'That chopper goes in forty minutes if we don't get it '

Amy stared around, her eyes bright and hostile. The Herero Skulls grinned at them, from the tragic plinth in the corner. She coughed the dust and said.

'Horrible place. Horrible. I don't understand, understand, Angus. There is nothing here from Germany, nothing at all, it's all Namibian. German Empire but Namibian. How could the Fischer data be here anyway?' Angus. There is nothing here from Germany, nothing at all, it's all Namibian. German Empire but Namibian. How could the Fischer data be here anyway?'

Angus nodded, his voice low and resigned. 'You're right. It's all Namibian...'

David listened. Saying nothing. The skulls smiled at him, laughing at the Cagot. Was he a Cagot? They were mocking him. He tried to drive the thought from his mind. Focussed himself on the map. The clue.

'Zugspitzstra.s.se. What does it mean?'

'Nothing obvious.' Angus sighed, and shook his head. 'It's a common German street name. I've heard it before...' His expression stilled, and changed, and flashed, and was transformed. 'I've heard it before! Jesus!' He stood up. 'I've heard the name before. David. The map! One more time, yes yes, this is it '

They all stood. Life quickening in the veins.

The map was unfolded in the dusty light. Angus held the paper a fraction from his face, reading the tiny line of writing.

'It's the address of the Kaiser Wilhelm Inst.i.tut. In Berlin! Zugspitzstra.s.se. 93. The store rooms.'

'How '

'Famous in...eugenic circles. Not really known to anyone else. This was a note made by Dresler for your father, right?'

'Yes.'

'So he's given him an address. Where to find the Fischer data, maybe, or some clue as to where the data might be...This is the Inst.i.tut.'

'But it's in Berlin. How does it relate to here '

The scientist's smile was triumphant. Even in the pure and horrifying drama, he was helplessly exulting in his own cleverness.

'I worked it out! There is is something in this room from Germany.' something in this room from Germany.'

He turned and pointed. At the Herero Skulls.

'Them?'

'They were repatriated repatriated, from Berlin, in 1999. After years of wrangling. They used to be kept in the Kaiser Wilhem Inst.i.tut. Now they are here. They They have been to Germany. They were in Fischer's possession throughout the war, and after at the Inst.i.tut. The answer must be in them somehow.' have been to Germany. They were in Fischer's possession throughout the war, and after at the Inst.i.tut. The answer must be in them somehow.'

Angus moved quickly to the plinth and picked up the biggest skull. He turned the sad and smiling cranium in his hand.

'An obscene joke. The n.a.z.is loved obscene jokes, they paved Jewish ghettos with Jewish gravestones, so the Jews would trample their own dead. And ' He was examining the skull, closely. 'And where better to hide something very, very...important...than a skull like this? A sacred relic of a terrible genocide. Fischer must have known no one would ever ever smash it open, retrieve the secret, unless they smash it open, retrieve the secret, unless they definitely definitely knew what they wanted, where they were seeking.' He lifted up the skull, squinted inside, then he lifted it higher, talking quietly to the skull. 'Sorry, brother, I am so very f.u.c.king sorry but I have to do this. Forgive me.' knew what they wanted, where they were seeking.' He lifted up the skull, squinted inside, then he lifted it higher, talking quietly to the skull. 'Sorry, brother, I am so very f.u.c.king sorry but I have to do this. Forgive me.'

He dropped the skull on the floor. The dry aged bone shattered at once, almost gratefully. Crumbling in the dust, adding dust to orange dust.

A tiny steel cylinder glinted on the floorboards, amidst the scattered shards of bone. Angus picked it up.

'Hidden in the olfactory cavity.'

Amy and David gathered around. Faces tensed, and perspiring.

Angus ripped the top off the slender metal tube, and pulled out a tiny, exquisitely rolled piece of paper, almost leathery in consistency, like parchment but somehow finer.

The Scotsman focussed and examined the yellowed slip of paper. Etched across the paper, in faded old ink, was a tiny map.

'Zbiroh!' A sigh of exultant relief. 'Zbiroh...'

Any explanation was truncated. A shadow had just flickered the dusty light of the hut. A Namibian security guard had pa.s.sed the window, and was standing at the door, pushing his way inside.

Angus shoved the map in the tube, pocketed the tube, and ran to the entrance; he flung the door open, and confronted the guard waving his gun at the terrified guard's chest.

The guard stepped back, retreating into the dazzling sun.

'No! No trouble! Want no trouble!'

'Good,' said Angus, as he advanced, and patted the guard's pockets. He drew out a pistol and phone, and handed them to David. And tilted a head at the sea.

Grabbing the items with gusto, David hurled the gun and the phone into the crashing waves, just metres away. Seagulls fluttered and shrieked in alarm.

Angus was gesturing at the guard. 'OK. Stay here. Don't move. We're going. Take a staycation. All-f.u.c.king-right?' All-f.u.c.king-right?'

They sprinted down the path to the mainland; David glanced behind the guard was indeed standing there, black and statuesque in the sun, staring at them, perplexed, immobile, a silhouette of doubt.

The path turned onto the road and they ran right into the traffic Angus waved a wad of South African rand at the very first Toyota sedan. The driver grinned and squealed his brakes.

The three of them jumped in, sweating and cramped. Angus snapped.

'Airport! Fast as you can.'

The drive took ten minutes: swerving and racing through the sun-dusted streets. They tilted past the Bank of Windhoek, an old pool hall, and a Sh.e.l.l garage and then they were out of town: on the surrounding flats. David was remembering Miguel. The big black cars, roaring up the canyon.

The thought was horrifying. Miguel could be around here, right now. Any minute he could just show. The big black car door flashing open.

Found you.

The whirring yellow sands were writhing across the road, making serpents of dust. They were out in the desert again. They were motoring through the wilderness. Angus took out the map and scrutinized it. And then he sat back. And yelled.

'Look!'

Terrible panic filled David: he looked, and saw nothing. Miguel? Miguel?

Angus was still pointing: 'Look at that. That's a rare and precious sight. Look at the horse!' Look at the horse!'

It wasn't Miguel. David felt absurd relief, as he and Amy stretched to see through the scratched car window. But what were they looking for?

At first there was nothing. And then he saw: a horse, thin and solitary and loping across the dirt road. Then David saw more dozens, then hundreds. Curvetting and playing in the sandy heat-haze.

Angus was rhapsodizing.

'The wild horses of the Namib. I love love these animals. They're the last remnants of the these animals. They're the last remnants of the Schutztruppe Schutztruppe the German colonial army. The horses escaped and turned feral.' He gazed, almost serene, at the dreamlike spectacle. 'Now they are the only wild desert horses in the world becoming a new species, specially adapted to dryness.' Angus sat back. 'I always think they look like the souls of horses, roaming free in the afterlife...That's why this place is so hard to leave. Things like the German colonial army. The horses escaped and turned feral.' He gazed, almost serene, at the dreamlike spectacle. 'Now they are the only wild desert horses in the world becoming a new species, specially adapted to dryness.' Angus sat back. 'I always think they look like the souls of horses, roaming free in the afterlife...That's why this place is so hard to leave. Things like that. that. But here's the airport. Just past the dunes.' But here's the airport. Just past the dunes.'

The car prowled around the last of the soft Barchan dunes. They were slowing onto a wide flat s.p.a.ce. The driver stopped at the perimeter of a surreally bleak airstrip.

A small plane and two helicopters sat on some asphalt amidst acres of sun-scorched dust. One of the choppers had Kellerman Namcorp Kellerman Namcorp inscribed on the side. Its propellers were already turning. inscribed on the side. Its propellers were already turning.

David turned to Angus and said: 'But where are we going?'

'Amsterdam '

'Yes, but then?'

'Zbiroh! An SS castle. Bohemia! I'll explain later mate, we gotta hurry, Miguel is still out there ' Miguel is still out there '

They ran across the flatness. A man with a low slung sub-machine gun was standing by the helicopter, he stared at them, astonished, as they ducked under the whumping blades.

'Angus?'

'Roger!'

The black man smiled.

'Angus my man!'

Angus was shouting above the loud churn of the spinning chopper blades. Something pa.s.sed between them. Something from the black velvet pouch? David guessed it was diamonds. Maybe. Roger did a nodding salute.

'Get in!' said Angus. Roger was shouting at all of them, gesturing them into the chopper. Quickly! Quickly!

David and Amy climbed in, and sat on the first seats they could find. Angus joined them, his face strained and exhausted. They strapped up, and even as their safety belts clicked, the chopper lifted up.

They were flying.

David stared down. Roger was a small figure now. Looking up at them with a hand to shield his eyes from the sand. David blinked and looked a kilometre south. A wild horse was cantering across the wasteland.

Then the clouds of dust intervened, and all was blank.

45.

2.58, 2.59. 3.00.

There was no sign of him. David glanced warily at the station clock.

3.02, 3.03, 3.04.

Angus was by his side, saying nothing for once. The tension evident in his face. Amy looked pensive to the point of depression.

What did she know? She had been noticeably different different since they landed in Amsterdam and made their way across Germany, to Nuremburg Station where they had agreed to meet Simon. Why? Maybe she now suspected he was Cagot, or maybe she was merely reacting to his changed mood, his sudden intense anxiety. His distant chilliness, his violent moodswings, as he ransacked himself for answers or solace or quiescence. since they landed in Amsterdam and made their way across Germany, to Nuremburg Station where they had agreed to meet Simon. Why? Maybe she now suspected he was Cagot, or maybe she was merely reacting to his changed mood, his sudden intense anxiety. His distant chilliness, his violent moodswings, as he ransacked himself for answers or solace or quiescence.

He'd stopped making love to her. He couldn't do it any more. Once they had been rough, playful, sharply pa.s.sionate. And now? He could see himself biting her, that white female flesh, and drawing blood.

It was an abyss, and he had to look into it, he had to reach far inside his soul, to get a hold of his essential self. Because he needed his last reserves of equanimity, for the crucial hours ahead. The crucial days, the crucial minutes.

3.07, 3.08, 3.09.

Maybe Simon wasn't coming. They had sent one email from Amsterdam, and had got one quickly in return: Yes. Yes.

There had also been one other email in David's inbox, a very surprising email from Frank Antonescu. His granddad's old lawyer in Phoenix had been doing some research of his own, and, through a contact at the IRS who apparently owed him a favour had eventually, 'after a lot of grafting and grifting!' worked out where the money came from.

The Catholic church.

The money was, Antonescu wrote, 'Paid not just to your grandfather but to a number of people immediately after the war. It was known as "Gurs money". I have no idea why. The fellow at the IRS was similarly mystified.'

So that was another joist of an answer in the rising structure of a solution. But the full edifice would only be revealed when they got to Zbiroh. And found the Fischer results.

3.16, 3.17, 3.18.

Was Simon ever coming? Maybe something terrible had happened to him. Maybe Miguel had got there first.

'There!' said Amy.

A slightly scruffy, breathless, freckled, fair-haired man of about forty came running along the concourse. He stared at Amy and David 'David Martinez!'

'Simon Quinn?'

The older man, the Irish journalist, glanced at the three of them, and smiled, shyly.

'You must be Amy. And you...'

'Angus Nairn.'

Hands were shaken, formal introductions made. But then David and Simon looked long and hard at each other and the absurdity of their formality became apparent to both of them at the same time.

They hugged. David embraced this man he had never met like a lost brother. Or like the sibling he'd never had.

And then the tension, the spiralling terror of the situation, recrudesced. Amy reminded them, as she had reminded them repeatedly for the last three days: 'Miguel is still after us...'

Amy's fear of Miguel seemed to have grown grown since they fled Namibia. And maybe, David surmised, that was adding to her depression. The relentlessness of their pursuer was destroying her will. Perhaps she was actually resigned to Miguel's triumph. He always found them in the end; maybe the Wolf would find them this time, and finish the job. since they fled Namibia. And maybe, David surmised, that was adding to her depression. The relentlessness of their pursuer was destroying her will. Perhaps she was actually resigned to Miguel's triumph. He always found them in the end; maybe the Wolf would find them this time, and finish the job.

Unless they got to the data first.

They went quickly to the hire car.

Angus was in charge of the map. He directed them out of the suburbs of Nuremburg, into the undulating countryside, and onto the Czech border. As they went, Simon confessed: he told them of his brother being held by the Society. Kidnapped and brutalized.