The Templar Key, By Number One Author (Peter Sparke Book 3)

by Scott Chapman

  Despite the fact that he was enjoying the telephone conversation with Tilly, his attention switched immediately to the screen when he saw an email from Karin. It took him three attempts to understand what it said.

  Karin and Dieter invite you to a party to celebrate their engagement! The email had been decorated with a bunch of pastel colored balloons.

  There was no mistake, this was from Karin and it was an invitation to a party to celebrate her engagement. And yes, her engagement to someone called Dieter did mean engagement to get married.

  “Peter, are you still there?” said Tilly, aware of the silence from Sparke.

  “Yes, sorry, I’m here, no problem. Look, something has just come up and I need to deal with it. Can I call you tomorrow?”

  “Sure, of course. Call when you are free.”

  Sparke’s mind was already miles away. Dieter…could that possibly be Dieter from the Compliance Department? Was such a thing possible? If Karin was choosing a husband, Sparke would, like anyone else in the company, have assumed she would have gone for an astronaut, a pediatric surgeon who spent his life saving children’s lives, or some sort of aid worker who fought for the world’s dispossessed. Not Dieter from Compliance.

  “Are you marrying Dieter from the Compliance Department?” Sparke was not being a balanced, considerate co-worker.

  “Hello, Peter,” said Karin into the receiver. “Yes, Dieter and I have decided to become engaged.”

  “Karin, even that sentence structure is appalling. This isn’t buying a car or moving your pension to another fund manager. You’re not meant to say that you have ‘decided to become engaged’. You’re supposed to say that you are getting married and that you are unbelievably happy. You’re really marrying Dieter from Compliance?”

  “Peter, perhaps we should discuss this outside work. This is something we should talk about in personal time.”

  “Yes,” said Sparke, his voice uncharacteristically full of energy. “Yes, I totally agree. Personal time starts, in my book, at 5.00 pm so I think we need to be talking sometime around five minutes past five o’clock. If that is all right with you.”

  Karin sighed. “Can we meet at five thirty in the Forrest Park?” This was a wooded area that had been set aside as green space in the rapidly expanding business area between the outskirts of Munich and the airport.

  Sparke arrived fifteen minutes early and by the time Karin parked her car, he had managed to move from feeling like a spurned lover to an embarrassed fool of a work colleague who had imagined a relationship where none existed.

  “I’m sorry, I was rude on the phone,” said Sparke.

  “I think the English word is ‘brusque’ isn’t it?” smiled Karin. Sparke tried not to smile back.

  “Congratulations. To both of you, of course. I had no idea that you and Dieter were thinking about getting married. Seems like a sudden romance.”

  “Peter, I’m sorry. I know I should have told you face-to-face, but I suppose I was just a little angry with you.”

  “Angry with me?” Sparke was genuinely mystified. “What did I do?”

  “Well, Peter, that is the problem: you did not do anything. You never made any move, I never saw any response from you.”

  Sparke was instantly aware that, since he had not known how to act, he had failed to act at all. Like a man falling from a high building, he saw the events of his stillborn relationship with Karin flash before his eyes, now viewed from the perspective of his own inertia.

  “Please don’t say that we can still be friends. It is just not what I want to hear right now.”

  “But we still can be friends, can’t we?” said Karin, clearly confused.

  “Of course we can, it’s just a cliché.”

  “Ah, British humor, I suppose,” said Karin, smiling again.

  “Yes, just my bad sense of humor.”

  Sparke and Karin stood silently together for a moment.

  “So, you and Dieter from Compliance?”

  “We went to university together,” she said. “I was a little surprised when he proposed, but when he did, it felt obvious for me to say ‘yes’.”

  “Of course it was,” said Sparke. “I hope you are both happy.” He wanted to leave now and wished that he could just shake her hand and drive off, but he forced himself to give Karin a peck on the cheek instead. That concluded, he looked at his watch and said, “I do need to go. I have a trip to plan.”

  “You’re going somewhere? Somewhere nice?” said Karin.

  “Yes,” said Sparke. “Turkey.”

  August

  Bastian and his family stood in the Ballroom of the Yachting Club, welcoming the cream of Smyrna society to his twenty-first birthday party. French, German, Italian, British, American, and Austrian families mixed with Turkish politicians and Greek merchants. The city was part of the Turkish heartland of the Ottoman Empire, but its population was possibly the most mixed of any city in the world.

  International tensions had been rising, especially since the recent assassination of the Austro-Hungarian Emperor in Sarajevo, but the high society in the room had seen crises come and go before. Business was business, and the business of Smyrna society was to keep things moving on a level keel, regardless of what happened elsewhere.

  “When will the music start?” said Bastian’s youngest brother.

  “Once we have welcomed everyone, then once all the older ladies have gone home and our Muslim guests have left, we can start the dancing,” said Bastian. “This party is for everyone, you know, not just you and me.”

  His brother scowled at Bastian.

  The greeting line had barely dispersed when there was a commotion around the front door. Bastian watched as his father and a group of his friends formed a tight circle in one corner, obviously deep in conversation with the British and French Ambassadors. A number of naval officers were in the center of the group.

  After a few minutes, the British Ambassador left the group, walked up onto the stage and silenced the musicians with a curt wave. He held a piece of paper in his hand, a telegram. Silence fell across the crowd.

  “Your Excellencies, Ladies and Gentlemen. We have, this evening, received confirmation that forces of the Imperial German Army crossed the Belgian border. Demands from the French and British governments that these forces leave Belgian territory immediately have been rejected by Berlin.”

  He paused for a moment and looked around the room.

  “On receipt of these rejections from Berlin, the governments of France, and His Majesty’s Government, have felt there is no alternative but to declare war on Germany. With immediate effect, a state of war now exists between our nations.”

  The room erupted as everyone turned to their immediate neighbor to try and find some expression that made sense of the news on this perfect August evening. Sebastian found his younger brothers by his side, both looking intently towards him and obviously willing him to do something.

  The Ambassador allowed the hubbub to continue for a few moments then waved the crowd into silence.

  “It goes without saying that all young men should consider where their duty lies to their King and to their Country. The Embassy will open its doors tomorrow to help those who wish to join the colors.”

  As soon as the words were out, a number of young men in white tie and tails approached the stage and fell into urgent conversation with the Ambassador and the few military officers who stood near him.

  Bastian, however, turned and walked towards his father. There was never any question as to what he would do.

  “Papa, I should go into the Navy.”

  His father nodded.

  “The Navy makes sense. When will you go?”

  “There is a fast packet to Alexandria on Tuesday and I can pick up a P&O out of Suez from there. The Ambassador will be good enough to write a letter for the Admiralty, I’m sure, so there should be no question.”

  His father nodded silently, and then put his arm around his son’s shoulders.
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  “We can tell your mother together,” he said, guiding his son towards the group of ladies where his mother held court. Seeing the two Drysdale-Behier men approaching, the women parted, creating a path to where Bastian’s mother sat.

  “Of course,” she said, with the barest flicker when Bastian told her of his plans. The group of Grande Dames who made up the top flight of mammas in Smyrna smiled approvingly at such a touching display of family loyalty and patriotism, wishing only that their own sons could have such an opportunity to shine.

  The next morning he stood in his father’s study. The letter from the Ambassador recommending Bastian to the Admiralty had already arrived. Embassy clerks had been up all night writing them for the scores of well-connected young men who would seek, and invariably receive, commissions in the armies and navies of the Allied forces.

  Bastian sat in the chair facing across the desk where his father sat.

  “The whole thing may not even come to anything,” said his father. “At least, that’s what people are saying. It’s hard to see it being allowed to last long. The Germans can beat France, but they cannot win a war if they have no access to the sea for any length of time - they will starve and they will never get past the Royal Navy. Berlin will see sense.”

  “Yes, Papa,” said Bastian.

  “Everything will be fine here. Nothing will happen, so long as the Turks don’t do anything suicidal like join the Germans against us.”

  How the other half lives

  Their arrival at Istanbul airport had been a unique experience for both of them. As they stood up to leave the plane, a uniformed member of the ground crew appeared with a porter, who scooped up their hand luggage and escorted them to a passenger lounge where their passports and visas were briefly checked. Then, rather than having to walk through the main concourse of the airport with the other passengers, they were shown to a courtyard where a car was waiting for them. From leaving the plane to pulling away in the car took less than eight minutes.

  In the back seat, Tilly turned to Sparke.

  “All this for an hour of conversation with you. You must feel honored,” she said.

  “I feel a bit of a fraud, to be honest,” he said. “I can’t imagine what she thinks is going to happen in a single discussion. She must have more money than sense.”

  “She seemed pretty sensible when I met her,” said Tilly. “But she has plenty of money as well, so you might be right.”

  “I looked her up online. One of the top one hundred people in the media world, all-around zillionaire, that type of thing,” agreed Sparke.

  “So, not a crank, then?”

  “Not so far as I can tell. Nothing that has made it into the public domain, at any rate.”

  “Do you think she just wants to make you a media star or something? Make a program about your discovery in Scotland?”

  “I hope not, but if she does, then I am quite used to saying ‘no’ by now.”

  The hotel was a palace of glass and marble with hordes of uniformed staff rushing around. As soon as the car stopped, their bags disappeared into the hands of a team of porters to be taken directly to their suites.

  “Professor Pink, Mr. Sparke, we are honored to have you visiting us,” the duty manager said. “Please do not hesitate to let us know if we can do anything at all to make your stay more comfortable. If I could have your passports, we will take care of the formalities and return them to you directly.”

  Despite spending much of his life staying in hotels around the world, Sparke found it hard not to be impressed by the reception, wondering how many times he had queued at check-in desks while VIP guests were being greeted with this sort of luxury in the same hotel. Tilly made no attempt to hide her joy.

  “You have a spa here, I think?” she asked the manager.

  The manager seemed delighted to be able to find something which he could do to make a guest happy.

  “Of course. We are proud of our health and beauty suite. Your guest card will give you unlimited access and you can book treatments whenever you require. Of course, your bill is being taken care of by your host.”

  Tilly beamed and picked up her key card with undisclosed glee.

  “I have a note for you, Mr. Sparke,” said the manager, handing him an envelope that was heavily embossed with the hotel logo.

  Sparke read the note and then looked over to Tilly, who had her nose buried in a glossy brochure describing the delights of the spa.

  “It looks like you have this evening to yourself,” he said. “I am invited to dinner with our host.”

  Tilly absently smiled up at Sparke. She was already thoroughly occupied with other thoughts.

  “Hmm, good. Have a nice meal.” She turned to the manager. “I would like to go to the spa…ah…more or less immediately. Is that possible?”

  “Absolutely. I will let them know to expect you. Can I offer you a glass of champagne for the moment?”

  “You certainly can, thank you, Mr. Ahmet,” she said, reading the name on his badge. “I would love a glass of champagne.”

  She glanced back at Sparke.

  “Since you’re busy this evening, I suppose we can meet for breakfast. Eight o’clock all right?”

  Sparke knew when he was being dismissed. He looked at Mr. Ahmet. “How do I contact our host? Should I call her room? I would like to meet her as soon as is convenient.”

  “She specifically told us to show you to her suite as soon as you were ready.”

  Sparke looked over at Tilly, who was sipping champagne, reading the brochure, and flipping her foot back and forth, deep in thought.

  “I think I am ready now, as it happens,” said Sparke.

  “Of course, sir. I will escort you there myself. Just let me call ahead.”

  Ahmet spoke softly into the phone for a few seconds and then stood up, turning briefly to Tilly.

  “The spa manager will be with you immediately, Professor Pink.”

  Tilly, who seemed able to enjoy five-star luxury without guilt, smiled her thanks to Mr. Ahmet and then waggled her fingers in a wave to Sparke.

  “Have fun.”

  The lift that took them to the top floor moved so fast that Sparke had to brace his knees to compensate for the pressure.

  The elevator opened onto a foyer larger than the living room in Sparke’s apartment. At the far side of the room was a door that opened as they arrived. Mr. Ahmet gestured towards it, but remained in the lift. Sparke nodded his thanks and crossed the thick carpet, his feet bouncing.

  Holding the door open was a young man of slight build, wearing a suit so well-fitted that it looked to Sparke to be sprayed onto his body.

  “Mr. Sparke,” he said in a voice that had no discernible accent at all.

  Sparke walked towards the young man and into the most exquisite room he had seen in his life. It was only when he saw a room like this that he realized how slapdash normal people’s taste was. Every item was not only perfectly in tune with the rest of the decor, it was also placed, somehow, in a way that made it look as though it had been created to be just there.

  Sitting in the midst of this room was a woman who looked completely in tune with her luxurious surroundings. The woman stood and walked towards him with her hand outstretched. She looked to be perhaps in her mid-fifties, but Sparke knew her to be over ten years older than that.

  “Mr. Sparke, it’s a pleasure to meet you. And, how nice of you to have come all this way.”

  “Ms. Drysdale-Behier, how do you do?” said Sparke, taking her hand.

  Ripples of war

  In a warehouse in the dockyards of Newcastle in the north of England, a nervous young infantry captain looked over at his heavily armed company, standing smoking and chatting in the cool dawn of an August morning. Near the soldiers, was a group of sailors. Like the soldiers, they were armed, the rifles and cartridge belts looking incongruous over their blue Navy uniforms.

  Since the declaration of war a few weeks ago, he had been expecting to be sent
into action, but was surprised that he had been ordered to northern England, rather than France. After having been briefed by his battalion commander, he was summoned to the telephone to be given further detailed instructions directly from London. Telephone calls from London to lowly infantry captains were rare occurrences; conversations with government Chief Secretaries, unheard of.

  The Chief Secretary asked the Captain to repeat, in his own words, what his orders were. Satisfied that the mission was clearly understood, the Chief Secretary summarized succinctly.

  “Do your job, do all of your job, don’t let anything stupid happen.”

  Avoiding anything stupid was high on his list. He glanced at his watch. Then he nodded to the two lieutenants who stood by him.

  “Form up, nice and quiet.”

  The soldiers lined up four abreast and, at the low blast of a whistle, they began to double time round the building and on to the dockside. The column ran in neat formation along the quay, their heavy metal hobnailed boots shattering the silence as they clattered against the cobblestones in a pounding rhythm. Sloped across their chests were Lee-Enfield rifles. The guns were loaded and they had their bayonets fixed.

  Tied up to the quay were two of the most powerful battleships in the world, completed only days before and already partly crewed, ready for sea. The ships, with their thick armor and 13.5 inch guns were the equal of any ship afloat and, in terms of destructive power, were amongst the most advanced and deadly machines ever created.

  Reaching the first ship, the soldiers split into two groups and, led by the Royal Navy sailors, they rushed up the gangways onto the battleships, startling a group of early morning workers, bemused at seeing British soldiers in full battle order boarding a ship in an English port.

  As they reached the deck, one group rushed down into the bowels of the ship towards the engine room, their metal shod boots causing the soldiers to slip and skid on the steel surfaces. A second group raced for the bridge. The inside of the ship was a maze of passageways; without the British sailors to guide them, the soldiers could never have hoped to find their way.