C. Palov - Templar's Quest

‘Ley lines are man-made energy conduits. Built over the top of telluric currents, the stones used in ley lines can carry electromagnetic energy for hundreds of miles,’ Aisquith replied. ‘This particular ley line is comprised of five monuments: the Pyramid, the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, the Obelisk, the Arc de Triomphe l’Étoile and the Grande Arche. Not surprisingly, during the Paris Occupation, the Ahnenerbe spent an inordinate amount of time mapping and measuring the Axe Historique.’

Clearly on board, Kate’s head energetically bobbed up and down. ‘Let me make certain that I comprehend how the pieces fit together: there’s astral energy radiating from Sirius and telluric energy radiating from beneath the ground. But in order to fuse these two different forms of energy, a ley line must be constructed.’ She pressed her palms together to illustrate the point.

‘Precisely. As above, so below.’

‘And then what?’

‘Then, if all the pieces of the puzzle have been properly placed, you can now create the Vril force. Vril, chi, orgone, mana –’ as he reeled off the list, Aisquith waved his hand in the air – ‘they’re all names for the same fused energy force.’

‘How very interesting,’ Kate murmured. ‘Were the ancient Egyptians able to fuse astral and telluric energy and create the Vril force?’

‘The Germans were convinced that the megalithic structures built along the Nile delta enabled the Egyptians to do just that. Determined to resurrect this lost science, the Ahnenerbe spent a small fortune studying the texts and monuments of ancient Egypt. As I said earlier today, the Ahnenerbe were desperately trying to devise military applications for the Vril force.’

‘Just a pie-in-the-sky theory,’ Finn said dismissively, certain he was the only one in the group able to distinguish fact from fantasy.

‘All great ideas begin with a theory,’ Aisquith was quick to assert. ‘If the Vril force could be harnessed, it would create a powerful biodynamic comprised of magnetic, electromagnetic and electrical energy.’

‘Yeah, whatever.’

Needing to clear his head – having reached his bullshit quota – Finn strode over to a nearby display case and peered inside. For several seconds he stared at a little bronze statue of a nude dude hefting a weird-looking beast on to his shoulders. He read the neatly typed tag: ‘Anonymous; Archaic Period; Around 530 BC.’ Guess that was before they invented pants.

Bored, he glanced at his watch. 1203 hours. Jesus. How long was it going to take for Aisquith to get the dossiers? He still needed to buy supplies and find a hotel room so he and Kate could hunker down and get some shut-eye. Tomorrow the mission would kick into full gear and they needed to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. And here I am fucking around at the Louvre.

Just then, Kate looked over and smiled shyly at him. As though his eye muscles had a mind of their own, Finn winked at her. A split-second later, self-consciously aware of what he’d done, he lowered his head and feigned an interest in the display case.

Not for the first time, he was surprised that he could be turned on by Kate’s winsome personality. In the past, sexual arousal had always been linked to lots of cleavage, swaying hips and pouty lips. But Kate roasted his nuts because her dainty femininity was wrapped around a steel core of quiet strength. And, yeah, he found that sexy as hell. He also found that scary as hell. If he lost his focus for one moment, the Dark Angel could blow them away. Or the French authorities could catch him in a dragnet, allowing CID to extradite his ass to the US. Who would protect Kate if that happened? Though he’d never admit it to Aisquith, that business about the photo recognition software spooked him. Just one more thing to worry about.

Still standing next to the display case, Finn watched as Aisquith placed a hand on Kate’s shoulder. Obviously, the Brit still carried a torch. Well, fuck that shit.

Finn strode over to where the pair stood at the window.

‘And another thing,’ he announced without preamble, determined to break up their little exchange. ‘You don’t have one scrap of evidence to prove any of your theories. You keep yammering about something that I can’t see, touch or smell. Just how the hell do you use the ley line that’s on the axis to create this all-powerful Vril force?’ Monkey wrench hurled, he belligerently put his hands on his hips.

Aisquith shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’

‘Finally! An honest answer.’

‘Cædmon, do you by any chance know when the heliacal rising of Sirius will take place?’ Kate enquired, still riding the Vril bandwagon.

‘Unless I’m greatly mistaken, it will occur on the seventh of August.’

Kate’s jaw visibly slackened. ‘ Oh, my God … that’s just three days away.’

33

‘ Scheisse! ’

Annoyed that the dresser drawer had jammed, Dolf Reinhardt yanked it off the runner, several pairs of rolled socks bouncing free and rolling across the bare floor.

In a hurry, he deposited the drawer on to the nearby bed. Hearing the pulsating beat of loud music emanate from the next-door apartment, he strode over to the adjoining wall and roughly banged it with a balled fist.

‘ Halt die fresse, drecksau! ’

Uncertain if what he was hearing was rap or hip-hop, Dolf was absolutely convinced that the Senegalese family who had recently moved into the flat was a gang of dirty pigs. Ear to the wall, he listened as a female berated someone in a foreign language. Whatever was said, it had the desired effect, the offending music turned down. Satisfied, Dolf gathered his small bundle of clean clothes and headed into the bathroom.

Over the last three years, his Oberkampf neighbourhood had become infested with dark-skinned foreigners and homosexuals. Dolf was repulsed by the sight of them. Willing to put up with leaky plumbing and having to climb six flights of steps, he could not tolerate living in a mixed apartment building. Unfortunately, Paris was a rich man’s city, the lower-class enclave all that he could afford.

Squeezing his six-foot-two frame into the ridiculously small bathroom, he set the pile of clothing on the toilet lid. He then peered into the cracked mirror above the sink, ignoring the incessant plop plop plop that emanated from the tap. Examining his bald pate, he detected a slight golden shimmer. His light blond hair made him look like a gargantuan baby chick – the reason why he kept his head shaved. Striking a bad-ass pose, he flexed both arms, pleased, as always, at seeing the veined muscles. Check out these gunz! Although it’d been twenty years since he’d been crowned the European Junior Boxing Champion, Dolf still had the arms of a heavyweight contender.

Born in East Berlin, he’d been recruited from elementary school into the world-renowned Sportvereinigung Dynamo. Only the most talented athletes were placed into the state-run sports programme. His mother predictably baulked at the idea of her eleven-year-old son living away from home but, with a bit of coaxing, soon relented. Dolf assured her that he would bring honour to the family and, more importantly, to the German Democratic Republic. Since the 1970s, the GDR had dominated the Olympic games, their athletes the best trained in the world.

When, on a rainy October morning, Hedwig Reinhardt signed the official paperwork, she in effect legally turned her only child over to the Stasi, the secret police who were in charge of running the Sports Dynamo.

For the next six years, Dolf’s life was strictly regimented, the sports ideology of the GDR relentlessly hammered into him. Training, teamwork, good hygiene, healthy nutrition and self-discipline were the core principles of the elite sports programme. Because of his size and strength, Dolf quickly came to the attention of the boxing coaches. As his training intensified, Dolf, like many of the top-tier athletes, was constantly monitored. Whenever he left the dormitory, he had to sign a register, indicating what time he would return. If, for whatever reason, he was tardy, a Stasi agent would be sent to locate him. At international boxing matches, he was instructed by these same Stasi agents not to speak to foreigners, especially members of the press.