The Empress Holds the Key Read online

  THE EMPRESS HOLDS THE KEY

  A disturbing, edge-of-your-seat historical thriller

  Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 1

  Gabriel Farago

  This book is brought to you by Bear & King Publishing.

  Publishing & Marketing Consultant: Lama Jabr

  Website: http://xanapublishingandmarketing.com

  Sydney, Australia

  Second edition 2016

  © Gabriel Farago

  All rights reserved

  The right of Gabriel Farago to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the author and publisher.

  Disclaimer

  This story is entirely a work of fiction. No character in this story is taken from real life. Any resemblance to any person or persons living or dead is accidental and unintentional. The author, their agents and publishers cannot be held responsible for any claim otherwise and take no responsibility for any such coincidence.

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  To all the seekers

  who strive to understand the past,

  to help them make sense of the present,

  and allow them to shape the future.

  To Dori and Tibor for instilling in me a great love of reading and a sense of curiosity and adventure, and for having taught me to always keep an open mind, and strive for excellence.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  A Writer’s Journey...

  Author’s Note

  Part I War Crimes

  Part II Secrets

  Part III Secrets Revealed

  Part IV Tabot Musa

  Part V ‘The Consummation of Hearts’ Desire…’

  More Books by the Author

  The Disappearance of Anna Popov

  The Hidden Genes of Professor K

  About the Author

  Connect with the Author

  A WRITER’S JOURNEY...

  Becoming a writer is a long, and often tortuous journey, especially for a non-native speaker like myself; English is my third language. A special thank you must go to my wife Joan who, sitting next to me at university many years ago, taught me the many intricacies and often baffling nuances of this wonderful language. Without her encouragement, unwavering support, perseverance and guiding hand, The Empress Holds the Key would not have seen the light of day. It is therefore as much her book as it is mine.

  Gabriel Farago

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  We carefully removed the last stone blocking the entry to the burial chamber, and held our breath. Peering inside, we saw a large sarcophagus partially covered with sand. No other treasures – tomb robbers had probably seen to that centuries ago. Silent, we entered and approached the stone chest, its exquisite hieroglyphs whispering to us from the distant past.

  Our professor pointed to the inscriptions on top of the broken lid, his hand shaking with excitement. Barely able to speak, he said they told stories of great battles, conquered lands and glory. It appeared the tomb belonged to a general close to the pharaoh. Our spirits soared; a discovery like this only comes along once.

  After the excitement had died down, the Professor cleared his throat, a smile on his face. ‘This isn’t bad, guys, but don’t get too carried away,’ he said, pulling us back down to earth. ‘What do you think would be the ultimate find?’ he asked, throwing us a challenge.

  I’m sure he was only teasing, but a heated debate erupted at once, the ensuing discussion continuing well into the evening as we waited for the boat to take us back across the Nile to Cairo.

  At first there were many suggestions, but then, quite unexpectedly, we all agreed that one particular artefact, which had mysteriously disappeared from the pages of history a long time ago, would qualify for that distinction.

  This was remarkable, because scholars from different parts of the world rarely agree on matters like this. However, on this occasion, all of us – Christians, Muslims, and Jews – had somehow come to share the same view.

  It was an unforgettable moment; it turned into a moment of destiny and became the inspiration for this book.

  Gabriel Farago

  Leura, Blue Mountains, Australia

  If we don’t believe in something greater than ourselves, we are destined to remain forever small.

  Benjamin Krakowski

  PART I

  WAR CRIMES

  Swiss-German border; November 1944

  The major looked affectionately at the sleeping Doberman curled up on the seat beside him. Slowly, he took off his gloves, stroked the dog’s shiny coat and then ran his fingers playfully along the open violin case resting on his knees.

  After a while, he looked out the window and, recognising where they were, tapped his driver on the back. ‘Stop the car and wait for the others. We’re almost there.’

  The driver slowed and pulled the powerful Mercedes to the side of the road. After switching off the engine, he unfolded a large map and began to look for the inconspicuous track he remembered leading down to the lake.

  Meanwhile, the major turned and watched the armoured personnel carrier slowly crawling up the pass behind them. He pulled out his silver cigarette case engraved with a small swastika that Himmler had given him. If Heinrich only knew what we’d just done! he thought, all hell would break loose. By driving through the night and using only back roads, they’d managed to avoid patrols and roadblocks. Himmler, of all people, would know that leaving Auschwitz with two prisoners without the necessary permits wasn’t easy, even for a member of the SS. And then there was the precious cargo ...

  Benjamin Krakowski tried to shield his brother from the icy wind rocking the open truck. He put his arm around his brother’s bony shoulders and pulled him towards his chest.

  ‘Where do you think they’re taking us?’ asked his brother, staring up at the snow-covered peaks ahead of them.

  ‘Shut up, David! Do you want them to beat us again – or worse?’ whispered Benjamin. He glanced anxiously at the guards sitting on wooden crates in the back and squeezed his brother’s arm.

  ‘No,’ replied David, huddling closer.

  Fear could no longer keep Benjamin awake. Almost delirious from hunger and the numbing cold, he closed his eyes and drifted into a restless sleep his exhausted body craved so much. Unable to relax, he again heard his father beseeching him: ‘Benjamin, listen carefully ... There isn’t much time! Promise me you’ll do exactly as I tell you ... You must finish what I’ve begun ... You are the one ... Do you understand? And remember, the Empress holds the key ...’

  ‘I promise, father,’ murmured Benjamin. ‘Yes; the Empress holds the key ... ’

  The personnel carrier followed the black Mercedes down to the lake and stopped in front of a jetty.

  ‘Wake up, you lazy scum!’ shouted one of the guards, kicking Benjamin in the back. ‘Unload the crates. Move!’

  One by one, the two young prisoners lifted the heavy wooden boxes off the truck and carried them across to the jetty.

  ‘And when you’re finished, start digging a trench over here,’ the guard yelled.

  ‘We’re digging our own graves,’ hissed David, driving his pick into the hard clay. ‘We’ve seen it all before. We have to make a run for it – now! Into that forest before it’s too late!�
� he continued, pointing towards the pines with his chin. ‘Come!’

  ‘Are you mad?’ said Benjamin. ‘They’ll shoot us before we make it to the first tree.’

  David ignored his brother’s warning and slowly worked his way towards the guard standing closest to the trench. Then, lifting his pick, he slammed the pointed end into the back of the guard’s knee. Taken by surprise, the screaming soldier lost his balance, dropped his gun, and fell against the crates, splitting one open. Three shiny gold bars tumbled unnoticed into the mud.

  Benjamin froze. Instead of running after his brother, he stared at the soldier thrashing in agony on the ground in front of him.

  Startled by the scream, the major looked across to the jetty. He unleashed his dog, raised his arm, and pointed to the prisoner running towards the forest. ‘Arco – there. Catch!’ he shouted.

  Before the other guards had realised what had happened, David was lying face down in the mud. Pinned to the ground by the major’s Doberman on his back – fangs bared and snarling – he was certain he was about to be torn apart.

  The major pointed to a dead tree. ‘Take him over there,’ he ordered. ‘Strip him!’

  The angry guards ripped the threadbare prison rags from the boy’s thin frame. Terrified and shaking, David looked like a cornered animal as he tried in vain to cover his genitals with bleeding hands.

  ‘Now, string him up from the tree over there,’ shouted the major. ‘The way we saw the Ukrainians reward deserters – remember? That’ll teach him a lesson.’

  ‘Why don’t we use this instead?’ suggested one of the guards, pointing to an iron cross wedged into the rock behind the tree.

  ‘A crucifixion?’ said the major, laughing. ‘That would be most appropriate; he’s a Jew after all. Look, it’s too small, even for a miserable wretch like this – see? Pity.’

  Suddenly, a motor boat materialised out of the mist and approached the jetty. A tall young man in a fur coat waved his slouch hat, jumped ashore, and hurried towards the major.

  ‘Is it all here?’ he asked.

  ‘See for yourself, Anton,’ replied the major. He pointed to the crates and embraced his friend.

  Anton began to examine the markings on the lids by tracing the familiar German eagle with the tip of his finger. Satisfied, he turned towards the major. ‘Congratulations!’ he said. ‘I don’t know how you did it. Let’s get them on board. Quickly!’

  The major opened the door of the Mercedes and lifted the violin case off the back seat.

  ‘Taking music lessons?’ teased Anton, smiling.

  ‘No. This has nothing to do with music. This is an instrument of history,’ the major replied gravely, patting the case. ‘Come, let’s go; they’ve almost finished loading the crates.’

  The two friends hurried down the embankment and stopped in front of the dead tree. Despite the horrific beating, David was still alive. The major reached for his holster.

  ‘Hold it right there,’ said Anton. He pulled a camera out of his pocket and took a photo. ‘One for the family album?’ he added sarcastically.

  The major pointed his Luger at David’s head. ‘Can you hear me?’ he demanded.

  David nodded without opening his eyes.

  ‘You cannot run away from destiny,’ the major whispered calmly, and shot David in the temple. The virgin snow, turned crimson by the hot droplets of David’s splattered blood, began to weep.

  When he turned around, the major saw Benjamin staring at him from across the trench. Their eyes locked and contempt met fear. Then, slowly, the major lifted his gun, took aim, and pulled the trigger. ‘Neither can you, Jew boy,’ he snarled, calmly slipping the Luger back into its holster.

  ‘Bury them,’ barked the major. ‘Heil Hitler!’ He hurried across the gangplank and saluted his men standing to attention by the jetty.

  As soon as the powerful diesel engines had roared to life, Anton gave an order. Two sailors armed with machine guns stepped out of the wheelhouse and opened fire on the major’s men. Torn apart by the unexpected hail of bullets, the hapless men collapsed, their arms still raised in silent salute.

  Anton looked at the major. ‘No witnesses – remember?’ he said with a shrug and climbed below deck.

  Benjamin opened his eyes. Darkness. He quickly closed them again. Silence. Licking his lips, he tasted blood. Barely able to breathe in the confined space, he tried to move his aching limbs but couldn’t; something heavy was pressing on his back and shoulders. It was the arm of a dead soldier lying on top of him. Slowly, the numbness drained away and his whole body began to throb with pain. Flashes of memory returned: Benjamin realised he wasn’t dead!

  Fear gave him strength. Slowly, he began to claw through the loose clay towards the top. Breathless and retching, he pushed his head out into the open and gasped for air.

  The sleet hitting his face like icy needles revived him. He opened his mouth, a silent scream on his parched lips, then searched all around him, squinting through half-closed eyes into the blinding daylight, scanning the empty clearing. The soldiers were all gone, the crates had disappeared and there was no boat at the jetty. The burnt-out shells of the armoured truck and the Mercedes smouldered in the mist, filling the bracing cold air with an acrid stench of burnt rubber. Over the brooding lake the mountain fog hovered like a shroud. Benjamin cautiously turned his aching head, and began to look for his brother’s tree. It was just behind him, with part of a severed rope still tied to one of the branches.

  ‘David!’ Benjamin cried out. ‘Noooo.’ He covered his face with blood-stained hands, fell to his knees, and began to pray.

  1

  The thunderstorm blew in from the south, sending dark clouds racing across the night sky like a celestial pirate fleet raiding the stars. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning struck an old eucalypt; it split its trunk in half and set it on fire. The rugged sandstone cliffs trembled as the thunder roared across the dry valley. At first, the flames struggled to ignite the tough bark of the doomed tree. Soon however, nourished by a gust of wind, they formed a blazing ring around the base of the giant and began their deadly ascent towards its parched crown. Defeated, the burning trunk crashed to the forest floor, sending a cloud of lethal sparks dancing towards their next victim. The bushfire had begun.

  Two Rural Fire Service volunteers, their eyes firmly fixed on the fire spreading through the gullies below, stood on an exposed escarpment high above the burning forest. They knew the real danger was always the wind, and the wind was picking up. The old timber cottage behind them stood directly in the path of the advancing blaze. Unless the wind changed direction, the fire would soon reach the cottage. A third volunteer – a young woman in sweaty yellow overalls – was kneeling on top of the roof. Frantically cleaning out the blocked gutters with her bare hands, she too was anxiously watching the fire.

  The wind didn’t change direction. The fire jumped across a waterfall and burst into a densely wooded gorge just below the cottage. Trapped in the narrow gorge, the wind intensified, funnelling the blaze upwards. As it reached the top of the escarpment, the firestorm roared out into the open and raced towards the cottage. Moments later, the cottage drowned in a sea of flames.

  Jack Rogan raced along the motorway in his MG and was fast approaching the foothills of the Blue Mountains, a popular holiday retreat, 100 kilometres west of Sydney. He enjoyed driving fast, but not that morning. A familiar feeling began to claw at his empty stomach – danger. Chewing his bottom lip, Jack smiled; danger had a twin – excitement. Jack loved excitement. The bright morning in Sydney suddenly gave way to a gloomy twilight – yellow-red and foreboding of the bushfires that lay ahead. The sun had disappeared behind a giant mushroom-shaped cloud of smoke, and visibility was poor. Large flakes of ash rained down from above, smudging the windscreen. Singed gum leaves carried along by the hot wind surged towards him like swarms of hungry locusts ready to attack. Jack switched on his headlights.

  As he neared his destination, Jack carefully threaded his way throu
gh a convoy of fire engines and water tankers heading up the mountains and then suddenly stopped in front of a row of police cars blocking the road. Jack got out of the car, the smoke and intense heat making it difficult to breathe. The destruction ahead reminded him of a car bomb site he’d photographed in Kabul the year before. The smouldering tree trunks looked like the chimneys of a destroyed village buried under a carpet of powdery ash. Accusing fingers pointing to angry gods who had forsaken the faithful, thought Jack.

  Jack walked up to a policeman and asked for the fire chief. The agitated policeman ordered him to get back into his car and leave the area. Jack’s press ID didn’t help. Neither did the baggy green shorts, crumpled t-shirt and thongs.

  ‘It’s all right, Officer, there’s a way around the fire,’ came a familiar voice from behind him. ‘He can come with me.’

  The policeman shrugged and turned away.

  ‘Will!’ Jack exclaimed, barely able to recognise his friend in his sooty yellow overalls and battered fire helmet. ‘Sorry it took so long; I know you said it was urgent but the traffic was diabolical.’

  ‘No worries. If we hurry, we might just get through,’ said Will. He handed Jack a helmet and jacket, and pointed to a four-wheel drive with its engine running. ‘Hop in. It’ll get a little rough, I’m afraid. Shoes would have helped, mate,’ he added, shaking his head. ‘You’ll never change.’

  Will turned the car into a narrow fire trail leading into the bush. ‘As long as the wind stays like this, we should make it,’ he said, wiping his brow with a wet towel. ‘One of our girls died in the firestorm this morning, just up the hill from here. Horrible; burnt beyond recognition. She was trying to save an old cottage. I’ve known her since she was a little nipper in kindergarten,’ he added. ‘Her father doesn’t know yet. He’s fighting the fire on the other side of the mountains and can’t be reached. Poor bastard.’