But despite the joy the machine brought Bastian, and the freedom it gave to his father, Bastian had bought it for a specific task. They were going up into the hills to the Monastery to find the graves, and the truth behind the deaths, of Bastian’s two brothers.
The Key
“From what you’re saying, it sounds like we have some nice bits and pieces of a story here.”
Maryam’s voice filled Sparke’s office as she spoke to him and Tilly through the big Screen. Although Sparke had been given clear instructions by Tilly that he should never talk to her with her face displayed across the full height of the two meter high Screen, she had been keen to make sure that Maryam’s face was enlarged as much as possible. She stood close to the screen, examining Maryam’s face with the care of an expert, then turned to Sparke, mouthed the words, “definitely had work done” and palmed the skin of own face back tightly to mime a facelift.
“What’s next?” said Maryam, unaware that she was being so closely scrutinized.
“Next,” said Sparke, “is to explore the link between the key your grandfather left you, and to understand the link between that and why your great-grandfather chose to stay in Smyrna when he had the chance to escape. We would like to take another look at the key. Is that possible?”
“You think it can tell us something, or you think it might not be genuine?” said Maryam.
“It is a piece of evidence,” said Tilly. “There is no way we cannot examine it.”
There was a moment’s pause.
“What else?”
“There’s another avenue we need to explore,” said Sparke, “the link between your family and the Monastery.”
“If you want to, go ahead,” said Maryam. “But that’s a dead end. It was a hole-in-a-wall place for a bunch of recluses, and as far as I know, it was nothing more than a local charity my family supported for a while.”
“Let’s start with the key then,” said Sparke. “Can you get it to us here in Munich?”
There was another pause as Maryam thought.
“I can have it in Munich tomorrow evening,” said Maryam. “When do we need to talk next?”
“Give us a week to investigate the key and look into the Monastery again,” said Sparke. “We’ll call you when we have something.”
“Let’s talk a week from today, same time,” said Maryam. “I will have the call scheduled.”
She hung up.
“She would be an interesting person to work for,” said Sparke.
“By ‘interesting’, you mean terrible, I assume?”
“Hmmm, yes, terrible,” agreed Sparke. “What’s the plan with the key?”
“The Deutsches Museum here in Munich is where the Institute for Research into the History of Science and Technology is based. They have an Early Technology Team that is as good as any in the world. I can meet with them and get their informal opinion. What about the Monastery?”
Sparke was a firm believer in the idea that any person on the planet could be reached within three phone calls. All he had to do was find the person who could shine a light onto the relationship between the Monastery and the Drysdale-Behier family.
“I can do some digging with the Screen and see what I can find. I have a stack of vacation time to use up and the team out there,” he gestured to the busy office, “seems to be able to manage perfectly well without me.”
They agreed to meet the following evening, and Tilly headed back to the private archives of the Duke’s family to read more of the original dispatches from the medieval ambassadors to the Court in Constantinople. Once she had left, Sparke crossed the office to make himself a coffee. His staff knew that he was on vacation, but none found it strange that he chose to spend his time off at the office.
Back in front of his Screen, Sparke called up images and photographs of the various locations and documents surrounding the key and Maryam’s family. When he was done, he looked at his Screen, now covered with photographs of the old shrine at Jacob’s Column, the strange Redoubt at the mountain pass, the Templar key, and the shots which Tilly had taken inside the Monastery showing the renovation work which had been done by the Drysdale-Behier family.
After ten minutes of staring at the collection of images, he spoke to the Screen.
“Call contact name Oktay, Istanbul.”
The Screen took a fraction of a second to find the contact, then switched to a telephone application and called a number in Istanbul. Fatih Oktay was the Managing Partner of the Turkish office of a major American consulting firm. He and Sparke had worked together on a project to define and plan for the major risks associated with the free flow of sea traffic on the Bosporus. They had worked well together, even though they had rarely met face to face.
“Oktay,” said the voice at the other end.
“Fatih, this is Peter Sparke here. How are you doing?”
“Peter, well, very well. How are you?”
“I’m fine thanks. Listen, I’m sorry to call you out of the blue like this, but I’m involved in a private project, one that might involve some historical research on Turkey around the early 1920’s.”
“Really, the early 1920’s? Interesting period you’ve picked there.”
Sparke noticed he slightly cool tone in Oktay’s voice.
“I know it was a difficult time,” said Sparke. “My focus is on the relationship between a British family who lived in Smyrna and an Orthodox monastery in the hills outside the city. I’m interested in finding any archive materials that might still exist. Any ideas who I might talk to?”
“Smyrna?” said Oktay, sounding confused. “The city of Izmir was sometimes known to foreigners as Smyrna. I suppose that’s what you are thinking about?”
“Yes,” said Sparke, taken aback. “I think that’s probably right. Would an Orthodox Church monastery have had to make any kind of registration with the local authorities - tax returns, donations, that sort of thing?”
“I am no historian, Peter, but as far as I can recall, when the Greeks left they took everything with them, and left quite a mess, to be honest.”
“What happened to all their old properties when they, ah, left?” said Sparke.
“That’s something I do have a little experience in. When I first started work I was a junior accountant and we did the winding up of the old organization that handled that sort of thing. It was called the Abandoned Properties Administration Commission. It dealt with the various empty properties that arose out of the war.”
Sparke spent another ten minutes on the phone with Oktay, but the cheerful tone of their conversation had been lost. Sparke lived in a world where past mistakes were dragged into the light by the media, where there was a flawed, but genuine attempt to understand the past. His conversation with Oktay had left him with the impression that they had both been talking on the same subject, but in different directions. He could not help but wonder what was meant by the phrase, ‘abandoned properties’. It felt like a too clever legal term.
He turned to the Screen.
“Screen.”
“Yes,” said the Screen, recognizing the firmness in Sparke’s voice and dispensing with pleasantries.
“Find Turkish or Ottoman references to Abandoned Properties Administration Commission, Smyrna or Izmir.”
“Searching,” said the Screen.
Strangely, Sparke could not hold back a vague feeling of anger as he waited for the results.
The High Pass
The light from the fire cast a weak glow over Bastian and his father. It barely reached the walls of the Monastery room where they sat over their meagre meal before the darkness took over again.
In the year since the war’s end, Bastian had learned how to be a civilian: becoming a husband, hanging up his uniform and taking on the responsibility of running the family business, now thriving again as peace brought commerce flooding back to the city of Smyrna.
“Clarise is happy?” said his father.
“She seems to be,” said Bastia
n. “She is counting the days until the baby arrives. Only a month or so now.”
“The house needs a child again,” agreed his father.
The soft noise behind them of a sandal scuffing on the stone floor made his father crane his neck around. At the doorway stood the old monk.
“I hope our poor food satisfies you,” he said. “People tell us that it is terrible, but we are used to it and have nothing better to offer.”
Bastian stood up, bending his head involuntarily under the low ceiling.
“The food is excellent, Father,” he said.
The old monk took one of the stools and sat down facing the men. He looked closely at Bastian’s father.
“Some of the brothers hid when you arrived on your motorcycle. The noise is terrible. There are many of these things in the city?”
“Not many,” said Bastian’s father. “My son had it brought from England. It is the only way we can get up through the pass now. I cannot ride a horse.”
“I did not recognize you when you arrived,” said the monk. “Time has been hard on you. You look much older.”
“I became ill when I learned that my sons were dead. I am much recovered now.”
The mention of the boys’ deaths brought a silence to the room. The monk knew why the two men had come and he saw no point in avoiding the subject.
“One of our brothers, Johanes, was travelling back from the high pasture when it happened. When your sons were killed. He recognized the older boy.”
“What happened?” said Bastian.
“There was a group of them, brigands from the east. They seized your sons when they were sleeping near the High Pass. Our brother, Johanes, tried to reason with the robbers. Johanes was…”
The monk struggled for the words.
“Johanes often forgot that not everyone has the same sense of obligation as we do. The robbers brought Johanes and your sons to the gate of the Monastery. They wanted money and food. We had no money to give, but we gave them the food that we had. They became angry when we could not give them more. They demanded to be allowed to come into the Monastery.”
The monk fell silent again, his mind full of memories of that day.
“Your son shouted that we should not allow them in. He said they would be killed anyway. Brother Johanes also shouted out, but he shouted at the robbers, and he spoke to them with anger. He was proud and spoke to them so loudly that we could hear him from here. One of the robbers took his weapon, his gun, like yours…”
At his he leaned over and tapped the revolver Bastian wore on his belt.
“He shot them all: your sons, Johanes, and another of our Order. They laughed and walked away. We did not dare go to the bodies at first, but later, we brought them inside. Both your sons were still breathing. The youngest died that night, but the older boy lived for three days. Johanes and our other brother died.”
An image of his brothers filled Bastian’s mind, the picture of them on the quayside the day he left to join the Navy, arguing over who would look after his bicycle when he was away. They had been so intent on the petty quarrel that they had almost forgotten to say goodbye to him as he walked onto the ship.
Tears filled his eyes and he walked out of the room onto the walkway that lined the inside of the ancient building. The pale evening sky reflected on the pool of water that lay at the heart of the Monastery. He clenched his jaw, but could not stop himself from letting out a sudden, single sob of loss. He heard his father and the monk begin to speak again, and he walked back into the room, rubbing the tears away with the heel of his palms.
“You and your family have always helped us,” said the monk. “We know that you did so because we showed you where to dig your mine and gave you permission to use our land, but you have always done more than you had to. Your sons died because they tried to warn us.”
“And your brothers died trying to protect my sons,” said Bastian’s father.
“Tomorrow,” said the monk, “we will take you to their graves. They are not far.”
The three men shared a long silence, each lost in his thoughts. Eventually it was the monk, the man who had least attachment to earthly life, who spoke first.
“There are soldiers,” said the monk. “We have seen them in the distance. Many of them. Heading north.”
“They will not harm you,” said Bastian. “They are Greeks, Orthodox Christians like yourself.”
“So there is a war with the Turks now?” said the monk.
“Yes,” said Bastian. “But the Greeks are strong and they are pushing the Turks far into the hills. The fighting is very far away.”
“The Turks have been rulers here for a thousand years,” said the monk. “Do you believe they will not return?”
Bastian wanted to avoid the question. He never spoke about the war between the Greeks and Turks at home or with friends. He knew the Greeks were well-equipped and supported, but he had seen Turkish soldiers fighting in Gallipoli when they were well-commanded, and he knew that when they believed they were their country’s last hope, they were able to withstand devastating losses without accepting defeat.
He had first met this monk when he was a small child, in this same room, when the monk had clumsily shaken hands with his father. He had met him many times since and could not bring himself to lie.
“I think the Turks will come back.”
At this, his father turned sharply towards him, but said nothing. The monk did not flinch. He had been expecting this answer.
“If the Turks come back,” he said, “will you help us?”
Bastian thought of his two brothers, spending the last hours of their lives in the care of these monks.
“We will do all we can.”
“There are other places where you can dig your mines,” said the monk. “The stones you want are also under the Blue Mountain. We will show you.”
The monk walked out of the room, but returned immediately. He extended his hand, and Bastian reached for it, thinking he was offering a handshake, but he saw the monk was, in fact, holding something out to him.
“Sometimes,” said the monk, “sometimes we have had need of a guardian. We have seen wars before and, in the past, guardians from outside have saved us. This was left by one of them. You should have it.”
Bastian took the key. It was heavy and filled his hand with its dead weight. He held it close to the flickering light from the fire. On the end of the key shaft, a rough emblem had been embossed. It took a moment to understand that is was of two men riding on one horse, the men held what looked like swords in their hands.
Documents
“What I am saying,” said Tilly, exasperated by Sparke’s sometimes overly literal mind, “is that whoever made this key probably had no idea how to make a key, but there is nothing wrong with it as a key.”
“I don’t get it. Is this a bad key or what?”
“Here’s the thing,” said Tilly, “the Institute in Munich says that this key is certainly not typical of the period. In some ways it is more advanced, but in others it shows a lack of knowledge of how keys were made, or even how they worked.”
“OK, that means someone who was familiar enough with keys, but not how they worked in detail?”
“Uh huh,” said Tilly, “but also someone who knew a lot about how to make things out of metal and understood the basics of primitive mechanics. Keys then were made by pouring molten metal into a mold with teeth that were shaped for the specific lock. This one was hammered and filed into shape and the lock probably made to fit the key.”
Sparke stared at the key for the hundredth time in the past few hours. He and Tilly were on a Turkish Airlines Airbus A340 heading to Istanbul, occupying two luxurious business class seats, giving them a virtual suite on the aircraft. Their discoveries during the past two days had brought them to the conclusion that their next step was a return visit to the site of the Monastery and the Templar Redoubt at the high pass on the old Pilgrim Road.
“Let’s assume,”
said Sparke, “that most people knew what a key was in the fourteenth century. What you are talking about is someone who knew a lot about metal work but not current technology in the area of locks and keys, so this is a bad key, right?”
“As a key it is not great, functional but not technically advanced, but as a piece of metalwork it is very well made, far too well made, to be honest. The shaft has been pulled and formed, not molded. It’s rust free even now. The metal has been thoroughly purified and is unbelievably strong. Far stronger than keys of the time, according to the Institute.”
“It looks like a classic piece of over-engineering,” said Sparke, turning the key through his fingers and feeling the smooth surface against his skin. “Someone has misapplied technology to an existing engineering problem. It’s too advanced for an untrained blacksmith, not smart enough for a lock maker, but made by someone who understands metal and mechanics. Who does that leave?”
Tilly had been thinking about what the key did not look like rather than making an effort to understand what it was like.
“An armorer?” she said.
“You told me that locks were made by locksmiths and they kept their trade secrets close to their chests,” said Sparke. “Who else knew a lot about metal working then?”
“A weapons expert with a good knowledge of engineering,” said Tilly. “A soldier engineer.”
“A soldier engineer,” repeated Sparke, trying not to feel pleased at keeping up with Tilly in terms of point scoring. “The man who you said led the Templars at the fight for Jacob’s Column was a builder, an engineer and a soldier.”
“A mason,” said Tilly. “In fact he was called ‘The Mason’ in the letter to the Bavarian Duke.”
The Templar Key, By Number One Author (Peter Sparke Book 3) Page 15
