and white beneath the storm clouds gathering over Europe that Kate sought affirmation in the heaving city of modernity.

The dull, throbbing sensation briefly threatened to burst through the blanket of codeine and she squinted behind her sunglasses, glad to feel the pain subside as quickly as it had erupted. Side-stepping a black taxi at the entrance to the Park Plaza Hotel, she found she was ruing having reserved a room at the budget Premier Inn, out of habit rather than any consideration of the purpose of her trip.

"Fuck it!" she spoke out loud and followed the taxi through the archway that lead to the enclosed courtyard in front of the impressive Park Plaza.

She removed her sunglasses when through the smoked glass sliding doors and scanned the cavernous lobby to identify the check-in area. She set her case down and extended the handle once again she was able to pull it behind her across the polished marble in the direction of a young Asian woman, whose guarded but professional smile beckoned Kate to approach.

"Good evening, Madam."

"Good evening. Sorry, I don't have a reservation, but I was hoping you might have a room available for tonight and tomorrow?"

"Yes, of course. Just a single room?"

Kate nodded.

"Will Madam be requiring breakfast?"

Kate detested chain hotel breakfasts and their bland, identikit buffets, dumbed down by the lowest common denominator to tasteless banality that would shame most inner city corner café's. She was eating less and less these days so quickly decided it would not be sensible to face tomorrow on an empty stomach. At least she could make the effort to eat a croissant and maybe a little scrambled egg, provided it was freshly cooked. "Breakfast? Yes that would be great, thanks."

"We can offer you a weekend rate for a single room bed and breakfast for 189.99 per night."

"Fine," Kate smiled and unzipped the front pocket of her case and took out her purse.

"So that comes to a total of 379.98. Payment will not be taken until check-out but I will require a credit card swipe at this time."

Kate handed across her Mastercard, which the receptionist inserted into the hand held terminal. She set it on the counter top and invited Kate to enter her pin.

Something else Kate was becoming increasingly aware of was a difficulty in recalling details such as pin numbers, computer passwords and telephone numbers. Her forefinger hovered over the keypad for longer than was comfortable for both Kate and the receptionist as she strained to come up with the simple four digit combination. Side stepping the embarrassment of entering the wrong number, John's birthday 2908 rescued the moment and she returned the credit card safely to her purse and clutched the key card to room 517 in her left hand. The receptionist pointed to the three elevator doors beyond the entrance to the public bar and wished Kate an enjoyable stay. Kate pressed the call button and took up a position dead centre of the three elevator doors. After what felt like an age, the left hand door slid open and glad no-one was waiting behind her, she entered the empty lift and in a few seconds of smooth ride was on the fifth floor.

John loved to bemoan the fact he perennially found himself in the farthest room from the lifts, always wondering what the secret code was to obtain a key to a room next to the lift. For her part, Kate relished the hesitant exploration of the deep piled carpeted corridors. The more doors between her and civilisation, the more satisfaction when the green LED would release the door handle and she tumbled through the looking glass into the lap of four-star tranquillity.

Her single room was, not uncommonly, designed for twin occupancy. She heaved her bag onto the single bed and sat on the edge of her chosen double. She removed her sunglasses from their perch on top of her head and her blonde hair fell about her face. Another fashion in modern hotels is the absence of a clock, neither on the wall nor next to the bed. Perhaps the thinking behind this policy is that in the age of mobile phones and tablets, everyone is assumed to be constantly hooked into Old Father Time. Kate preferred the notion it was to allow guests the chance to wind down and relax without the constant reminder of deadlines and ultimatums preying on their strained minds.

Kate unbuttoned her white blouse, slipped it from shoulders and then undid the button on her black trousers, kicking them off along with her flat, black sandals.

Kate hated the sight of own naked body; the zigzag scar on her knee cap that was the reminder of the shattered Olympic dream. Then there was the pale ten inch scar down the right side of her waist. The knife wound had left a penetration wound of only one inch. The real damage had been done by the surgeon who carried out the emergency operation that saved her life. The bathroom beckoned.

She unzipped her case, took out the larger of her two wash bags and went into the pleasantly spacious bathroom. With the hot and cold taps on full blast and two healthy squirts of _Red Pepper_ shower gel, the room was filled with relaxing, aromatic heat. She slipped off her pants and sat on the toilet, head in hands, waiting for the bath to fill in double quick time.

John and the girls thought she would be putting the finishing touches to her showcase recipe for the recording of the popular cookery show, but the deception was so much more preferable to the truth.

Kate flushed the toilet and lowered the seat. She tossed her bra out onto the bedroom carpet and closed herself in the bathroom. Thirty minutes earlier, she had craved respite from the heat of the city yet now she was cocooned in a virtual sauna. Turning off the taps, Kate eased into the bathtub and submerged until the tip of her chin floated on the surface. This was her type of heat. This brought back memories of cold winter nights in the unforgiving grip of the Cairngorms or those filled with nervous anticipation in the chalets of The Alps. Kate closed her eyes and let the steam and free-flowing perspiration matt her hair, as she tried to rekindle the eagerness of youth; the perfectly harnessed exuberance that had driven her to make the leap from the icy nursery slopes of Scottish tribulation to the eighty mile per hour motorways of the Alpine slopes, before the dream was crushed in the salubrious surroundings of Megeve. A simple turn, a basic mistake, a tear, a rupture, the hopes of a nation dashed; a young heart broken. Had Kate made it to Sarajevo, even a respectable top ten finish, much less than she was capable of, would have secured enduring Alpine celebrity and no doubt would have seen her wheeled out by the BBC every four years as Britain's top ski racer of all time; Kate Magowan – now Kate Alexander, was one of the nation's leading chefs, the slalom racer long forgotten, held dear only in her native Aviemore and in her own soul.

She wished desperately that John was with her, stretched out upon the bed, channel hopping as usual, snatching a bit of rugby or cricket before she emerged from the bath. She was so desperately glad that he wasn't with her. The only man she had ever loved; the only man she ever could have loved. He wasn't ready for this, not yet. He was still coming to terms with the events in Sarajevo. He couldn't afford the distraction of worrying about her as well.

The bath water began to cool. Kate submerged her head and pushed the water from her eyes while struggling to her feet. With a medium towel around her head in turban like fashion, and a large towel around her waist, Kate left the sweat-box and allowed the steady, cool breeze from the air-conditioning system to comfort her. The fine white material of the inner curtain shielded her from the falling light of the evening and the unsettling vista across Westminster Road to the dark monolith of St. Thomas's Hospital. A quick glance at her phone told her it was eight-twenty and the outside world was welcome to remain exactly that – outside. Out of sight and out of mind for another twelve hours.

Having towelled off, Kate slipped into her fine black nightdress and brushed her damp hair in front of the wall mounted mirror. She rarely used a hair dryer, so as not to damage her silky blonde tresses.

Kate looked deeply into her blue eyes, searching for any indication of the darkness gradually taking hold within.

John would be expecting her to have called by this time. She lifted the TV remote control and changed channel to BBC News 24 and muting the volume found easy company without intrusion. Crouching on the floor, she opened the mini-bar and with barely a thought, took out the small bottle of champagne. Twenty-nine pounds ninety-nine on the drinks menu taped haphazardly to the inside of the refrigerator door, but Kate was only a very occasional drinker and champagne the least bitter to her highly sensitive chef's palate. The bottle was pleasantly chilled and it was a scandalous venture to pour the sample of opulence into a plain glass tumbler, intended for lukewarm mineral water on the bedside table. Kate drained the first glass with a few long gulps, enjoying the tangy froth that teased her tongue. The remainder of the bottle filled the glass one more time and she would use that to lubricate the dreaded upcoming phone call. She had procrastinated as long as possible, putting off the inevitable as long as possible; the prospect of talking in riddles and half-truths to her husband was not something that came naturally to Kate. Perhaps he would see straight through the deception. Maybe she would finally crumble and break down into free fall and wait for John to catch her.

"Sorry I didn't ring as soon as I arrived. I was sweltered and needed a long soak in the bath."

"Just right; how's the hotel?"

"Good."

"Nice room?"

"Oh, you know it is a standard hotel room but its fine." She didn't mention that she was actually staying in the Park Plaza Hotel. "I wish you were her with me."

"Me too; we haven't been away anywhere for a while."

"There never seems to be any time, does there?"

"Soon though, things will calm down and we can take a break."

"I look forward to that," Kate sipped from her glass and concluded that it was time to redirect the conversation. "How are the girls?"

"Kirsty's at work and Rebecca is floating around the house."

"Well, give them a kiss for me, won't you and tell them I'll see them on Sunday night?"

"Are you going to bed soon?"

"I'm in bed already. I have a big day tomorrow."

"I suppose so, are you all set?"

"Say a prayer for me," The words slipped from Kate's mouth, unhindered by self-conscious censorship.

If John was surprised by her choice of words, it didn't come across in his reply. "I love you, Kate."

"I love you, too."

"I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Goodnight darling."

"Goodnight," The conversation ended just in time. Kate set her phone on the bedside table and closed her eyes, too late to stem the tears that had gathered at the corners of her eyes.

She had fallen asleep with the main room lights and television still on. Having swallowed four painkillers with the last mouthful of champagne, a heavy drowsiness had pulled her into a deep, dreamless state of unconsciousness. She woke disorientated, feeling the chill on her exposed skin from the air-conditioning system that exhaled cool air through the room. She squinted at the display on her cell phone and mumbled an expletive. It wasn't yet one o'clock, though the alcohol had already worked its way through her system and she was coaxed to her feet by nature's call. Not daring to look at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, she splashed cool water on her cheeks and returned to bed, this time gladly pulling the sheets over her legs and midriff. Reaching behind, she switched off the lights but left the television on. Suddenly the prospect of the sleepless small hours in the dark filled Kate with a sense of dread.

When the tears came, it was without any warning and completely overwhelming. A physical outpouring the like of which she had not experienced since injuring her knee ahead of the Winter Olympics. Unrestrained sobbing that jarred every muscle, every nerve in her body. No matter how tightly she shut her eyes, streams of warm, salty water ran as though from taps behind her lids. Tears of fear, regret for the past and for the future. But what future lay ahead for Kate? She wanted nothing more than to bury her head in her mother's arms. Miranda Magowan was dead and Kate finally let the truth cross the threshold of her heart.

The fog horn ring tone from her cell phone alerted Kate that it was seven o'clock. The sun streamed in around the edges of the curtains and only served to reinforce depressing reality. The last she had checked the time, it had been a little after three. She had slept for a few hours after all. She could have taken another fifteen minutes in bed but there was no point in putting off the inevitable. Procrastination was high on Kate's list of pet hates, so even faced with what she didn't want to face, she remained true to herself and struggled to the bathroom, muttering "Carpe Diem, Kate," with each laboured stride.

Kate thrived on self-belief and that self-belief was based on the assertion that her view of the world was right and everyone else's was wrong. She had to keep believing. The broken girl in the hospital bed in Grenoble had to remain locked away within, where Kate had kept her for thirty years.

She was pleased to find the restaurant practically deserted. Eight-thirty was just that little bit too early on a Saturday morning for most guests to come seeking sustenance. Coffee, croissant and toast would be sufficient to settle the rising acid in her stomach; loosen the knot that tightened with every passing minute. Kate gave her room number to the waiter who manned the entrance. He invited Kate to sit wherever she liked. Declining the offer to order any cooked food from the a-la-carte menu, she walked to the cold buffet and returned to her chosen table carrying a small bowl of natural yoghurt and a plate with two croissants, freshly baked and still warm. The waiter met her there with a pleasingly large cappuccino which he set on the table with a smile.

The food was tasteless or perhaps Kate's taste buds weren't communicating with her brain. With half the cappuccino still in the cup, she left the table and rode the lift back to her room. She wanted to look her best, so she took uncommon care in applying her make-up, eyes and lips infused with the correct level of glamour to retain the balance between the blonde beauty and the fifty-one year old professional business woman. Long sleeved black top set off with a simple silver pendant and matching stud earrings, plain black trousers and ankle boots and Kate was ready to go.

Another hot day was brewing beyond the confines of the Park Plaza, so definitely no jacket required. One final visit to the toilet and Kate popped her phone into her shoulder bag and went out into the corridor, hesitating to be sure to put the 'D _o Not Disturb'_ sign back on the inside handle of the door. When she returned, she was going to be in need of a clean and tidy room.

With smoked glass doors and marble floor, the foyer could have been that of any other London hotel. The entrance area of St. Thomas's Hospital was less intimidating than Kate had imagined it would be. Even the young woman at the reception desk likely moonlighted at The Dorchester or The Connaught. Kate paused and took the neatly creased appointment letter from her bag, unfolded it and read the appointment details for the umpteenth time. The bold type left no margin for error, no excuse for misinterpretation.

Your appointment is with Dr Howard at 10.00am on Saturday Sept 14th

Clinical Oncology Department, Lower Ground Floor, Lambeth Wing

A bank of four elevators was framed on each end by a multi-coloured floor plan. Lower Ground was a single stop away. It was a little too long before one of the lifts stopped that was actually going down. Just before stepping inside, Kate had to make way for an elderly couple who finally concluded that the ground floor was indeed their destination. The woman thanked Kate with a smile but Kate failed to notice. By now her legs felt weak and her bowels were complaining at the sudden onrush of panic. She placed a hand flat on her sternum and tried to regulate her breathing. The lift doors opened and she exited into a bright, yellow painted corridor. Lambeth Wing was to the right and Clinical Oncology was clearly signed twenty yards along. The departmental reception area was beyond a double set of doors, where a woman in her sixties was typing away on a keyboard. Before Kate had time to open her dry mouth, the woman glanced up. "Mrs Alexander?"

Kate nodded.

"Have a seat, please. You shouldn't have too long to wait."

"Thank you," Kate managed to mumble. It was like a hammer blow, to be expected. She didn't want to be expected; she wanted to be just another patient. She sat on one of the black leather seats with her bag on her knees – that helped stop them from trembling. It occurred to her that she was seeing Dr Howard. Surely consultants were known as Mister. Maybe her case was worthy only of a junior doctor. Then she remembered hearing somewhere that the very top consultants often revert to the title of Doctor again. What an odd thought to have before the receptionist called her. Dr Howard was very pleasant.

Romany Grace couldn't stay away from the office. Drawn to her second floor desk seven days a week by a sense of duty to her editor, her readers and to her father, Lord Hallstead, the onetime Conservative Home Secretary, it was little wonder that at fifty-four years of age, she remained unmarried and childless. Romany had discounted any thoughts of traditional nest building the day her Italian born mother overdosed on prescription sleeping pills, inconsolable at the pitiless philandering of the Home Secretary.

Romany's regular two page contribution to the Sunday lifestyle supplement was beginning to gain her a status in the culinary world on a par with the superstars she critiqued. Her face could command the best table at every Michelin starred restaurant in the country without any need of a reservation, but she could count on the fingers of one hand the number of friends she had within the upper echelons of Britain's chefs.

Kate admired Romany for her straight talking, no nonsense approach to journalism within the ever competitive world of culinary excellence; the cutting edge of popular culture. In the early eighties, the likes of Delia Smith or Keith Floyd fed off the scraps from the table of Duran Duran, Spandau Ballet and Wham. Three decades later, Little Mix, JLS and Adele had become used to sharing the stardust with Gordon Ramsay, Jamie Oliver and The Hairy Bikers.

When Romany's mobile rang for the first time, she simply ignored it, lost in an inner debate over the ideal font size for the cheesecake recipe she was planning for two weeks hence. The second time the phone rang, she picked it up and seeing Kate's caller ID, answered.

"Kate, darling," her 1940's BBC accent was more affected than nurtured but it had helped the career of the darling of Channel Five.

"Romany, I'm sure you're up to your eyes, but...."

"You know me, sweetie; nose to the grindstone and all that, but I can always make time for you."

"I'm in London."

"Fabulous, why didn't you let me know you were coming down?"

"Let's just say it was an unplanned visit."

"Sounds intriguing, so how long are you here for?"

"Until tomorrow afternoon."

"We could do brunch tomorrow morning, before you head off?"

"Could I see you today?"

Romany was about to intone about deadlines for the supplement but something in Kate's voice stopped her. It wasn't what Kate said but what she didn't say. She clearly was not herself. "I'm at the office but about ready for a break. How about lunch?"

"Thanks Romany."

"What about the sushi bar in Harrods?"

"I was hoping for something a little more private."

"Ok, there's a café in Knightsbridge just across the road from Harrods, the White Diamond. You can't miss it when you come out of the tube station."

"I'll find it."

"Great, I will see you there at one."

Kate ended the call leaving Romany's train of thought knocked off kilter. It was going to be impossible for her to make any progress with the article until after lunch. A hit of coke would ease her sense of guilt at abandoning the work and also help quicken the appetite. A stop off at the bathroom before the rendezvous with Kate would give Romany the sufficient boost to face whatever drama was about to unfold. A daily tabloid had recently run a story claiming Romany Grace was a coke-head. She really couldn't understand the basis of the fabrication; she only used cocaine occasionally and always in private. The hit she had just after breakfast had pretty much worn off, so it was only natural she should be craving a little top-up.

A wave of self-loathing momentarily threatened once Romany had thrown her head back to ensure the drugs had been snorted right up to the back of her nasal passage. The wretched feeling never took hold, dissuaded by the comforting kick as she touched up her glossy pink lipstick.

Kate was first to arrive at the White Diamond Coffee House. She took a seat inside the window so Romany would find her easily and also for the comfort in the connection to the bustle of the Saturday lunchtime shoppers beyond the glass. When she had stepped out of Dr Howard's consulting room, Kate no longer felt part of the unfolding morning. It was although she inhabited the same space as those around her but in a different reality. The cell phone in her sweating hand was on silent mode, allowing her to ignore incoming calls or texts without any sense of guilt.

A slightly overweight girl with frizzy ginger curls and freckles across the bridge of her nose was hovering at a safe and unobtrusive distance, notepad and pencil at the ready. "Would you like to order, Madam?" Her lilting Dublin brogue spoke of a middle class upbringing and a university education; UCD or Trinity more than likely.

At that moment, every head in the premises turned in the direction of the door, drawn by the irresistible aura that announced the entrance of White Diamond's most celebrated patron. Jet black hair, caressing creamy shoulders, leopard skin boob tube only just managing to live up to its description. Spray on leather pants and street chic knee boots reinforced the image of 1980's youthful sexuality the middle aged food writer couldn't let go of – couldn't afford to let go of.

Kate stood and accepted the time honoured double cheek kiss. Romany removed designer shades, revealing glassy eyes that Kate found it difficult to meet.

"So what on earth's the matter, darling? Is it hubby? Well, it was only a matter of time, after all. I always....." Romany was stopped in her tracks by the sight of Kate's trembling upper lip, the sickly grey pallor pushing through the fine layer of cosmetic lies. "Not about John, then?" Romany leaned forward and took Kate's right hand in her own.

"Romany, I came to London to see a specialist; a doctor."

Romany's expression stiffened and she felt a sudden desire to visit the ladies room.

"I have a brain tumour. It's inoperable." By uttering the words, Kate recalled all the times she had heard such admissions in Hollywood tearjerkers or dismal British television soap operas. These things happened to the man at number twenty-four, Aunt Mary's friend Sarah, the lady who used to teach the fourth year class at the Primary School in the village; not to her.

The perennially effervescent Romany said nothing, the sparkle in her eyes dimmed in time with the saliva that deserted her mouth.

"The consultant says I have nine to twelve months."

"Maybe he's wrong, Kate." Romany hadn't stammered since Grammar School, not even during her first appearance on TV. "They, they get these diagnoses wrong all the time, don't they? You have to get a second opinion."

"Romany, this is the second opinion. The first consultant gave me eighteen months."

"Fuck!" Romany said a little too loud, but neither she nor Kate cared. "Does John know?"

Kate shook her head.

"But he knows why you came to London this weekend? He does know you were going to see this consultant?"

"Dr Howard? No, John has no idea there is anything the matter with me."

"Christ almighty, Kate. He should be here with you."

"John is not good with these things, sickness...... death."

"He's going to have to get with the program pretty dammed quickly, isn't he?"

"Don't blame him, please. It was my choice to do things this way."

"Why did you not go straight home?"

"I suppose I needed to talk with someone to help me begin to deal with the situation."

The red haired waitress who had retreated on Romany's arrival, now made a tentative return. She was an intelligent girl and could clearly read the gravity on the faces of the two glamorous women, but she had a job to do.

Romany unfastened the clasp on the handbag and fished around for a few seconds. She slipped a twenty pound note into the waitress's hand. "We're fine Sinead darling. I'll call you if we need anything."

The waitress slipped the folded note into the pocket of her black and white striped apron and melted back into the main body of the café.

Romany ran a hand through her artificially maintained black hair, struggling for the appropriate words. She had been looking forward to a high intensity lunch with her old friend; ninety minutes of gossip and, reminiscences and above all, laughter. The bitter unexpected truth of the surprise liaison had left her rattled and speechless. What could she say? What did Kate want to hear? She could do nothing to help Kate cope with the months ahead; the hours ahead. The pain, the trauma and the regret were all to be played out in a world of fading colours. She thought of Kate's daughters, still blissfully unaware of the nightmare about to overtake their lives.

"Tell me what to say, Kate."

When Romany turned the key in the door to her plush apartment in Notting Hill two hours later, Kate was with her.

"There is no way you are going back to that hotel on your own. You are spending the night here, I insist."

"But my case is there and I need to check out."

"What's in your case?"

"My nightdress, a blouse, some toiletries."

"Forget them. I will take you straight to the airport tomorrow. Then I will call at the hotel on my way back."

Kate acquiesced silently with a mere nod of the head.

"We have the place to ourselves. You don't have to talk to anyone, not even to me. Now, do you want another drink?"

"I don't know, Romany."

"I fancy a glass of pink champagne. It is an uplifting drink."

"OK," Kate offered a shallow smile.

# CHAPTER 17

Bern September 2014

"What you are saying, Herr Reinhardt, is the world did not come together against Islam because 9/11 was seen as an attack on America alone, rather than an attack on the Christian world?" Mavro Vladic picked his nose and inspected the green, crusted product trapped beneath his fingernail.

"The Fuhrer recognised the threat posed by the children of Mohammed, yet history condemns him as a monster." The charismatic leader of the SVV Scweizerischer Vaterlandischer Verband (Swiss Patriotic Federation), Max Reinhardt, was in full flow, pacing back and forth across the carpet of his office in Bern. Founded in 1919 to oppose international emigration, the SVV was the only political movement in Switzerland with Nazi sympathies to have survived the post war purge of the far right. Driven underground for decades, the fears and prejudices of the twenty-first century had rekindled the flame of their basest form of nationalism.

"What about the Jews?" Vladic was careful to suppress any hint of disdain in his voice.

Reinhardt offered up a mocking laugh. "What about them? Yes, they suffered, but who didn't as Dante's Inferno was played out on the global stage?" Reinhardt got to his feet and shook a fist at no one in particular. "History is written by the victors. That is the greatest lesson to be drawn from the events of 1945."

Vladic made a steeple of his fingers under his chin and nodded sagely. He had spent a decade on the run from the authorities having been indicted for war crimes, purely because the Serbs were seen as the aggressors in the Bosnian civil war. "The difference between the Butcher of Bijeljina and the Prince of Sarajevo is but the stroke of a pen by some bureaucrat in The Hague." He recognised Reinhardt's emotions had got the better of him, so he sat back and let the scene play out.

"To coalesce the forces of the old world against the curse of Islam, an attack here in the very cradle of global harmony would surely set in motion a chain of events that would see the dark minarets come crashing to the ground before they get their hands on nuclear weapons."

"The Swiss cannot fight back," observed Vladic.

"No, but who would fail to come to their defence? America, Britain, France and Germany? And the Russians and Chinese too, without a doubt."

"What are you saying, Herr Reinhardt?"

"The inevitable consequence will be an unprecedented global conflict, which will finally send Islam back to the desert where it belongs."

"I am still unclear as to how I can help with your great plan, Herr Reinhardt. I don't even have a pilot's licence." Vladic's bodyguards chuckled at his attempt at levity.

Reinhardt sat down and faced the Serb. "What if I told you there is a weapon, a secret weapon that has the power to bring humanity to its knees?"

Vladic shrugged. "I would say you are a fantasist."

"Ha!" Reinhardt slammed his fist on the desk. "Perhaps you are not the man I hoped you would be, after all."

Vladic sighed. "I will hear you out, Herr Reinhardt."

"Did you ever hear of a German scientist by the name of Hans Kammler?"

Vladic's eyes narrowed at the mention of his 'grandfather, "Should I have?"

"Perhaps not, but then you are not Swiss."

"That much is true."

"I am sure even an uneducated man such as you must have heard of Werner von Braun?"

Vladic suppressed his rising anger at the Swiss politician. "Of course, the father of space travel; the designer of the American space rockets."

"A true genius of the Twentieth century, in every respect, Von Braun worked for Kammler."

"Von Braun is long dead and so must this Kammler be too."

"Yes, but their work did not die with them. You know, Herr Vladic, the Bernese Oberland offers many wondrous attractions for visitors such as yourself."

"I am not here for a holiday, Reinhardt." Vladic's patience was beginning to wear thin.

"All the same, I would very much like the opportunity to take you on a personal tour of the region's most spectacular excursion. I assure you, it will be most enlightening."

The Serb was beginning to regret ever agreeing to come to Switzerland at the invitation of this, clearly deluded individual. Still, there something in the confidence and simplicity of the man's message that he conceded it may be worth another couple of days of his time. Vladic shrugged. "Provided you buy the Gluhwein?"

Interlaken September 2014

"You are not seriously going to meet him dressed like that, I hope?" Maria looked her mother up and down and shook her head. Angela was dressed in a grey woollen cardigan over a loose fitting white t-shirt and faded blue jeans. Her hair was pulled back in a tight pony-tail, which only exposed the equally grey roots of her unwashed hair.

Angela sighed at the latest scolding from her beloved daughter. "I'm not going on a date, you know."

"I know that, but he is still the love of your life Mum."

"That's all in the past Maria. You know that too."

"You're still a beautiful woman and you're much too young to let yourself slip into the self-loathing of middle age."

Angela's eyes widened at Maria's turn of phrase. "I don't have time Maria. The plane will be..."

"He won't mind waiting at the airport, not for you." Maria took Angela by the elbow. "Half an hour ought to do it." She guided Angela to her bedroom. "Ok, have a quick shower and I will choose something for you to wear."

Thirty-five minutes later, Angela walked into the kitchen once again, this time the high heels of her black leather boots clicking proudly on the tiled floor.

"That's more like it!" Maria enthused. "If I didn't know any better, I could almost mistake you for that glamorous TV presenter. Now, what was her name?"

"OK, you've made your point darling." Angela was wearing the striking red satin blouse that she often wore on television, with a silver pendant around her neck and skin tight, black leather trousers. Her naturally curly brown hair hung around her shoulders; ensuring most of the grey hairs were well hidden. A quick application of black eyeliner and soft red lipstick completed the makeover. The urgency in her stride was matched by a marked leap in self-confidence as she brushed a cheek against Maria's and jogged down the front steps to where her Audi A4 sat, the afternoon sun refracting the full spectrum of visible light through the tinted windscreen. Momentarily fear filled her heart and her eyes scanned the near distance for any signs of danger. Her military training had trained her senses to be alert for danger but nothing had prepared her for the brief glimpse, a few days earlier, of the monster Mavro Vladic, _The Butcher of Bijeljina_ , the man who haunted her and Maria here in the heart of the Bernese Oberland. The instant passed and she climbed behind the wheel, throwing a casual wave in the direction of Maria standing on the doorstep in her police officer's uniform. The sidearm holstered at her hip more a comfort to Angela than to her daughter. Angela tried to tell herself that maybe she had been mistaken. Maybe it had not been Vladic after all, boarding the train at Lauterbrunnen three days previously. The truth, however, kept bursting these bubbles of hope. That was the day she had lifted the telephone and dialled the number she had sworn to herself to forget; to consign to the cupboard of the past and slam the door for good. But she had no one else to turn to; no one else who would understand; no one else but the father of her dead child. The gravestone bore the date 1985, the year Angela had been running from for almost thirty years, but how ever hard she tried, time, love and loss refused to release her from their painful grip.

"Would ya' take a look at that, jeez!"

Marilyn Schneider turned her head in the direction her husband was looking. "For goodness sake, Hollis," she whispered leaning across the table. "Keep your voice down."

"You'd think this was fucking Baghdad. C'mon honey they're everywhere, with their fancy clothes and gold watches and their wives wrapped up like Egyptian mummies – in this heat." Hollis Schneider drained the last of his fourth large beers. Forty-nine years old, a retired Master Sergeant in the legendary US Seventh Cavalry, he had seen action in the Gulf Wars of both father and son Bush presidencies and latterly in Afghanistan. On vacation to the Bernese Oberland, where his father had grown up before emigrating to the United States in 1962, so inspired was he by the rhetoric of President John F. Kennedy.

Marilyn was thirty-eight and a kindergarten teacher in their hometown of Seattle, Washington on the West Coast of the States. She was well used to her husband's sometimes violent mood swings which had begun when he was the sole survivor of a roadside bomb attack on the armoured personnel carrier in which he was travelling in Helmand province, Afghanistan. Four of his platoon had lost their lives, including the platoon commander Lieutenant Dana Reis, one of the few female US troops to die in Afghanistan. Marilyn would often find Hollis in the bath scrubbing furiously at his arms with a sponge, as if he was still trying to clean off the sticky blood that had gushed from the dying Lt Reis. Post-traumatic stress disorder was the accepted medical definition for his psychological state and Marilyn had learned to live the symptoms, though these only blinded her to Hollis's more real problems. The drinking she chose to ignore and the gambling that took place in the shadows just beyond her view. Fifty thousand in debt and growing by the week, Marilyn was ignorant of the truth that they could lose their house any day.

Marilyn rested her hand on her husband's arm and smiled. "Why don't we go back to the hotel honey? It will be time for dinner soon." She had not noticed that the tall Arabian man at the table by the window had locked gaze with Hollis and did not appear to be a gentleman of good humour.

Head waitress Bekka Rindt had been observing proceedings from her station at the near end of the bar and following the strict policy of _Hooters_ , she had placed a call to the local police incident desk and reported a potential breach of the peace on the premises.

Such was the peaceful and idyllic atmosphere of Interlaken, even though it was thronging with thousands of tourists, any potential incident which could lead to a breach of the peace was duly reported and the local police, who were for the most part invisible to the tourists and who would quickly be on site to monitor the situation and intervene if required.

As is happened, patrol car Delta 45 was parked only a yards away, following up a report of a stray dog, which turned out to be the charge of a rather elderly local lady who had nodded off to sleep in the afternoon sun.

Officer Maria Stahl took the call from control. "Delta 45, responding; out."

"OK, Peter," she punched her colleague on the shoulder. "We got to go."

"More trouble in paradise?" He replaced his mock pilot's sunglasses. "Please tell me it isn't another dog."

"I just hope this isn't going to take too long." Maria glanced at her watch and puffed out her cheeks. "I don't like leaving Mum alone for any longer than I really have to."

"Things are no better, huh?" Peter allowed himself the briefest luxury of crossing the boundaries of professional conduct by gently squeezing Maria's thigh. It was no secret they had been seeing each other for the past six months and had the area commander been following strict protocol, he would have ensured the young lovebirds would not be permitted to serve on patrol together. When Inspector Tardelli took full consideration of the fact his commanding officer was Maria's father, whatever the true nature of the father – daughter relationship, the easy way out was to turn a blind eye to the possibility of any improper conduct that may have been taking place within the confines of the area patrol car.

He need not have worried, as Maria Stahl and Peter Zurbriggen were officers of the highest calibre and would never put their personal life ahead of the job they were so very proud to carry out.

The bleep of the two-way radio interrupted the moment before the words could take form in Peter's throat.

"We are popular this afternoon," Maria theatrically shooed away his hand.

"Delta 45?" Peter spoke into the radio. "Understood; Four-five out."

"What the hell was all that about?" Maria's question was borne out of instinct, even though she rejoiced inside at the reassurance she would be able to get home in time to persuade her mother to get out of bed before sunset.

"Apparently it is being dealt with locally. Some tourist causing trouble in Hooters Bar, but it seems everything is OK now."

"We already got our drinks!" Hollis Schneider snapped at the ample cleavage hovering at his eye line, without bothering to raise his eyes to meet those of the teenage waitress.

Marilyn's eyes implored him to treat the girl with respect.

"You understand, sir that these drinks come courtesy of a friend."

"A friend?" Schneider Looked up. "We're tourists, sweetheart, and a long way from home. We don't have any friends here."

Undeterred by the less than friendly reception, the waitress proceeded to set two bottles of Budweiser on Schneider's table, before beating a hasty retreat in the direction of the bar.

"What the hell was all that about?" Hollis shook his head in disgust.

"You should not talk so loudly, my friend. You can never tell who may be listening."

Hollis turned round in his chair to confront the gravelly voiced owner of the stilted English monologue. A leathery, tanned complexion and wavy grey hair gave the impression of one considerably younger than was betrayed by the liver spots on the back of the outstretched hand. "Max Reinhardt," he introduced himself with a smile that Marilyn Schneider found highly unsettling.

Hollis eyed the stranger with no little degree of suspicion, but took the hand in his own, firm grip. "Hollis Schneider."

"American?"

"Born and bred, but then you knew that already." Schneider lifted one of the Budweiser bottles and showed the label to Reinhardt. "My wife and I were drinking one of the local beers."

Schneider shrugged. "You must permit me my little attempt at humour."

"Don't worry, I'll take a free drink any day of the week, buddy."

"Free? I was hoping you may return the favour someday."

Hollis failed to pick up on the significance of the subtext. "Why don't you join us? You don't mind, honey?" He asked his wife, without bothering to look round in her direction.

"No, no. I am sure your lovely wife would not be so happy, my friend," Reinhardt shook his head in supplication.

At that, Marilyn got to her feet. "It's quite alright Hollis, I want to go back to the hotel and take a shower before diner."

"For crying out loud Marilyn, don't be so rude."

"Do not worry. I should not have intruded on your afternoon," Reinhardt held out his hands in apologetic fashion.

"Just remember dinner is reserved for six-thirty." With that, Marilyn slung her bag over her shoulder and walked out the front door.

"It was nice to meet you," Reinhardt, the experienced politician, said the right thing though he knew Marilyn Schneider couldn't possibly hear over the loud music. He rose from his seat and sat down in the seat vacated by her.

"You don't strike me as the type of guy who would frequent somewhere like this?" Hollis took a swig from the neck of the bottle still clutched in his hand.

"I must admit, the music is not exactly to my taste. I myself prefer something more refined."

"Like Sinatra?"

"Why, Wagner, of course."

Hollis swallowed hard. "You're not drinking? He had noticed the interloper had not brought a glass from his previous table.

"Oh, I have had my one glass of Merlot for the day, Herr Schneider."

"Can't I at least get you a coffee or something?"

"No thank you, but tell me Mr Schneider?"

"Call me Hollis."

"Tell me Hollis, you have the look of a military man, no?"

"It's that obvious, huh?"

"Let me guess? Iraq, but the first time around, under the old President Bush; Operation Desert Storm?"

"Well hell I should just wear my freakin' uniform and be done with it."

"You asked me why I come to drink in a place such as this, when there are so many hotels and cafes of quality all across the town of Interlaken."

"Let me guess; you're some sort of pervert, just here to watch the birds? Don't get me wrong, the chicks in this joint are something else, but you know, I can't really take time to have a good look when my wife is with me. Hey, I could quite easily spend a couple of hours here every day, given half the chance."

Reinhardt chuckled out loud. "I think we are getting off on the wrong track, Hollis." He leaned forward, resting on his elbows. "The truth is I could not help but overhear your observations on the racial mix of our visitors."

Schneider became defensive. "That was just a lazy, ill-advised observation."

"What do you imagine it is like for those of us who live here?"

Schneider's eyes narrowed and he helped himself to another long gulp of the ice cold beer. "I know I find it hard to relax when every second woman walking down the street is swathed in a hijab and full veil. I mean, you'd think it was fuckin' Baghdad or Kabul, instead of the heart of Western Europe."

Reinhardt listened intently to Schneider sounding off, all the time rubbing his upper lip repeatedly with his forefinger. "How long have they given you?"

"Excuse me?"

"The bank? How long have they given you to repay the arrears on your mortgage?"

Schneider's bravura melted in an instant, forcing him to seek comfort in the five hundred millilitres as yet untouched in the bottle intended for Marilyn.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course you do, Master Sergeant. Tell me, do the men of The Seventh Cavalry still worship that fool Custer?"

"You want to choose your next words very carefully, sir?" Schneider knew he was outflanked but fell back on his training. Never show weakness.

"Very well. Two hundred thousand dollars in cash for a few days of your time?"

"This is some sort of a joke, right?"

Reinhardt's features hardened. "We have been observing you since you arrived here in our town. Staying in room thirty-one in the Hotel Carlton-Europe and due to depart on Sunday?"

Schneider stood. "I need to get back to the hotel. My wife is expecting me."

"That is fine, Hollis. I will be here at the same time tomorrow if you want to buy me that drink."

Schneider slammed the bottle hard on the surface of the table. "Asshole!" He mumbled under his breath and made his way out onto the busy pavement of the Hoheweg.

The next day

"So, where we goin'?" Hollis Schneider craned his neck from the passenger's seat to address Max Reinhardt.

"It is only a short journey Herr Schneider but it is better we are not observed walking down the street." Reinhardt was wearing designer sunglasses, though the low cloud cover that rolled in the night before was yet to lift. "We are going to meet someone."

"Yeah, who?"

"All in good time, but let me say by way of preparation that he is a kindred spirit; a man who shares some of our, how should I put it, more traditional views not to mention our history."

"I'm beginning to wish the hell we'd never met. My holiday is ruined; my wife isn't talking to me. I tell ya', this better be good."

"Pull over here, please." Reinhardt tapped the driver on the shoulder. The gleaming Mercedes glided to a stop by the front entrance of the Grand Hotel Victoria Jungfrau.

"Give us an hour," he spoke to the driver through the open window. "If I need you sooner I will call so don't go too far; OK?"

The driver nodded.

Schneider recalled the late night he and his wife were trawling the internet in search of a hotel room in Interlaken and the shock and disbelief at the price of a room at the Victoria Jungfrau. They felt they had paid more than enough for their basic room at the Hotel Carlton-Europe which, in truth, was not up to the standard of budget motels back in the States. "Nice place. This friend of yours can't be short of a few bucks."

Reinhardt shrugged. "You can only sleep in one bed Herr Schneider; only watch one television; one hotel room is much like another."

"You try telling that to my wife." Schneider trailed behind Reinhardt in the direction of the elevators.

Reinhardt knocked on the door of Vladic's suite. Footsteps approached the door. There was a short pause as the occupant inspected his visitors via the peep-hole followed by a double clunk of the lock being turned.

Vladic invited them in with a curt slant of the head and locked the door behind them.

Hollis Schneider was impressed by the luxury of the room. Now he had some appreciation of the extortionate prices the hotel could levy.

"Hollis Schneider, meet Mavro Vladic," Reinhardt stood back and let them work out their own greeting.

"Jesus Christ! The Butcher of Bijeljina," Schneider recognised both face and name.

"I am glad you have heard of me, Mr Schneider, though I can't say I appreciate the cheap, tabloid label." Vladic did not approach Schneider, but rather sat down in his favourite armchair without inviting the American to sit.

"Don't I get a drink or something?" Schneider shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

"Of course, but you must forgive me but I am not used to entertaining guests."

"Allow me." Reinhardt walked over to the drinks cabinet. "What is your poison, Hollis?"

"Got any Bourbon?"

"Will Cognac suffice?"

"Whatever, just as long as it's a large one."

Reinhardt obliged and handed a crystal tumbler to Schneider.

"Do you like my view?" Vladic gestured to the window. "Your father must also have been very fond of it. Such a shame he had to leave his home, but at least you can come back here as a visitor."

"What do you know about my father?"

"Very little, I must confess, apart from the fact he was the son of the Mayor of Interlaken; the infamous Nazi Hans Schneider." Vladic kept looking out the window.

"My grandfather was no Nazi." Schneider protested.

"If that is true, why was your father forced to run away to America. Was it not to escape the shame of your grandfather's crimes?"

"My grandfather was no criminal."

"I couldn't agree more, Mr Schneider. Herr Reinhardt has told me a lot about him. It seems he was a great patriot. He could recognise that the Jews and the liberals were undermining the desire of the Germanic people of this country to join in the glorious struggle against the great enemy in the east; and I am not just referring to Stalinist Russia."

"You're a Serb, aren't you? Surely your people fought against the Nazis."

"Tito's partisans fought against the Germans. My family were Chetniks."

Reinhardt stepped in. "The Yugoslav Army of The Homeland, who collaborated with the Axis forces and visited a reign of terror on the Muslim population of Bosnia and Herzegovina. A noble cause which did not die with the end of the war and the dawn of Tito's new Yugoslavia, but merely lay dormant until the fall of the Iron Curtain. Herr Vladic was an eager volunteer, prepared to finish the job of cleansing the historic Serb lands of the curse of Islam"

"Yeah, that all sounds great but it still doesn't explain why I am here,"

Reinhardt clapped Schneider across the back. "I want my family, my friends and neighbours to be able to enjoy lunch at the Café Schuh, without having to put up with hijab clad women move seats so they can eat without anyone seeing their faces; to be able to afford hotel rooms in Wengen or St Moritz that have been overrun by the growing middle classes from India and China."

"It's a changing world. These folk have the money now."

"It is a disease, Schneider; a cancer rotting Europe from the inside. It is time for a surgeon to cut out that cancer."

"And just how to you plan to go about that?"

"By spreading fear and suspicion."

Schneider looked at Vladic and then back at Reinhardt. Suddenly, the pieces were beginning to click into place. "Now I get it, you plan to stage a terrorist attack and blame it on. Let me guess, Islamic extremists? Al Queda or Islamic State?"

"Let's just say we would be finishing what your grandfather started seventy years ago."

Vladic took a box from the drawer of the desk in the corner of the room. "Here we have the surgeon's knife." He opened the box and produced the SS dagger given to him by his grandmother. "You have one just like this; do you not Herr Schneider?" Schneider swallowed hard, finally understanding why he was there. The tickets, the ten thousand dollars in his bank account; here in the company of an eccentric neo-Nazi politician and a vicious war criminal, Hollis Schneider had been drawn into a sinister brotherhood of evil, inspired by European's history's darkest days.

"As you can see, you and I have much in common. I admire your courage in serving your country not to mention the price you have paid both emotionally and financially; the damage to your marriage. Those cowardly children of Islam destroyed that beautiful young woman, Lieutenant Reiss. She died in your arms, I believe; her eyes wide with fear and you in the knowledge there was nothing you could do but hold her and make sure she did not die alone. Unfortunately that is how we all end up; dying and alone. "What would you do to atone for the death of Dana Reiss? What would you do, Herr Schneider?"

"Anything," Schneider could not take his eyes from the glinting blade of the Serb's dagger. "Anything at all."

Vladic smiled and looked at Reinhardt. "Perfect."

Seattle, Washington Summer 2014

Located on the northern edge of the Lake Washington Ship Canal, Fremont is a neighbourhood boasting a long history as a family-centric, blue-collar area brimming with unique, idiosyncratic individuals. The under-valued currency of self-proclaimed monikers in no way dissuaded the natives from proclaiming the subdivision as the 'Centre of the Universe.' Featuring an atypical working class bohemian, offbeat lifestyle, Fremont is often characterized by its quirky public art: the Troll under the Aurora Bridge clasping a Volkswagen Bug; a seven-ton statue of Lenin that everyone feels has been for sale since Communism was still a Parisian justification for the guillotine. Then there is the rocket built into the side of a building and dinosaur topiaries that once graced the roof of _The Pacific Science Centre_.

The Fremont Sunday Market, a highlight for locals and visitors alike had long since lost any appeal for Hollis Schneider. With culturally rich, culinary cheap goodies on offer such as wood burning oven-baked pizzas, fresh fruit smoothies or alcohol soaked crepes to be enjoyed against the backdrop of muscle-bound kayakers gliding down the Ship Canal, he much preferred to spend his mid-morning crumpled on the settee, cradling a lukewarm Bud. The religious act of attending Church, much as holding onto Sabbath day sobriety had become lost in the fog of forgotten fortune. His long suffering, yet unquestionably loyal wife Marilyn, sheltered from the uncomfortable reality of the guilt ridden freefall of the physically intact veteran, found she was drawn to the nickel and dime music stores, the fair-trade chocolate factory and the designer outlet where she could pick up a boulevard brand for a buck less than the price of a shrimp sandwich beneath the Sky Dome.

The early game was only seconds into the first period when the sound of the doorbell coaxed a string of expletives from the lips of Hollis Schneider. The whole point of turning off his cell phone was so Marilyn would not be able to disturb the precious hours before the trials of domestic obligation overtook what remained of his constructively wasted Sunday, so the merrily high pitched ding-dong grated on fragile nerves, shredded mercilessly by the incomprehensible, dehumanising reality of modern warfare.

The plump, innocent smile of the female courier, degraded by the drab brown uniform of corporate America had the effect of diluting the former Master Sergeant's unreasonably bloated ire. "When did you start delivering on a Sunday?" he asked, embarrassed under the eyes of innocence, to be clutching the brown glass bottle of despair.

"We deliver every Sunday up until one-thirty within the city limits." Her voice was clear, non –judgemental with the ever evolving staccato of Eastern European historical reaffirmation.

Hollis had joined the army in the early eighties to fight for precisely the sort of young woman in front of him who was counting down the minutes until the end of her shift that would allow her to link up with her Lithuanian peers, all in search of a tiny slice of the American Dream.

"Where do you want me to sign?" Hollis set his beer on the sill inside the door and took the shoe box sized package from the woman who wore the name badge Ieva Jaruslian.

She handed Hollis the hand held terminal with the attached plastic pen that allowed you to scribble a poor reproduction of a signature on a small section of the screen. The couriers never appeared to be in the slightest bit concerned with the validity of the signature, so long as some vague approximation of human intelligence could be attributed to the latest delivery.

Hollis pushed a fleeting, unclean fantasy to the deeper recesses of his mind and carried the package into the kitchen. He wasn't expecting anything in particular. Perhaps Marilyn had made a purchase of Amazon or EBAY using his details, so he placed the box on the kitchen table and hacked roughly at the outer packaging with the serrated edge of the twelve inch bread knife. Beneath the double layer of classically drab brown paper was an eighteen by eight inch cardboard box. Inside was a dagger. On the handle was a symbol straight from the grainy black and white footage of the History Channel. No more than an insignificant curio in 2014, the demonic representation of Hitler's SS still had the power to overwhelm and when he drew the shining blade from its scabbard, he saw that it bore an inscription in German:

Meine Ehre heist Treue

Beneath the horrific beauty of the dagger was a folded sheet of writing paper. The cultivated hand was in navy ink and clearly the work of a student of the written word; every character formed to shame the doyens of type-set perfection. Technology could reproduce the text but the meaning was in the purview of the scribe.

The kitchen clock drew its breath when Schneider opened the single sheet.

" _I believe you have a piece identical to this one. I should be most grateful if you would return this example to me. I enclose details for delivery. Naturally, hand delivery of the item would be much preferred._ "

Even Marilyn had no knowledge of the dark artefact from the Second World War that was both the source of his inspiration and his shame. When his father had passed it on to Hollis, even his own mother was in blissful ignorance, so how could it be that a nameless, faceless stranger held the key to his secret drawer at the back of the closet?

American Airlines Flight 89 to Geneva was emblazoned on the two return tickets that were accompanied by a voucher for two weeks half board at the Hotel Carlton-Europe in Interlaken, the birthplace of his grandfather. On a yellow post-it note stuck to the hotel voucher was a brief handwritten note;

" _The hotel is by no means exclusive or boasting of heartless luxury, but it is steeped in the history of the region."_

Schneider took a long drink from his beer and considered the contents of the package. At this stage he had failed to notice the envelope, stained by the forgotten decades. His scrambled brain had been walking the tightrope between fear and imagination for so long that it took a few minutes of considered silence before he took on board the revelation that that the unexpected vacation could act as an olive branch between him and his not yet estranged wife, before the distance between them became an unbridgeable chasm. Still, nothing could explain how he would pay for a trip to Europe. In spite of the plane tickets and hotel reservation, Hollis was in huge debt. His credit cards were at or beyond their limits and without paid employment for three years his bank account was rarely anything but overdrawn. With the well-trodden sense of desperation, Hollis logged onto his internet banking account. Trembling was an overt weakness of the victim, yet Hollis couldn't help himself when the account balance swelled the screen of the laptop. His current balance was ten thousand dollars. Impossible as it may have been, someone had been able to access his bank account and made a substantial deposit without any explanation, save for the dagger and the tickets.

Hollis jumped behind the wheel of his Nissan Primera and drove to the _Seven Eleven_ at the bottom of the on-ramp to Interstate 45. Fumbling with his wallet, he managed to insert his card into the slot of the ATM and withdrew two hundred dollars. He couldn't recall the last time he had seen so much cash in his hands. Hollis went inside and purchased a six pack of beer and a bunch of the most expensive flowers he could lay his hands on.

He cracked a can on the drive back to the house and downed as much of the strong beer as time would permit. He needed to embolden his heart before breaking the news to his wife that their life was about to take a turn for the better.

"You hand me flowers, yet you kiss me with beer soaked lips? Am I supposed to say 'Thank you, darling? You truly are a wonderful husband?'"

"Marilyn, please, for Christ's sake, can't you just be happy that this payment has finally come through from the pension fund?" He served up a plausible lie. "And, you always said you wanted to go to Europe."

"Sure, London, Paris or Rome but what do you call this place again?"

"Interlaken. It's where my grandparents came from; the Schneider ancestral home in the mountains. The countryside is beautiful and you will get two weeks away from school and all this shit. What do you say babe?"

Her face crumpled into a world-weary smile. "OK, Master Sergeant." Marilyn draped her arms around him and buried her head in his chest.

"I know things haven't been easy round here since,............."

"We're still here, aren't we? Hollis and Marilyn still together, for better or for worse?"

"Things are going to get better, Marilyn, I promise you that. This vacation is going to open a whole new chapter in our lives, I can feel it."

Hollis Schneider unfolded the letter for the hundredth time, letting his eyes caress the vaguely feminine handwriting, deeply ingrained in the yellowed sheets. The words of his grandfather, the onetime Mayor of Interlaken, calling out from the incendiary pages of history, added to knots in his stomach; the combination of fear and nausea that tortured him on even the shortest of flights. His brain simply refused to trust in the benign innocence of the journey, still caught in the recurring nightmare of the dawn helicopter sorties over the desert, wondering if each morning would be your last as a four limbed, living soldier. Had Dana Reiss felt the same on that fateful morning?

Alongside, Marilyn poured over the in-flight magazine, having no interest in the action blockbuster movie that was showing on the drop-down screens throughout the cabin.

"I don't know what you find to read in those God damned magazines?" he grunted, one eye on the centre aisle, hoping to grab the attention of one of the cabin staff. He could get away with another two shots of bourbon without finding himself on the receiving end of one of his wife's finest withering looks.

"I'm quite certain I will find more of interest than you will in that letter, no matter how many times you read it." Hollis had never offered her the opportunity to read the mysterious letter from his grandfather, nor had she even asked. She couldn't have cared less about his sudden interest in the history of the Schneider family. They were getting a two week vacation in the Swiss Alps and that was good enough for her. If Hollis intended to waste a couple of afternoons wandering around graveyards in search of his ancestors, so be it. She was more than happy to spend the fortnight relaxing in the sun, perusing the local shops and taking in the sights, with or without Hollis by her side.

# CHAPTER 18

The blue glass expanse of Lake Thun soothed her soul as it opened out on the right, it's strive for perfection tainted only by the wake radiating out from the distant bow of the tourist laden paddle steamer, midway between Interlaken and its destination in the town of Thun, two miles ahead. Angela pulled down the sun visor and caught a glimpse of herself in the perfectly named vanity mirror. She had to admit she was grateful for Maria's timely intervention. Quite what John would have thought of the worn out hag that had lifted the car keys just an hour ago, she didn't dare to dwell on. At the very least he would recognise her and hopefully not be too annoyed at having to wait so long for her to arrive at Geneva Airport to collect him.

John cracked his knuckles as the plane swooped down to make a long, graceful landing beneath the rising peaks; soft scoops of white snow under an early moon and trammels of dark blue liquidising beneath the pure black, where sheer cliffs broke down into the valley. The land then poured out into a soft white carpet that glittered like a coat of pale blue diamonds under the floodlights and met the edge of the tarmac apron where the jets and turbo-props of varying sizes were parked by the terminal building. Gaps appeared in the clouds and early evening stars pricked the heavens. The air was cold and the snowbound land created its familiar padded hush, tinged with excitement.

Angela slowed the Audi outside the unfortunately named World Trade Centre and swung left through the main entrance of Geneva Airport. The symbolism of the moment wasn't lost on her as the sun dipped behind the Alps on the evening of 11th September 2014. Anyone over the age of twenty-five knew exactly where they had been when news began to ride the global media web that terrorism had scaled its Everest – the moment Al-Qaida's Hilary and Tensing slammed American Airlines Flight 11 into the North Tower of New York's World Trade Centre in 2001 and in doing so changed the world forever. Even in the quietest, most secure corners of the globe, people were left in no doubt as to the ever present threat from terror, whether real or imagined. In many ways, the imagined threat was harder to bear than that which was real.

Angela instinctively rubbed her sternum with the fingers of her left hand in response to the irregular beating of her heart which was easily brought on by stress; ectopic beats, the cardiologist had called them; but nothing to worry about. Still, the ultra-serious specialist had prescribed a strong dose of beta blockers by way of counteraction and had not ruled out warfarin should the symptoms persist. Angela breathed slowly, knowing the palpitations would stop. The trick was not to let them annoy her or the risk was that the episode could become self-feeding. One overnight stay in the Coronary Care Unit at Interlaken Hospital was quite enough for Angela. It will pass. It will pass.

When she parked the car on the third level of the multi-storey closest to the terminal, the palpitations had indeed subsided and she felt sufficiently calm to touch up her lipstick in the rear view mirror, though even with the cosmetic intervention, the dark rings beneath her eyes still betrayed the undeniable truth that she looked every one of her fifty-one years.

The constant screaming of jets echoed around the huge peaks that provided the backdrop to Geneva Airport. Multi-coloured lights streamed out over the falling evening sky.

Walking through the sliding glass doors into the arrivals hall, Angela ignored a few rogue beats in her chest and scanned the sea of faces in the knowledge that she was most likely already firmly in his sights. A gathering crowd of children joyous in their innocence, brought a splash of colour and noise to the floor of the arrivals hall as they waited with a few fur clad adults in attendance – another school trip embarking on an Alpine adventure.

"Hello Angela."

The soft Lothian burr cut through the ambient chatter of lilting French and imprecise German, stopping her in her tracks. Angela spun around and suppressed a gasp at the pale, unshaven mask that was stretched over the face that was ever present in her thoughts. The tears could keep for another more appropriate, less conspicuous occasion. From deep inside she found the strength to fold her arms and raise an eyebrow. "You could have made an effort John." Her attempt at a cool inquisition melted almost instantly to an involuntary smile.

"You're not catching me at my best." He released the handle of the small case and it propped upright on plastic wheels.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Angela offered, buying a couple of seconds in the hope he would make the first move.

He stepped forward and embraced her in a manner which owed more to formality than intimacy, the gulf chilling to Angela and seemingly unbridgeable. Was this really the deserved consequence of fractured love? The dry kiss on her left cheek felt like a knife wound and she caught herself wanting to recoil.

"Thank you for coming," she forced a smile as he released her. Only then did she notice he couldn't meet her gaze; only then did she notice the reason for his reticence; only then did she notice the redness in his eyes. "Is everything OK?"

"You look beautiful, by the way," he sniffed back the tears that were bubbling away just below the surface and clearly not of joy at this unexpected reunion. In a flash, the John Alexander smile had returned; the impenetrable mask of the consummate actor. Angela knew better than to ask any one of the hundred questions spinning around in her head. John would open up in his own time and even then only if it was something he wanted to admit to himself.

"The car isn't far away." Angela pointed in the direction of the exit.

"I'm booked into the Hotel Carlton-Europe."

"Really?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Why there?"

"I know it's not one of top hotels, but I'm sure it will be fine."

"Fine, yes; I am sure it will be."

"I hope you'll join me for dinner when we arrive?"

"How do you know I'm not busy this evening?" She asked, without looking back at him.

"Sorry, that was very presumptuous of me."

"Yes, it was." This time she threw him a lopsided grin. "You have two hours in the car to convince me to cancel my plans."

The first fifteen minutes of the journey passed quickly but awkwardly with a smattering of hesitant small talk. There are only so many miles of tarmac that can be eaten up by idle comment on the weather and airline food.

"I suppose we should talk about Vladic." John decided it was time to cut to the chase.

"I guess so," Angela sighed. "But I'd prefer to keep ugliness of the real world at bay for a little while longer; wouldn't you?"

"The real world." John shook his head. "That's not somewhere you and I ever had much time for, is it?"

Angela flicked on the intermittent wipers to clear the dirty spray thrown up from the rear wheels of a heavy goods lorry, before downshifting to power the Audi past the unwieldy behemoth. "How is Kate?"

John lowered the passenger window a few inches to let the cool autumn air release the mounting pressure inside the car. The way he shifted in the seat and swallowed audibly sent a chill down Angela's spine. Without a word she pulled over onto the hard shoulder, allowing the twelve-wheeler to roar past, a frustrated Nissan driver driving blindly in its slipstream.

"What has happened?" Angela took a firm hold of his hand.

"She's ill, Angela. She's very ill." John spoke but still didn't look at Angela.

"I knew there was something worrying you. I...."

He turned and fixed her with the eyes of a man much older than his years. "Kate is dying."

His words made no sense to Angela. Yes, her Kate was dead; their precious baby, who died on the day of her birth, so very, very long ago. But Kate Magowan – Kate Alexander, the devastatingly beautiful blonde goddess who had captured John's heart? "What are you saying, John?"

"She has a brain tumour. It is inoperable."

"Then you shouldn't be here, John. God knows, I am so happy to see you, but you should be at home with Kate." She cupped her face in her hands and took a deep breath.

"The doctors have given her a year; eighteen months at best." The pain etched on his face hacked at Angela's soul. "I had to come Angela. Vladic murdered Claudine Leffray. He butchered Maria's family, for God's sake. It's too much of a coincidence that he suddenly turns up on your doorstep."

Angela hoped he wouldn't think any less of her for it, but she had no choice but to open the glove box and take out a cellophane wrapped packet of Marlboro Lights. "Now you know why I have aged so much in the past couple of years," Angela said and opened the packet, placing a filter tip between her crimson lips. "Shit! This I didn't expect." She lit the cigarette with the car's lighter and drew hard, taking the smoke deep into her lungs. "Not this."

"It's OK, Angela."

"No, it is not OK John!" Angela surprised herself more than she did John by the sudden exclamation of anger. She inhaled deeply once again. "And how are the girls, though I have to say I am a little scared to ask."

"They are fine but they don't know about Kate."

"They don't know there mother is dying?"

"We thought it was better to protect them from the truth as long as possible."

"Come on John. What age are they? Kirsty must be nineteen now and Rebecca, seventeen? Do you think they are completely stupid?"

"It's good they don't know."

"Of course they know, John! Of course they know. They are Kate's daughters." Angela hated herself for her vitriolic attack, but John's revelation had completely blindsided her. She opened the driver's side door and stepped out, the chill breeze cutting straight through the fabric of her blouse. She gazed up at the passing clouds, backlit by the half phase moon, while John sat in silence in the passenger seat.

Half of her wanted to dump him out of the car there at the side of the road, so she could run back to the sanctuary of her bed and her pills, while the other half wanted to hold him and make the pain go away. She settled for somewhere in between and climbed back behind the wheel, casting the cigarette butt in a shallow puddle by the rear wheel.

"I am sorry," she took his hand and kissed the knuckles. "I shouldn't have reacted like that."

"I shouldn't have told you. It wasn't fair of me."

"Of course you should have told me. I am still your Angela." At that she fired up the engine and accelerated back onto the motorway.

"Are you sure you can park here?" It felt to John as though Angela had simply abandoned the car at the front door of the Hotel Carlton-Europe. It was immediately clear as to the origins of the hotel's double barrelled name; it was in fact two originally individual hotels, now joined at the hip by a modern steel and glass reception area and foyer.

"Don't worry. Nobody is going to ask me to move." Angela opened the driver's door and climbed out.

"Being a local celebrity has to have some benefits." John stretched his back. It was a relief to be standing up after the long journey.

"Celebrity?" She locked the car and beckoned John to follow her up the four concrete steps to the double glass door. "Not exactly."

"Guten Abend, Frau Stahl'" the woman at reception was very blonde, very Germanic and very attractive, though her antiquated Swiss country garb gave her the look of a forty-something Heidi doll.

Angela balked at the sound of her married name, the name of Interlaken's chief of police, Erich Stahl. Though still technically wed, the sham of a marriage had ended the year previously when Stahl had crashed his iron fist into her face for the last time, his shameless brutality witnessed at first hand by their adopted daughter Maria. No longer an innocent child, cowering in the face of the onetime national hero's violence; the orphan of Bosnia's killing fields chose to stand firm to protect the woman who had saved her from the satanic clutches of the Serbian beast Mavro Vladic.

"Guten Abend, Birgit." Angela smiled warmly. "This is Mr Alexander. He has a reservation."

"Ah, yes," Birgit tapped on the keyboard and studied the flat screen monitor. "Room 116, in the Carlton"

"I think Mr Alexander would prefer something in the Europe."

John was bemused. Carlton-Europe or Europe-Carlton; he really didn't care. He was shattered and he was hungry.

"We have room 21 available," Birgit looked at Angela for approval.

"Perfect."

Birgit handed the old fashioned room key, attached to a heavy brass fob. "To your left, you will find the stairs. The room is on the first floor."

"Thank you." John gratefully took the key.

"I'll wait here." Angela pointed to the soft leather armchairs to the far side of the main entrance. "Don't be long. Dinner stops at nine o'clock."

Is it left or right? That is the question that challenges us when the lift doors slide open on our designated floor. Eyes search for clues on the walls as the first tentative steps are taken across the carpet. Quickly the brain attempts to identify the room number within the various groupings on the embossed brass plates. Right, definitely right; the wheels of the case click on passing over the carpet runners before further hesitation. Glad that no one has followed you out of the lift, leaving no witness to your apprehension. So it is left, after all. Disaster averted, but why is the room always the farthest from the lift? Is there a secret handshake that should be offered at check-in to guarantee a room that does not require a moderate degree of physical stamina to reach? Maybe they are the preserve of guests not concerned about obtaining the cheapest rate available. The influx of Chinese, Indian and Russian, the new-moneyed tourists, had pushed the finest hotels on The Hoheweg, Interlaken's main thoroughfare, beyond the bounds of decency, never mind the budget of an over scrutinised NGO.

His room was a tired example of sixties kitsch, complete with rather disturbing viewing window separating the adequate bedroom from the somewhat cramped bathroom and the gauze inner curtains that never open, the only shield between private nakedness and public humiliation. He lifted his case onto the surplus single bed and sat on the edge of his preferred double. If John had cared to peer through the curtains, the luxury of the Schweizerhof and the Victoria Jungfrau would have taunted and tantalised. No, much better to turn away and soak up the mundane and earthly pleasures of the aging, weary Carlton-Europe. Yet again he found he was a man out of place and time. In Switzerland when he should have been at home in Edinburgh; running to the call of the Pied Piper when his wife needed him more than ever. He couldn't save Kate but maybe, just maybe, he could make a difference here in the heart of the Bernese Oberland.

His IPhone showed no missed calls and no texts despite the good level of service via _SwissCom_. Kate's mobile was, as always, the last number on his recent caller list. He pressed and waited.

" _This is Kate. Sorry I can't take your call, please leave a message after the tone or send me a tweet at Kate's Chateau, all one word. Thanks_."

"It's me. Just wanted to let you know I have arrived. Talk to you later."

John needed a drink and he was suddenly glad he had purchased the two 175ml bottles of Sauvignon Blanc on the flight from Edinburgh. He cracked the seal on the cap of the first and emptied the contents into the plastic glass that sat upturned on a paper doily next to the bed. Three long gulps drained the glass and he quickly refilled it from the second bottle. This time, he took only a sip before setting the glass on the bedside table.

He felt a tinge of shame at the sight of the two day growth, hugging an unflatteringly softening jaw line. Angela was right; he could and should have made an effort. The frothy warm water soothed his tired skin to the point he thought shaving foam would be unnecessary, but the satisfaction gained from the welcome shave lifted his spirits when he wallowed under the hot jets of the shower for longer than he meant to. A touch of wax tamed his flatteringly full head of brown hair and fresh perspiration damped the small of his back. The open necked blue shirt and sharp, beige trousers gave him the cut of a second rate, fading Pierce Brosnan, but still a big step up from the washed out afterthought who had stumbled into Geneva Airport a few hours earlier.

"I thought I'd been stood up," Angela rose from the brown leather armchair. "We'll be lucky if we're in time for dinner." She grabbed his left hand in her warm right palm. "It's been a long time."

When they entered the dining room, John immediately became aware of the old woman in the wheelchair perched next to the patio doors. The wispy grey hair and hunched shoulders betrayed a rare longevity. Despite the body's failing struggle against the inevitable, bright knowing eyes shone out from beneath the burden of heavy lids.

"Nana." Angela released John's hand and made a direct line for the old woman. Hunkering down before her, Angela took the wizened hands, blotchy with liver spots and kissed them warmly. "I have brought someone to meet you." Angela looked over her shoulder and beckoned John forward with her eyes. "Nana, this is John. He is an old friend of mine."

The old woman didn't speak or even attempt to, but she offered John a shallow smile that chilled him to the bone.

"John, this is my grandmother, Greta."

John was unsure how to properly address the old lady, so he settled for a polite nod of the head. "Good evening, ma'am."

She did not speak but held his gaze. Greta Hofmeister's mind was as sharp as ever; she remembered John. She remembered the young man who broke her granddaughter's heart. Yet here he was, after all these years, drawn back by fate or perhaps something else? Greta found it more difficult to concentrate since that last mild stroke. She looked again at John. She was glad he was here at Angela's side, now that she needed him more than ever.

Something was stirring at the heart of the valley; a darkness long forgotten yet never far from the surface, if you knew where to look; the autumn chill was ever so slightly colder than normal; the nights ever so slightly darker. The people of Interlaken didn't notice but Greta did. Greta was the only one who remembered.

John was glad to be released from the unsettling encounter with the old woman, though he wasn't really sure why. Now seated opposite Angela in a quiet corner of the dining room he was able to get a first proper look at her. Despite a harshness the years had brought to her features, he soon found himself back where it had all begun, swimming in those soft green eyes that smiled and seduced, alive with promise and hope, asking a hundred questions with every blink.

"So, what do you think of her?"

"She must be quite old," John chose his worlds hesitantly.

"She is ninety-six years old

"And is she your mother's or your father's mother?"

"Leonhard was her only son," Angela swallowed perceptibly at mentioning her precious father, who had passed away at the age of sixty-three, seven years previously.

"It must have been very hard on her when he died." John could see with clarity how hard it had been on Angela.

"Greta carries many ghosts in her heart."

John was caught off guard by Angela's slightly skewed reply, but from the way she broke his gaze and seemed to focus on the middle distance of the trees beyond the railway line, he realised there would be nothing by way of elaboration.

"As do we all." he hadn't actually meant to say the words out loud, but they brought her back from her clearly troubled thoughts.

Angela reached across the table and took his fingers in an awkward grip that conveyed every emotion and yet, at the same time, none at all. It was a relief when the Italian waiter arrived by the table and Angela felt compelled to retract her hand.

"Something to drink?" the tall, young man enquired.

"Mineral water, please" Angela smiled.

"And, sir?"

"I'll have a large beer, please."

"Certainly, and are you ready to order?"

"Just bring us the cold meat platter for two," Angela ordered before John had time to run his eyes down the full length of the paper menu.

The waiter nodded and walked off quickly in the direction from which he had come.

Angela leaned forward in her seat and spoke in hushed tones. "I hope you didn't mind me ordering for us both? It's just the food is rubbish here, especially tonight. The schnitzel tastes like rubber and the polenta? Well, the least said about that, the better."

John was surprised but amused by her honesty. "But isn't this your family's hotel?"

"It is owned by my Uncle Heinrich."

"I thought your father had no siblings?"

"He didn't. My Grandmother had on older sister, Anna. Uncle Heinrich is her son."

"And is Anna still alive?"

"She died in 1945."

"My God, she must have been very young." John understood another of the many ghosts that Greta carried in her heart.

"Twenty-eight."

John was about to ask how she died when Andrea, the young waiter, strode back across the wooden floor, expertly carrying a tray with John and Angela's drinks balanced on top.

Angela offered a toast with her glass of iced water. "I would just like to thank you for caring."

John raised his glass tankard, before taking a long slug. "So tell me, Angela; tell me about Vladic."

Angela bit her lower lip and traced a forefinger around the rim of her glass. "It was sometime after one o'clock on Wednesday. I had driven up from home to Lauterbrunnen to meet to meet my Mother off the train from Grindlewald. She had an appointment with the chiropodist in Thun later in the afternoon."

"How is your Mother?"

"As healthy as any seventy-five year old has any right to expect. She had a pacemaker fitted a couple of years ago but her real problem is her right leg. She is in a lot of pain when she walks. That is why her doctor has referred her to this chiropodist."

"It would be nice to meet her again." It struck him that the image in his memory of Ingrid Hofmeister was confusingly of a younger version of the woman sitting across the table. The thought amused and disturbed in equal measure. "Sorry, go on."

"I had parked the car and walked over to the platform where the train would soon be arriving. There were a few people there waiting for the train to Interlaken. The opposite platform was very busy. It is still the summer season and there was quite a crowd waiting for the train up to Wengen and Kleine Scheidegg. That was when I noticed them; three men, who didn't fit in."

"In what way, didn't fit in?"

"You know, the way the stood, the way they moved. They had no backpacks, no cameras; they just didn't look like tourists." Angela took a sip of water to lubricate her drying mouth. "When they took their seats on board the train," she hesitated, balking at the remembered shock of the moment. "That is when I saw it was him, sitting by the window only a few yards from me."

"Did he see you?"

Angela shook her head. "He was talking to his companions and typing on a tablet. In any case, I wasn't exactly looking a million dollars. My hair was pulled back and I was wearing sunglasses. He wouldn't have given me a second glance; nobody would."

"What happened then?" John took another healthy mouthful of the cold wheat beer.

"That was it. The train pulled out of the station and went up the mountain."

"And you haven't seen him again?"

Angela shook her head. "You do believe me, John?"

"Jesus, of course I do."

"It's just I wouldn't blame you if you didn't. There is not a minute since that I haven't replayed the scene over and over in my head, hoping to find a piece of evidence to contradict my story."

"That's perfectly natural."

"I haven't been well, John," she blurted out what she had wanted to hide from John at all costs, but it was apparent she needed to tell him everything. "Depression is the medical term."

John was taken aback but altogether not surprised. The events of the past few days alone couldn't explain how she had aged so much in the months since he had last seen her. "If you tell me you have seen Mavro Vladic, you're damned right I believe you."

Angela reached under the table and picked up her brown leather handbag. John was trying to decide if she was going to the bathroom or leaving altogether, when she set it on the table and sat back in her chair. "I want you to have a look inside before you decide if you believe me or not."

John set down his glass and scrutinised Angela's eyes for some guidance, but as usual, she was asking all the questions of him. He lifted the handbag onto his lap, hidden from the glare of any prying eyes and undid the zip. Of course, he noticed the golden lipstick holder, undoubtedly the one she was wearing, but that is where the tenets of expectation and realisation diverged. How long had she been smoking? The pack of twenty Marlboro was almost empty. He didn't take time to read the labels on the assorted strips of pills, though one he recognised as co-codamol 30/500, extremely potent pain killers that most could not tolerate without feeling ill; underneath was a half-bottle of vodka.

He said nothing but simply redid the zip on the handbag and set it under the table.

"As I said, Angela, I believe you."

She really didn't want him to feel sorry for her, but partially unburdened of shame and self-loathing; she allowed tears to well up in her eyes. "Why is he here?"

"I don't know."

"You're going to make it your business to find out, though?"

"He may be long gone, Angela."

"You don't really believe that, though, do you?"

"No, my guess is he's still around but I'm going to need help."

"What kind of help?"

"I'm not a policeman, Angela. I cannot arrest this man."

"Not you personally, but your people can, no?"

He shook his head. "Only the police can do that."

"I told you Maria is a police officer now here in Interlaken." She tried to disguise the trembling in her voice.

This time, it was John who reached across the table and placed his hand warmly on hers. "Don't worry; I need to talk to whoever is in charge of the Kantonspolizei for the Canton of Bern."

Angela wiped away the wetness in her eyes with the corner of the paper serviette, just in time as the waiter, Andrea had returned with the large platter of ham, salami's, cheeses and salad, along with two smaller plates for them to eat from.

When the waiter had retreated from earshot, Angela shrugged as if the inevitability of circumstance was coming to be a joke. "My dear husband is the commander of the Schutzpolizei, the Security Police for the Bernese Oberland."

"Erich Stahl." John threw back his head and reckoned he was going to need something more potent than beer. Had fate dictated that in order to help Angela, John would need the assistance of the violent husband who had made her life hell?

"He may be a complete bastard, John, but he is good at his job. He won't be frightened by Vladic."

"I'm sure he won't." Already, the prospect of meeting Erich Stahl again was weighing heavy on his heart. His appetite deserted him. "I need to make some calls and it's getting late," he sighed.

"Don't worry; I'm not very hungry either. I don't eat much these days."

John got up and tossed a fifty Franc note on the table. "You should eat, Angela. You should take care of yourself."

They apologized and bid goodnight to Andrea, but Greta was no longer in her usual corner, having been wheeled off to her room by her night nurse. Twenty year old Polish girl Alexandra tended to Greta's needs from ten pm until seven in the morning, even sleeping on a camp-bed in the matriarch's room.

"Call me in the morning," John said when he had walked Angela to her car.

"You understand I cannot take you to Erich?"

"More than most, I think."

"Have a good night's sleep," she smiled and they embraced warmly.

"Something makes me think I'm going to need it." Without thinking, he kissed her gently on the lips. It was nothing really, barely a scratch but enough to change the dynamic in the night air.

"Goodnight," she mouthed and climbed behind the wheel of her car.

John felt a shiver up his spine. He backed up the steps, aware of the line of perspiration drying beneath his shirt. His eyes followed the Audi back out onto the Hoheweg but Angela didn't look back. In the car, she was grateful the drive back home to Wilderswil would take only five minutes. She could keep her emotions in check for that long, surely?

Back in his room, John used the toilet before phoning Kate.

"Hello?"

He relaxed as ever at the sound of her voice. Kate never looked at the caller display on her phone before answering a call, so her greeting always had the high inflexion on the 'o' of hello. As usual, he had to introduce himself.

"It's me."

On hearing her husband's voice, Kate was able to drop the pretence and continue the conversation in the tired, reserved tone that had unwittingly become her norm. "Hi, honey. So you got there OK?"

"No problems at all." John found it difficult to have a telephone conversation with his ailing wife, needing the intimacy of physical contact to facilitate their true feelings. "How was today?"

"Good, good. The restaurant was really busy this evening. I almost," she hesitated. "Well, you know, I almost forgot...."

"I know, darling. That's good." John ran his fingers repeatedly through his hair, searching for the right words.

"I hate going to sleep on my own," Kate kick started the conversation.

"It will only be for a few days."

"I suppose I'm just scared of not waking up." Her voice began to falter.

"Shit!" John muttered under his breath. "I need to engage some of the local agencies tomorrow, then......"

"You have to do your job, John. I know that and it's OK."

"It shouldn't take too long."

"Just promise me you won't go to bed with her. I really couldn't cope with that. I love you very much." Kate's voice tailed off and she hung up.

John sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the photo he had taken of Kate before they had gone out to celebrate her fiftieth birthday. His choice for the wallpaper on his phone radiated everything that defined his wife – beauty, strength and passion. In that moment, he would have given anything to be under the duvet with his cheek resting on her soft, warm breasts.

Angela had lifted one of her most treasured photographs from its place above the fireplace. Taken on the Zugspitze Mountain above the ski resort of Garmisch Partinkirchen in the Bavarian Alps in January 1985, the wooden framed snapshot was of three beautiful young women, smiling for the camera on the eve of the World Cup downhill race that was destined to shatter all their lives. The larger than life, blonde haired Californian, Cindy Johnson on the left, the demur, shy Angela Hofmeister on the right and in the middle, the _Queen of The Alps_ , Maria Agostini, whose beauty, skill and grace had dominated the slopes for over a decade. The next morning Maria had died in a horrific crash which led indirectly to the unravelling of the lives of both Cindy and Angela. She had been their inspiration, their idol and their friend. Without her, they too had crashed.

Angela washed down four of the strong pain killers with a glass of milk and lit one of the hi-tar cigarettes. With Maria on night shift, she could have sat all night at the kitchen table simply staring into the past, which at the same time comforted and tortured with equal cruelty.

John rose early and was in the dining room for shortly after seven thirty. Even with the earliness of the hour, he had half expected Angela's grandmother to be in situ in her corner of the restaurant, watching and waiting; but for what?

The corner by the beer garden was vacant and he helped himself to a cappuccino from the rather elaborate coffee machine along with two warm croissants and butter.

Twenty minutes later, Birgit smiled knowingly at him when he set the heavy key fob on top of the reception counter. "Have a nice day," she spoke in heavily accented English.

The walk to Interlaken Ost station took only a few minutes, with a refreshingly stiff breeze coming off Lake Brienz helping to blow away the cobwebs of the night before. It was only seven o'clock back at home, so he decided it was too early to ring Kate. She beat him to it.

"Good morning!" she sounded bright. "Did you sleep OK?"

"Yeah, fine."

"Liar! I shouldn't have said what I did last night. You don't deserve it."

"Yes I do."

"I'm just lonely and frightened, you know?"

"I know." John stopped in his stride. "I love you, Kate."

"Ring me later. I need to get down to the restaurant early."

"Are the girls OK?"

"They're great."

"Do you think we should...." He began, before Kate cut him off. "Call me later, bye!"

"OK, bye." He slipped the phone back into his pocket and crossed the road to the train station.

Antiseptic décor only served to enhance the blandness of the Bernese Oberland district headquarters of the Bern Schutzpolizei. Buried in a non-descript side street off Thun's main commercial artery, the modern three storey office block paid little homage to the picturesque land of dreams it had been constructed to watch over.

"Commander Stahl, it is good of you to see me at such short notice." John plunged uncertainly into the surprisingly plush surroundings of the imposing police chief's office.

The passing of time had failed to diminish the powerful physique of the former Olympic downhill ski champion. Only the spreading crow's feet around the cold eyes John remembered so well, betrayed the battle against middle age that Stahl was still winning hands down.

"John, it is good to see you again after all this time." The false charm the giant Swiss oozed as he stepped out from behind his desk did little to put John at ease. The forced smile that faked humanity on the shaven head bore more resemblance to the subjects of John's investigations than that of a crucial ally. The iron handshake left John in no doubt who was in charge. "I think it is OK for you to call me Erich. After all, we do go back a long way."

When Stahl released his hand, John could not help but recoil at the thought of the very same flesh slamming into Angela's face. Somehow, he had to bury his personal feelings because, in spite of everything, Stahl was obviously damned good at his job. There was an edge to him that impressed and unsettled; the way he moved and the way he observed his subject, yet at the same time maintaining a visual control of his immediate surroundings. There can't have been many criminals who would be keen on squaring up to Erich Stahl. Equally, it was not difficult to imagine the caged tiger taking out the frustrations of the legally bound parameters his position brought on an innocent woman who he had sworn in the sight of God to protect and cherish. John hated Erich Stahl more than ever but this was neither the time nor place to allow the past to interfere with the present.

"Yes Erich, it has been a long time. The years go by so quickly."

"Sit, please." Stahl gestured to the black office chair, purposely set a few inches lower than the commander's own, not that he needed such cheap management gimmicks to reinforce his status.

John submitted to the insistent invitation but was spared the long rehearsed indignity as Stahl elected to remain standing. "How is my wife?" He asked while pointedly taking time to look out the window in the direction of Lake Thun.

John recognized it as a test but he could not allow himself to be drawn into a juvenile game. "She is fine."

"That's not what I have heard, but then you and her...." Stahl stopped himself mid-sentence and turned to look at John again. "I got a text from her last night asking me to meet with you. She did not say why."

"Yet you agreed to this meeting?"

"I have had almost no contact with her in the past year, John. Now out of the blue she tells me it is imperative I meet you today. Of course, I know it must be of some importance."

John scanned Stahl's features but quickly reprimanded himself. The uniformed giant was the most senior police officer in the region; he was not a war criminal. "Are you familiar with the name Mavro Vladic?"

Stahl's expression changed. "The Butcher of Bijeljina? I think that animal has cast a shadow over all our lives."

"I'm sorry, maybe I should rephrase my question," John shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Stahl straightened the knot of his navy blue tie, the first hint of humanity John had noticed since entering the room. "No doubt, you see me as little better."

Emboldened by the image of Claudine Leffray's blood-soaked corpse and Angela's thinly veiled terror, John looked straight into Stahl's icy blue eyes. "He is here; here in the Bernese Oberland."

"What makes you say that?"

"Angela saw him; four days ago at Lauterbrunnen train station."

Stahl's eyes narrowed. "She is certain of this?" The hesitant tone in his voice told John he was disturbed as well as intrigued. "What could he be doing here?"

John shrugged. "That's why I am here. That is why I need your help."

"He has committed no crime in Switzerland; not that I am aware of, that is."

"Commander," John began but corrected himself. "Erich, I work for the Deputy Prosecutor of The International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia, Margaret Bauer. She took over the role from Claudine Leffray. Madame Leffray was murdered by Vladic in Sarajevo in February. Margaret is responsible for investigating and presenting cases to trial. Vladic was in the final list of indictments issued at the end of 2004. Now he is the last of the one hundred and sixty-two individuals indicted by the Tribunal who is still at large."

Stahl massaged his chin, suddenly deep in thought. "He could be in South America by now. What makes you think he is still here?"

"You are right. He could have left the country the very next morning."

"But?"

"He must have come here for a reason and I don't believe it was for the panoramic views."

Stahl sat in the high backed leather chair on his side of the desk and tapped lightly on the keyboard of his Sony Vaio. "I have very limited resources at my disposal, John. Don't let this building fool you. We share it with two insurance companies and a production company for second rate porn movies."

"Surely for something of this magnitude you can draft in extra manpower?"

Stahl sat back and smiled for the first time. "We have very little crime in this canton. Football fans that drink too much, some minor drug related offences and the occasional lost dog. This," he unclipped the glossy black holster at his waist and drew a gleaming pistol, which he set carefully on the desktop. "The only time this ever sees the light of day is to clean it. I haven't even been to the firing range in ten years."

John was getting the message.

"I have some contacts in Interpol I can liaise with, but I cannot promise anything."

"Can't you at least carry out some checks? Have your people on the ground check CCTV for leads?"

Stahl's smile creased to a chuckle. "I have four full time officers covering the entire Jungfrau region, but I agree this cannot be ignored. I will ask Bern to authorise some overtime."

John was incredulous at the pathetic response to the sighting of one of Europe's most wanted men. "What about your friends at Interpol?"

Stahl nodded. "I will contact Lyon directly."

"Good." John stood, determining the meeting had reached a natural if unsatisfying conclusion.

"It is a small world, is it not John?"

"Indeed." Much too small, John was learning.

"You know a lady by the name of Chief Inspector Rousseau, I believe? Genevieve Rousseau?"

That was a name John had not heard for a long, long time. Common sense dictated it couldn't possibly be her. "I know quite a few people at Interpol. I cannot say I recall that name."

Stahl came from behind the desk and shook John's hand with more warmth than at their greeting. "I will be in touch."

# CHAPTER 19

Bregenz, Austria 1983

The shimmering heat haze of another seemingly endless July evening finally melted away into the oppressive world of neon and petrol fumes, forcing the bikers gathered in the car park across the street to remove their mirrored lenses revealing, for the most part, kinder eyes than the harsh, leather clad image might have suggested. The time had come for them to reclaim the Lake Promenade which would throb to the twin beat of Harley's and heavy metal until the new dawn once again delivered an uneasy tranquillity.

The audience of seven thousand began to melt away, their hearts lifted following the spectacular performance of La Bohème, the focal point of the annual Bregenz Festival. The Seebuhne or floating stage on the eastern shores of Lake Constance provided a unique and dramatic setting for Puccini's masterpiece. A magnet for Austria's opera lovers, the festival also attracted many holidaymakers, passing through on their way to Salzburg, Vienna or the picturesque mountain villages of the Tirol. There were also a healthy number of culture gypsies who toured central Europe, basking in music, poetry and literature wherever they could find it.

"I don't like the look of that lot." Nineteen year old John Alexander didn't see himself as any of the above and now he was dearly wishing their meagre finances could have stretched to a more inviting motel than _Regina's_.

"For God's sake, baby; they're just guys on bikes; not axe murderers." Genevieve Rousseau had grown up in a tough inner city estate in Marseilles, so was not easily intimidated, but even she found herself reaching into her pocket for the comforting touch of her cigarette packet.

"I know," John agreed against his better judgment, knowing full well Genevieve's white leather miniskirt and black fishnet stockings were unlikely to pass without comment from the fifteen or so knights of denim and leather. John, for his part, looked like the sixth member of Spandau Ballet and despite his bleached jeans and cowboy boots, the blonde streaked coiffure and pink sleeveless t-shirt did nothing to advertise the fact he was one of the finest rock guitarists on the Edinburgh university scene. If only he had his guitar with him he could have had their tongues drooling with a few dazzling licks and mighty riffs.

He needn't have worried; all that was aimed at them were a few mock blown kisses backed up with some sniggering.

"Do you think those kisses were for me or you baby?" Genevieve followed him in the front door and gave him a playful pat on the rear.

"Drink?" John nodded in the direction of the bar.

"Absolutely."

The unlikely couple sat on the tall stools at the end of the bar; the clean cut, middle class Scottish lad and the half Algerian French woman with spiked black hair, thick black eyeliner and deep purple lipstick. A year younger than John, Genevieve could have passed for twenty-five and in her boots, stood a good inch taller than his six foot dead, but unlike many taller girls who can be self-conscious of height, she carried her stature with an easy, graceful confidence. Naturally she held a cigarette with the air of many years' experience but alcohol was not her thing; she could not understand why anyone would want to numb their brain with drink or drugs when life was meant to be experienced in vivid colour.

"So, did you enjoy the opera?" John asked in confident foreknowledge of the response.

"Of course baby but I am not so sure you did." Genevieve stared him hard in the eye through a pall of blue-grey smoke.

"I do get the intensity Jenny; I really do. It's just....."

"It's just what?" Genevieve shrugged demonstrably. "What is it you are looking for?"

John cast his eyes to the ceiling and exhaled deeply. "I am looking for Led Zeppelin combined with Beethoven, with a coating of Kraftwerk and maybe a little Bowie for good measure."

"So you have told me many times baby but I am not sure you really do know what you are looking for. Maybe it really is the......... what did you call it? The un....."

"The unattainable Mecca."

"Exactly."

"Maybe that is the case but I think it is worth reaching for the stars, don't you?" John sipped on his tall glass of wheat beer. "Before you ask, I do not want our band to sound like this." The bar was filled with the pulsating rhythm of Nena's _'99 Red Balloons_ ,' it's cheesy Euro-pop kitsch having haunted their trip since leaving Edinburgh five days previously.

Genevieve laughed and drank from her glass of rather flat cola. "Now you really are insulting me baby."

"Sorry but right now there are so many great new bands emerging, we need a distinctive sound or else we will just be lost in the white noise."

"Def Leppard have done OK?" Genevieve said.

"Yeah, but they've got Steve Clarke coming up with some of the best riffs since Page's glory days." John drank deep from his beer.

"What about that new band from America? Bon Jovi, isn't it?"

"Nah! Rehashed Springsteen with long hair; definite white noise candidates."

"Then I give up." She threw John a withering look and puffed her cheeks.

"What about this?" Genevieve had scanned the full FM band on the bedside radio, every so often pausing at a music station in an effort to locate a suitable soundtrack for the sultry night. They both lay on top of the bed clothes to try and stay comfortable. The air conditioning unit above the bathroom door was working away gamely but with little benefit.

"That'll do." John sighed and Genevieve fine-tuned away the static and let Duran Duran into their extremely basic room.

"So tell me, Monsieur Alexander," Genevieve ran her finger tips up his chest and nibbled on his ear lobe. "Do you see me as your girlfriend or your associate?"

"My associate?"

"You know; partner? You never actually asked me out on a date so I guess that means I'm not really your girlfriend." She gave him a coy look.

"OK, OK. Genevieve, would you do me the honour of joining me for breakfast tomorrow morning?"

"You mean this morning?"

"Turn the radio up!" John suddenly pushed himself up on his elbows.

Genevieve obeyed. "But that is Abba. You can't get any more pop than that."

"No, this isn't pop. This is something else entirely. _Dancing Queen_ and _Waterloo_ are pop." The incessant melancholic soliloquy to the Swedish superstars world domination, ' _The Day Before You Came_ ,' was far removed from the dance floor gold of their halcyon days and had failed to make a significant impact on the charts, but it struck a chord somewhere deep inside John's soul. "That," he pointed to the radio. "That is our starting point."

"OK," Genevieve nodded. "Now we have that cleared up maybe we can make some music of a different kind."

The strengthening breeze brushed his sunburnt arms like a fine horse hair brush and a row of honeysuckle bushes writhed as if alive. Next to him on the grass, Genevieve had just passed the midpoint of a worn copy of Henry Miller's 1949 novel ' _Sexus_ ,' her constant companion when separated from her Yamaha keyboard.

"Don't you ever get tired of that book?"

"Reading expands your horizons baby. You should try it. It will enrich your brain and inspire your creativity."

"Hmm. Last book I read was _Jane Eyre_. We had to study it at school for O-Level. Now that was enough to put anyone off reading for life."

Genevieve sniggered. "Forget the so-called classics, baby. That boring shit from the eighteenth and nineteenth century is only rammed down kids' throats because the bloody teachers cannot be bothered updating the school syllabus. Trust me, stick with the great writers from the past fifty years and you won't be disappointed; Joyce, Hemmingway, Greene and of course Henry Miller."

"But surely all Henry Miller writes about is weird sex?"

Genevieve nudged him playfully in the ribcage. "Where do you think I get the ideas for new ways to stimulate you, baby?"

Darkly monolithic and resplendent in gothic mystery, the imposing spires of St. Stephen's Cathedral are part religious icon and part cultural centrepiece of Vienna's old world splendour. How many drops in the ocean of the tide of Cold War have rippled out from the hidden corners of its long, creeping shadows? The cool, empty silence of early morning chilled the back of the neck like a forbidden whisper. Weightless, frothing white clouds drifted like smoke beneath the threatening mauve base of the approaching summer storm.

John had the floating sensation of detachment that follows a night without sleep. _Club Paradix_ had jettisoned him and Genevieve, along with the other hundred or so patrons at seven AM. The owners required a few hours to clean up the club and restock the bar in readiness for the midday reopening. John reckoned that some of the punters just hung around outside and waited for the doors to open again and they could repossess their favourite leopard skin covered settee in the unisex toilets, or worn out, giant bean bag in the pit beneath the stage.

"That was a good night, no baby?" Genevieve's olive skin looked pale and clammy as she sucked the life out of a cigarette.

"It certainly was interesting," John massaged the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"I really thought that girl was going to suck your dick,"

John turned around and looked at Genevieve. "Are you absolutely sure it was a girl?"

"Would it matter?"

"Of course it bloody well would!" John was still never altogether sure when she was joking.

"Relax baby, it was most definitely a girl." She threw him a wicked smile.

He knew better than to pursue the subject any further. "Why don't we go for a ride on the Ferris wheel this morning?"

"Do you think your stomach is up to it?"

"There's only one way to find out?"

The 212 feet Rieserand (giant wheel) sits triumphantly at the entrance of the Prater Amusement Park and despite the host of classical splendour on offer across the Austrian capital, the ever popular tourist attraction symbolised the city for many visitors.

Relentless as the rain, turning, ever turning like a giant gateway linking the glory years of the nineteenth century with the pulsating rock driven wealth of the late twentieth century. The Rieserand had surveyed with its cyclops eye the violent destruction of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, itself bombed to the edge of extinction in the cataclysm of the spring of 1945. Would it remain as a silent witness to the nuclear nightmare that haunted the ambition of the early 1980's?

John felt queasy just looking up at the gondola dangling at twelve o'clock, the smiles on the faces of its captives whether genuine or for the benefit of Daddy's Kodak, doing little to encourage him to approach the gaily decorated ticket booth. "Would you settle for a balloon?" he asked hopefully, nodding towards the tubby, grey haired man who was doing his best not to be lifted skywards by the clutch of helium filled balloons tethered to his waistband.

"Come on, it will be romantic." Genevieve took his hand and trailed him to the back of the short queue.

# CHAPTER 20

Hotel Europe - Interlaken 2014

"Is that you, Anna?"

Alexandra was awoken again from her restless sleep. It fascinated her how strong and clear Greta's voice was when she called out from her slumber.

"What are you trying to tell me Anna?"

The young nurse fiddled with the volume control on her cell phone. It may well have been Jessie J's party, but the pulsating rhythm was not loud enough to drown out the old woman's voice.

"What are those marks on your back? Anna, get up! Get up!" The voice trailed off to its more familiar croak. "O My God!"

Interlaken September 2014

Peter Zurbriggen yawned so hard, he really felt he could have dislocated his jaw. Having been roused from his bed after a mere three hours sleep following a long, boring night shift was bad enough. Being dragged to the next town to a meeting with the most senior police officer in the Jungfrau region had not made for a pleasant trip out to Thun. He had been a police officer for almost five years but had never laid eyes on Commander Erich Stahl. The fact that he was going out with Stahl's daughter, albeit his adopted daughter, ensured the prospect of a first meeting with the chief, whose fearsome reputation went before him, was enough to put Peter off his breakfast.

"Don't look so worried Peter," Maria pinched his cheek playfully. "He's is just like every other bully in this world. Stand up to them and you find out pretty quickly they're not quite as intimidating as they like to think."

"That's easy for you to say; he's your father."

She grabbed his arm roughly. "No Peter. He is not my father. My father died a long time ago at the hands of another bully; a bully with a gun in his hand and evil in his heart. I am living proof of his ultimate failure." She released him from her grip and her expression softened, the features returning to their symmetrical perfection. "So, like I said, you leave the mighty Stahl to me."

Peter was not about to argue with this passionate young woman who, though the child of another nation, was very much the daughter of her adoptive mother.

The door of the Commander's office opened. Peter and Maria stood and walked in, clutching their baseball style caps in their perspiring palms.

"Officer Zurbriggen, Officer Stahl, please be seated," The Commander pointed to the two steel framed office chairs positioned on the near side of his desk, while he stood by the window and tilted the venetian blinds a few degrees to restrict the amount of midday sunlight that streamed into the office.

"That's Officer _Hofmeister_ , sir; _not_ Stahl," Maria spoke strongly and clearly.

"Excuse me?" Stahl looked round at the uniformed duo, still standing by the chairs he had set out for them.

Maria fixed Stahl with an icy stare. "Pardon me, Commander, but my name is Hofmeister."

Her words hung in the air as though icicles were forming on them. Peter felt weak at the knees. 'Not now, Maria. Please, not now,' he said into himself, but to his surprise the Commander didn't flinch at Maria's barbed opening. He merely flicked his fingers in the air.

"Whatever you say, Maria."

His response took Maria as much by surprise as it did Peter. Whatever reason Stahl had for summoning them to his office, it went way beyond any petty family matters.

"Sit down, for God's sake!" Stahl snapped this time and they obeyed, their training instinctively reacting to a direct command from a senior officer.

"So, how are things in Interlaken?" Stahl returned to his aimless vigil at the window.

"Quiet." Maria adjusted the belt around her waist as the butt of her sidearm was digging into her.

"We did get a call to a disturbance in Hooters Bar yesterday," Peter chirped.

"Disturbance?" Stahl still did not look round.

"It was nothing, Sir," Maria interjected. "We got a second call a few minutes later to tell us the issue had been resolved."

"That is good news, _Officer Hofmeister_. It is not good for the Interlaken's image of idyll to have the police wading into bars crammed with tourists who are simply bursting to part with their money."

"Other than that, just the usual admin work; insurance claims for lost cell phones, credit cards and the occasional missing person who turn up about an hour later." Maria spoke precisely, though she was only too aware Stahl had not summoned them to his office to listen to detailed accounts of studied insignificance.

"You must be asking yourselves what you are doing here." Finally, he turned and looked each in the eye in turn. "I want you to forget about missing poodles and stray rucksacks for a few days." He walked over to his desk and pulled open the top drawer, still without sitting down. "Sorry, but I have not had the time to make any copies." He took out a beige manila folder and opened it on his desk. The single black and white photograph was printed on a standard A4 sheet. "I have received reports that this individual has been seen in your district in the past few days." He slid the sheet across the surface of the desk. Peter leaned forward in his seat to take it, but Maria beat him to it.

"It is most likely nothing of any significance, but the authorities are interested in his whereabouts." Stahl scrutinised Maria's face as she examined the photograph.

Her head snapped up and she looked directly at Stahl, her pupils dark and wide like saucers. "You know who this is, don't you?" Her voice cracked.

Stahl paused before continuing. "As I said, it may be nothing. A person of interest to the authorities, that is all. He has committed no crime in our jurisdiction."

"No crime?" Maria's voice began to waver at the image of the man who was responsible for the death of her parents. Peter was unsure what was going on between his girlfriend and her stepfather.

"Are you telling me he is here?" Maria asked. "Where was this taken?"

Stahl shook his head. "This is an archive picture we had emailed from our friends at Interpol earlier today. We have no confirmed sighting in Switzerland, only a possible ID a couple of days ago."

"Where?" Maria was doing everything she could to regulate her breathing.

Stahl was torn between the demands of his position and loyalty to his stepdaughter. "At Lauterbrunnen station, boarding the Jungfraubahnen."

"But by who? Who could possibly know this man?" As soon as the words had crossed her lips, the answer smashed her in the solar plexus, knocking the wind from her lungs. "Mum...........?

Stahl's brow furrowed.

Maria grabbed her forehead with both hands. "Then he must be here. He must be, but why?"

"Who is it?" Peter asked an open question to the room.

"Vladic, his name is Mavro Vladic." Maria said with resignation in her voice rather than shock or surprise. Was it inevitable that the monster would catch up with her once again?

Peter remained as impassive as he could on hearing the name of the man Maria had told him of and the indelible imprint he had left on her life.

Stahl held out his hands in a calming gesture. "That is what I need you to ascertain; the reason he is her, but, under no circumstances is this man to be approached. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Peter spoke immediately.

"Maria?" Peter turned to his girlfriend.

"Officer Hofmeister?" Stahl growled. "Do you understand?"

"I need to go to her. She may be in danger," Maria knew her words were coming out in an increasingly incoherent babble. "What if he is here for her?"

"You know that doesn't ring true, Maria" Peter tried to calm her down. "Your mother did not witness any of his crimes."

"But I did." The colour suddenly drained from Maria's face.

"You are my eyes and ears up there, so just be vigilant and be careful," Stahl suddenly struck by the possible significance of Maria's expressed fear. "Report back anything you see. We should have special investigators from outside here within the next forty-eight hours."

The shiver down her spine gave her the feeling they were all in danger; not just her mother, Peter and herself but perhaps everything they held dear was in peril. Angela had told her of the darkness that slept in the heart of the valley. Perhaps, that darkness was reawakening. Perhaps the four year old girl running through the snow to escape the monster was both her past and her inescapable future.

Stahl answered a call on his cell phone and indicated with a vague point of his finger that the meeting had come to an end and they should close the door on the way out.

Maria made the first move and was at the door so quickly that Peter was forced into a graceless stumble in his effort to ensure they exited the Commander's office together.

With the door securely closed behind them, the two officers headed straight for the stairs in silence and descended quickly, passing the grey haired sergeant at the front desk with the merest hint of acknowledgment.

"I'll drive," Maria held out her hand. Peter was the designated driver, having completed the advanced driving course which she was yet to sit, but she clearly was not in the mood for a debate on the subject. "I can think straighter when I am behind the wheel. You know that," she offered by way of pre-empting the protest that didn't materialise.

The first few minutes of the drive back from Thun passed in high tensile discomfort. The only sound inside the car was from Maria's tongue, which clicked nervously against the roof of her mouth accompanied by random punctuation courtesy of Peter clearing his throat each time the words failed to ignite in his larynx.

The stalemate was broken by the default tri-tone alerting Maria to an incoming text message. "Do you want me to see who that was?" Peter offered his right hand to take her phone but she shook her head.

"Don't worry."

Having found his tongue, Peter asked "What the hell is a Serb war criminal doing sniffing around in our back yard?"

"That's what we have been tasked to find out."

"Do you really think it has anything to do with your mother?"

She shook her head. "I cannot see why, but until we can come up with something more plausible, she's is going to have to be careful." Maria eased back on the accelerator. It never looked good when a patrol car was speeding when not under the blue light. "

Marilyn Schneider was beside herself with worry. Hollis had been acting strangely since their quiet drink had been interrupted by that Reinhardt character. She had taken an instant dislike to the man and failed to comprehend his interest in her husband. Her anger with Hollis never lasted. She accepted it was not his fault. When he had returned from his last tour of duty, he was no longer the fun loving extrovert she had married. Even his beloved _Seattle Seahawks_ no longer lured him to the fortnightly NFL game. Now he had vanished once more, leaving her alone in the miserable hotel room with no idea where he was going or when he would be back. She went out onto the balcony and looked up and down the Hoheweg as though she expected to see her husband waving up at her, with a plastic carrier bag from one of the souvenir shops in his hand. That is when her eyes settled upon two figures in blue shirts and black trousers walking past the front of the hotel in the direction of the train station. She rushed downstairs without even taking the time to lock the door of her room and once outside, was relieved to find the two police officers, in deep conversation, still where they had been a few minutes before.

"Excuse me," she spoke in English. "Excuse me," she repeated. This time one of the officers, a young woman turned around.

"Can I help you, madam?"

"You speak English, thank God for that."

Maria smiled at the lady, who seemed rather distraught. "Yes, of course. My colleague is not so good with English, but I will try and help you."

"It is my husband. I am worried about him."

"Is he ill?"

"No, yes. I don't know."

"Are you staying at the Hotel Carlton-Europe?"

Marilyn nodded.

"Maybe we should continue the conversation inside." Maria led the way though the entrance. Marital problems, she could do without. Peter and her should not be wasting precious tine, better spent continuing their investigations into Vladic. Having said that, these American tourists were capable of making a lot of noise if they didn't get their own way, so she was happy to go through the motions in the hope it would be an easy win.

Birgit watched from behind the reception desk as the American lady from room twenty-five walked back in through the front door, this time accompanied by the two local police officers, one of whom was Angela's daughter. Birgit tried to catch Maria's eye, but she was preoccupied taking a call on her cell phone and sat with her back to the reception area.

"Let's begin with your name?" Maria took an old fashioned note book from her hip pocket and flicked it open at the next blank page.

"Schneider, Marilyn Schneider."

"Are you English?"

"No, American. From Seattle, Washington."

"Are you here on vacation, Mrs Schneider?"

Marilyn nodded. "With my husband, Hollis."

"Please tell us why you are worried about your husband?"

Marilyn bit her lip and fought back a tear. "My husband is not well. He was a soldier; retired now, of course. He suffers from a condition known as post-traumatic stress disorder."

Peter nodded, familiar with the term, even in English.

"His platoon commander trod on an IED – an improvised explosive and was blown in half. She died in his arms."

"She?" Maria sat forward, looking visibly shocked.

"Dana Reis was a girl, much too pretty to have wasted her life in the desert fighting for a worthless cause."

"I can understand how this must have had a bad effect on your husband."

"He takes a lot of medication, officer. He is also prone to violent mood swings. Without his meds, there's no telling what he may be capable of if he was pushed."

"Has anything specific happened since you have been here; anything to give you any particular reason to be concerned?"

Marilyn puffed out her cheeks, doubting her approach. "There was an incident in a bar a couple of days ago."

"Incident, what sort of incident?"

"Like I said, Hollis is not a well man and he can get angry, sometimes for the most insignificant of reasons."

"Go on."

Peter locked on to the incident quicker than Maria. "Was this in Hooters?" he asked in strongly accented English.

"Yes, how did you know?"

Peter looked at Maria, urging her to continue.

"We had a call to a disturbance in Hooters, but a few minutes later we got a second call to tell us everything was OK, and we were no longer required."

Marilyn hung her head, part in exhaustion, part in shame. "Hollis got angry and started to make a scene but this well-dressed man in his sixties intervened and began talking to us. He engaged us in conversation – well, actually, he engaged Hollis in conversation."

"Would you know this man if you saw him again?"

Marilyn nodded. "Yes I would."

"I need to be honest with you Mrs Schneider. There is nothing we can do at the moment as there is no evidence that a crime has been committed."

"But I have just reported a missing person to you."

"Yes, but a person who has been missing for only a few hours."

"Surely after what I have explained to you about my husband's condition this would be treated differently to a simple missing person investigation?"

Maria's instinct wrestled with her police officer's training. There were too many odd occurrences taking place; too many reasons to throw the rule book out the window. This missing American army veteran could surely have no connection with the sightings of the Serbian war criminal. From the corner of her eye she could see Peter beginning to fidget, his interest in this overwrought tourist waning with every second.

"Can you provide us with a photograph of your husband?"

"Yes, yes of course." Marilyn fumbled with her phone. She scrolled with trembling hands through the photo library on her cell phone, stopping at a picture taken of Hollis across the dinner table on their first night in the Carlton-Europe. He was smiling and relaxed, her husband's persona shining through the darkness of the troubled ex-soldier. "I can ask the lady at reception if she could print it out."

"No need," said Maria. "You can send it my mobile. I will give you the number."

Marilyn began keying in the number Maria read aloud.

"Sorry, I forgot. You will need to prefix with the Swiss International code."

Marilyn retyped the full number and sent the photograph as a text message attachment. "I guess it will take a few minutes to arrive as it bounces round a few satellites."

"I have it." Maria held the screen of her phone up for Marilyn to see.

"So what happens now?"

"Mrs Schneider, I am sure you can appreciate we have limited resources?"

"But you will take this seriously, won't you? I know my husband and I am telling you something is badly wrong."

"We do appreciate your concern for your husband Mrs Schneider and I assure you we will be vigilant in looking for him. I would also wish to thank you for bringing this matter to our attention."

Peter was on his feet, sensing that Maria was bringing the meeting to a natural conclusion.

"You have my phone number so please contact me as soon as your husband returns."

"Don't you mean _if_ he returns?"

Maria gave Marilyn her most neutral smile. "Absolutely, Mrs Schneider."

Peter led the way from the hotel, his tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek.

"So what do you think?" Maria asked.

"I feel sorry for her. I think the West's war on terror has left a lot of marriages in ruins as well as a lot of lives."

"You don't think it's possible this could be the lead we are looking for?"

"Come on Maria; are you seriously telling me you think this crazed ex-soldier walking out on his wife can in some way be connected to our man Vladic?"

"I agree it makes no sense but you have to admit you always say I am very intuitive. Is this not the case?"

Peter stopped and looked at his partner. "I agree you are much better than me at looking below the surface and seeing past the façade people project, especially when they are confronted by officers of the law."

"But?"

"There's no 'but.'"

"Quite clearly there is in this case." Her searching eyes forced him into submission. "You don't think we should report this to the commander?"

All Peter's instincts told him to tell her to stop being so ridiculous but such was the hold she had over him, the words were never destined to reach his lips.

"Ok Peter, we won't take this to Commander Stahl but we will make it our business to make Herr Schneider a secondary priority, agreed?"

Peter nodded while secretly praying that Maria wasn't about to take up the search for this unhinged American to the detriment of their main area of focus.

Edinburgh 2014

Kate stirred from the light sleep that had blindsided her. "I must have drifted off. Sorry, I hope I didn't miss anything important."

"You looked so peaceful while you slept. I hope you were having pleasant thoughts?"

"I was dreaming; at least I think it was a dream. It was more like words repeating over and over in my head."

"What did they say?"

"With a touch of your hand, you can heal me."

John stroked hr cheek. "You astonish me, Kate. You always have and you always will."

Kate smiled a shallow smile of acceptance. "From the very first time we went out as a couple, I always knew we would be together forever. But forever didn't turn out to be nearly as long as I expected it to be."

"St Elmo's Fire?"

Kate's features relaxed to a genuine grin at the memories conjured up by one of the movies that helped define their eighties generation. She could recall how it was a big favourite at the old flat in Cumberland Street where she and John had lived as students with Jenny, Jamsie and Robbie. "You know that movie did a lot to help me over the crushing disappointment of missing the Sarajevo Olympics and deal with the realisation that my skiing career was over."

"I thought that was ' _About Last Night_ ,'"

"No John; that was our special movie. Remember; Danny and Debbie in the pouring rain?"

"Of course. The double ear-phone thing?"

" _St. Elmo's Fire_ gave me a sense of hope in the future."

"Then why don't I download it and we can watch it tonight."

"And tomorrow night."

"And the next night."

Edinburgh 2nd June 1988

"For God's sake, Maggie!" Ed Magowan could not disguise his anger with his youngest daughter. "From the moment Kate got engaged you promised us that Xanadu would do the reception. Now here we are two weeks before the wedding day and you suddenly are having problems with the band."

"Daddy, I'm so sorry. It's just we haven't really been doing many shows of late and a couple of the girls have moved on to do other things."

"But you know every musician in Edinburgh and beyond. I can hardly be beyond you to find a few last minute substitutes."

"It's not that simple. We have a very unique style and a very specific playlist."

"Just get it sorted, will you!" Ed shocked himself and his daughter with the ferocious abruptness of his parting outburst.

"What on earth's the matter, Ed?" Miranda Magowan walked into the living room just as he was slamming the phone onto the receiver.

"It's nothing," he said, rubbing the centre of his chest in an effort to subdue the dull ache that had been occurring with increasing regularity.

Miranda noticed and looked him in the eye, still disturbed by his outburst on the phone which was completely out of character. "Why don't you take a run over to Carbridge tomorrow and see Jeff Dent."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're not well, Ed. You're not well and you're not fooling me into believing otherwise."

"I'm fine, really." He forced a smile against the breathless discomfort.

"Who was on the phone?" Miranda sat next to him on the settee. "Oh, just someone from the board; they're still disputing our plan for out-of-hours coverage."

16th June 1988- John and Kate's Wedding

Best Man Jamsie got to his feet and a relieved Ed Magowan slumped back in the seat next to his wife; the long rehearsed speech, a combination of sentimental reminiscence and decoratively flavoured prose had the two hundred guests reaching for their handkerchiefs and glasses with competing levels of enthusiasm. "Well done, dear," Miranda kissed the back of his hand.

Jamsie took advantage of the few seconds of spontaneous applause to down a third of his pint of lager. The more he could get on board the better before the time came for his own 'keynote' speech.

"Ladies and gentlemen, before I hand you over to our trembling wreck of a groom, the one and only Mr John Alexander, I am being informed that we have a last minute change to the running order of the speeches. But do not fear, you still have to put up with him before I finally take centre stage. I just hope you are not expecting too much. When I told all my friends that I was to be best man today, they laughed at me. Well. They're not laughing now......."

"Very good, Jamsie." John clapped him on the back.

"Sorry, couldn't resist it. Bob Monkhouse circa 1976. I really should have kept that one for my speech. That was my killer line." Jamsie was beginning to revel in the limelight, a little too much for Kate's liking, so she gave him a suitable sideways look that encouraged him to get on with proceedings.

"So, as I was saying, before I outstay my welcome, we have a change to the running order of the speeches, so without further ado, it is my great honour to hand the floor over to the ever stunning sister of the bride and matron of honour, Miss Maggie Magowan."

Maggie took the microphone in her right hand and immediately regretted letting Kate talk her into speaking up for the women of the family. The sea of faces had all eyes fixed on her as she brought the microphone to her mouth; of all people Maggie should have been the most comfortable in the limelight. Maybe it was the uncomfortable dress; maybe it was the desire for the elusive approval from her beloved father. When Maggie got to her feet it was a struggle to take enough breath on board to be even able to form the opening words.

"Reverend Harte, ladies and gentlemen; I appreciate it is not usual for a bridesmaid to make a formal speech at a wedding. But this is no ordinary wedding and I, as I am constantly told, I am no ordinary bridesmaid. When Kate and I were growing up in Aviemore, we used to play make believe all the time. We used to make believe that we were princesses living in a castle in the forest in days of old when knights were bold. The fantasy was that one day a brave prince on a white steed would arrive at the castle and whisk on of us away to a life of love and happiness in a land of............ possibility. My big sister, the gorgeous, smart, perfect example of womanhood that is Kate, has been fortunate enough to be the one to experience that life first. Her Prince Charming is so much more than a wooden caricature on a fictitious white horse. Kate," Maggie turned to face the happy couple, "I hope you realise just how lucky you are, because speaking for the entire Magowan family, I would like to welcome you John into our lives. I know our family is blessed to have you and I am honoured to call you my brother-in –law."

John got to his feet and embraced Maggie warmly. "Thanks Maggie, that means so much."

"Just don't blame me when the band makes a complete fuck up of the first dance. Maybe everyone will be too pissed to notice all the mistakes."

"Maggie, all you have to do is sing and you will have everyone at the reception falling at your feet. They won't even hear the band. You are the band, for God's sake. We've been telling you that for years."

"Make me a promise?" Maggie said softly in his ear.

"Anything," he knew Jamsie needed him to get on with his own groom's speech.

"If I begin to panic, I will introduce the groom to come and join me at the microphone. Is that a deal?"

"It's a deal," John kissed her on the cheek and took the microphone from her hand. It was his turn for a moment in the spotlight.

Maggie was the last member of the band to arrive on the stage. No longer the dazzling all girl power pop and soul sensation that was the original Xanadu, the current line up leaned more in the soft rock direction of Fleetwood Mac or Heart. The realignment in musical direction was mainly down to current lead guitarist Duncan Ross, who had taken up the reins as the band's creative spirit as Maggie's growing sense of disillusionment gave way to creeping apathy. Dave Visser, a journeyman multi-instrumentalist from Livingstone and a former flatmate of Duncan's was the eleventh hour replacement on keyboards, an essential element for the majority of Xanadu's set. He had been on the stage running through a few intros, checking sound levels and generally underwriting the artistic insurance policy of the consummate professional. He had nothing but the greatest respect for Duncan but having to take to the stage behind the enigmatic and unpredictable lead singer made him wish he had turned his nose up at the paltry fifty pound fee. It was purely when Duncan had explained that if he couldn't take the gig there was a real danger that Maggie may do something silly. The way Duncan tripped over the words that were too carefully chosen encouraged Dave to cast common sense to the side and agree to the favour.

Maggie had freed herself from the restrictive fashion of the salmon bridesmaid's dress and donned her trademark leopard skin leotard with hair released from the clips and clasps of Kate's bridal fair vision. A quick cigarette outside the main entrance had failed to quell the butterflies in her stomach, their fluttering wings only encouraged by the four glasses of champagne she had downed at the top table. Her purposeful stride across the function room floor left the over-cautious footprints of feigned sobriety. When Dave Visser saw Maggie take the stage, the aura of charismatic sexuality in every hesitant muscle movement, all his fears melted into the stale, smoky air. He wondered why anyone ever doubted this woman; why she ever doubted her own ability.

After much debate, John and Kate had finally come to an agreement on what should be their first dance, settling on the already classic ballad from the seminal 1978 film adaptation of the musical Grease. Olivia Newton-John's heart rending ballad ' _Hopelessly devoted to you_.' With a perfectly balanced combination of Dolly Parton and The Carpenters, it would not have been Maggie's choice to open the set. Her voice, exposed completely by the plaintive melody, Maggie wrapped her velvet larynx around every line with consummate ease, settling her own nerves as well as the doubters amongst the evening crowd, now swollen to around two hundred family and friends. John did his best to lead Kate in the slow waltz that Miranda had persuaded him to attempt after a few casual lessons courtesy of herself.

"Where did you learn how to dance?" Kate purred in his ear.

"From your Mother."

Kate beamed with wide eyed delight. "I don't believe it! Make sure you give her the next dance, won't you?"

John's eyes were locked onto those of his bride, the sea of faces standing back to give them the floor just a blur.

"Maggie sounds fantastic," Kate gave the thumbs up sign towards the stage.

Maggie smiled at the radiant couple without disturbing her effortless vocals. She could feel her lungs pumped with the beautiful oxygen of true love that radiated from the bosom of celebration. Kate and John were celebrities for a day and it suddenly hit her as to what an absolute privilege it was provide the soundtrack for the day they would cherish for the rest of their lives. How could she ever have thought of pulling out of the gig? Maggie was incredulous at her own thoughtless insensitivity. No wonder her normally even tempered Father had been apoplectic at the mere suggestion. She hadn't been thinking straight at the time; but the band she had created out of an obsession with the music of Benny Andersson and Bjorn Ulvaeas coupled with the need to fill the chasm in her soul, was imploding in a chaotic cocktail of tears, tantrums and recriminations.

The chasm in Maggie's soul; abortion had been the only option, the sensible option, the kindest option. Miranda would have it no other way. Kate, so maturely equipped for the world at her feet, balked at the truth of Maggie's swollen belly and retreated to the ski slopes and her studies. It may have been the right, sensible and kindest option for Miranda Alexander, but with every passing day the loss of the child she never knew ate away at the very marrow of Maggie's bones.

Four years spent building the machine, constructing a viable recording unit from an enthusiastic collection of musically and stylistically gifted singers and musicians, crumbled to dust on the scrap heap of missed opportunities. The contract with EMI was signed and the photo shoot for _Smash Hits_ magazine was history. The debut single, so long in the crafting was finally ready. When Genevieve unexpectedly returned to France, leaving John's own musical dreams in tatters, he had stashed the demo tapes in the drawer next to his bed and allowed the dust to gather on his Fender Stratocaster. Kate persuaded him to get together with Maggie and see if there was anything in the demos that she could adapt for Xanadu – Maggie was an amazing singer, writer and arranger but composing did not come easily; a roadblock on the highway to success. ' _Changing of the Years_ ,' the one true ballad on _Foreign Affair's_ ten track demo, was considered by John somewhat of a throwaway slice of over sentimental schmaltz. His vocals came across as unusually laboured with nothing supporting him but Genevieve's neo-classical piano melody. Had it ever been recorded, they had intended the piano to be replaced by haunting synthesizers to add a sinister touch to engender a Bram Stoker vibe, but what the song was really crying out for was a female lead vocal. The first time Maggie sang over the plaintive piano track, the hairs stood up on the neck of everyone present. This could work. Indeed, it may well have worked, had Maggie not turned up to the recording studio in London so hungover she had to down a quarter bottle of gin just to get her legs under her. The producer told her to take a time out after the first embarrassing take but the deputy president of EMI, Mike Sweeney, had been in the building and what he witnessed behind the glass of studio B made his blood boil.

"Do you know how many bands would kill for the opportunity we gave you?" he confronted Maggie at the coffee machine in the main hallway. "I'm sorry love, but we've seen all this shit before. The business has moved on since the seventies, and that's what this is, in case you are under some sort of misapprehension. Christ knows I have enough of this crap with Fleetwood Mac. Why don't you piss off back to Scotland and watch how Simple Minds do it?"

Maggie tried to convince the band it was nothing but a small setback on their road to eventual, deserved chart domination, but they knew, as did she, that these ships do not sail past twice in one lifetime. Performance levels began to drop, missed rehearsals, demands for more money due to the band's enhanced exposure. Maggie was resigned to the truth. It was over, but she still had her voice and Kate's wedding reception was the perfect chance to leave the stage with celebrated dignity.

The first song ended to rapturous applause from all sides and a long, deep kiss between the happy couple. Maggie shook her mane of dark hair and with a nod of the head to Duncan, gave the cue for the tempo to be racked up.

"OK, now we've got the formalities out of the way, let's bring the house down!"

The opening bars of Abba's ' _Gimme, Gimme, Gimme_ ,' echoed through the function room. Miranda accepted John's invitation with the sensual smile Kate was still learning to mimic, the one Maggie was born with.

8th Aug 1988

"Is that the phone?" Kate nudged John in the ribs, disturbing him from a perfect dreamscape that saw him crashing across the try line at Twickenham, the strains of ' _Flower of Scotland'_ ringing in his ears.

"John, wake up! Answer the phone won't you."

He groaned with a dry mouth. Kate had barely touched the second glass of champagne, leaving him to down most of the bottle. After all, it was a point of celebration to have the washing machine finally fixed after a long week in dispute with the electrical store who had supplied it only a couple of weeks prior to the wedding.

"Hello?"

"John, let me speak to Kate."

"It's for you darling. It's Maggie."

"What the hell trouble is she in now? It's ten past seven in the morning."

Kate was getting ready to lecture her little sister on the temporal consideration of using the telephone when Maggie's words shook her fully awake.

"I'm at the hospital, Kate. Its Dad, he's, he's – shit, I need you Kate."

Kate could not quite comprehend what she was hearing. "You're at the hospital with Dad? Our Dad?"

"Yes, he's had a heart attack. He's not expected to live."

Kate's lips formed various consonants and vowels without her vocal chords responding.

"What's the matter?" John asked, recognising the fear and distress in the eyes of his bride.

"Where?" Kate was already half out of bed. "I'll be there as soon as I can." Kate clicked off the phone and handed it back to John. "Dad's had a heart attack."

"Shit Kate; is it bad?"

"Yes." Kate

Aug 1988

"I'm worried about Maggie. Dad's death has hit her really hard."

"No harder than it has hit you, Kate."

"It's different where Maggie is concerned. She is more, you know?"

"Fragile?"

Kate paused for thought rather than effect. "Unstable. I don't say that to be cruel. It's just she's always had a bit of a self-destructive streak and this could more than likely prove the catalyst for more difficulties. You see Maggie was the apple of her Daddy's eye. Everyone assumes it must have been me because I was always the good girl, the straight-A student; the great sportswoman. Dad adored Maggie. I think he found me a bit too much like Mum."

"Beautiful?"

"Intimidating."

"I don't find you in the least bit intimidating."

"We're husband and wife now, so you can cut out the crap." Kate aimed a feigned punch at his jaw.

"Whatever you say, ma'am."

"She frustrated the hell out of Dad what with her moods, her foul language and of course, getting pregnant, but he never stopped loving her."

"She was his daughter."

"I know, but they had a connection that I never shared with him. I think her wild side struck a chord with him. It was almost as though all the crazy things she did were what deep inside he wished he could have done, but when he became the eminent Dr Magowan, pillar of the community, his free spirit died. Then there was the music. God he loved to hear her singing and enthused about her natural ability to play any instrument imaginable. He was jealous of her talent but at least he could live out his rock and roll fantasy through her. He was as upset as she was when the band started to fall apart, when they were dropped by the label before they even had the chance to record their single."

"Were you and Maggie always at each other's throats?"

"We're just two very different people."

"Kate, you and I are two very different people."

"Yes, but what makes us different is what has brought us together. In the case of Maggie and me, the differences were always sources of friction. We don't see eye to eye on very much, with the exception of one thing. She thinks the world of you, so she can't be all bad. Somewhere deep down inside that crazy, mixed up head of hers is a sensitive woman. All we need to do is help her find the right man to connect with her."

"That's not going to be easy."

"No, it's not."

John stroked the base of Kate's neck. "What do you want to do about this?"

"We should make the effort to include her in things where we can. God I know we are only just married but I'm not suggesting we ask her to move in or anything. It's now that the band has fallen apart I don't think it's healthy for her to be stuck on her own in that flat with only her demons for company."

"Maggie needs a boyfriend; a proper, decent boyfriend and not another arsehole."

"Unfortunately, my little sister has a knack of attracting arseholes, as you so eloquently put it, even back when she was at school."

"We could ask her to the cinema with us tomorrow evening?"

"Good idea, as long as you're sure you don't mind?"

"I'm sure."

Kate squeezed his hand and kissed his cheek. "Thanks darling, but I still need to ask one more favour of you."

"OK," he said with a hint of trepidation in his voice. Kate's favours were rarely simple tasks.

"I need you to be the one who asks her."

"Me?"

"It's a sister thing. If I invite her, she is going to assume I am just feeling sorry for her and she will refuse just to prove she doesn't need my help. She likes you John. She respects you. If the invitation comes from you, she will come."

"What makes you so certain of my powers of persuasion?"

"Trust me, darling. I Know Maggie; if _you_ ask her, she will come."

Maggie's eyes remained somewhat puffy from an afternoon wallowing in tears of grief and self-pity. The quarter bottle of vodka that had failed to wash away the tears had left her with the residual legacy of a sore head and aching stomach, but despite the malaise she was glad to be out of the house. Conversation in the car was a monosyllabic chore. In the queue for popcorn Maggie was silent, only loosening up when Kate excused herself and headed to the toilet before they went through to the auditorium.

"It was good of you to ask me out with you both. I hate intruding on your Friday night." She said to John.

"Don't de daft. We're glad to have you along."

"Liar. I bet you didn't expect to end up trailing both Magowan girls around when you married Kate? What are we here to see anyway?"

" _Working Girl_ ," John said, pointing to a poster featuring the movie's stars Harrison Ford, Melanie Griffith and Sigourney Weaver.

"Oh yeah, Indiana Jones; I like him. What's it about?"

"No idea. It's a romantic comedy. Kate's idea. I wanted to go and see _Die Hard_."

"I thought you'd already seen it?"

"Twice, so I guess I can't complain."

"I'd love to see _Die Hard_. We could go together."

"Hmmm, not sure Kate would swallow that idea, do you?"

"Maybe not," Maggie laughed.

"Goodness me, somebody has brightened up," Kate came from behind and draped an arm around each of them. "Maybe I should go on home and leave you guys to it."

John rolled his eyes.

"On second thoughts, people might talk."

"Are we going in before the movie starts?"

# CHAPTER 21

NEW YEARS EVE 2001

Maggie felt quite ill. She appreciated John and Kate having inviting her to join them. These sorts of social events tended to be the domain of couples and Maggie had no intention of seeking a consort purely for the sake of company. She loved her sister dearly but she cared greatly for John and wondered how he put up with Kate. She eased into the seat next to John.

"You really shouldn't let her talk to you like that. She doesn't realise just how lucky she is. I would never talk to you the way she just did."

Thirty-five year old Maggie Magowan was the heavy smoking, hard drinking brunette whose very presence was enough to get on Kate's nerves. The counterpoint to her elder sister, only her dazzling blue eyes betrayed the sibling connection. She oozed unbridled sexuality, complete with a seductively husky voice and errant sparkle in her eyes.

Still unmarried, despite a long string of male acquaintances, sequentially drawn in, chewed up and spat out. The truth was, she was in search of love and all she ever found was disappointment and habitually ended up blaming failure on her own inadequacies.

"Oh really Maggie, how would _you_ talk to me?"

Maggie leaned towards him. "I wouldn't be able to speak."

"Why not?"

"Because my mouth would be full." Maggie rolled her tongue and threw John her well-practiced pout.

John smiled. "You're drunk."

"I'm getting that way. Maybe my high and mighty, sanctimonious sister should try loosening up a bit."

John took a long gulp of lager in an effort to disguise his sense of discomfort at his sister-in-law's attack on his wife. "Kate's just uptight because she feels she should be at the restaurant on the busiest night of the year."

"She practically lives at that bloody place. I mean you guys must hardly see each other. Do the kids even know who their Mother is?"

John looked across the floor of the function room to the double doors Kate had gone through with mobile phone stuck to her ear, doubtlessly talking to the staff at _Kate's Chateau_ through whatever crisis had arisen in her absence. She would be a while. In the mood she was in, she was capable of putting on her coat and getting a taxi to the restaurant to take charge in person. The only others who remained at the table were Kate's cousin Rhona and husband Charlie, but with the music from the DJ's PA system pounding through the room, they were out of range of possible conversation.

He felt Maggie's hand on top of his. She gestured toward the dance floor with a nod of her head. "That's one of my favourites. Aren't you going to ask your beloved sister-in-law up for a dance?"

John took a last drink and let her lead him by the hand through the closely packed tables until they reached the polished teak dance floor, avoiding the time honoured ritual tide departing the floor at the first bars of a slow song. Lisa Stansfield's 1993 hit ' _In All the Right Places'_ washed across the dance floor. Once Maggie had found the spot on the floor she was satisfied with she turned around facing John and draped her arms around his neck. He loosely placed his hands on her hips and mirrored her slow swaying steps.

"Do you think the world really is going to end at midnight?" she asked.

"Well, I guess we'll find out in a little less than an hour."

"If it was to end, is there anything in your life you haven't done that you wish you had?"

John shrugged. "I never really thought about it."

"I have. I think about it all the time."

John started to feel ill at ease. The intimacy of their dancing was more akin to that of a couple. Maggie's cheek brushed against his jaw line overloading his senses with the heady cocktail of perfume, champagne and nicotine.

"Do you know why I have never married? It's because none of the men I have had relationships with measure up to you. You are the kindest, most caring, compassionate and level headed man I have ever met."

"Level headed? I'm not sure I would want that in my obituary."

Maggie put her mouth right to his ear. "Fancy a smoke?" She knew John used to smoke but had quit when he met Kate. She hated the habit and would never have stayed with him had he not stopped. That fact alone should have acted as a warning to him. "Not here. Let's go outside."

"I don't suppose we'll be missed." John couldn't deny that Maggie looked stunning in her red backless evening dress with perfectly straightened hair especially for the occasion. They returned to the table so she could lift her black handbag from under her chair and followed John out though the double doors which led out into the majestic mezzanine floor of the Hilton. The relative calm of the marble floored hallway came as a welcome relief from the unrelenting buzz of the ballroom. "It's good to get out of there for a few minutes." A few yards along the hallway was the entrance to the lounge bar. They walked in and found a free table by the window looking down at the main entrance on the ground floor. John leaned against the mahogany banister and looked over at the carpeted expanse of the entrance hall. Maggie stood next to him, her back to the railing and took out her cigarettes. "You not enjoying yourself?" she asked in a rather mischievous tone.

"No, it's great. It's just nice to be able to talk without having to shout." He took a Marlboro from the pack. "I haven't had one of these for a while."

"I'll bet you haven't." Maggie held the lighter to John before lighting her own. "Sometimes you got to live a little." She took a long drag on her cigarette and exhaled playfully in his face. Maggie knew John would have one eye on the staircase and the other on the doors to the ballroom, just in case Kate should reappear. "Don't tell me you're scared of my little sister?" After two glasses of champagne and half a bottle of wine, Maggie was flying.

"Not at all."

"You can't fool me, you know. I am very good at reading people." She leaned against John and eyeballed him with her sparkling blue eyes. "And I bet you're scared of me, too?"

"I'd never be scared you, Maggie." He smiled warmly.

"You ever think you're married to the wrong sister?"

John looked at her wondering whether he should step in before she said too much, but Maggie did the job for him.

"Christ! I'm flirting with my own brother-in-law." She scolded herself. "I'm sorry John. You must think I'm pretty fucking pathetic?" She rubbed her forehead. "Look, you had better go back inside. I'm sure Kate will be wondering where you've got to."

"What about you?"

"I think I'll go for a walk; sober up a bit."

"Come on." John offered her his arm. "I could do with some fresh air myself."

They descended the impressive red-carpeted spiral staircase and collected Maggie's long black coat from the temporary cloak-room on the ground floor. "Better put it on." John held the coat for her and she slipped her arms inside the lined sleeves. "There's a hard frost outside."

"What about you?" John was dressed in his dinner jacket.

"I'll be just fine. We'll only be outside for five minutes anyway." They linked arms once more and as the automatic doors slid open they made their way out into the cold London night. A brace of Black Taxi's sat with their engines idling in expectation of a fare. The driver of the first was leaning in the window of the second cab, debating the Spurs v Arsenal game earlier that evening. He glanced round at the elegant couple who had emerged from the hotel in anticipation of a run to Notting Hill or St. John's Wood. As the man and woman passed, deep in conversation, he returned to debating the rather dubious penalty with Pete.

"I love my sister to bits." Maggie threw her cigarette stub to the ground. "But she can be very... difficult."

"I can handle her." John sounded almost indignant.

"Liar." Even Maggie didn't know if she was teasing or not. "I've heard the way she speaks to you sometimes. She treats you like shit, John."

His silence spoke volumes, so Maggie continued.

"Oh, never listen to me John. I'm just growing into a sad old spinster and I have nobody to blame but myself."

John stopped and faced her. "You are neither of those things, Maggie"

"Oh, I'm sure I could surprise you." One of alcoholics' major hang-ups is a lack of self-worth, a totally unsubstantiated feeling that nobody really gives a damn about you; when, in a twisted way, that is just what you want to believe. John was the only friend she had and she worried that if she took him into her confidence that he might back off; that it might jeopardise their relationship. What was she thinking? He was married to her sister! They didn't have a relationship and never would have.

"What's the matter, Maggie?"

"Why are not with your wife?" Maggie's mood changed. "Do you often spend your evening's chasing defenceless young women around the streets?" She breathed from only a few inches away. Maggie reached out and grabbed his hand. She pulled him towards her into the darkness where the moon could no longer see them; where the world could no longer see them. They stood face to face, only a few inches between, both trying to read each other's shadow bathed expression. The warmth of their breath cut through the icy darkness and spread around them like a cocoon, protecting them from the biting night air. Maggie took John's right hand, lifted it and held it against her cheek.

"You have the chance to set us free, John. Why don't you take it?" John moved closer so their bodies were touching and his palm remained caressing her cheek. She unbuttoned the front of her coat and placed John's second, willing hand inside. He didn't need too much encouragement to cup it around her breast. He was becoming aroused and the feel of her nipple through the fabric of her bra and red dress made him push her back against the wall. He slipped his other hand inside her coat and began kissing her hard on the lips. She responded with an animal like passion and wrapped her arms around his neck

"We can't do this, Maggie." John was being overtaken by a cascade of emotion, the like of which he had never experienced before, not even with Kate.

"Don't worry," Maggie purred, "We're nice people... nice people who need to feel a little warmth."

That seemed to snap John back from his trance like state and he suddenly felt somewhat embarrassed at his actions, but he kept his hand where it was and bent forward toward her. Maggie's open mouth welcomed his lips and they kissed with a solemn intensity; with a purpose beyond mere idle pleasure.

"I love you, John," she whispered, pausing for air. "I love you so very much. You know that, don't you?"

"I know." This was the part where John was supposed to say that he loved Maggie too, but the words didn't come spontaneously so he held back so as not to sound contrived or insincere. They kissed again.

They separated at the shrill ring of John's mobile. "Shit!" he muttered, as the caller's ID was displayed. Maggie knew before he spoke.

"Hi darling." That was how he always greeted his wife. "You OK?"

Maggie could not hear the voice at the other end of the phone, but it was a good guess Kate was either annoyed or very annoyed.

"I just went for a walk to get some fresh air. I know, I know." John tried to calm his angry spouse. "You know I love you, darling. I won't be long, no; OK, bye."

Maggie was standing a few feet away, her arms folded tightly. Her expression betrayed her feelings at that moment.

"I'm sorry Maggie." John sighed.

Her voice raised with her temper. "When I told you I loved you, I meant it."

"I know you did." John knew he sounded pretty pathetic.

"Yes. Well, if you didn't mean what you said to Kate, how can I believe what you tell me? Huh? Can you explain that to me?" Her eyes searched John's face for the truth.

"Listen Maggie." He stepped forwards. "You're not just some girl I met in bar, some bit on the side."

"Oh no? Well maybe that's just how I feel right at this moment. Maybe that is exactly what I am to you?" Tears began to well up in the corners of her eyes.

"No." John took her hands in his but she pulled them away.

"Don't"

"You mean the world to me Maggie."

Maggie wiped a tear from her cheek with the palm of her hand and sniffed.

"I'm sorry John. This isn't exactly what I had in mind for this evening, but you wanted to know how I feel about you. Now you know."

"Now I know." He blew hard trying to compose himself. "Wow."

Her eyeliner began to run. John took her by the hands again. This time she didn't withdraw.

"Christ John; right now," she blinked with bloodshot eyes. "I need you to take me back inside and buy me a very large vodka, OK?" She licked a salty tear from her upper lip. "I really need you to do that for me."

John pulled her to him and held her head tight against his chest, kissing her raven hair and stroking her cheek.

# CHAPTER 22

Edinburgh 2010

"Do you think Mum and Dad really love each other?" Rebecca's words were so perfectly pitched as to be almost lost beneath the sound of the television that filled the kitchen with mundanely scripted dialogue.

Kirsty looked up from her homework. "Why don't you turn off the television and get back to your work? Dad will be home soon and he hates it when we are still at it on a Monday."

Rebecca didn't answer.

"Becca, come on, please."

"I said do you think Mum and Dad love each other?"

"That's a very strange question."

"Is it really?" Rebecca crawled off the kitchen settee, looking typically dishevelled with her tie undone and hair tumbling around her face. "I mean when is the last time you saw them kiss or even hold hands?"

"I'm sure they do it all the time."

"They _used_ to do it all the time."

"Yes, but they are older now and they are very busy; you need to realise that." Kirsty went on with her own homework.

Rebecca came over to the table and sat opposite her sister. "Kirsty, be honest; what do you think of Aunt Maggie?"

"I think she's great."

"Mum doesn't."

"I know."

"Why do you think that might be?"

"I really have no idea," Kirsty refused to be drawn.

"I think it has something to do with Dad."

"Rubbish!"

"Do you not see the way Aunt Maggie looks at Dad? The way she hugs him when she comes to visit and holds on to him a little too long? "

"You're imagining things, Becca."

"If you say so," Rebecca looked at the clock above the cooker. Their Father would be home in less than half an hour. Against her best intentions, Rebecca reluctantly pulled her mathematics book across the table and let out a long sigh.

Kirsty's concentration was broken. Rebecca's question had unsettled her. Kirsty prided herself in her sharp intelligence and keen instinct. If anything was amiss within the family unit, she would have been the first to pick up on it. Yet something had disturbed Rebecca enough for her to speak out. Her parents were as close as ever; Kirsty was positive about that. She couldn't deny though that Aunt Maggie's infrequent visits did introduce an unstable atmosphere into their family home. It was as inexplicable as it was undeniable.

EDINBURGH Thurs 12th Dec 2002

The termination of his contract with _The Sunday Post_ at the end of October meant that to all intents and purposes, John was unemployed. Eight hundred words delivered bi-monthly on the _Hidden Gems of the Adriatic_ had been his only source of regular income for almost a year. The rise of the internet was hacking without mercy at the ranks of print journalists who made their living from colourful depictions of the lighter side of life and had editors running scared. Alarmed into knee-jerk realignment and cost reduction exercises by a dramatic decline in sales, the accountants convinced editors of the merits in strangling creative output in favour of hard news, cheap gossip and of course, more football. The explosion in mobile phone ownership had opened up new possibilities for prying into the private lives of celebrities and politicians; the appropriate level of security lagging well behind the advance in the technology, offering up a wealth of sleaze and corruption at the touch of a button. A private investigator with a laptop - that was the journalist of the early years of the Twenty-First Century. John was a colourful, reflective poet; a cultured scribe of the old school who could paint pictures with the alphabet. John was thirty-nine and out of work.

The meditation of midweek monotony is when the gnawing vacuum becomes the reason for reflections of regret. For a few weeks John persisted with the fantasy by racking thousands of words a week. Times New Roman font size 12 filling virtual A4 pages that would never be brought to life by inquisitive eyes, searching for a destination of inspiration or by the bespectacled baby boomer dutifully reading every page, a legacy from their youth before John Logie Baird's box replaced that of Pandora; a window to eternity in the corner of every living room.

The fantasy had begun to fade and in the recent days, John had felt the rich vein of creativity that flowed between his mind and his fingers begin to clot to the point the blank screen now taunted and teased. The failure and disappointment seeped into his soul.

He kissed Kate at the front door each morning as she left for another sixteen hour day at her increasingly successful restaurant, _Kate's Chateau_. He dropped the girls at Wood Grange Primary School then returned home for a cappuccino. The computer remained switched off.

The private gym was a luxury John had never been altogether comfortable with since they only visited it on a regular basis for the girls' swimming lessons, which had to be paid for over and above the already extortionate monthly membership fees. To be fair, Kate had made good use of the gym and pool for the first couple of years, but with the increasing demands of the restaurant, she rarely even had time to take the children to their weekly lesson.

John decided a few lengths in the pool followed by a long soak in the hot tub might, if not rekindle his artistic spirit, at least pass the morning with a vague sense of achievement.

It was actually rather pleasurable to share the pool with only one other member, a grey haired lady in an ill-fitting swimsuit, making her way sedately up and down the roped off slow lane. On a Saturday the pool was more akin to a bowl of human soup, where an outstretched arm or leg was certain to find unwanted flesh.

The rare sight of the deserted hot tub was too much to resist. With heavy legs, he hauled himself up the steps and his thirteen stone felt the full tug of gravity once more. The infra-red sensor detected his presence and he eased down into the raging froth. He submerged completely and let his muscles relax then sat with his back to the pool and let the bubbling heat support the weight of his outstretched legs. Closing his eyes, he let his mind wander. He was determined to enjoy the next eighteen minutes before the bubbles would die down, encouraging bathers to get out rather than hog the hot-tub for hours, their bodies stewing at the same time.

John mumbled into himself, "You have got to be kidding me," on hearing the sound of wet soles slapping on the tiles followed by the squeak of damp palms on the hand rail. The elderly swimmer must have had her eye on the empty hot tub too. He just hoped she wasn't in the mood for a wee chat.

"Is this a private session or can anyone join in?"

The resonant, husky tone took him by surprise. "Maggie! Sorry, I didn't expect to see you here."

"Nor I you, Mr Alexander," she flashed him her typical lopsided smile, where the left side of her mouth curled up in rather less than flattering fashion, but it was so her. "I hope Kate knows this is how you spend your Thursday mornings?" Maggie eased herself into the water and perched next to him. "I have a good excuse in that I don't start work until eight tonight. What's yours?"

"Well, my excuse is I don't start work at all."

"Yeah, we all know you don't have a regular nine to five, but..."

John blew out his cheeks. "I lost my contract with the Post."

"Ach no, that's awful. I'm so sorry, sweetheart." Maggie squeezed his shoulder and offered a sympathetic peck on the cheek.

Featherlike frissons of forgotten feelings threatened the delicate balance of the space between them. Maggie looked tired, not from the effects of a bad night's sleep, but from the grinding fatigue of year upon year of crushed ambition. Her dark hair, though wet, looked dull and lifeless and her naturally exposed facial features bore the lines and creases of a woman ten years beyond her thirty-eight years. Her weight which fluctuated erratically on a confusion of fad diets and comfort eating had dropped to that of her youth, yet displayed by the turquoise two piece swimsuit, the exposed ribs were anything but attractive and gave a gaunt hollowness to her high cheek boned beauty. Vodka and cigarettes had a lot to answer for.

"It serves me right Maggie. I should have got a real job years ago."

"Don't be so hard on yourself, John. You support Kate, don't you? She wouldn't be able to give her life to the restaurant if she didn't have you taking care of things at home."

John shrugged.

"It's true, John. If you had a 'normal' job, it just wouldn't work. I mean what would you do with the girls? Farm them out to some stranger who'll end up knowing them better than their parents do?"

"Maybe you're right," he grinned and screwed up his nose. Maggie had a way of making him feel better about his life.

"Maybe? Wow, thanks for the big vote of confidence. I know I have managed to screw up my own life at just about every turn but that doesn't mean I can't be right about everyone else's."

"What brings you here?" he asked.

"Mum got me six month's membership for my birthday. She said it was to encourage me to start taking care of my body and maybe even meet a nice man – her words not mine."

"And has it worked? Miranda is rarely wrong about anything"

She looked him deep in the eye. "What do you think?" she held out her arms, inviting him to comment on her body.

"I think you look great," he lied, "but then you always do."

"Hmm, I'm not sure if that was an answer or not."

"What about men?"

"Have I met any here, other than you, of course?"

"Naturally," he replied, playfully flicking the surface of the water at her.

"Let's just say I have seen enough to encourage me to come again."

John was about to ask her to elaborate when the torrent died down leaving the surface flat and no longer enticing.

"That was never twenty minutes." John shook his head and ran his hand over the sensor in the forlorn hope it may restart.

"Never mind." Maggie took him by the hand. "I'm wrecked anyway. I had already done twenty minutes on the bike and ten on the cross trainer before coming down here."

"Impressive."

"Get changed and I will buy you a coffee," Maggie climbed out of the hot tub first.

"OK, I'll see you in the restaurant in ten minutes," he replied.

Maggie laughed out loud. "In that case, you'd better order the coffee. It's going to take a little longer than ten minutes for me to get ready."

Maggie had not been exaggerating when she said it would take a while to get changed, so long in fact that John began to wonder if she had simply gone home.

He had finished both his and her latte's and had just placed an order for two more when Maggie swept in through the doors of the restaurant. She was wearing a black long sleeve sweater, black leggings and knee length leather boots. Her hair was blow dried and longer than he had seen it for a while. Her make-up must have taken the bulk of the time; high end city glamour that showed off her blue eyes with striking effect.

"You look," he hesitated, getting to his feet to greet her.

"Go, on. You can say it, I don't embarrass easily. Mutton dressed as lamb is the traditional idiom."

John shook his head and retook his seat when she sat opposite. "You look stunning, Maggie. All the men in the restaurant are picking their tongues off the floor."

"Is it a crime to want to look me best for my coffee date? A lot of the women who come in here are only here to be seen. Most wouldn't know what a cross-trainer looks like."

"None of them have anything on you, Maggie, trust me."

"You don't think it's too, you know, trampy; the eyeliner?"

"Not from where I'm sitting."

"That will give _her_ something to think about."

"Who was that?" John had noticed Maggie giving a smile of acknowledgement to a woman who passed their table on her way out of the restaurant.

"You know, it's that politician friend of Kate."

"Stephanie MacDonald from the MSP?"

"Really, I didn't recognise her with her hair up and without the glasses."

"She recognised you, but I doubt if she would know me to see. She's now wondering who the stunning woman is that you are having coffee with on Thursday lunchtime while your wife is slaving away at work."

The waitress interrupted the conversation brandishing two fresh mugs of latte.

"Could we see the lunch menu please?" Maggie asked.

"Of course madam," the girl replied with a strong Australian accent.

"You're not in a hurry, I take it?" Maggie asked John, causing the waitress to hesitate.

"No, lunch sounds great," He confirmed his accession to the waitress with a wink.

"Thank God for that. I haven't eaten today."

"Why does that not surprise me?"

Maggie could have killed for a cigarette but feared a five minute vanishing act would spoil the moment. With the coffee mug in one hand and laminated lunch menu in the other, the gainful employment of her fingers provided sufficient distraction to push the craving to the back of her mind. "What do you recommend?"

"Kate is a fan of their Caesar salad and the girls love the spaghetti bolognaise. Personally speaking, any time we eat here, I would go for the blackened chicken."

"Sounds good to me." Maggie closed the menu.

John licked a creamy moustache from his top lip. "Are you coming over for Christmas day?"

"Is it really Christmas again?" Maggie rotated her mug on the matching saucer.

"Two weeks yesterday," John replied.

"I bloody well hate Christmas."

"I know, but Christmas is all about family and you are very much an integral part of this family."

"My Dad _was_ Christmas in our house. As far as I am concerned it ceased to mean anything after he died. In any case, I'm not sure being an integral part is enough of a reason to give up the chance to sit round the flat all day, watching crap TV and drinking myself into oblivion."

John sighed. "Come on Maggie, you know what I mean. The girls can't wait for Aunt Maggie to arrive with her big bags of chocolate Santa's, playdoh and colouring books."

"I'm pretty sure Kate would be happier if I didn't show up. After all, what do I ever bring to the Christmas table? I drink too much, fall asleep on the settee and generally get on my sister's nerves."

"Your father has been dead fourteen years, Maggie. I would like you there."

"And why, pray tell me? I mean the mistletoe has usually kind of withered by the twenty-fifth, so....."

"So, I'm not going to be left talking to your dear Mother all afternoon."

"But I thought you fancied my Mother?"

"I think the world of Miranda; yes, but she takes great delight in dissecting every aspect of my life, and given current circumstances, I would not emerge from her interrogation with glowing colours."

Maggie sipped from the tall latte. "I think you would have a much better Christmas day over at my place, but that is not going to happen, so I will be there, against my better judgement, mind."

"Thanks."

The waitress brought their lunch along with a tray of assorted condiments.

Edinburgh September 2014

Sunday afternoon. Those precious few hours, the thought of which is so cherished when just beyond the horizon; the memory of which so mourned when yet again having been allowed to slip idly through your fingers. The promise of blissful relaxation has been reneged on yet again. Is it really too much to ask to have time to draw breath and reflect objectively on the week just past and script an emotional agenda for the seven days waiting to pounce? With a low cloud base, damp soaked air and temperature lacking ambition, it was no day for a walk in the park. The enthusiasm and sense of purpose required to initiate an afternoon's shopping at the Ocean Terminal Centre being absent, it was quite simply a day for the settee and the armchair. It was a day to leave the triple blade razor undisturbed in its gleaming holder; a day for yesterday's t-shirt; a day for yesterday's hair.

Four o'clock was approaching but only on the wrist watch John dared not look at. The elegant wooden clock above the fireplace, a housewarming present from Jenny and Rob, frozen at eleven-twenty-six, the exact moment Kate had removed the batteries, unable to bear the sound of time ticking away; the almost imperceptible rhythm, echoing like thunder in her already crowded head. Rebecca's room, directly overhead, no longer pounding the floorboards with the rock drum driven soundtrack to teenage angst. Only the occasional thud of the window closing when she had finished another cigarette betrayed her presence.

"Watch the rugby, if you want to," The soothing familiarity of Kate's voice broke the cloying silence. "The TV doesn't bother me, you know."

John hated these little dilemmas. To put the television on and fill the room with the cheers of eighty thousand packed into Murrayfield seemed insensitive of Kate's condition. To simply maintain his silent vigil at the other end of the settee a pointless and impotent gesture of support. This was the point at which leaving the room became the obvious option, the cowardly option; John's all too frequent comfort blanket.

"I know we're going to get hammered, but not watching isn't going to change anything, is it?" Kate's addendum threw him a lifeline. Whether motivated by a need for normality or to ease John's discomfort, her intervention allowed the room to exhale. She never looked up from her I-Pad, on which she was typing feverishly, responding to emails and texts which as usual she struggled to keep on top of. The fifty inch flat screen flickered into life. Five minutes to go until half time. The All Blacks leading by an all too predictable twenty-four points to three.

"At least we've managed to score," Kate observed. "So maybe not the seventy-nil demolition the papers were touting."

"Hopefully not." John wrestled with the remote control in search of the appropriate volume level, finally settling for audible yet not overtly obtrusive.

Kate reached across the length of the settee and cupped her hand over the back of his. "Don't ever give up on the things you love, John. Don't ever turn your back on your passion."

Uncomfortably, he looked across at her. "I won't."

"I mean it. Things may change around here, and if they do, you will be glad of the mundane. It is important to remain grateful for the simple pleasures in life."

"Even getting tanked by the Kiwis?"

"Even that."

# CHAPTER 23

Edinburgh Sept 2014

"Promise me you'll get married again, for the girls' sake if not your own."

"You're my wife, Kate and always will be. I'm not giving up on this."

"Let's drop the crap, John. I am dying and nothing is going to change that. All I am asking you to do is promise me that you aren't going to waste the rest of your life wallowing in self-pity. You're still a young man."

"Darling, I won't see fifty again, that's not young."

"Why don't you marry Maggie?"

"Marry your sister? Like that wouldn't look a bit incestuous or anything."

"I know she's an alcoholic and a manic depressive but she thinks the world of you and don't pretend to be surprised. At the very least I would know the two of you wouldn't be growing old bitter as well as alone. Yes, the more I think about, the more perfect that is sounding. John and Maggie; God knows, having to go through all this, you're most likely thinking you married the wrong sister in the first place anyway."

"Kirsty would have something to say about that arrangement."

"It's a pity you didn't leave me for Maggie years ago, and then her life might not have been such a misery to her and everyone around her."

"Please Kate, I really don't want to be having this conversation."

"Come on, you know it's true. She's sexy, funny and talented. Christ, you would have had one hell of a lot of sex if you'd married that doll. You could have smoked, drunk what you liked and gone to endless rock concerts and left responsibility at the front door." Kate could sense her attempts to mitigate the coming darkness were not helping John and in truth, not helping her either. "It was always you, John. It could only ever have been you, ever from that night in Megeve." She gazed up into his eyes as a bead of sweat dripped from his forehead onto her throat. "I know I have never been the wife you deserved."

"Don't be silly Kate. You are an amazing woman."

"Maybe, but that doesn't mean I am an amazing wife and mother."

John eased himself back onto the mattress next to her and caressed her blonde hair. "We are going to fight this darling. We are going to fight this together and we are going to win, OK?"

Kate lay on her back gazing at the ceiling, the slow rise and fall of her breasts the only perceptible sign of life.

"Kate?"

She eventually turned her head towards him. "OK," she mouthed with an unconvincing smile.

"I love you so much," John spoke, pulling her tight in case she noticed the tears at the corners of his eyes.

Kate did not want to continue this particular line of conversation. So much better to communicate as a man and woman were meant to in the uncomplicated, primal language of physical union. "Are you still.....?"

"Hmmm," he purred.

"Why don't we go again?" She kissed him deeply and welcomed him between her still athletic thighs for one more time.

A solitary side light cast unsettling shadows across the expanse of the living room, while the manic cartoon characters of _Family Guy_ raved in silence on the muted television. Kirsty flicked slowly through the leaves of the leather bound photograph album. The heavy volume, a pictorial record of her parent's glorious wedding day from the moment her nervous father arrived at the Church with his equally uptight best man James, fidgeting by his side, and finishing with a shot of the first dance at the reception. This time the groom's relaxed smile was reflected in the eyes of the stunning blonde haired bride he held in his arms. Kirsty didn't think she had seen a more beautiful woman in all her life.

The sound of a car door shutting at the front of the house meant she could relax. Her younger sister Rebecca was home. For once, Kirsty didn't want to sit alone for the five minutes it took Rebecca to smoke a final cigarette of the night before fumbling with the front door key. She closed the album and set it back on the sideboard before walking along the darkened hallway to the front door.

"I'm glad you're home."

Rebecca's shoulders tensed at the sound of her elder sister's voice. "I wish you wouldn't creep up on me like that." Instinctively, Rebecca dropped the cigarette to the ground and crushed the smouldering remnants under the sole of her knee length leather boots.

Blonde haired Kirsty, her mother's double in many ways, was two years older than her raven haired sister. "You know you aren't fooling anyone. Mum and Dad smell the smoke from your clothes, despite half drowning yourself in _JLO_ perfume."

"I really don't care."

Kirsty sighed heavily. "I don't want us to fight Bec; not now."

"I don't know what you mean." Rebecca went to push past Kirsty.

"Please, Bec." Kirsty grabbed the sleeve of her sister's brown leather jacket and tried to make a connection with the heavily made up eyes. "Can I have a cigarette?"

Rebecca suddenly looked at Kirsty. "But you've only ever smoked about three in your whole life," she laughed aloud.

"Well this is going to be number four, isn't it?"

The night air was chilly for early September but there was no wind, so even dressed as she was in only a t-shirt and jeans, Kirsty was comfortable enough sitting on the doorstep as Rebecca lit a cigarette for her.

"This is about Mum, isn't it?" Rebecca lit her own at the second attempt.

"I'm scared, Bec; really fucking scared." Kirsty was already feeling light headed after only a first draw on the strong Marlboro Red. "I don't think they have told us everything."

Rebecca exhaled a pall of grey smoke, exaggerated by her warm breath condensing in the cold air. "What makes you say that?" She hoped Kirsty would fail to notice the tremble in her hand which held the cigarette.

"I think they are protecting us from the truth."

"Why?"

"Because, maybe the truth is too terrible a thing to contemplate."

"What the hell are you saying?"

Kirsty bit her lip, terrified of giving form to the words inside her head, yet at the same time desperate in the need to share the burden with her sister. "I think Mum is dying." The words hung in the short distance between the sisters, almost as if to give Kirsty one last opportunity to take them back again before letting them slam into Rebecca with the force of a freight train. When Rebecca failed to react, Kirsty wondered if she had actually spoken the words at all, or if in fact they had got caught somewhere between her brain and her vocal chords.

Rebecca had heard and though shocked, was hearing only confirmation of what she had been carrying around inside. "I know," was all she said.

"You never said anything."

"I wasn't sure. I could feel it, though; sense it. The way they look at each other and don't look at each other. The way they look at us and yet don't look at us. I mean Mum hasn't raised her voice in weeks. There is just that half smile. Only it isn't a smile."

"They went to bed very early tonight." Kirsty threw the half smoked cigarette to the ground before it caused her to throw up. "I'm pretty sure they have been having sex."

"That's good." Rebecca smiled "But how do you know that, if you don't mind me asking?"

"The restaurant was ringing for Mum a couple of times, so eventually I thought I'd better go up and tell her in case it was important. When I got to the door of their room, it was, well, you know – kind of obvious why Mum wasn't available to take a phone call."

"Do you think they are still at it, up there?"

"I hope so."

"Me too. I know things haven't always been perfect between Mum and Dad, but they have always made up again."

"That's because they love each other Bec; they love each other very much."

"Come here ya' big softie." Rebecca dropped her own cigarette butt and wrapped both arms around her elder sister's shoulders. Kirsty pulled her close and held Rebecca's head against her chest and kissed the top of her scalp.

"You're going to have to be strong, Bec. Can you do that for me? I can't face the coming storm on my own."

"We'll get through it as a family. All of us will." Rebecca relaxed her shoulders and wept openly, no longer feeling the need to put on a front.

Edinburgh Sept 2014

Maître d, Henri Clement, was to Kate the rock on which _Kate's Chateau_ was built. She relied on him completely. He was also the only member of staff to be fully aware of the true extent of Kate's condition.

"I'm fine, Henri! Now, please let me get on with service." The carefully applied make-up could not disguise the half-moons of darkness beneath her eyes or the fact her cheek bones had become more pronounced than ever. It broke Henri's heart to see her looking so ill.

The kitchen staff were unusually subdued. The normal light hearted banter which had bled away gradually over the recent weeks was snuffed out by the sight of their mistress of perfection struggling to stay on her feet at the pass.

Whenever she called for service on covers that had already gone out, no one wanted to be the one to point out her mistake. It fell to head waitress Ursula, to discreetly whisper in Kate's ear that table thirty-six had indeed already been served their entrée.

Kate knew Henri was right; of course she should be at home. But John wasn't there. He was in Switzerland. The restaurant was the only place she felt safe from the gathering shadows over her shoulder. It was the only she place she still felt like Kate rather than a terminally ill NHS statistic.

"I can't do this anymore! I can't do this anymore!!" Kate screamed inside her head. Staff and customers alike, fell silent when Kate swept the two plates of red snapper onto the tiled floor, shattering the Michelin starred ambience in an instant of public anguish. Kate was shaking and sobbing freely, the restaurant now spinning round and round, yet she did not feel dizzy. Before Henri or any of the staff had time to react, Kate had run out the back door into the courtyard where she noticed the bins needed emptying. No one followed. No one knew what to do or what to say. Kate fumbled in the pocket of her chef's tunic and pulled out her phone and dialled Maggie's number. It went straight to voicemail, of course. Her pathetic sister had undoubtedly succumbed to her nightly bottle of Pinot Grigio. She remembered something her Mother had told her many years before. " _It doesn't matter who you have in your life; lovers, family, friends; because in the end, the only person you can rely on is yourself. We all die alone Kate. Nobody can do it for us._ "

Back in the house, Kate sat at the kitchen table clutching a glass of water that fizzed and popped to the tune of the slowly melting ice cubes. Her overriding feeling was one of falling helplessly and with no-one there to catch her.

A terminal diagnosis not only places a finite time limit on the remains of your life. Count down the days, weeks and months. In an instant, you are condemned to the status of a non-person; the one nobody can make eye contact with, have a laugh with or simply pass the time of day with; the one to be avoided at all costs. "She's dying, you know? Poor woman-" Much better to pass by on the other side of the street and leave the poor creature alone.

"Please won't someone look at me, talk to me! I am as alive as you are. Any one of you could die tomorrow!" She thought of Miranda, her poor mother; a prisoner in the care home suffering the daily indignity of incontinence pads, hoists and wheelchairs – living death. That could not happen to Kate; could not be her precious daughter's memory of their strong, beautiful mother nor John's memory of the wife he worshipped.

The next day

Cairn Gorm, the sixth highest mountain in the United Kingdom has given its name to the mountain range above Aviemore and Speyside, due to its prominence, though it is not the highest peak in the Cairngorms. The Cairngorms; the famed Highland beauty spot which conjures up images of stags, snow and crystal glasses of golden single malt, though the locals know them by their true and rather unlikely name Am Monadh Ruadh - The Red Hills.

The new ski season was still weeks away and the operators of the Cairngorm ski resort could only pray the cold winters and heavy snowfalls of recent years would persist and there would be no return to the damp, mild winters of the nineties which had come close to shutting down the blossoming winter playground. For the rest of the year, the mountain attracted hill walkers, mountain bikers and of course, the day-trippers, seeking little more than a few nice snaps for the panorama photo function on their smart phones.

The gleaming Black BMW X5 rolled into the gravel covered car park at the base of the Cairngorm Mountain Railway, the V-8 Turbo engine ticking over at barely audible low revs. Once secured with the tight hand-brake in an isolated parking space, the head-turning German SUV fell silent, its weary driver hidden from prying eyes by all around smoked windows.

Random reflection of watery sunlight cascaded through the rain spattered windscreen, while the strengthening wind rocked the car on affluently soft suspension. The warmest summer in living memory was finally being forced to yield in the face of an Atlantic depression. Having already conquered the north of Ireland during the night, it swept into the Scottish Highlands, spoiling the school run on what was the first Friday of the new term. Gingham dresses and grey shorts forced to make way for tights and jogging bottoms in a single spin of the globe.

The rain shower grew in intensity, forcing Kate to close the electric window. The drive up from Edinburgh had taken a little over two hours, every one of the one hundred and thirty-two miles taken in a silent blur of emptiness. Now, sat in the public car park high above her home town of Aviemore, Kate reflected on the true nature of car-coma, having no recollection of any part of the journey she had just made. She had left the house with the intention of going to the restaurant, but at some unremembered, unplanned decision point, Kate Alexander had headed north across the Forth Road Bridge, drawn by the call of the mountains – her spiritual home.

Aviemore's most celebrated daughter, heroine of the ski slopes and culinary royalty, sat in the bitter isolation of the condemned. Why had she ever agreed to go for the scan? Her life would have gone on in blissful ignorance for months or maybe even a couple of years. All that had been ripped apart by the cultured solemnity of the softly spoken consultant.

She had never missed her Mother more than she had these past few weeks. She did not want to burden her own daughters with that which they could not change. Her rock was her husband. She knew John loved her deeply, even if a little part of his heart was forever held back by a fantasy; a juvenile love affair that was over before it had begun, or so Kate managed to convince herself. She had refused to crumble or show any form of weakness in his presence. She had to maintain the private and public persona of the dynamic, passionate blonde goddess he had put up on a pedestal. He saw her through the rose tinted lens of the television camera, so how would he ever be able to accept a pathetic, crumbling imposter; a frightened little girl robbed of her future. Poise, grace and strength; anything less would be a betrayal of the real Kate Magowan Alexander.

Coire an t-Sneachda, the Corrie of The Snow, was a barren wasteland of rock and perennial frozen ice, a testament to its glacial beginnings. Kate had covered the two and a half mile track from the Cairngorm Ski Centre on numerous occasions, both as a child with her parents and in more latter years with John and the girls. This was the first time it had taken more than an hour. The walking conditions were good, but the medication, prescribed to dull the pain, had the effect of weakening her muscles and sapping her appetite. Her sugar levels were low and she was beginning to feel light headed. It had been about a mile back that she last set eyes on another human soul and the solitude was both invigorating and comforting. Alone under the clearing sky of late afternoon, surrounded by the firmament of rock from which her very soul had been carved and nurtured, she felt a true child of the mountains. Those things that had tethered Kate to life, such as love, family, hope and success had become nothing but illusions. Only the mountains were real as were the pair of Rock Ptarmigan's that swooped low over her head and settled out on the rock field; the distinctive croak of the male echoing in the slowly fading light.

Did she regret the path she had chosen? She was too tired even to comprehend the question. In any case, the path had been chosen for her.

By now, desperately short of breath, Kate sat down on a large flat rock and tried to look up at the fading sky above but her eyelids were heavy and her vision blurred by tears or........?

Refusing to allow any thoughts of Rebecca, Kirsty or John to burst the bubble, she desperately held on to the distant echo of the cowbells and cheering spectators lining the slalom course at Megeve in 1984.

This time she didn't catch an edge.

This time she didn't destroy her knee.

Her throat felt constricted, so desperate was she to fill her lungs with crisp, cold air.

Time slowed down, the agony prolonged.

Try to relax, let the knees flex. Important not to have the thigh muscles tighten. Two seconds before I launch myself into the cradle of fear. I have done it before, so many times, yet now it is different. The prize of success so much greater as would be the price of failure.

My name is Kate Magowan and I _will_ be Britain's first Olympic ski champion.

# CHAPTER 24

Interlaken 2014

Maria was finding night-shift more tedious than ever. Not even when the changing rota allowed her to share the Police enquiry office at Interlaken West train station with her boyfriend and fellow officer Peter Zurbriggen, could she find any way to enjoy the 'dead zone' between two and five am. The only compensation was the joy she felt on turning the key of the front door of the house in Wildeswil, she shared with her mother; her precious, fragile mother.

She closed the door as quietly as possible behind her. Her mother was not a good sleeper so Maria went to any lengths to ensure she did not disturb her, though she was bursting to hear how Angela's reunion with John Alexander had gone. She liked John very much and harboured a hope that one day he and her mother would get together again, though she was aware that realistically too much time had gone by for that to ever happen. She also knew John was married to an extremely beautiful woman.

Maria noticed the ash tray on the kitchen table that had not been there when Angela had gone out the night before. There had to be five or six cigarette butts in it. Clearly her mother had not gone to bed immediately on arriving home – never a good sign. That was when she saw the photograph lying on the table; that photograph. Now the cigarettes made more sense. How could her mother ever move her life forward if she couldn't let go of the past? Yet on so many levels the past was all Angela Hofmeister had left. Maria felt she had let Angela down. If she was the daughter Angela wanted and cherished, then why was Angela so unhappy? Of course Maria wasn't Angela's daughter; not really. The ghost that disturbed the idyllic calm of Grindlewald was Angela's real daughter; just as the ghost in the forgotten Bosnian village of Jahorina was Maria's mother.

Maria took off her shoes and padded softly along the corridor to her bedroom, passing the half open door into Angela's room. She paused briefly, smiling at the unflattering sight of her mother clearly asleep with mouth open and a throaty snore emanating from somewhere within.

Maria unbuttoned her blue police uniform shirt in front of the full length mirror in her bedroom and turned her mind to more pleasant thoughts, like what Peter would make of her new front fastening bra.

John walked down to the edge of Lake Thun, his favourite of the two great lakes, between which lies the town of Interlaken. Lake Thun had always spoken to him of hope and adventure, where the sibling Lake Brienz had a melancholic, even sinister aura. Thun asked you to look on in awe, whereas Brienz was more comfortable when you looked the other way. Lake Brienz had seen too much.

The years were slipping past too quickly. John couldn't get his head around the fact that thirty years had passed since he had sat in the Zetra Stadium in Sarajevo with Angela by his side, bearing witness to Jayne Torvill and Christopher Dean as they skated their way into sporting folklore. He didn't dare imagine himself in another thirty years. He only knew it would pass quicker than the three decades just gone. He immediately chastised himself for daring to conceive of life ten year spans, when Kate could measure the future only in months.

With great deliberation, he had chosen to ignore the name of the Interpol officer Stahl had mentioned at the conclusion of their meeting. It simply was not possible. Yes, it was a small world, but not that small?

He took out his phone and selected Angela's mobile number. She was slow to pick up but it was quickly apparent why.

"John? Sorry; I am still in bed."

"It's almost eleven o'clock."

"Yes, but it is eleven o'clock in the morning," she mumbled, pushing the hair from her face. "How did your meeting go?"

"I'll tell you later."

"What are your plans?" she asked.

"I was hoping you could suggest something. I'm going to be around for a few days."

Angela sat upright in the bed. "I was hoping we could go up to Grindlewald sometime."

"It's a long time since I've been there," he said.

"And I've been waiting for a long time to take you back there – a very long time."

The oppressive echoes of a record breaking summer refused to relinquish their grip on the dreamlike hour that overlapped both the fading vermillion of evening and the accelerating onrush of the autumn nights. Fuelling the growing depression of the unwittingly cloned masses, the descent into the inevitable frosted wonderland blossomed in the hearts of the deviant minority, who would bask in the glory of the weak, winter sun.

Though more than a quarter of a century had slipped by since Angela Hofmeister had last thrown herself though a timing wand on a seventy-five mile per hour kamikaze ride to glory, the ski racer's ritual of opening the curtains in the middle of the night in the hope of fresh snow still punctuated her already unsatisfactory sleep pattern.

The first fall was yet weeks away. That much would have been obvious even to a first time visitor from Mumbai or Beirut. That irrefutable truth did not prevent Angela from opening her bedroom window at five-thirty in the morning and letting the small hour chill explore her nostrils, before she returned to a fitful sleep and the recurring nightmares of her very own brand of Stephen King's deviant fantasies.

" _That's it, Angela. You're doing so well." The encouraging words of the Italian educated midwife retained the thick vowel sounds betraying her upbringing in the town of Chur in the Canton of Grisons. Rhaeto-Romansh, a descendant of the ancient Vulgar Latin spoken by the Roman occupiers of the region, though protected as a 'fourth' national language by the Swiss constitution, could not expect parity of esteem with the generally spoken French, German or Italian._

Despite the lumbar epidural, Angela found the pain way beyond anything she had been prepared for. The expression in the eyes of the grey haired obstetrician did little to assuage her growing sense of panic. When the pain tipped from climactic to subsidence, the sight of the blurred purple form being whisked away to a corner of the theatre over her left shoulder precipitated a silent scream from her dry throat. The sound of the midwife's flat shoes slapping on the tiled floor of the delivery theatre was magnified a thousand times by the contradictory silence from the flesh and blood issue of her shattered love with John Alexander. The horrific truth was suffocating her as if already a bitter memory. If he had been there holding her hand, mopping the perspiration from her brow, perhaps she could have found the strength to cope. He should have been, at the very least, outside the theatre, sipping putrid coffee from a flimsy plastic cup, talking football with the other nervously expectant fathers. No, he was reclined between the thighs of the blonde goddess, while his daughter exhaled for the first and last time. How could she ever forgive him for this ultimate act of desertion? How could she ever forgive herself for the foolishness that had driven him out of her life?

The final act of the midwife was to offer the now silent bundle to Angela, her dancing dark eyes no longer able to meet those of the broken mother. It was too late for all three players in the micro-tragedy, whose leading lady had already left the stage before the curtain had gone up on the first scene.

Uncomfortably flitting between the unexplainable expanses of time played out in the short moments of REM sleep and the mindless clock watching of heavy lidded consciousness, Angela threw the towel in a little after seven and padded unsteadily to the toilet. The daily ritual of the morning's first evacuation, letting muscles relax with head in hands, was about as unglamorous as the necessities of real life could possibly get for a woman with any sense of self-respect.

Angela pulled on an oversized t-shirt and made her way to the kitchen. Coffee and a cigarette would give her the motivation to face another couple of hours under the duvet. The sight of the midnight blue uniform jacket draped over the back of one of the wooden chairs at the table warmed her heart. Despite everything, she had a daughter. She had the love and respect of a special young woman who called her 'mother.'

The morning sun that spilled in through naked windows caused Angela to squint while filling the kettle. This helped her to ignore the gathering layers of dust on the unused surfaces of wood and granite. Neglect of domestic duties was less immediately obvious than neglect of one's self, but why waste ten minutes with a duster in hand, when that precious time could be self-absorbed in nicotine flavoured regret.

Maria didn't mind her mother smoking. Anything was preferable to the daily cocktail of anti-depressants and vodka that had reduced the one-time A-list television presenter to a bitter, heartrending parody of middle aged self-loathing. The fearless, passionate army officer who had risked everything to save the four-year old Maria from Bosnia's merciless tide of slaughter that swept away her family; the woman who Maria had placed on a pedestal, was lost in a half-life without the meaning drawn from the need of others. Perhaps John Alexander was at the root of her unhappiness, but if he needed her now, for whatever reason, perhaps it would be enough to drag her back from the edge of the abyss.

Angela gratefully ran her fingertips over the all too familiar cellophane wrapping of a fresh pack of cigarettes. That sensation alone was enough to lessen the tension in her shoulders and ease the quickening pulse. The seductive tranquillity of the first hit was only seconds away. The unquenchable agitation of the empty pack was not going to blacken the morning.

Through the first pall of smoke, Angela noticed the photograph on the kitchen table. She couldn't remember lifting it from its place the night before, but doubted Maria had been dwelling on that pivotal moment in Angela's life. She picked up the photo, hoping that she could return it to its home on the mantelpiece without allowing herself to be dragged through the frame, wrenched from the quiet September morning to the place where youthful bravado and nervous energy combined in a heady mixture of incendiary potential. 'Sunshine' Cindy Johnson; precious Cindy, the golden girl of the slopes and Angela's one true friend, had vanished yet again from Angela's life, as her rejuvenated career went into overdrive. Lead singer of the Californian rock band Catalyst, whose string of hits in the late eighties had made them a household name, Cindy had suffered from drink and drug addiction during the nineties when the band's fortunes waned. Then in 2000, tragedy struck when a helicopter taking the band on a sightseeing tour of the Grand Canyon, crashed into the Colorado River, leaving keyboard player Roxanne Harris with severe spinal injuries and condemned to a lifetime in a wheelchair. Cindy suffered serious head injuries which continued to cause her psychological and emotional problems, but she had somehow got her life back on track and the rejuvenated Catalyst had just completed a world tour. Indeed Cindy was now appearing on the US television show 'Dancing with the Stars.'

Angela smiled. She would turn on the laptop and email Cindy in a few minutes. She missed her so much. As she set the photo in its usual place, at the perfect angle so as not to catch the reflection from the television screen, she wondered why Maria Agostini's face seemed to be slightly out of focus, as if twenty-four hours prior to her death, she had already been fading from the real world. Her horrific crash on the bottom section of the Kandahar course had been a random accident; a freak occurrence that could have happened to anyone and to no-one. Yet, the camera must have already sensed the onrush of the darkness, which somewhere on the great arc of time had already happened.

Interlaken 2014

Angela had forgotten Maria was no longer in the house. She did have a vague notion of Maria opening her bedroom door and calling out to her something about having to go back to work. It was tangible how the absence of a person from a house alters the feel of the place. Every tick of the clock a little bit louder, the vibration from the washing machine a little more menacing. There is a little bit more air and more space for the elementary fabric of the place to manipulate the easy prey left behind.

Without the comforting presence beneath the duvet along the hall, Angela knew all too well she could fall victim to her own insecurities. With Maria in the house, Angela had boundaries; which pills to take and how many; which not to take; when to smoke and when was it acceptable to have a drink. Solitude brought uncertainty, fear and a propensity to seek companionship in a packet or a bottle. She wasn't due to meet John for another five hours. That was a long time to keep everything together and prevent the emotional turmoil from manifesting itself in pathetic embarrassment. A nice long walk by the banks of the Lutschinen River would see off the first couple of hours and maybe the chance to bathe in the glory of the valley would help her relax. Angela lifted her sunglasses from the kitchen table and used them as a hair band.

"It's OK, mum. It's only me!" Maria opened the back door and hugged her startled mother. "I'm sorry to burst in. You probably didn't remember I had gone out again."

"Must have been something important?" Angela offered up a slightly nervous laugh. She knew exactly why Maria had been called out to work probably minutes after John had met with Erich.

"You asked John to come here, didn't you?" Maria's expression was a struggle between the love and understanding of a daughter and the cool objectivity of an able young police woman.

"I didn't know what to do, darling."

"You saw Vladic, didn't you?"

Angela nodded wearily.

"You should have told me, Mum. I am a cop for God's sake!"

"That is exactly why I could not tell you." Angela bit her lower lip and poured herself a glass of water at the sink.

"You can't keep trying to protect me. I am a police officer and it is my duty to protect the citizens of this region, including you."

"I hoped by telling John, he could somehow make it all just go away and allow us to get on with our lives in peace."

"Oh Mum." Maria guided Angela to the kitchen table and pulled out a seat for her to sit. She took the adjacent seat and clasped Angela's hand in both her own. She smiled sympathetically. "I thought John had invited himself over here to rekindle your relationship."

Angela shook her head and sighed. "My timing could not have been worse."

"How do you mean?"

"His wife is terminally ill from a brain tumour."

"Kate? Oh no, that is awful."

"So you see what I mean by timing?"

"I'm sorry," Maria blew out her cheeks.

"Be sorry for Kate. She is a very special woman."

Maria released Angela's hand with a kiss on the knuckles and took out her notebook. "I apologise up front for this but I need to ask you a few questions, in my role as a police officer, you understand?"

"Yes."

"What do you mean by yes? I haven't started yet."

"Yes Officer, it was definitely Mavro Vladic who I saw boarding the train at Lauterbrunnen."

It was clear to Maria that her mother genuinely believed she had seen Vladic but considering her recent emotional and mental health issues, she had to consider the possibility that she may have been mistaken and indeed, most likely had been. Irrational fear of Vladic ever since Sarajevo coupled with a possibly subconscious desire to have John Alexander back in her life. The psychology module in her training course was guiding her thoughts. For all their sakes, it would be much preferable if Angela had been mistaken, for if Vladic really was in The Bernese Oberland, it could not be for a holiday. Maybe if Maria had a vivid recollection of what Vladic had done to her family; to her own mother, she would have had a greater sense of inbuilt fear, but for her, life had begun in these Swiss mountains in the bosom of the now broken woman sat next to her. She owed her everything. She owed it to her to trust her now and take the side of Angela even at the expense of hard facts or even common sense. "We'll find him, Mum. If he's here we'll find him." She squeezed Angela's arm tightly.

"Just the two of you? Has the mighty Commander Stahl not drafted in a crack team from Geneva?"

"Outside specialists, is the term he used; don't worry; we're not being expected to do this alone."

"Why don't you wait until they get here?"

"We'll can manage; we will only be carrying out some local investigation, like interviewing railway staff, tour guides; that sort of thing."

"No wanted posters all the way down the Hoheweg?" Angela smiled wryly.

"No Mum, at least not yet." Maria got up and opened the fridge, suddenly in need of a sugar rush. She took out the last can of fizzy orange and cracked the ring pull. "What time are you meeting John?"

"About six," Angela said, as if both the time and date were of little interest to her.

"Where are you going to go?"

"We may have dinner in the hotel."

"You've done that already. Why don't you go somewhere special?"

"The Carlton-Europe is an excellent hotel."

"You know that place gives me the creeps. Just because it's in the family," she made inverted commas in the air with her forefingers, "Is not enough of a reason to force him to dine under the evil eye of that old witch!"

Angela sat upright. "Please Maria; I know she can come across a little eccentric but Greta is a very old woman and your great-grandmother, I will remind you."

"She may be your grandmother, but she most certainly is not my great-grandmother." Maria guzzled half the can of ice cold pop in a few well measured gulps. "Why don't you take John to the Victoria-Jungfrau?"

"Are you paying?"

"OK, bad idea. What about the Hotel Du Lac?"

Angela's eyes took on the soft focus of someone looking back. "He wanted us to go for a meal there once. It was only a short walk from my flat but Cindy thought it way too boring so we ended up at the Metropole."

"That was probably for the best back in those days. I think Mr Alexander would be delighted to finally get the chance to have dinner there."

"Maybe you're right," Angela nodded.

Situated on the river which connected Lake Thun and Lake Brienz, the grand, pink washed hotel had always conjured up the very picture of Swiss tranquillity. Its dated elegance was maintained to the highest standard in order to delight the ageing clientele who returned over the decades to wallow in the afterimage of the golden years of the early twentieth century.

"I'm glad you approve of my choice." Angela raised her glass of mineral water.

"It's just as I always imagined it would be."

"So Cindy was right. If we had come in here that night after Maria Agostini's funeral, the place would never have gotten over it?"

"They would have been closed within a week," he grinned.

Angela was dressed in a simple black woollen V-neck sweater and tight fitting black jeans, with less make-up than the previous night but sufficient to allow her to feel a sense of adequacy in the elegant surroundings. "How was Erich?" Angela cut to the chase.

John considered the vocabulary of his response. "Professional, but dangerous: courteous, but intimidating."

"Nothing we all didn't know thirty years ago, yet I married the bastard anyway. Guess I got what I deserved," Angela said in a way that totally threw John, leaving him unsure who exactly was the intended target for her ire.

"That said, he is going to help, and he sure as hell won't be put off by Vladic's reputation."

"So what happens next? Maria has been ordered to start carrying out interviews up the valley to see if there are any more reports of his whereabouts."

"Interpol have been in contact with Erich already. They have a special unit attached to the ICTY. They are due to be here in the next few days."

"Why not sooner?"

"Red tape, Angela. Somebody has foot the bill for the operation up front, in case it all comes to nothing."

"Which it may well do if they don't get their fucking finger out!" She maintained her composure though had a quick look around in case her expletive had carried farther than John's ears. "Please tell me they are taking this seriously?"

He leaned in and lifted his wine glass. "If they weren't, then nobody would be coming."

"And what about you; are you staying to meet with these Interpol people or are you needed at home?"

He blew out his cheeks. "I really don't know, Angela. I will need to talk things over with Kate. If she wants me home, I will have to go but I can come straight back here as soon as anything comes up that demands my attention."

"So this may be it. This may be goodbye again?" Angela managed a smile forged from the strength of remembered happiness. "And we never did get to make that trip up to Grindlewald." The pain was etched across his face every time he mentioned Kate's name. Angela had to imagine Meryl Streep or Julia Roberts sitting where she was. That way she could let them play out the rest of the evening in her place. An accomplished performance was required to bring the movie to an ending filled with hope rather than tears. "Why don't we order," she delivered her opening line perfectly.

John's bag was packed. The unsatisfying breakfast was lying in his stomach. He glanced at his watch. Half an hour until the train would depart Interlaken Ost, so the perfect time to check out with the minimum amount of hassle. He had spared Angela and himself the unavoidable pastiche of the airport goodbye by lying that he had a further meeting with Erich in Thun first thing. She had accepted with a defeated willingness that signalled her acquiescence to his considerate retreat.

With his hand about to clasp round the handle of his bag, the old fashioned ring tone had him fishing around in the pocket of his jacket for his phone. His eldest daughter's ID and photo flashed up on the screen.

"Kirsty, darling." He greeted her in his normal lilting tone, as though she were still seven or eight, but then no father ever relishes watching his little girl became a woman.

She was sobbing, practically incoherent.

"Kirsty, what's going on?"

Hysterical? Yes, that was the right word. Why is she hysterical?

"It's Mum. You've got to come home."

"What's happened?"

"The police are here. They say Mum is dead!"

John's legs all but went from under him. "I don't understand. Where is she?"

"She didn't come home last night. Her room is empty. Please Dad, I need you. Please!"

John's heart pounded heavily in the front of his chest and he had to sit on the edge of the bed. "Where's Rebecca?"

"She's here, beside me," Her voice had faded from a guttural wail to a deflated rasp. "Mrs Carlisle is here too?"

"Thank God," Antoinette Carlisle was their next door neighbour and a friend of Kate's, going back to their university days. A consultant paediatrician at Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, the strong, fiery red-head would take care of the girls until he got back. "Let me speak to her,"

"John, it's me Toni. Are you still in Switzerland then?" Her voice was steady, if not a little accusing.

"Yes, but I'm getting a flight at 12.55 so I should be home for three, I guess. What the hell has happened?"

"I don't know anything, John. The police only turned up about ten minutes ago. All I can tell you is that they found her car abandoned in the Highlands and then they found Kate some time later."

"It's definite then, that she is dead?" John could not believe the words he was saying or indeed why he was managing to keep up a conversation at all. Maybe we are all pre-programmed to switch over onto an internal auto-pilot when hit by unfathomable tragedy.

"Yes. I'll be here when you get home. I have tried to get hold of Maggie but I could only leave a message on her voicemail" She hung up without passing the phone back to Kirsty.

He stared at the phone for a minute or was it two? He had no way of keeping track of time when the world had stopped on its axis. He had no choice, not now, so he selected Angela's mobile and pressed 'Call.'

He was about to ring off before he was directed to voicemail when she answered, sounding as though he had woken her.

"Meeting cancelled then, or could you not leave without a romantic goodbye after all?" Momentarily in that twilight world where people live with knowledge that will change everything, unwilling yet guided by the hand of the onrushing future.

He paused, though not for effect. "Kate's dead."

# CHAPTER 25

London 1989

After graduating from The University of Edinburgh in the summer of 1985 with a Degree in politics and international relations, John had been extremely fortunate to get a job with the weekly newspaper, _The Sunday Post_. Though he had his sights set on a career in political journalism, the editor was on the lookout for a young travel writer who could bring a modern, intelligent edge to what had become a rather tired side-line for one of the staples of a Sunday weekly. When he read John's second year essay ' _Native Perspectives from Beyond the Looking Glass_ ,' the author's view of his home city Edinburgh written from the point of view of a tourist, he ensured John was on the shortlist for a second interview. As it transpired, following the second round of interviews, the panel were unable to separate John and St Andrew's graduate David Hunter and it was only due to Hunter's declaration as a born again Christian that they were persuaded to plump for John on the basis he would fit in more readily to an office environment heavy on swearing, cigarettes and liquid lunches.

His first assignment had been close to home; an assignment to regenerate interest in the local Scottish ski resort of Aviemore. It couldn't have been more perfect as with his relationship with Kate moving into top gear, it provided the perfect excuse for him to join her at her parents' house in Aviemore at weekends and indulge in some local research.

Naturally, it wouldn't be long before he was required to travel further afield for his job and soon John found he was flying to all corners of the globe which meant at times he didn't see Kate for weeks at a time. Indeed, in the six months prior to their wedding in July 1988, John was almost never at home, leaving Kate to cope with most of the arrangements on her own.

It was in the early months of 1989 that John first came to the attention of one of the UK's fastest growing tour operators, Balkan Travel, whose main area of operation was the Adriatic coast of Yugoslavia. A two page spread he had written for _The Sunday Post_ extolling the virtues of The Istrian Riviera and The Dalmatian Coast had prompted the marketing director to turn up at the door of _The Sunday Post_ and offer John a position with the company. John's loyalty to and enjoyment of working at the Post meant he was reluctant to walk away for a position in the more volatile travel industry. Eventually a deal was struck whereby he would reduce his commitment to the Post to a monthly double page offering for which he would be paid a set fee, while his nine to five salaried position would be with the Manchester based travel operator. His income practically doubled overnight and Kate was initially one hundred percent behind his new career. This soon cooled off when it became apparent he would be spending much of his time working in Yugoslavia, which roughly translated to living in Yugoslavia. However, her enthusiasm returned once John had explained that while in Yugoslavia, he would be living on the company's expenses account, leaving his salary untouched for them to save for the deposit Kate was going to require if she was to fulfil her ambition of opening her own restaurant.

After almost a month at home, John was due to fly out to Yugoslavia on Monday evening so he had travelled to London by train on Sunday afternoon as the fare was only half what it would have been travelling on Monday. On previous occasions of taking this particular schedule to Zagreb Airport, John had spent the Sunday night in The Travelodge at Gatwick Airport. This had resulted in a heated exchange between Kate and Maggie, the latter wanting to know why John wasn't taking advantage of having his sister-in-law living in London and a more obvious and natural venue for an overnight stay in the capital than was a drab, soulless budget hotel. And so it was that John had jumped into a taxi at Waterloo and after a relatively brief ten minute ride found himself outside the block where Maggie shared a flat with her fellow police officer Romany Grace.

Romany had been unable to guarantee she would be out of the flat on Sunday evening so Maggie had booked a table for two at the more than acceptable Indian restaurant The Maharajah, for eight o'clock. Romany had insisted on doing Maggie's make-up and selected the red mini-dress Maggie was keeping for special occasions.

"You've got to be kidding, Romany. He's my brother-in-law for God's sake."

"Even more reason for looking your best. Heaven forbid you would be going out for dinner with a stranger."

When Maggie looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, she wondered what John would think. Would he even recognise her?

Two cigarettes smoked in rapid succession could not ease the sense of panic that lay across her chest, pressing and threatening to suffocate her sense of mischievous anticipation. She was left with little option than to break the promise she had made both to the girl in the mirror and to Romany that morning. While Romany sat watching television, Maggie took the vodka from the freezer and half-filled a glass tumbler, topping it up with pure orange juice. She downed the contents in one and lit another cigarette. She felt better immediately, not that the alcohol had taken effect but merely the comfort of knowing it would soon wash away her fit of nerves and give a spring to her step and an extra edge to her fragile confidence.

"OK, I'm all set," Maggie paused at the living room door and struck a cover girl pose. "What do you think?"

"Dressed to kill, Constable."

The poor excuse for a doorbell announced the arrival of a visitor with its now legendary dull buzzing sound. "Holy shit!" Maggie examined the good inch of cigarette still to be smoked. "John is always on time."

"He's most likely been walking round and round the block trying to pluck up the courage to ring the bloody doorbell. You're going to have to put him out of his misery, poor bastard, unless you want to play at hard to get, that is?" Romany gestured with her forefinger for Maggie to pass on the second hand Marlboro; slightly soiled with only one careful owner.

"Wish me luck?"

"Luck? You either are or you aren't on a mission to screw your sister's husband. Neither luck nor will my ill-judged words of support have anything to do with it. Whatever happens tonight, the fallout may still be radioactive thirty years from now." Romany hit the mute button on the TV remote control, silencing Cilla Black's ivory toothed semantics. "This isn't a brat pack movie, Maggie. This is real life and in real life there tends to be more losers than there are winners."

"John Alexander married the wrong Magowan sister. He knows that every bit as well as me."

Romany took the ash heavy cigarette from Maggie. "Don't drink too much, OK?"

"As if I would." Maggie poked out her tongue and disappeared into the short, floral carpeted hallway that led to the front door.

The Maharajah was as stereotypical an Indian restaurant as it would have been possible to imagine, resplendent with mock nineteenth century décor from the glory days of the Raj. Close your eyes and it would have been easy to imagine Ben Kingsley and Peter O'Toole perusing the limited wine list, all the while digesting the latest script for a David Lean production, attempting to rewrite the epitaph to the jewel in Vickie's crown of gold and blood encrusted diamonds.

"London is clearly agreeing with you." John decided the moment was right to drag the conversation from the literary wasteland of monosyllabic pleasantries to the unacknowledged yet true nature of the dinner date with his sister-in-law, particularly before her true identity became blurred by the self-replenishing contents of her glass.

"Meaning that I have lost weight?"

John smiled, attempting to hide a tinge of embarrassment. "Meaning that you look..."

"Sexy?"

"I was going to say that you look strong."

Maggie grimaced. "Is that a complement? Believe you me, when I was squeezing into this highly uncomfortable dress and letting my flat-mate loose with her box of cosmetic tricks, it was not through any desire to be seen as strong. Ravishing, eminently fuckable; then and only then would you be getting warm."

John wiped the condensation from the near side of his glass.

"You know Maggie, I find it so difficult to comprehend why you aren't fighting men off."

"The only men I am ever fighting are drunken yobs outside Camden Palace on Saturday nights."

"You know what I mean."

She sighed. "I do get the odd proposition. You know, 'Alright darlin,' d'ya fancy a quick 'aff down the boozer after work?' But it's always from the wrong type."

"Gay?"

"Be serious, will you. You know; too old, too bald, too fat and yes, too married."

"So you are looking for a young, thin, single guy with a good head of hair? Can't be that difficult."

"Want a bet?" Maggie didn't wait for John to refill her glass from the second bottle of Pinot Grigio, almost knocking over his glass in the process.

"Are you sure it's OK for me to stay at your place tonight? It's no problem for me to book into a hotel at the airport." John was giving her a way out; John was giving John a way out. The glassy sheen to Maggie's eyes warned him that the evening was unlikely to end on a high note. The sooner they could pay the bill and Maggie could indulge her nicotine habit in the cool of the London evening, the better.

"That's a terrible thing to say, John. You've no idea of the work I have done round the flat to make the place ready for your visit."

"Do you really think joining the Met was the right career move for you?"

"It's a job and it pays pretty well."

"Do you not miss the band?"

Maggie threw her head back in a show of disgust. "No, I don't miss the band. That was a just a naive and juvenile dream. It was what it was but we all have to grow up."

"I don't believe you."

"And what the fuck would you know about it?"

"Maggie, I saw you on that stage. I saw the raw energy coursing through your veins, the passion exploding from your heart into every word you sang. I saw and heard a rare and exceptional talent. You know I'm right. That's why you've chosen to hide away down here, four hundred miles from home."

"Fuck off!" Maggie spat out the words with a vitriol she had not intended.

"Great, Maggie. Now we look like a normal couple, having a domestic over our bloody chicken Korma!" John was exasperated by Maggie's refusal to accept that which clearly tortured her every waking moment. Her unfulfilled dreams of musical success fuelled her with negative, dark energy which if unchecked, could eventually destroy her.

The taxi ride back to the flat was tortuous. John had his arm around her shoulders in the back seats of the black cab, intermittently squeezing her tight to try to keep her awake. Her head kept lolling forward or against his chest, no longer under the direct control of her brain.

John paid the cabbie and helped Maggie up the stairs. He had to rifle through her clutch bag to locate the front door key and almost let her collapse in a heap on the hall carpet when he was bolting the door behind them.

He had planned to get her to drink a mug or two of strong black coffee, but circumstances had overtaken him and the only option for Maggie was bed. The door which was closed tight he took to be Romany's so he used his foot to push open the door opposite and was able to switch on the light with his free shoulder. He could little more than dump Maggie unceremoniously on the top of her bed and remove her shoes. Anything beyond that would have required reserves of delicate chivalry he was neither prepared for nor did feel up to. He pulled half the duvet over her and satisfied she was in a comfortable and safe position in which to make it through the night, he slipped out of the bedroom and made the most of the scant comfort the settee could provide; after ripping open a sachet of liver salts and emptying the dubious powder contents into a pint glass of tap water. The water frothed and fizzed like a 1970's attempt at home made flavoured soda. Kate sneered when she would catch him dropping a box of sachets into the supermarket trolley. " _If you don't like getting a hangover then why bother to drink in the first place?_ " She could never understand the appeal in pouring bitter tasting liquid down your throat that had the effect of dulling your senses, making you act like an idiot, not to mention the damage to your health. She wasn't against drinking per say, she just didn't get it.

The pint glass duly drained, John stretched out on the settee and draped his coat over his legs by way of bedding. Maggie had said he could hang around the flat after she and Romany had gone to work, so he didn't need to get up when they did. He planned to go into the city centre for a couple of hours and visit Tower Records in the hope of picking up a couple of new American import albums not available in regular stores in Edinburgh, so it would handy if he was able to while away a few hours watching television and maybe get a shower. He hadn't really had much to drink, not enough to cause him to drift into unconsciousness a few minutes after getting his head down. He found his mind was buzzing with thoughts of Maggie; thoughts he wanted to banish. He forced his mind to reach back across the years to icy nights in the mountains of Switzerland, the air infused with the aroma of mulled wine, lying in the arms of Angela Hofmeister. It had been a year of his life lived in a parallel universe, as indistinguishable now from any other dream. If it wasn't for the fact Kate used it as a stick with which to beat him from time to time; a gentle reminder of how he had abandoned her for the mysterious lady from the Alps; chasing a foolish fantasy and then running back to Kate when it all went wrong, as she always knew it would.

John blinked heavy eyes and the morning rushed in. "I see things didn't go to plan." Romany was standing in the room, dressed for work and holding a mug of coffee. Maggie's flatmate was extraordinarily attractive with eyes so dark as to be almost black and John found it difficult to meet them directly. He felt flustered and a little embarrassed by his compromised position, sprawled half-dressed on the settee, hair everywhere and his cheek lined with the seam of the cushion.

"How's Kate?" Romany asked.

"She's good thanks." He sat up and rubbed his eyes.

Romany glanced at her watch. "I can't wait for Maggie. I need to get moving. I heard her up a few minutes ago. You really shouldn't have let her drink too much, not when she has to work the next morning." She set her mug down on the kitchen bar. "Anyway, tell her to get a move on." She lifted her shoulder bag from the chair next to the door and went out the door of the flat.

John hung his shoulders and struggled to his feet. In the bathroom he washed his face with cold water and shaved with a disposable lady shaver that was sitting on the edge of the bath. It was clogged with dark hair and he couldn't tell if it belonged to Maggie or Romany. He dressed and was reheating the kettle to make coffee when Maggie came into the kitchenette. She was already in uniform minus the trademark checked cravat of Metropolitan Police officers. She would keep that in her pocket until arriving at the station. That way when wearing an overcoat, she didn't attract attention as a police officer. Her hair was tied back. Her face was pale and dark rings beneath her eyes with no make-up except for the remnants of yesterday's eye liner.

"Hi," she said. "Not away yet?"

"I'm not flying out till this evening, remember?" he asked though he doubted she did.

"I need to go or I'll be late for work, so just make yourself at home and I'll leave the key. You can slip it through the letter box when you leave."

"Thanks." He turned round and reflected her smile of regret.

"About last night," she began, uncertain where she was going.

"Great movie; Rob and Demi."

She appreciated his ability to lighten the mood in any circumstance.

Her shoulders relaxed allowing her to concentrate on the thumping headache behind her eyes. "Well, give us a hug and I'll leave you to your nice relaxing morning while I go out and scrape a few of last night's drunks off the subway."

"If they only knew, eh?"

"Very funny." Maggie gave him a warm embrace and he kissed her cheek.

"I see you've shaved already."

"Yes, I used the green razor sitting on the side of the bath."

Maggie's eyes widened. "That's Romany's. If you knew the places that's been. Actually don't think about that at all." She withdrew her arms and glanced at her watch, sighing heavily. "Oh, you missed a bit by the way."

"Did I?" John rubbed his face with his fingers, in search of a patch of rogue stubble.

"Here," Maggie touched a point below his right ear, "and here," her fingertip caressed a small spot on the end of his chin. John noticed a few acne spots on Maggie's chin and forehead, testimony to her awful diet. The stale odour of alcohol and nicotine on her breath blending with her Arden deodorant stirred something within him. Neither could have told who made the first flicker of movement to initiate what happened. When their lips parted it was after only a brief, gentle contact. "That was a very polite kiss, Mr Alexander."

"I thought you were late for work," he teased.

"Maybe I should take the day off; I don't feel too well. Perhaps it would be a good idea if I just spent the day in bed. What do you think about that?"

"I'm not sure it will make you feel any better."

This time Maggie kissed him long and deeply, causing his defences to collapse

"You can do whatever you want to me John. I am yours. I have always been yours, ever since that night we first met at The Venue. There you were with my perfect big sister; the man who would be the love of my life."

"You know this can never lead anywhere."

"Then you'd better make sure I don't enjoy it too much."

Saturday 31st March 1990 Whitehall, London

"Where is the mounted section? I thought they were supposed to be on hand to disperse aggressive hot-spots like this." WPC Romany Grace was far from convinced that a steely expression and the sight of a set of cheap stainless steel handcuffs dangling from her belt was going to strike much fear into the seething mass of vitriol moving towards the thin blue line.

"This isn't going to be a repeat of the miner's strike, love," Sergeant Steve 'Arry' Bonnet croaked from her left. "Mrs T. can't risk blood on the streets, unless it's ours of course."

"Make fast that cordon!" The shouted order from Chief Inspector Clarence Woodhouse encouraged the front two ranks of officers to link arms and take up a defensive line outside the glass frontage of Debenhams.

"Hold on tight, Maggie." Romany linked her right arm through the left of WPC Maggie Magowan. "Beats the shit out of scooping drunks off the steps of Oxford Circus tube station on a Saturday night, eh?"

"With all the TV cameras around, the whole thing is more like a bloody film set than a real life public order incident." Maggie suddenly felt her stature diminish in the face of the approaching crowd of leather jackets and Fred Perry T-shirts; skinheads and unkempt, greasy locks, unsynchronised legs marching on real ale and Belgian lager. One of the few remembered quotations from her fifth form English Literature floated into Maggie's mind. ' _A horse, a horse; my kingdom for a horse_.' Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of four mounted officers easily scattering a mob of fifty or more protesters from a side street next to McDonalds. "They'd better get over here quick."

"Don't worry, Maggie. These idiots are only out for a bit of fun to break the boredom of a Saturday afternoon. Nobody's going to be stupid enough to risk getting scooped."

"I wouldn't mind being scooped by you darling, whichever hand you used." A heavy set man with shaven head and wearing a West Ham football top under his well lived in denim jacket sneered in Romany's face as the police line took the strain of the approaching marchers.

"Sure you're not a fuckin' strip-o-gram? I only ever seen cops as pretty as you on the fuckin' telly!" A wiry little guy next to him with a course Liverpool accent chipped in like a comedic side-kick.

"Watch your mouth, mate!" Maggie was shaking with fear but refused to let herself be intimidated.

"You can piss off and all, you Scotch slag!" The wiry scouser's features darkened suddenly, giving a lead to those around him. The shaven headed Hammers fan snorted deeply and spat an impressive load of green mucus into Maggie's face.

"You have just assaulted a police officer, mate." Sergeant Ronnie Black freed his right arm and made a grab for the assailant, prompting a further surge from the crowd of protesters. Maggie desperately wanted to reach up and wipe the grotesque blob of goo from her cheek but knew she had to stay linked tightly in the thin blue chain. Reinforcements poured from the back doors of police transit vans that screeched to a halt at the edge of Trafalgar Square, but the line of officers was only two deep in the face of a swell counting twenty or thirty deep. Maggie was backpedalling when she felt the weight on her arm as Romany lost her footing and fell backwards onto the tarmac. The downing of a copper was greeted by a cheer from the front rank of the protesters and Maggie recognised immediately there would be no quarter given to the helpless young woman trying to lever with her arms to regain her footing. A lazily swung boot caught Romany on the side of the head, forcing her down again as her colleagues fought desperately to prevent her from being separated from them and engulfed by the seething mass. Repeated kicks were aimed at Romany, now curled up in the foetal position. Mercilessly the blows found their target and Romany was choking mid her groans of agony, dribbles of blood trickling from her mouth. Maggie had broken free of the police line and did her best to shield her friend. Suddenly, an arm raised high clutching what appeared to be an iron bar or tyre brace, then lashed downward striking Maggie on the head. She stumbled, grabbing gingerly at the vicinity of the point of impact but remained on her feet, intent on protecting Romany from further harm.

A charge of mounted police came from behind scattering the crowd, allowing other officers to move in and secure the area where WPC Grace was lying.

"Are you OK Maggie?" Sergeant Black grabbed her shoulder, noticing the stream of blood running down the side of her face.

Maggie nodded and rubbed her eyes. "Romany needs to get to hospital right away, Sarge." As soon as those words had breathily left her lips Maggie collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

"Shit!" Black had been close enough to be in a position to break her fall. "Where is that bloody ambulance!" he called out through the melee behind. Sergeant Black had been married for nineteen years and had two teenage daughters. The sight of the two female officers from his watch lying critically injured caused a surge of rage within him. It was fortunate for him and his career that his priority was to tend to his fallen comrades otherwise he would have found it hard to dissuade himself from a path of retribution. There was no shortage of potential targets.

' _Two female police officers were seriously injured during the worst of the rioting in Trafalgar Square today. WPC Romany Grace, thirty years old and from London sustained a punctured lung and several broken ribs after being kicked while on the ground by a crowd of several as yet unidentified men at the height of the disturbance. Her twenty-four year old colleague, WPC Maggie Magowan, from Aviemore, is in a coma at St Thomas' Hospital, having been struck on the head with an iron bar while going to WPC Grace's aid_.'

Maggie had spent the morning as she did every morning, staring at the ceiling through the rising wisps of stale smoke, exploring every hidden recess of her mind in search of April. The thirty days of her life that were known onto everyone except Maggie were as unreachable as ever eight months on, no matter how hard she tried. Maggie had regained consciousness three days following 'The Battle of Trafalgar Square,' yet she could remember nothing from the moment of terror seeing Romany dragged under the vicious boots of the protesters until the evening that John and Kate had taken her to see Heart play at Wembley Arena on May 1st. The sumptuous melodic rock of Seattle's Wilson sisters had been a real buzz for Maggie, finally getting the chance to see one of her favourite bands in the flesh, tinged with a degree of self-pity and regret at the demise of her own rock and roll dream. She had no recollection of the ten days spent in hospital after coming out of the coma, nor the subsequent two weeks back in the flat. Kate and John had insisted she come and stay with them in Edinburgh but she stubbornly declined, insisting she was fine and perfectly capable of looking after herself. Romany had also been discharged from hospital and was recuperating at her parents' country house in Berkshire, leaving Maggie to the loneliness of blinding headaches and a growing fear of the shadows.

Maggie had assumed Ollie was Romany's boyfriend such was the supposed closeness of their relationship, the tactile breathlessness of their Friday evening greeting at the Chelsea Fields Wine Bar. Familiar hands brushing against rising breasts and cupping behinds, while whispered greetings lingered beyond the simple pleasantries of mere friends, an unapologetic betrayal of something more complex. She realised the folly of her assumption only when she found herself pinned to the breakfast bar at two in the morning with Ollie's fingers working the fabric of her panties as the flat listened without prejudice to George Michael's bid for freedom, while Romany snorted another line from the surface of the glass coffee table.

"What will Romany think?" Maggie failed to resist, craving the promise of physical fulfilment above some notion of loyalty to her more attractive, more privileged and more confident flatmate.

"Romany is only interested in the particular kind of pleasure I can supply."

"I am beginning to feel what you mean," Maggie purred.

"No, my darling. This is just good old fashioned S.E.X." He pulled her pants down from her hips and forced into her with a well-practised guile that should have given Maggie cause to resist, but so desperate was she for the trip over the edge that she simply submitted to the moment and watched Romany hit the second nostril through increasingly hazy vision.

The disappointment of another morning punched a hole through the paper scenery of lucid dreams that lined the road from the comforting dark forest of sleep to the angst ridden, pain riddled expanse of the waking hours. Maggie reached out to the bedside table for the foil strips of codeine and anti-depressants. Like an alcoholic searching for the comfort of the glass bottle, she needed to wash a few pills down with stale water before the world beyond the linen could be contemplated. Her other hand slipped between her thighs and she momentarily relived the frantic moments on the breakfast bar. It had felt so good to be the object of masculine physical desire, even if only for a few fleeting moments. She had no recollection of Ollie leaving. Maybe Romany had given him his marching orders for fucking her flatmate in front of her. The rhythmical creaking of the hot water pipes betrayed the length of time the shower had been in use. Romany must have been washing out her nostrils or was still so high she had gone off and left the damn thing on. Maggie decided the latter was more likely and cursed Romany's recently acquired coke habit. Just as she was about to throw back the sheets, the creaking pipes fell silent and Ollie walked into her bedroom, a medium sized towel over one shoulder, water dripping from his healthy proportioned muscles- every single one of them.

"Good morning," he grinned and casually towelled his torso.

Despite still being able to feel the memory of his presence inside her, Maggie instinctively grabbed the hem of the bed sheets and pulled them up to cover her right to her chin. "Where's Romany?"

"God, she pissed off to La Luna once she had got fully loaded."

"What time was that?"

He shrugged. "Dunno, half three, I suppose."

"God, she needs to be careful."

"She's a big girl, Maggie."

"That's not what I mean."

"Oh, her dear daddy; how stupid of me. The Right Honourable Geoffrey Halstead MP. Yes, I imagine now that he has been elevated to Home Secretary the tabloids will be sniffing around Romany for any hint of scandal to smear the old man with. Sympathy for him after her being so badly injured didn't last long, did it?"

"I wonder where she is. What the hell time is it anyway?" Maggie squinted at the face of her watch but as it was more for show than practicality and thus it was of little use as a timepiece.

"Almost ten o'clock."

"I wonder where she is. Even La Luna chucks out the stragglers at eight."

"At Antoinette's place most likely." Ollie sat on the edge of the bed and ran his hand firmly along the outline of Maggie's left thigh. Antoinette De Villiers was one of London's most exciting new culinary talents. A student of the legendary Michele Roux, she had been a member of the British Alpine ski team and a close friend of Kate. Indeed it had been Antoinette who had been instrumental in persuading Kate to abandon her ambition in medicine and pursue a less secure career in the kitchen. "She's moving in with her anyway. I actually thought she had already."

"Moving in?"

"She hasn't mentioned anything?" Ollie knew Romany was procrastinating in not telling Maggie of her decision to move out, so he took the awkward situation out of her hands.

Maggie wanted to laugh it off as though she had known long before Ollie, but her eyes gave her away.

"She feels she needs to put the past few months behind her; Trafalgar Square and all that. Wants to make a clean break and start over. Now that she has got that offer of a job at The Telegraph, Antoinette's place is within walking distance so it all makes sense, don't you think?"

Maggie couldn't be on her own, not at the moment. She was barely holding it together as it was, but without Romany's unquenchable zest for life, albeit chemically enhanced, Maggie could quite easily succumb to her demons. "Well then, no reason why you can't stay for breakfast then, is there?" Maggie offered him a smile that was as false as was the sympathetic nod of understanding he returned. All that mattered was that he was suitably satisfied to keep coming back for more. Her life was at stake so she drew back the sheets. "Perhaps breakfast can wait," she managed to say before his lips pressed against hers.

1st December 1990 London

Eight months on sick leave with full pay; nice work if you can get it. Having to be a victim of a violent assault resulting in a near fatal head injury to get it no longer seemed to count for much within the corridors and glass fronted offices of New Scotland Yard.

' _Dear Ms Magowan (not even Dear WPC Magowan), please report to the Assistant Commissioner's office at 9.00am on 1st December to be assessed as to your fitness for immediate return to active duty.'_

The letter had arrived through the letter box mid-way through November so she could hardly say that she did not have adequate time to prepare mentally and physically for both the interview and the resultant consequences. She had at least felt much better through the autumn months, though it would have been nice of her employers to have waited until the New Year before turning the screw. Fewer trips to the chemist were testimony to her gradual reduction in dependency on prescription painkillers and antidepressants. In any case, Maggie had her very own pharmacist, who asked no questions, made no judgements and whose only demands of her didn't cost money. The drinking had become more of an issue. The coke made her hyper and though she enjoyed the uninhibited high that boosted her through the days, she needed the suppression of alcohol to bring her down enough to be able to sleep. She also found it increasingly preferable to blur the edges before Ollie got home from wherever he was plying his uptown trade. A few inches of vodka stopped her from descending into a paranoid delusion that his feelings for her might not run that deep and that some of his other clients may be paying him in the same currency as did Maggie. She enjoyed being Ollie's damaged plaything. What she did miss though, was love between the sheets. By the time they got to bed, Ollie had usually lost all interest in her.

Maggie felt like she was suffocating, a great weight crushing her sternum from inside and out. She gasped for every breath, short, rasping breaths; she was hyperventilating.

Maggie woke suddenly to find herself sitting bolt upright in bed, her right hand compulsively, clawing at an unseen tormentor around her throat. "Shit!" she uttered as much with relief as panic, realising she had just awakened from another bad dream. Her skin was damp with perspiration, as her body had reacted instinctively to the stressful torment of the nightmare. She grabbed for the pack of Marlboro's on the bedside table and was filled with a satisfying sense of relief as the nicotine assaulted her brain with high-tar accompaniment. It was great to be awake, to escape from her sleeping nightmares, although that only left her to confront her waking ones. She couldn't believe the 1st December had arrived so quickly.

The barren corridor outside the office of the Assistant Commissioner did little to settle Maggie's nerves. Although already five minutes past the hour, she was waiting for her divisional commander, Chief Superintendent Helen Monroe to arrive. It was to be that heartless bitch that was to be conducting the assessment. The Assistant Commissioner was acting purely as independent arbiter. It had been he who had visited her in her hospital bed and who had delivered such a touching speech in front of the television cameras, while her commanding officer, the icy Helen "Of Troy" Monroe was obviously too busy with other matters, such as shagging DCI Pete Allen after hours in the records room. She was so bloody full of herself; she honestly thought nobody knew about it. Maggie had wrongly assumed having a female commander would make life easier in the Met for young female officers like her and Romany, but CS Monroe saw the younger, prettier officers as intruders in her domain. She had enjoyed twenty years as the pin-up girl and object of many a copper's fantasies. Despite the flecks of grey and the sagging skin, she clung to her crown with a growing sense of desperation.

Maggie sat back in her chair and rubbed weary eyes, pushing her hair back behind her ears. There was no-one about. She went to the ladies washroom in the certainty she would have the place to herself for a while.

She sat on the toilet resting her tender head in her hands. Eventually she forced herself to stand and made it as far as the wash basin before emptying the contents of her stomach – which wasn't much- into the porcelain bowl. She spat the horrible tasting mix of saliva and stomach acid out and cupped her mouth around the cold tap, rinsing as best she could. She looked at the battered face in the mirror; sunken, lifeless eyes, ringed with dark circles and more lines than were normal for a twenty-five year old – many more than were normal. Her dark hair was dull and she was only seconds away from an interview that could define the rest of her life. She did at least look good in her uniform. She had enjoyed being a police officer. Even from the sanctuary of the bathroom she could hear the click-clack of hurried heels approaching from the other end of the corridor. Maggie took a deep breath and focused on how much she would enjoy a cigarette once she was back outside, whatever the outcome.

Snowflakes tumbled from the leaden sky like diamond encrusted feathers, settling softly on the stark, barren branches of the sycamores and oaks which gave an added sense of aesthetics to the solemn surroundings of New Scotland Yard. The Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police stood by the window of his expansive office, surveying the rare sight of snow falling in the capital. Sir Duncan Wyse noted a roughness on the left point of his chin; he was annoyed at missing a bit while shaving that morning. He would have to sort that out before his lunch appointment with Dianne Yardley, the new Director of the Security Service; the real life "M" of James Bond mythology. He toyed with the idea of a cigar, but plumped for coffee instead. He sat at his impressively well-organised desk and reached for the phone just as it rang out, shattering the peace of his morning. Sir Duncan liked to take the first hour of the day to prepare himself in mind and body to cope with the rigours of his job. He pressed the call-pickup button. "Yes?"

"Chief Superintendent Monroe is here sir, with WPC Magowan."

He drew a heavy breath. "Send them in."

They had been watching her, having her followed. Why had they done that? She wasn't' a criminal. When CS Monroe had slid the photograph of Ollie across the polished surface for the benefit of the Sir Duncan, Maggie realised what was happening.

"How long have you been with Oliver Granville?"

Maggie had looked into CS Monroe's unflinching eyes.

"We will of course be requiring you to provide blood and urine samples before you leave the building today. Do you know how long cocaine stays in the blood stream WPC Magowan?"

Sir Duncan interjected. "I think what Helen is saying, is that perhaps it would be best all round if you were to submit your resignation, on health grounds. It's time to consider a different career, wouldn't you agree?"

Maggie's tongue was practically stuck to the roof of her mouth rendering her unable to speak, even if she had been able to find the right words.

Two signatures on two separate forms and Maggie was back out under the tumbling snowflakes, her hands trembling so much it took three attempts to light that cherished cigarette.

They allowed her to keep her uniform with all the usual conditions that it was never to be worn in public, never to be sold to a third party etc..

Her heart sank at the sight of Ollie's classic Triumph TR7 parked at the kerbside below the flat, though despite her new found status as an ex-police officer, the uniform could give her the confidence for what had to be done.

She knew he would be angry; she knew he would be raging. She never considered violence to be part of Ollie's repertoire of lying, cheating and seduction. Then again, she had never expected to walk into her flat to find him screwing Antoinette de Villiers in her bed. Antoinette was embarrassed and dressed quickly, leaving wordlessly. Maggie didn't blame her; of course she didn't. Ollie didn't even have the decency to put on his boxers before he walked up to Maggie with a naughty schoolboy grin across his face as though he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Why was he so surprised when Maggie ordered him out? Was he that stupid or that convinced in her dependency on him?

"I've never had you in your uniform before, Mags. You look really sexy, let me tell you."

"Get out, right now!"

"You know what Maggie. You really are one stupid bitch sometimes." At that he caught her across the face with a flying backhander, sending her sprawling backwards, only narrowly avoiding hitting the back of her head on a radiator, the skin beneath her left eye splitting immediately with the instant swelling." Before Maggie could get to her feet, he was gone, leaving her once more with blood trickling onto the pristine white collar of her uniform.

"I can't face Mum, not with this shit."

Kate sighed and her shoulders slumped theatrically. "You can't keep dumping your problems on us, Maggie. We were there for you when you got hurt, but you pushed us away. You were the big girl with the London attitude who knew it all and who thought cocaine was a preferable path to redemption than was the love of your own family. Here you are with a black eye and a bloody great hole in your sinuses you could drive a double-decker bus up and suddenly it's our responsibility to pick up the pieces and put you back together again."

"I've nowhere else to go Kate. You know I can't drop this in Mum's lap. Two years on but she's still struggling to come to terms with Dad's death."

"As are we all, Maggie."

"Don't talk down to me Kate, please."

"I'm not talking down to you."

At that moment John turned his key in the front door and walked in on the unexpected scene of sisterly disharmony. "Maggie, hi; it's wonderful to see you." John set his brief case on the carpet of the hallway and walked beaming into the kitchen.

"Give me strength," Kate growled at seeing her sister's features come to life at the very sound of John's voice.

"What happened to your face?" John's concerned tone was all it took for Maggie to melt into his arms and give vent to the tears she dare not shed in the sole presence of her elder sister.

"I'm going to make up the spare room!" Kate called out from further along the hallway. "Two weeks, maximum. Are you listening to me Maggie?"

# CHAPTER 26

Edinburgh 2014

The implausible weight of the coffin digging into his shoulder was nothing compared to the herculean task of persuading his brain to keep sending signals to his feet. This was no time to falter, no occasion to allow the crushing pressure of grief to cause his knees to buckle. Out of the corner of his eye the single minded fortitude of Kirsty, the young woman leaving a cherished childhood farther behind with every surefooted stride, drove his ailing heart beyond the boundaries of his worst fears. Denial was his only escape from the unseen horror of seventeen year old Rebecca, struggling stubbornly to bear the back of her mother's casket in tandem with Kate's cousin Gary, bleary eyed after an eighteen hour flight from Perth. The slope of the path to the front doors of St Andrew's Parish Church seemed impossibly steep and the torture without end, yet it was the same tarmac Kate had floated up on the arm of her father all those years ago, while John and best man Jamsie had giggled nervously running through a few of their favourite jokes from ' _The Two Ronnie's_.'

The last twenty yards to the door were lined on either side by faces of painful familiarity and those of strangers known only unto the deceased. John dared not meet the red-rimmed eyes of either; fearful his trembling, breathless exertions may collapse short of the finish line.

A gentle but firm hand on his free shoulder came as a reminder that for the white haired undertaker, this was just another day at the office. "Bend your knees. The door is quite low." The tempered blend of experience and respect snapped John back to the moment and the whispered words, "Careful Dad," from Kirsty, reinforced in him the need to finish the job with dignity and grace. Kate had little time for sentimentality. "Do it because it is the right thing to do John and give one hundred percent." Her ever practical words strengthened his legs once they had negotiated the church entrance and oblivious to the suffocating sympathy on either side of the aisle, on the spot where Kate had been handed over to him, he handed over his darling wife to the mercy of the Lord Jesus Christ.

John returned to his seat with no memory of the reading he had delivered in a clear and steady voice. Kirsty squeezed the back of his hand. It was essential for her own continued composure that her father should manage to keep it together. She could not bring herself to look at the woman sat to John's left, her mother's younger sister Maggie. She struggled to think of her as Aunt Maggie as the term Aunt, in Kirsty's mind, stood for maturity, respect and decency. Kate had on more than one occasion referred to her own sister as a slut; a term it was hard for a teenager to see past. Kirsty had little doubt the unmarried Maggie had designs on taking Kate's place as the new Mrs Alexander. John slipped an arm around Maggie's shoulders and pulled her to him for comfort as she sobbed freely. Kirsty swallowed any sense of indignation. The broken woman clinging to her father had, after all, just lost her big sister.

The eulogies and prayers faded to faint echoes in the high rafters of the church and the gathered ensemble paused for breath before the time came to carry Kate to her final place of rest.

Among the three hundred strong congregation and the rich seam of glamour, courtesy of the great and the good of the culinary world, television presenters and representatives from Scotland's parliament, there was no reason why an attractive fifty-one year old woman should have not been able to remain invisible. The collective shadow of sorrow should have eclipsed the rays of morning sunshine. Reflected grief, one of the most personal of emotions, should have been left in the half-lit corner and behind the ill-fitting sunglasses. With every minute since her mother's passing, Kirsty Alexander, assuming the mantle of unwelcome maturity sensed that which was invisible to even the fey octogenarians from the glens of Caledonian myth.

A figure in the shadows; the forced half-smile too uncomfortable behind the ill-chosen lip gloss; the fresh raven hair colouring more blue than black; the thick eyeliner more garish celebration than studied melancholy. Someone had confused their sincere act of mourning with a subversive, flirtatious desire to impress. Trying much too hard to remain hidden, the self-conscious intruder was in so many ways the polar opposite of Kirsty's mother but she felt herself drawn to the sheltered green eyes that looked everywhere yet nowhere.

When she looked up it felt to Angela as though the ghost of Kate was standing before her.

"It was good of you to come." Kirsty could see at close quarters that there was a natural, soft beauty behind the corporate façade of the striking Swiss woman. She could quite understand how her father could have been captivated by the sultry continental charm of a much younger Angela Hofmeister. "I'm Kirsty."

"Of course you are." Angela offered a limp hand. "You are very much like your mother."

"Dad doesn't know you're here?" Kirsty asked.

Angela shook her head. "It's probably better that it stays that way."

Kirsty suddenly felt sorry for Angela. How deep must be the love that drives a middle aged woman to travel half way across Europe to attend the funeral of the wife of a man she had a relationship with almost thirty years ago?

"How you must hate me?" Angela longed for a cigarette.

"But I don't even know you." Kirsty had still not released Angela's damp, perspiring hand. "It would mean a lot to Dad if he knew you were here." And give Aunt Maggie something to think about.

Angela shook her head. "No, I shouldn't have come. This is a private time. I feel like I am intruding."

Kirsty looked around at the heaving church. "Do you not think most of these people are intruding on our grief? I know hardly any of them." At that, Kirsty led Angela from the back of the church to the front pew where John and Rebecca were on their feet talking to the aged Reverend McLaughlin. Maggie was nowhere to be seen, having snuck out the side door for a desperately needed smoke. "Excuse me Reverend McLaughlin, but this is an old friend of Mum and Dad." Kirsty did her best to discourage Rebecca from any thought of sarcasm or fury, while John struggled to form any sensible riposte to the unexpected yet glorious intrusion. The unwelcome silence was cut short by the timely arrival of A-List celebrity chef Danny White and his D-list model fiancé. Their affected sense of solemnity fuelled the minister's perfectly honed gravitas, yet in its falseness, permitted John a brief moment of the reality beyond the granite walls. In a breath, he was able to accept and cherish her presence. His eldest daughter's grace and maturity spoke volumes of her mother's influence whereas Rebecca's undisguised spite for the intrusion of the woman who had, albeit unintentionally, undermined her parents' marriage.

When the chef had said his piece and his decorative partner had made the appropriate facial expressions, Kirsty guided Rebecca in the wake of Reverend McLaughlin down the main aisle, leaving her father for a precious moment with the unexpected mourner.

"I can't believe you're here," John struggled to find even those words.

"I can't believe you thought I wouldn't be here."

"It can't have been easy for you?"

"Easy for me? The lady in the coffin is neither my wife nor my mother." Angela breathed hard. "I would like very much to hug you, but I fear that would just give the prying eyes exactly what they want."

"There's plenty of time for that, Angela."

"I really hope so."

"Are you staying? We could meet up..........."

"No, I fly back to Geneva this evening."

John's attention was caught by Reverend McLaughlin gesturing from the doors of the church that it was time to proceed with the journey to the graveyard. "I need to go."

"Go to her John. Go to Kate." Angela's eyes were welling up and the heavy black eyeliner was beginning to run from the corners of her eyes.

As John walked past her, she grabbed his hand low down, out of the sight of any casual observers and squeezed as tight as she could without physically injuring either of them. He didn't break stride but held onto her hand until the very last moment possible.

The meal served in the parish hall was the simple and traditional serving of haggis, neeps and tatties, followed by tea and coffee with shortbread. Hardly a culinary delicacy for the friends and family of Scotland's most celebrated chef, but the shock was too shattering, the grief too raw for the sentiment of celebration to encroach on the thoughts of the two hundred plus mourners who crammed into the simple surroundings, more used to the laughter of girl guides or the studied competitive small talk of the bridge club. John found himself overwhelmed by the subdued yet warm sympathies of the countless faces. The stoic and the tearful, the polite semantics of those he didn't recognise. There was little point in asking them to identify themselves. They were there for him, for Kate and for the girls. They were there because it was the right thing to do. There were many more than there were seats, but with expertly balanced paper plates and plastic forks, they ate in small groups, chatting in hushed tones, watching for their opportunity to grab the hand of the grieving widower.

Angela was nowhere to be seen, but then he had hardly expected her to walk into the lion's den. He needed to regroup. His head was pounding. A chance to lie down, even for half an hour, couldn't be too much to ask, could it?

"Dad," Kirsty tugged the sleeve of his jacket. "You haven't eaten anything." She held a plate of food in one hand and a polystyrene cup of milky coffee in the other.

The last thing he wanted was food. Even the smell of the coffee made his stomach churn. "How are you holding up?" he asked her and accepted the offerings with a weak smile.

She didn't reply but simply nodded.

"I wish I had your strength, darling. You make me very proud."

"I'm just keeping it together for Mum's sake. Believe me, I am crying inside."

"I know you are." he wanted to take her in his arms and tell everything would be OK, but that would have been a pointless lie; everything would never be OK. "Where's Rebecca? I haven't seen her for a while."

"She went to get some air, I think. She's not coping very well, Dad."

"I should go to her."

Kirsty shook her head. "Best not. She'll come back in her own time."

"When she's run out of cigarettes, you mean?" He managed to say with a hint of dark humour which Kirsty appreciated.

"Probably. And where the hell has Aunt Maggie got to?"

"Do you mind if I interrupt?" A striking woman with swarthy complexion and short cropped grey hair had made her way from a table in the far corner of the hall. Sixty-one year old Margaret Bauer, Deputy Prosecutor of The International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia, was as tall as John and oozed the elegance typical of Cape Town's professional classes. Despite elocution lessons as a youngster, the strong, clear voice was heavy with an Afrikaans accent.

"Margaret, may I introduce my daughter Kirsty?"

"Of course, you are very much like your mother." She took Kirsty's hands in her own and kissed her on both cheeks. "I am so sorry to meet under such difficult circumstances, my dear."

"This is Margaret Bauer, my boss," John wondered if he should have given Margaret's full title by way of introduction, but quickly dismissed the insignificant detail from his mind.

"May I speak to you for a few minutes, in private?" she asked. "I'm sorry," she said to Kirsty in the same breath.

"Yes, of course." John shrugged and handed the plate and cup back to his daughter. "Keep it for me. I won't be long."

The only privacy available was outside. John guided Margaret to the left and round the back of the hall, managing not to be spotted by Rebecca and Maggie, who were sat on the low wall across the car park, together yet not together, a pall of smoke drifting into the breathless air above their heads.

"You must be shattered, John."

"I guess I must be. I can't really tell."

"Don't worry, I have asked Carlos Romero to get on the first flight out of Guadalajara in the morning. He can take over the Vladic investigation for the time being."

"There's no need for that, Margaret. Really, I need to get back over there."

"What you need, John is some time off. Time here with your daughters."

"That sounds like an order," he fiddled with the knot of his tie.

"It doesn't have to be, but I can't have you in the middle of a potentially explosive situation if you are doing so in a state of," she looked him hard in the eye while searching for the appropriate words. "Emotional deficiency."

He could only admire her turn of phrase, but he held her stare. "I have the rest of my life to grieve for Kate."

"I think you know what I am referring to. The team of investigators from Interpol arrived in Bern this morning. The team leader is a Chief Inspector from the Marseilles bureau; Genevieve Rousseau"

John swallowed and crossed his arms defensively. "We were acquainted once but it was a very long time ago."

Margaret raised an eyebrow. "When I spoke to her on the telephone, as soon as I mentioned your name, she made out like you were practically married. I have to tell you, she didn't keep much back. You must have made quite an impression on her. You don't think this old friendship has the potential to compromise the situation in Switzerland?"

"The exact opposite, Margaret. It makes me the ideal person to be over there and besides, I owe it to Claudine Leffray."

"Let me get this straight John. The lead investigator and only eye witness in this matter are both old girlfriends of yours and you don't expect that to concern me?"

"It's a small world. In any case, sending _The Jackal_ into the middle of this is more likely to ruin any chance we have of bringing Vladic to justice."

"You know Carlos hates that bloody nickname!" Margaret ran a hand through her chic hair. "Fuck you, John!"

"What the hell was that for?"

"Of course you're the right man for the job. As an understanding superior, I had to afford you every opportunity to bow out and look after your family. You know your daughter Kirsty will never forgive you if you leave with her mother not cold in her grave?"

"I have got a lot of things wrong in my life, Margaret. This can be added to the list."

"I think you're a bloody fool."

"I've been called worse."

She shook her head. "Ok, but take a few days. Rousseau and Commander Stahl can co-ordinate their plans. They don't need you for that."

He agreed and felt a sense of relief that she was ignorant of Angela's presence at the funeral service.

"You had better get back inside."

"I never got round to thank you for coming," he said as they walked back round the side of the red brick building.

John closed the front door at a little after midnight. The last mourners to leave were the next door neighbours, Toni and Richard Carlisle. Kate's cousin, Gary had to get a flight straight back to Australia and had departed around tea time.

"I'm shattered Dad and so must you be." Kirsty hugged John tight and kissed his cheek. "I'm going to bed."

"I'm very proud of you, you know that?"

Kirsty smiled weakly and began climbing the stairs. She paused on the landing, half a thought of looking in on Rebecca who had snuck off hours earlier, but decided to leave it.

There was a ringing in John's ears, caused by a blend of fatigue, constant conversation and a few glasses of whiskey. He walked through to the kitchen where Maggie was standing on the back doorstep, blowing smoke rings at the moon.

"For goodness sake come inside," John said.

"Kate would never let me smoke in the house."

"That hardly matters tonight." He took a cereal bowl from a cupboard above the sink and set it on the kitchen table. "Ash-tray."

Maggie closed the door and sat at the table, half smoked cigarette held expertly between the first two fingers of her left hand. Her face was pale and drawn, dark circles beneath the still irresistible azure eyes. The long day had taken a heavy toll on her lipstick leaving little to mark the cigarette butt with crimson kisses. "It doesn't seem real, sure it doesn't?"

John crumpled into the seat opposite and finally loosened the black tie and released the top button of the newly purchased white shirt. A sixteen and a half inch neck Maggie had bought him, when he really need a seventeen these days. It was a welcome relief to be able to breathe again. "I could really do with one of those."

"Help yourself." Maggie slid the packet and lighter across the pine surface.

John lit up and the sight of his pleasure at the first long draw brought a smile to her face. "You know I am here for you John? I always have been."

"I know Maggie. I know." He looked deep into her eyes for a brief second and then diverted his gaze, fearful of what he might see.

"Kate will always be with you. She lives on in your wonderful daughters."

"Especially Kirsty."

Maggie nodded in agreement. "That is my one big regret in life, that I never had children. Amongst all the other regrets of course, but I missed the boat on that one and now it's all too late."

John couldn't contradict her on that account. Maggie would be fifty on her birthday, with nothing ahead of her but the slow decline to old age. He recalled Kate's words when she asked him to promise he would marry Maggie. He would have found it a difficult proposition to turn down the opportunity to be with the feisty young seductress of years ago. Now, he could not see a clear path to contentment in the arms of the fading echo of the youthful Maggie who sat across the table from him.

"The rest of our lives begin tomorrow Maggie; you, me, Kirsty and Rebecca. Who knows what the future has in store for any of us."

"My darling John, always the poet," Maggie stubbed out her cigarette in the bowl that would doubtless be filled with vegetable soup or milk soaked cornflakes in a few days' time.

"You know, of all people, Kate is the last person I would ever have dreamed would take her own life. She was the strongest person I have ever known. God knows she despised weakness in others. I mean had she planned this? Did she suddenly reach breaking point? I have been so wrapped up in my work that I never took the time to make sure she was coping. It was Kate, you know? She always coped with everything."

"Don't you dare start blaming yourself John? That's not going to help the situation. If we're going to do the guilt thing, I'm every bit as culpable as you are. I'm her sister, yet I could hardly stand to exchange two words with her. I should have put all that nonsense to bed and just put my arms around her and........"

"We let her down Maggie. Kate deserved so much better." John slammed his hand on the table. "I was off trying to save the world when at the same time my own world was coming to an end."

Maggie wiped a tear from her cheek. "Christ, I must look a fucking sight!"

John took another drag on his cigarette and ran his tongue around the inside of his cheek. "What am I going to do, Maggie?" For the first time on that awful day, John's voice cracked and his defences crumbled. He tried hard to blink away the tears. "How do we get past this? How do we deal with the absence of Kate?"

"I've never been very good at dealing with anything."

"Keep breathing, I suppose. The sun will rise in the morning and life will go on."

"Don't fight it, John. You don't have to be brave, not for my sake." Maggie got up and walked round the table. He rose to meet her and fell into her welcoming arms. His head buried into her shoulder, John cried openly. Maggie stroked the back of his head.

"You've started me off again," she sniffed. "If I was the responsible sister-in-law, this is where I should be telling you to get a good night's sleep, but I am not the most responsible of sisters-in-law, so my suggestion is that you crack open a new bottle of Glen Fiddich. I don't know about you but I'd rather wake up tomorrow with a stinking hangover than lie awake all night in tears."

John blew hard and struggled to gather his composure. "I am so sorry, Maggie. It just all got the better of me."

She kissed him softly on the lips. "I don't think Kate would approve of all these late night drunken antics."

"Actually, given the circumstances, she would approve." John went to the pantry and returned with a fresh bottle of whiskey. "I'm afraid it's Irish," he grimaced at the bottle.

"Fantastic, sure didn't I go with a guy from Dublin for four years? As the saying goes, in those four years I had more than my fair share of Irish inside me."

"I think you're paraphrasing Phil Lynott."

Maggie fetched two fresh glasses from the dishwasher and set them on the table while John half-filled both. "I used to be really into Thin Lizzy; one song in particular."

"Was it ' _Whiskey in the Jar'_?" John handed her a glass and took the other one in his hand.

Maggie shook her head and sipped from the glass. "That wasn't it."

"What was it then?"

"It was ' _Still in love with you'_."

# CHAPTER 27

Jungfraujoch 2014

The highest railway station in Europe is located at almost three and a half thousand meters above sea level. The last passenger train departs from the Jungfraujoch station at 5.45pm, carrying oxygen starved tourists back down to their resorts of Wengen, Grindlewald and Interlaken. When they squeeze in, clutching camera's, souvenirs and children, none give any thought to the staff they leave behind; the waitress serving the Gluhwein, the lady checking the train tickets or the man hiring out the deck chairs on the snow field. They have a mere fifteen minutes to tidy up, lock up and prepare to go home to their own families. Another day's work done; no one lives at the Jungfraujoch.

The two single carriage trains were older than the sleek, new rolling stock, but they were familiar and welcome. Both destined for Interlaken Ost, one by way of Grindlewald and the other via Wengen. For Martin and Brigitte Soche, the owners of the Crystal Restaurant, the journey back to their home in Grindlewald was their most precious time of the day. A tranquil hiatus of calm sandwiched between the controlled chaos of running the constantly thriving restaurant at the Joch, and the uncontrolled chaos of supervising the homework of their three teenage children. Everyone else on board knew not to bother them. Hand in hand, Martin head back in the head rest, eyes closed, allowing his head to clear and his wife as always gazing blankly out the window, her forehead resting on the toughened glass. Across the aisle, Tina Kernen, an eighteen year old drinks waitress was gazing in frustration at the display of her smart phone, eagerly waiting for the moment the train rounded the bend before the halt at Eigergletscher and she would have service enough to be able to text her boyfriend.

With the sound of the staff trains long faded in the distance, an eerie silence unfolded around the corridors and chambers of the Jungfraujoch facility.

Five ghostly silhouettes, backlit by the emergency neon glow moved out from behind the heavy plastic sheeting which had been hung by the builders to prevent dust from billowing out of the partially renovated viewing gallery.

Max Reinhardt brushed a dusting of powdered cement from the lapels of his charcoal grey jacket.

"This had better be good, Reinhardt?" Mavro Vladic would not have worn his best leather jacket had he known the conditions he was to be confronted with. His two bodyguards skulked in the background as did Reinhardt's monosyllabic close protection officer Daniela Maier.

"Have faith, Herr Vladic. I assure you, you will not be disappointed by what I have to show you."

Reinhardt led the way down three flights of stairs, taking them well below the tourist levels of the complex that boasted proudly to be the 'Top of Europe'. The short corridor they found themselves in was hollowed out of pure rock. There was no finished floor, no walls or ceilings to indicate a purposeful excavation.

The door at the end of the corridor was happily unmanned, though it was not clear to Vladic how access was going to be gained to the chamber beyond.

Max Reinhardt grinned and took out his mobile phone connected to the facility's wireless router. "It is OK. You can open the door now."

A hollow clunk came from the door and a sliver of white light grew to a gaping brilliance as the door swung fully inwards. "Come," Reinhardt beckoned and led the way through the door into the tiled floor and white painted walls of a corridor leading deeper into the mountain. As soon as all five had entered the corridor, the door closed automatically in their wake. Vladic noted the CCTV cameras following their progress and his bodyguards' minds focused on their concealed firearms. The door ahead was a heavy steel barrier, with radiation warning signs and electronic keypad mounted on the wall to the right hand side, but Reinhardt opened a door on the left and gestured all to follow him into what appeared to be a hi-tech control room, with banks of computer monitors around the edges of the futuristic space, where a handful of youthful lab coated men and women, studied the various displays and clicked feverishly on keyboards. One of the women, with long blond hair tied back in a ponytail stood and turned to greet the visitors, contradicting the initial impression as she was clearly a lot older than her colleagues.

"I see you have brought guests," she spoke to Reinhardt with a warm smile.

"Mavro Vladic, I would like you to meet my wife."

Vladic nodded approvingly at the seductively attractive woman in front of him.

She held out her hand in greeting. "Claudia Reinhardt."

"American?" Vladic raised an eyebrow and accepted her hand.

"You seem surprised, Mr Vladic,"

"By many things, Mrs Reinhardt."

"But not disappointed, I trust?"

"Not so far." He released her hand after lingering in the clasp just a little too long for Reinhardt's comfort.

"So, my dear, are we able to have a demonstration for our guests?"

"You're in luck. We were preparing for a low level test of the device for this evening, but I don't see any difficulty in bringing forward our schedule." She walked over to where a man in his mid-twenties with shoulder length brown hair was sipping from a can of Cola Lite. "Marco, has the Xerum 525 been optimized?"

"Yes, Doctor Reinhardt."

"Excellent. Can you please see to it that both cylinders are fitted to the device?"

"Both! But I thought we had agreed," he protested under his breath, hoping his voice would not carry to the ears of the visitors. "I thought we had agreed that until we had completed the tests of the new casing, we were not going to risk any further counter-rotation experiments?"

"Just do as I ask, Marco." She squeezed his shoulder warmly and flashed him a smile. It was clear that Claudia Kammler Reinhardt had her team of young scientists and engineers eating out of the palm of her hand.

There were no seats in the viewing area. A cramped area of ten feet by only four was separated from the test lab by a four inch wall of reinforced concrete with a layer of lead embedded in the middle. The viewing panel, at eye level was a mere two inches thick of toughened glass.

"Are you positive it is safe in here?" Max Reinhardt asked his wife as she was bolting the door behind them. He was aware of the potential of the device Claudia was developing and he was not as easily reassured by her charm and glamour as Vladic appeared to be.

"You're such a worrier, Max. I know what I'm doing here, OK?"

"Is that what you told Tessa Kirchler's parents?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Tessa made a mistake. Yes, a terrible, tragic mistake."

"And for that mistake she boiled alive from the inside, Claudia."

Vladic rubbed his chin, quietly observing the martial spat. He had faith in the beautiful Doctor. He fully recognised the fierce intelligence behind her hypnotic eyes.

Claudia addressed Vladic directly. "I am sure you can recognise the work we carry out in this facility is highly dangerous and to that end we cannot afford to make miscalculations. If we do, the consequences have the potential to be absolute. To date we have had one such accident, that suffered by the unfortunate Miss Kirchler. She is dead, and that is a tragedy, but from her sacrifice we have all learned lessons. It is not good enough to be perfect. Perfection is only our starting point."

Vladic nodded in admiration at her ability to deal with death in such a detached manner. This was definitely a woman with whom he could deal.

"We are almost ready for the demonstration." Claudia was looking through the viewing panel. To Vladic's surprise, Marco was not wearing any form of protective clothing. He was pushing a stainless steel trolley towards a raised stone plinth in the middle of the test lab. On top of the plinth sat a pyramid shaped frame approximately three feet in height. The frame appeared to be constructed from a light coloured metal, possibly some form of alloy. Within the base of the frame were two 12 inch high cylinders, sitting only an inch apart. Marco stopped next to the plinth and from the trolley lifted two sealed glass flasks containing a viscous liquid, almost violet in colour.

"That is the Xerum 525." Claudia pursed her lips in a sign of inward satisfaction at seeing the product of so much hard work.

"It almost looks as though it is glowing," Reinhardt said. "Shouldn't he be wearing some sort of protective suit?"

"It is actually very stable at room temperature and not radioactive in this state."

"So it's harmless?" Vladic could not take his eyes off the eerie looking substance.

"Of course, unless, that is, Marco were to drop one of the vials."

Marco's head snapped up and he looked in the direction of the viewing panel, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.

"Oh, I'm sorry Marco, I forgot the intercom was switched on," Claudia blew him a kiss.

Carefully, Marco inserted the two vials of Xerum 525 into the lead cylinders and finished by screwing lead lids onto the cylinders. With the tension easing in his facial muscles, he pushed the trolley back across the lab and out the door in the far wall, which closed behind him.

"Ok, we're ready," Claudia's tone darkened and she took a mini tablet from the pocket of her lab coat. She took an elegant pair of black framed glasses from the breast pocket of her lab coat and slipped them on. They rested below the bridge of her nose so she could watch through the viewing panel over the frames while at the same time control the experiment from the mini tablet she held in her hand .She unlocked the screen with a blur of her fingers and with the first few taps the main lights in the test lab dimmed. It was only then that you could notice the hexagonal frame within the lab. Each strut of the frame was a meter wide and ran up the inside of the walls and across the ceiling where they all met at a point directly above the apex of the pyramid frame holding the cylinders. There were lights and panels on each of the struts, and they were flashing on and off, setting and resetting as Claudia's red nailed fingertips danced on the screen.

"The sensors are crucial," she indicted with her free hand. "Naturally, we have to take measurements from all angles. With each test, we are gathering more and more data to allow us to get to the point when we can move beyond. Now watch closely," she said and typed with greater care. The two cylinders began turning slowly in opposite directions. The counter clockwise rotation increased in velocity accompanied by a low humming sound which grew in intensity by the second.

"Watch the cylinders!" Claudia had to shout to be heard over the noise that was now penetrating the walls of the viewing area.

Reinhardt had witnessed one previous experiment but still his mouth hung open at the sight of the violet glow emanating from both cylinders.

"How can that be possible?" Vladic asked.

"The Xerum 525 is altering the molecular structure of the lead by exerting a force greater than the gravitational pull of the earth." She increased the velocity of the rotation further and Vladic realised he could no longer see the frame of the pyramid, only the ever brighter violet glowing of the cylinders which were now becoming as one.

"This is the highest velocity we have attempted up until now." The violet light was reflecting in the lenses of Claudia's glasses. "I am going to push on another ten percent, just for your benefit," she said to Vladic.

"Is that wise?" Reinhardt touched her arm.

"This is a scientific experiment, my darling. There is no point wasting a batch of Xerum 525 if we aren't going to be able to gather new data." She typed again on the tablet and the humming increased in volume further. Even she was amazed as the very shape of the cylinders began to alter and a single glowing shape of otherworldly fascination looked as though it were hovering in the middle of the lab. The spinning motion was all but imperceptible, the plinth and frame which supported it no longer visible. Even the low humming began to diminish.

"What the hell?" Reinhardt stared in amazement through the viewing panel. He turned to Claudia who appeared mesmerized by the awe inspiring sight. "Claudia! Claudia!"

Transfixed on the spectacular yet frightening vision, Claudia began to understand what her grandfather had meant by the term terrible weapons. The miracle of science before her eyes, though a thing of unparalleled beauty, wrought terror in the very base of her soul. It was only when her husband called her name once more that she snapped out of the trance and looked hesitantly down at the screen in her hand.

"Yes, of course. We should have gathered enough fresh data for today," she said in a very matter of fact way, suppressing the quiver in her voice and swallowing some saliva to lubricate her sandpaper dry throat.

The violet shape quickly split into two defined cylinder shapes once more and the droning grew louder again, before the lab returned to silence and the device sat inanimate – two lead cylinders inside the a metal pyramid frame, supported on a firm stone plinth. The main lights came back on and Vladic stared impassively at Reinhardt. "How did the girl die?" Vladic asked Claudia.

"She went in to retrieve the vials of Xerum 525 less than an hour after a test of the device."

"And it killed her; boiled her from the inside? How; is it radioactive?"

"We aren't sure yet but definitely some kind of field effect, possibly gravitational in nature."

"Gravitational?" asked Vladic, an incredulous edge in his voice.

"I need to begin analysing the data." Claudia pushed past both men and left the viewing area, her head bowed.

"I trust, Herr Vladic, you truly understand what I alluded to at our first meeting?"

"I am not interested in bringing humanity to its knees, Reinhardt. I just don't want to be on the run for the rest of my life."

"I want to be President of the Christian Republic of Switzerland and when I am, it will be a place of sanctuary for those who have assisted me in achieving that aim."

"And you think this, whatever it is, can deliver Switzerland to you on a plate?"

"It will create fear in the hearts of people in every corner of the land. It will turn them against the outsiders who are taking their country from them piece by piece. They will turn to the one who can offer stability and deliverance from their fear."

Vladic followed Reinhardt out into the sterile corridor. "Your wife, Reinhardt; the beautiful doctor? I am correct in assuming her maiden name is Kammler?"

"I am glad to hear you are beginning to join the dots, Herr Vladic."

"Where does she fit into your great plan for the future?"

Reinhardt stopped and looked at the Serb. "Why, at my side as first lady of the nation, of course."

Vladic grimaced. "When do I get out of here?"

"Tomorrow morning. When the first train load of tourists arrives, we can just melt away like ghosts."

"I assume I will get a bed for the night?"

"Of course, where do you imagine Claudia's team sleep? Most of them stay here for days or even weeks at a time. The accommodation rooms are basic but they are comfortable enough and there is a well-stocked bar."

"I need a smoke more than anything. And where the hell are Muller and Tardelli?"

"I told Daniela to take them for drink."

"I hope she can handle herself. Those two are....."

"Don't worry about Daniela. Believe me, she is not their type. Not their type at all."

"Is it OK if I come in?" Marco popped his head round the door of Claudia's dimly lit office.

"Of course." She looked up from behind her desk, where she was pouring over the data gathered from the test, her face illuminated in a ghostly blue glow from the monitor. "Shut the door."

"What the hell happened today?" The lithe twenty-seven year old walked round behind her chair and began to massage her shoulders.

"Be careful," she purred. "Remember my husband is here."

"Did the device break free?" Marco asked and retreated to a perch on the end of her desk.

"Not quite, or at least, not as far as I can decipher from these readings, but most don't make any sense."

"And what about that distortion of the core, was that really happening or was it just an illusion because light was being bent within the frame?"

Claudia took off her glasses and dropped them on the desk and ran her hand through her blonde hair, now greying at the roots. "I am worried we may be tampering with forces way beyond our imagination, never mind beyond our control."

"Pandora's Box," Marco grinned, showing off his perfect white teeth.

"I don't think Pandora ever dreamed of tearing a hole in the universe, do you?"

"What are saying, Claudia?" Marco's face became serious. "What do think will happen if we push the velocity of rotation even further?"

"I don't know, Marco, but I don't think the device is a bomb."

Far below the Jungfrau Joch, Greta Bircher was sitting in her wheelchair by the window of the residents lounge in the Hotel Carlton-Europe, a line of tears wending an unsteady course through the creases of her heavily lined face. The thick, yet cultured tones of the traditional mountain band that plied their weekly trade in the bar of the Europe blended rather discordantly with the Scandinavian pseudo-melancholy of the Abba tribute band who were a weekend favourite in the more modern leaning Carlton. What chance then for a single word to be overheard? A single word formed first in her mind, then in her throat and finally at her lips. "Anna," she spoke the name of her beloved sister and the first word she had uttered in almost seventy years.

"Max is too busy entertaining that Serb war criminal to be concerned with what I am getting up to." Claudia breathed in Marco's ear.

"Are you sure this is a good idea," he asked, though judging by the surety of his thrusting, he would not be easily deterred.

"Don't worry about Max. All you need to concern yourself with is my continued favour."

"And how am I doing so far?" Marco was struggling to maintain control.

"I will let you know in about thirty seconds, Marco, if you can even hold on that long." Claudia forced her tongue as deep as possible in his mouth and waited for the inevitable groan as he let go.

Claudia stood on the steel decking outside the Sphinx Observatory, her eyes closed against the icy wind that raced across the glacier's timeless plain. For thirty years she had striven to complete her grandfather's work, without ever knowing its true nature. Had he understood? How could he have? That in tampering with the very fundamentals of physics, forces beyond the limit of scientific comprehension would be unleashed. Claudia was suddenly overcome by fear. Fear of the future and fear of the past. Perhaps the future was the past.

"You should come inside." Marco appeared next to her and placed a strong hand against the base of her spine.

"I have spent far too much time in that place. It is about time that I appreciated the true beauty in nature rather than looking for ways to tamper with it, to corrupt it. You know when we first came to this place I would look out at these mountains and marvel in the knowledge that they have been here millennia before humans even existed and that they would still be here for millennia after we are mere echoes on the pages of long forgotten history books. Now, I realise that we have the power at our fingertips to destroy everything in a millisecond."

"But we still don't know what it really does, do we?"

Claudia turned around and looked into his dark eyes. "You know as well as I, there is only unreasonable intent within its black heart."

"Unreasonable intent? Wow, I like that description. What the hell does it mean?"

"That our great project may in fact be the keys to Armageddon."

Greta shuddered to the very depths of her soul at the sound of each percussive boom which echoed from far up the valley. Even though it was normal procedure for the mountain patrol to blast the snow laden slopes of the high pastures in order to minimize the risk of avalanche, every explosion ripped a hole in the fabric of time, through which Greta was falling backwards to that night in January of 1945.

The rapid rat-tat-tat of the sub-machine guns caused the snow to dance that sorrowful ballet until Anna was cut down all over again.

The fluttering at the centre of her chest, coupled with the nagging pain between her shoulder blades tethered Greta to the present and instinctively she massaged her sternum in an effort to ease the palpitations. She regulated her breathing and tried to relax, to focus her mind on the current affairs show, with ruthless presenters and squirming politicians, duelling pointlessly on the television, while she struggled to ignore the shockwaves that taunted her conscience from the distant peaks.

# CHAPTER 28

Los Angeles 1986

Following a week which had seen Los Angeles submerged in the worst smog for nearly a decade, the first day of August dawned on a city reborn, breathing once more under an endless azure sky. The skyscrapers of concrete and smoked glass, no longer floating as ghostly tombstones on the choking grey mass, had regained their status as proud, futuristic monuments to the explosion of wealth, hedonism and possibility that had swept through the west coast metropolis in the year years since Reagan bedded in for a second term in The White House.

MacArthur Park drew them in by the hundreds as the midday sun coaxed the idle and industrious out of the shops and businesses of Wilshire Boulevard. With mercury rising close to a baking forty degrees, the silver-hairs kept their dogs at home and took refuge under the screen porch awnings and sipped ice tea while Cole Porter classics transported them to the gentle days before Presley's hips ruined everything.

The natural springs which fed the lake at the south end of the park ensured a swirling current beneath the surface teased with the hope of cool relief that the giant, sparsely arranged palm trees could not provide.

The five members of _Ragged Heart_ , the latest in a line of tattooed glam rockers to rise from the club scene on Sunset Strip, reclined on the grass in ripped jeans and cowboy boots. Mirrored sunglasses, coloured bandanas and bleached perms, the only protection keeping them from the blistering rays. "Whoa, guys check that out!" Ronnie Rocket, the band's singer gestured with a half bottle of Jack Daniels in the direction of a bronzed goddess gliding past on gaudy pink roller skates.

"This truly is the City of Angels, dudes," guitar player Jimmy James nodded sagely in respectful approval of the gorgeous blonde, who flashed them a quick smile before turning left and following the path around the lake.

Dressed in lime green hot pants and matching, tight fitting sleeveless t-shirt, Claudia Kammler did not mind turning a few heads. Her deep tan and long golden hair screamed of LA perfection, her beautifully toned curves of rock chick sex appeal. With the rhythmic, pulsating beat of Chicago's champions of silver screen melodic rock, Survivor, echoing in her headphones, the twenty-three year old revelled in the wide open space under the sun she worshipped as the one true God. Having fitted a new set of long life batteries in the Walkman clipped to the hem of her pants, she was determined to enjoy every moment of her precious hour of solitude among the MacArthur Park faithful.

Having just graduated from UCLA with an honours degree in particle physics, Claudia was flirting with the idea of returning to the books after the summer as a full time job was out of the question. As the sole carer for her eighty-four year old grandfather since the dreadful events of February 13th 1984, Claudia's life had become an endless drudge of painful obligation. The dreadful event had driven a wedge between Claudia and her circle of friends who, all struggled to deal with the aftermath. Should they give her time and space to come to terms with the new order of things or should they smother her in love and friendship? In the end, their collective immaturity led them to do neither, leaving Claudia to fall into an increasingly insular existence, her time split between her studies and her domestic duties.

Music was and always had been her escape. Through her teenage years, she had been a fan of the smooth high class pop of the Bee Gees and The Carpenters. All that changed with university and her larger than life roommate Cindy Johnson. A disciple of the new wave of American rock bands such as Cheap Trick, Heart and her beloved Van Halen, the sunshine girl from the mountain resort of Mammoth infused Claudia with a love of the exciting music and quickly their dorm became a shrine to the bare chests and leather pants of the gods of rock. Cindy's other passion was skiing, having competed in the 1980 Winter Olympics at Lake Placid as a raw seventeen year old. It was inevitable that the mountains would eventually draw her back and Cindy was forced to drop out of university to pursue her blossoming skiing career. Claudia was heartbroken when Cindy had told her the news that she was leaving to spend the winter in Switzerland, but followed her friend's progress on television, marvelling at the speed and excitement of downhill ski racing.

So it was she lay in her dorm watching Cindy crash out of the 1984 Olympic downhill in Sarajevo. Curled up under the duvet at two-thirty in the morning, the live feed on NBC difficult to follow on the small black and white portable television, with the volume low as not to penetrate the paper thin walls. A close up of the crestfallen American racer with a trickle of blood running down her forehead confirming the worst. Claudia slumped back on her pillow, disappointed for her friend that she had been unable to make up for previously falling in Lake Placid, four years earlier.

She had intended to switch off the television immediately but that would have meant getting out of bed, so she dosed on and off for a while, the commentary fading in and out in a garble of unrecognisable and unpronounceable names.

That was when the knock on the door shook her awake. Was the volume really too loud? "Sorry!" she called and climbed out of bed, flicking the off button on the TV.

The knocking persisted, more insistent this time. "Miss Kammler?" A female voice could be heard, though not one she recognised.

Claudia sloped wearily to the door, too tired to worry about the admonishment that was coming her way.

She had to look twice when she drew back the yellow painted door. Two black uniforms of the LAPD being modelled by an impassive, identikit rookie and a grim faced Hispanic woman, with hair tied back and three stripes on her sleeve.

"Claudia Kammler?" The female sergeant asked.

Claudia simply nodded, unable to speak.

"May we come in?"

From that point, the next few hours were a blur. Looking back, the next clear memory was of waking up in hospital when the sedatives had worn off. She had become hysterical when taken in to identify the bodies of Fred and Rita Kammler. Hyperventilation had led to her collapse. Both parents shot through the forehead in their bed. Nothing had been stolen so it wasn't a burglary gone wrong. The only clue the perpetrators left behind were the two words written on the wallpaper above the headboard – 'For Anna.'

INTERLAKEN 14th Feb 1984

The small residents lounge was rarely used by the guests of the Hotel Europe, mainly due to the lack of a bar and also because it was where the proprietor's aunt spent the majority of her waking hours. The anniversaries were always painful for Greta. Thirty-nine long years had now passed since the horrific events of that night on the mountainside in 1945. She must have replayed those last moments over and over in her head a million times since. What could she have done differently? How could she have saved Anna? How could she have saved the children?

The Germans had left Greta too for dead and by the time the mountain patrol found her, death was almost upon her. The freezing conditions had slowed the blood loss and numbed the hot pain from the bullet wound in her thigh. Against the odds, she had hung on long enough to reach medical help. The mountain patrol had the grimmer task of placing the bloodied form of Greta's sister in a body bag and transporting it down the mountain. Their job was nothing compared to that of the team of emergency personnel who were at the nightmarish scene where the twisted remains of the train lay far below the site of the explosion; the little bodies broken beyond all recognition

When Greta had regained consciousness, she babbled incoherently of Nazis, children and her sister Anna. It was only later, as her convalescence continued and the realisation of what had taken place hit hard, that she began to isolate herself from the world. As soon as she was well enough, Greta was married to Hans Hofmeister, the father of her unborn child. When Leonhard was born in August of 1945, the world was once again at peace, yet even in the loving eyes of her child Greta could find no peace. Every time she looked down at him while he fed, the eyes of the lost children of the valley haunted her, accused her and damned her. Friends and family can all offer differing accounts of the last time they heard Greta speak. Of these testimonies, the most telling is that of her son Leonhard: "I have never heard Mother utter a word."

As the world moved ahead around her, Greta took sanctuary in a place so deep inside herself, no one could reach her. She watched and she waited. The small residents lounge was never used by guests of the Hotel Europe.

"Greta, my darling!"

The voice at the doorway danced across the waves of time, causing her to turn round. The hair was now grey but the curls were just the same. She still remembered how to smile for him. Daniel Lieberman, the world renowned Nazi hunter bounded into the room, his ever present youthful enthusiasm undiminished by the passing of the years. He proceeded with his habitual firm kiss on the lips which seemed to take her by surprise, if not a little amusement.

"What is this you are watching?" He looked across the room at the early model colour television. "Is that ice skating? Angela didn't do so well yesterday, no? After all our hope of gold, but never mind, she is a fine skier; I am sure she will have many more opportunities."

"I'm glad you are here Daniel." Karl Manheim coughed heavily into a white linen handkerchief and stuffed it back into the pocket of his worn out trench-coat before either noticed the spots of blood in the phlegm. His steps were laboured, the pine walking stick all that was keeping him from crashing onto the floral patterned carpet.

Daniel's face darkened. "So Karl, what word from our friends across the Atlantic?"

"Won't you get me a glass of schnapps, old friend? For medicinal purposes, you understand."

"But I thought the doctor told you......"

"That is no longer of any importance," Karl snapped before embracing Daniel with his free arm. "I am afraid my time is short."

Daniel kissed him on both cheeks, reeling at the feel of the cold, dry skin against his own. It was almost as though a part of Karl was already dead. "Why don't you tell Greta some of your old jokes, while I get you a drink." Daniel patted Karl on the back and headed off in the direction of the bar, leaving Karl hovering next to Greta, his full weight on his stick, his brain trying to reconcile the taught, aging face with the vibrant young woman he kept expecting to see. Her attention had drifted back to the scene on the television, showing bouquets of flowers raining down on to the ice rink in Sarajevo; the triumphant gold medallists bathing in the adulation of the packed Zetra Stadium. Her head swayed slightly from side to side during the replay of the winning routine. Clearly the accompanying music was known to her. Karl briefly turned his head to the screen. Bolero; he was certain that is what the piece was called.

"Look at me, Greta." He spoke, staving off another coughing fit. "Holy God in heaven, why won't you talk to me?" He grabbed her arm roughly. "She was my wife, damn you!"

She raised her eyes to meet his. The pain which oozed from the depths of her soul battered him into meek submission. "I know, I know. I am sorry, Greta. I did not mean anything, but...."

"Here we are then, one large glass of Schnapps as ordered." Daniel's return lifted the mood immediately. "Have a seat Karl and tell us everything." Daniel pointed to the leather bound armchair by the window. A few wobbly strides had Karl in the chair, draining the contents of the glass within seconds.

"Karl?" Daniel reopened the line of questioning.

"It is done." Karl said and examined closely the empty glass in his hand.

"And what of Kammler?" Daniel sat in the wooden rocking chair next to the television.

"He was not in the house at the time. Attending some sort of respite care facility. To be honest, I have forgotten the details."

"It is not important, Karl. We almost have enough evidence on him to have him arrested in the United States. A year, maybe two and we will be in a position to drag Hans Kammler through the dust of history. Until that time, he will suffer the pain of loss as have we all."

"His granddaughter was also not in the house," Karl continued. "She is s student at UCLA."

"We had decided she was not to be touched, Karl. Isn't that right Greta?" Daniel turned to Greta, who nodded in agreement. "So you see, Karl. Your friends have done their job."

"You must promise me you will get him, Daniel." Karl fell into another bout of rib busting coughing, this time unable to hide the blood that was staining the white linen in his hand. "Promise me he will not be allowed to grow old without facing the Day of Judgment for what he has done."

"That is something we all must face, my old friend."

Los Angeles 1986

Side one of the cassette ended abruptly mid-song, much to her annoyance. That was what happened when you weren't watching when recording an LP onto tape; you could never be sure if the whole album would fit onto one side of forty-five minutes in length. Claudia expertly did a one-eighty on her skates and stopped by the water's edge. She checked her watch. Yes, there was definitely time for another circuit. Now that her grandfather was confined to bed, life had become a little less pressurised. Since the stroke he suffered before Christmas, he slept mostly with the exception of the night time. The hours from midnight to seven AM had become Claudia's torment as she would be up on an hourly basis night after night when he called out for her. By the time she had dragged herself on shaky legs to his side, he was either asleep again or had forgotten why he called her. It always struck Claudia, though, that despite his condition, his mind was clear enough to know that she was the only one in the house; that his son and daughter-in-law where dead. He never called out for Fred or Rita.

She made a mental note to call at the pharmacy store on the way home to pick up a new box of disposable rubber gloves, then flipped the tape in the deck and pressed play.

"Won't you take some soup, Gramps?" Claudia held the half-filled spoon close to his lips, hoping the aroma of the hot minestrone would invade his nostrils and persuade those dry, cracked lips to open.

"Take it away," he said abruptly, his dimming eyes focussed on a spot on the far wall.

"But you have to eat, you know that."

"It's too late Claudia," he breathed heavily and turned his eyes on her. "I just wish I could slip away. I have lived too long, my dear."

Claudia hung her head in despair for her ailing grandfather and in self-pity at her own miserable existence. When he was gone she would be free, but if she did not do everything in her power to help prolong his time, she would carry that burden with her for the rest of her own life. In any case, what price her freedom? The grief, despair and loneliness that had been chasing her since the dreadful event, would be free to pounce and tear her to pieces.

"I am not going to leave you alone until you take another spoonful." She spoke to him as her mother had. Rita knew how to handle Hans Kammler. In comic fashion, he opened his lips wide and allowed her to tip the cooling spoonful into his mouth. He seemed to swill it around a few times before eventually swallowing.

"You see, I told you it was nice." she smiled and tried a second spoonful which he took immediately. This process was repeated for another four or five times, each met with increasing levels of resistance. Satisfied, Claudia dropped the spoon theatrically on the tray and set it on the table next to the bed. "Well done Gramps." She bent over and kissed him on the forehead.

"You are a special girl, Claudia."

"Not a girl any longer Gramps." She took his cold, bony fingers in the warmth of her hand.

"I know." The skin at the corners of his mouth creased with the semblance of a smile, but the fading blue of his watery eyes looked at her with a despairing cry for mercy.

"What's wrong Gramps?" she asked and kissed the back of his hand.

"I need to tell you something, Claudia. Something I should have told your father many years ago. It is wrong that I should burden you with the knowledge of that which cannot be undone."

"I don't understand," Claudia shifted in her seat.

"There was this young woman, very much like you; blonde haired, beautiful and strong. She was a member of a Swiss resistance group who had placed a bomb on the railway track that ran up to the facility on the mountain. She was running back to where the charges were set, to disable them. All she had to do was to rip out the fuse wire. I knew and yet I fired. I fired three times to ensure she fell. Her sister was crawling in the snow, screaming from her own wounds but she was never going to make it in time. It was the tightest bend on the line. The train went straight over the edge into the gorge below. Thirty innocent young children died because I was angry that a young woman had ruined our plans."

Claudia felt a chill around her shoulders. How many veterans of World War II had made deathbed confessions to atrocities committed in the dark mists of history? Gentile elderly gentlemen who in uniformed youth had conducted genocide beyond imagine. Yet her grandfather's story was more tragic than horrific. In a war where millions perished, the indirect responsibility for the deaths of thirty children had tortured his soul for forty years.

"But surely it was these Swiss resistance fighters who were responsible for planting the bomb. They killed the children."

"They planted the bomb to kill me. I knew that and I wanted them to pay."

"What were you doing in Switzerland? I didn't think they were in the war. Weren't they neutral?"

"Neutrality, my dear is a word which can mean many things. It can mean to be on either side or both."

"And which were they?"

"They were on their own side, Claudia."

"It still doesn't explain what you were doing there."

"I was a scientist; in a General's uniform, perhaps, but I was first and foremost a scientist."

"You were a General?" Claudia looked amazed. "I knew you were in the war but I assumed an ordinary soldier."

"There was nothing ordinary about my role in the war." He lifted his water bottle with his free hand and took a sip to wet his lips. Speaking was taking an ever greater effort. "I was involved in secret weapons projects; terrible weapons, which were never completed before the war was lost. In Switzerland, we worked on a project known as Die Glock."

"Die Glock?"

"An anti-gravity device that could have turned the war in Germany's favour, and it worked. We were complete except for the final testing phase. The plans are in my old trunk at the back of the closet."

"What happened? Why was it not completed?"

"I was on my way by train back to Germany to brief the Fuhrer but it was too late. I never arrived. The Americans had broken through at Innsbruck and we had to abandon the train when it crashed before we reached the German border. By this time, the Fuhrer was already dead. We had to leave our unit and make our way on foot back towards Switzerland. We couldn't risk being captured in possession of the device so we abandoned it in a lake in Southern Bavaria, close to the border with Austria. It was a lake, such a beautiful late. I do not recall its name. From there I ended up here but I have no idea what happened to Die Glock. I got a message from Himmler to rendezvous with him but he was captured." He closed his eyes, and his breath became rasped. "Can I have a drop of milky coffee?"

"Yes, Gramps, of course you can." Claudia released his hand and walked to the kitchen, in somewhat of a daze at his story.

Hans Kammler had the feeling he shouldn't have asked for that coffee and then there was nothing. Claudia was free.

# CHAPTER 29

The view from his suite was a travel photographer's dream. An elevated, unbroken panorama of the Jungfrau, framed to perfection between the forest green foothills that ran from Wilderswil to Lauterbrunnen and beyond towards heaven's blue awning. With the Sphinx Observatory not visible to the naked eye at this distance, the dramatic ice walls of the north face which drop three kilometres to the valley floor, gave the dramatic mountain an air of inaccessible beauty. It hardly seemed possible for anyone to climb to the summit, let alone construct an observatory, train station, shops and restaurants.

Seated in the soft settee of brushed leather in the 'Yash Chopra Suite', Vladic marvelled at the secret scientific facility deep inside the rock where a striking yet brilliant scientist was tampering with the very forces of nature. He had endured a sleepless night at the top of the mountain, enduring a mind splitting headache which onset even before the second bottle of wine had been uncorked. Reinhardt had mumbled something about residual static electricity caused by the experiment, but failed to offer Vladic any of the strong painkillers he himself had downed before going to bed.

They had departed from the JungfrauJoch station on the first descending train and Vladic had crashed for an hour before rising again at twelve–thirty and soaking under a cold shower which thankfully succeeded in flushing away the remnants of the unwelcome pain behind his eyes.

The suite on the fourth floor of the Grand Hotel Victoria-Jungfrau had been his residence for the past six months since abandoning his suite in the Holiday Inn in Sarajevo, the capital of his Bosnian homeland which had been his home since being forced to flee Serbia in May of 2011, having narrowly avoided capture in Lazarevo when Milan Kostalic was arrested following a doubling of the reward for his capture to ten million Euros. Kostalic, the former General in the Bosnian Serb Army, was wanted for his part in directing both the Siege of Sarajevo and the Srebrenica Massacre – the worst act of mass murder in Europe since the immediate aftermath of the Second World War. Vladic's profile had always been lower than that of his mentor and former commanding officer, but with the master now behind bars in The Hague, the hitherto apprentice had become the outstanding priority for the ICTY. He had been cornered in Sarajevo and though he regretted the murder of Claudine Leffray for the upheaval caused to his own life, he knew the bitch would never have walked away without her prey safely in irons; it was widely known that the arrest of Milan Kostalic was a pre-condition to Serbia being awarded candidate status for membership of the European Union and similarly, his own capture would see the door to membership swing open for the once pariah state.

Vladic had never even heard of the SVV Scweizerischer Vaterlandischer Verband (Swiss Patriotic Federation) when the handwritten letter had been delivered to him in Sarajevo. The letter sympathised with the plight of a fellow Christian Patriot, who understood the need to have the strength to stand firm against the evils of Islam, Bolshevism and the weak minded liberals who would freely hand over the keys of heaven to our enemies.

Vladic's initial reaction was to imagine this Reinhardt some sort of deranged lunatic or pathetic drunkard. That was until a second letter arrived inviting him to consider an offer of alternative accommodation in the finest hotel in Interlaken, Switzerland. Anonymity would be guaranteed and the room rate would be waived on account of Herr Reinhardt being the owner. Close personal protection staff would also be provided.

Vladic took another sip of the now tepid cappuccino. Now that he had been introduced to Reinhardt's wife and the fascinating nature of her research, he was inclined to fall back on his initial assessment of Reinhardt being deranged. As for his crazy plans to blow up the JungfrauJoch and blame the attack on Moslem extremists, Vladic would welcome a successful outcome, but there were just too many dice had to fall in Reinhardt's favour. The win to lose ratio on a game of such high stakes would push the prize beyond the limits of rationality. Vladic got up and prowled the polished teak floor of the eighty-five square metres of Bollywood-style luxury, complete with ornamental porcelain elephants and romantic, verging on erotic, portraits of glamorous Indian film stars in breathless, cherry lipped embraces. All of the trappings of luxury he had stopped noticing after the first week, with frustration and solitude his constant companions. Still only forty-four years old, Vladic was planning on living the same again and not behind the bars of a prison cell. In the Victoria-Jungfrau he had everything he wanted at the end of a phone; the best food and drink in Interlaken and female company when required, all at Max Reinhardt's pleasure. A prison served in finest crystal and satin underwear, but prison nonetheless. The best and only path to assured liberty was money and that is ultimately what his association with Reinhardt promised.

# CHAPTER 30

Interlaken 1944

Hans Schneider was filled with a deep sense of pride. Too old to don a uniform and follow the rallying call to the cause of the rise of Greater Germany, he had been left to observe at a distance the unfolding tide of history that was sweeping away all that was weak and degenerate in the post imperial morass. A new emperor was rising; one who would bring order to chaos and restore pride through strength and honour. Now from deep in the heart of neutrality, in the cradle of his beloved Bernese Oberland, the time had finally come for him to take his place on the great stage; no longer just an anonymous face looking on from the stalls. The Mayor of Interlaken's political views were widely documented, heralded as a visionary or demonised as a Nazi depending on the editorial sympathies behind the headlines. Either way, it was never going to be long before a dossier on Schneider found its way to Gestapo Headquarters in Berlin and from there onto the polished oak desk of Chief of the SS, Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler.

Since August 1943, now also the Minister of the Interior, with Hitler tied up commanding the Wehrmacht's faltering campaign on the Eastern Front, Himmler was effectively running the Third Reich as he saw fit. His loyalty to Adolph Hitler was unflinching but the reversal at Stalingrad had shaken him to the core. Maybe, just maybe, Germany could lose the war. The Red Army was on the move. The great bear was aroused, and unhindered would wreak a terrible revenge for the atrocities committed by the SS during Operation Barbarosa. For their part, it surely would not be long before the Allies in the West launched an invasion in an effort to liberate Europe. His heart told him the Reich would prevail, but nevertheless it would be prudent to make some provision for the future. He reread the file on the Mayor of Interlaken for the third time and called aloud for his secretary. "Corporal Mayer!"

The heavy door opened and a young woman with raven hair matching her black uniform stood to attention.

"Get General Kammler on the telephone."

"Yes, Herr Reichsfuhrer," she snapped in a curt but clear voice. The door closed behind her.

Himmler rubbed his chin, briefly removed his pince-nez spectacles, wiped the lenses with a clean white handkerchief and replaced them on the bridge of his nose. He closed the Schneider file and slid it into the top drawer of his desk, which he habitually locked. The telephone on his desk had an unusually loud bell and frequently caused Himmler to jump. He lifted the receiver "Yes?"

"Kammler here, mein Reichsfuhrer.

The legacy of the V-2 Rocket and its undeniable impact on the history of the second half of the Twentieth Century vastly outweighs, but should in no way diminish, the impact of the three thousand launched in the final months of the Second World War. An estimated nine thousand civilian and military personnel were the victims, mainly in London, Antwerp and Liege, of the futuristic weapon of terror. The V-2 or Vengeance Weapon 2, was the world's first long range ballistic missile, designed primarily as a radical weapon of retaliation for the increasing level of Allied bombing being visited nightly upon German cities. The original main production facility for the V-2 was Peenemunde Army Research Centre on the island of Usedom in eastern Mecklenburg-Vorpommern, which had been founded in 1937 as one of five testing grounds for military weapons research and is widely regarded as the birthplace of modern rocket science and spaceflight.

Everything changed on the night of August 17th 1943 with the British bombing raid codenamed Operation Crossbow. Earlier that year, two Polish slave janitors had smuggled out detailed maps and sketches of the facility to members of the Polish Home Army Intelligence Corps which, by June, had been received by British Intelligence, identifying the rocket assembly hall, experimental pit and launching tower. The Polish janitors were given advance warning of the bombing raid but were unable to leave due to the SS security around the facility. There were no air raid shelters for the prisoners. This raid forced the Germans to look for a hardened underground production facility for the V-2, as well as for the other more secret scientific projects. Following a meeting on August 26th, a network of pre-existing tunnels under Kohnstein Mountain near the town of Nordhausen was selected as the ideal location for the new plant. Known as Mittlewerk (literally Middle Works), the privately run company was contracted for the production of twelve thousand V-2's. Himmler met with Hitler to discuss the way forward after which he informed Minister of Armaments Albert Speer that he was relieving him of responsibility for the V-2 project and that he was appointing SS Brigadier General Hans Kammler as commandant of Mittlewerk. Kammler had impressed Himmler when he had been in charge of building the extermination camps and gas chambers at Auschwitz-Birkenau.

By early 1944, Kammler had the V-2 production lines running at their desired output levels, with approximately two and a half thousand "free" workers employed in the tunnels of Mittlewerk alongside five thousand prisoners.

The prisoners were made to eat and sleep within the very tunnels they were digging. Thousands of workers were crammed into stinking, lice infested bunks stacked four-high in the first few south side cross tunnels at the mouth of Tunnel A; in an atmosphere thick with gypsum dust and fumes from the blasting work, which continued twenty-four hours a day. Prisoners had no access to running water or sanitary facilities. Dysentery, typhus, tuberculosis, and starvation were constant causes of suffering and death for these unfortunate people. The detainees worked atop thirty foot scaffolds using picks to enlarge the tunnels. From time to time a prisoner would become too weak to continue, fall to his death from the scaffolding, and simply be replaced by another. Trucks bearing piles of prisoner corpses left every other day for the crematorium ovens at Buchenwald. All of the original manufacturing equipment for the V-2 rockets had to be dismantled and transported from Peenemünde before being re-assembled and installed in the tunnels. This was done by hand by prisoner workers using hand-carts, block and tackle, huge skids pulled by teams of prisoners, and the temporary narrow gauge rail lines. The case has been made that the primary product of the Mittlewerk complex was not weapons at all, but death – the death of the thousands of prisoners. It is estimated that of more than sixty thousand who were used as forced labour at the site over a two year period, almost half did not survive. It is a truth lost to history that the cost in human lives of manufacturing the V-2 rockets was far greater than the number killed when they rained down on Allied cities.

Kammler was taking his regular Monday morning tour of Tunnel B, where the primary production of the V-2 was taking place, accompanied by his adjutant SS Lieutenant Degenkolbe, section overseer Dietmar Hausman and the designer of the V-2, Werner Von-Braun.

Kammler's eyes were suddenly drawn to a striking young woman working on the gyroscope test platform. She had the bearing of a German engineer but wore the ragged brown overalls of a prisoner. With otherworldly emerald eyes and nut brown hair, she radiated an aura of calm authority and unyielding self-respect, so clearly out of place amidst the dead-eyed despair and misery of the wretched, the hopeless and the condemned.

"That woman," Kammler gestured with his black gloved hand. "A new arrival?"

"Yes, General."

"Polish?"

Lieutenant Degenkolbe thumbed through the sheets attached to the clipboard he carried everywhere. "No, that one is Yugoslav. One of a band of Tito's Partisan's captured near Jasenovac."

"I thought they were all degenerate Moslem's down there."

"Actually, Mein General, there is a substantial ethnic Serb population in the Bosnian region."

"Does she have a name, this Partisan?"

"Ivanovic; Irina Ivanovic."

"Well, Lieutenant; I should very much like to meet this girl."

Degenkolbe scrutinised Kammler's ever cold, intimidating features and despite the unflinching expression, the Lieutenant understood all too well and made a brief note. "Yes, of course General."

Beauty was a curse on the women prisoners of Mittlewerk. Better to remain anonymous, lost in the faceless throng rather than to be singled out for the special attention of the guards or worse, the rabid hunger of deranged, dehumanized slave workers. The lucky few, though, were separated from the rest, usually on arrival, and incarcerated at the "Grand Hotel." The ironically adopted name for the officers' brothel housed the chosen women in conditions of luxury compared with those the main slave population endured. Each had her own room with a bed, running water, soap with which to wash and cigarettes and alcohol aplenty to help numb the reality of days and nights spent indulging the officers of Mittlewerk. The lower ranks were left to take what they wanted, whenever they wanted it from the ranks of the wretched, sleeping in their living tomb in the tunnels beneath the mountain.

On the rare occasions General Kammler chose to visit the "Grand Hotel," he wore civilian clothes and a Fedora on his head in a pointless attempt at feigned anonymity. His chosen room maid was for his personal pleasure only. He had sworn to himself that he would never return following the first unpleasant visit, but he found he was drawn back to the second floor room like a moth to a flame.

Irina understood only too well the position of privilege she enjoyed being the Kommandant's favourite. No matter how much she hated the Nazi General or how much she despised herself for allowing him to violate her body, she accepted it as the necessary price of survival. If she could only stay alive, only keep breathing, one day at a time. This awful war could not last forever. She could see it in their faces, the haughty Prussians who should have known better and the self-confident Aryan scum from the provincial backwaters. Behind the hard, cruel eyes where the conscience had long been strangled by the black gloved hand of evil that turned men into monsters, she could see the seeds of fear beginning to take root. It was almost as though they were beginning to understand the enormity of their crime against mankind; a crime that would not be forgiven come the Day of Judgment. The Allies were coming. Even the SS guards had been overheard discussing an invasion in France by British and American troops. Officers were worried about their families at home in the great cities of the Reich - Hamburg, Cologne, Dresden and even Berlin, all subject to nightly bombing raids. Irina had to keep breathing.

Why he bothered to knock on the door, Irina could not fathom, but as was the ritual she opened the door and forced a smile, encouraged by the radiant red lipstick he had brought her the previous week. He entered the room without a word and removed his hat.

"Good evening General," she greeted him in a soft voice. "Would you like a brandy?"

Kammler nodded and sat himself on the edge of the bed. Irina could feel his eyes burning into her back, mentally undressing her, becoming aroused for the task in hand. Irina half-filled two glass tumblers and handed one to Kammler. She rested her rear on the edge of the basic dressing table and sipped from her glass waiting for the order to strip off.

"What are you doing here Irina?" Kammler asked.

Irina was puzzled by this unexpected question. She took another longer sip from her glass.

"I mean what are you doing mixed up in this war? You don't belong here. Why didn't you stay at home with your mother, baking bread and embroidering dresses for children?"

Irina's instinct was to smile and say nothing, to kneel between his legs and get rid of him as soon as possible, but for the first time she felt he was genuinely interested in her as a person and she became emboldened. "I am here because you invaded my country; because you killed thousands of my countrymen – because you killed my mother." She spoke the last words without spite or any hint of vitriol but the measured, monotone only served to heighten their impact.

Kammler looked at the floor, cradling his glass in both hands. "I am sure your mother was a good woman who did not deserve to die, but this is war; a war like nothing the world has seen or will ever see again."

"I hope you are right, General."

He got to his feet and walked over to where floral curtains were drawn across barred windows. "You know I am married, Irina?"

"Of course."

"But I wear no ring, carry no photographs."

"Married men are more....." Irina stopped, not daring to overstep the line.

"Married men are more what? It is alright, you may speak your mind."

"They are more desperate; more ashamed of what they are doing."

Kammler drained his glass and set it on the dressing table next to where Irina was propped. He poured another large measure into the glass and downed most of the contents immediately. "My wife and children are at home in Hamburg. Last night saw the biggest air raid yet. Communications with the city have been cut. Tonight, you must forgive me if I feel more married than usual." He slammed his glass down hard. "Good night, Irina."

Irina was stunned. He was leaving. He hadn't laid a finger on her and he was leaving. But wait, conflicting voices screamed out in her head. If he leaves now, like this, he may not return. If he did not return, what would become of her? She needed Kammler a hell of a lot more than he needed her. She had to act fast.

"General!" She took his arm in her hand and he turned around. "You have only just arrived."

"I must go. There is much I need to attend to."

"I'm sure your family will be fine so why don't you forget about the war for an hour?"

He was about to push her off him when he felt her hand between his legs, her brandy infused breath warm against his cheek. "Irina, I really need to go." He sounded less like a Nazi General and more like an uncertain, unfaithful fool.

"I thought you couldn't resist me, General. Isn't that what you say when you make a whore of me?"

For the next two hours, Hans Kammler was unable to resist the nineteen year old Yugoslav prisoner, over and over again.

The unbearable sickness had gripped Irina in the early weeks of September. She thought the inevitable result of her incarceration would be disease and death but was shocked how quickly she had succumbed. It was only when a fellow inmate of the "Grand Hotel," had suggested an alternative diagnosis, that Irina realised the full horror of her plight. The blonde haired Polish girl, Barbara, had crossed herself and whispered the words "God help you both."

How long would it be before Kammler noticed the change in Irina's body? And then what for her and her baby – his baby? Summary execution? How could she have expected the situation to end any other way. Had she been so naïve, so blinded by her desire to survive by giving him what he wanted, that she thought the laws of biology didn't exist inside her room?

The weeks passed and Irina's belly began to swell. He didn't say anything when she began keeping on the black negligee he had brought her and on many evenings, he would simply have a brandy and a couple of cigarettes, perched on the end of the bed, mumbling in generalities about the state of the war or his family, now safely moved to the countryside.

Two weeks passed without a visit from Kammler. The Mittlewerk complex was blanketed by the first snowfall of winter. Life for the inmates of "The Grand Hotel" had taken a downward turn. The pipes were frozen so there was no water to wash or even to drink. A couple of buckets of melted snow between thirty-one inmates had become the daily ration. The boiler in the basement no longer worked; the Reich was short of fuel and the needs of a handful of slave whores didn't figure very highly on the priority list.

Irina was freezing; in bed, where she spent all her time, wrapped up in the summer blankets, shivering and praying he would come. An hour of unwelcome attention would be a welcome respite from the merciless cold. Maybe he would leave her his coat.

Sleep brought welcome relief and with it the incomprehensible jumble of memories. The idyllic summer afternoons of a childhood lived under cloudless skies before the winds of war swept across the mountains and cast a satanic shadow over the world. Her mother hugged Irina to her apron and promised everything would be alright. How could everything be alright, when her mother's bloodied corpse lay untended in the town square alongside the others – so many others mercilessly slain in retaliation for the assassination by the resistance of a single German officer? Irina tried hard to control her dreams, to live them out by her mother's side and suppress the visions that tormented her.

Irina did not hear the door to her room open and close again, such was the intended stealth of the figure that now stood over her sleeping form. Suddenly a sense of panic took hold of Irina and she wanted to awaken to escape the nightmare. She couldn't breathe. Why couldn't she breathe? Her mouth, her nose; something was covering them. A sense of panic. "Help!" she wanted to scream but the heavy, firm hand prevented anything but the most muted of sounds. Her eyes focused on the shape looming above her in the poor light from the single candle. It was Kammler. She knew this would come eventually, though she had doubted he would actually have been the one to do it himself. With his free hand he put his finger to his lips in the universal signal to silence and gradually released the pressure on her mouth. She nodded imperceptibly, indicating she understood and he removed his hand completely. Irina panted for breath, all the time waiting for what; the muzzle of a pistol, a flashing blade or a length of taut piano wire? Perhaps the thin, filthy pillow she rested her head upon would be his silent, clean weapon of choice. She wanted so much to be strong in the face of death but the warm sensation between her thighs betrayed the terror of her final moments.

"Irina, I need you to listen." He spoke in a whisper. "You remember I told you that you do not belong here?

How long would the foetus continue to grow inside survive after she was dead? Minutes or seconds, she had no idea. Instinctively, she held a hand protectively across the swelling beneath her clothes.

"Your child belongs here even less."

Her eyes widened at the revelation. Kammler knew she was pregnant, and ridiculous a notion though it had been that he could be ignorant of her condition, it still came as a shock.

"You understand, I cannot allow this child to be brought into the world; into this world? I know you understand, Irina. You are a woman of uncommon intelligence. I know I do not need to explain these clear and obvious facts to you, no matter how difficult they may be for both of us."

Irina swallowed hard, her whole body now trembling.

"I have stayed away from you these past number of days because I needed time to consider how best to solve this little problem. I don't know what took me so long to reach my decision because the solution is quite clear." He looked deep into her green eyes, blind to the fear reflected in them, so familiar was he with terror in others, it no longer even registered. "I have set a bag on the floor next to the bed. In it you will find a greatcoat and pair of leather boots. They are much too large but you can bind your feet with the sheets. There are papers that will take you anywhere. They are genuine, not forgeries. There are also a few Deutschemarks to get by."

Irina wondered if she was still asleep and dreaming or indeed if she was already dead and the nerve endings in her brain flickering their last and creating this impossible scenario.

"I must go, Irina." He got to his feet. "And so must you, now. The guards at the outer perimeter are in their barrack house. It seems they received a surprise present of a crate of Schnapps. Oh, and the lock on the front door downstairs broke weeks ago. Nobody bothered to have it repaired." At that he simply walked out of the room and closed the door behind him. Irina would never see SS General Hans Kammler again.

She waited a few minutes until she was sure he would not be returning and the only sound was the wind outside. Captain Schumacher was surely still tucked up with the fat Ukrainian girl at the end of the corridor but his nightly grunting had ceased long ago and in any case he never left until seven AM. Irina swung her legs out of the bed and picked up the brown duffel bag, taking great care as though it may be booby trapped. Inside she found a heavy overcoat and the surprisingly strong, fur lined boots. Her papers were stamped with the eagle and swastika. She was now Irene Kaltz, a physics student from Mannheim, employed at Mittlewerk on temporary assignment. At the bottom of the bag was something heavy, she couldn't identify at first glance. What she lifted out took her totally by surprise. It was a dagger in a leather scabbard. Was it for her protection? Surely not; what good would a knife be against a machine-gun if she were to be discovered? Then it dawned on her. It offered her a way out. Still, she couldn't take her eyes from the beautifully carved handle, inscribed with the SS symbol. No, this was no ordinary knife. She unclipped the single clasp that fastened the scabbard and slid the knife out, gasping at how the blade glinted in the candle light. On both sides of the blade was an exquisitely carved inscription.

Meine Ehre heist Treue (My honour is Loyalty)

The ordinance dagger of the SS was a treasured symbol of their sworn oath to Adolf Hitler, yet Kammler had given it to a prisoner, to a whore. To the Nazi's, honour was lost only by refusing to commit the criminal orders of a superior. Though the motto on the dagger read like a pledge to the traditional ideals of chivalrous virtue, it stood for blind obedience to the Fuhrer. There was something else inside the scabbard. Bound neatly with a piece of string were a bundle of Deutschmarks. Kammler meant for her to survive, not to take her own life. He meant her to survive and she understood the dagger was gift, but not for her.

She carefully replaced the dagger in its scabbard and tried on one of the boots. It was at least four sizes too large. Having wrapped both feet in strips torn from a flannel sheet, Irina tried the boots again. They would have to do. She laced them as tightly as possible and wrapped the heavy trench coat around her, buttoning it to the neck. The world beyond the walls of the "Grand Hotel" promised nothing but unimaginable cold, misery, pain and danger. A perilous journey lay ahead if Irina was ever again to see her home in the Yugoslav province of Bosnia–Herzegovina. She put the money and the dagger into the inside pocket of the coat and left the pitiful room that had been her cell for over a year.

# CHAPTER 31

Mavro Vladic's Story

As the sun began to set, bathing this grim corner of Bosnia in an eerie pink light, a young ethic Serb began his journey to war. Twenty-three year old Mavro Vladic, an electrician from Djakovica had reached a turning point in his life; he was on his way to join the Bosnian Serb Militia, General Mladic's Army of Republika Srpska – the VRS.

The war in the southern province of the disintegrating Yugoslavia was still regarded, in some quarters, with studied equanimity despite the killings which had been on the increase through the spring months of 1991.

"If your father was here, he would forbid this." Forty-six year old Betja Vladic rarely looked her age having inherited her mother's good looks, but the sudden death of her husband Goran the year before, coupled with the sight of her only child going off to fight in the civil war had drained her youthful beauty to the extent that male customers at the local post office where she worked, barely took her under their notice any longer.

"I am the head of this family Mother and I am more than old enough to make my own decisions. You need to trust me, as your son, that what I do, I do for you and for the Serbian people."

"The boy is right." Mavro's grandmother walked into the kitchen. "It is his decision and his alone. We must respect and honour him for his courage." Irina Ivanovic was twenty years older than Betja and had it not been for the grey hair which framed her still attractive features, they could have been sisters.

"Thank you, Nana." He crossed the tiled floor and embraced his beloved grandmother.

"You stay safe, Mavro. Stay safe and come back to us, you hear me?" She held him tight and stifled the tears before they could betray her true fear for his safety. "I have something for you. I want you to carry it with you for luck." She handed him a black felt pouch bound with a black strap.

"What is it?" He asked.

"Like you, I once set out on a long, dangerous journey. I carried this with me and it brought me home. I have no doubt it will bring you home again."

He looked at the pouch in his hand, then into his grandmother's emerald green eyes. In that moment he believed what she said, that it would bring him home safely.

Mavro went up the hill with a casual, "See you sometime," back in the direction of the house, his boots ringing out on the stony path that lead to the main road. His ashen faced mother turned away, not able to watch her baby go and fearing deeply that he may never return. Irina placed her hands on her daughter's shaking shoulders and kissed the top of her head. Mavro passed the broken stone fortifications, a relic from the Second World War, which sat starkly on the crest of the rise and curiosity having got the better of him, undid the strap on the black velvet pouch he carried in his hand. Inside was a dagger. On the handle was the symbol of the SS and when he drew the shining blade from its scabbard, he saw that it bore an inscription in German:

Meine Ehre heist Treue

Mavro Vladic turned the corner by a deserted farmhouse and disappeared from view. He seemed confident, defiant and without fear. Above him, great sharp ridges ran all the way to the Albanian border, their summits still capped in snow. He had to walk about a dozen miles to join up with the guerrillas. He hoped to be there by dawn to take his place amongst the growing band of young Serbs who wanted to take revenge on the majority Muslim Bosniaks who had passed a referendum for independence, thus ripping Bosnia-Herzegovina from the neighbouring Serbia and isolating the minority ethnic Serb population in an Islamic flavoured state. Each night saw another batch of rootless, unemployed men slip away from their homes in towns across Bosnia and melt away into the hills. Dialogue was dead.

Feb 94 – Jahorina, Yugoslavia

Anja was still hungry and her nerves were beginning to fray. She held the girl tight and began to retell her favourite story. Another round struck the old town half a mile away, not that she could tell when the noise and vibration of one round subsided and another one began. 'This can't go on all night', she tried to convince herself. The room was getting cold again and the candle had died out an hour since. Anja crept out from under the bed, flinching in anticipation of the next shell and felt her way around the blackness until she stumbled hard against the dresser. She found another candle, lit it and placed it on the table. She then pulled Maria's mattress underneath the double bed, helped the girl wriggle on to it and covered her with blankets. The shell landed no more than a few hundred metres away and she felt the shock, almost diving back under the bed and felt some plaster come falling from the ceiling. Sometime this has to stop, she spoke into herself. Sometime this war must come to an end. She prayed for her daughter. Don't let us die.

It was seven in the morning, the shells still falling like express trains. The room was cold and Maria was shivering, crying softly. Anja left whatever protection the bed afforded and relit the fire, watching the rising flames flicker as they gathered strength. Maria was hungry. Her hands and face were like ice. Anja rubbed her little body until some semblance of warmth returned.

On top of the dresser against the far wall sat the family photographs and the radio; three wooden chairs sat around the battered dining table. The only other piece of furniture was an old armchair to the left of the door. At the beginning of the siege they had boarded up the windows with planks and moved the remaining furniture to the floor above, leaving the top level empty. The water and electricity had been cut off almost immediately, so now they made their own candles and got water from the well in the farmyard.

Maria played with the wooden doll her father Mehmet had carved for her. He was so good with his hands, but even that was a distant memory to Anja. She wished he would come home. He was out there somewhere with his three brothers and father, manning the town's defences with double barrelled shotguns and ancient hunting rifles barely good enough for shooting rabbits, let alone heavily armed Serb militia. She just hoped they would return before Mehmet's ailing mother woke.

Anja knelt in front of the stove, opened the door of the fire and added a little more wood. Her daughter's eyes stared at her through the halo of light round the burning candle wick. What sort of life was this for an attractive young woman? What sort of life was this for an innocent child? At least they were alive, unlike so many of their friends and neighbours.

She stirred the beans in the saucepan, forced herself to laugh at Maria as she poured her share into her little plastic bowl, before pouring her own portion and splitting a piece of day old bread; a reminder that occasionally someone did remember about them; that occasionally some food did get through the Serb blockade. The first time had been in the days before the siege had begun in its full blown form. The town had been cut off and under fire, but some British soldiers had arrived; The Cheshires, she recalled was the name of the regiment. When the days became dark and short and the cold and hunger began to seep into every home, the planes had flown over and dropped food parcels on the surrounding hills. Those nights the people had ventured out with torches to search for the precious supplies. Even now she could remember standing in the doorway, Maria in her arms, pointing out the flickering lights which danced among the trees and laughing because it was just like Christmas, with all the people watching the lights in the darkness. Then the Serbs began shelling the wooded hillside and the lights had scattered like fireflies on a summer night. One by one the lights had gone out as people ran in terror, or where blown to pieces.

There had been one more time when aid had come to the people of Jahorina. Mehmet had been at home with Maria so Anja had gone alone for a fresh pan of beans, scuttling across the old wooden bridge towards the school when she had seen the four soldiers. They were unlike any soldiers she had seen before; not riding in tanks or jeeps, or like the impotent UN monitors in their blue helmets covering the latest so-called ceasefire. These wore combat fatigues but no helmets or berets, yet Anja was not afraid. She knew what the Chetnik fighters looked like, and these were definitely not the murderous Serb militia. They had packs on their backs, carried machine guns and walked quickly, purposefully. The next day she had seem them again and spoken to them. And because she had spoken to them in English, because she had studied English at University in Zagreb, she always remembered them as English, rather than British. And because there was no one else, she had interpreted for them, recognised the word laser and related to the Red Cross details of the planes and food drops. That night and for several nights afterwards, the soldiers had vanished in to the woods and for several nights after, the planes had come in and dropped food exactly where the English soldiers had requested. The people of Jahorina had eaten. But then the soldiers were gone. Anja had never known exactly why they had come to Jahorina or how they had left, let alone who exactly they were. She had asked one of them once, but she hadn't understood the reply. They had used the word covert repeatedly, but it was not a word Anja was familiar with.

"Eat up," She wiped the bread around the bowl and encouraged Maria to eat.

Mehmet Patajc was tired beyond reason. For months now, he, his father and three brothers had been helping defend Jahorina, should the Serbs attempt an all-out offensive on the town. To date, the Chetniks had resorted to classic terror tactics of random shelling and sniper attacks from the hillsides coupled with murderous attacks on isolated dwellings.

His father Casim, sat next to him behind the wheel of the battered Mercedes van. The former senior police officer had been lucky to escape with his life following a mortar attack on Jahorina Police Station during the early weeks of the war, an attack that had killed the Croat Chief of Police. No longer in uniform, Casim still carried out his duty to protect and serve the community amongst whom he had spent his whole life. Mehmet's brothers Antun, Alija and Danis shared a precious cigarette in the back of the van, seated as they were on the splintered wooden floor.

"Smoke it right to the butt this time, Antun!" Seventeen year old Danis, the youngest of the siblings elbowed twenty-tear old Antun in the ribs. "Don't be so bloody wasteful. God knows when we will get any more."

"Don't talk to your brother like that!" Mehmet, the eldest at twenty-six, was prone to jumping into the fraternal squabbling before their father felt the need to intervene. Being married with a child, Mehmet thought of himself as more a man of his father's generation than a peer of his younger brothers. He swung the ailing van in through the rusted iron gateway, into the farmyard.

There was no telling how long the Chetniks had lain in wait, perhaps all night. As soon as Mehmet had turned off the engine, the van was surrounded by six armed men, each brandishing an AK47 assault rifle.

"Don't do anything stupid," Casim said calmly to Mehmet.

"What the hell do they want?" Alija called from behind.

Casim recognised one of the paramilitaries. "I know that one," he said to Mehmet. "The one with his gun over his shoulder, playing it cool."

"You know him?"

"His name is Vladic, Mavro Vladic."

"The one they say was responsible for Bijeljina?"

"That's him."

The man named Vladic left the group and kicked in the back door of the farmhouse.

"Out!" The rough, unshaven one who appeared to be the second in command, pulled open the driver's door and jabbed the butt of his gun in Casim's ribs, as two others opened the rear doors of the van and gestured for the brothers to get out.

Mehmet felt the weight of his pistol on his lap and he considered his options. Everything changed in a second as circumstances overtook him. A single shot rang out across the farmyard and Casim dropped, a single bullet hole neatly in the centre of his forehead.

All hell broke loose. Mehmet's door was opened and he was dragged from the seat ending up on the ground with kicks from a heavy boot thumping into his midriff. Alija ran towards his father's body and was felled with a short burst of semi-automatic fire. Three of the Chetniks surrounded Antun and Danis, daring them to try anything. The other two lifted Mehmet to his feet and they lead the three remaining brothers to the cattle barn.

Anja recognised the sound of gunfire but too late to act. She grabbed the gun and hid it inside her heavy coat. Whatever she did, Maria had to come out of this alive. Vladic was already in the house and burst into the sanctuary of the Patajc women.

Vladic knew all too well what was taking place outside and the need to ensure there were no witnesses to their latest crime.

Anja accepted what was coming. She knew this vicious murderer who forced himself upon and in the callous dead eyes, there was not even a glimmer of recognition that she was a human being. The Chetniks used rape as a weapon of terror every bit as much as the gun or the bomb. No matter how excruciating the pain or degrading the experience, she had to stay focussed; let it happen and keep control. She would only get one chance to use the weapon and hope to save her daughter's life. She managed to reach a hand inside her coat and flexed her fingers firmly around the butt of the revolver.

"Vladic! Vladic!" The shout from outside came from his deputy.

Vladic swore and withdrew from Anja. "You wait here, Islamist bitch. I will be back in a minute." At that he punched her hard in the face, causing the skin beneath her eye to split and her cheek to begin to swell. She all but lost consciousness, but heard her attacker go upstairs and the sound of voices outside.

"What the fuck is the matter with you?" Vladic slapped his deputy across the face. "Didn't you know I was busy?"

"UN observers spotted in the area."

"Shit!" Vladic spat. "Is it done?"

"Yes. Shall we burn the place?"

"There's no time. We need to clear out of here."

"What about the girl?"

"She'll keep for again." Vladic looked over his shoulder at the farmhouse.

Only one chance, Anja said into herself. She staggered to her feet and managed to pull up her ripped pants. Maria had sat watching the horrific events, unmoving, unblinking caught in a state of shock beyond any childhood nightmare. Anja grabbed her in her arms and made her way on shaky legs to the old flap used for feeding the animals, a relic from the days when the basement was used for keeping the cattle and dragged a wooden crate against the wall. She climbed on the crate and pushed Maria ahead of her out into the snow. With all the energy she could muster, Anja heaved her own traumatised body out into the freezing morning. She knew her husband was more than likely dead already along with his father and brothers. There was nothing she could do to help them. She had to blank all that from her mind if she was to have any chance of protecting Maria. The snow was falling steadily and Anja felt as though her insides were on fire. She prayed the farmhouse buildings would serve as a shield, covering their desperate escape through the deep snow. If they were pursued, she would have no option but to fire on them. Should she beg for mercy for the life of her daughter or use the gun to save them both from the hands of the Chetniks? She could never hold a gun to Maria's head. That was beyond the bounds of reason, even if she was left with no choice. Anja prayed to Allah for deliverance and kept up her pathetically slow flight into the merciless snow.

Primary School teacher Anja Patajc, wife of Mehmet, who had been murdered in the barn of his father's farm, alongside his parents and three brothers, died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. The UNPROFOR report also mentioned Anja and Mehmet's four year old daughter Maria.

# CHAPTER 32

Interlaken 1945

The upsurge in allied bombing raids on Germany's industrial infrastructure during the early months of 1943 had led the Nazi strategists to relocate the majority of strategic armaments production and development to the Eastern occupied territories of the Sudetenland. The Owl Mountains in Lower Silesia were selected as the preferred location for the secret armament development projects under the direction of the Reich's most lauded scientist, General Hans Kammler. Kammler's headquarters was the stunning thirteenth century Ksiaz Castle, from where he directed the underground facilities beneath the mountains. Though the majority of the physical labour was carried out by forced labour – mainly Jews, drawn from the Auschwitz concentration camp, specialists from Italy, Ukraine, Czechoslovakia as well as German, were employed in an effort to translate the more ambitious ideas from design to reality before Germany's conventional military forces where overrun and the Thousand Year Reich would perish after little more than a decade.

Though the test platform had only just been completed at the Wenceslas Mine near the village of Rzeczka, it was now apparent to Kammler that common sense had to prevail and that the wholesale relocation of Project Riese had become an absolute imperative. Of the seven underground facilities in Lower Silesia, the decision had already been taken at the highest levels in Berlin to shut down six, leaving only the most potent Wunderwaffe (wonder-weapon) and the one closest to Kammler's heart, as the research project designated for final relocation beyond the borders of the Reich and hence, secure in the event of Germany's defeat, however unlikely that seemed, even on the cusp of 1945.

"Why do you need two aircraft?" Herman Goering looked up from his china tea cup.

"We cannot risk transportation of Die Glocke and the Xerum 625 in the same plane."

"For what reason, Herr Doctor?"

"Xerum 625 can be rather unstable, Reich's Marshall."

"This _Bell_ of yours is unusually heavy for an object of its size. I am curious as to its true nature, Herr Doctor. It is my understanding that the purpose of this project was to create a powerful new form of propulsion. If I recall the text of the original briefing, it was to use the theory of Einstein's Unified Field Theory to propel a new breed of fighter planes that would cross the very boundaries of space-time."

"The anti-gravity drive?" Kammler regarded the legendary deputy of the Reich, now reduced to the caricature of overdressed and overweight buffoon. "Its true nature Reich's Marshall Goering is that of ultimate victory. The time is right to evolve a technology so far ahead of accepted aerodynamic propulsion of the present day that it will give Germany absolute supremacy in the air."

Goering was losing interest, his notoriously short attention span more focused on the fine white powder that would comfort him in the lonely night ahead. "In that case, Herr Doctor, you are truly in the Fuhrer's debt."

Kammler was less concerned about the structure of _The Bell_ than he was about the one and a half litres of precious red mercury. _The Bell_ , constructed from uranium, lead and Iron, could be replicated if necessary at the new site, but the red mercury was the product of almost two full years of intensive work. Were it to be lost or even contaminated during transportation, Germany would have no option but to revert all resources to the development of the Atom Bomb as a last ditch weapon that may turn the war back in her favour. The preferred end product of Einstein's theory of UFT would be an Orwellian breed of dream craft. The more likely outcome of the intensive research would be a weapon from a future, still decades ahead.

Both Goering and Kammler knew the Americans were way ahead in development of the A-bomb. Their faith in _The Bell_ (Die Glocke) was the only reason they had not told Hitler the war was all but lost.

Interlaken 2014

The years had not been kind to Genevieve Rousseau. The spiked, black hair, heavy eyeliner and purple lipstick had given way to the ravages of unchallenged middle age. The native of Marseille, only daughter of a French mother and Algerian father, wore every year of the twenty spent working homicide and vice in France's Police Nationale. John wondered when he entered Stahl's office, if he would have recognised her had he passed her in the street. The answer was a sad but realistic no. Somewhere behind the lined face with dark ringed eyes and thin, dry lips was the vivacious, eccentric musician. The dark hair, streaked randomly with silver and white, was shoulder length with little evidence of regular attention.

"John Alexander, this is Chief Inspector Rousseau," Stahl provided the clichéd but unnecessary introduction, as curious as the two protagonists were to how the trans-generational reunion would extrapolate.

"Hello baby," she got to her feet.

The voice shook John to the foundations. Everything about it was as he remembered. The dancing sparkle in her dark brown eyes undiminished in spite of the passing decades. "Jenny, I can't believe it. You look great."

"No I don't," she said in typical flippant tone. "But then I'm just a sad old lesbian, so who really gives a shit?"

Stahl cleared his throat, uncertain where to look.

The French woman offered John the traditional continental two cheeked kiss and he was transported back to Austria in the summer of 1983, when their worlds collided in a hazy fantasy of hard music and easy loving. Yes, he really had experienced a life before Angela; a life before Kate. She took his right hand and squeezed it tight. "I am so sorry that fate has brought us back together in such dreadful circumstances," she said softly, as though for John's ears only, though in the quiet of the Commander's office, Stahl heard every word.

"You told me the last time we were together that whenever we met again, I would be married with two children, do you remember?"

"Of course I remember."

"Up until ten days ago, you would have been right."

Genevieve cast her eyes downwards. "I would have loved to have met her. I am sure she was a very special woman."

"Yes she was. I'm not sure you would have got on with her, though."

"Oh really? And what makes you draw that conclusion?"

"Kate was like you in many ways."

"I find that hard to believe, baby."

"I suppose I am the only one qualified to make that judgment, so you'll just have to take my word for it, won't you?"

"OK, OK!" Stahl interrupted, unable to cope with the stilted reunion between the former couple whose lives had diverged beyond the boundaries of normal re-acquaintance. "We need to get down to the matter in hand, if you don't mind."

"Of course, Commander." Genevieve withdrew and retook her seat; the cool, weary sophistication of her professional projection quickly banishing any lingering embers of youth.

"Sit John, please," Stahl indicated the free chair next to Genevieve. "I must say I was surprised to learn of your resumption of duties so soon after the tragic death of your wife, though I have to admit dedication to duty is something I have always respected in a man; no offence," he directed to Chief Inspector Rousseau.

She dismissed his apology with a nonchalant flick of her hand.

Stahl continued. "Like I say, dedication to duty is to be admired, if indeed it is that alone which has brought you back so quickly." Stahl did not address the last words to John directly but merely to the finger nails of his left hand. Neatly trimmed as they were, some finer aspect of a miscued manicure allowed him to express his inner thoughts with impersonal ease.

"If there is even the slightest chance of apprehending Vladic, it is worth a level of personal sacrifice."

"John is right." Genevieve bolstered John's carefully measured rebuttal.

Stahl grinned with as much insincerity as he could muster. "I can see with such a closely knit unit working the case, I need not have any concerns about inter-agency friction." He stood. "Fine, but I have a list as long as my arm of disgruntled tourists up in the Jungfrau region, all waiting for the police to assist with their fucking lost property and personal injury claims on the fucking travel insurance, while my two community patrol officers are chasing a ghost."

"Vladic _was_ here." John poked the hornet's nest.

"Yes, but he may be in Mumbai now for all we know," Stahl's temper was simmering. "I have limited resources."

"That is why my team are here," Genevieve lit an unfiltered cigarette.

"And you have unlimited resources, I imagine? You can't smoke in here, by the way." He snarled at the woman from Interpol.

Genevieve looked at the glowing tip of her cigarette. "I was getting bored anyway." With that she got up and shooting John a knowing glance, left Stahl's office, omitting to pull the door closed behind her.

Stahl sighed. "If you don't mind me saying, I think you had a lucky escape where that one is concerned."

John held the commander's eye, without giving anything for him to work with. "Let us know if your officer's make contact." He stood and followed Genevieve out of Stahl's office, leaving the commander lurching between uncertainty and anger. This was his jurisdiction and if there was glory to be found, he was going to make sure it fell on his department.

Interlaken 1945

Common sense dictated the unimaginable scene of horror depicted in the grainy black and white photograph could not be real. The scene from a lunatic's nightmare depicted countless twisted, naked bodies of women and children, entangled in a slack jawed morass of withered, pathetic flesh, defined only by the dark roses of crusted, blackened blood.

"What is this Karl?" Greta pushed the work of a malicious, amateur ghoul back across the wooden table. "I don't want to see this shit!"

"This is real Greta," Karl glanced sideways at Anna, hoping for her support. "It is a year old, maybe more, but this was taken outside a village in Belarus."

Anna reached across the table and took Greta's hands in her own. "This is how the Nazi's treat the Jews of Europe. They showed these people no mercy and they will show no more here."

"An isolated incident." Greta shook her head, firm in her disbelief that the scene in the photograph had anything to do with war.

"No Greta," Karl continued. "This scene has been repeated countless times on the Eastern Front. Some say millions of civilians have died."

"Murdered," Anna corrected her husband.

"Then we should be happy that the war has left us untouched."

"So far." Anna's eyes narrowed, causing Greta to shift uncomfortably in her chair.

"But we all know that Hitler will never attempt an invasion of Switzerland, don't we?"

"That is what the misguided fools in Bern keep telling us, but their rhetoric is crafted by the Nazi sympathisers in the civil service. Our leaders are too weak and too afraid to face the truth." Karl stood and walked over to the window, looking out from the dining room of the Hotel Europe toward the pine covered peak of the Harder Klum, which rose steeply at the opposite side of the Hoheweg.

"What are you saying, Karl?" Greta could feel herself trembling at the thought the unthinkable breaking through the fool's paradise that had been their sanctuary since 1939.

"The war is coming to the Oberland, Greta." When he turned toward her, he had the look in his eyes of a middle aged man, the strength of his masculine charm disfigured by the burden of that which he could not bear alone. "We can fight or we can die."

Anna slumped forward, grabbing her face in both hands. "I always feared this day would come." She wanted to weep. To weep for the citizens of her beloved country, but most of all, she wanted to weep for herself. Her mother had warned her that the fragile peace enjoyed by the Swiss could not last forever, because it was a peace built on foundations of sand. "Our greatest weakness is that we have come to believe in our own lies."

When her mother had spoken those words at the Christmas dinner table in December of 1942, Greta had not understood what she had meant. When she looked back now, she should have read more into the way her father's response was to finger the collar of his shirt as though it were suddenly a little too tight or the way Anna drained her glass of wine without pause for breath. They knew alright; they all knew what was coming, but for so long, they had all come to believe their own lies.

"We need to be ready, Greta. We need to be ready for Kammler." Karl lowered his voice. "The next time he comes here, he cannot be allowed to leave."

Greta laughed. "That pompous asshole is just using Father and Mayor Schneider to salt away money for his retirement."

"He is a General in the SS and head of the Nazi secret weapons program. He may be pompous but it would be a mistake to think him an asshole."

"Karl is right, Greta. We must be prepared to act," Anna's blue eyes took on the steel plated chill of the Aryan devils from across the Alps and Greta was gripped by a sudden fear for her older sister. How easily this war which had so readily consumed so much of Europe, could also consume the feisty Anna Bircher. How easily the hopes and dreams of once happy sisters could be swept away by the tide of history.

Greta looked up into her sister's eyes, her right hand clutching her brown hair so tightly, Karl thought she was about to tear it out. "What do you want me to do, Anna?"

"I don't live here Greta, but you do. You need to," she paused to pick her words with care, "watch and listen to everything."

"What?" Greta exclaimed louder then she intended, but then caught herself. "You are asking me to spy on our father?"

"I know how this sounds, but he is the key, our back channel to Kammler. Father must know what Kammler is up to and the sooner we know the better."

"My God Anna, you are asking me to paint a target on his back, with both German and Swiss guns trained on it, not to mention our own safety."

"Your father will be fine, Greta," Karl tried to reassure her. "He is a good man; misguided perhaps, but everyone knows he is no Nazi sympathiser."

"Well, that is very gracious of you to say Karl. And what makes you judge, jury and executioner?"

Karl sighed heavily. "Have you heard of the National Redoubt?"

Greta threw her hands in the air. "Oh, here we go. I might have known you were mixed up in something like that, what with all skulking around in the dark. Those meetings you are forever disappearing off to, leaving Anna and Heinrich alone in that excuse for a house."

"Greta, please," Anna creased her lips and reached across the table for Greta's hand.

"Please don't tell me you are mixed up in this as well? For God's sake Anna, you have a child! What are you thinking of?"

"We have to take measures, Greta. Don't you understand what is going on in the world? Switzerland is the last great prize for the Wehrmacht and we have to be ready when they come. To fight for our freedom."

"And die?" Greta said almost mocking them.

"If necessary," Karl added calmly. "Millions have died already. Mostly innocent civilians simply wiped out by the Nazi menace."

"But the war will soon be over. The allies are coming to wipe Hitler out once and for all. The Germans are on the run."

"And this is when they may be at their most dangerous." Anna released Greta's hand.

Karl sat down again, his eyes softening. "They are building weapons, terrible weapons that could still turn the tide of the war to their advantage."

Greta's anger began to fade and the tumult of emotions in her head suddenly drained her ability and will to prolong the argument. She wiped a solitary tear from the corner of her eye. "I don't believe this," she said under her breath. "I think I need a drink." With heavy shoulders, she rose from the table and turned her back on her sister and brother-in-law.

"So, you will help us?" Karl went for broke.

"Do I have a choice?" she replied weakly.

"Of course you do." A bright, familiar voice came from the young man propped at the bar. With his dark curly hair and swarthy complexion, showing off the perfect white teeth, he beamed at the object of his unrequited affection.

Greta's sense of confusion was complete. Even gentle, book loving Daniel Lieberman had been seduced by the misguided rhetoric of Karl Manheim. She could return his smile with nothing but sadness. "Even you, Daniel?"

"There is no need to be afraid, Greta," he approached her, but she brushed past him, her eyes downcast.

"Then, I have nothing more to say." She fumbled in the pocket of her lime coloured cardigan and pulled out a crumpled packet of French cigarettes and left the dining room in silence, save the diminishing echo of her heavy heeled shoes clacking on the wooden floor.

Daniel stretched his arms wide in a wordless confirmation of what he had expected Greta's reaction would be.

"Don't worry," Karl lit a cigarette. "Let her sleep on it."

"We may have ruined everything, Karl." Anna could feel her heart pounding, gripped by the sudden realisation that the day she had feared for so long may be just around the corner. The walls of the dining room crowded her peripheral vision. Though she didn't believe for one minute that Greta would tell their father anything about the conversation that had just taken place, she could not suppress the rising sense of dread that a darkness had been released in the midst of their lives; something terrible in the shadows that would haunt them even when the war was long forgotten.

"Who's for a glass of wine?" Daniel theatrically brandished a bottle of Riesling and three glasses he had lifted from the bar.

"I will leave you two heroes to get drunk," Anna said dryly. "I need to go and collect Heinrich from Frau Metz; he'll be hungry by now."

"I won't be long," Karl kissed her cheek as she made to get up.

"I promise to get him home soon," Daniel grinned. "Father needs me chop some wood before dark"

Karl Manheim recognised all too well the futility he chose to ignore in the twice weekly chore of oiling the virtual antique that was his prized possession. Borne by his father during the years of the Great War 1914-1918 and yet to be fired in anger, Karl was confident the six round magazine would be at least a match for anything the Germans could bring to bear when the invasion eventually came. The 1911 model Schmidt-Rubin carbine had the benefit of superb craftsmanship and exceptional accuracy. What Karl refused to accept was that when the Nazis came, they would be spitting fire from above, coupled with an unstoppable tide of Panzers. Mechanized warfare had a shock in store for the Swiss National Redoubt.

"When do the new weapons arrive?" Daniel scrutinised every detail of Karl's studied repetition in dismantling the thirty year old rifle. Every moving part lovingly oiled and replaced with expert precision. "What happened to those new machine guns from the British?"

Karl made a dismissive face. "No point relying on the great Mr Churchill to come to our aid, Daniel. We need to be prepared to defend our homeland without outside help."

Anna read the intent in Daniel's question and knew she had to speak up, even if it showed a lack of support for her husband's position. "Blind faith is not a sound foundation on which to build the path to salvation, my love."

"No? I am sorry to disappoint you both, but when the Panzer's come over the Alps, blind faith is all that will stand between us and total annihilation." Karl slammed the magazine into the wooden body of the rifle and pulled back the firing pin.

"I thought this is where I might find you." Greta pushed open the front door of the Manheim home, without bothering to knock. "So this is the important work that has been keeping you all away for the past few months?"

"So you have decided to join us?" Daniel chirped up.

"Like I said, Daniel; do I really have a choice?"

"You must do whatever your heart tells you to do." Karl set the rifle propped against the wall.

"No Karl, I must do whatever my sister tells me to do." Greta walked over to Anna and rested her hand on her sister's shoulder.

"But, I have not asked anything of you, Greta," Anna spoke for all the women of Europe, who toiled in the armaments factories, took their husband's places down the collieries of Wales, and the Ruhr. "All I ask is that when the time comes. You watch my back,"

The early afternoon thaw, though lasting for no more than an hour, had allowed some of the fresh snow to melt and seep down into the wood piled high in the outhouse. Greta should have realised and brought some in from further back under the corrugated iron roof, but as she was in hurry to get to Anna's house, she had grabbed the most accessible blocks from the front and tossed them into the old wheelbarrow.

Eugen Bircher jumped involuntarily with every loud crack from the roaring fire. Kammler, dressed in a finely tailored grey suit with elegant blue tie, took a sip of sherry while Major Brandt, also in civilian clothes, sniffed suspiciously at the glass.

"An exceptionally fine Oloroso, if I must say, Herr Bircher. You must forgive Major Brandt; he is clearly not acquainted with its unusually strong scent, but then these simple Bavarian folk are not accustomed to the more refined pleasures in life. Is it not so, Major?"

Brandt, reluctantly wet his lips in the rich, dark liquid.

"Take a drink, for goodness sake. Herr Bircher is not going to ruin a fine vintage by putting arsenic in it, sure you aren't?" He looked across at Bircher with a broad grin on his face that did not extend to his eyes, making Bircher more uneasy than ever.

The building heat from the fire at Bircher's back simply exacerbated the prickly heat on his neck. He could see the yellow and orange flames reflected in Kammler's eyes, fluttering like strands of fine silk in a steady breeze.

"You must use a lot of wood, Herr Bircher. A little coal would make a much better base for the fire."

"We used to get our coal imported from Pol....." he stopped mid word.

"From East Prussia, you mean? Yes, the Greater Germany is rich in natural resources. I must see if some arrangement can be made."

"Really, there is no need. We have an endless supply of wood as I'm sure you can appreciate."

Kammler shrugged and took another sip from his glass. "I trust everything is in place?"

"We have one of the original access chambers secured and ready to store your equipment, Herr Doctor. Have you brought it with you?"

"With me? Goodness, no. Brandt and I have travelled here by train. We have nothing with us save our personal belongings which you have kindly had taken up to our usual rooms."

"So when will it be arriving?"

"Tonight."

"Tonight, but how?"

"That is not your concern, Herr Bircher." Brandt said, unable to disguise his loathing for the weak and foolish Bircher.

"Come now, Major. It is only right and proper for our host to be curious. After all, it is only with his assistance that our plan is so close to fruition."

Brandt nodded in assent to his superior, but kept glowering in the direction of the nervous hotelier.

"We need a train, Herr Bircher." Kammler lifted the bottle from the table and poured himself another half glass, without offering either of the others. "We need a train tonight from Lauterbrunnen to the Jungfraujoch."

"It is almost ten o'clock, Herr Doctor. The last train was an hour ago."

"But we require a special train. A private train; an unscheduled service with two cargo carriages and transport for twenty people."

"But we will need a driver and a brakeman, at the very least."

"A driver will suffice. Someone who can negotiate the steep tracks safely in this weather."

"Really, Herr Doctor, if I had some advance warning, maybe......" Bircher's mind was spinning, the sherry souring on his breath.

Kammler looked at his wrist watch, a present from the Commandant of Auschwitz. The Rolex Oyster 3525 had been confiscated from an unworthy prisoner. It had been cleaned in ethanol before being beautifully wrapped by Hoss's wife and presented at a lavish dinner party when Kammler had visited the camp to arrange further labour resources for The Wenceslas Mine.

"Oh, you have time to finish your drink Herr Bircher. The train must be ready at Lauterbrunnen by half past midnight."

Bircher swallowed hard. He had only one option. Anna's father-in-law Bert Manheim. Bircher got to his feet. "If I may, gentleman, I must make about my business."

"Of course," Kammler said. "We will be here when you are ready."

On shaky legs, Bircher left the bar and went out in to the main reception area. He took his coat and hat from the wooden stand inside the front porch and quickly put them on. He failed to notice the Mayor of Interlaken sitting in a secluded corner next to the bay window beyond the entrance. Hans Schneider, as the town's first citizen, was also a devout student of Hitler's brand of National Socialism. His dream of a Greater Germany, Schneider was keeping alive in this secluded corner of the Alps. He smiled to himself at the sight of a harried Bircher going out into the snow. If for any reason things were to go awry, he took comfort in the fact Eugen Bircher would be person implicated.

It was only a short walk to Manheim's house. He just hoped he hadn't been hitting the bottle too hard that evening. They were old friends, having gone to the same school in Bonigen but it was Bert's wallet that he was on his way to appeal to. Bert would do anything for a fistful of Francs and gladly look the other way. He was the perfect man for the job.

Soft lakes of snow, illuminated by the gas street lights, were beginning to fall from the void, settling on the brim of his brushed leather hat. He crossed the road and traversed the bridge to where two dimly lit wooden cottages nestled under the pines at the foot of the Harder Mountain. At least Bert mustn't have gone to bed. He took care when opening the low wooden gate, barely attached to the support post by the one intact hinge, and made his way up the hard packed snow that covered the track to the door. There was no answer when he knocked, so he pushed the door open a few inches and called out. "Bert, are you there?"

A few expletives could be heard from somewhere inside, before the occupier's heavy frame filled the narrow hallway. "Who's is there? Is that you Karl?"

"No, it is me, Eugen Bircher." The bond of friendship they had once shared had grown stale with the passing of time and since Bert's wife Victoria had died at the outbreak of war, he had become cold and insular, shunning any offers of help or invitations to dinner.

"Eugen, what the hell are you doing here at this time of night?"

Bircher could smell the schnapps from his breath as he lumbered toward him, his expression a blend of vexation and curiosity.

"May I come in?"

"If you must," Manheim grunted. "I take it this isn't a social visit?"

Bircher closed the door behind him and removed his hat, examining the snowflakes fading to tiny damp patches in the heat. He followed Manheim into the kitchen where a creaking wrought iron stove belched smoke into an ill-fitting flue. "You should get that fixed before you kill yourself in your sleep," Bircher commented and took a seat at the table.

"Can I get you a drink?" He lifted a well-used bottle of schnapps and held it in Bircher's direction.

"No thanks," he declined. "I do apologise for calling on you at this late hour Bert, but I have a job that will require your expertise."

"A job! Come back in the morning, for God's sake. Can't you see I have all this to get through?" He took a swig straight from the neck of the bottle.

"The job is tonight; now in fact."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Two hundred francs?" Bircher had decided it would be best to put the money on the table first to make it difficult for Manheim to refuse.

"Two hundred? What do you want me to do? Kill someone for you?" Manheim didn't know whether to take the offer seriously.

Bircher chuckled. "I need your train and I need its driver."

Manheim stroked the stubble on his chin. "Why would you need my train at this time of night?"

"A private transport job. Something that can't be done during the hours of daylight." Bircher spoke in hushed tones to fuel the impression that he was taking Bert into his confidence. "I'm sure you understand."

"I could lose my job."

"I can put in a good word for you if there is any trouble and, Bert; it is a lot of money."

Bert took another drink from the schnapps bottle. "Well, since you clearly have no other alternative or you wouldn't be here, make it three hundred and I will get my gloves on."

"Agreed."

"That was all too easy, Eugen. That would get me to thinking that you are scared. Scared that I would say no, or else?"

"There is little time, Bert. Will you do it?"

Manheim looked the bottle gripped in his left hand then back at Bircher. "Like I said, I'll get my gloves." He got up from the table. "Are you absolutely sure you don't need a drink?"

"Maybe later." Bircher took a deep breath.

# CHAPTER 33

Lauterbrunnen 1945

The two P-51D fighter planes sat silently in the plain wooden hangar. The gleaming silver paintwork, homage to the countless idle hours when the aircrew had little to occupy themselves, save meticulous maintenance of their aircraft that had never been called into action. There had been thousands of recorded violations of Swiss airspace by both the Allies and the Germans during the course of the war, but mostly near the border regions. No hostile planes had ventured, either by mistake or stealth, deep into the heart of the Bernese Oberland. The pilots, Captain Klaus Heidegger and Lieutenant Toni Erlacher had spent the afternoon adding red and white stripes to the wings of their planes, an internationally recognised symbol of neutrality. A Swiss pilot had died in September, accidentally shot down by a US Flying Fortress, returning from a raid on Munich. It annoyed Heidegger to spoil the look of his beloved plane by adding the ugly stripes to the beautiful paintwork. In his opinion it was a complete waste of time. The unfortunate pilot should not have been flying around when the sky was heavy with allied bombers anyway. The trigger happy American gunner would have likely fired on anything that night as doubtless he had witnessed several of his own squadron fall from the skies in flames. These things happen in war.

"Are you going to move that bloody bishop or not?" The thirty year old Captain kicked the leg of the younger Erlacher under the Formica topped table. "You've been fiddling with it for nearly ten minutes!"

"Don't rush me, Klaus. I don't want to fall victim to your Fool's Gambit, yet again."

Heidegger laughed. "It's called Fool's Mate and don't worry, you have survived that on this occasion."

"How does it feel to be the fool's mate?"

"Put it this way, I'd much rather be in this seat. Listen I am going to put the radio on. May as well hear what is going on in the world." He rose and walked over to a shelf where a modern wireless set was attached to a large battery. "And no sneaky moves behind my back. I have been staring at the board so long, I know exactly where every piece is."

"Don't worry. I want to be beat you fair and square."

"Then you must be planning on living to be a very old man."

"I am getting lessons, you know?"

"From another fool, I think."

"No, from my old school buddy, Daniel Lieberman."

"And when do they start, these lessons?"

"Very funny." Erlacher finally ignored the bishop and promoted the king's pawn one space.

Heidegger retook his seat. "Is that it? A quarter of a bloody hour for that?"

"I am trying a new approach. I plan to get on your nerves so much that you will lose concentration and throw the game away."

"Check mate." The Captain clapped his hands in a loud, gratifying manner.

"What?"

"Go put the kettle on, Lieutenant." Heidegger roared with laughter and lit a cigarette.

A hundred miles to the north, the latest violation of Swiss airspace had, as yet, gone unnoticed by the air monitoring stations all the way back to the German border. Old Johannes Maier, tending his cattle in the high pastures of the Canton of Solothurn, heard the dull hum of the approaching aircraft and after at first looking upwards, was astonished to get a bird's eye view of the silent predator flying well below him in the Aare valley. Though after ten pm, the heavy snow covering of the pastures gave a certain measure of visible light and had he noticed the German insignia on the wings and tailfin, he may have given the sight more attention.

The Junkers Ju 52, a tri-engine troop and cargo transport aircraft with the 14th Luftwaffe Squadron, was being expertly piloted by Major Urs Rehman. At the controls of the clunky but reliable _Iron Annie_ , he had to admit to a longing for the glorious days over the English Channel back in 1940. In the cockpit of his Messerschmitt 109, he had been more than a match for the dogged Hurricane's and elusive, super-fast Spitfire's of the Royal Air Force. So many of his courageous brothers had perished terribly in the flaming wrecks of wood and steel that tracked the blue yonder throughout that long, pivotal summer.

Low altitude flying was not a problem for such a gifted flier as Rehman. His greatest concern was the unusual weight of the cargo. The 'device' as General Kammler insisted on referring to the large wooden crate, though not dimensionally large, was extraordinarily heavy and despite the specially constructed support beams Rehman's ground crew had put in place to help spread the load, the Junkers still felt as though it was flying with an engine out, such was the drag effect, making the controls heavier than normal. A slight miscalculation and they could have easily clipped a wing tip on one of the many rock faces negotiated so far, and they were not yet at their destination. Thankfully, the return journey would see the Junkers freed of its mysterious cargo. Captain Stock would be about thirty minutes behind him with the second, much lighter crate and it was a mystery to Rehman why he had not been transporting both.

Major Bauman's team were elated to finally be moving out of their temporary accommodation in a disused cattle barn, half a mile outside Wengen. Quite how they had managed to remain unnoticed for almost a week was a mystery to every one of them.

With the over-eager Corporal Stoezl on point duty, the team of ten commandos had cut across to the railway track and with the last train of the day long since quietly sitting out the night at Lauterbrunnen Station far below on the valley floor, they were assured of an unmolested route to the airfield. Bauman was satisfied they had sufficient field rations to have held out for another three days if necessary, but the cigarettes had run out and he was finding it increasingly difficult to dissuade the more foolhardy members of his team to cast aside any misguided notions of attempting to bluff their way as locals in the shops or bars of Wengen. Nerve ends were fraying. He had only just managed to break up an argument between Hiltz and Beckman, which had had flared up over a long held grudge involving a young lady by the name of Liesbeth. The Major could relax now that juvenile jealousy had to make way for the razor sharp thinking required for combat way beyond the reach of backup.

"Stay sharp," Bauman breathed to Sergeant Oliver Hartman, though it was intended for every man down the line. "And make sure Stoezl doesn't fuck things up for us, OK?"

The sergeant nodded.

"Fast and clean, Sergeant; they must be able to land on the first attempt."

"Don't worry, Major."

"Thank God this place does not need to be manned twenty-four hours a day anymore," Erlacher yawned widely and poked his head outside into the gently swirling flakes of fresh snow.

"Why; worried you might pull a solo night-shift?" Heidegger was making his end of shift entry in the airfield log book.

Erlacher would have answered if it hadn't been for the six inch slit across his throat, courtesy of Corporal Stoezl. Erlacher's windpipe and carotid artery were severed instantly and he crumpled at the knees.

A single shot from Sergeant Hartman's Schmeisser MP40 and Captain Heigegger slumped across the wooden desk, his freely flowing blood obliterating his carefully considered entry for another uneventful day.

"Is the area secured?" Bauman barked in Hartman's direction.

"Area secured, Sir!" The snapped response came as Hartman checked Heidegger for any signs of life.

"Ok, get on the radio. The weather is closing in and the first plane cannot be more than twenty minutes away."

Private Beckman slung the radio set off his back and onto the table top alongside the body of the Swiss pilot and pulled the headset on. "Eagle One, this is Eagle Base, come in please? Eagle One, this is Eagle Base, are you receiving me, over?"

Bauman surveyed the inside of the hangar. A crack team of commandos to disable two unarmed men was hardly the stuff on which reputations were made; it had been too easy. "Sergeant, take four men and light up that runway. Remember to use the flat orange setting. Anyone who sees the lights from the surrounding hills will assume it is a Swiss plane making a planned, routine landing."

Behind him the radio crackled into life. "Eagle Base, this is Eagle One, please confirm the theatre is open for business?" Major Rehman's voice came across the airwaves loud and clear, indicating the plane must have been closer than Bauman thought.

Bauman nodded to Beckman. "Affirmative Eagle One, the theatre is open for business. The curtain will come up in ten minutes. Repeat, the curtain will come up in ten minutes."

"Eagle Base, Eagle One confirm receipt of message. We will be in perfect time to take our seat for the start of the performance, over."

"Eagle One, please bring an umbrella as we have fresh snow outside. It is light at the moment, but increasing as we speak."

"Understood Eagle Base. Just ensure the lights are on front of house when we arrive, over and out."

"Do you hear something Stoezl?" Bauman noticed the Corporal looking up in the direction of the three mighty peaks, their summits obscured by the growing cloud cover.

"I think so, sir. Very faint but...."

Bauman raise a finger to his lips. "Yes, I hear it now. It must be them. Come on, we need to help Sergeant Hartman lay the landing lights."

Major Rehman was forced to turn on the windscreen wipers. It was the last thing he wanted to do, as the vaporising oil from the engine in the plane's nose had deposited a thin film of grease on the glass, and in the wipers efforts to clear the snowflakes from his line of sight, all they had done was to cause greasy streaks on the surface. He swore under his breath.

"Can you see the lights of the airfield yet?" His co-pilot, Lieutenant von Sipler was straining to look out his side window.

"I can't see a bloody thing!" Rehman looked out his own side window and when the white glacier of the Jungfrau Joch fell away beneath the plane, he knew they were finally over the mountains and he could begin his descent for the landing strip on the floor of the valley. "Come on, Bauman, where are those damned landing lights?"

It was impossible for the men on the ground to tell where the approaching plane was. They could hear the low droning of the engines, but the sound could have been in front or behind them. All they could do was set the lights and wait for the pilot to do the rest.

"I can see a village down to my right hand side. I hope to God that is Kleine Sheidegg. If it is Wengen, we have overshot the target." Rehman flexed his fingers inside his old leather gloves. It was freezing inside the cockpit and that coupled with the tension he had not experienced since meeting the enemy head on in do or die dogfights, had caused him to grip the control sticks much too tight. If he was to get his overly laden plane on the ground safely, he needed to rely on every ounce of his skill and experience.

"Eleven O'clock, Major!" Von Sipler gesticulated with a stabbing forefinger.

"I see it, Lieutenant. Don't worry." He wasn't about to allow his younger colleague even the slightest opportunity to take credit for identifying the landing area. "We will fly over once and approach from the south-west."

"But sir, won't that take us over Lauterbrunnen village."

"Of course it will, but you don't expect any schnapps sodden farm hands to come pouring out of the local tavern to throw cow dung at us, do you?"

Von Sipler was used to the Major's occasional arrogance, which shone through any time his infallibility came within an inch of being questioned. Silent contrition was the best, indeed only option.

"There!" Hartman pointed to the dark shape, morphing in and out of the descending cloud cover. "He's too high. He's going to overshoot."

"Rehman knows what he is doing," Bauman said into himself. The Junkers passed overhead; the run off from the engine's signifying the decrease in airspeed.

"Where is he going? Didn't he see the lights?" Hartman was less than convinced the operation was going as planned.

"He needs to fly on until the valley widens out enough for him to turn." Despite Bauman's outward confidence, he was beginning to wonder if even the highly decorated ace, one of the brightest jewels in Goering's paper crown, could land on the secluded airfield in increasingly appalling weather.

The Junkers flew on so far, the engine noise became lost in the snow filled valley. Nervously, Bauman lit a cigarette and avoided eye contact with Sergeant Hartman. He had smoked the cigarette almost down to the filter when the air came alive once more to the roar of the approaching tri-engine craft. "OK, this is it!" Bauman shouted.

"We only get one chance at this Lieutenant," Rehman locked eyes with his co-pilot. "You need to follow my instructions to the letter, understand?"

Von Sipler nodded. His mouth was so dry, speech was beyond him.

"Flaps to thirty degrees; airspeed one-ten."

"Roger that," Von Sipler croaked over the intercom. "Whoa! We have a lot of vibration in the tailfin,"

"Forget about it!" Rehman snapped. "Let's get this thing on the ground."

"I can barely make out the runway lights, Major."

"We land or we die trying, Lieutenant; it is that simple." Instinct is the one characteristic that sets aside great fliers from mere mortals. Rehman knew where the ground was and how to set the Junkers down in one piece. One of his rules as a pilot that he readily passed on to trainees had always been, ' _Any landing you can walk away from, is a good landing, in spite of what your passengers may think_.'

The rubber tyres bounced twice on the tarmac runway before skidding a little too dramatically for Rehman's liking on the gathering skim of slushy snow, but with all three wheels on solid ground, he was able to apply the brakes with just enough pressure to reduce their forward velocity without causing the wheels to lock which could have thrown the plane into a potentially catastrophic spin.

Bauman and Hartman were showered with fresh powder thrown up by the plane's wheels as it rushed past them. Every instinct told Bauman that the Junkers was carrying way too much speed to stop before reaching the end of the runway. That said, he was not familiar with seeing JU-52's landing. He cast his mind back to the long days spent watching the skies west of Stalingrad, as the endless convoy of Junkers transports dropped their pathetic payloads of ammunition for guns the trapped army did not have, lightweight boots more suited to the desert than the sub-zero hell that was becoming their graveyard; badges and insignia of rank for the enlisted men, unwillingly catapulted up the promotion ladder to replace the decimated ranks of the officer corps. He strained to see in the fully fledged snowstorm, yet another unwelcome reminder of the desperate winter of 1942. His heart settled at the sound of the Junkers approaching yet again, the low, throaty engine sound a clear indication that the craft was on the ground. "OK, men. It is time to unload the cargo!"

Rehman breathed easier. He had done his duty for the Fuhrer. The rest was up to others. As soon as the cargo was unloaded, he and Von Sipler would be on their way back to the sanctuary of Bavaria and a late night beer in the officer's mess. He could almost taste the wheat of the ice cold Weiss bier. With the craft stationary, Rehman flicked the switch to unlock the loading bay. The engineering team in charge of Kammler's device could take as long as they wanted to unload their precious cargo. Once the plane was ready for take-off, with only himself and Von Sipler on board, he was determined to show off the full extent of his flying skills on the return journey; a lesson from the master that would either inspire the eager young Lieutenant or persuade him to seek an alternative career path.

Bauman watched on as the engineering team unloaded the cargo on two flatbed trucks and drove straight into the hangar. Heavy black tarpaulins covered whatever was on the back of the trucks, but Bauman was not in the slightest bit interested. The first of the cargo had been safely delivered and the Junkers was revving up its engines to depart, only ten short minutes after landing. Part of him longed to be on board. Germany would be little more than an hour away by air. Bauman and his men were destined to take the long way back, and only then once the cargo had been delivered to its final destination high up in the solid rock of the Jungfrau.

Later

The train juddered alarmingly. It was as if the hounds of hell had been unleashed on the slopes of the Lauberhorn. The combined forces of the weight unloaded from the aircraft onto the freight car and the ice forming quickly on the tracks was causing the wheels to loose friction. The drive wheels of the electric powered engine shrieked as they spun momentarily before gripping once more.

"What the hell's going on? I thought he could drive this train." Kammler spat at his less than enthusiastic travelling companion.

"It is the weather, Herr Doctor. The train is not designed to operate in such heavy snow, especially in the dark."

In the cab, Sergeant Hartman was probably the only person on board who appreciated fully the near impossible task facing Bert Manheim. Hartman admired the skill and concentration with which he kept the train moving forward, climbing, and ever climbing, into the growing white-out in front. Visibility was only a matter of yards before the feather flakes filled the field of vision, reflecting back the headlamp of the engine.

"Can we really make it up there?" Hartman asked.

"Wherever the hell up there is?" Major Bauman spoke from the rear of the cab where he was perched on a fold down wooden bench, tinkering nervously with his Luger pistol.

"I have been making this run five times a day for thirty years. We'll make it," Manheim roared over the sound of the straining electric engine, mustering all the bravura he could muster. The train slowed noticeably a few minutes after passing through the Kleine Scheidegg station.

"I will walk you back home," Daniel had his coat on before Greta could protest. "My parents will be wondering where I have got to out on a dreadful night such as this."

"Getting up to no good with that dreadful Karl Manheim, I should imagine, is exactly what your poor mother is thinking right now." Greta turned up the collar of her own overcoat and tucked as much hair as she could under the black woollen beret she favoured on cold winter nights.

"Go carefully Greta," Anna embraced her sister tightly. "Thank you for coming."

Greta smiled weakly and offered Karl little more than a vague nod of the head.

"My God, it is really coming down, isn't it?" Daniel squinted ahead through the gloom. "You can hardly make out the road."

"Lucky for me, I have you to walk me home then." Greta walked gingerly with her gloved hands pushed deep into the pockets of her coat. The best way to keep warm and to discourage any thoughts Daniel may be entertaining about a romantic walk through the snow.

The weather had closed in; it was as though the clouds were only a few feet above their heads, dumping an impossible avalanche of large white flakes. The air was breathless, the cold suffocating; their progress slow.

"At least the fresh snow is dry, so our feet won't get wet," Daniel offered up by way of conversation, but Greta didn't hear him. She was distracted by something.

"Can you hear that?" she asked.

"What like? I can't hear anything except for the blood rushing in my ears."

"There it is again." This time she stopped and grabbed his arm. "In the distance, up the valley somewhere."

"Maybe it is that plane we heard earlier."

"In this weather?"

"Maybe the cloud base is only at low level. It could be clear a couple of thousands of feet above us."

Greta shook her head. "You don't get snow like this from low level clouds. In any case, it isn't a plane."

"Then what?"

"It almost sounds like train."

"That's even less likely." Now that her right arm was free, Daniel took the opportunity to link his left arm under it, but so distracted was she that she made neither comment nor any attempt to break free.

"Come on, let's get home." She strode out more purposefully than before, every now and then turning to look into the hopeless gloom between them and the mountains.

"Are you OK?" Daniel asked, concerned by her strange mood.

"Something does not feel right, Daniel."

"In what way?"

"I don't know. I can't explain it, but there is something the night does not want us to witness."

The lights at the front entrance of the Hotel Europe came as a welcome delight after the thirty minute walk from Anna's house. Daniel waited at the gate post until he saw her safely inside. Greta didn't look back, but when the door was securely shut behind her, Daniel set off the short distance to his own home. He couldn't get out of his mind Greta's unsettling words.

The main reception area of the hotel was deserted, as was normal for so late at night. Even the last of the few guests had traded in a stool by the bar for the comfort of their beds. She would have liked to bid her father goodnight but he must also have turned in, though it was not unusual to find him sitting in the bar until two or three am. He found sleep an unwilling bedfellow since the death of his wife; Greta's precious mother. She hung up her coat and shook the loose snow from her beret. Rather than going straight to bed, she walked quietly along the hallway and peered into the dining room which was in darkness, but the fresh pink serviettes of the next morning's breakfast setting could be made out around each table. Across the hall, she looked into the resident's lounge. Her favourite room in the hotel, with the armchair her mother had nursed her on as a child and read tales from old volumes of legends of the mountains. The fading embers in the grate threw off a little residual heat, but still a shiver ran down the length of her spine. These places of familiar comfort and treasured memories now felt suddenly threatening, awash with shadows that were never there before. ' _Something was stirring in the darkest recesses of the valley'_ was the opening line of the book her mother read over and over; it was no story for a child. Greta couldn't recall any more of the story. She had always fallen asleep before the point where the tears had begun seeping from the corners of her mother's eyes.

Greta's legs would hardly carry her up the stairs to her room on the first floor. Careful as always, to move swiftly and silently so as not to disturb any of the guests, she used the toilet and got quickly into bed, only to find the clean sheets and heavy blanket offered only cold discomfort. She longed for the warmth of Hans; to feel his strong hands exploring every curve of her body, lighting the fire within her. Hans Hofmeister was the complete opposite of the type of man Greta saw herself marrying. He was rough-hewn, inconsiderate and too fond of beer for her liking, but when he threw her on the bed and exercised his dominance, he fulfilled her every desire. Yes, she always tried to be careful, but in her darker moments, all thought of sense and responsibility were left at heaven's gate. Daniel Lieberman was a nice young man, enhanced by good looks and delicate charm, but he didn't appeal to her basic instincts. Sleep would come. It always did. What, though would the new dawn bring?

The next morning, Mayor Schneider ordered the railway line be closed at Kleine Scheidegg. The official reason was a tunnel collapse inside the Eiger. The single gauge train that pulled out of Kleine Scheidegg for the mountain each morning was only running for the purpose of ferrying engineers working to repair the tracks and secure the tunnel once more.

When Toni Erlacher failed to arrive at the Lieberman house, Daniel placed the carved wooden chess pieces back into the wooden box and folded over the well-used board. Either Toni had changed his mind or that asshole Heidegger had refused to give him his usual afternoon off.

Without any warning for his abrupt intrusion, Karl Manheim came in the back door without recourse to knocking and stood in front of the stove, his furrowed brow a worrying portent of the reason for his visit.

"Anna met Klaus Heidegger's wife in town an hour ago. She was in some state, by all accounts. It seems Heidegger didn't come home last night.

"That's strange," Daniel narrowed his eyes.

"Strange?"

"Toni was supposed to come this afternoon. I was going to give him more chess lessons. Apparently Heidegger keeps beating him and he was keen to learn a few nice moves to have the good Captain on the back foot for once.

"Both of them are missing? That doesn't sound much like a coincidence to me." Karl licked his lips. "How do you fancy taking a run out to the airfield?"

Daniel shrugged. "I've nothing else to be getting on with."

"Father, what happened out at the airfield?" Great stood in front of Bircher, arms folded across her chest. He was unable to meet her eye.

"You know what happened as well as me, Greta. Those two fools had a falling out and shot each other."

Greta gave a mock laugh. "Do you think I am still a child?"

"Just leave it! The authorities will deal with the situation. It is nothing you or I need be concerned with."

"This has something to do with your German friends, doesn't it?"

"Please, you must forget about matters of which you cannot possibly understand."

"That is where you are wrong, Father. I understand all too well."

"Now you are beginning to sound like your sister. Her mind has been warped by that young fool she married. If he is so keen to fight, why does he not go and join De Gaulle's Free French Army?"

"Karl is a proud Swiss. He has seen the evil of the Nazis swallow up half of Europe and his only wish is to prevent his country, our country, from being dragged into the mire. The German's are losing the war. That much is clear. And they have been stashing away all the looted millions in our banks for years so they can live in the lap of luxury to help sweeten the pill of defeat. But it doesn't stop there, does it? There is more. This Kammler is bent on bringing the war to the very heart of our homeland. I can feel malevolence on the breeze."

Bircher's eyes welled up with tears. "They will kill me, Greta. They will kill all of us, don't you understand?"

"They are few, Father. We are many. This is our country."

"They are not quite as few in number as you think."

"Oh, I'm quite sure our Nazi mayor has a grubby hand in this."

"And those who would follow his example."

"Then we need to act fast, but first you must tell me everything."

Bircher heaved a weary sigh and licked his dry lips. "The Nazis are developing a secret weapon, a weapon that could turn the war in their favour, even at this late stage. Its development was becoming threatened as the Red Army is closing in on the Czech facility operated by Kammler, so they needed somewhere to move it to; somewhere inaccessible and secure from allied attack."

"The Jungfrajoch?"

He nodded. "Nobody was supposed to die, my daughter."

"More will surely die before this is played out."

Interlaken 2014

Why is it always just out of reach? No matter how hard she tried to challenge the nightly frustration of reaching out beyond the mists on the edge of the horizon. The empty defeat of repeated exasperation; the prize there and gone in the same instant. She is approaching the eternal green door but she can never quite decide if the paint is a fresh coat of gloss or faded and peeling, flaking away at the slightest touch? On every visit Greta feels tantalisingly closer than before. Perhaps on this occasion, the mists may be parting. She is ready to take the final step but as always, just at the critical moment, the edges begin to soften, definition is lost and the taste of the cooked ham sours on her tongue. The faces that never fully form begin to fade from view as the fog gathers. She reaches out but her fingers find only silence.

Greta can sense the fading hope that accompanies another dreaded awakening. If only she could remain in the soft focus that came with the darkness, and not have to suffer the daily wrench of being pulled back to the tactile world of confusion where she did not belong, maybe she would find peace.

# CHAPTER 34

Wilderswil 2014

October announced its arrival with a gloomy aperitif of the winter ahead. A slate sky background pushed down on the mountains and a gusting wind, spiked with the chill from the glacier, swirled haphazardly, demanding attention without malice; a story of forgotten autumns, spoken softly under the breath of the south westerly that choreographed the chorus line of dead and dying leaves.

They walked hand in hand, enjoying the comfortable silence of an easy familiarity, unspoiled by thirty years of a shared existence. Still, tension stalked them stride for stride, the unanswered questions and unresolved hurt that remained a chasm between their hearts. Kate's death, though devastating for John, had allowed a convenient veil of assured warmth to shroud the reality of the imperfect reunion.

Maria had been delighted when her mother had been reunited with the man she had clearly never stopped loving but as the weeks passed, she was becoming concerned that the stakes were so high on the emotional torrent of events that enveloped Angela, that the most likely outcome was further pain and heartbreak. She was not sure that her mother could survive another hammer blow.

John was desperately grasping on to a memory of love to stop himself falling into the abyss left by the absence of his wife. Angela never forgave John for leaving all those years ago yet she held onto the fantasy that he held the key to rebuilding her unhappy life.

"What's going to happen when all this is over?" Angela interrupted the moment before they reached the mid-point of the wooden bridge that spanned the River Lutschinen, the very place where John had asked her to marry him; if indeed he ever really had. There were many times she had concluded that precious moment was lost somewhere in the overlapping boundaries between memory and fiction. "To us, I mean."

"I don't know."

"That's not an answer, John."

"My wife has just died Angela."

She tugged his hand firmly to force him to look at her. "So what you are saying is we go our separate ways once more?"

John sighed. "It's going to take time, you know."

"Like what, another thirty years? That will be interesting. Though I suppose one of us can always push the other around in a wheelchair."

"What do you want Angela? Do you want me to go to bed with you tonight and everything will be great?"

"Yes, damn it. That is what I want!" She pulled her hand roughly out of his and fumbled in her pocket for her cigarettes.

"You don't mean that." he looked at her, pain etched across his face, the age showing its cruel work starting to wear away the young man she had fallen for.

Angela turned away and looked up at the mountains so silent and unchanging. Did they weep for their daughter or were they mocking her foolishness. "You're right. I don't mean it." Her shoulders slumped.

He squeezed her shoulder tenderly. "It would be nice to be held, though."

She turned around and took the unlit cigarette from her lips, sniffing back a rogue tear. "In that case, I promise to be a perfect lady. We could listen to one of Cindy's CDs and just drift off to sleep and pretend its 1984 all over again."

"I'd like that very much." He hugged her tight and they just stood in each other's arms as constant as the panorama that dwarfed them, yet gave them the strength to go forward.

"You should know that it is impolite to say goodnight to a guest without kissing on either cheek."

"Isn't that a little formal for friends? I mean, I was under the impression that sort of behaviour was reserved for political leaders and the like?"

Angela was tall, almost as tall as John and she stepped forward and kissed him lightly on either cheek. In an instant, her lips were against his, little more than a peck to begin with, and she backed away and looked deep into his eyes. John could smell the warm sweet odour of wine mixed with perfume in his nostrils. When she came at him again, her lips were parted and she forced her tongue into his mouth, pushing hard as she wrapped her arms around his neck. John's tongue responded to her kiss and he pulled her body close, her insides exploding in a sudden mass of adrenaline and emotion.

"I'm sorry," John exhaled deeply, exhausted despite the brevity of effort.

"Don't be silly. Why would you be sorry?" Angela freed an arm so she could push the hair out of her eyes.

"It was hardly what we were hoping for after all these years, was it?"

"I actually take it as a compliment that you wanted me so badly, you were unable to restrain yourself, and besides, I wasn't hoping for anything from this evening; you knew that."

"It just happened?"

"Yes, it just happened."

"Are you sorry?"

"Of course not."

"We didn't even have the decency to wait until we got to bed." Embarrassed, John stood up and rearranged his clothes and pulled up his trousers.

"Well, we still have that to look forward to, then, don't we?" Angela remained where she was, sprawled across the settee, her pants and jeans cast aside on the carpet, the heat from his outpouring of desire cooling between her thighs

"Please don't feel guilty John. Anything that happens between us has nothing to do with the world outside."

"I'll try not to. What we had only ever existed in a place outside reality."

"You really think so?"

He looked at her quizzically.

Angela swung her feet onto the floor and sat upright. "That is where you are wrong." She was about to open the doorway to a place she had sworn she would never go, but emboldened by what had just taken place, she decided the time was right for that which there was never going to be a right time. "Let me get dressed. I want to show you something."

John instinctively had the feeling of space and time opening up in the room and a sense of falling led him to grab hold of the back of a wooden chair. The shadow of middle age had once more darkened the features of the beautiful young woman from the past he had just made love to.

"You'll need to put your coat on." She tried to lighten the thickening atmosphere with a forced smile. "We are going up to Grindlewald."

Menacing grey clouds blurred the razor sharp peak of the behemoth that towered over The Village of The Glaciers- Grindlewald; a village on its knees, at the foot of the imposing north face of the mighty Eiger.

The breeze had gathered strength with the fading light of early evening. In the car free village, where walking was the normal mode of transport, the footpaths were all but deserted. John and Angela had covered the three-quarters of a mile from the train station in fifteen minutes. Even in the gathering gloom, it was one of the most beautiful old churches in the Bernese Oberland. Situated at the eastern end of Grindlewald and protected by the Eiger and picturesque Wetterhorn mountains, the adjoining graveyard was maintained to perfection by eighty year old warden Herr Gutenberg, as it had been by his father before him.

The bland, pointless small talk about the weather and how the village had changed since John had last been there had petered out well before they reached the graveyard.

When they had left the train station and began the walk up the incline through the village, Angela had been moving with the purposeful stride of a woman on a mission and John keeping up with the enthusiasm of a condemned man. Yet, on the final stretch, with destination in sight, it was he who was leading Angela. It was as though the strength that had propelled them on the spontaneous mystery tour had fled and the void filled with fear and uncertainty. He squeezed her hand tight and she turned to look at him. A heavy iron gate, well maintained with a recent coat of back gloss paint, blocked their path.

Angela tried to regulate her shallow breaths. If only the gate had been padlocked, they could have turned around and gone for a hot chocolate in the Café Weiss while they waited for the next train down to Wilderswil. Except she knew that couldn't happen. Even had the gate been locked, a river had already been crossed and the bridge was collapsing into the raging torrent behind them. She dared not catch John's eye; part of her frightened he may never look at her again. Though confused and apprehensive, the way he held her hand, he was trying to convey to her that everything was going to be OK. Whatever it was, he was with her.

The gate swung open with a barely audible creak. Angela led the way along a winding gravel path. The majority of the headstones were old – some very old indeed, with carved inscriptions weathered almost out of history. A few were clearly more recent, especially one which caught John's eye. There was nothing to draw particular attention to it, though it was clean and well-tended by the woman who visited as often as she could; the woman who stopped before it now. The inscription was simple but said everything.

KATE ALEXANDER-HOFMEISTER

2 NOV 1985 - 2 NOV 1985

NIEMALS VERGESSEN

Briefly his peripheral vision blurred. The chilling wind that buffeted the side of his face and caused the collar of his coat to flap violently told him he was awake. He licked on dry lips. Had he known all along? On some long forgotten level, deep inside the farthest recesses of his soul, did this explain why he had never been able to let Angela go? Why despite the knife he used to hack away at the rope that bound their hearts, a few individual strands had remained intact?

"How do you feel?" Her question was both shattering and a welcome reminder of reality.

"How am supposed to answer a question like that?"

"Truthfully."

"I feel," he hesitated involuntarily. The last thing he wanted was to give her the impression that he was buying time to craft a carefully considered response. Whatever answer he gave would sound pathetic and pointless in comparison to the loss Angela had borne for three decades.

"Don't be afraid, John." She pulled him closer beside her. "It's not a test."

He took a deep breath. "I feel lost."

"Lost?"

"I feel as though I am spinning through time, caught between the past and present, not sure where I belong anymore."

"Do you think I was wrong not to tell you I was pregnant?"

"Why didn't you?"

"Why do you think?" Angela took his other hand and looked up into his eyes.

"Because you didn't want me back in your life?"

"I didn't want you to come running back to me out of a sense of duty, which I have no doubt you would have done. When you didn't come back of your own accord, I had to come to terms with the fact you no longer loved me and I would have to move on with my life. And besides, I always knew your future was with Kate."

"That's why you called her Kate?"

"You must find it a very strange choice of name. At the time it seemed the perfect way to celebrate someone who was in many ways the child of three people."

To suddenly discover he was the father to three children instead of two was a seismic revelation and one John knew would take a long time to come to terms with. "What went wrong?"

Angela was able to talk about the dreadful day, now so long ago, with so much pain and heartache having been endured since. "She died during delivery, choked on the umbilical cord which got tangled round her neck. I was offered a caesarean section because the baby was laying the wrong way round, but I refused as I thought that was the coward's way out. If I had accepted the offer, Kate would have lived."

John wrapped his arms around her tightly and cherished the warmth of her cheek against his. "Thank you for bringing me here."

"I thought you would hate me for this."

"Don't be silly, Angela. I always knew I belonged here. Now I know why. It wasn't all the misguided fantasies of a weak willed fool. I really do have a life here, a family here."

Angela pressed her lips against his and he, reluctantly at first, accepted her advance.

"I never stopped loving you," she spoke softly.

"I...." he began but Angela stopped him by placing her forefinger on his lips.

"Don't say anything. You are here now when I need you. No promises, no lies and no regrets, OK?"

He nodded.

"Let's get the train back down and finish off what we started earlier."

Angela's bed was cold. The sheets weren't exactly damp, but there was a distracting highlight of autumn infused in the linen that spoke of long forgotten summers. Any residual feeling of arousal had deserted John. Waiting for Angela to sort herself out had grown from a couple of minutes of awkwardness to the point of embarrassment. If she hadn't wanted to spend the night with John, there had been a myriad of opportunities for her to take the honourable way out. He would not have been offended. In actual fact, he would have welcomed the opportunity to melt into her pillows without the pressure of romantic expectation.

In the bathroom, Angela sat on the toilet, head in hands. She had waited so many years for this night and now that it was in her lap, all she wanted to do was climb into her bed alone and watch 'St Elmo's Fire.' She didn't even know if John really wanted her. He was emotionally compromised following Kate's death, so understandably he had run to the other woman he had loved.

Angela had a decision to make. She could follow her head and tell him to leave – to go back home to his daughters and get on with the grieving process for his wife. Alternatively, she could free herself from a life of obligation and make all his fantasises come true. She did not doubt for a second that he would fall into her arms if she was so willing. It was not every day you learned you had a child almost thirty years ago. Angela was happy to leave John to come to terms with the revelation in his own time. She was not going to expend any emotional energy on his regrets. It was she who had carried the burden alone for so long. If he now had feelings of regret or loss, he would have to deal with them alone.

John allowed his eyelids to close, despite his resistance to slumber. He was wrenched from the place of infinite dreams by a wet kiss on the mouth.

"I hope you aren't going to sleep?"

"No, I was just thinking."

"I can imagine. It is not every day you find out you have a family, you never knew existed."

"I was really thinking about Vladic and what I can do to protect you and Maria. Whatever may have happened in the past, the danger is in the present and my priority is to ensure you and Maria are not put in harm's way. Apprehending Vladic is nothing compared to your safety."

"But you came here to catch him, didn't you?"

"I came here because you asked me to come, Angela."

"So, you do love me, a little bit?"

John pushed his head back against the pillow.

"Actually, don't answer that," she placed her forefinger on his lips. "It is better to stay silent sometimes."

Interlaken 2014

"Do you think insurance companies really pay to replace all these lost cameras and phones?" Peter yawned so hard he thought he might have dislocated his jaw.

"I guess they must do, or why else would all these tourists be so persistent in their pursuit of a signed declaration of loss from the police?"

"I don't know about you, but I reckon at least half of the claims must be fraudulent."

"At least half, but who are we to cast doubt on the integrity of the holiday makers who maintain Interlaken's status as a destination of choice for the great and the good?"

"The screen of my Samsung is a bit scratched; do you think I could get a brand new one if I threw this into Lake Thun?"

Maria ignored his pithy question. Her attention was drawn by a figure moving through the crowded pavement on the other side of the Hoheweg.

"OK, that was a bit pathetic, I know."

"Peter," she said in barely a whisper. "That's him, it's Schneider."

Peter's gaze locked onto the sightline traced out by Maria's eyes. He was about to ask her to bring up the photo Marilyn Schneider had sent her, but even with a semi-obscured view, he could clearly identify the American striding purposefully along the pavement, away from the Grand Hotel Victoria Jungfrau. "Are we going to pursue?"

"Absolutely, but we need to very careful. Something makes me think he isn't going back to the Hotel Carlton-Europe."

"So where is he going?"

"That is what we are going to find out." She held Peter by the arm to ensure he didn't make any sudden moves that might alert Schneider to their presence. "We should stay on this side of the road. If he is looking for a tail, it will be behind where he is maintaining his vigilance."

Maria was right. Five minutes later, Schneider had passed by his hotel. It was becoming clearer by the second that his destination had to be the train station at Interlaken Ost.

Since Vladic and Reinhardt's destination was also the train station, they had afforded Schneider a full five minute head start before themselves leaving the front door of the Victoria Jungfrau and blending in expertly with the crowded streets of the afternoon.

"Will he do as we have asked?" Vladic found it hard to trust anyone, never mind an American soldier.

"He has no choice. Without our money, he might as well jump in front of the Zurich Express now and be done with it." Reinhardt headed off in the direction of the train station, while Vladic hung back at the hotel entrance for a well-established number of seconds, and then joined by his bodyguards, spread out at sufficient distance so as not to draw any unwelcome attention; he too began wandering in relaxed fashion towards the gateway to the mountains.

Reinhardt noticed the two young police officers, their wide smiles and casual gait speaking more of romantic entanglement than purposeful duty. Vladic too, always alert to the possibility of unlikely apprehension, dismissed the pair of blue uniforms as little more than lightly armed tourist guides. Somewhere there had to be a blue rinsed French lady who had lost her precious poodle.

Schneider found his senses heightened in a way he had not experienced since the dreaded morning patrols outside the green zone in Helmand Province. They were both the worst of times and the best of times. His platoon of grunts from the mid-west would have followed Dana Reis through the gates of hell if she had asked them to. Private First Class Edward Deringer had made it to the outer limits of the village without so much as an angry word from the locals. Schneider had joined him while the rest of the platoon took cover behind a half built wall. The road was clear. The Master Sergeant had said as much into his helmet intercom. Both he and Deringer had already trodden on that broken up piece of dirt track. Surely they had. She was so much lighter than they were, yet still the buried mine had gone off. The Lieutenant's legs came down on one side of the track and her body on the other side. Schneider still cursed God as to why he had allowed the pretty young officer to survive the blast. An animal shouldn't be made to die like that, let alone a pretty young college graduate who had been the pin-up girl of the Seventh Cavalry.

Schneider shook his head and cast the recurring nightmares to the back of his mind. He had to focus on the job in hand. Marilyn and his future depended on his ability to carry through with the mission at hand.

"He must be going for the station," Peter felt foolish for stating the obvious.

"Wherever he goes, we go; agreed?"

"Agreed."

Schneider did not need to buy a ticket as he had his laminated ten-day Swiss Pass in the breast pocket of his red and black checked shirt. This allowed him free travel on all trains, buses and cable cars in the Jungfrau region. He used the subway to cross to Platform Four and the waiting train for Lauterbrunnen. The throng of waiting tourists swallowed him up, rendering it impossible for Maria and Peter to identify which carriage he had boarded.

"Nobody ever gets on at the very back," Maria said to Peter. "That's where we will get on."

When Max Reinhardt emerged from the subway and walked up the platform, he made for the third row in the second carriage, as prearranged with Schneider.

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?" Reinhardt asked. The American shook his head nonchalantly and Reinhardt settled in next to him.

Vladic made for the front carriage and sat next to a grey haired Japanese lady, whose family occupied the two rows behind her. His bodyguards were seated three rows farther back.

"Should we have a chat with Mr Schneider now, before we get to Lauterbrunnen?" Peter asked.

"No way, Peter. We need to find out where he is going and why."

"And if he is going to throw himself off the Lauberhorn?"

"Then Mrs Schneider will get her funeral with full military honours after all."

The train lurched as usual at Zweilutschinen, the point where the Lutschinen River splits into the Schwarze Lutschine flowing down from Grindlewald and the Weiss Lutschine running along the base of the Lauterbrunnen Valley.

"Wait a minute," Maria grabbed Peter's arm. "Sitting next to Schneider, isn't that Max Reinhardt?"

"The politician?"

"So he likes to think of himself. The bloody man is practically a neo-Nazi."

"So where is going to on his own? And it's a bit of a coincidence, don't you think, that he happens to be sat right next to our missing tourist?"

"A coincidence, it has to be."

"I don't believe in them; and do you not remember Mrs Schneider mentioned the man in Hooters? It must have been Reinhardt."

Maria pursed her lips. "In that case, we need to be very careful. We can't just go barging into a potentially delicate situation."

"It doesn't make any sense."

"They haven't looked at each other or spoken a word since they sat down."

"If they don't know each other, why would they?"

The train arrived in Lauterbrunnen Station and after taking on a few more passengers, pulled off and began the slow climb up the mountain to Wengen.

Claudia Reinhardt had received the call from her husband just as she had settled down to a steaming latte. Why did he want her to prepare the device for another demonstration? She was beginning to doubt her commitment to her research and her grandfather's legacy, every bit as much as to her marriage. Her misguided relationship with Marco was little more than the manifestation of that self-doubt and growing sense of a life wasted. The focus of her life's work had grown from a passion driven goal, forever just out of reach, to become a horrific obsession- a monster beyond her control that she no longer truly believed in. Claudia had never been naive enough to think her grandfather's work to be that of a benevolent, socially generous individual. At the same time, she had never considered that the work she had undertaken could in any way undermine her vision of a fair and just society. The direction of the recent experiments carried out on the device led her to doubt not just the validity of her own experiments, but the future direction of humanity itself.

"Do we prepare to test the device or not?" Marco said from behind her.

"Yes of course, Marco. We have no choice."

"But we had decided it was too dangerous to take it beyond 90% again"

"We won't Marco. We just need to come up with an appropriate excuse for shutting it down early – something that won't raise any suspicions with my dear husband."

"There's still not a word between them." Peter whispered in Maria's ear.

"OK, surely when the train stops at Eigerwand, one or both of them is going to disembark and take the opportunity to look out the viewing windows."

"If they are sightseers, yes; but there is something else at play here."

"You don't think this could have anything to do with our friend Mavro Vladic?"

"Peter, I think this has everything to do with our friend Vladic."

"Then we need to be careful."

The two halts, Eismeer and Eigerwand, inside the North Face of The Eiger, gave passengers the opportunity to disembark the train and proceed on foot to glass viewing panels, which offered impossible panoramas of the North Face up close and the perilous ice fields below.

At Eismeer halt, the train had been stationary for four of the allotted five minutes. Indeed, many of the passengers who had gotten off to take pictures were already retaking their seats, when Schneider suddenly got up and made his way towards the nearest door.

"Shit, do we follow him?" Peter felt the heart beating in his chest.

"Let's keep our distance. Reinhardt hasn't moved." Maria gestured Peter to follow her back to the door behind them, so they did not have to pass Reinhardt.

Schneider was walking quickly down the tunnel towards the viewing windows. The last few passengers hurried past in the opposite direction, fearful of being left in the middle of the mountain should the train not leave.

As Maria and Peter rounded the carved rock wall they saw Schneider was alone, looking out the reinforced glass viewing pane. He didn't turn around as they approached.

"What the hell is he doing? He must know we are here." Peter heard his own words resonate in his head. "Of course he knows we're here." Peter turned around, his hand on the butt of his holstered sidearm. He never had time to react. The single round from the gun of Vladic's bodyguard slammed into his chest, forcing the air from his lungs and causing his knees to buckle. Before Maria had time to draw her weapon, Peter slumped forward, blood pumping freely from his sternum. The second silenced shot ripped into her side as she turned and tried to scream but her words were lost in the fire of unimaginable pain.

The bodyguard took a few steps closer to Maria's prone form and took careful aim.

"Enough!" Reinhardt barked at Vladic, who nodded at his two compatriots. "Herr Schneider, it is time to go."

Calmly, Schneider re-joined Reinhardt. Accompanied by Vladic and his two cronies, they re-boarded the train just as the doors slid shut and prepared for the final few minutes of the journey to the Jungfraujoch Station, now free from the attentions of the local police.

Maria had momentarily lost consciousness, but the sound of the departing train tipped her back into the here and now. In an instant she was catapulted back through time to the horrors of Bosnia in 1994; the looming cruel and unpreventable death at the hands of the brutal Serbs. History had caught up with Maria; she could see through the blur of pain and tears that Peter was dead. How bad her own injury was, she could only guess at. She took comfort from the supposed rule that the more it hurt, the more likely were you to survive. If that was the case, Maria wasn't dead yet. She managed to push herself up into a sitting position with her back against the cold, hard stone wall of the tunnel. Her phone showed minimal service, hardly surprising considering she was inside a mountain. Each time she tried to connect a voice call, the line failed to connect so she typed a brief, misspelt text message with a trembling hand.

' _Shots fired Officer down, need urgent assistance - Eigerwand_.'

Maria tried to regulate her breathing. She remembered how Angela had described her mother's death. How she had died instantly from the self-inflicted gunshot. Maria was grateful to have that knowledge. The thought of her darling mother suffering the pain she was going through, a pain compounded by loneliness and grief she could not yet contemplate, would have torn her apart. As the cell phone lay silently in her hand, she began to think Peter the lucky one. What was she doing here? Her mind was becoming clouded. The American, Schneider; of course. They had been following him. The train, they had got off the train. She knew there was something about the train that she should have been focusing on. Then it came to her. There would be another train. Of course, there would be another train very soon. All she had to do was to stay calm and keep breathing.

# CHAPTER 35

Interlaken 2014

The jets of hot water stung his skin into life, but even after ten minutes under the shower, John still didn't feel quite ready to face the day. He was a little annoyed at his lack of self-discipline in allowing himself to have consumed quite so much alcohol. The dull pain between his eyes was testimony to that. He eventually managed to pluck up the courage to step from the comforting embrace of the shower and wrapping a towel around his midriff, staggered over to the wash basin. He lathered his face and ran the razor under the hot tap to make sure he got the smoothest shave possible. The mirror was thick with condensation caused by the heat from the shower and he had to wipe the glass with the face cloth to clear the surface. He patted his face dry with the soft towel and splashed on some of his favourite after-shave. A little spot of hair gel and he felt ready to take on the world, which was probably just as well.

A bikini clad girl climbed provocatively from the pool at the rear of the exclusive Hotel Schweizerhof, the heavy water sliding like caressing hands from her slick, oiled skin. Her laughter lit the air as a man, overweight and a fair degree shorter in stature carefully draped a towel around her tanned shoulders. She laughed at something he said, throwing back a mane of tousled platinum hair. Steam clouded the cold air around the pool which was under-lit with vaporous blue light. The white painted stone exterior of the hotel rose up behind them, imposing as it was grand; the epitome of traditional Swiss architecture. The elite guests sauntered about, pretending not to look her way, nor indeed notice her indiscreet and flagrant pleasure, her joie de vive, her ignorance of the international rules of etiquette; the rich must not be seen to be enjoying themselves too much. Without a doubt the Schweizerhof spoke of new money. The waiters glided smoothly along thick pile carpets in the lobby, midst the understated chic in the earthy terracotta and sky blue ambience. Chandeliers and stag heads, rich red oriental carpets and striped winged chairs; deep comfortable sofas plumped up ready for use, all told of the rich and of their familiar comforts. A welcoming fire burned in the impressive hearth, pictures lined the walls and polished antiques were placed discreetly amongst huge ferns as Nineteenth Century relics met post war replications and restorations. On one sideboard sat a silver canteen of steaming hot Gluhwein, waiting for the guests to help themselves. The spicy smell drifted enticingly through the lobby. There was a general sense of excitement. The lights went on in the old iron lanterns that dotted the street corners and threw their glow across the endless stream of tourists who passed by the hotel.

Genevieve Rousseau walked through the foyer. Although a striking figure when she made the effort, her job demanded she blend in and pass unnoticed. By way of acknowledgment of her surroundings, she had applied some black eyeliner and a reserved pink lipstick and was dressed in an elegant black suit, complemented by a simple silver necklace. The other guests mingled and chatted excitedly as she crossed to the reception desk and enquired if there were any messages for her. The pretty brunette replied in the negative and smiled sweetly in response to Genevieve's polite expression of gratitude. She checked her watch and turned towards the front door of the hotel where she was expecting her dinner guest.

"Excellent veal, Jenny," John swallowed a piece of the tender meat and reached for his glass. "French, I assume?"

"Mais oui!" Genevieve nodded. "These Swiss love their veal but the calf's here are so tough, due to the cold, no doubt."

"No doubt," John savoured a healthy mouthful of the smooth claret.

"I see you approve, baby."

"If I can't trust your taste in wine, who's can I trust?"

"So baby, as we both know that this is not a social meeting, why don't we get our business out of the way and then perhaps we can enjoy the rest of the evening."

John sighed and set down his glass. "We are both here following a rumour, are we not?"

"Yes, but a rumour that was started not by just anyone, right?" Genevieve fixed him with the dark, bottomless wells that were her eyes. "Do you remember the last time we made love?"

"It would be a little hard to forget since you told me it would be our last time while we were actually doing it."

"Maybe that was a little cruel, but it was for your own good, baby. That much, at least, must be obvious now."

John didn't know how to answer that question, so he chose not to even try.

"You must remember that I told you the next time we met, you would be married with two children? And I remember how you protested, _'No, Jenny, don't say that. There will never be anyone else like you'_ , and you know what, it turns out I was right. And not only that but it turns out you have a 'mistress,' if that is the correct term, here in Switzerland. I tell you baby, I always knew that a guy who wore those cute little blue sunglasses like John Lennon had a spark that most men just don't have. Good for you, I say." She lifted her wine glass and toasted him across the table.

"But I'm not married anymore, Jenny. My wife Kate, has just died."

"These things happen, baby. They happen every day to people just like you and me. And you know what, you just have to pull yourself together and get on with it. Anyway, it's not like you don't have anyone. You have your daughters and this Angela woman, who I must say is quite a woman. I have been researching her; World skiing Champion, famous television presenter who rescued a child from Bosnia back in 1994 and adopted her as her daughter. Quite a catch, baby."

"She also happens to be Commander Stahl's wife." John hoped he was imparting something new.

"Ex-wife, according to him, anyway."

John slumped back in his chair. "Why are we having this meeting if you know everything already?"

"We are having this meeting because this is an ICTY investigation and if I am not mistaken you work for the ICTY. I am just here to assist, in any way I can."

Genevieve shook her head. "If you want my honest opinion, which I am sure you don't, I really don't see how you can be of any use to this investigation due to your current emotional state and that includes your emotional involvement with the only eyewitness we seem to have."

"I would have thought that made me the best person to be here."

"Give me a minute, please?" Genevieve took her phone out and John could see from the illuminated screen that she had an incoming call.

"Rousseau here?" she spoke in English. "Yes, when? I'm on my way."

John could see her preparing to disengage from dinner as her cop's instincts took over.

"What has happened?"

"Vladic has turned up, but I fear we may be too late." She stood up.

"You're not making any sense, Jenny."

"That was Stahl. There has been a shooting incident at the Jungfrajoch involving two of his officers," she spoke in low, dry tones. "Come with me."

John threw a hundred Francs on the table to cover the cost of their meal and followed Genevieve outside. She was on her phone again as soon as her feet hit the pavement.

"What sort of incident?" John was having difficulty keeping pace with the lithe French woman.

"I don't know anything else. Stahl got a text from one of his officers to say there had been a shooting and an officer is down."

John grabbed her with less decorum than intended. "An officer down?"

"That's all I know."

"Jenny, Angela's daughter is a community patrol officer in this area."

# CHAPTER 36

USA 2014

Dan Delaney squeezed his daughter's hand tightly in his right hand. His left hand gently rested on Roxanne's shoulder. Catalyst's keyboard player was unable to hold back the tears any longer. She thanked God for waterproof mascara. The wheelchair that had been her prison since the helicopter crash in 2000, ensured them a place in the front row and with the competition down to the final five, the stakes were higher than ever. Cindy Johnson basked in the standing ovation from the audience and judging panel alike. The spectacular Argentine Tango she had completed with professional partner, the Russian Misha Pastenenko, had demonstrated the fifty-one year old rock singer's growing confidence and her hitherto untapped talent for ballroom dancing.

Dan glowed with pride for his wife's achievement in putting the psychological and physical trauma of the accident that had devastated the band behind her. Though her scars were not as overtly visible as Roxanne's, her journey from the darkness back into the limelight had been as inspirational as it had been unlikely.

" _Ladies and gentlemen, if Cindy and Misha truly put the sunshine into your heart, then please do pick up the phone and dial 71 2345 512 or text dance to 45512 and for those of you who are subscribers to Twitter, you can cast your vote at Stars dance America and that is all one word_."

Backstage, Cindy was overcome with emotion. "That was amazing, Misha, absolutely amazing."

"I am very proud to be your partner, Cindy. You work so hard. I don't think I have believed in any celebrity partner so much."

"Not bad for an old gal' I guess." She planted a wet kiss on his cheek, leaving a lipstick pout on the skin of the twenty-seven year old's rising flush.

Back in her dressing room, Cindy guzzled from a bottle of ice cold water and grabbed her phone from its hiding place deep in her shoulder bag. There were the usual flurry of texts from well-wishers, friends and family cooing over her latest amazing performance. She may or may not get round to replying to them back in the hotel room. It all depended how tired she was or if she was unlucky to suffer one of her migraines, the one residual torture from the helicopter crash that continued to plague and torment. A light tap of her thumb and she brought up her email inbox. A tide of new mails burst down the screen when her phone hooked into the studio's free Wi-Fi.

"Blah, blah, blah," she mouthed out loud as the all too familiar blend of spam, sales pitching and requests for interviews scrolled down in a blurry indictment of the age of communication. She lifted the water again and was about to text Dan to tell him and Marsha to come back stage when one particular email caught her eye. She opened it and read the short message.

" _Hi Cindy, I have been watching you dance. You are amazing. I miss you so much. Love, Angela_."

Cindy stared at the text.

# CHAPTER 37

Kleine Scheidegg 1945

"What if it doesn't go off?" Greta was careful to keep her voice down. Even in the popular tavern on the ground floor of the Grand Hotel in the village Kleine Scheidegg, midst the joke telling and isolated pockets of drunken singing, they were effectively on unfamiliar territory. Every face unrecognised, every agenda hidden behind masks of sympathetic suspicion.

"Then we try again tomorrow." Karl smacked his lips and blew some of the froth from his beer.

"But it will work, won't it Karl?" Anna asked.

"Yes, my darling. It will work. It is all a simple combination of engineering and physics. The detonator is triggered by a pressure pad under the track. When the first wheel of the engine passes over the pressure plate the device will arm on a one second fuse. By the time the first carriage reaches that spot, well, let's just say Herr Hitler is going to need some new scientists."

Daniel winked at Greta, but his usual light hearted persona could not distract her from her state of agitated panic at the prospect of their desperate act. "OK, my turn to get the drinks." Daniel announced in an effort to relax the mood.

"I've only just started this one," Karl pointed out.

"Then you had better drink up, my friend." Daniel slapped Karl on the back and rose from the table in the quietest corner of the bar.

The barmaid's name was Irene. That much was clear from the constant banter she was fending off from the two grizzled farmers perched on the tall wooden stools at the end of the bar. From a distance she had the face of a twenty-year old, but the demeanour of a forty year old. On closer inspection, the lines and bags beneath the wide blue eyes betrayed the four decades she could reflect upon after hours, when she would be left with nothing but overflowing ashtrays, dirty tankards and bitter memories.

"What can I get you, my dear?"

"Two beers, a white wine and an orange juice, please."

"Are you and your friends up from the town?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Well, I know all the locals, and if you don't mind me saying, you have that harsher accent of folk from down the valley; Lauterbrunnen or even Interlaken?"

"Full marks for observation, Irene. I guess this place must always be pretty busy?"

"Captive audience, you see. There's nowhere else up here to get a nice pint of beer."

"All the same, trade must have suffered since the railway closed. You must have had a lot of tourists stopping off on their way to the Jungfraujoch?"

"Oh, we did, and thank the Lord all that nonsense is over."

"I'm sorry?" Daniel looked at her quizzically at first before the pit of his stomach quivered alarmingly. "What do you mean by that nonsense is over?"

"She didn't look up as her cultured right arm pulled on the tap head, filling the first tankard with cold wheat beer. "Hadn't you heard the line reopened this afternoon? The last train load of visitors for today should be on its way down in about half an hour."

Daniel's legs weakened at the knees. "Visitors?"

"Yes, a party of school children from Thun up there to see the observatory and enjoy a husky ride, no doubt."

Daniel caught his breath. "I'll be back in a moment," Shakily, he made his way back to the table, where the others waited.

Greta recognised the grey pallor before he reached them.

"Didn't you forget something, Daniel?" Karl asked, raising the tankard, he had all but managed to polish off in the time Daniel had been away.

"We need to leave, right now," he said, retaking his seat.

"What's wrong?" Anna grabbed his arm.

"The railway was reopened earlier today."

"What?" Greta's eyes widened.

"What are you saying, Daniel?" Anna began shaking her head in denial of what she knew was about to be divulged.

Daniel swallowed hard. "There is a trainload of children up at the Joch. They will soon be on their way down."

Anna couldn't help grab her mouth in an effort to suppress the feeling of horror.

"Ok, let's not panic," Karl set down his tankard. "We need to get back up there now and disarm the bomb."

"Let's not make it too obvious," Greta said. "We don't want to draw attention to ourselves."

"Ok," agreed Karl. "You and Anna go first. We will follow."

Greta nodded and got to her feet. She headed for the door with Anna close behind.

Karl rested his hand on Daniel's arm to ensure he didn't attempt to follow too quickly behind the girls.

Greta and Anna crossed the railway tracks and stood in the shadows of the ticket office, looking back towards the door of the tavern.

"Police!" Greta spoke in Anna's ear. A foot patrol of at least six armed officers was approaching the tavern.

"Where the hell did they come from?" Anna spoke in Greta's ear. "Shit, they are going into the tavern."

"What are we going to do?"

"We can't afford to wait. We need to get up there and disarm the bomb now."

"We can't go without them. We need Karl to disarm the thing."

"I can do it." Anna's tone was sufficiently steady to convince Greta, even though she had no idea what was required. She only knew it was up to them or a lot of innocent people were going to die.

Their worst fears were realised when the door of the tavern swung open, throwing orange light across the snow covered street. Karl and Daniel appeared in the doorway amidst a cacophony of shouts and barked commands. Both had their hands on their heads, while the police officers followed behind them, guns drawn.

"Where are the other two? Where are the women?" One of the policemen could be heard screaming in the faces of the captives.

"There's nothing we can do, Greta. Let's go."

Greta couldn't understand how her sister could so easily dismiss the sight of her husband being arrested but she accepted Anna's assertion. There was nothing they could do to help Karl and Daniel, but they could help the people on the train. As one, they moved off in the shadows, following the unmarked path that followed the railway track on the wide sweep left up the front of the Eiger to Eigergletscher Station.

"What the hell is all this about?" Karl protested.

"You shut your mouth, Manheim!" The sergeant with the out-dated, comical looking, huge moustache, turned up at the ends, glowered, his face only inches from Karl's. "This is a matter of national security. By order of the Mayor of Interlaken, I am arresting you both."

"You cannot arrest a man without telling him what he is charged with."

"I'm just following orders, right." The sergeant said for Karl's ears only.

"You're making a huge mistake, Sergeant. People are going to die tonight unless you release us."

"I'll consider that a threat, son." The sergeant took a step back and caught Karl a backhanded swipe across the face.

"The women are not with them." Major Brandt turned to Kammler. "Schneider assured us they were together."

"Could they have got out the back way?"

Brandt shook his head. "The landlady Irene confirmed the back door was bolted. They had to come out the front."

Kammler opened the door of the unmarked car and dropped his cigar in the snow. It hissed on his behalf. "Hand me the field glasses," he held out a gloved hand into which Brandt dutifully set the heavy black binoculars.

"You are not going to see much in the dark, General."

"Maybe not, but against the snow, it may just be possible." Kammler walked several steps away from the vehicle to get a clear view of the railway line and snow field beyond the station.

Brandt observed the General, silently tracking the field glasses up and down then left and right, very, very slowly. The Major's nerves tightened when Kammler stopped and fiddled with the focus wheel on the bridge of the field glasses.

"Brandt, let's go, right now!"

"Is it them, Bircher's daughters?"

"Impossible to tell from here, but why would two figures be struggling up through the snow next to the railway track? Why not simply walk on the track?"

"You really think they are going up there to blow up the train?"

"They think we are on that train. My best scientists are on that train. Of course that's what they are going to do. Karl Manheim is an idealist and he has dragged those foolish young women into his idiotic crusade." Kammler looked back at the tavern where the police were searching the two men's pockets. "I have a good mind to walk over there and shoot the bastard myself, but we have more important things to worry about. Come on Brandt, let's get after the women. We will follow the tracks. We will catch them in no time."

"I can hear the train," Greta panted. "We aren't going to make it."

"I can't hear anything, Greta. Keep going, we will soon be there."

The lights of the village were receding behind them. Above and up ahead the sparse gathering of lights encouraged them onwards. The bomb was under the track a few hundred yards this side of the station Eigergletscher. The lone virgin pine tree was their marker.

"Frauline Bircher!" Kammler called as loud as he could.

Anna grabbed Greta by the arm. "I heard that."

"Me too, it must be the police." They both looked back down the mountain. "There," Anna pointed. "Moving up the tracks, two figures."

"Why only two, I wonder?"

"Let's keep moving."

"Stop, or I will shoot!" Kammler was jogging now, two sleepers at a time.

"They're catching us Anna, we aren't going to make it," Greta could see the two figures bearing down on them. "Anna, what are you doing?"

Anna had drawn the revolver from inside her coat and was pointing it down the mountain. She knew it was hopeless to expect to hit anything from this range, but if it slowed their pursuers enough to buy them a few precious seconds. She fired twice.

Kammler heard a round strike the railway track a few yards ahead of him before the report of the shots echoed in the silence. He un-holstered his Luger and steadied himself before taking aim at the left hand figure, though taking care to aim low.

Greta's legs were burning with the exertion of trying to run in deep snow, but the sudden impact in the back of her thigh felt like a red hot poker tearing through flesh and bone. Such was the shock; she didn't even call out to Anna, who was only yards short of the location of the bomb.

"Nice shot, General. I will take the other one." With that Brandt swung the Schmeiser machine gun from his shoulder and fired two short controlled bursts. The first sent little showers of snow a foot into the air two yards short of Anna's heels. The second cut her down. Kammler pushed the muzzle of Brandt's machine gun to the side. "You didn't have to kill her, Brandt."

When Anna fell into the snow, her body devastated by the short burst of machine gun fire, Greta knew instantly she was dead. Greta wanted to keep running, not to reach her sister but to get to the explosive charge so expertly laid by the railway track. The pain in her thigh was beyond anything she could have imagined. Searing, popping flesh and bone caused her knees to give way beneath her and suck the air from her lungs. The train was almost upon them and the remaining few yards opened out like a chasm that could never be bridged. Greta wanted to rest for a while. Her cheek felt the sudden coldness of the snow that rushed up and smashed into her face. For an instant, she forgot about Anna, forgot about everything save the chance to lie down and rest for a while. Only the sound of the onrushing train tethered her to reality.

When the charge exploded, it did so with a dull thud, more than a spectacular bang. Greta's initial thought was that only the detonator had exploded and the train would continue on its preordained trajectory to Kleine Scheidegg Station, but no wheels of iron ran past her head; the familiar sounds of the approaching train evaporated in the stifling cold of the Alpine night. Yes, there were mechanical screams from the very heart of hells inferno, farther up the track, but nothing Greta could equate with a passing train. She didn't see the carriages vanish over the precipice, the little bodies being catapulted from their seats. She didn't hear the screams of terror as the realisation of rapidly approaching death devastated the final seconds of all those on board. Greta felt the hot, sticky mass of her thigh and fought back the urge to sleep, to let the comfort blanket of unconsciousness ease her path to peace. The sound of ice encrusted boots planting careful steps in the snow behind her teased her with a glimmer of salvation. Karl would have spoken, made himself known. Then she remembered Karl and Daniel, their hands in the air, surrounded by Schneider's police men, the Mayor's wicked smile at apprehending the pathetic plot to attack the train carrying the Nazi General. Only the Nazi General wasn't on the train. There were only children on the train.

The approaching footsteps stopped and Greta became aware of the heavy breathing of a man above her. "My God, Frauline, what have you done?"

With all her remaining energy, she rolled onto her side, gasping for each shallow breath. "You were supposed to be on the train. Why weren't you on the train?"

Kammler shook his head. Greta could barely make out his features in the darkness, the only light from the imperceptible glow radiating off the virgin snow. "Did you really think you would get away with it? We have been aware of your pathetic little plot from the outset."

"Why were the children on the train?"

"You will need to ask your Mayor Schneider about that." There was a forlorn edge in his voice. "And all for what, my dear? To what end?"

"You had to be stopped. The terrible weapon you are building."

"It doesn't even work. Maybe given another twenty years of research, but Germany doesn't have even one more year."

"Why don't you kill me?"

"Part of me feels that would be the kindest thing to do. Help is on the way, so I do not think you will die from your wound. Look what you have to live with." He pointed to where Anna's body lay in snow stained dark by free flowing blood. "And there is a train lying on the valley floor. I don't know how anyone could live with that."

"We should go," Major Brandt called from twenty yards away. People were running from the houses and hotel in Eigergletscher. Shouts and screams of horror echoing in the night.

Karl and Daniel were released by the police officers who had pursued Kammler and Brandt up the railway track and who now stood aghast at the flaming wreck of the twisted train on the valley floor below.

"Anna! Anna!" Karl shouted as he tried to run through the deep snow, his feet heavy as though in treacle. Daniel reached Greta first. "Greta, it's OK, its Daniel." He knelt next to her and immediately recognised the serious nature of her injuries. Her eyes were barely open and her breathing was laboured.

"Where's Kammler?" she asked in a breathless whisper.

"Gone."

"What have we done, Daniel?"

"What we did, we did for Switzerland," he realised how hollow his words sounded, looking across the snow to where Karl cradled the body of his dead wife in his arms.

1946

The mountains were calling her name. A whisper on the wind suffocated by violence and lost in the endless silence of eternity. Two hours of fitful, pointless sleep, before the nightly awakening in the midst of the dead zone – no longer night but not yet morning. The hands on the bedside clock blurred on the peripheral vision of reality, her eyes capturing mixed images from memories real and imagined.

Her throat paper dry, Greta reached for the glass of water, taking care not to let it slip from her grasp as it was slick with condensation. The water was sour, having sat since the previous day but it soothed her throat. Next would follow the nightly ritual of an uncomfortable minute, squatting over the night pan.

There would follow the twenty minute vigil spent perched on the chipped windowsill, the white lace curtains parted just enough to allow her a clear view towards the rain station. The destination the train would never reach, no matter how many nights or how many years she waited. Just as her sister Anna would never again serenade the guests, wooing them with her golden hair and ample cleavage as much as with her voice. Yet, still she waited.

She gave a cursory glance in the direction of the wooden cot where her son slept soundly. Little Leonhard needed his father but Hans Hofmeister's love for his son had become diluted by Greta's insular self-loathing. Her inability to communicate with Hans or even speak to him had forced him to walk out for the sake of his own sanity, finding comfort between the thighs of Beckman the woodcutter's only daughter. Despite this, Greta held no ill feelings towards him. In fact she was grateful; grateful to have known physical pleasure and grateful for the precious gift of a child. Her own life had taken on a higher purpose, far beyond the duties of a common hausfrau.

She had to save Anna. She had to save the children.

Her intellect told her that what was done was done and could not be changed, but her strengthening faith offered a thread of hope. The evil and the perpetrators of that evil had been crushed. The hand of God had opened the gates of heaven and let the armies of light sweep away the empty, godless insects. Was it possible that the evil acts perpetrated by the Nazis could be undone by faith alone? What tortured Greta's dreams was the knowledge that it wasn't the Nazis who had killed the children. Greta could have saved them, could have saved Anna too but when the moment came, she had failed. That was why she did not deserve to sleep in peace.

# CHAPTER 38

February 14th 1984 Garmisch, West Germany

Katarina Schellenberg had finally found a degree of contentment in her life. Since taking a bronze medal on the parallel bars at her home Olympics in Munich 1972, she had struggled to find her true place in the world. By the early months of 1973, the then retired gymnast had faded from the public consciousness and with no outlets in the still male dominated world of sports media of the seventies, Katarina soon found her way to University in Munich, struggling with a degree in accountancy; her bronze medal all but forgotten in the top drawer of the bedside table. Everything changed in August of 1981 when she attended an interview with the firm of Burwitz & Reinhardt, Financial Specialists based in the Bavarian ski resort of Garmisch-Partenkirchen, close to the Austrian border. The senior partner, Gudrun Burwitz was very much a sleeping partner in the firm she left in the capable hands of the charismatic Maximilian Reinhardt. It was he who had the privilege of interviewing the forgotten beauty of East German sporting folklore; his lover Katarina. It was hardly surprising when her application found its way to the desk of Frau Burwitz, ahead of a string of bespectacled or centre-parted and altogether, pointless young men.

Katarina Schellenberg and Max Reinhardt were married within the year. Reinhardt was a German by social and political calling if not strictly by birth right. His marriage to a German sporting heroine was, for him, the ultimate affirmation of his romantic vision of his Aryan credentials.

The newly fitted wall-mounted phone rang loudly in the hallway of the Reinhardt residence. Max set the baby back down into the newly erected play-pen and wiggling his fingers playfully at his daughter, he walked the few strides to the phone, which was mounted to the right of the framed black and white photograph of Katarina's grandfather, SS General Walter von Schellenberg, a close aide of Heinrich Himmler, who managed to avoid the hangman's noose at Nuremberg by bribing a drunken guard, only to be tracked down to his hideaway in Argentina by the Israeli Secret Service in 1960.

"Hallo?"

"Max, it's me. How's Inge-Marie this morning?"

"Inge is great, darling. She took half a bottle of milk, just like you said and now she is sucking her dummy, with a big smile on her face."

"That's good, but please don't call her Inge. Her name is Inge-Marie. I hate it when anyone shortens her name."

"I'm sorry."

"I appreciate that it is not a particularly German name but it is a good Catholic name and as you are well aware, you would struggle to find a better Catholic than my dear mother."

"Ok, so will you be home soon? It's just I need to go into the office today. I know I had planned to have the whole day off, but Frau Burwitz has come up with a chore to keep me occupied."

Katarina sighed. "Yes, I will be home soon. I need to collect Inge-Marie's birthday cake from Herr Mathias and then I will be home. I had hoped that we would be able to spend the afternoon together as a family, just the three of us, but I would never want to go against the wishes of Frau Burwitz."

"Thank you, Katarina. I promise that I will make it up to you."

"I won't hold my breath."

"Come on, Katarina. Don't you think that is a little unfair?"

"Perhaps, but it's no less than you deserve at times, is it?"

"OK, OK, I submit. I am the asshole and you are Saint Katarina." Reinhardt's shoulders slumped. He worshipped the very ground his wife walked on but, at times, her holier than thou approach could cast the veil of carefully measured tension over their otherwise rock solid marriage.

"Anyway, I should be home in around half an hour."

"Good; I will make some fresh coffee."

"See you soon," she said and the phone clicked off.

Reinhardt returned to the playpen where his daughter was sucking her thumb while gazing into the small mirror built into the belly of a soft pink, toy elephant.

"Tomorrow, you will be one year old," he said to Inge-Marie, who ignored him, much more content to start bashing the poor elephant on the padded base of the playpen. He found it shocked him how quickly a year could go past. It seemed barely the blink of an eye since he had rushed Katarina to the community hospital in the town and after a relatively short time in labour their world was changed forever by the pink bundle wrapped in a plain white sheet.

As she was content in the company of the elephant, Max Reinhardt sat in the armchair closest to the television and switched it on using the new-fangled hand held controller which allowed him to change channels and control the volume by simply pointing the black plastic unit towards the TV set. The Winter Olympics from Sarajevo were getting blanket coverage on the main network and he was glad to see a rerun of the Women's downhill was just beginning. He had always been a fan of Alpine skiing, particularly the breakneck downhill discipline. He glanced over at Inge-Marie. "Maybe someday, this will be you, my little Inge." He was looking forward to the climax to the ice dancing, due to take place in the Zetra Stadium later that evening. The favourites for gold, the British couple of Jayne Torvill and Christopher Dean would be dancing their highly anticipated free dance to Ravel's sumptuously romantic Bolero, a classical piece dear to his heart since Katarina had chosen it for the first dance at their wedding. The sooner he could get into the office the sooner he would be able to get home again.

The skiing highlights finished and coverage switched to a live ice hockey encounter between Canada and Sweden. Reinhardt glanced at his watch. Almost an hour had passed since Katarina had phoned. He hoped she wasn't taking her time just to get back at him for going to work on a family day.

Inge-Marie had fallen asleep in a rather uncomfortable looking sitting position, her little head tipped forward, exaggerating her typical infant double chin. Two hours came and went as did the second period of the ice hockey match before the phone rang without wakening Inge-Marie. Reinhardt took a deep breath, determined not to let any hint of annoyance come across when he spoke to Katarina.

When he lifted the receiver it was not Katarina but Frau Burwitz at the other end of the line. "I had expected you long ago, Max. What is the problem?"

"I am sorry but Katarina has been delayed and I am at home with Inge."

"For goodness sake, Max. This is important."

"I know, but she cannot be much longer."

A deep sigh from the other end of the phone signalled Frau Burwitz's idiosyncratic displeasure. "Oh, we'll leave it for today, Max. I appreciate I must make some allowances these days for your paternal responsibilities, just so long as you do not allow them to overshadow your more culturally orientated duties."

"Thank you."

"Try not to make a habit of letting me down, Max. Like my father, I expect you to put loyalty before everything else."

"I do understand."

"Before everything and everybody else, Max!" With that, Frau Burwitz hung up.

Max blew out his cheeks and took another look at his watch. Where was Katarina? He had half a mind to ring Herr Mathias at his bakery shop when an abrupt knock on the front door caused him to snap his head around in the direction of the sound. Katarina must have been so laden with shopping bags that she didn't have a free hand to extricate the front door key from her handbag. "I'm coming!" he called out in as cheery a voice as he could muster.

A grim faced police woman was on the doorstep clutching her peaked cap in her hands; her younger, male colleague a pace behind over her shoulder, staring at his own shoelaces. "Herr Reinhardt?" she asked, though Max could read in her eyes she knew exactly who she was addressing.

"Yes?" he managed to respond in spite of the sudden lack of saliva in his mouth.

"I am Sergeant Muller and this is Officer Hedwig. May we come in?"

"This is about my wife, isn't it?"

Despite more than ten years a serving police officer, this was only the second occasion that the unenviable task of being the one to make the dreaded 'knock on the door' had fallen to Liesbeth Muller, the secret fear harboured by every citizen; the life changing visit descending on an ordinary family home like the angel of death. If only she not agreed to swap shifts with Heidi Schwarz, it would have been the hardnosed ex-soldier standing there and not her. Right now, Heidi would be stretched out on the settee enjoying a bottle of wine with her latest toy boy lover, getting ready to watch the Olympic ice dancing.

"I really think we should go inside, Herr Reinhardt."

Max could hear Inge-Marie had woken and was crying, probably hungry again or maybe in need of a nappy change.

And so it was, with his daughter on his knee, a half empty bottle of milk clutched in her chubby hands, that Max Reinhardt received the news that his wife was dead; knocked down while crossing the road outside Mathias' Bakery. The car failed to stop but Herr Mathias had provided a description of the vehicle along with a partial number plate. Was there someone who could look after the child while he came down to the mortuary to identify his wife's body?

"Katarina, her name is Katarina. I would be grateful if you would use it."

"I really am so sorry, Herr Reinhardt," Sergeant Muller's eyes were rimmed red by this stage of proceedings, unable to take her eyes from the gorgeous, motherless child across the room. She too knew the pain of growing up without a mother's love to guide and support. If Reinhardt's little daughter grew up with her mother's looks, that at least would be her road to salvation.

Reinhardt rocked Inge-Marie on his lap and said nothing more to the two police officers as both beginning to suffocate in the awkward silence. Sergeant Muller offered up a few parting semantics before leaving with her still mute colleague in her wake.

April 2014, Garmisch-Patrinkirchen

Inge-Marie Schellenberg, the greatest female downhill ski racer of all time, made a mockery of the record books with every passing season. The outwardly cool, often aloof German was driven to succeed by a burning ambition and single minded self-belief. Treating the media with disdain and shunning offers of modelling, promotional work and even television roles, she possessed an aura of complete ambivalence to her classical Aryan beauty. Following the tragic death of her mother two days prior to her first birthday, Inge-Marie was raised alone by the father she grew to despise. Max Reinhardt's simmering hatred and unrequited desire for vengeance against the man responsible for his wife's death; a junior consul at the Iranian embassy in Munich, protected from justice by diplomatic immunity, had morphed into pure, burning resentment of all of the Moslem faith. This only served to fuel his radical nationalist politics and those of his party the SVV; the Swiss Patriotic Federation.

Having never known her mother, Inge-Marie, unsurprisingly, did not hold the same level of vitriolic hatred towards her killer as did her father. What she did carry was a bleak emptiness, a black hole in her heart, due to the absence of the nurturing love that only a mother can give. Much too intelligent and fair-minded to have anything but contempt for her father's philosophy, despite his continual attempts to congratulate her after each success on the slopes, she made every effort to avoid being seen on camera with the leader of the self-styled neo-Nazi party. Her relationship with her father's second wife, the American scientist Claudia Kammler, was uneasy at best, but there was a depth to the Californian that was difficult to ignore.

It was in another blonde haired Californian that Inge-Marie found her one true friend. Marsha Delaney, fellow downhill racer and daughter of global rock star Cindy Johnson, herself a former World Cup downhill skier, was the only person she allowed past the hard exoskeleton that surrounded her soul.

Marsha had a well-practised system when it came to packing her suitcase. The problem was, when it came to the annual ritual of packing to go home to the States for the summer, her emotions tended to get the better of her and the system crumbled like a house of cards.

"I didn't realise you were back." Marsha caught a glimpse of Inge-Marie with her shoulder resting against the door frame. "I was just trying to get packed."

"So I see." The German did everything she could to disguise the emotion in her voice.

"Why don't you put the spaghetti on for dinner and I will be down in a few minutes?"

Marsha's flat-mate stood in silence.

"So, you can either make dinner or come and give me a hand!" Marsha exhaled with an audible sigh. "Don't just stand there and watch me, for Christ's sake!"

"Maybe I like watching you," Inge-Marie spoke following a rather pregnant pause.

"What?" Marsha shot a glance at her long-time friend.

"Nothing, sorry. I will go and make dinner." Inge-Marie turned and jogged down the stairs to the basic kitchenette.

"You're very quiet," Marsha said, as much to break the cloying silence as for any other reason. She had also noticed that Inge-Marie had barely eaten anything, despite fork-chasing her pasta for the best part of fifteen minutes.

"I'm not that hungry." Inge-Marie's response was delivered with insufficient enthusiasm to carry it across the surface of the four seat pine table.

"Inge, you're always hungry." Marsha slurped down the dregs from her plate. "Anyway, look on the bright side. This time tomorrow, you will have this place to yourself for the next six months. Now that has got to be a reason to celebrate."

Inge-Marie dropped her fork onto the plate and got up from her stool, turning her back on Marsha.

"What's wrong?" Marsha asked and glugged from her ice cold glass of water.

Inge-Marie walked slowly to the sink and clasped the stainless steel worktop. "I wish you didn't have to go."

"Jeez, I wish I didn't have to go either, but the season is over and I need to go back home as always."

When Inge-Marie turned around, her stunning features were contorted with pain and streaked with tears. "I don't want you to go."

Marsha's brain processed the words but something deep inside was working to decode the subtext. "Inge, what's wrong?"

"I cannot face living here with only your absence as a companion."

Marsha got up and walked over to Inge-Marie. "You're not making a lot of sense." She placed her hands on Inge-Marie's shoulders but that only seemed to fuel the German's emotional breakdown. "Whatever it is, honey; you need to tell me."

Puffy eyes, resting on mascara streaked cheeks implored. "I cannot tell you."

"Yes, you can." Marsha's strong arms held Inge-Marie close.

"I am in love with you, Marsha."

Marsha swallowed hard, unable or unwilling to absorb fully the unexpected admission.

Delicate fingertips, moistened by the silken lather of jasmine scented shower oil traced along the underside of her ample breasts at the same time as wet pubic hair caressed the skin of her firm buttocks. The unexpected presence under the shower took Inge-Marie's breath away, but the sweet sensation of being kissed on the back of the neck allowed her to melt into Marsha's strong arms. Pleasure coursed through Inge-Marie's body as she became aroused by Marsha's attentions. Turing around, their lips met with fearless intent, tongues twisting and searching for perfection in the moment. Neither uttered a word, merely letting the hot jets of water wash away any thoughts of guilt or regret; the unbreakable bond of deep friendship and the tensions of unrequited love finally exploding into unquenchable desire; the line crossed. Neither knew in that moment if it was the beginning or the end of everything.

The breathless respite finally came among the mess of damp, twisted sheets.

# CHAPTER 39

Edinburgh March 2000, Kirsty's 7th birthday party

"Just leave the dishes, Maggie. Come on back in and give us a bit of your craic. Isn't that what Patrick calls it?" John removed the tea towel that was draped over Maggie's shoulder.

"Please don't mention his name." Maggie grabbed it roughly back from his hand.

"That bad, eh?"

"Worse."

"If you ask me, I say you're better off without him."

"Really, and how exactly do you reach that considered opinion?"

"You look a million dollars."

Her expression softened. "Why, thank you kind sir. I would be lying if I didn't admit to having made a special effort today. It was worth it as long as you like it?" Maggie ran her hand across the small of his back placed a feather light kiss on his cheek. "I could do with a smoke", she grinned wickedly. "Would you care to join me? Join me outside, I mean; obviously not to share a cigarette with me. I wouldn't want you to get into trouble with her majesty on Kirsty's special day."

"Patrick and you could have gone the distance, in my humble estimation. I was surprised to hear you two had split." They were at the far side of the house, well out of eye-shot of the kitchen or dining room. Maggie inhaled gratefully and rested her back against the wall. She offered the cigarette to John and he took a quick but deep draw. "What the hell," he said, handing it back.

"Are you disappointed in me?" Maggie asked, training her blue eyes on him.

"Disappointed?"

"That I couldn't make things work out with Patrick?"

"Not disappointed, Maggie; but sad for you. I think you do so much better when you are with someone. You don't do 'alone' very well."

"No, I don't. You're right about that." She took another long drag on the cigarette and crossed her arms in an effort to shield the inner workings of her heart. "You know I love you, John?"

"Please Maggie, we can't do this again." John turned away from her. "I am not going to do this again." He started to walk away but Maggie grabbed his arm. "Don't turn your back on me."

He stopped and turned around to face her. "Not today, Maggie. Not here, it's my daughter's birthday, for God's sake!"

"But this so isn't you, John with the big house, the perfect kids, the perfect fucking wife."

"No, you're wrong Maggie. This is me. This is my world."

"This perfect family life is your prison. I know your heart lies at the end of the valley with your precious Angela. I know your passion is music, the same as mine. You had the same dreams as me once. I heard those demos you did with Foreign Affair. I heard the seeds of greatness in your songs. Can you begin to imagine what we could have achieved together? Your writing combined with my voice? What we could achieve still?"

"That is in the past, Maggie. My life took another road."

"A travel writer whose destination of choice destroyed itself in a terrible civil war? That other road didn't work out too well." Maggie's hands shook visibly as she lit another cigarette. "Did you never think about taking up the guitar again? Ever want to get back up on stage?"

He sighed. "Maybe sometimes, but...."

"I do, every single day."

"Then why don't you?"

"Why don't I? Now there's a question and a half. I guess it's because I can't do it alone."

"Maggie, don't hold your dreams hostage to the failings of others."

"Nice quote, darling. Maybe you should try writing a novel."

"I think I'm going to go back inside now. You should finish your smoke and come in too before you're missed."

"You coward! You're scared of the truth, John. Guilt; that is why you won't face reality. Guilt that you left Kate in that hospital ward in Grenoble sixteen years ago, her dreams in tatters while you pissed off to the Olympics anyway with your mates. You worship the ground she walks on because she forgave you for leaving her, for betraying her. You would never have left me! I wouldn't have let you and you wouldn't have wanted to!"

"Maggie, this conversation is not going to take us anywhere and by the end of it you're not going to feel any better about yourself."

"I know you feel the same about me. That is the part that is so hard to take. The way you look at me, the way you talk to me – the way you touch me. You are the most understanding, non-judgemental man I have ever known. You never looked down at me or judged me for the abortion, the affairs; any of the trouble I got into. You didn't despise me for the drink or the drugs or the times the police had to scoop me off the street. It was you who came to pick me up. It was you who got me cleaned up. It was you who put me to bed. Never once did you show me anything but respect and understanding. Meanwhile, my sister couldn't even see what was going on beneath the line she drew in the sky."

"Do you want an affair? Is that it, Maggie? Do you want us to go at it like rabbits behind everyone's back until we're discovered and lives are ruined by the aftermath; Kate's, Kirsty's, Rebecca's, your mother's and your own?"

Maggie struggled to stem the tears by pushing the heels of her hands into her eyes. "God, I really shouldn't drink when I come to visit.

# CHAPTER 40

Grindlewald January 1995

Angela tried to persuade Erich to accompany her to her parents' farm house for Sunday lunch at least once a month. She had allowed Erich's absence to become the accepted, unspoken norm over recent times but the unexpected addition of their adopted daughter Maria to the family circle had enticed Erich to again make the short journey up from Interlaken on a more regular basis.

The big policeman feigned the pretence of enjoying Hardy's company, propped up against the wooden fence, listening to his father-in-law's reminiscences about the good old days, when farming was a tough yet uncomplicated way of life, before regulations, quotas and testing overshadowed the age old traditions.

Inside, Angela was setting the table for lunch, while her mother Ingrid took the roast lamb joint from the oven. Maria, now turned five, was watching a children's program on television. The American show was not subtitled by the national broadcaster as it was hoped the antics of the big, yellow bird and friends would help ingrain a working knowledge of English in the children of Switzerland.

"Have you got used to being home again?" asked her mother.

"I wish I could say it seems as though I was never away, that it all seems a blur, but it is only when I open my eyes in the morning that I believe I really am home again."

Twelve months earlier, Captain Angela Hofmeister of Mountain Infantry Battalion 10, 10th Mountain Brigade of the Swiss Army had been leading a team of UN observers to the scene of a multiple murder of civilians at an isolated property at the foot of Jahorina Mountain in Bosnia. The former Yugoslav republic was still firmly in the grip of a cruel civil war that the might of the United Nations was proving impotent to tackle in any meaningful way. Documenting and reporting atrocity after atrocity, with weapons firmly holstered was doing little to lessen the plight of the hopeless population caught in the vice grip of hell.

Anja Patic, though Angela did not know her name when she came face to face with the traumatised young woman, had said she wanted to protect her family but couldn't because there were too many of the Serb militia men. She knew in the end it was more important to save her daughter than sacrifice her young life in a futile act of defiance. Captain Hofmeister failed this test. Why hadn't she suspected the woman may have had a gun? Angela's report of the incident, signed by Dr. Tanaka on behalf of the International Red Cross, detailed the suicide of Primary School teacher Anja Patajc, wife of Mehmet, who had been murdered in the barn of his father's farm, alongside his parents and three brothers. The report also mentioned Anja and Mehmet's four year old daughter Maria. Nobody would be looking for her, though, as they were all dead as was the Bosnian winter of 1994.

In the days immediately following her mother's death, Maria had been housed by what remained of the local authorities at The Ljubivezic Orphanage, on the outskirts of the besieged city of Sarajevo. Angela could not allow herself to abandon the child to an uncertain fate in the front line of the advancing Serb militia. Amidst the fog of war, it became clear to Angela that she could give Maria the life her mother could no longer deliver – the life so cruelly stolen by The Butcher of Bijeljina, Mavro Vladic. In order to get the infant Maria out of Bosnia, the army officer had to reject the rigid discipline of her training and the politically motivated shackles of inaction. A child's life was surely worth more than her own reputation, even than her own freedom. The court martial that awaited Angela's return home was as inevitable as it was deserved, from a purely military standpoint. An ordeal she would not wish to repeat stripped Angela of dignity, self-worth and even left her doubting her own moral values. Rank and privilege revoked in a show trial to bolster the big machine and demoralise the human spirit left her a woman who had shamed her uniform yet at the same time glorified her sex and her nation. One little victory for humanity over duty was one huge victory for love over honour.

PTSD (Post traumatic stress disorder) had not even been mentioned by way of mitigation at her court martial. The events on the slopes of Jahorina Mountain, the bodies in the yard, the violated, terrorised woman running blindly with a child in her arms, a woman who found escape in the .38mm round she put in her mouth when she was satisfied her daughter would be safe in the care of the green eyed UN officer. The devastating aftermath of the random shelling of The Zetra Stadium – Sarajevo's Olympic temple reduced to a scene from the darkest days of WW2; the desperate flight from the Bosnian Serb checkpoint, with the four year old girl cowering in the back seat of the land rover. Yet, PTSD was never mentioned at the court martial. Angela refused to be questioning or to be bitter. The court martial had concluded with her free to return home to Erich and to the precious child she had been granted permission to retain in her care.

Angela lifted a pile of papers from her father's chair and set them on the top of the dresser; the previous morning's newspaper, a crossword magazine and some unopened mail. The envelope at the top of the pile drew her attention. It was addressed to her grandmother Greta at The Hotel Carlton-Europe and was stamped with the official crest of the legislature of the Canton of Bern. "This looks very official," Angela waved the envelope in her mother's direction.

"Your father picked that up at the weekend. Has he not bothered to open it yet?"

"No."

"Then why don't you open it?"

"It's addressed to Grandmother Greta."

"Angela, dear, you know as well as I do that your father is capable of leaving that unopened for years. Just on the off chance that Nana Greta has won the lottery, I would strongly advise you to open it."

"My dear Frau Hofmeister, I trust this letter finds you in good health and spirits to match?

Might I be so bold as to introduce myself? My name is Max Reinhardt and I have recently been elected to the legislature for the Canton of Bern As well as my responsibilities for the economic interests of our beautiful region, I am also a student of the history of the Bernese Oberland. It is to this subject that I have taken the trouble to contact you. There cannot be a soul in Switzerland who is not aware of the tragic train crash that took place in 1945, killing so many children from the Interlaken region, the fiftieth anniversary of which is due to be commemorated next week. My personal research into the incident has posed more than a few questions in my own mind particularly due to the lack of official records pertaining to that fateful night. As the surviving daughter of the proprietor of this establishment, it was my earnest hope that you may be in a position to offer some way by recollection of that night, into the shadows of that corner of our history.

It would be my absolute pleasure to meet with you at your hotel at a time of your earliest convenience.

Kindest regards

Max Reinhardt"

Angela set the letter down and scrutinised her father's closed expression. "What do you think about that?"

Angela's mother snorted. "The past of this region is better left at peace."

"I understand that the deaths of so many children have cast a dark shadow on the whole of The Bernese Oberland. However, I don't see what is wrong with someone wanting to put some flesh on the bones of the tragedy? Maybe the truth is what will be required to permit the spirits of the dead to finally be at peace."

Hardy let out a weary sigh. "My darling daughter, you are far too intelligent to waste your life amongst us. Of course you are right but we are a simple people here in the mountains. We trust in the Lord above, the Virgin Mary and in the strength of family and community. It is what defines us; who we were, every bit as much as who we are today. And you know your grandmother is not going to be any help to this Reinhardt? I see no point in anything except throwing that letter on the fire." He shrugged and stabbed a baby potato with his fork.

"I saw things in Bosnia that shattered my religious conviction to the core. There is evil in the world; pure, wanton evil that cannot be dissuaded or deflected by prayer or faith or by waving a damned crucifix in its direction."

"Angela, please!" Ingrid gasped and blessed herself with the sign of the cross.

"It is OK Ingrid." Hardy was digesting Angela's words along with his food. He swallowed the potato in his mouth. "Yet amidst all this evil, you were brought to Maria."

Angela smiled. "Yes, so I came to understand why God had led me to that awful place. It was to save the life of this one child; to bring a sliver of light into the darkness. Everything happens for a reason; of that I am certain. Those poor children who perished on that train all those years ago also died for a reason, and I think it is that reason that the simple folk of these mountains are scared of. All this nonsense I have heard all my life about not talking about it out of respect for the dead; I tell you it is nothing but a smoke screen; a veil of lies to protect you all from the darkest day in our history!"

"All right Angela. Perhaps my mother does know something about what took place that night, but if she does, she has never spoken of it and is never likely to!"

"Well, I for one would like to meet with Her Reinhardt."

"Angela, you are in grave danger of becoming a sanctimonious, holier-than-thou woman. Erich, can't you talk some sense into her?"

Erich had been cradling a tall glass of beer, the food on his plate only toyed with. Try as he might, he couldn't stomach Frau Hofmeister's cooking. Since he and Angela had married, he had no longer felt the need to maintain and pretence to the contrary. "I agree with Angela. I am a police officer, after all. I do not like unsolved mysteries."

"I want no part of this!" Hardy rarely showed anger, but he threw his knife and fork roughly onto the plate and stood, scraping the legs of the chair on the surface of the wooden floor. "I am going to check if the cattle have fresh water!"

Ingrid rubbed her forehead, her own appetite extinguished by the row.

"I am sorry, Mum. I did not mean to anger Dad like this."

"I know." She patted Angela on the back of the hand. "It has been difficult for him, more so than he would ever say, with Greta being the way she is. He is so very protective of her, though I think deep down he resents her for putting him through the hell of her silence all his life. How could he not?"

"Nana Greta is a very warm, loving person."

"Towards you, perhaps. That is because you remind her of whom she once was, what she could have been, had it not been for....."

"Because of Great Aunt Anna? I get it, Mum. Nobody talks about her the same way nobody talks about the train crash. It has to stop. The ghosts of the past are haunting all of our lives and will keep doing so until the truth sets us all free." Angela stood up and. "Erich, clear the table for Mum, will you?"

"Yes, dear," he grunted and started by draining the last of his beer.

Angela discovered Hardy in the byre, feeding hay to the last of the three calves he had nursed back to health following a bout of ringworm. Her presence was signalled to him in the shadow cast by the early evening sun, but he pretended not to notice.

"Dad, I am sorry. I didn't mean to...."

"Why did you marry Erich?" he cut in, his question taking her off guard.

"That's a strange question."

"Maybe, yet it is one you chose to answer with another question." He looked over his shoulder at the daughter he was so proud of. "He's an asshole. He's a bully and an asshole. You deserve so much better."

Angela swallowed hard.

"I left the table to get away from him, not because I was angry with you, though that is not how it looked, I am sure. Probably just as well."

"Erich and I go back a long way, Dad. We understand each other. He has welcomed Maria into his home. He could have refused."

"Oh you really think so? You won the admiration of the people of Switzerland and beyond for what you did. He is a public servant, Angela. He couldn't have refused to accept Maria into your home. He is not that stupid."

Angela bent down and lifted a handful of dry hay. She reached through the bars of the wrought iron gate so the calf could feed from her hand. "What do you really think about the letter?"

"He sounds like an intriguing character, this Reinhardt. I couldn't do any harm to hear what he has to say."

"When?" she hugged hardy and kissed his cheek.

"Oh you can leave me out of it. You make whatever arrangements you want."

"What about Nana Greta?"

"She's not deaf, Angela. It is only right that she should have the chance to meet him. After all, it was her to whom the letter was addressed."

"Great, I will call his office on Monday morning. The number is on the header of the letter."

"You go back in and help with the dishes."

"It's OK, I asked Erich to help Mum."

"Yes, and he resents you for it." Those words shook her and she dropped the last of the hay on the ground.

"I'll call you when the coffee is ready."

"It's OK, I'll most likely be down the fields by then."

She understood and gave him a half-hearted smile before returning to the farmhouse.

Hotel Europe, Interlaken February 1995

"I am not quite sure you have understood, Herr Reinhardt. My grandmother does not speak at all, ever. She has not uttered a word in fifty years." Angela said, at the same time reassuring Greta with a gentle squeeze of her hand.

Max Reinhardt was having difficulty in deciding whether to address his questions to the old woman or to her granddaughter, though he found his attention drawn to the younger woman. "You must forgive my ignorance Frau Stahl, but I must admit to only this instant recognising you. You are Angela Hofmeister, the downhill ski racer? I confess I am and never have been a follower of sport, but you I do recognise and not just because of your success on the slopes."

Angela looked at her hands.

"You are the brave lady who rescued the little Muslim child from Bosnia and consequently found yourself in a court-martial for your trouble,"

Angela balked at Reinhardt's choice of referring to Maria by her religion, but then, should she have been surprised given his ultra-right-wing political bent?

"What do you do now?"

"Take care of my daughter," Maria answered coolly.

"What about a career? A smart, attractive woman like you would be snapped up in an instant by any prospective employer in possession of any brains, that is. I mean have you ever considered working in the media?"

"Me, you must be joking."

"The television people are crying out for women to anchor their sports programs now. They would love a former skiing champion but they would kill to have a national heroine. Listen, I have a few close friends at SF1. Why don't I ask around on your behalf? It is the least I can do, especially as you have been so kind as to facilitate my visit here."

Angela smiled politely and looked deep into Greta's eyes, hoping for guidance or inspiration.

Reinhardt turned his attention back to the old woman and despite comprehending full well that she was not going to tell him anything about the events of the darkest day in the history of the Bernese Oberland, he was determined to see if there was any way he could get a reaction from the silent witness.

"Frau Hofmeister, your sister Anna was married to a man by the name of Karl Manheim. His associate was a local Jewish boy, Daniel Lieberman."

Greta did not react in any way at the mention of Daniel's name.

"The great Nazi hunter and loyal lieutenant to the famous Simon Wiesenthal; driven no doubt by the burning desire to avenge your sister and to atone for the deaths of all those innocent children."

Greta's breathing quickened in time with her pulse.

"I can tell you are well used to protecting your old friends, Frau Hofmeister. And for that I can but admire your courage and fortitude."

Angela got to her feet, a signal that the meeting was at an end. "I will not allow my grandmother to become upset by these questions, Herr Reinhardt."

"That is not my intention, Frau Stahl; I promise you." He slid his chair back and also stood. "If I had one more question Frau Hofmeister, it would simply have been to ask if you had ever met a man by the name of Kammler?"

At the mention of the Nazi General, Greta felt her throat tighten and she had to lick her dry lips. Angela lifted a glass of water and pushed it into Greta's hand but Reinhardt had struck a chord with old woman and in that instant he knew the rumours must be true. Kammler had been to Interlaken during the dying months of the war; the half whispered stories of German paratroopers, secret weapons and the train crash that may not have been an accident after all.

"What happened on that mountain, Frau Hofmeister?" Reinhardt implored.

"Enough!" Angela took Reinhardt by the elbow and began ushering him in the direction of the door.

"You must not blame yourself!" He called over his shoulder, not resisting Angela's less than courteous escort out of the lounge and into the lobby of the hotel.

"I am sorry Herr Reinhardt, but I will not have my Grandmother upset in this way."

"Call me Max, please."

September 1994 Interlaken

Angela was shaking with nerves at the prospect of being reunited with her dear friend after a gap of more than five years. Their lives, at one time, welded by an unbreakable bond, had taken divergent paths once their skiing careers had come to premature conclusions through a combination of injury, disillusionment and heartbreak. The tragic death of their friend, mentor and idol, the legend of Alpine ski racing, Maria Agostini at Garmisch in 1985 had a massive emotional impact on Angela and Cindy. The traumatic legacy of the accident was something neither woman had been able to break free from. While Angela's expertise on the slopes had led into a natural career as a ski instructor and then subsequently to a not so natural career as a ski instructor in the Swiss armed forces, Californian Cindy's part time rock band had hit the big time, riding the crest of the melodic rock wave that swept all before it in the late eighties. As lead singer of Catalyst, the blonde bombshell's fame had gone stratospheric with a string of global hits. Sunshine Cindy had the world at her feet.

Claudia Kammler, Cindy's old roommate from her time spent at UCLA, had moved to Switzerland in 1993 to take up a research position at CERN, the European Organisation for Nuclear research, based on the French border outside Geneva. She had been delighted to pick up Cindy at Geneva Airport and enjoyed the journey by car, reminiscing about the good old days back in college before Cindy had dropped out to concentrate full time on skiing.

Claudia parked on the street outside the home of Erich and Angela Stahl

"Jeez, I'm nervous as hell," Cindy rubbed her palms together.

"Don't be. I'm sure you'll find she's still the same Angela you remember. She can't have changed that much in five years, can she?"

"How can she not have changed after everything she's been through?"

"You're always telling me what a strong lady she is."

"I know that. I just wish I was the same person."

"On ya' go, Sunshine. I'll wait here. I don't want to make it easy on you by walking you to the door, hand in hand, so to speak."

"Gee thanks!" Cindy opened the passenger door and climbed out onto the footpath.

The trappings of celebrity had dulled Cindy Johnson's natural exuberance. The loud, uninhibited enthusiasm had made way for a more wary and measured demeanour. Following her horrific crash in Sweden at the end of the 1985 World Cup season, she had become addicted to prescription drugs. The recreational drugs and alcohol came later, but as they sat easier with the rock and roll lifestyle than they had in the sporting arena, it hadn't taken long for Cindy to become another slave to their chemical seduction. Everything had come to a head in New York back in February when she collapsed backstage at the Grammy Awards, where Catalyst had been nominated in both Record of the Year and Best Live Act of the Year categories. Their highly anticipated live performance didn't happen and two weeks in hospital had given Cindy time to re-evaluate where her lifestyle was taking her.

The front door of the house opened. Angela was standing with Erich at her shoulder. Her hair was much shorter than Cindy remembered, doubtless a legacy of her time in the military. As Cindy walked up the path, clad from head to toe in Rodeo Drive tailored black leather, she fulfilled the complete identikit model of the typical American superstar, straight from the pages of one of the glossy celebrity magazines that were sustaining the public's appetite for eighties glamour into the otherwise drab, self-doubting introspection of the early nineties. It was only when she finally removed her sunglasses that Angela actually recognised the face of the woman she loved. In that instant, Angela found she was overwhelmed by long suppressed feelings and she burst into tears before Cindy's arms embraced her.

"It's OK, Angela, I'm here," the familiar voice soothed and cut into her soul at the same time. Cindy stroked Angela's hair and held her tight.

Inside, Angela collapsed as her fortitude gave way. She had been strong for so long; strong in the face of adversity for the sake of Erich, for her parents, for Maria and most of all for herself. No more, her heart cried out, no more.

Erich took Maria by the hand and retreated to the living room to give Angela a moment's privacy with Cindy. Maria observed proceedings with her usual confusion of fear and curiosity. Erich could feel her apprehension in the way her little fingers gripped his. He cursed Angela every day for foisting this child of someone else's war onto a marriage that was already built on foundations of sand, yet whenever those lost, dark eyes looked into his, he found he was overtaken by a genetic paternal instinct to protect and to love. Maria's sudden arrival in their lives had been the reason he had been waiting for to finally walk out on Angela. Now, the helpless child was the only reason for him to stay. Confused and conflicted as ever he was, Stahl lifted Maria onto his lap and suppressed the feelings of jealously that the crazy American woman was closer to his wife than he had ever been or could ever hope to be.

Angela didn't want to release Cindy, scarcely able to believe she was actually in her arms.

"Aren't you at least going to invite me in?" Cindy's voice finally cut through the duet of tears.

"God, you must think me so pathetic. I wanted so much for this to be a happy reunion. I have waited so long to see you. I have so much to tell you."

"It is a happy time Angela. I am so happy to be here, to be with someone who I can just be me with; just be Cindy again."

Angela realised Erich and Maria were no longer standing behind her. "How did you get here? Is that a taxi?" Angela had noticed the car parked outside on the street.

Cindy briefly considered lying for the sake of convenience but quickly suppressed that idea and plumped for the truth. "It is an old friend of mine, Claudia Kammler. She's works at the CERN institute at Geneva. She was kind enough to pick me up at the airport."

"And you left her out in the car?"

"I know, it's just she didn't want to intrude."

"For goodness sake, bring her in. If she's your friend, then she's my friend too." Angela wiped the tears from her eyes with the palms of her hands.

Cindy gestured towards the car for Claudia to join them. "I really think you'll like her. She lives in Bern; has done for over a year now."

It struck Angela that the woman walking up the driveway could almost have been Cindy's sister, albeit a less flamboyant but no less beautiful sibling.

"I'm Angela, its lovely to meet you Claudia."

"I have heard so much about you, Angela. I have read so much about you too."

"Come in, please, both of you. Let's get this door shut before the neighbours start to talk. Heaven knows I have given them enough cause of late."

CERN, Switzerland 1994

The name CERN is derived from the acronym for the French "Conseil Européen pour la Recherche Nucléaire," or European Council for Nuclear Research, a provisional body founded in 1952 with the mandate of establishing a world-class fundamental physics research organization in Europe. At that time, pure physics research concentrated on understanding the inside of the atom, hence the word "nuclear." Now physicists and engineers are probing the fundamental structure of the universe, using the world's largest and most complex scientific instruments to study the basic constituents of matter – the fundamental particles. The particles are made to collide together at close to the speed of light. The process gives the physicists clues about how the particles interact, and provides insights into the fundamental laws of nature. The instruments used at CERN are purpose-built particle accelerators and detectors. Accelerators boost beams of particles to high energies before the beams are made to collide with each other or with stationary targets. Detectors observe and record the results of these collisions.

Claudia preferred to work alone. The constant chatter of inanity that provided her colleagues with their daily stimulation was a distraction; a fog in the control room that introduced inertia, indecision and ultimately the potential for mistakes to be made. Indeed, she often wondered how the team achieved anything at all. As team leader, her job was to enthuse, encourage and facilitate empowerment among the seven physicists currently assigned to the ALEPH Project. They were all young, energetic and highly intelligent, but Claudia found the mix of five nationalities a barrier to the group's ultimate coalescence. German Hans was too methodical, Russian Natasha too argumentative and Parisian Michel constantly complaining about something, be it the heat, the long hours or having to work with Natasha. The two Swiss, Helene and Renate, worked closely as a team within the team, something Claudia both discouraged and yet was grateful for. The final member of the team was South African Margaret Bauer. The native of Cape Town was the only team member older than Claudia and only thinly disguised her resentment at having to take directions from someone she regarded as a blonde American bimbo; a new arrival at CERN who thought a lab coat and spectacles perched on her nose could win instant credibility. Bauer's dislike of Claudia didn't stop at jealous resentment. She was suspicious of the American who always had a reason for staying late when the others had left for the day or worked weekends when the director had not approved any overtime. She even went to the director on one occasion claiming that Claudia had to be a journalist or CIA plant. The director had laughed out loud, wanting to know if Bauer's accusation was based solely in a twisted stereotyped notion that Claudia was simply too attractive to be a real scientist.

At that point the director advised Bauer to have a look at Claudia's thesis on theoretical gravitational physics, titled ' _The Search for Zero Point_.' A copy was in the library on Level Two. As they were the two team members for whom English was the first language, the others assumed wrongly Margaret Bauer and Claudia must be friends. Claudia had tried hard and couldn't understand what she had done on the South African to make her dislike her, but she had got to the point where she was past caring what Bauer thought of her, what any of them thought of her.

The ALEPH project first measured events in 1989. It was a particle detector on the Large Electron-Positron collider (LEP). It was designed to explore the physics predicted by the Standard Model and to search for physics beyond it, specifically to search for the theoretical Z-particle. The ALEPH detector was built in cylindrical layers around a beam pipe made of beryllium, with the electron-positron collision point in the middle. The whole system was housed inside a 12-sided cylinder and surrounded by a muon-detection system.

The control room was three levels below ground and although there was no viewing window onto the ALEPH particle detector, the noise and vibration inside the room when the collider was operating could be frightening.

At seven o'clock in the evening, the only sound in the control room was the background hum from the overhead strip lighting and the constant electrical breathing of the essential air conditioning system. Claudia typed the ten digit password required to open her personal encrypted file. The plans for Die Glock, painstakingly transcribed from the paper plans she had found in her grandfather's closet the day he passed away. She gazed in wonder at the pyramid shaped frame, within the base of which were two foot high cylinders, sitting only an inch apart. On the next screen was the chemical formula for the liquid metal substance that was required to fill the two cylinders. "Xerum 525," she said its name aloud. She had tried without success for almost seven years to create the substance; red mercury as it was referred to in much of the original documentation. Her grandfather had said the device was never actually tested so maybe it was this critical element that they had never perfected. Maybe the whole thing was a fabrication; a hoax designed by scientists desperately striving to justify their position in the dying days of the Third Reich. If only she could discover the whereabouts of the device that her grandfather had abandoned as he fled from the Allies at the end of the war. Her grandfather had chosen to tell her about Die Glock on his deathbed so surely he would have only done so in the hope that she would complete his work. He must have been convinced it would work. The next screen showed the design of the chamber where the device would be tested. This place she did know the location of. All she needed was to find the right person to help her get there.

Bern Sept 1994

The Council of States is the smaller chamber of the Federal Assembly of Switzerland and is considered the Assembly's upper house. Consisting of forty-six councillors elected from the country's twenty-xix cantons, the Council sits in the Federal Palace in the national capital Bern. The election of 1991 saw the first member of the nationalist SVV Scweizerischer Vaterlandischer Verband (Swiss Patriotic Federation) elected to the council, a seat the party's charismatic leader Max Reinhardt was determined to hold onto at the upcoming elections of March 1995.

Reinhardt's office on the first floor of the West Wing of the Federal Palace was situated close to the central library, much to the pleasure of Reinhardt, an avid student of history and philosophy. He was also grateful that his fellow councillor for the Bern Canton, Christian Democrat Heidi Lund, had her office at the far end of the building, on the East Wing ground floor. He revelled in the splendid architecture and sumptuous elegance of his workplace. He had come a long way from his sparse, modern office in Thun's local council buildings. The Nineteenth Century mahogany desk he sat behind was so solid it required four men to move it, even when empty. The tall leather backed chair was of a fine quality more befitting a man of his position in society than the cheap plastic seats, so uncomfortable in the summer heat.

The intercom on his desk buzzed.

"Yes, Tessa?"

"Doctor Kammler to see you, Herr Reinhardt," his personal assistant, Tessa Von Bauman's clipped Hanoverian accent was always pleasing to his ear, with its blend of authoritative purpose and overt sexuality.

"Thank you Tessa. Please show her in and perhaps some coffee when you have a moment?" Reinhardt was walking on eggshells that Monday morning having forgotten the ever demanding Tessa's birthday on Saturday, condemning him to spend the rest of the weekend in an empty bed. At twenty-two, German student Tessa was on a work experience placement from the University of Hamburg. A long way from home and desperate to please, it hadn't taken long for her to fall under the spell of the charismatic Max Reinhardt.

Reinhardt just had enough time to straighten his tie and run a hand through his hair before the heavy wooden door opened inwards. With close cropped blonde hair and wide, ice blue eyes, Tessa was in many ways the double of Reinhardt's late wife, Katarina, a onetime East German Olympic gymnast, dead at thirty-three, the victim of a hit and run while using a pedestrian crossing in the centre of their then home in the Bavarian town of Garmisch-Partenkirchen. The suspect, a junior consul at the Iranian embassy in Munich, was never even questioned by the police due to the potential diplomatic repercussions.

Reinhardt's smile towards his young lover was ignored, who simply introduced the visitor and closed the door quickly. Reinhardt rose and beckoned Claudia to approach the desk. "Doctor Kammler, good morning." He reached across the not inconsiderable expanse of his desk and shook her hand warmly. "Please, do have a seat." Claudia had dressed suitably formally for the occasion in a plain black suit with a simple white top underneath, her hair pulled back in a ponytail and black rimmed glasses, rather than the contact lenses that irritated her eyes beyond the reach of vanity.

Claudia smoothed her skirt as she sat. "It was good of you to see me, Herr Reinhardt. I know you must be a very busy man."

"I'm positive the pleasure is all mine Doctor, particularly as you are a representative from our illustrious CERN." Reinhardt was already trying to imagine the woman sitting opposite without the glasses, the business suit and with her blonde hair around her shoulders. "Cigarette?" He opened the top drawer of his desk and made to reach inside for his silver plated case.

Claudia shook her head. "No thank you."

"Then maybe I won't either." Reinhardt raised an eyebrow and slid shut the drawer. "Your name, Doctor, is German but you yourself are not. You're accent I cannot quite place."

"I am American."

"I would not have guessed. Your German is very good, but almost too perfect. A mistake allied spies were guilty of during the war." Reinhardt got up and walked over to the window which looked out over the splendid gardens of the Federal Palace. A few morning dog walkers were enjoying the tranquillity of the tree covered pathway that meandered back and forth through the cultivated flower beds and past the impressive fountain that was the centre piece of the gardens. "Kammler is a name with a long association with science. The letter you wrote to me makes no specific mention, but...."

"I am his granddaughter."

"But of course you are. I mean the great Hans Kammler did not cover his tracks too well." He turned around and fixed his steely eyes on Claudia. "It must have been very difficult for you, when your parents were so brutally slain."

"What do you know about my parents?"

"I imagine it was Israeli Secret Service; revenge for the crimes of your grandfather."

"I am not looking for the men who killed my parents, Herr Reinhardt. I want to complete the work begun by my grandfather."

Reinhardt laughed. "What work, the V3 rocket perhaps? The majority of the projects the Nazis were working on at the end of the war were either rubbish or pure fantasy."

"I am sure you are correct, but there is one that I believe was real; the stuff of fantasy maybe, but I believe it was viable."

"Your passion is laudable, Doctor Kammler, and coming from a woman of your intelligence, I have no doubt what you say may be true but it doesn't explain how you think I can help you."

"I believe my grandfather had two canisters of a fantastic type of matter that would be used to power his prototype."

"Prototype? You mean you believe this thing actually exists?"

"It does, I am certain of it. You see I too have done my research on you, Herr Reinhardt. I understand you and your party have associations with certain groups and individuals."

"I assure you I have many associations."

"Stille Hilfe, for instance?"

His expression hardened and he waved a hand in the air, dismissively. "I am familiar with the name, but I thought it was pure speculation. How could an organisation operate for all these years assisting Nazi war criminals without the authorities moving against it? The idea is preposterous."

"It is strange that you would say that, Herr Reinhardt, as isn't Gudrun Burwitz the major donor to your party?"

His expression didn't change, though he did begin to feel his shirt collar a little tighter. "That is no secret."

"Yet, Frau Burwitz is the president of Stille Hilfe, the Silent Assistance movement."

"Frau Burwitz is a lady with strong nationalist convictions who is kind enough to direct a position of her considerable wealth to help fund the SVV."

"She is also the granddaughter of Heinrich Himmler. Do the people who voted for you really know your party is funded by the Nazis?"

Reinhardt made a steeple with his fingers and sighed. "I don't believe you are the slightest bit interested in my politics, Doctor Kammler."

"I think Himmler knew where my grandfather hid these canisters."

"And you think his daughter will where?"

"Maybe not, but I'm damned sure she will know someone who does."

"What you are asking will not be easy. It may take some time, Doctor Kammler."

"Why don't you call me Claudia?"

"Why don't I take you to lunch?"

"Only if I can choose the restaurant?"

"I'm sure I can recommend some superb places very close to here. There is a fantastic little French place just around the corner."

"I had somewhere a little farther away in mind."

"Oh really and where might that be?"

"The Sphinx at the Jungfrajoch."

He looked incredulous at her. "Would you like to tell me why?"

"I will on the way."

Reinhardt pressed the call button on the desktop intercom. "Tessa, please cancel the rest of my appointments for today. Reschedule where you can. I have to go out."

Claudia was already on her feet. She took a single sheet of paper from the inside pocket of her jacket and unfolded it, before setting it on Reinhardt's desk. It was a copy of the plans for the testing chamber for Die Glock, in the rock directly below the Sphinx complex. Reinhardt was well aware of the clouded wartime history of Interlaken, the mountains, the Nazis and the Children of the Valley. The simple photocopied sheet printout in front of him was the first document he had ever seen that offered a link between legend and reality. She picked up the page again before his fingertips could reach it.

"Yes, Claudia, I believe it is a very fine restaurant indeed."

Sept 1994 Jungfrajoch

"This is a truly amazing feat of engineering, Max." Claudia had been encouraged on numerous occasions by her colleagues to take a trip to the Top of Europe, but as she was not one to be easily impressed by over commercialised tourist traps, she had never got round to it. It was almost like a badge she wore with honour as to be the only member of her team at CERN never to have ridden the dramatic train through the solid rock of the legendary north face of the Eiger.

"I am a social philosopher, Claudia. I detest the moniker of politician; it conjures up such negative images in the mind. Grey men in grey suits or used car salesmen without the snappy punch lines."

"I don't think you're a grey man, Max, but I would take a little more care the next time you visit your tailor. Black suit, waistcoat and red tie is more the look you need to acquire. Maybe I should take you window shopping in Lucerne sometime."

He smiled. "A respectable man like me would not want to be seen window shopping in a place like Lucerne?"

"I would have thought that would exactly the place for a man like you, Max. I must admit I found the experience quite liberating."

"What experience would that be?"

She held his gaze intently. "Being able to stroll past the window displays and admire the merchandise on offer without any cause to feel embarrassed."

"And did you like what you saw"

"I like that you think that I might have." At that she got up from her seat. "Another beer Max? Or perhaps we should treat ourselves to the luxury of a bottle of wine?"

"I thought you wanted have a look downstairs to see if there is any trace of the wartime chambers?"

"You are forgetting something, Max; I live here. I can come here any time I like."

"So why did you need me to come with you today?"

"You tell me, Max. You tell me." Claudia walked back to the self-service bar and selected a bottle of Riesling. She set it on one of the wooden trays along with two of the inexpensive wine glasses that mocked the extortionate price for the bottle; a couple of francs extra for each five thousand feet in altitude being the proprietor's justification.

"I am puzzled, Claudia," Reinhardt said, gratefully accepting the brimming glass she pushed across the table towards him. "This mysterious project of your grandfather? Presumably it was designed for one purpose and one purpose alone, as a weapon and most likely a terrible weapon that could have snatched victory from the jaws of defeat for The Third Reich?" He kept his voice down, well aware of the enduring sensitivities surrounding the mere mention of the darkest images from Europe's near history. "What interest could a scientist such as you possibly have in attempting to recreate or follow the work of the great Nazi scientists?"

"For precisely the reason that I do not believe Die Glocke was merely a weapon. Yes, I have no doubt that it could have been used as one, but I believe it to have been so much more."

"Such as what?" Reinhardt inspected the condensation on his glass and took a quick sip.

"I have studied the plans extensively. I have researched the scientific theories behind the myth."

"And what has that research led you to believe?"

"I believe my grandfather may have been inadvertently developing a time machine."

Reinhardt's eyes widened in disbelief. He had thought this beautiful American to be a highly impressive and intelligent woman. It had never occurred to him that she may be little more than another crackpot scientist, no better than the acid addled peers of his college days in the late sixties. "And you expect me to believe this?"

"I don't expect you to believe in the scientific concept, not without proof, but I had hoped you might find it within yourself to believe in me."

# CHAPTER 41

Interlaken May 1997

"I'm getting married, Angela."

"Let me guess, Claudia. Either you and Tom Cruise have finally put your differences behind you or you have finally relented to the persistence of that excuse of a politician for the simple reason that he secured government funding for your research facility at the Jungfrau Joch." Angela didn't attempt to disguise the mocking hint in her tone. "Let me guess which it is?"

Claudia rolled her eyes. "Come on Angela, for God's sake of course I am marrying Max. Let's face it, sweetheart, it's no less of an ill begotten match than your own, now is it?"

"Touché," Angela conceded without the need to actually admit so.

"I thought you might be happy for me?"

"Oh, I am Claudia. You know my opinion on the institute of marriage?"

"That it is the last refuge of the clinically unlovable? Christ almighty, does your husband know that's what you think of the last eight years?"

"I'm sorry Claudia. I guess I'm just feeling a little bit vulnerable today."

"Well you sure as hell don't look it. You look absolutely amazing, Angela."

"It's my first day anchoring ' _Sports Week'_ , so I have made a bit of an effort."

"Take it from me, Angela. _Sports Week's_ viewing figures are about to go through the roof, along with a lot of male viewers."

Angela looked rather bemused by that comment.

"Maybe I should have kept that thought to myself, but whatever, SF1 has made a huge call to put a female in front of the camera on their top rated sports show. Just you wait and see, in eighteen months, every network in Europe will be following suit. Sports fans everywhere have had their fill of shaven heads and dodgy moustaches. It's time for big hair, big cleavage, not to mention a good dose of common sense to prevail in this male dominated world of sport."

"It's only a two week trial, covering Franz Heinzer's vacation."

"And you honestly think that on his return SF1 are going to dump you, a national heroine in favour of some dude in a suit?"

"Franz was a great skier."

"Who gives a shit, Angela? You are the wet dream of half of the country."

"These are just empty words, Claudia. The only thing that matters to me is Maria."

"I know that, but somewhere along the way there needs to be a flag waved solely for Angela. You can only give so much before life starts calling in the markers."

"Anyway, tell me; when is the wedding?"

"New Year's Eve 1999."

"But that's two and a half years away."

"So?"

"It's going to make for an awfully long engagement. If you love each other, why not get married at once?"

"It's Max's idea. The symbolism of leaving the old century behind and embracing the new one is very important to him."

Angela shook her head. "I still think he's full of shit, Claudia."

"We're going to have to beg to differ on that one."

"You're obviously here to ask me something important?"

Claudia hung her head, dispirited by the direction the conversation had taken. "I was kind of hoping you would agree to give me away?"

Angela felt the breath sucked out of her lungs. "Excuse me?"

"My parents are dead; I have no siblings. It occurred to me that my only true friend in this world is the clear choice for the role."

"What about Cindy?"

"Come on, you're not going to get Catalyst to play for less than a couple of million on the eve of the new Millennium."

"You could ask Margaret Bauer?"

"Margaret would rather attend my funeral than she would my wedding."

"What is it with you two? I've never quite understood all that."

"So in essence, Claudia, you will do it? You will stand beside me on my big day?"

Angela hung her head and grabbed Claudia by the hand. "So long as you're happy, Claudia, and so long as you are not doing this for some misguided sense of loyalty to the falsest smile in the Bernese Oberland, then of course, I would be happy to walk up the aisle with you."

"Angela, you really are a special person. I cannot believe Cindy treats you so badly; so thoughtlessly."

"Cindy's life has moved way beyond what we shared."

"Sure, she's this great global superstar, but I still find it hard to believe she can't make time in her busy schedule for the woman she continually professes to be her soul-mate."

# CHAPTER 42

January 2003 Edinburgh

"I really don't think me coming to work at the restaurant is such a good idea."

"Why not, it's a job isn't it?" Kate looked at John across the kitchen table, both eyebrows raised in passive aggressive mode.

"It's a well-known fact that it is detrimental to a marriage when a husband and wife work together."

"Widely known by whom? Sounds like rubbish to me. Start at nine in the morning."

"Tomorrow?"

"We've had to let Fiona go, so we're struggling front of house. Unless you have anything better to do, that is?" Kate fluttered her eyelashes and gave him less room to manoeuvre than Hobson pondering his choice.

John suppressed his inner anguish and plumped for enthusiastic acceptance. "Great, I look forward to it. It'll be nice to get the opportunity to see what you do every day."

"Good," Kate nodded, delighted by the latest triumph of her persuasive powers. "Give it a few weeks, see how it goes. Obviously, if anything comes up between now and then, go for it."

"I'm not much of a cook so what are you looking for me to do? Wait tables?"

"Fiona was our deputy maître-d, so all you need to do is to wear your best suit and charm the customers."

"I was afraid that was what you were going to say."

"For God's sake darling, you will be a natural. You have the best people skills of almost anyone I know. Christ knows, we're not going to get too many complaints about food being served late if they have to get past your easy affability."

"Easy affability?"

"It's a compliment sweetheart; treat it as such." Kate got up and stroked his hair. "Now I need to get to work on the weekend specials and you need to go upstairs and iron a couple of white shirts."

"What about ties?"

"Let me worry about the finer aspects." She kissed him on the forehead and breezed out of the kitchen, wholly satisfied with the arrangements. The prospect of having John working at _Kate's Chateau_ was a sublime fit for her ordered view of how the world should be. The more she could control within her circle of influence the better, whether John liked it or not.

Fifty year old Henri Clement had been Maître d at _Kate's Chateau_ for four years. His arrival had proved a Godsend for Kate, his typical Gallic demeanour coupled with a work ethic of strict professionalism, afforded her the new found luxury of being able to take a step back from the pressure cooker environment of the day to day operation in one of the city's busiest restaurants.

Kate had not been in agreement with Henri over the dismissal of his assistant Fiona Murray. Her third period of sick leave in two months was, in Kate's estimation, justified though during each period of several days' absence, the strain on the waiting staff and Henri was palpable. Fiona had miscarried at eighteen weeks and had suffered bouts of depression in the subsequent months. Whether or not the abdominal pains cited as the reason for her absence were genuine or a psychosomatic side effect of her mental state, Kate had nothing but sympathy for her situation. However, Kate had given Henri a free hand in the management of staff, so despite her personal opinion, she had not opposed his decision to let Miss Murray go. When she informed him there was no need to go through a recruitment process as she had a readymade replacement that could start the next morning, he was both surprised and a little wary. Kate had a way of making him rather uncomfortable with her occasional random forays into personnel matters as it was the time when he felt he did not have complete control of his domain. That said, it was her restaurant, so for the most part he kept his reservations to himself.

"Your husband; are you serious Kate?" Henri felt he had no choice on this occasion other than to break his own code.

"Of course I'm serious. Have you got a problem with it?"

Henri fidgeted with his tie. "Naturally, it is your decision, but surely we would be better to have someone with experience."

"John has plenty of experience."

"I mean experience in the restaurant business."

"John has great people skills and he is married to a chef. That makes him pretty well qualified in my book."

Henri pursed his lips, recognising he wasn't going to win the argument.

Kate gave him her warmest smile. "He may hate it. In which case, we'll get someone else. You will still be his superior, Henri. If he doesn't come up to your expectations after a few weeks, we can review the situation. Is that fair?"

Henri nodded and returned to his office with a barely noticeable shaking of his head. He knew Kate would pick up on it just as he intended she would.

Edinburgh Feb 2003

Wednesday lunchtime was the glorious apex in Maggie's working week. The prospect of her oh so precious half day was all that got her through the misery of Monday, the torture of Tuesday and gave her strength to face tedious Thursday and frantic Friday; another week negotiated, every one while treading the fine line between submissive self-loathing and old fashioned misery. Such was the lot of the medical receptionist. The sense of freedom and pure release on the walk to the car park, each stride bolstered by the notion that she was resolved to never again set foot in the Morningside Surgery. By the time she was at the traffic lights outside Waitrose, cruel reality had descended yet again and she fumbled for a cigarette. Her typical Wednesday afternoon's freedom was spent lounging on the settee watching a few episodes from her box sets of Friends or Ally McBeal, but today she had a desire for company. She didn't count the endless inane small talk with her withered colleagues Janet and Noreen as company in the meaningful sense. The least said about the pointless dialogue with the irritating, impertinent and generally nauseating patients, the better.

In ten minutes she was parked outside _Kate's Chateau_ , which was open for lunch. It was the middle of John's second week working at the restaurant. Maggie knew he hated the thought of working there, so she was curious to see how was getting on, working for her big sister.

The restaurant was quieter than Maggie had expected. There were only two tables occupied; three middle aged ladies with shopping bags from _Jenner's_ department store at their feet, and two sharp-suited business men, more interested in their documents than the half eaten fish dishes in front of them. The only waitress around was Stella. She recognised Maggie immediately and smiled. "Hi, Miss Magowan."

"Hi, is John about?"

"Sure, he's in the office."

"He still works here, then?" Maggie walked past the bar and pushed the door marked ' _Staff Only_ ,' that lead into a short corridor, from where the business side of the restaurant was conducted. The door to the admin office was open and she could hear the sound of someone tapping feverishly on a computer keyboard.

"So what's it like being Kate's whipping boy?" Maggie leaned on the doorframe and fluttered her eyelashes, mimicking one of Kate's little idiosyncrasies.

"Thankfully, I haven't actually been whipped yet, but...."

"But you might enjoy it."

He smiled and pointed at the seat across the desk from where he was perched. "Sit Maggie, and tell me how bad your day has been. It'll make me feel better."

"That bad, eh?"

John shook his head. "You know when you are in a job and you realise it really isn't for you?"

"Let me think?" Maggie rubbed her chin and looked at the ceiling pensively. "That would be a resounding yes."

"Sorry, you haven't come here to listen to me moan on."

"What's so bad?"

He leaned forward and lowered his voice, shooting a quick glance in the direction of the still open door. "Henri doesn't like me. Or, what I mean is, he doesn't like me being here. It's, well, you know?"

"Because you are Kate's husband, poor Henri feels his own position is undermined."

"Perfectly put," John shrugged. "But what can I do about it?"

"Not a thing. It's a bad situation for both of you, but it's what Kate wants, so I guess everyone is just going to have to knuckle down."

"I know. I promised Kate I would give it three months and then we'll see how things are."

"So how are things with you and Kate these days?"

"Fine; why do you ask?"

"I get the impression things have been a bit strained since you lost your job, that's all."

"Kate's just busier than ever. At least with me working here, I feel as though I am contributing something to the family."

"I really need a cigarette."

John noticed that she was becoming agitated. "Listen. Give me two seconds. I am going to check if Henri has gone out. If so, then it will be OK to smoke, but only one, OK?"

"OK."

John slipped out of the room and Maggie could hear his footsteps getting farther away. Quickly, she delved into her handbag and pulled out a half bottle of vodka. She cracked the seal, unscrewed the cap and gulped down a couple of healthy measures of the crystal clear alcohol. She hurriedly replaced the cap and placed the bottle back in her bag. A strong mint went into her mouth just before John came back in to the room.

"He's gone"

"Thank God." Maggie grabbed the pack from her handbag and lit one of the king sized cancer sticks with a cheap, disposable lighter. The first hit of nicotine crashed I to her brain at the same time as the vodka began to take hold. She closed her eyes tight and rode the wave of sickly pleasure. "That's better." She breathed.

John watched her, disturbed at the pleasure such an attractive and intelligent woman gained from the act of smoking a cigarette. He liked the odd smoke himself, but only when in a bar and definitely not in front of his wife.

"So where were we?" Maggie reclined in the chair and crossed one leg over the other, quite obviously much more relaxed, thanks to the cigarette. "Oh yes, your sex life."

"Could we change the subject?" John laughed.

"OK. What about my sex life?" She playfully blew smoke in his direction. "Not nearly so interesting, though. More like non-existent."

"Give it time, Maggie. Mister Right may be just around the corner."

"Time? Jesus, I'm thirty-eight years old, John. I'm not exactly on many guys wish lists at work. You know, no-one has ever asked me out? Not once. Not even for a coffee at lunch?"

"Perhaps you're sending out the wrong signals." John leaned against the desk next to her, his arms folded as though talking to a patient.

She crunched the mint with her teeth and swallowed it. "Are you saying I am unattractive?"

"No, but maybe people aren't sure how you're feeling inside, how to approach you." John was meant to be reordering vegetables and here he was listening to his wife's sister opening her heart, spilling her own emotional baggage on the floor of his office.

"Do I look like a widow?"

John chuckled. "You do like wearing black, you have to admit that. But you look good in black."

"You think so?"

"Very sleek, very sexy." John reckoned she looked pretty damned good in anything.

"Maybe I wear black to hide the fact I'm fat." Maggie was conscious that her weight was gradually increasing as her intake of food and alcohol attempted to compensate for her unhappiness.

"You're not fat, Maggie." She wasn't going to give Christine Aguilera a run for her money but she certainly could not be called fat.

"Compared to Kate, I'm like one of the _Weather Girls_."

"That's an unfair comparison and you know it. Kate is like a stick insect."

"Rubbish, and she's much prettier than me, always has been."

"Don't put yourself down, Maggie. You are a very beautiful woman." John found it easy to talk freely to her. She wasn't constantly snapping at him and criticising in the way Kate did on a daily basis.

"But am I desirable?" Maggie's eyes begged not just for a compliment plucked out of the air but for his honest answer. She wanted to hear the truth.

"Much more than you seem to realise."

"Keep going." She leaned and squeezed her still gloved hand around his. "I'm enjoying these compliments."

"It's no more than the truth, Maggie."

"What? That you find me desirable?" The silence that followed was as tortuous as it was palpable, as both looked anywhere but at each other. The tension of the moment was broken by the shrill ringing of the phone.

Maggie withdrew her hand. "I'm keeping you back from your work."

"Don't be silly. Let me just answer this." He leaned across the desk and lifted his phone. " _Kate's Chateau_ , John speaking."

# CHAPTER 43

#

4th May 1945 Austrian Tyrol

The smell of pine following a downpour has a sensorial beauty, unique as it is intoxicating. His eyes closed tight against the harsh reality that was slowly asphyxiating his plan to rendezvous with Reichsfuhrer Himmler, Hans Kammler was momentarily transported back in time to his childhood in turn of the century Bavaria. The shrill tone of his mother's voice beckoning Hans and his sister Carina to abandon the tree house and join their parents for Sunday evening tea on the patio; the crisp home-grown lettuce, almost ripe tomatoes from the next door neighbour Alex Tripet's greenhouse, the finely sliced ham stained red by the Swiss immigrant's succulent beetroot. The lemons were past their best, but quartered and floating in the decanter, they added a welcome sharpness to the glass tumbler of iced water that was one of the preserves of the Lord's Day.

Kammler and Major Brandt were travelling alone in a Volkswagen personnel carrier, with the precious cargo under a green tarpaulin in the back. All hope of transporting the canisters of precious red mercury to the facility at the Jungfraujoch in Switzerland had become an exercise in futility.

The US 103rd Infantry had already swept into the Austrian city of Innsbruck, cutting off their route to Ebensee. The US 88th Infantry division had arrived from Italy cutting off any route to the Tyrol from the South while the US 44th Infantry Division established a command post at Imst in the Tyrol on 4 May 1945 and together with the 103rd entirely controlled the Tyrol region preventing Kammler from having any chance of visiting his wife at their home outside Ebensee.

The road that Kammler and Brandt found themselves on was the main arterial route from Salzburg to the town of Rosenheim in Bavaria. They had come across not a single German soldier since the previous afternoon, heightening their fears that American paratroopers may have dropped close to the border and effectively have cut off their only route back to The Fatherland. Any attempts Kammler had made to contact Himmler had been redirected to the office of Grand Admiral Doenitz, reputed to be the new head of the German state, following the rumoured suicide of Adolph Hitler. Since Himmler had instructed Kammler to take orders from himself alone, cautioning against pretenders who would be little more than puppets of the Allies, he decided to cease any further attempts at radio communication and make his way to rendezvous in person with the SS chief.

"We cannot risk running into an American checkpoint, Brandt."

The Major had just relieved himself by the side of the road and was lighting his last cigarette. "That much is certain General, but if we are to deliver the package to the Reichsfuhrer, it is a risk we are going to have to take."

"Agreed, but perhaps we need to consider an alternative strategy; a fall-back position, if you like."

"I am not sure I fully understand, Herr General."

"I have a bad feeling Major. If we are apprehended in possession of the red mercury, years of vital research would be lost to the enemy."

"Perhaps the Americans are the very ones who can develop your prototype into a working model."

"Rubbish, Brandt! Despite the dubious plight of our current predicament, rest assured that the Reich will ultimately prevail. Only in the Fuhrer's new world order can Die Glock realise its full potential."

"But General, the Fuhrer is dead."

"Scurrilous propaganda pedalled by our enemies."

Brandt sighed and climbed back into the driver's seat. "What are your orders, Mein General?"

"There is a lake not far from here, fed by the river Tirolen Archen and the river Prien. The locals call it the Sea of Bavaria. Its true name is The Chiemsee. It is a place my parents were fond of visiting when I was a child."

Brandt drew hard on his cigarette and rocked the steering wheel right then left. "And then, what do we do? Once we have hidden the canisters?"

"We get rid of this vehicle and we go our separate ways. We have a much better chance of making it back to Germany on foot and alone. If you make it back and I do not, you must inform Reichsfuhrer Himmler where we have hidden the canisters. He will find a way of getting them to the Switzerland so the work on Die Glock can be completed.

"Where the hell is Kammler?" Himmler banged his fist on the desk. Schellenberg grimaced, his face in profile silhouetted against the full length windows.

"He was in Salzburg the day before yesterday. There has been no contact since then. He was planning to head for the border near his home at Ebensee. If the Allies get their hands on the red mercury he has in his possession, we will have nothing left to bargain with."

General Walter von Schellenberg had suggested to Himmler at the beginning of 1945 that he should consider opening negotiations with the Western Powers, with Kammler's secret weapons projects as their ace card. Himmler was at first reluctant to go against Hitler but when the Swedish internationalist Count Folke Bernadotte, arrived in Berlin in February to discuss the release of Norwegian and Danish prisoners on behalf of the Swedish Red Cross, he agreed to a meeting. However, Himmler could not make up his mind to speak out. He did agree to accompany Schellenberg to another meeting with Bernadotte in Lübeck on 23rd April, 1945.

Himmler told Bernadotte that Hitler intended to commit suicide in the next few days and set out his proposal for an honour able truce on the Western Front: " _In the situation that has now arisen I consider my hands free. I admit that Germany is defeated. In order to save as great a part of Germany as possible from a Russian invasion I am willing to capitulate on the Western Front in order to enable the Western Allies to advance rapidly towards the East. But I am not prepared to capitulate on the Eastern Front._ "

Bernadotte passed this message to onto British Prime Minister Winston Churchill and US President Harry S. Truman but they rejected the idea, insisting on nothing short of unconditional surrender. This convinced Himmler that he needed something more top bring to the table; something that Churchill and Truman could use to bring a swift end to the war in the Pacific and a bargaining chip to hold over Stalin in the new world order.

Himmler had no idea the Manhattan Project was so far advanced and that in a mere three months' time the terrible power of the atom would be unleashed on the unsuspecting city of Hiroshima, finally bringing the Empire of Japan to its knees. The mysterious, unproven fantasy that was Die Glocke was dismissed by the Western Allies as merely a ruse to buy time to allow the architects of the Nazi's reign of terror to slip away into the receding fog of war.

Himmler's increasingly desperate attempts at negotiating an unlikely, unilateral peace with the Western powers soon came to the attention of Grand Admiral Carl Doenitz, the new head of the German state following Hitler's suicide. He had always hated and distrusted the head of the SS and on the 6th May, Doenitz followed Hitler's example and stripped Himmler of all rank and title and dismissed him from the Government. Even his trusted aide, Schellenberg would no longer take his calls. Still holding on to the hope of meeting up with Kammler, the SS leader decided to go south to his home in Bavaria, taking with him a few escorts, medical advisers and ADCs. Disguising themselves and holding false papers, the party twelve strong, left Flensburg on 10th May.

With the canisters of red mercury buried in the shale that edged the western shoreline of Chiemsee, Kammler and Brandt parted company with a formal handshake. Kammler made his way through the tree line back to the main road, while Brandt remained and sat for a while on a large rock before moving off around the lake to work his way through the forest tracks to follow the course of the River Prien and ultimately farther into the Bavarian countryside.

Kammler considered burning his papers and removing the insignia from his uniform, but quickly dismissed the idea; better to be recognised for who he was by either side if he were to run into a checkpoint or be picked up a patrol.

The small, corrugated outhouse was particularly nondescript and he could be forgiven for assuming it a safe place in which to rest for a few hours. The unfortunate coincidence was that the weary platoon of paratroopers from the US 101st Airborne had exactly the same thought. Lieutenant Dwight McGovern entered the building ahead of his men and was astounded to see the German General waiting, his pistol held by the barrel as a signal of his surrender.

On learning the identity of his prisoner, McGovern contacted General Gavin's HQ and was instructed to ensure General Kammler was escorted back to Salzburg for debriefing.

Kammler was ultimately brought to the United States along with other German scientists such as Werner Von Braun as part of _Operation Paperclip_. The secret German weapons projects developed at Mittlewerk, of which the V2 rocket was the most celebrated, could prove invaluable to America and her Allies in the coming peace which few doubted could prove every bit as hard to win as the war had been. A new life in the New World meant, if the architect so desired, the false dawn of Germany's salvation could remain where it was, buried on the shores of a forgotten lake.

By now Himmler's party had split into smaller groups in an attempt to blend in. He had documents purporting to show that he was the bizarrely unimaginative alias of ' _Ex Sergeant Heinrich Hitzinger of a Special Armoured Company, attached to the Secret Field Police, demobilised on 3 May 1945_ '. His disguise owed more to the music hall than it did to the world of wartime espionage. He wore a civilian jacket, shaved off his moustache, removed his pince-nez glasses, and donned an eye patch over his left eye. Crossing the Elbe estuary by boat he then mixed with a great mass of German troops of all services who were hemmed into the peninsula formed by the Rivers Elbe and Ems and the North Sea Coast. He reached Bremervörde, a small town on the little river Oste on the 18th May; though he could have crossed this river elsewhere, he decided to use the bridge where a checkpoint had been set up by British troops from the 51st Highland Division. There an eagle eyed Staff Sergeant quickly recognised Himmler's identity papers as being false and immediately placed _Heinrich Hitzinger_ under arrest, completely unaware that he had just captured the architect of the Holocaust and the greatest war criminal still at large in Europe.

Two body searches and a complete change of clothing failed to reveal any hidden poisons, but when the medical officer came to check inside the prisoner's mouth, Himmler immediately clamped down on the glass capsule between his teeth; it took a long agonising ten minutes for the cyanide to complete its inevitable task.

Once formally identified, SS Reichsfuher Heinrich Himmler was buried in an unmarked grave near the town of Lüneburg on the 25th May 1945.

# CHAPTER 44

Interlaken- Summer 2014

'It's just like riding a bike;' Claudia kept insisting. That well-worn idiom was of little comfort to Angela, since she had never actually ridden a bicycle. She has skied down mountains at eighty miles per hour, jumped out of an aeroplane, showed courage under fire in the theatre of war, but had missed out on that most universally enjoyed of childhood pursuits.

Age may bring wisdom but it does little to bolster the self-confidence. The carefree young woman who had galloped across the sweeping pastures had become lost between the fading pages of history. The hesitant pretender, an angst ridden woman shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, the unfamiliar but necessary body protector so tight it restricted her breathing. This only served to add to her rising sense of panic. She could taste it in her throat; a surge of bile that she swallowed hard to keep at bay.

There was a welcoming chill edge to the gusting breeze that skimmed across Lake Brienz, disturbing the surface with a shifting pattern of ripples. Angela tapped the animal's hide with the heels of her riding boots and gripped the reins tightly, still searching for remembered comfort in the saddle. The bay mare was strong and Angela could sense its eagerness straining literally at the bit. She quickly found the rhythm of the trot and rose partially from the saddle in perfect time with the movement of the animal beneath her.

"I told you it would be fun," Claudia returned with two cappuccinos and sat opposite Angela by the window that overlooked the river.

Angela shifted uncomfortably in the wooden chair, certain her butt must be red raw with saddle sores. "Fun? Yes, that would be one way to describe it, though not the one I would immediately choose."

"Your problem is you need to remember how to live a little, enjoy the great outdoors."

"I'm getting to old for all that, Claudia."

Claudia sipped her milky cappuccino. "You know Max thinks you're a fool for leaving your husband. He can be very old fashioned like that."

"I too am old fashioned, Claudia. I feel like a stranger in this alien, modern world we have allowed overtake us, but I tell you I did everything I could to keep my marriage together. For better or for worse, you are not supposed to walk away from your husband. Maria gave me the strength to finally do it."

"For God's sake, take a good look at yourself, Angela," Claudia gesticulated at the pack of cigarettes and bottle of vodka, clearly visible in her open handbag. "If you think that by leaving Erich, you have done yourself a favour or improved your life, you are sadly mistaken. I know plenty of women who would just love to be married to a man like Erich."

"They're welcome to him."

"I hear you have lost your job at SF1?"

"That had nothing to do with the break-up of my marriage."

"Really?"

Angela chuckled ironically. "The glamorous legend of the ski slopes, national heroine and roll model to a generation slips past her fiftieth birthday and it's a slot in a minor late night chat show or the front door. 'Sorry, but our target demographic is male viewers between the ages of eighteen and forty-five who want to enjoy their football served up by a busty blonde, the right side of thirty and not by a woman who reminds them of the headmistress of the local school, wearing way too much make-up and her daughters clothes.'

"They didn't say that to you, Angela"

"They might as well have. It is what they meant."

"Why don't you fight them?"

"I have no fight left, Claudia."

"You? I find that hard to believe."

Angela was grateful for Claudia's friendship. The way her Californian accent softened the edges of her fluent Swiss German, Angela could close her eyes and imagine it was Cindy sitting across the table. If only Cindy were there, she could have let go and opened up completely, let the contents of her wounded soul spill onto the wooden floor of the café. Cindy would have held her, would have listened without judging her, would have understood and helped her to believe in herself again. Angela's relationship with Claudia was restrained by a politeness and formality that even twenty years had not managed to bridge. Claudia's husband, Max Reinhardt, was a manipulative bastard. Angela had never warmed to him, particularly since he and Erich always got on well. Angela was so desperately in need of someone to share her problems with; someone other than Maria, who she felt must be sick and tired of her mother's tribulations.

# CHAPTER 45

Argentina May 11th 1960

The timeless song of cicadas punctuated the sweltering Argentine evening, adding to the rising tension in the rusty, beige coloured sedan. Twelve miles north of the nation's capital Buenos Aries, the city of San Fernando comprises two clearly differentiated areas: a densely populated mainland section, with predominance of industrial, commercial and service areas; and a section of Islands of the Paraná Delta. The car had been parked in the same spot on several occasions since the Belgian driver and his two Swiss passengers had first arrived in the country in mid-April. At the side of the road midway between the bus stop on Garibaldi Street and the house with the blue painted awning less than one hundred yards beyond, the Mossad team of Peter Malkin, Karl Manheim and Daniel Lieberman waited as they had done on each previous occasion, watching for the arc of headlights to sweep off the main highway to the Paraná Delta and make it's steady way along Garibaldi street, the potholes testing its stiff suspension, not to mention the lower back of the handful of passengers who travelled this far out from the centre.

The world had taken its first tentative steps into the decade that would see the cobwebs of post-war austerity blown away by the winds of change that would sweep throughout Western civilisation. The flag bearer of the dream, John Fitzgerald Kennedy was in the White House, while on the other side of the Atlantic, Lennon and McCartney were taking their first steps on the long and winding road to Sergeant Pepper's pop revolution. Radical change politically, socially, technologically and culturally would consign the Second World War to the dependable hands of the historians and the movie studios of Hollywood. For some though, the crimes of the Nazis were too heinous to forget and impossible to forgive. For those few celebrated in infamy who had managed to evade the gallows at Nuremberg and too cowardly to bite down on the cyanide capsule implanted in a dental cavity, retribution would stalk the shadows for decades to come. Whether the footfall in the stairwell, the knock on the door, the meeting of eyes across a crowded street; six million ghosts to haunt their dreams. No rest for the wicked? Not ever.

Daniel was growing increasingly agitated. "It is almost seven. The bus is never this late."

Team leader Malkin, in the front passenger seat said nothing. He wiped a bead of perspiration from his forehead and knew he would have to take a decision in the next few minutes. They couldn't risk sitting there much longer without arousing suspicion, or God forbid, a local police patrol might decide to take a drive along the quiet suburban street.

Karl turned around from his position behind the wheel and smiled at Daniel. "It's OK, my friend. If not tonight, then we'll come back tomorrow."

Daniel nodded at his old friend. "I only wish it was Kammler."

"I know," Karl said calmly "Someday, I promise you. We will have vengeance for Anna."

The war had taken everything from Daniel Lieberman; Hans Kammler had taken everything from Daniel Lieberman. When the Nazi General had killed Anna, he may as well have killed all of them, such was the devastation wreaked on their lives by the events of that terrible night. Karl had been deprived of his vivacious, courageous and beautiful wife. The woman Daniel adored with all his heart had been destroyed by the death of her sister and of so many innocent children. Greta's own physical wounds had healed but the woman inside and who Daniel had fallen in love with, had perished on the icy slopes of the Eiger. What remained was a husk, an echo of the woman she had once been, lost to him forever in a sham of a marriage, the result of a desperate need for impersonal, meaningless release. Daniel's rage knew no bounds.

Walter Otto von Schellenberg had been a member of Himmler's inner circle and as such, one of the main architects of the Holocaust. In the aftermath of the war he had become one of the most wanted Nazi war criminals after his name had come up on numerous occasions in the early weeks of the Nuremberg trials. Before he could enjoy his day in the dock, Schellenberg managed a daring escape after bribing a drunken guard with an impressive looking but otherwise worthless pocket watch and for many years his whereabouts remained unknown. Then in 1957, Mossad- the Israeli secret service, received a tip that Schellenberg was living in Buenos Aires, Argentina. A few years of intensive enquiries and searches proved fruitless until Mossad received yet another anonymous tip that Schellenberg may be living under the alias of Walter Lusk.

The information was given a sufficient level of credence for the Israeli Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion to approve the dispatch of a team of undercover Mossad agents to be sent to Argentina to find Schellenberg.

"OK Karl, let's get the hell out of here," Malkin was shaking with the adrenaline release. He planned to get very drunk once they got back to the safe house.

"Wait!" Daniel clapped him on the shoulder. "Listen!"

Breaking through the tension was the low, distinctive sound of an engine.

"I don't see anything. Perhaps it's a plane." Daniel was scouring the darkness out the rear window of the sedan when he saw the headlights crest the rise further back down Garibaldi Street.

"Do we wait?" Karl asked with his fingers already on the ignition keys.

"Of course we wait." Malkin took a deep breath and clicked the safety off his pistol. "We take him, no matter what. There's to be no killing."

"We know our orders," Karl slipped his own weapon into the waistband of his trousers.

Soon the bus was at the stop a hundred yards behind. Nobody had been waiting to board it so someone must have got off. The headlights of the bus blinded them and obscured their view of the road until it roared past spitting loose gravel along the paintwork of the car.

"There is someone coming towards us." Daniel's voice had gone up an octave with the excitement and anticipation.

"Can you see if it's him?" Malkin asked.

"Not yet. It's a man, definitely but he's going to be practically on top of us before we can make a positive identification."

"Fine, but we don't move until we are certain."

Schellenberg was used to being cautious, accustomed to being suspicious and the sight of a car parked at the side of his street made him uneasy. He couldn't tell if the vehicle was occupied or not but he decided to cross the street and pass it on the opposite side of the road. That move gave him away. Crossing the road in profile, his face was illuminated by the porch light of a bungalow with a corrugated iron roof.

"It's him. It's Schellenberg!" Daniel spoke in a loud whisper at the same time as Karl had recognised him in the wing mirror.

"Go!" Malkin gave the order and jumped out the passenger door in unison with Daniel who exited the back. Karl had to run round the car to join them. Schellenberg was alert to the threat but he found himself surrounded before he could react.

"I have a gun!" Schellenberg had his right hand inside the pocket of his jacket.

"We have three." Malkin levelled his Walther at the German's head.

"If you were here to kill me, I would be already dead."

"Very astute of you Nazi dog," Karl growled and took a step closer. "But there are worse things than death." Karl pulled a dagger from his belt and dared Schellenberg to go for his gun.

"You know I won't let you take me?"

"What do you plan to do? Bite down on the cyanide capsule like that coward Himmler did?" Malkin cocked the hammer on his weapon.

"Can you afford to take that risk?" Schellenberg had identified Malkin as the leader. He had the hardest eyes, the steadiest hand and he could see the way the other two watched him for their cue.

"Yes." Malkin glanced at Karl who rushed Schellenberg and floored him with a shoulder charge before he was able to raise his own revolver. Daniel came from the side and kicked the German's gun from his hand. Malkin stood over them, with one eye on the street. Schellenberg cried out for help in Spanish before Karl silenced him with a crack from the butt of his pistol on the temple.

"Quickly, let's get him to the car." Malkin sprinted across the road and opened the trunk of the sedan. Karl and Daniel dragged Schellenberg's helpless form across the street, the toes of his brogues leaving parallel trails in the gravel. It took all three to lift him into the trunk. He moaned and his fingers instinctively touched the source of the pain in his head, where blood was trickling from the point the skin had split due to the swelling. Karl closed the trunk and the three agents jumped in the car and Karl fired up the engine. A U-turn on the still deserted street and they headed off back in the direction of the city.

Schellenberg was taken to one of several Mossad safe houses that had been set up by Malkin's team since their arrival in Argentina. He was held there for nine days, during which time his identity was double-checked and confirmed. During this time, Malkin and his team tried in vain to locate Josef Mengele, the notorious Nazi doctor from Auschwitz concentration camp, as they had information that he was also living in Buenos Aires at the time. Despite intensive interrogation of Schellenberg on the matter, he maintained he had never met Mengele, even during the war years. He added with a flourish that if such a senior party member were living in the Buenos Aries area, Schellenberg would have known about it.

Near midnight on 20 May, Schellenberg was sedated by an Israeli doctor on the Mossad team, and dressed as a flight attendant, he was smuggled out of Argentina aboard the same El Al Bristol Britannia aircraft that had a few days earlier carried Israel's delegation to the official 150th anniversary celebration of Argentina's independence from Spain

Interlaken 2014

Isaac Lieberman dreaded the endless nights of the Alpine winter. The unforgiving darkness was a nightmarish mirror reflecting back at him the black emptiness cowering in the depths of his soul. As the sword in the hand of his father's bitter quest for vengeance, Isaac had been left aging, alone and unable to atone for his crimes. In spite of the garland of medals for courage, endeavour and justification pedalled by his masters in the Israeli Secret Service, crimes are what they were. The murder of innocence designed to hack at the brutal hearts of the masters of insanity and to purge the earth of the bloodline of the godfathers of the sixth lamentation.

He could not rid his memory of the terror filled eyes of the beautiful blonde haired woman who turned her head toward the sound of the speeding car. He had never imagined the force of the impact of a human body on the front of a car travelling at fifty miles per hour. The random trajectory of the body in the air, limbs twisted at unnatural angles before the blood-burst that accompanied the impact on the pavement, viewed partially in the wing mirror as sweaty palms struggled to control the car and concentrate on leaving the scene as quickly as possible. Pumped with adrenalin, his first thought had been disappointment that Katarina Schellenberg had not had her one year old daughter with her. He dismissed the thought quickly. The death of his granddaughter would drive a stake through the heart of General Schellenberg while he rotted in his cell in Spandau Prison. At the Nazi's trial in 1960, his lawyer had pleaded for clemency and the pathetic, liberal minded judge had commuted the death sentence to life imprisonment. Isaac prayed Schellenberg came to understand the gallows would have been by far the preferred option.

Isaac drained his glass. The newspaper on his lap was open at the sports pages. Training for the women's downhill race at Grindlewald was due to take place the following morning. The sport's biggest star was fully expected to set the pace on a course where she had won five times in the past seven years. Inge-Marie Schellenberg, daughter of Katarina and great-granddaughter of the late SS General gazed from the page, her trademark cool, calm expression mocking Isaac – _you did what you did, but here I am Queen of the Alps, the world at my feet. And you are but a pathetic, forgotten alcoholic._

The Christians preach forgiveness, yet would their faith have held firm had it been their children consumed in the factories of death? Divine retribution, an eye for an eye; with the sword of Joshua, shall the evil cancer be cut away from the remnants of humanity. A solitary teardrop fell on the face of Inge-Marie Schellenberg. A dark blot on the newsprint, or little more than an ironic symbol of atonement from the last of the great Nazi Hunters?

The sky is a unique watercolour painting on the expansive canvas of heaven with shifting shades of blue, grey, silver and gold; forever changing, as the elemental artist searches for the perfect combination of texture, light and shade. Why spend a fortune on a critically inflated snapshot by a goateed new ager when all you really need is a window?

"We should get up." Marsha had been awake for nearly an hour. She never tired of looking at Inge-Marie as she slept and it was with a pang of regret that she caressed her exposed shoulder and planted a firm but brief kiss on her lips; anything more lingering could have had the inevitable consequences which would have resulted in them both being late to the slopes for training.

Inge-Marie moaned and muttered a German expletive. When she forced her eyes open, she gave the initial impression of being surprised or even shocked to find she was not alone, before realisation softened her expression and her strong arms searched for the satin skin of her lover. "Please tell me it's not training this morning?"

"Why?"

"I am not in the mood for skiing this morning."

"Why, what are you in the mood for?"

"Oh Marsha, if you knew what I was thinking, neither of us would be fit to strap our skis on at nine o'clock, never mind post a competitive time."

"Tell me more, my gorgeous ice princess?" Marsha rolled on top of Inge-Marie and pushed her tongue between her lips.

"Later, my California dream. Let's forget about the pre-race dinner tonight and just come back here and relax. What would you say to that?"

"I would hate to miss the party. It's one of the highlights of the season."

"It's up to you, Marsha. You can have second rate fondue between your lips or my nipples."

"If you put it like that?"

"I do put it like that." Inge-Marie pushed Marsha off her and slipped out of the bed, leaving the American to catch her breath for the five minutes it would take Inge-Marie to shower and cast her mind forward to another evening of sublime pleasure in the arms of her soul mate.

Isaac Lieberman had taken the first train up to Grindlewald and sat gazing in wonder at the towering Eiger and Wetterhorn that dwarfed the Village of the Glaciers. There was an intangible sense of comfort in the cold, clear air. It was the sort of morning that engendered a sense of relish in the simple act of living; crisp, fresh air filling the lungs with every breath, sustaining the flesh and nourishing the soul. If death was to leap from the shadows and rip you from the mundane progress of a natural lifespan, there could be little room for complaint to be directed at the set designer for the final act. With the limelight fading, its exit stage left before the camera eyes closes forever.

The Hotel Alpina was functional rather than salubrious and much less than the false sheen of ostentatious glitz that Marsha felt her status as a sporting celebrity warranted. Pine panelling and stainless steel fittings were a poor substitute for gold and crystal but having eyes for nothing but her German lover, Marsha had little time to dwell on such superficial disappointments.

She so envied Inge-Marie's machine like ability to switch on and off; to be able to focus 110% on her skiing, shutting out all more personal distractions. Since she and Inge-Marie had crossed the Rubicon, Marsha had found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on her skiing. Her early season performances had been so poor she was in danger of losing her place on the American A-team. Grindlewald was one of her favourite courses. She needed somehow to draw on the intensity of her feelings for Inge-Marie and channel that raw energy into her performance.

She may have inherited her mother's brilliance on skis, but what she lacked was the unbridled sense of joy that Cindy Johnson carried with her through every carved turn and compressed jump. Cindy's nickname 'Sunshine' had been coined by the European press who found themselves blindsided by a skier from California who had the audacity and ability to challenge the Swiss and the Austrians on their own mountains. To them, California was the home of the movies, the Beach Boys and the sunshine. Marsha was inspired in so many ways by her mother's legendary exploits in the eighties, while at the same time haunted by the dramatic and brutal demise of a career cut short by injury, pain and drug fuelled depression. Marsha was all too aware of the tightrope walked by every top athlete, whatever their sport. Expectation can be the most unforgiving of mistresses. Pressure from without or from within, to stand in the spotlight, stripped naked of everything including self-respect. ' _How did you do it, Mom? Before the great fall, how did find the strength to bare your soul to the world_?'

Marsha knew her mother gained immeasurable strength from her unlikely friendship with a quiet farm girl from the Bernese Oberland. Similar in many ways to the close bond of friendship she had formed with Inge-Marie Schellenberg, the sport's greatest ever star. For the German, mere friendship had not been enough so she had reached out into the uncertainty of human frailty and found Marsha's fear of losing the deepest of platonic loves enough to encourage the American to surrender her body as well as her heart.

Marsha's mother was in every respect, all woman and she felt nauseous at the thought of the inevitable day when Cindy was faced with the reality that her beloved daughter was what; another woman of fragile substance or a misguided lipstick lesbian; an old fashioned embarrassment or perhaps a natural extension of her mother's inner beauty?

Inge-Marie emerged from the bathroom clad in a large cream towel.

"I don't suppose you want to slip back under the duvet and help me relax?" Marsha threw back the bed cover and patted the mattress, still warm from Inge-Marie's presence.

"You'll feel a lot more relaxed tonight if you can post a half decent training time this morning." When Inge-Marie's mind was focused on the ski slopes, all warmth or sentimentality fell away like a caterpillar's cocoon. As she towelled her hair, she closed her eyes tightly and began to visualise the course from First down to the finish above the village of Grindlewald. Every turn, every undulation she had registered when walking the course the day before opened out before her mind's eye in the minute and a half of challenging terror the Italian coach had been planning since being selected as the course setter when all the teams had arrived in the village two days before.

"How am I supposed to concentrate when you are parading around the room with your pussy on display like that?"

"Sorry." Inge-Marie wrapped the towel around her middle, covering up her middle but not her breasts.

"That doesn't really help." Marsha pulled the duvet up over her face and let out a shriek of frustration.

"Why don't you take a shower, Marsha, a really cold one?"

Marsha sighed deeply and slipped out of bed. By the time she was standing beneath the needles of hot water, her mind had begun to focus on the job at hand. If she was to retain her place in the top thirty seeded racers, Marsha needed to be well inside the top ten fastest in the morning's training session. If she couldn't manage that, then she should give up and go home. At the very least, give up and become Inge-Marie's personal assistant. At that point she heard her mother's words. ' _You can be the best in the world, Marsha. All you have to do is believe in yourself. Believe Marsha; believe_.'

Isaac took out his wallet and carefully thumbed through the contents. His replacement AMEX card which had only been delivered two days before and not yet signed on the back. A red and white debit card for his current account with UBS; he had to be careful with money these days as the only income was from the monthly deposits from his state pension – his Israeli state pension. He had two crisp hundred US dollar bills, though he hadn't been in the States for almost a decade, along with sixty Swiss Francs made up of notes of various denominations. A train ticket from Interlaken Ost to Grindlewald, several assorted paper receipts from bars and restaurants which he habitually kept - a hangover from the old days when he had a company expenses account. 'Anything within reason,' the finance officer had explained. What would he have deemed to be unreasonable? A glass of champagne, a cigar after dinner or state sponsored murder perhaps? The only item that remained inside the soft leather leaves was the thirty year old photograph. Most men carried a photo of their wife, their children, their mistress, even the long lost love – the one that got away. Isaac Lieberman, childless and loveless carried a photograph of the one that didn't get away. The only woman he ever thought about; the only woman he cared about. The beautiful blonde who never aged and who haunted his dreams night after night, year after year. Katarina Schellenberg, who he had known but for only a split second. The terrified eyes that begged for his mercy, for his help. 'I have a child!' she screamed inside his head.

'I know, I know," he called back to her but she did not hear because she was gone.

"Are you ready?" Inge-Marie was habitually organised and Marsha managed to test her patience on a daily basis with her penchant for leaving everything to the last minute. Then there was her nerve shredding habit of needing to run to the toilet even as Inge-Marie was locking the door. "It's only training Marsha. I'm sure you can manage without your full make-up this morning."

"Just because you are impossibly beautiful and don't need a little cosmetic boost in the morning. In any case, you never know when a TV crew is going to stick I camera in your face. Might as well be prepared for whatever the day has to throw at me."

"Are we walking or taking the car?"

"Car, definitely. If we're seen walking through the village together, it will only set the tongues wagging again."

"I don't mind if you don't," Inge-Marie held the front door for Marsha who practically fell through it.

"My Mom doesn't know about us."

"You said she wouldn't mind."

"I know darling, but I want her to hear it from me; not read about it in Hello magazine."

"Why hasn't she been over to see you race yet this season? It's not like her."

"I told you. She's doing ' _Dancing with the Stars'_ in the States."

"Oh yeah, I forgot. Well, if your skiing doesn't improve, maybe you will be back in America soon watching her."

Marsha stuck her tongue out and climbed into the driver's seat of the rented Peugeot. "It's a fabulous morning. Course should be crusted over with a nice icy topping."

"It will be fast, for sure. No time to think, Marsha. Your mother would have been in her element on a day like today."

Marsha was sucking on her upper lip. "Inge, sweetheart, if I were to lose my place on the US team, it would mean I would have to go home to California."

"It's not going to happen, so don't worry about it."

"I do worry about it. I worry about little else, if truth be told."

"I don't charge rent on half of my mattress and, as you know, it is more than big enough for the two of us."

Marsha started the engine and reversed out of parking space in the hotel car park.

Isaac replaced the wallet back in the inside pocket of his black woollen overcoat. It was one of the irresistible charms of the mountain villages of the Bernese Oberland; the very inaccessibility had managed to hold back the tide of the unwelcome and unwanted tide of twenty-first century communication led progress; if you defined progress as society's penchant for viral video's and selfies. The few cars in Grindlewald were either business critical transportation underpinning the local economy – taxis, milk floats or pizza delivery vans, or toys of the rich and famous which included a few vehicles at the disposal of the skiing superstars who were vaguely famous, if not in any way rich.

The sound of a low powered Peugeot, struggling up the road from the village centre caught his attention. There was only one short stretch of snow packed tarmac before the turn off for the cable car station where the gradient favoured the car and would boost the velocity to well in excess of thirty miles per hour. Isaac watched and waited, gauging the shifting tones of the scrambled gear box as the snow tyres bit into the icy surface.

Delighted and relieved at a sudden boost of forward propulsion, the driver had no time to react to the figure that appeared just feet in front of the bonnet.

Inge-Marie screamed, while Marsha considered the wisdom of jumping on the brake pedal and risking a violent swerve. There was no time. For a split second she looked into the eyes of the middle aged man who had come out of nowhere before the moment of impact. Before his head hit the snow covered pavement, did Isaac Lieberman feel the sense of release, of divine retribution he craved? Did he feel any sense of the devastation his act of self-sacrifice would have on the life of the two female occupants? Did he have any sense of the pointlessness of misguided atonement for Katarina? Isaac Lieberman died as he had lived; a destroyer of lives in the name of unattainable justice.

# CHAPTER 46

Interlaken September 2014

"Excuse me sir. Sir? You are not permitted to come down here." Twenty-four year old Willi Mayer was the proudest young man in the village of Kleine Scheidegg, the day he was offered the position of deputy supervisor at the Jungfraujoch train station. For a young man with learning disabilities, it was an achievement to be celebrated. Vladic did not recognise the Downs Syndrome man, who's sharp instinct had allowed him to rise from the ranks of the forgotten classes; Vladic did not recognise the beloved son and brother; Vladic saw only a yellow coated threat to his plans – a threat so easily neutralised by a silenced round in the middle of that innocent, trusting face. Willi wondered why his nose was suddenly running, why his legs had given way beneath and why he wouldn't be able to dance with Ilke at the New Year ball.

"Leave him!" Vladic barked at the shaven headed bodyguard. "When we are finished here, the death of one young fool will count for little. Now, let's get on with it."

The pain in her side that tore mercilessly at her nerve endings began to recede. "Thank God, thank God." Maria had been praying for the signs of relief that were now seeping through the agony. She was still lucid enough to comprehend that she had been shot, that the wound was serious and there was little chance of her living long enough for help to arrive. Her own death did not fill her with fear. She was a police officer who had been carrying out her sworn duty to protect the citizens of her adoptive homeland. Maria was consumed with dread at what her imminent death would do to Angela, her angel of mercy and the only mother she could remember. If only she could manage to cling to life long enough to see Angela one more time, to be held in her arms and tell her how much she loved her. If only.....

Maria's mind drifted in a sensory wilderness that transported her back to the tragic Bosnian winter when the path of her life changed.

" _Why did you take your own life my darling mother? Life is such a precious gift, it is always worth clinging on to no matter how unbearable the burden of carrying on becomes. Pain, grief, fear and horror would all soften with time. The sun always rises and the new dawn always brings with it new hope. We could have rebuilt our lives, you and I. Why, my dear mother_?"

Maria choked, her shallow rasping breaths allowing the searing agony to burst through the comforting bubble that was carrying her to heaven. Angela was her mother now and she could not contemplate never seeing her again.

"I have to hold on. Please God, if you are listening; let me survive for her sake."

Eismeer, above Kleine Scheiegg

The pool of blood which spread out from the male police officer's body indicated immediately he was dead. Farther along, near the second viewing window, a second uninformed figure was slumped up against the rock face. As they approached, it became clear it was a young woman. The blue material of her uniform was soaked with blood and her complexion was ghostly white.

"My God, it's Maria!" John gasped.

"You know her?"

"It's Angela's daughter."

Genevieve got to her first and crouched over her, assuming the second police officer was also dead when Maria suddenly choked and a trickle of blood bubbled from the corner of her mouth. "She's still alive," Genevieve spoke in a calm tone, quickly trying to assess the nature of the young woman's injuries.

"We can't let her die here Jenny; not like this." John thought of the tragic and violent death of Maria's mother and he knew all too well the impact Maria's death would have on the woman who had given her a new life. If Maria died, Angela would be impossible to save.

"Our only hope is to get her onto the train and go back down to Kleine Scheidegg and have a helicopter meet us there. She's lost a hell of a lot of blood. I don't know how much longer she can survive."

"I will take care of Maria. You need to get your team up to the Jungfrau Joch quickly before it's too late!"

"Yes, but too late for what, baby?"

Reinhardt's eyes were burning when he led the way into the facility. The first person he saw was Marco. "Where is Dr Reinhardt?"

Marco looked suspiciously at the group of men following Reinhardt through the door.

Reinhardt repeated with interest. "I asked you where the fuck my wife was." He grabbed Marco by the throat and pushed him hard against the wall.

"Max, what the hell is going on?" Claudia came out of the control room with her glasses perched on top of her head. "And just who are all these people?"

"I need to you to run the device one more time."

"The device is unstable, Max. You know that. I have no option but to take the decision to shut the entire program down."

"You are doing no such thing. Now, get back in there and make preparations for the test."

"Do as your husband says," Vladic said, drawing a pistol from the inside pocket of his jacket and shooting Marco between the eyes. The back of his skull exploded exuding a spray of blood and brain matter which splattered the wall at the point he had been standing before his lifeless corpse slumped to the ground. "Right now, you bitch!"

Claudia's legs were like jelly, caught as she was between a desire to scream and a need to vomit. A cloying silence robbed her of the power of speech and she simply stared into the callous, brutal eyes of Mavro Vladic, a man for whom the act of taking human life was of no significance. Her beautiful Marco was gone; a young, intelligent and handsome man obliterated in an instant. A terrible feeling gripped her and it was not merely the fear for her own life. Having witnessed Marco's murder, the prospect of her own impending demise became easier to comprehend. Claudia was overwhelmed by a vision of impending doom; of the end of all things.

"I will tell you one more time. Get into the control room and prepare to operate the device." The coldness with which Max spoke did not come as a surprise. Behind the charm and the cultured oratory of the manipulative politician, she had always known was little more than a soulless monster. Her need for him and his resources had led her to live in denial for so many years.

"Or what, Max; you will kill me too?"

"I will not kill you, my darling Claudia. Naturally I need you to operate the equipment, but if I have to, I will work my way through the rest of your colleagues; if that is what you wish."

Claudia walked slowly into the control room where the technicians were all on their feet, motionless and in shock at what had just happened. Reinhardt, Vladic and the rest followed her in.

"Max, please won't you at least tell me why you want to run the device?"

"I want you to blow this place off the face of the earth."

"But why, Max?"

"To blame it on Islamic terrorists," Schneider spoke for the first time.

Claudia's eyes narrowed at the sound of an American voice.

"But Max, as I have told you over and over again, I do not believe that the device is a bomb."

Reinhardt sighed. "Not this again, Claudia; your grandfather designed it as a weapon to win the war for Germany. Of course it is a bomb. I agree it is a new and terrifying type of bomb, but a bomb all the same."

"Max, I am begging you not to do this."

"Did your young friend Marco beg when you knelt between his knees?"

Claudia's eyes darkened at the mention of Marco's name and the realisation that Max had known all about their affair.

"Toni, please fetch the device from storage and let's prepare the chamber for a full test." She addressed Marco's assistant.

"But Claudia, you know what happened the last time," Helene's objection was cut short by a bullet from Vladic's gun striking between her shoulder blades.

"Fetch the device, now!" Claudia screamed at Toni.

"She was pregnant," Claudia said in a voice so strangled by pain and horror to be almost unrecognisable.

"A mercy for her and the child." Reinhardt grinned.

Claudia looked on transfixed by the terrifying beauty at the centre of the glowing mass. Where the plinth had stood was a myriad of multi-coloured static bursts like rainbow lightning. Her mind went back to her time at CERN and the Aleph project.

In 1945 the same phenomena was mesmerizing the scientists and soldiers alike. "What the hell is happening?" I told you we should have waited for the General. He would have known if this was normal. For all we know we may not be able to shut it down again." Klein's heart was thumping in his chest. The air in the chamber itself appeared to be spinning around the centre point where the device had been sitting on the plinth. The forks o light began to coalesce into a whirlpool of energy rotating round a single point of pure black nothingness.

"My god, it's creating a singularity." Claudia's fascination as a scientist was overriding her fears. "What the hell does that mean?" Vladic asked.

"A black hole." Reinhardt said agape.

"No, it is a worm hole- we _have_ discovered zero point." Claudia corrected her husband.

"And what the fuck does that mean? This isn't a bomb is it?" Reinhardt's face took on a grotesque masque in the reflected glow.

Claudia shook her head. "Everything will be drawn inside; the earth, its past and its future; the perfect Armageddon. Our planet will never have existed."

"We have to stop it." Hollis Schneider thought of Marilyn. He had intended her to get the money from his life insurance- that poor woman whose husband was killed in a terrorist bomb. The money would pay off the mortgage and she could live out her days in comfort without having to put up with her alcoholic excuse for a husband. He thought of Dana Reiss butchered in the desert for nothing. He couldn't allow these women and their lives and deaths to be wiped from existence. He made his move with all the skill of the ex-Master Sergeant. He slammed his elbow up and back into the nose of Vladic's minder sending him stumbling backwards at the same time grabbing the helpless man's gun and downing the second sidekick with a point blank merciless head shot. He knocked Vladic sideways and put a slug in his chest. The Butcher grabbed at the entry point with a look of vague puzzlement before crumpling to his knees. Reinhardt he shoved out of the way and he made for the door to the test chamber. "If you open that door, you'll kill all us!" Claudia screamed.

"I thought we were all dead already or not born at all. You kind of lost me there. With all due respect Doctor, I don't think you have the first damned idea what the hell is going on." In a flash he was on the other side of the door, showers of static sparks outlining his silhouette.

In 1945 Klein was about to throw the cut off emergency switch when Harman grabbed his arm. "Holy God, help us all!" Klein looked up in time to see the outline of a human emerge from the centre of the singularity. The split second hesitation was fatal. The clash of matter and antimatter triggered an antigravity implosion causing a tiny rip in the fabric of the universe.

With nothing to lose and the guns behind her now impotent, Claudia cut the power to the device. The spiralling singularity faded to nothing and the chamber return returned to normal. Hollis Schneider was gone, presumably vaporised in the cataclysmic energy field.

In 1945 the chamber was gone. A seismic earthquake shook the foundations of the Sphinx observatory accompanied by a flash of light erupting and visible for miles around, illuminating the valley below.

Anna could see the wires running to the charge and ran for it. Kammler, momentarily distracted by the massive explosion from above only got off one poorly aimed shot which popped the snow at her heels. With a lunge she grabbed the wires and pulled with all her might just as the train thundered past her face. The charges failed to detonate. The children continued on their journey down to Lauterbrunnen at the base of the valley, blissfully unaware of the events unfolding out on the darkened slopes of the mountain. Some looked out the right hand windows their eyes drawn by the huge flash of lightning from the direction of the Sphinx observatory. Kammler knew immediately that the facility at the Jungfraujoch was gone and by the nature of the explosion it was clear that the device must have been used. "Those damned fools! Why couldn't they wait?"

Greta crawled on all fours, her thigh burning from the gunshot wound. She reached Anna who was sprawled next to the track. Clutched in her gloved hand was the fuse wire ripped from the charges. She wasn't moving." Anna! Anna!" Greta grabbed her sister by the arm. By the jerking movements Greta could tell Anna was sobbing. "My God Anna, you're OK?"

"Oh Greta, those children; we nearly killed all those children and for what? Those idiots have blown themselves up."

"We did what we did for Switzerland and for freedom. Isn't that what you and Karl kept telling me?"

"Shall I finish them?" Brandt said to Kammler.

"Leave them. We need to get out of here before the local police arrive."

"A wise decision Herr General," Karl cocked the hammer on his own gun. "Why don't you and your men go home to Germany to your friend the Fuhrer? They say his friends grow fewer in number by the day."

Kammler turned around. "You are either a very brave man or a fool Manheim. These young women followed you on this crusade so I will not make little of them by branding you the fool. You have been very lucky tonight Manheim. What do you think your people would have thought of you if that train had ended up on the floor of the valley?"

Karl knew Kammler was taunting him with an alternate truth so he lowered his weapon." Perhaps General, the events of this evening would be best forgotten by all concerned."

Kammler's smile was not visible in the darkness. "After the war I would very much like to come back here as a tourist. It is without doubt a place of great beauty."

"I am sure you would be more than welcome but I would wait a few years before you come. We have long memories us simple folk, us children of the valley."

Anna had helped Greta to her feet once she had recovered her composure. Greta cried out in pain when she attempted to put her full weight on her wounded leg. Anna took her younger sister's weight against her shoulder and held her upright until Karl and Daniel joined her and between them they were able bear her weight. They headed back towards the railway towpath and began the descent to Kleine Scheidegg where the train was sitting at the platform, its main lamp casting a cone of yellow into the pine frees beyond the station, white smoke billowing into the freezing night air. There was no sign of the Germans apart from a few barely imperceptible shapes black against the snowfields. "Oh God it hurts," Greta winced in agony.

"She's losing a lot of blood, Karl."

"She'll make it, won't you Greta?"

"Do I have a choice?" Greta panted.

"No, you don't." Daniel replied in a matter of fact tone.

By the time Genevieve reached the Jungfruajoch, a team of armed police had dismounted a helicopter on the snow field and had charged through the restaurant and descended the stairs until they reached the level of the research facility. A scene of carnage confronted them; two dead technicians along with three armed males of unknown identity until Genevieve quickly identified one as the Bosnian-Serb fugitive Mavro Vladic. The survivors were all in varying degrees of shock. Three lab technicians were distraught at the murder of their friends. The director of the facility Claudia Reinhardt was incoherent and had to be sedated by the emergency medical personnel who arrived within minutes. She was going on and on about the end of the world, a black hole and a man going back in time. The collective wisdom was she had been working in the isolated facility for too long and the trauma of the killings had pushed her over the precipice. The last survivor was her husband, Max Reinhardt, the well-known right wing politician. He could tell the police little aside from the bare facts. He had travelled up to the lab to visit his wife when the three gunmen entered and began shooting. The unanswered question was who had been responsible for shooting Vladic and his two associates? Reinhardt could offer no explanation; everything had happened so quickly.

# CHAPTER 47

It was Erich who took upon himself the difficult task of calling to inform Angela that Maria had been shot. She was in an unusually light mood when the heavy knock on the front door came as a surprise; she didn't get many visitors. The uniformed police commander was the last person she expected to see filling the wooden door frame. Before she could slam the door in his face or remonstrate with him for having the nerve to show his face at her home, he said simply "It's Maria." There was no need for him to elaborate. The mere fact of mentioning her name, of the way he spoke her name was enough to shake her to the core. She grabbed her mouth and took a stumble backwards. "She's alive," he added, just in time to prevent her from collapsing physically as well as emotionally.

"How bad?" Angela managed to ask.

"Bad; we should go to the hospital now. She should be there by now."

Lucid dreaming can be a rather unsettling experience as it reaches beyond the confines of our bed and pursues us, haunting our commute and souring our mid-morning coffee. Imperceptible tentacles woven from fractured images tug mercilessly at the comfort blanket of familiarity. Fading afterimages tease from the periphery of the onrushing reality. Look over your shoulder, but nobody is in pursuit. Look in the face of a stranger but recognise only bland indifference. Close your eyes but find no solace in the swirling colours of inner space.

The china coffee cup slipped from Greta's frail fingers and shattered when it hit the wooden floor boards. Alexandra jumped up from her chair, where she had been fiddling with her smart phone, updating her Facebook page. "Madam Greta!"

The old lady waved her hand in a gesture of self-admonishment. "It is fine, dear. We have many more where that came from."

"What happened, Madam Greta? Did you have another bout of the weakness in your arm?"

"Weakness? No, my dear. My mind was wandering and I completely forgot I was holding the cup. Nothing you need to worry about."

Alexandra was perturbed by the haunted look in the old woman's face. "Are you sure you are OK?"

Greta sighed deeply. "Can you reach me down that photograph? You know the one of me and Anna?" She gestured to a silver framed picture sitting on the dressing table.

Alexandra lifted it and held it in front of Greta, who took it in her bony hands. A smile of relief washed over her features when she gazed upon the colour Polaroid of the aging Bircher sisters sitting side by side on the occasion of Anna's eightieth birthday party back in 1997. Such a joyous day it had been for all the family. The party had been organised by Greta's granddaughter Angela, the former champion ski racer turned television presenter who beamed with pride when her own adopted daughter Maria sang Happy Birthday with only the merest trace of her native Yugoslav accent still audible. Greta ignored the shiver that ran down her spine and was glad to be reassured she could dismiss once more the horrific recurring nightmare of a young Anna lying dead in the blood stained snow. The images were so real, though, that they were difficult to dismiss. It had been a miracle Anna had not been killed that night; that they had not all lost their lives in their foolhardy venture. Greta herself had been moments from death as a result of the gunshot wound in her thigh, yet here she was all but seventy years later, the poorly healed bone a better indicator of impending bad weather than any expensive barometer or busty television weather girl.

"Alexandra, I wish you had met my sister," Greta said. "You would have liked her, I am sure. She was such a strong woman with a vibrant, sparkling personality. Not a miserable, bad tempered old woman like me. I wanted so badly to be like her, to be like our mother. For heaven's sake, I only took up smoking in the hope people would think I was sophisticated or cool as you young ones would say nowadays; Anna was born cool."

"She must have been a very beautiful woman when she was young. In this picture she almost looks like a thirty year old in a grey wig."

Greta chuckled. "I think it was the singing that kept her young. The youthful exuberance she brought to the stage all her life held the cruelty of the passing years at bay."

Although her memory of the party was vivid, Greta couldn't shake off the notion that this was the first time she had actually looked upon the photograph. She had been aware of it sitting on the dressing table, but she could swear she was unfamiliar with the picture of Anna. The fingers of Anna's right hand were intertwined with those of Greta's left hand yet no matter how long she gazed at the bright coloured image, in her mind, she could recall only images of Anna as a young woman; as though she had never before seen her sister as an old woman. Goose pimples danced across the skin of her forearms and she licked her dry lips before speaking. "I would very much like to visit Anna's grave today."

Alexandra looked at Greta and her lips formed a word she failed to speak. Greta felt a sudden panic ignited by nothing that was easily explained. "What is it, Alexandra?"

The young care worker swallowed, uncertain how best to frame her response. "But Madam Greta, we have only just returned from the grave."

In the unsettlingly tranquil surroundings of Maria's private room in the intensive care unit at Interlaken Hospital, Angela found she was transported back in time to the unforgiving Bosnian winter of 1994 when Maria's mother committed suicide and abandoned her daughter to the care of the kind eyed UN army officer. Captain Angela Hofmeister of the 10th Mountain Infantry Battalion had not been quick enough to consider the traumatised woman may have had a gun; a gun with which to release her from a burden of pain and grief and horror she could not bear.

"I will not allow this to happen again." Angela prayed hard to God and to Maria. "I should have been quick enough to have saved your mother all those years ago. You did not survive that hell to suffer a violent death now. You were given a second chance and you must take full advantage of that chance. Fight my darling Maria. Fight this as your mother wanted to fight the butcher Vladic. She died so you could have a life. Do not die now or she will have died for nothing."

# CHAPTER 48

Patrick Kernan's tent

Switzerland's greatest mountaineer of the 1930 and 40's set off to scale the Eiger on a beautiful cloudless morning in early 1945. Always climbing alone, he left his camp at the base of the valley below the Eigergletscher train station and set off under the shallow light of dawn; he never returned. His frozen body was discovered in 1968 by a team of Japanese climbers. His tent at the valley base remained as a memorial to Kernan and became a place of pilgrimage for mountaineers from all over the globe.

"I hate this place," Angela put a cigarette to her lips with trembling fingers.

"I'll grant you there is always a slightly ghoulish quality to these sorts of shrines. After all, Kernan was a legend who died doing what he loved. This place is simply a celebration of the human spirit."

Angela looked upward at the imposing and frightening beauty of the Eiger that pierced the heaven beyond the blue. "There's something else, John. I cannot put it into words, but my blood runs cold every time I come here. It was as though something terrible happened here. A malevolence hiding behind the veil of beauty; it is as though I can feel it, remember it, yet somehow it is just out of reach; always in the peripheral vision of my subconscious."

John squeezed her shoulder. "Sometimes I think it would do you good to move away from this place and live a mundane, urban existence in Bern, Zurich. Or..."

"...or Edinburgh?" she interrupted.

John smiled. "You have a connection to these mountains, Angela. They need you as much as you need them. In truth I don't think you would last a year away from this place."

She drew hard on her cigarette and forced a smile. "You know you really are the only man who has ever truly understood me."

"One year out of a life of fifty? You think that's long enough to truly get to know someone?"

"Of course it is. Surely you believe it is possible to love a lifetime in one night; in one moment even?"

John blew out his cheeks. "I never really thought of things in those terms before, but I guess you are right."

"So we were quite lucky that we had a whole year of love; a special year?"

"Yes, I was very lucky to have had that time with you."

"Were you ever sorry you had met me?"

"Never."

"Would you have given up your thirty years with Kate for another year with me?"

John chuckled aloud. "I wouldn't give up one minute of my life with Kate for anything."

Angela stepped forward and kissed his lips lightly. "You are a good man, John Alexander. That is why I have always loved you. You know it is a well-known fact that compared to one's first love, nobody else ever quite makes the grade."

2015 Interlaken

The first snowfall came late to the mountains of the Bernese Oberland in the comforting, gathering gloom of early December 2014. Angela knew it had finally arrived without needing to open her curtains. The tinkle of the cowbells was muffled. The train running up from Lauterbrunnen sounded like it was in the next valley, so dampened was the straining of the diesel engine. It would take more than a mere centimetre of snow to have such an effect on the world outside. Unable to contain herself any longer, she stood up slowly and crossed the wooden floorboards. With little respect for the weary curtain hooks, she pulled back the floral patterned curtains. "Thank you." Angela smiled, remembering how her eyes had danced in anticipation so many years ago. "Oh, what I wouldn't give to be young again."

"You're still young in my eyes and beautiful too," John watched and wondered at the how the prospect of another winter in the valley propelled Angela back through time to the days when there were no rules, no regrets; only hopes and dreams still to be lived. "I envy you, Angela."

"I can't imagine why," she said, her eyes closed, imagining her skis chattering on the icy traverse, the fiercely partisan crowd roaring her across the finishing line; the lost, confused face of little Rosie Agostini on the day of her mother's funeral – the day the dream died. The world of Formula One motor racing still laments the death of Ayrton Senna, in many ways just another champion in a constantly renewing line of champions, yet what set apart Maria Agostini's fate was the manner of a death that sent shockwaves rippling across the decades. In the world of Alpine skiing, the tragic death of Maria Agostini still held a similar vice-like grip, choking the unbridled exuberance that had once paved the slopes in gold.

When the memory of 1985 had released Angela from its eternal grip, she tumbled forward through the decades and pushed a few strands of greying hair behind her ear. "I am just a plain farm girl, OK. Maybe I was acceptable looking when I was young but I grew into one of those women whose beauty is false, painted on by professional make-up artists and airbrushed for television. Erich soon realised he had married the real me and not the false ideal of me. I think that was always part of his problem, if not all of it. The disappointment was right there in front of his eyes when he woke up every morning.

"I don't believe that for one second, Angela. Erich Stahl is and always was a plain old bully and now he's a thug in a uniform."

"He is a highly respected commander in the police force."

"Guys like him usually make good cops, but rarely do they make good husbands or fathers."

"I should have gotten out years ago. I shouldn't have married him in the first place."

I turned a blind eye to the other women and allowed him to dismantle my self-respect, one little piece at a time."

"Why did you never leave?"

"He was there for me when I needed him most. When I returned from Bosnia, he took Maria into our home without question. He never once held it against me for bringing this child, this stranger into our lives."

"Are you so sure of that?"

"Erich liked the idea of having a family. It gave him some sort of credibility in the police force, or at the bar; which was where he spent more and more of his time."

"And yet you never had any children of your own?"

Angela looked at her hands, her default fall-back position whenever the question cut too deep.

"You are a truly wonderful mother to Maria. I can't believe you wouldn't have ever wanted a child of your own."

"Maria is a perfect daughter and so much more than I deserve. I think she has assumed the maternal role in our home anyway."

John bit hard on his lower lip. "So what happens now; to us, I mean?"

"There is no happy ever after, John. That sort of stuff only happens in cheap novels and straight-to-video movies; not in real life. All we can ever hope for is to get through each day as best we can; to keep breathing."

John remained on the settee and conceded it was time to let her speak.

"Do you really see me moving into your house in Edinburgh? Do you really see me playing the part of the dutiful housewife? Do you really see me moving into Kate's bed? My heart is here in the mountains and it always will be. It is from these mountains that I draw my lifeblood; from the impossible slice of heaven, always just out of reach at the end of the valley."

John looked away from her gaze. He didn't want to acknowledge her words, even if he knew them to be true.

"You can't live here, John. Your daughters need you at home. You have a duty to Kate to keep the restaurant going and ensure it becomes a lasting legacy to your life and love together. Forget about the ICTY. Forget about the horrors of war and retribution."

"I cannot forget about you, Angela."

"I don't expect you too and as a matter of fact, I couldn't bear the thought that you would. You have to promise me one thing."

"Anything," he breathed.

"Anytime you feel the need for a holiday, or a short weekend break away from it all, you must spend it here?" Angela gestured around the room with her arms outstretched. "And the best thing is you won't have to pay for your accommodation. I can promise you a competitive rate for bed and breakfast or bed only, if you prefer and we could skip breakfast altogether and spend all day in bed."

"I think I can make that promise."

"I will hold you to that."

# CHAPTER 49

2015 over Edinburgh

The view of the wing offered a sense of perspective to the coastline of The Netherlands, thirty-six thousand feet below the A320 jet. Sitting perfectly in the centre of John's field of vision out the cabin window, the riveted panels stretched out into the blue of the high altitude flight path. There was no clear sensation of motion, his insides excepted. The aborted landing at Edinburgh the previous December still toyed with his irrational fears. ' _Twenty-five minutes to landing'_ , the co-pilot had just announced. He would soon be home to Edinburgh, to his daughters and to the absence of Kate. Had he found anything in the Swiss Alps, after all the intervening years? Had he found what that little piece of him had been yearning for? Had he always known deep down, always felt the presence of the tiny grave in the forgotten corner of the mountain graveyard? He had lost Kate. His only hope for salvation was to face the future in the knowledge that he had, at last, found John Alexander. Only then would he find the strength to keep breathing. The engine noise altered, the seat belt signs illuminated.

"Cabin crew, ten minutes to landing," the pilot's voice echoed through the impossible cylinder. John's mouth was dry and his head throbbed. He wanted to go straight to bed and stay there for a very long time. He was shattered, barely enough energy remaining to fasten his seatbelt.

A grey Volkswagen Passat rolled up to the entrance of the short-stay car park. The driver pressed the illuminated green button, took the ticket and the barrier lifted. The rain had cleared through, so no need to seek out a precious space close to the terminal. The driver flicked down the sun visor and looked in the vanity mirror. The blue eyes were clear with only a faint eye pencil for enhancement; lipstick an unobtrusive shade of pink. Maggie was pleased with her hair. It was layered, shaped and coloured, but still with enough length to rest seductively on her shoulders.

"Don't worry, I will get the airport bus into town," had been his parting words when she had phoned to ask what flight he was getting home.

Maggie hadn't bothered to offer an argument. She had showered and dressed in her best black top and skirt; zipped up her knee length leather boots and sat on the edge of the bed composing a text message of what she wanted to say to him, for she knew when it came to it, she wouldn't have the courage to speak the words.

" _I am not asking to move in, John. Just to be able to look forward to a leisurely walk in Glencoe on a Sunday afternoon, or maybe do a little shopping in Marks and Spencer. Perhaps an occasional dinner at The Witchery or really spoil ourselves at the Number One Restaurant._

_I know I can never take Kate's place in your life, let alone your heart. I am in no way worthy of either, but maybe you would permit me to walk beside you on your journey out of the dark forest of grief; on our journey out of that forest. Someday, I promise to show you the light again_."

She let her forefinger hover over the send button, but as he would be at forty thousand feet somewhere over southern England by now, he wouldn't receive the message anyway. Maggie dropped her mobile into her handbag, lit a cigarette and grabbed the cream puffer jacket from the back of the chair.

John was numb with the despair and fatigue that slashed mercilessly at him when he lifted his bag from the carousel and carried it towards the exit doors. So preoccupied was he that he was about to mumble "Excuse me," to the woman who blocked his laboured path.

His weary eyes looked up and in that instant he knew he didn't have to be brave any more.

406

