C. Palov - Templar's Quest

In 1988, at the age of seventeen, he became the European Junior Champion in his weight division. His coaches were ecstatic, certain that Dolf would be a medal contender in the 1992 Barcelona Olympic Games.

And then, in 1989, the fucking wall came tumbling down, literally , the tide of history turning very much against him.

Within days of the collapse of the Berlin Wall, the Sports Dynamo was closed; all of the athletes put out on the street. Hopes dashed. Dreams destroyed. While thousands cheered throughout the city, Dolf sat huddled in a locker room sobbing. Everything he’d known had just been robbed from him. The glory, the greatness, of being an East German athlete. How many times had he dreamed of carrying the GDR flag in the opening ceremony at Barcelona? Head held high. The pride of his country. The envy of the world.

Grief soon mutated into confusion when, several weeks after his training abruptly ended, he began to notice unusual changes in his body, horrified that his testicles were shrinking. But, even more worrisome, he was starting to develop breasts! Too humiliated to tell his mother, he began to wear baggy shirts. Finally, afraid that he might actually be morphing into a girl, he went to a health clinic on the west side of Berlin. Where no one knew him.

The doctor took one glance at his plump boobies and, like he was a mind reader, said, ‘You were an athlete at the Sports Dynamo, weren’t you?’

Dolf hesitantly nodded his head, too afraid to do anything other than admit to the truth.

‘You have a condition known as gynaecomastia. In your case, it’s the result of having been administered androgenic steroids.’

Vehemently shaking his head, Dolf denied the charge. ‘That is a lie! We were only given vitamins and regeneration tablets.’

‘Yes, so they all claim,’ the doctor replied wearily. ‘I can refer you to a specialist who’ll remove the breast tissue.’

Although a surgical referral was made, Dolf never went to the appointment. He was terrified that, once it was revealed he’d been doped with steroids, his Junior European Championship medal would be stripped from him.

Still standing at the bathroom sink, Dolf glanced at his breasts. They weren’t huge, thank God. But they were decidedly feminine, the skin soft, the nipples enlarged. Over the years, he’d often contemplated having the breast tissue removed. But, just when he’d be on the brink of making an appointment, thinking it was finally safe, there would be a new media story about the East German doping scandal – usually triggered by some emotionally traumatized ex-athlete who felt betrayed by the old regime.

Why the hell can’t they keep their mouths shut?

It’d been twenty years! Who gave a shit if those female athletes had been turned into hairy-assed infertile Amazons?

Knowing that the details of the 1988 European Junior Championship were readily available on the Internet, Dolf feared some nosy surgeon would key his name into a search engine. Twenty years may have passed, but they could still take his medal from him. Better to live with a pair of boobies than the shame of having his one glory in life wrenched from his grasp.

Pulling the oversized black T-shirt over his head, Dolf slightly hunched his shoulders, making the telltale bumps barely noticeable. Finished dressing, he headed back to the small bedroom and rifled through the drawer on the bed, removing a twelve-inch painted truncheon decorated with the SS Totenkampf Death Head. The impressive cudgel had belonged to his grandfather, Josef Krueger, an SS officer in the elite Reich Security Service. It was his second most prized possession after his championship medal. Dolf slid the smooth wooden truncheon into his jeans belt loop. A perfect fit.

He then walked over to the wardrobe and retrieved an oversized black satin jacket, emblazoned on the back with Iron Maiden’s famous ‘Evil Eddie’ emblem. Jacket donned, he removed a cardboard shoebox from the top of the wardrobe. Inside was a Heckler & Koch Mark 23 pistol with laser device and an attached silencer; a beautiful piece that he’d bought from an unscrupulous American soldier stationed at the Bamberg military garrison. He shoved the pistol into the back of his waistband. Gangsta-style.

Ready to depart, Dolf walked down the narrow hallway to the second bedroom. Opening the door, he peered inside. A woman with braided grey hair sat at the window, staring at the Paris rooftops.

‘I will be back later. We’re having pickled ham hocks for dinner. Your favourite,’ he added, hoping to elicit a response. When no reply was forthcoming, Dolf sighed wistfully. ‘ Auf wiedersehen, Mutter .’

34

‘ La Pyramide Inversée , as you can see, is the inverted twin to the glass pyramid directly behind us,’ Cædmon said in passing, as the three of them trooped across the street.

‘As above, so below,’ Kate sagely remarked.

‘Indeed.’

Set in the middle of the four-lane thoroughfare, the inverted glass pyramid could only be viewed underground – the reason why the architectural curiosity was often overlooked by tourists strolling in the Cour Napoléon.

Taking a deep breath, Cædmon filled his lungs with muggy air. Despite the sun beating down on his head, neck and face, he’d had his fill of the Louvre. During the summer months, jam-packed with tourists, the museum often felt like a lavish sardine can, which was why he had suggested that they adjourn to the outdoors and view the Axe Historique in situ.

He cast a sideways glance at the grim-faced Finnegan McGuire. Since leaving the museum, the commando had gone on high alert. Although outwardly calm, the man’s gaze constantly shifted from person to person. The roving eye of a fugitive at large. Should the police try to apprehend him, he suspected McGuire would retaliate rather than run, the man a natural-born fighter. Not to mention a cocky son of a bitch.

Whatever does Kate see in him?

Leaving the Pyramide Inversée in their wake, they approached the blush-hued Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, the second monument on the Axe Historique. ‘War and peace have never been so powerfully articulated,’ he commented, having always been drawn to the magnificent landmark. ‘Derived from the triumphal arches of the Roman Empire, the memorial was commissioned by Napoleon to commemorate his stunning victory at Austerlitz. Composed of not one, but three arches, it’s surmounted by a quadriga that depicts Peace holding the reins of a horse-drawn chariot. Flanked by the gilded Victories, the group perpetually gleams. Rain or shine.’

‘I’ve always thought that the rose marble on the columns and front panels softens the lines, adding a surprisingly feminine aura to a monument designed to celebrate the unabashed pursuit of war,’ Kate remarked as the three of them strolled through the centre arch of the monument.

‘Our thoughts run a similar course.’

‘This arch looks a lot like the big one down the road.’ McGuire’s aside was made in his typical blunt fashion.

‘You refer, of course, to the Arc de Triomphe de l’Étoile, the Triumphal Arch of the Star,’ Cædmon said in response. ‘Seen from the sky, the twelve evenly spaced avenues that radiate from the larger arch create a star pattern. I would posit that the star in question is none other than Sirius.’

‘An interesting premise.’ Kate raised her right hand, shielding her eyes from the afternoon glare. ‘But why do you think that?’

‘Because here –’ raising his arm, Cædmon gestured to the monument before them – ‘at the smaller Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, the thick lines of hedgerow that you see radiating from the arch and extending into the adjacent garden have been carefully manicured to resemble the rays of the sun.’