It would be nice to believe her dreams had meaning. If only Isabelle Lockwoode could remember her dreams. But she never does.

How strange then, to awaken with the certainty of having dreamed, yet have no recollection of the dream itself.

After folding back the bedding to allow the mattress to air - the sheet would need to be changed: Isabelle had bled in the night - she turned to her bedroom window and drew open the curtains.

Instead of a sunlit and dew-wet garden, there - pressing against the window-glass and obscuring everything - was a red mist.

Mistress Rose guides them through to the hall. The walls are lined with the skulls of the dead. His Lordship walks beside Isabelle; oft reaching out to palm the cranium of one or other old acquaintance.

Here is the house of all lost secrets and forbidden loves. This is the dream twelve year old Isabelle can never recall.

'The girls will be with you shortly,' says Mistress Rose. 'If you'll amuse yourselves in the parlour?'

She pushes open the heavy door. The noise and the heat surprise Isabelle. They sting with the fury of a cannon's rolling retort. The parlour reeks of powder-smoke and hot blood. There is nothing to revere in the human flotsam that litters the room.

A dead child emerges from the press of bodies to show them to their table. His left eye is missing; the empty socket an angry and puckered scar. Yet Isabelle thinks him beautiful - though his beauty is unique. Like a broken doll.

The weight of his Lordship's arm is an anchor on Isabelle's shoulders; his lips pressing close to her ear. 'Only the dead serve,' he tells her, 'the living and the loveliest await.'

'Why can I not have this one?' asks Isabelle.

'Do not pout,' his Lordship chastens her. 'I have spoiled you.'

He guides Isabelle through the raucous and revenant host with a firm and steadying hand.

The stories he tells her are of dark misfortune. And his tale of the House of the Crimson Flower is the darkest yet.

'Having sufficiently recovered from that which Surgeon Tyrell had described as a minor alteration - twin incisions in the outer labia so the left could be excised and the right drawn across and stitched in place to close the entrance to the vagina - eleven year old Lilt Lanahann was bonded in service as "Ship's Boy" to Captain Jon Gaunt, master of the Argo. A whaler and fur sealer out of Halifax, Nova Scotia. Lilt's hair has been cut, queued and tarred stiff, and he appears on deck dressed in canvas trows and a short jacket of blue wool. Only some few days after setting sail, the ship's crew are summoned, one by one, for questioning. Seeking Lilt in the night, Captain Gaunt had stumbled over the child's dead body. A sailor's skinning-knife had been driven into Lilt's left eye. No one confesses to the crime: all are suspect. Lilt's body was stitched into a canvas shroud and stored in the ship's hold.'

'Until it could be delivered, here, to the House of the Crimson Flower.'

Some time during the night or early morning of the third of August of that year, my sister Elizabeth was taken from her bed. She was ten years old. The ugliest of ugly ducklings, her only friends were Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys.

Maybe you read about it in the papers. Nearly all of Bane County came out to search for my sister - for those two terrible weeks; when all my parents could do was wait, and pray.

Alders Dam lies on the Reservation River where it cuts through Tecumseh Canyon. There are caves in the canyon with paintings that are tens of thousands of years old. The art is ancient. The human remains are not.

Alders Dam was where Becky Ludlow showed me her breasts. Becky was sixteen that summer, and her breasts were all the proof a boy ever needed that there really was a God.

Pretty and popular, Becky was my first girlfriend and my first real kiss. The sin and the desire to sin. If I sinned from her lips, it was trespass sweetly urged.

Sky Fell was my best friend. What the hell kind of name is Sky, anyway? He ate at our table. My mother taught him to read. My sister loved him, I think, in her own way: awkward and angst.

One day I said to Sky, 'Your dad's a drunk and your mom makes the rent money lay-n on her back.'

And he said, 'Those are just my foster folks. They're not my real parents.'

'Don't kid yourself,' I told him. 'You ain't no fortunate son.'

This was before me and him went swimming in Alders Dam. Before the Daltons' trailer burned to the ground with Sky's foster parents inside it. Before my best friend turned up on our doorstep in the middle of the night to tell me he was leaving - running away.

'Running to where?' I asked him.

'Mexico,' he told me.

'What's in Mexico?'

'Freedom.'

'Your family?'

'Maybe.'

'Sure,' I said. 'You just keep right on dreaming.'

He told me one other thing.

Where to find my sister's dead body.

I already knew. I think I'd always known.

And Elizabeth wasn't the only one.

Just about everyone in Bane County went out looking for Becky Ludlow. They never found her. Maybe you read about it in the papers.

Charlie Meadows has a penis but she's not a boy.

If you ask her, Charlie will tell you she's always been a girl. Charlie thinks like a girl. Behaves like a girl. And would dress like a girl all the time - if she could. If only Charlie's parents weren't so... inconsistent.

It's morning. Charlie comes downstairs for breakfast wearing a navy-blue cardigan over a white blouse, a pink corduroy skirt, white ankle-socks and pink Nikes. Her shoulder-length blonde hair is parted in the middle and tied in twinned braids with white ribbons.

Charlie's dad looks up from his plate of steak and eggs, sunny side up, and says, 'You're not going to school like that.'

'Please,' begs Charlie. 'Just this one time? It's dress-up day.'

'We talked about this, remember? What you can wear inside and what you can wear outside. Girl clothes are only for inside.'

Charlie's mum pours herself a glass of orange juice - spilling it on the faux-wood linoleum. 'What's your teacher going to think?'

'For Christ's sake, Carol, watch what you're doing!'

'Don't yell at me, Geoffrey!'

'Can't you do anything right?'

Charlie's mum takes a bottle of vodka out of the refrigerator freezer and tops up her glass. 'Don't think I don't know what you're doing.'

Charlie's dad gets up from the table. 'What do you mean?'

'I'm just saying...'

'What is it you think I'm doing, Carol?'

'You shouldn't encourage him. That's all.'

'Who gave him goddamn dolls to play with?'

Charlie sees her chance and makes a run for the front door. Her mum and dad are yelling now. Charlie blames herself. Charlie's parents blame each other.

'I was never like that when I was a boy!'

'Well you're not much of a man!'

At school, Charlie's teacher sends her to the principal's office. The principal sends Charlie to the school counsellor. There's a pack of Camels in Mister Edward's shirt pocket. He smells of cigarette smoke.

'Can you tell me why, Charlie? What was it you were you hoping to prove?'

Charlie has tried smoking; it made her throw up.

'Is there something else? Something you feel you can't talk about?'

Charlie shakes her head. 'No.'

'Why are you dressed as a girl?'

'I am a girl.'

'Do you dress like that at home?'

'You shouldn't smoke.'

'When you say you're a girl...'

'I am a girl.'

'Is it something you like to do?'

'What do you mean?'

'Some people like to pretend.'

'It's not pretending.'

'Do you dream?'

'Everybody dreams.'

'Can you remember yours?'

'They're mostly about doves.'

'Are you a dove, Charlie?'

'I'm a pigeon. I crap on everything.'

It's recess. Charlie is being ignored. Charlie's teacher, Miss Bronski, offers to drive Charlie home.

'My parents are at work,' says Charlie.

'Is there someone who can stay with you?'

'It's okay. I have a key. And there's Ronnie.'

'Ronnie?'

'Veronica. Our neighbour. She's old but she's nice.'

'You could change your clothes. Come back to school.'

'I don't think so.'

'I'll wait for you.'

'No, thank you, Miss. I'll be okay. I'm not a child.'

'You're eleven, Charlie. I'll wait for you. Come on.'

At four minutes past five in the afternoon, Charlie's phone rings.

'Hi, Rory.'

'Hi, Charlie. Where are you?'

'Home.'

'I think you're really brave.'

'Why didn't you talk to me at school today?'

'I wanted to, Charlie, I really did. But the others, you know?'

'Bye, Rory.'

'I wish I was brave like you.'

'Bye, Rory.'

'Will I see you tomorrow?'

Charlie disconnects.

It's ten minutes to eight. Charlie's mum is still not home. Charlie's dad comes into the kitchen through the connecting door from the garage.

'No Mum? She must've had to work late. Go and have your bath, Charlie. I'll order us some Thai food.'

Charlie turns to go upstairs.

'And Charlie? No pyjamas. You can wear something of Mum's. You know what I like.'

'Yes, Daddy.'

'That's my girl.'

Shilo Greene and Atticus Bloom were the only two people in Freeport. Missouri, who didn't think their friendship an odd one. She was a ten year old white girl who could name all fifty states alphabetically. He was a sixty year old colored man who'd never made it past the seventh grade. Shilo loved everything to do with horses. Atticus had been kicked in the head by one.

'Didn't ever trust one since'.

'Maybe you just didn't treat it right.'

'Maybe.'

'If I had a horse, I'd feed it carrots every day, and an apple on Sundays.'

'I expected you might.'

'Going fishing tomorrow?'

'Always do.'

'Can I come?'

'Ain't never told you no before.'

'It's pretty here.'

'Lord surely knew what he was doing.'

'Daddy says there's nothing lazier than a river in high summer.'

'I expect it's so.'

'Why aren't you married?'

'Had me a wife once. She died.'

'You could always find another.'

'Ain't a woman fool enough to have me.'

'There's nothing foolish about love, Atticus.'

'I expect you'd know.'

“If love be rough with you, be rough with love.”

'Where'd you come by that?'

'William Shakespeare.'

'Can't say I ever met him.'

'I'd be fool enough, Atticus. To marry you.'

'Now don't you go giving me none of your lip, Miss Shilo.'

'What if I do?'

'Never could stand a lippy child.'

'You and Mama both.'

'Getting to be too big for your britches.'

'I surely do hope so.'

'Did you hear about Old Miss Cobb?'

'Spinster Cobb?'

'Fell off the back porch and broke her hip.'

'Lord have mercy!'

'Mama says she'll never recover.'

'Where's she at now?'

'Mulder's Infirmary.'

'Doc Mulder is a good man.'

'Miss Cobb doesn't like him.'

'Can't think of many folks she does like.'

'There's this play. Romeo and Juliet. His family doesn't like hers, and her family doesn't like his. So they marry in secret. But it all goes wrong. Romeo drinks poison, and Juliet stabs herself with his dagger.'

'Why would they go and do a fool thing like that?'

'For love. Don't you see? It's so beautiful. And sad.'

'Sounds plain crazy to me.'

'It's getting late. I should go.'

'Ain't right for a young lady to be out after dark.'

'Will you walk me home?'

'Always do.'

'Going fishing tomorrow?'

'Tomorrow is the Lord's day.'

'I'll bring you an apple.'

'There you go with your lip again.'

'Do you think the moon cares if we live or die?'

'Don't see why it would. It's a long ways away.'

'Say it's only a paper moon, Atticus.'

'I expect you're right.'

'Shakespeare writes about an envious moon.'

'Can't say I ever read it.'

'There's Mama. Thank you, Atticus.'

'Goodnight, Miss Shilo. And don't you fret none. The moon has no business with us.'

When you said COOKIES!

I thought you were offering

but you ate them all

Scattering crumbs

with your NUM NUM NUMS

and making a mess

all over the damn floor

Which - by the way

I've just vacuumed

My mother warned me

you were a MONSTER!

But did I listen?

Kaspar du Vries stood an inch over six feet tall. At thirty-four, the Major looked ten years older, his thinning dark hair combed back and streaked with grey. Nothing aged a man faster than the reality of war. He'd learned how true that was during the siege of Stalingrad, where he'd lost his hand. The black-gloved prosthetic attached to his right wrist was next to useless. Only good for snapping off a salute.

A shadow passed behind a rambling hedge of elderberry by the side of the road. Tossing away his cigarette, du Vries drew his service pistol.

'If you're trying to hide,' he said calmly, 'you'll need to try harder.'

An odd-looking dog stepped through a narrow gap in the trailing foliage.

'Mijn God,' said du Vries, laughing. 'You're neither one thing nor the other.'

It was - quite possibly - the ugliest dog du Vries had ever seen.

'Where do you come from?' he asked it. 'Are you lost?'

The dog glanced over its shoulder, back toward the walled friary.

Kaspar du Vries smiled. 'I had no idea dogs were so pious.'

The dog didn't growl as such, but made a low rumbling "chuff" deep in its chest.

'It's Pieter, isn't it?' said du Vries. 'I've heard all about you. Where's the boy, eh? Where's Pim?'

The Bridge

German occupied Holland - 1943 / 44

Near the small town of Ahnselm.

On the River Maas.

In the province of Brabant.

The man who called himself Brother Paul made his silent way through the dormitory of Saint Bartholomew's. Two opposing rows of folding canvas cots were butted against the walls of the refectory, minus its dining table and bench seating, rather than the vacated cells of the friars which had fallen into disrepair and were better suited to the spiders, mice, and pigeons that now lived in them.

Too excited to sleep, eleven year old Pim felt a hand squeeze the toes of one foot through his blankets of coarse, grey wool before Brother Paul moved on to wake the others.

There were seven of them. Their names were Muis (Mouse), Lars, Jens, Mattijs, Jakob (Roop), Willem (Pim) and Pieter the dog. They were all under the age of thirteen. Orphans or evacuees. Volunteers. Patriots.

It had been Brother Paul's idea to recruit them for the Dutch Resistance.

Built with bricks of a deep reddish-brown to almost purple colour, the chapel with its adjacent sacristy and bell tower, library, kitchen, refectory, chapter house, cloisters and enclosing walls, the friary was never designed to house more than twenty Dominicans and their Abbe, but with the outbreak of war, and the following invasion, Saint Bart's had become a shelter for the lost, the homeless, and the hungry.

There wasn't an Abbe in residence. The number of Brothers was one. His real name wasn't Paul. And he wasn't a member of any religious order.

Light and dark. Good and evil. The cycle never ended. Vanderbrecht knew this well.

It was a kill or be killed world, where death was as close, and ever-present, as a person's own shadow. That it couldn't always be seen didn't mean it wasn't there. As a boy he’d watched his mother shit herself to death from dysentery. Epidemic in the British internment camps of the Transvaal. But now the British were his allies against the Nazis and their boot lickers in the fascist Volunteer Legion Netherlands.

When Vanderbrecht had first arrived in Ahnselm, it was still possible to catch glimpses of the most wretched of the damned. Those hollowed-out ghosts of men and women, scuttling in the twilight along the narrow streets. But he hadn’t seen anyone wearing the yellow star for at least six months now. They had all been removed, first to the ghettos and then to the camps, where death came not only from disease, or starvation, or a firing squad, but from an open cannister of something called Zyklon-B.

Bas Vanderbrecht had been born in South Africa to Dutch parents. Released from a British internment camp after the second Boer War, Vanderbrecht had mined diamonds in Northern Rhodesia. Managed a tea plantation on the island of Ceylon. Smuggled opium out of China. Fought on the walls of the British Consulate at Peking for the fifty-five days of the Boxer rebellion. Had sailed the Atlantic solo (in a boat he'd built with his own two hands). Rode with the Australian Light Horse to take the Turkish held wells at the battle of Be'er Sheva in Palestine in WW1. And had driven an ambulance for the communist partisans in the Spanish Civil War; where he'd met a brash, bullying American by the name of Ernest Hemingway.

Someone had neglected to tell Brother Paul that a man in his sixties was too old to be running around the countryside in the middle of the night committing acts of sabotage.

Brother Paul had neglected to tell anyone much of anything. He was known to British MI-9 as Fagin. The children who carried out surveillance, gathered information, delivered messages, and risked far more dangerous missions called themselves Bart's Brigade.

With their dirt-smudged faces and their reclaimed clothes, they looked like ordinary children. It was their courage that was extraordinary.

They were lambs who fought like lions.

A boy with fair hair made his slow way through a forest of pine trees toward the railway bridge where it spanned the black ribbon of the Maas, the river lit only by a thin crescent of moon. Pim had been evacuated from Amsterdam. His parents were still there, and - as far as anyone knew - were still alive, though he hadn't had any contact with them for almost a year. His dog Pieter was by his side. Pieter was a medium-sized mutt of uncertain breed. A stray. A mongrel. And Pim's best friend.

Two more boys sat perched like crows on the bridge's wooden trestles. Lars looked up when a hand rested heavily on one of his shoulders and Pim bent down to ask, 'Anything?'

Lars shook his head.

Brother Paul had fallen while securing yet another bundle of dynamite to the bridge's supporting timbers. It was a long way down to the water. There hadn't been any sign of him since.

Lars and Jens were brothers. Always in trouble, but usually clever enough to talk their way out of it.

Pim looked past Jens to where Muis stood, dressed in a checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of corduroy trousers, her hair tucked under a cloth cap. The oldest and the only girl, Mouse was nothing at all like her name, and not very much like a girl.

'What do we do now?' Pim said.

Mouse shrugged. 'We go home.'

'To Saint Bart's?'

'It's the closest thing to a home some of us have,' said Mouse.

Mattijs said, 'We should split up. It'll be safer that way. Mouse, Pim, and Pieter. Lars and Jens. Me and Roop.'

Roop was nine. A runaway. He hadn't shared his story with anyone. Mostly because he spoke with a Friesian accent that was thicker than day old oatmeal gone cold in the pot.

Pim asked, 'Where is Roop?'

'Setting the fuses,' said Mattijs. A quiet and serious boy who never smiled.

He checked his watch by its illuminated dial.

'In ten minutes time we're blowing this bridge sky high. Let's move out.'

The Friary

There was nothing like a tank to make people sit up and take notice. The MK IV ground to a halt in the middle of Ahnselm's town square. Kaspar du Vries climbed out of his armoured car and approached the German officer standing in the tank's open cockpit.

Captain Otto Durst acknowledged du Vries with something that might have been a salute and surveyed the quaint little buildings around him.

'This is your nest of vipers?'

'Insurgents,' said du Vries. 'Communists. Traitors. All of them in league with the mad monk and his miniature marauders.'

Durst made a face like a cat's arse. It was typical of the VLN to need real soldiers to do their job for them. 'Leave it with me,' he said. 'We'll have it flattened in a day.'

Mouse, Pim, and Pieter were following the river back to Saint Bart's. It was longer but less arduous than the forested hills, and much less dangerous than using the roads with their troop transports and motorized patrols.

The sun was still rising when Mouse stopped to throw off her clothes and wade into the water. Pim followed, though reluctantly. Pieter had more sense than to brave the early spring chill. They were washing off the accumulated grime of a night spent outdoors when the sound of the first shell exploding carried through the crisp morning air.

Scrambling up the riverbank, Mouse turned and said, 'Do you remember your house in Amsterdam? Could you find it again?'

'Course,' said Pim. 'I'm not a baby.'

'Go,' Mouse told him. 'Take Pieter and go.'

'You'll need my help,' Pim argued.

Mouse yelled at him, 'Go home, Pim! Just go home!'

The orchard at Saint Bartholomew's had rows of pollarded apple trees, their white blossom drifting to where twelve year old Mattijs stood, staring down the wrong end of a VLN soldier's rifle. A second soldier leaned his gun against the base of a tree and reached into the left breast pocket of his uniform. He held out a foil wrapped stick of chewing-gum.

'Here, boy. Take it.'

Mattijs didn't move.

'We make a deal, ja?' The second soldier said. 'You tell us where your friends are hiding.'

'Or what?' Mattijs asked. 'You'll beat me to death with your rifle butts like you did my mother?'

The two soldiers looked at each other. It was all the opportunity Mattijs needed. He pulled a snub-nosed revolver out of the waistband of his shorts, behind his back, and shot them both in the face. He kicked the dead body of the first soldier and spat on the second.

'I only deal in lead,' he said, taking their rifles and ammunition belts, but keeping his .22.

Lars saw the soldier crouched in the shadows of the friary's arched stone gateway. The two boys were lying on their stomachs on the flat roof of the chapel, behind a low brick wall. They were armed with glass bottles full of gasoline, the open necks stuffed with strips of torn rag.

Twelve year old Lars tapped his younger brother Jens on the shoulder and whispered, 'Matches.'

'I don't have them,' said eleven year old Jens. 'You have them.'

'I don't have them,' Lars argued. 'Why would I have them?'

'You had them last,' said Jens.

Lars swore. 'Check your pockets, dammit.'

Jens rolled onto his side to feel the pockets of his shorts. His hand stopped on his right thigh, dipped into the pocket there, and pulled out a thin cardboard packet.

Lars snatched it out of his hand. 'Idiot!'

Tearing out a paper match, he struck it on the brickwork casement, touched the flame to a fuel soaked rag, and hurled one of the bottles overarm.

Jens raised his head above the brickwork to watch the bottle spinning end over end toward its target. The crouching soldier raised his rifle and fired. The first bullet chinked off the low brick wall. The second entered Jen's left eye and blew out the back of his skull.

'Roop, roop, roop,' said Mattijs. 'That's what you sound like.'

Jakob's face flushed scarlet and his hands curled into fists. 'No, I don't!'

'Yeah, you do.'

The youngest and smallest, nine year old Roop hated being teased about his accent, and he was always ready for a fight, even weighed down with twin ammunition belts crossed over his narrow chest and a rifle slung over each shoulder. Mattijs stepped in and rested his forehead against Roop's. The two of them stayed that way, looking into the other's eyes.

'God help me,' breathed Mattijs, 'but I love you, you crazy little bastard.'

Roop grinned.

Mattijs took a step back and turned, waving for Roop to follow him.

'Come on,' he said. 'We have to find the others.'

Mouse climbed over a drystone wall into the friary orchard, last year's windfall spoiling in the long grasses and numerous weeds. It didn't take her long to find the bodies of the two dead soldiers, not far from the cider house, and where Mattijs was, Roop would be. The pair had become inseparable.

Making her way through the rows of apple trees to the gated wall that opened onto the kitchen garden, Mouse could see Lars scrambling down off the chapel roof.

Jens must already be on the ground, she thought. The concussive barrage of tank shells exploding in the nearby town hadn't stopped, great clouds of dust and sulphurous yellow-grey smoke rising into the air. Brother Paul would want them to help the people of Ahnselm. Mouse just didn't know how. She had to find Mattijs. If anybody could get them out of the hell Brother Paul had dragged them into it was God's fallen angel. A virgin boy with lifeless eyes and a stone-cold heart. Mattijs; who was inexpressibly cruel. And so beautiful it was hard to look at him without wanting to cry.

Angry at herself, Mouse swiped at her tears. 'Crying isn't going to help, goddammit!'

Lars was running. Not thinking. Not feeling. Not able to feel. Not yet. He could hear a truck, loud and getting louder, coming closer.

Outside the friary wall, next to the road, was a yew tree, tall with spreading branches. Lars ran to the yew and climbed to a branch the truck would have to pass beneath. He had the machine gun he'd taken off the badly burned body of the dead soldier slung crossways over his shoulder and chest. And in the pocket of his coat was a hand grenade. When the truck, a troop carrier - one soldier driving, another riding shotgun, more in the back under the canvas cover. When the truck was directly under the branch where Lars was sitting, he pulled the pin from the grenade and jumped. He landed on the roof of the cab. There was only time enough to lob the live grenade through the open window of the driver's side door. No time to think. No time to be frightened.

Light. Heat. Sound. Mattijs and Roop had seen Lars fall from the sky. The front cab of the troop carrier disintegrated and burst into flame. The truck veered off the narrow road and rolled onto its side. A soldier was screaming. Another crawled out of the back of the truck and collapsed. There might have been others. They didn't stop to count them.

Mattijs looked at Roop. 'Give me one of those rifles.'

'You stay here.' Mattijs told Roop, pushing the younger boy toward his canvas cot and fussing around him like an old mother hen. 'Get some sleep. I'll go look for Mouse and Pim. They should be back by now. Then we need to go.'

'Go where?' Asked Roop.

'Somewhere that isn't here.' said Mattijs.

'Is Brother Paul really dead?'

'Maybe. I don't know. But we can't wait around to find out.'

'You won't leave me, will you?'

'No,' said Mattijs. 'I would never do that.'

Mouse blocked the stairs leading up to the bell tower, with its view of the chapel roof. 'I told you to go home.'

Pim stared back defiantly. 'You don't tell me what to do.'

'This isn't a game,' said Mouse. 'You could be killed. Don't you understand that?'

Pim tried to push past her. 'Who's up there?'

'Jens.' said Mouse, pushing back. 'He's dead.'

'And Lars?'

'Alive... The last time I saw him.'

Pim said, 'There was an explosion. I heard rifle shots.'

'Mattijs and Roop are here,' said Mouse. 'Somewhere.'

'How did du Vries find us?'

Mouse had her suspicions but didn't voice them. Not everyone hated the Nazis. Hitler had as many admirers as there were those who denounced him.

'What do we do now?' asked Pim.

'We keep fighting,' said Mouse. 'But not here. Ahnselm is gone, and the friary isn't safe any more.'

'Brother Paul might come back.'

Mouse thought about this for a moment. 'I don't want to be here if he does,' she said, but gave no reason.

Pieter began to bark some minutes before Mouse and Pim heard the sound of an armoured car approaching.

Mattijs was sitting comfortably in an upholstered and high-backed chair near one of the two tall windows of the library when Major du Vries stopped in the room's open doorway, with his pistol in his outstretched hand.

Not looking up, Mattijs read from the book in his lap, 'Suddenly from the direction of the water came a sound of violent scuffling, and next instant there broke upon our ears a succession of the most awful roars. There was no mistaking what they came from...'

'Only a lion could make such a noise as that,'* quoted du Vries. 'Are there other lions here?' he asked. 'I see only one such beast. And a small one at that.'

'You don't need to worry about the lion you can see,' said Mattijs, 'but the one you can't.'

As if a bullet from an unseen assassin was the least of his worries, du Vries merely shrugged and asked, 'Where is Fagin?'

'Dead,' said Mattijs. 'He fell in the river and drowned.'

'That is - unfortunate,' said du Vries, stepping further inside the library.

Resting the hand holding his gun on the back a chair opposite, and a twin to, the one Mattijs occupied, du Vries said, 'You must be a slow reader. You've yet to turn a page.'

In answer, Mattijs raised the short barrel of his revolver above the fanned copy of King Solomon's Mines. Just then, du Vries's driver, a pimple-faced corporal, appeared in the doorway, clutching a handful of Roop's collar.

'Ah,' said du Vries, smiling. 'It's our littlest fish. Jakob, isn't it? Tell me, Jakob, where is the man you call Brother Paul?'

Corporal Kirke was the son of a farmer. He had a farmer's hands. When Roop refused to answer du Vries, Kirke gripped the boy's head with both hands and, with a sudden violent twist, he snapped Roop's neck.

In the time it took Roop to fall to the floor, dead, Mattijs had leapt to his feet and had head-shot Kirke, du Vries had shot Mattijs - the bullet shattering his right clavicle and deflecting down at an angle to tear through his left lung - and Mattijs had shot du Vries in the face. Twice. At close range. It happened so quickly, the gun smoke was still rising toward the library ceiling.

It was mid-afternoon and the weather had become unsettled, low cloud and light rain, and the temperature falling by several degrees. With Mouse carrying Roop over her shoulder and Pim helping Mattijs. they exited the library and moved as quickly as they could along the hallway next to the stairs, past the old Abbe's rooms that had also been Brother Paul's, out through the front door and down the steps, to cut across a corner of the cloistered quad into the rectory. Mouse laid Roop down on his folding canvas cot. She put a rifle in his hands, thinking he looked like a small child hugging a favourite toy. Which (she supposed) he was.

Mattijs pushed Pim away. 'I'm alright.'

But then he sat on the floor, with his head between his knees, and coughed up still more blood. He offered no explanations and wanted no sympathy.

'Get out,' Mattijs told them. 'Go before... Soldiers come... No time.'

That he would use the .22 to take his own life after they had gone went unspoken.

Mouse, Pim, and Pieter ran from the rectory, through the kitchen to the door that led to the walled garden, from the walled kitchen garden to the orchard, and from the orchard to the fields and wooded hills that lay beyond it, where they could hide.

Mouse knew people who would help them.

The man who had called himself Brother Paul made his slow way to the dormitory in what had been the dining hall at Saint Bartholomew's. The fire hadn't reached the rectory, both it and the kitchen being in a separate building to the chapter house and library.

He found Roop lying on his cot, curled up and clutching (of all things) a rifle. Sitting on the floor, beside Roop's bed, Mattijs was slumped in a pool of his own blood. He still held the snub-nosed revolver.

Vanderbrecht prised the gun gently out the dead boy's hand. He sat on Mouse's low cot, running his fingers over the blanket of coarse grey wool, remembering how he'd stood over the sleeping child to lift her in his arms, and had then carried her back to the Abbe's private rooms. What he had done to her there was unforgivable.

He checked to see if the gun was loaded.

"And still the man hears all, and only craves."*

Put the barrel of the gun to his temple.

"He may not shame such tender love and stay."*

And squeezed the trigger.

^~

The girl and the boy with fair hair walked the streets of Amsterdam. The boy's dog was by his side.

It was the ugliest dog I had ever seen.

*H. Rider Haggard / King Solomon's Mines

*Robert Browning / Childe Roland

There were eleven of us in the ship's boat: all that were left of the crew of thirty-two who had sailed with the whaler "Carrickfergus" out of Albany on the third day of August - 1891. I was the youngest and ship's boy; Dan Wellness my name, an orphan and bastard born. The others were Meldrew, Anders, Gray, Piers, Fircombe, Crabbe, Morris, Fitzwilliam, O'Rourke, and the Chinese cook, (who I knew only as) "Biscuit".

We had a barrel of drinking water, salvaged from the flotsam, and another of salted pork. The boat's mast, sail, and oars had all been lost so we drifted, sometimes paddling with our hands, but stopped when Fircombe drew our attention to a monstrous fin slicing through the water toward us.

'Sharks can sense such things,' said Morris, belatedly.

Four days we drifted until, on the fifth day, the boat washed aground on the empty beach of a shallow bay. The land rose afore us in steep embankments of sparse vegetation and tumbled stone, and all of us staggered ashore; wondering at how strangely unsteady the sand was under our feet.

'Marooned,' despaired Meldrew (Master's Mate), 'and nowt the better for it.'

Not all of us were so disheartened. Indeed, there were some who thought our surviving the storm and the sinking of our ship a miracle, and thanked God for it. And we still had the boat, which we could row with oars made of driftwood.

We soon set about exploring. There was wood enough for a fire, and there was a freshwater stream with its own waterfall. We ate wild yams, crabs, mussels, turtle eggs, and the eggs of nesting seabirds. Of inhabitants, native or otherwise, there was no sign.

Out there was the Indian Ocean, its powerful currents had swept as back to the rugged west coast of Terra Australis, where we stood or sat as a group on the coarse, red-gold sand; discussing the likelihood of being rescued.

We had not drifted so far that we were beyond the reach of civilised men. There would be other whaling ships, Malay pearlers, or (perhaps) a trader en-route to the Dutch East Indies.

'Should we light a signal fire and keep it burning?' asked Piers.

'If you want to be speared by the Blacks,' said Fitzwilliam. 'They'll be able to see the smoke 's well 's any passing ship.'

'Build your damn fire,' said Meldrew, 'and if the Blacks come near us, we'll give them the Chinaman.'

The others found this amusing; though I could see no humour in it.

It was Anders and Crabbe who discovered O'Rourke's body the next morning. The Irishman was floating face down in the pool below the waterfall. The back of his head had been brutally bashed in.

'By a rock looks like,' said Crabbe.

'Or a wooden club,' ventured Fitzwilliam. 'Possibly a stone-headed axe.'

'Do you think the Blacks killed him?' asked Morris.

There was no real evidence to support such speculation one way or the other. No murder weapon that we could find, and only one set of footprints in the damp sand at the edge of the pool (presumably O'Rourke's).

That we had not seen any Aboriginals was no reason to believe they were not camped somewhere close by.

'How do we know it weren't one of us?' said Fircombe.

There were shrugs and the shaking of heads. Had one of us hated the man enough to murder him? Knowing O'Rourke, I thought it more than likely.

'However it happened,' said Meldrew, 'we've got to drink that water, so somebody drag the bugger out 'fore he spoils it.'

Two days after the killing of O'Rourke, Morris went off by himself to forage for edible berries or such, and never returned.

Piers later stumbled across his lifeless body of Gray at the bottom of the cliffs, at the north'ard end of the beach, from the heights of which he appeared to have fallen. By accident? No one thought so.

We sharpened sticks to make spears, and those and the knives all sailors carry were our only weapons. Another day passed with no sighting of any ship of any kind. Each of us began to suspect at least one of the others. Tempers flared. Accusations were made and vehemently denied.

Fircombe's neck was broken some time in the night as he lay sleeping.

Piers drowned in a tidal rock pool no deeper than the length of a man's arm from wrist to elbow.

Anders also drowned, seemingly while bathing in the ocean, his corpse washed ashore some hours later.

Fitzwilliam. like Morris, was another who simply vanished off the face of the earth. Certain of his logical conclusion that we were being targeted by wild Aborigines, he set out with the intention of making some kind of peace offering.

"To parlay a truce," was how he put it.

We sat around the unlit fire.

'It's this place,' said Crabbe, picking lice out of his beard and cracking them with his thumbnail. 'It's cursed. I say we take the boat and look for a river. Where there's a river there are people.'

'Aye,' said Meldrew, 'but what kind of people?'

'Farmers,' said Crabbe. 'Loggers. Fisherfolk.'

Meldrew took a coin from his pocket. 'Heads we stay. Tails we go. Agreed?'

Biscuit wasn't asked, and his vote would not have counted any way: him being Chinese and not White. I could see some merit in Crabbe's reasoning and, faced with choosing the Devil or the deep blue sea, I chose the sea.

Meldrew flipped the coin.

Evidence has come to light that casts England's best known and much revered playwright William Shakespeare in the role of villain. The stage is set for second year archaeology student and erstwhile gigolo Max Rush to not only reveal the truth but to solve two murders. Crimes committed five centuries apart. With Dr Godfric Templeton and Detective Chief Inspector Arthur Doyle of Scotland Yard in supporting roles, the final dramatic scene could re-write history.

Titus Andronicus: A tale of revenge and bloody murder in which the number of dead bodies continues to rise until there's no room left on stage.

Roman Britain / 61 A D

"Pray to the Devils. The Gods have given us over."

Boudicca, surrounded by her vassal lords, stands in the ruins of a Roman villa. The broken mosaic on the floor depicts the famous scene of a defiant Horatius defending the bridge of Rome. A messenger enters.

Messenger

'My Queen! The Roman governor approaches. The strength of his forces are far less than we expected. Our spy within the Roman camp reports the troops based at Isca have refused his call.’

Boudicca

’So much for the iron legions of Rome. Soon our righteous fury shall be fully sated. Thus will I encounter Suetonius and say I am revenged.'

Warwickshire England / 1950

"My heart suspects more than mine eye can see."

Max Rush is taking part in a joint Harvard-Oxford excavation led by Dr Godfric Templeton who believes Roman Tripontium is the site of the last battle of Boudicca’s rebellion.

The expedience of barrows and shovels has given way to the time consuming tedium of sifting and brushing. Shards of pottery. Small coins. Colour-glazed tessera.

Templeton

'The devil of archaeology is in the detail.'

Harry Cromwell is an accomplished English actor who has fallen on hard times. He's desperate for a new hit, and the open-air production of Titus Andronicus in the ruins of Coventry Cathedral could be just what his failing career needs.

Cromwell himself is directing and appearing as Emperor Saturninus.

An overcast morning. Godfric Templeton politely shakes the hand of his unexpected visitor.

Templeton (gestures enthusiastically)

'The Queen of the Iceni has burned Camulodunum, Londinium and Verulanium in her desire to avenge the humiliation she and her daughters experienced at the hands of Rome. Governor Suetonius Paulinus, recently returned from slaughtering druids in North Wales, commands the last Roman army that stands in her way. The outcome of this battle between Romans and Celts will decide the fate of Britain.'

Cromwell

‘Fascinating. It's very kind of you to show me around, Doctor.’

Templeton

'The pleasure's all ours. This is the first time we’ve had a star of stage and screen come by.’

Cromwell

’A somewhat faded star these days. But I’ve always had an interest in history. As, of course, did Shakespeare. Such a shame he never chose Boudicca as a subject for one of his plays.'

Templeton

'But Tamora, Queen of the Goths, and the main female character in Titus Andronicus could have been inspired by her.’

Cromwell

'You surprise me, Doctor. I didn't know you were a fan and a scholar.'

Cromwell peers down at the dig. A dapper man in his mid-forties, he's come poorly dressed for wandering around an archaeology site. Young Max Rush calls Templeton's attention to their latest find, a bronze buckle from the leather strap of a Roman sandal.

Attracting Cromwell’s attention as well.

Cromwell

‘And who do we have here?’

Templeton

‘This is Max. One of our students from Harvard. Max, come and say hello.’

Max is polite, of course, but not naive. The nature of Cromwell’s interest in him is clear

(if not obvious to everyone).

Max

‘Is it true that all the female parts were played by boys?’

Cromwell

‘Parts? Well, yes. If by "parts" you mean roles. Have you ever thought about acting yourself, Max? I'm sure we could find a part for you.’

Max (laughs)

'Me? Maybe, if it was a comedy.'

Cromwell

'How about coming to tea one afternoon and meeting the company? Read a few lines. You’d look good dressed as a Roman. You have the legs for it. And we don't have an understudy for Gloucester's Lucius.'

Max looks at Dr Templeton.

Max

‘What about the dig?’

Templeton

‘I don’t think we’re going to get much more done. Not if the weather forecast is right. But before you run off to join the theatre, you can help the rest of the team get the rain covers in place.’

Cromwell

’Splendid. If you think the role of Lucius might be too much, you can understudy for a couple of the smaller parts.'

Max

'Lady parts?'

Cromwell (winks)

’I think if you were under me, I could study you more closely.'

Max

'When you said you might have a small part for me, I didn't know it was going to be yours.'

Cromwell

'Oh, sauce! Don't be so bloody cheeky!'

Dresden Germany / 1945

"Must my sons be slaughtered in the streets for valiant doings in their country’s cause?"

The carpet-bombing of Dresden results in the death of 25,000 people and is later viewed by many as one of the more morally questionable acts of the Allied forces.

All around, as far as the eye can see, is the ruin of war. Rubble, smoke, twisted metal, pulverised stone, and broken bodies. A middle-aged woman is clambering across a wreck of broken bricks, the remains of an elegant town-house. A youth wearing the uniform of the Hitlerjugend is beckoning her.

Youth

'I found the door to the basement. Hurry!'

Woman

'Go. I will follow you. Please, my little bear, save yourself!'

The young man nods and turns away to hurry down the steps, where he tries the handle of the door to the cellar. It’s locked. He throws himself against the door in frustration and fear, but it refuses to budge. He can hear the sound of bombers overhead. Explosions draw closer. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, he redoubles his efforts. The door opens and he falls through. Even as he does so, he hears the sound that will haunt him night after night for years to come.

His mother screaming as she's engulfed in flames.

Thirty thousand feet above, Squadron Leader Peter Carter looks down from the cockpit of his Lancaster at the firestorm below.

Carter

‘Dresden. The Jewel Box of Saxony. Look what we’ve done to it.’

Bob (The Bomber’s Sparks / or Engineering Officer)

‘Payback for London. And Swansea. And Coventry.’

Carter (shakes his head)

’No, Sparks. It's madness. Sheer and utter bloody madness.'

Warwickshire England / 1950

"She is Lavinia; therefore she must be loved."

Coventry Cathedral is only a short distance away from the site at Tripontium, and no one is more excited at the possibility of being backstage during rehearsals than Lavinia Kauffmann, Max's fellow student and sometime lover.

Promiscuous and manipulative, what Lavinia wants, Lavinia gets.

Lavinia

'Isn't it wonderful? You must let come with you!'

Max

'I don't know that I'm going. It all seems a bit silly.'

Lavinia

'Oh, don't be such a stick in the mud. Your bits of old pot will still be here. What's a few more days after two thousand years?'

Max (reluctantly)

'I suppose so.'

Lavinia

'You won't be sorry!'

Tea with the cast. Max prefers crumpet to a piece of victoria sponge.

Bernard Quandt is an up and coming young German actor who has been cast as Aaron, the Moorish lover of Tamora and one of the villains of the piece.

Tamora will be played by Delphine Bouchard, a young French-Canadian starlet who Harry Cromwell had seduced while in Hollywood.

The title character of Titus is to be played by Rupert Dyson, a rising star who's flirting dangerously with Delphine. Although she seems to lavish more of her affection on her Siamese cats, Salt and Pepper.

For the role of Titus' daughter - also called Lavinia - Cromwell has chosen Miss Ivonna Turner, who will be making her stage debut.

Miss Turner turns heads, and has certainly turned Max's. It doesn't matter to Max that the inside of Miss Turner's head is an unfurnished room.

Max suddenly takes an interest in all things dramatic. Cromwell and Bouchard both take an interest in Max. And Lavinia is seduced by Bernard Quandt's swashbuckling charm.

Quandt

‘How curious that you should share the same name as Titus’ daughter.’

Lavinia

‘Is it a big part?’

Quandt

‘Let’s just say she diminishes somewhat as the play goes on.’

Other members of the cast are Richard Gloucester, Anthony Burton, Ellen Moreau,

Dante Tyrell, and Lincoln Forrester. All of whom, as well as their singular parts, will share the minor and the non-speaking roles of Tribune, Senator, Soldier, Goth, Messenger or Captain etc.

No one licks the cream from a chocolate eclair quite like the lascivious Lavinia Kauffmann.

Max is already sorry he brought her.

Ivonna Turner's trailer. A chaise-lounge is not the perfect setting for a romantic tryst. The lounge is too short and the angles of the chaise are proving problematic. But young people are flexible, and Max is keen to make it work.

Ivonna

'If only Mummy could see me now.'

Max

'It might be better if she didn't.'

Ivonna

'Don't be silly, darling. She'd be in fits and giggles.'

Max

'Is she as beautiful as you?'

Ivonna

'Ooh, you are wicked! Be a sweetie and pour me another snort of champers?'

Coventry Cathedral / Cromwell's Titus Andronicus

"And now at last, laden with honour’s spoils, returns the good Andronicus to Rome,

renowned Titus, flourishing in arms."

Stone walls in various stages of disrepair are the unburied bones of religious reformation. The vacant eyes of windows open on to a scene from the very depths of Hell itself. Beauty defiled beyond belief.

A body is discovered in the ruins of the cathedral. It’s one of the students.

Lavinia Kauffmann is the daughter of an official at the Israeli embassy in London. Her body has been mutilated just like the other Lavinia: Titus’ daughter in the play.

Beside her body is an old manuscript. It’s an original of Titus Andronicus minus the final page. On the front page, scrawled in Lavinia's blood, are the words "The Titus Principal".

It’s initially presumed by investigators that "Principle" has been misspelled.

And the "Titus Principle" is REVENGE.

London England / 1950

“Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive that Rome is but a wilderness of tigers?”

An unremarkable office in a nondescript building in an undistinguished street. Donald Maclean - also known as "Homer" - sits across an unnoteworthy desk from MI6 agent Mandrake.

Maclean

'Have you read the report on this nasty business in Coventry? We’ve managed to keep the more graphic elements of the murder from the press and, most importantly, not a hint of the Israeli angle. The ambassador was on the phone to me this morning. Scotland Yard are sending one of their finest detectives to head up the investigation. A man named Doyle, if you can believe it, Arthur Doyle.'

Mandrake

‘Let's hope his sleuthing is equal to Sherlock Holmes and not Watson. Should I be involved?’

Maclean

‘Not with this business in Korea. You might be needed over there.’

Mandrake

’I’m not sure we can leave this to the police, however good their man is.'

Maclean

'What do you suggest?'

Mandrake

'There’s someone.we could borrow from the Americans. Our archaeologist friend, Templeton, just happens to be working on a dig nearby. In fact, I’ve learned the murder victim was one of his students. And another of his students had recently joined the company that was performing the play.’

Maclean (scowling)

‘Another student? Who?’

Mandrake

'Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.'

Maclean

'Not that damn boy again. Always sticking his oar in where it's not wanted. Absolutely not! Max Rush is a menace, and a dangerous one.'

Mandrake

'Perhaps we should ask C. I know Templeton has convinced his superiors at the CIA that Rush has potential, and has taken him under his wing.'

Maclean (grimaces)

’That won’t be necessary. Templeton can be our liaison with Doyle. But tell him to keep Rush out of it. If it's not already too late.'

Warwickshire England / 1950

“Hark, villains! I will grind your bones to dust."

Coventry Cathedral. The scene of the crime. Detective Chief Inspector Arthur Doyle bums a cigarette off one of the local constabulary, then asks for a light. The packet of Players and the box of Lucifer matches both disappear into a pocket of Doyle's grey Macintosh.

Doyle

'What do we know about the victim?'

Constable

'Popular girl.'

Doyle

'How so?'

Constable

'When I was a lad, our village only had one bicycle. It belonged to the vicar, but he was in his eighties and couldn't manage the hills, so he'd leave it out front for anyone who wanted to borrow it. Anyone who did would put it back for the next person.'

Doyle

'Where is this going?'

Constable

'Our lass was like that bicycle.'

'Doyle

'What's your name?'

Constable

'Dunstable, sir.'

Doyle

'There's nothing amusing about murder, Dunstable. Where are the pages that were found near the body?'

Constable

'A Doctor Templeton has them.'

Doyle

'Why the hell would - Never mind. Where's he?'

Constable

'Here he comes now, sir.'

Doyle

'Templeton?'

Templeton

'Detective Chief Inspector.'

Doyle

'How do we do this?'

Templeton

'I'm here to assist in any way I can.'

Doyle

'Right. In that case I want my bloody evidence!'

Templeton raises an eyebrow at Doyle's unfortunate choice of words.

A demountable building serves as the cathedral's visitors' centre and souvenir shoppe. Dr Templeton fans the pages of the manuscript across the information counter.

Templeton

'We think Lavinia Kauffmann took the manuscript from Harry Cromwell's dressing room. We don't know when, exactly, but it had to be some time during the performance. I've shown photographs of several of the pages to a friend of mine in Stratford who's an expert on Shakespeare and his contemporaries. He's compared the writing to other samples, and we now have the possible identity of its author.'

Doyle

'Not Shakespeare?'

Templeton

'No.'

Doyle

'What does any of this have to do with our dead girl?'

Templeton

'Cromwell's theatre company is virtually bankrupt. The manuscript, if it can be authenticated, could be priceless.'

Doyle

'You think he might have killed her to get it back?'

Templeton

'There's more. The last page is missing. If you can find that last page, you'll have found the murderer.'

Doyle

'I don't suppose I can bother you for a cigarette?'

Dr Templeton hands Doyle a pack of Chesterfields. When Doyle fumbles in the pocket of his overcoat for matches, Templeton passes him a gold-plated Dunhill lighter. Doyle takes his time, tapping one end of the unfiltered on the mostly full packet and thumbing the Dunhill.

Doyle (smokes)

'Thank you, Doctor. I'll handle the investigation from here.'

Doyle stands up and leaves.

Some time later, as he's walking towards his car, Dr Templeton reaches into a pocket of his houndstooth coat for his cigarettes.

Templeton

'The son of a bitch!'

The Globe Theatre London / 1599

"Heaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows plain, that we may know the traitors and the truth!"

The yard is filled with unwashed bodies, but this is Elizabethan England, and the actors on the stage of this splendid new theatre are used to the stench of the city. There is a hushed silence from the audience as the production being performed draws to its iconic close.

Lucius Andronicus

"Some loving friends convey the emperor hence,

And give him burial in his father’s grave:

My father and Lavinia shall forthwith,

Be closed in our household’s monument."

"As for that ravenous tiger, Tamora,

No funeral rite, nor man in mourning weed,

No mournful bell shall ring her burial;

But throw her forth to beasts and birds of prey.

Her life was beastly and devoid of pity."

The theatre erupts in applause and the actors take a bow. From the wings, the Bard of Avon - Will Shakespeare himself - looks on, smiling. Next to him is his business partner, Richard Burbage.

Burbage

’They do like a bloody tragedy of revenge and mayhem.'

Shakespeare

’Aye. A pack of curs baying round the slaughterhouse gate.'

Burbage

'But Will, this play be mere trifle when one compares it to that noble tale of Julius Caesar.'

Shakespeare

'Titus is not my finest tragedy, I grant thee, but always have I felt a desire most tender for it.'

Burbage

'Tell me once more, why Titus?’

Shakespeare

'As thou remarked, Dick, the crowds complain not.’

Burbage

'Nor does De Vere, I wager. Do we render unto Caesar all that is Caesar's?'

Shakespeare

'Oxford tells me his next is almost complete.'

Burbage

'Does it have a title?'

Shakespeare

'He refers to it only as "the despairing Dane".'

Warwickshire England / 1950

"These words are razors to my wounded heart."

The tea room where Max first met the members of Cromwell’s company. It's a summer's day, though it's lease has all too short a date, and a troubled Max is not a happy camper.

Max

'Why can't I help?'

Templeton

‘I’m sorry Max, but my orders are you’re not to become involved.’

Max

‘Orders? Who from?’

Templeton

‘From whom. And I can’t say. I think you should go back to Tripontium. The weather has cleared and we can recommence the dig. I’ll join you as soon as I can.’

Max

‘Lavinia was my friend.’

Templeton

’We both know that’s not true. She used you the same way she used everyone. Lavinia didn't deserve to die so horribly, but don’t pretend it’s giving you sleepless nights. You saw much worse in Germany. I don't know how you survived a winter in the ruins of Berlin.'

Max

'I ate a lot of cats. But, listen, I can help with the investigation in ways that you can’t.'

Templeton

'Oh, I can imagine, Max! Just try not to get in Doyle's way. He doesn't want any Baker Street Irregulars snooping around.’

Max (puzzled)

‘Any what?’

Templeton

’Never mind, Wiggins. If you find that missing page, come to me first.'

Ivonna Turner’s trailer. Max avoids the chaise-lounge, but notices all evidence of his conquest is concealed by a paisley silk pelerine in jade-green and cinnamon-brown.

Ivonna

‘I’m not sure if I can go back on stage as Lavinia now. Not after what’s happened.’

Max

‘How did you come to join the company in the first place?’

Ivonna

’Don’t put your daughter on the stage, Mrs Worthington. But Mummy wasn’t having any of it. She was a chorus girl herself when she was younger. Let’s just say Daddy Cromwell owed her a favour. He came to see me after the performance. The night your friend... '

Max

‘What did he want?’

Ivonna

‘It's not important, darling. He wasn't very pleased. I think he thinks I'm trying to steal you away from him.’

The resemblance suddenly strikes Max like a bolt from the blue.

How had he missed it?

Max

'Harry Cromwell's your father!'

Ivonna

'Yes, but you mustn't tell. You haven't touched your champers. Don't you like it? Let me make you a vodka martini.'

Max

'I have a better idea.'

Max leaves Ivonna shaken (if not stirred).

Delphine Bouchard is in her mid-twenties. Far too young for the role of Tamora. But the fear of fading looks and a bulging waistline aren't stopping her from tucking into a large meat pie when Inspector Doyle knocks on the door of her dressing room, only minutes

after Max has left.

The air is thick with the fug of french cigarettes and the redolence of too-recent sex. Doyle's eyes narrow behind the lenses of his black hornrims and his ginger moustache twitches.

Delphine

’Ah Inspector! This really is too much. When can our performances resume? We have

three more nights and a matinee on Saturday.’

Doyle

’I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but we’re still pursuing our investigations. I'm endeavouring to ascertain the whereabouts of each member of the cast during and after

the performance. Where were you, Mademoiselle?’

Delphine

‘So sad. This curious double tragedy. Life imitating art.’

Doyle

'We believe Miss Kauffmann was murdered because she discovered something someone didn't want to be found.’

Delphine

’The manuscript that Harry was always boasting about. He was most mysterious about it, saying it would help him recover his fortune.'

Doyle

‘Did you ever read the manuscript yourself?’

Delphine finds a curious hair in her pie and frowns. She disposes of it discreetly into the folds of her white-satin serviette, but the sharp-eyed detective notes her action.

Delphine

’Never. And in answer to your question as to my whereabouts, speak to Rupert. I was with him, going through my lines. The art of perfection. Max might know more about the manuscript than I do. You just missed him.'

Doyle

‘Pumping you for information, was he? We’ve already spoken to Mr Dyson. I gather he doesn’t have much of a liking for your cats. And I wasn't looking for Rush, as it happens, but perhaps I should be.’

Delphine (shrugs)

’Rupert claims he’s allergic to them. But - now that you mention it - where are my little darlings? They do like to go mousing around the ruins of the cathedral. And I haven’t seen them all morning.'

“Why, there they are both, baked in this pie, whereof their mother daintily hath fed.”

Templeton pops his head around the door of the Cathedral visitors’ centre, which Doyle has commandeered as his incident room. The Inspector is reading a cheap pocket edition of Titus Andronicus, and frowning.

Templeton

‘Any new developments?’

Doyle

’You could say that. Bouchard has been rushed to hospital. It seems that there was too much Salt and Pepper in her steak and kidney.'

Evening. Sunset. Max is sitting on a bench on the bank of the river Sherborne, brooding. He’s spoken with most of the members of the Company without learning anything of value. Almost without him noticing, a young man sits down next to him. Max glances across. It’s the neat, precise figure of Bernard Quandt.

Quandt is just a few years older than Max.

Quandt

'Penny for your thoughts.’

Max

'Thoughts? Not much. I just needed to find somewhere quiet.’

Quandt

’Ja. All these policemen asking questions. And then there's you.'

Max

'Me?'

Quandt

'Also asking.'

Max

'Do you have any answers.'

Quandt

'You also are from Germany, I think. Though you go to much trouble to hide it. Like many of us abroad these days.’

Max

’My father was German. I live in America now. My mother was from Boston. What about you?'

Quandt

’I am from Dresden. My father was an industrialist, part of a rich and powerful family. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps. The war put an end to all that. I was closer to my mother. She called me her “Little Bear”.'

Max

'You talk about her as if she's gone.'

'She was killed. In the war.'

Max

'Really? I'm sorry. So was mine.'

Quandt

'My mother was an actress with a great, artistic heritage. Her father was an antiquarian,

a collector of old manuscripts. My mother’s family were related to Goethe. You’ve heard

of Goethe?’

Max

‘He wrote Faust.’

Quandt

‘Marlowe was there before him. The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus. But when does influence become imitation? And when does imitation become theft? Anyway, I’m off for a stroll around the cathedral ruins. Das lebewohl, Max.’

Meanwhile.

Doyle is looking thoughtfully at a list of names he’s scrawled on a chalkboard in the incident room.

Doyle

‘These are the names of everyone the company who knew about the manuscript. The killer is one of these, I’m certain of it.’

He crosses off the name of Delphine Bouchard.

Doyle

‘The latest hospital report isn’t hopeful. The pie was laced with strychnine as well as substantial chunks of cat. I think we can safely assume that she didn’t poison herself. That still leaves the others.’

Templeton

‘You can eliminate Max from your list of suspects.’

Doyle

‘How can you be so sure? Something tells me he’s more than capable.’

Templeton

‘And you’d be correct. But sadistic? No, never. That’s what we’re looking for. Only a twisted, tortured mind could have done what was done to that poor girl.’

Doyle

‘I think we should speak to Cromwell again. He’s holding out on us.’

Templeton and Doyle are sitting in Harry Cromwell’s well-appointed dressing room. It's large enough for Cromwell to pace up and down, which he's been doing with increasing agitation ever since they arrived. His smoking jacket is slightly askew and his normally immaculate hair is ruffled.

Cromwell

‘I told you, Detective Chief Inspector, I showed no one the contents of that manuscript. No one!’

Templeton

‘But you weren’t being particularly circumspect about possessing a document that could overturn four hundred years of Shakespearian scholarship, were you? Delphine Bouchard knew about it. So did Rupert Dyson. And Bernard Quandt. You even told my student, Max Rush. You offered to show it to him. Did you make a similar offer to Lavinia Kauffmann?’

Cromwell

‘I’m sorry, but why is an archaeology professor interrogating me about a murder?’

Doyle

‘Dr Templeton is assisting in the investigation. Did you show the manuscript to Miss Kauffmann?’

Cromwell

‘Of course not! I might have mentioned something about it to her. Nothing more.’

Doyle

’You know a fair bit about Shakespeare, I gather. Bit of a mystery man, our Will. Spelled

his surname six different ways, from the various signatures he left behind. What does it say about a man that he can’t spell his own name?’

Cromwell

‘Conventions in orthography weren’t so rigorous in those days. Shakespeare died a century and half before Johnson published his epic Dictionary. Spelling was more fluid then than it is now.’

Templeton (excitedly)

‘Spelling! That’s it! That’s what Miss Kauffmann was trying to tell us!’

Doyle

‘What do you mean?’

Templeton

‘We’ve all been presuming Lavinia’s message was about the Titus Principle, i.e. Revenge. When she wrote Principal, we thought she made an error. That she'd meant to write Principle. But what if she didn't make a mistake? In the theatre the term “Principal” normally applies to the lead actor!’

Cromwell (nodding)

‘Yes, of course.’

Templeton

‘And the lead actor in Titus Andronicus would be the man who played the role of Titus himself. Which points us to - ’

Doyle

‘Rupert Dyson. He's our man. Come on, Doctor!’

Cromwell stops them.

Cromwell

'Rupert can’t possibly be the murderer. It’s rather embarrassing, but I can prove he’s innocent.'

Coventry Cathedral / The Scene of the Crime

"Thy years want wit, thy wit wants edge and manners, to intrude where I am graced."

Night has fallen. All is quiet. The old stones of the cathedral courtyard glow eerily in the moonlight. A single bright spotlight falls upon the altar, bearing the three large mediaeval nails salvaged from the ruined building that had been bound together with wire to form a cross. Max looks towards the wooden gantry erected a week before in preparation for the play. Looking down upon him from his high vantage point is Bernard Quandt, holding a Luger pistol in his left hand.

Quandt

‘I had a feeling you’d follow me here, Max.’

Max

‘I think I’ve worked it out. Your maternal grandfather - the antiquarian - he had a certain manuscript in his possession, didn’t he?’

Quandt

‘Yes. One passed down to him from Goethe. The original manuscript of Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus.’

Max

‘Except it wasn’t really Shakespeare’s.’

Quandt

‘No more than the manuscript belongs to Harry Cromwell. It’s not enough that he steals other men’s wives. That bastard also stole my grandfather’s most valuable possession. And now I’ve liberated it. Or the all-important final page, at least. Lucius’ closing speech. You know it. You learned it well enough. But on the reverse there’s a signed statement from the true author.'

Max

'Do you have it? The page? Can I see it?'

Quandt

Enough talk. I think it’s time for us to enact that most famous of Shakespearian stage direction. Exit: pursued by a bear.’

Quandt raises his pistol, just as two more figures step into view. DCI Arthur Doyle and Dr Godfric Templeton have arrived for the final act.

Doyle

‘Wrong stage direction, wrong play, Quandt. It was the Titus Principle all along, wasn’t it? Revenge, pure and simple. You wanted us to think that Lavinia Kauffman’s last message - which you wrote in her blood - was intended to point us towards Rupert Dyson, the principal of the play. When you learned from that plod, Dunstable, that we'd misread your intention, you became frustrated. You poisoned Bouchard. But why Dyson? Could it have anything to do with the fact that his father was Air Commodore Thomas Dyson. One of the key staff in British Bomber Command responsible for planning and executing the fire-bombing of Dresden?’

Quandt

‘Thomas Dyson. Harry Cromwell. William Shakespeare. All guilty as charged. And as the French say: Revenge is a dish best served cold.’

Doyle

'In a pie.'

Max

'What about Lavinia Kauffmann? Why her?’

Quandt

’Miss Kauffmann was no innocent. She was ready enough to play the role I set for her, stealing the manuscript from Cromwell’s dressing room. But as to why I killed her? Being

a verschmutzt Juden was reason enough.’

Quandt takes aim at Max. But before he can pull the trigger, he's winged by Dr Templeton, who has pulled his Beretta from inside his jacket. Quandt loses his balance and falls from the gantry. Max races toward him. Quandt fires his Luger. Max stumbles, clutching his side. Quandt raises his gun again and points it at Dr Templeton.

A single shot rings out. Bernard Quandt is dead before he hits the ground.

Detective Chief Inspector Doyle re-holsters his Colt Navy.

Doyle

'Not standard issue. But the bigger the bullet, the harder they fall.'

After all the excitement, Templeton and Max are alone, silently contemplating the ruined cathedral. Max's wound isn't much worse than a graze and the bleeding has stopped.

Templeton

’You know, they’re planning to build a new cathedral, but on the adjacent grounds. The plan is to leave the ruins here as a memorial.'

Dr Templeton points towards the wall behind the altar and the cross of nails.

Templeton

’Father, forgive. Words to remember, Max. In the world of an eye for an eye, we all end up blind.'

Max

‘I’m not sure I’m cut out to be an actor. Can we go back to the dig?’

Templeton

‘Certainly. There's just one thing, though.’

Dr Templeton takes a single piece of manuscript from his jacket pocket.

Max

‘Is that - ?’

Templeton

‘The final page. I found it in Quandt’s jacket. The question is, what do we do with it? Return it to Harry Cromwell?’

Max

‘Why should he make millions from it? Quandt said he stole it in the first place.’

Templeton

’I’m not sure what the law courts would say about that. But I think we can persuade Cromwell to “donate” the whole manuscript, including this final page, to the British Library. It can be properly studied there. And kept safe from any undue scrutiny. I don’t think the British people are quite ready for the truth about their greatest literary figure,

do you?’

Max

‘How are you going to convince Cromwell?’

Templeton

‘Ah, well. That’s easy. You see, he was the one who provided Dyson with his alibi. It seems, the night Lavinia was killed, after the performance, Rupert Dyson, Harry Cromwell and Delphine Bouchard were engaged in a - what do the French call it? - une liaison amoureuse? I know that actors have a certain reputation, but there are limits to what their adoring public will stomach.’

Max

‘Blackmail, Doctor? I’m shocked.’

Templeton

‘No you’re not. So, do you want to read the note on the final page?’

The script is faded and hard to read, but Max can make out the signature.

Max

’Marlowe.'

Templeton

'There's more on the back. Turn it over.'

Max (reads)

'This playe written by Kit Marlow fromme whom I did steale it and in his murrder I did conspire. May Godde have mercye on my soul. Will Shakespear.'

Max

'So, if Marlowe was dead, who wrote Shakespeare's other plays?’

Templeton

‘That’s just it Max. We don’t know. And we probably never will.’

Kent England / 1593

"Not till I have sheathed my rapier in his bosom, and withal thrust those reproachful speeches down his throat that he hath breathed in my dishonour here."

A tavern in Deptford. A darkened den of darker mood. A stable of slatterns to disgrace the dandling knee.

Shakespeare

'The boil on my buttock that is Marlowe must be lanced.'

Taverner

'What would you have me do, start a war?'

Shakespeare

'An argument will suffice. The chaos that ensues will both cloak the deed and give you just cause should anyone inquire as to the circumstance of his mortal injury.'

Taverner

‘What grievance do you hold against him? A rivalry of hearts?’

Shakespeare

’Aye, though not as thou would esteem, but a ballot for the affections of the people. He is jealous, too, of my newfound success on the stage with my Roman tragedy, Andronicus. His friendship with Robert Greene - who did slander my name in ways most vile - has also caused me much offence. Greene now rots beneath an sward of green, and I would have Marlowe moulder with him.'

Taverner

'First, let me see what coin you offer..’

Shakespeare (tossing over a purse)

‘Gilded tombs do worms enfold. Will this suffice?’

Taverner

‘Aye. It will. We have a deal.’

Shakespeare

‘One worthy of Faustus, methinks.’

Oxford England / 1600

"Here are no storms. No noise, but silence and eternal sleep."

An Elizabethan manor. A spacious library in oak and leather where walls of shelves host voluminous volumes and tightly rolled scrolls. Edward De Vere, the 17th Earl eponymous, paces the floor, cogitating verbally.

De Vere

'Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Milan where we lay our scene. Milan? No, strike that. Venice? Verona! In fair Verona where we lay our scene.'

His manservant, Falstaff, looks up from the scratching of his oft-inked goose quill.

Falstaff

'Verona? Again?'

De Vere

'I like Verona.'

The dawn's light breaks through tall lead-light windows set between Doric columns.

De Vere steps out onto a balcony.

De Vere

'It is the East, and Jocelyn is the sun.'

Falstaff

'Jocelyn?'

De Vere

'Give me a name!'

Falstaff

'Janet, Julia, Juliet, Joan.'

De Vere

'Yes! Juliet. That's it. Well? What are you waiting for? Write it down!'

Falstaff

'It's not very Italian.'

De Vere

'The great unwashed of London will not know, nor care.'

Falstaff (sighs)

'Juliet. A Capulet. And her star-crossed lover.'

De Vere

'There is our title, Falstaff. The tragedie of Rudolfio and Juliet!'

Teen hero and aspiring Casanova, Max Rush is up to his neck in sand, camels, and counter-intelligence conspiracies. But if Max can stay alive long enough he might just solve one of the greatest mysteries of the ancient world. Where are the remains of Egypt's heretic Pharaoh? Max must follow the Arrows of Akhenaten to discover the answer. And every step could be his last.

Somewhere in Egypt / 1948

Dr Eugene Kowalski has personally invited Max to join him on a new quest.

Kowalski (singing)

'I'm the man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo!'

Max

'If I never see another camel's ass it'll be too soon.'

Kowalski

'Tut-tut, Max. There's no better train than a camel train. And ships of the desert don't sink.'

Max

'I think you're mixing your metaphors again.'

Kowalski

'Am I? You're the one who can't tell his ass from his camel. You'll have us riding giraffes next!'

Max

'Talking of giraffes, do you think Dr Templeton will have everything ready?'

Kowalski's colleague from Harvard University is waiting for them in Cairo.

Making the necessary preparations before they leave for Amarna in Middle Egypt. Where the esteemed Drs have - what should be - a fairly simple task to perform at the behest of the Egyptian Ministry of National Treasures.

Kowalski

'Trust in two things, Max. God and Godfric Templeton. They won't let you down.'

Perched on his dromedary's lurching poop deck, Max is feeling more than a little queasy. Last night's stewed goat has come back to life and is trying to kick its way out of his stomach, and the dried date he's chewing has none of the flavour and all of the texture of a dead cockroach.

Max

'I think I'm going to vomit.'

Kowalski (sings)

'Heave away, me hearties! Heave away! Haul away!'

Max

'You're not helping.'

Kowalski

'You don't hear Lawrence complaining.'

Lawrence, Dr Kowalski's camel, does nothing but complain. Often expressing his displeasure from both ends at the same time.

Their Bedouin guide is a man called Mosul Bin Muhammed, a friend of Dr Kowalski's from before the war, Muhammed is taking them to meet an old man who, he says, has in his possession an even older skull. Older than the sands of the desert. Perhaps as old as the Garden of Eden itself.

Ibrahim Bin Ibrahim welcomes them with open arms and toothless gums. He could be anywhere between eighty and a hundred years old, but there's nothing frail or vague about him. Bin Ibrahim still has the eyes of a falcon and a rogue's courteous charm.

Dr Kowalski is the only one allowed to examine the skull, while Max is dragged away by Bin Ibrahim's dozen or so curious, chattering grandchildren.

Max is a little disappointed at being excluded, but if there's anything worth telling, the Doctor will tell him later.

Max

'Was the skull worth it?'

Kowalski

'Oh, yes! Fascinating! Old, undoubtedly, but exactly how old I can't say. It could be tenth century. Or it could date as far back as the last ice age.'

Max

'Almost as old as Ibrahim.'

Kowalski (laughs)

'Possibly. But don't let him hear you say that.'

The City of Armarna / 3000 BC

The torchlights in the palace flicker. Akhenaten, Great King, Pharaoh of Upper and Lower Egypt is dying. His physicians are powerless to do anything more than alleviate his suffering. His reign has been far too short - a mere seventeen years - to allow him to make the lasting impact he desired with his religious reforms. His wondrous new city, with its lavish buildings, tranquil pools and ordered gardens, is unlike any other in Egypt. Completed in the ninth year of his reign, it has been home for his beautiful and beloved consort Nefertiti and their six daughters.

But Nefertiti is dead, and Akhenaten has been plagued by a mysterious, debilitating illness. His young son Tutankhaten, the child of one of his lesser wives, will succeed him, but it will be his vizier Ay, and his chief general Horemheb, who will wield the true power.

Akhenaten knows there is no hope that they might remain faithful to Aten.

What will remain of his legacy? And how can he protect his own body from the defilement of both tomb robbers and the vengeful priests of Amun? The original plan for his resting place - here in Amarna - is no longer feasible. Nor does he wish to be buried in the Valley of the Kings. The days of the Great Pyramids of the Pharaohs has long since passed.

But there is a final contingency. Akhenaten's most trusted servant, Kamose. He will see to it that none disturb the final resting place of the Son of Aten.

How manifold are thy works, what thou hast made. They are hidden from the face of man.

The City of Amarna / 1948

Akhenaten's tomb is, for all intents and purposes, empty. The hewn rock walls are bare of plaster, there are no paintings, no carvings, and no statues. Only a rectangular stone plinth set slightly off centre supports the stone base of the Pharaoh's unadorned sarcophagus. Also empty.

Max is decidedly underwhelmed.

Kowalski

'Not what you were expecting? Akhenaten founded a new religion dedicated to the worship of Aten, the power and life giving light of the sun. Not long after Akhenaten's death, his son Tutankhamun restored the traditional Gods and temple institutions. Anything that was here was either stolen or destroyed. The city of Amarna was abandoned, and Akhenaten's body was believed to be removed to the royal burial ground in the Valley of the Kings. But his remains have never been found.'

Max

'So why are we here?'

Kowalski

'The Ministry of National Treasures has asked us to lift what's left of the sarcophagus off the plinth and prepare it for safe transport to their museum in Cairo.'

Max watches a small team of Arab and Egyptian labourers sling a cradle of ropes under and between the sarcophagus and its plinth and feed a line through a system of pulleys hanging from a chain attached to a block and tackle.

Dr Kowalski gives them the nod and the stone sarcophagus slowly rises, ready to be swung over and manhandled onto a wheeled flatbed trolley.

Relieved of the weight of the hefty sarcophagus, the plinth begins (unexpectedly) to sink into the floor of the tomb with a loud grinding of stone on stone.

Kowalski

'What the hell?'

Max

'Is that supposed to happen?'

The four fixed sides of the hollow plinth stay together, but the bottom is hinged and opens to reveal a narrow tunnel with steps going down that have been cut into the bedrock.

Max points at the suddenly revealed passage way.

Max

'Should that be there?'

Dr Kowalski is tugging at twin handfuls of his bristling beard. His usually ruddy face has gone a whiter shade of pale.

Kowalski

'Well, that's just... '

The mixed crew of labourers look ready to run for their lives.

Seemingly unfazed, Dr Godfric Templeton removes his glasses and wipes the dusty lenses with a handkerchief he takes from the breast pocket of his leather-elbowed houndstooth jacket.

Templeton

'The Ministry will need to be informed of this.'

Dr Kowalski turns to the frightened workers.

Kowalski

'Anyone breathes an ant's fart about this outside these walls and I'll make damned sure they never work on another site again!'

Max (to himself)

'Mummy's the word.'

The City of Cairo / 1948

Shady deals and shadier characters. Where every vice known to man, and more that are only known to a few, can be bought. Barefoot urchins easily outrun furious stall-holders. Sirens lure the unwary traveller from the upper storeys of balconied brothels.

Two contrasting individuals sit in wicker chairs carefully placed in the accommodating shadow cast by a wide-spanning date palm. Theirs is a quiet corner of an otherwise busy Egyptian ahwa. They have a clear view of their surroundings and they only speak when they're certain no one can hear them.

One is tall, debonair, aristocratic in appearance. His annunciation is as clear and precise as the narrow pin-striping of his charcoal-grey suit. His name is Donald Maclean. Known only, if he's known at all, and only to those who need to know, as "Homer"

The other is short and has a face like a rat. His sunken eyes are shadowed with dark half-moons in shades of aubergine under swollen, yellow-crusted lids. Vladimir Volodkin is a man who has not only witnessed unspeakable atrocities, but has committed more than might be considered his "fair" share. His dress style is shabby-psychopath. His accent is elusive. He isn't a spy, as such, but a facilitator. He makes things happen. His codename is "Grey Goose".

The rat-faced Volodkin stirs a tall glass of iced mint tea.

Volodkin

'So, how are you finding Cairo? Enjoying your promotion?'

Homer

'Hot. My wife hates it.'

Volodkin

'Wait till we get to the summer. She will like it even less. I understand King Farouk is a most convivial and generous host. Didn’t Life magazine call him "the very model of a young Muslim gentleman"?’

Homer (shaking his head)

'He’s venial and corrupt. Egypt came out of the war one of the richest country in the Middle East, but he’s squandering it away.'

Volodkin

'You say squandering, I say pissing. And at least he's pissing in my direction so some some of it trickles down to me.'

Homer

'Was the full implication of my final communique from Washington sufficiently clear?'

Volodkin

'Don't over complicate things. The Americans can't make their atom bombs quickly enough. I'd say that's clear enough. When can Moscow expect your initial report on the British Embassy here?'

Homer

'Give me a fortnight.'

Volodkin drains the last of his tea. Stands up to leave.

Homer

'MI6 has an undercover operative in Cairo.'

Volodkin sits back down.

Volodkin

'Who?'

Homer

'There's more. Washington has its own agent here as well.'

Volodkin

'Besides you.'

Homer

'Besides me.'

Volodkin (snorts)

'The bumbling professor?'

Homer

'The "bumbling professor" is fully trained and has twenty years experience in the field. Not someone to shrug off so lightly.'

A woman in a green silk dress stops to pick a flower from an earthenware planter defining the restaurant's forecourt. The flower is one among dozens of yellow and orange marigolds.

The City of Amarna

Dr Templeton supervises the loading of Akhenaten's sarcophagus onto the truck that will take it, and him, back to Cairo. Leaving Max and Dr Kowalski alone in the tomb, with the temptation of a secret passage way only just discovered and, as yet, unexplored.

Kowalski

'What do you say, Max, do you want to know what's down there? Or do we go back to base and twiddle our thumbs while we wait for some pompous little prick from the Ministry to steal our thunder?'

Max

'I don't think Dr Templeton will be too happy if we go in without him.'

Kowalski

'Godfric is one of my dearest friends, and an excellent archaeologist, but his idea of excitement is Thursday night bingo.'

Dr Kowalski switches on his battery powered, handheld flashlight and shines it into the tunnel.

Kowalski

'Just a quick look. We won't touch anything.'

Bare walls are hewn from the rock. At the bottom of the twenty-one steps - Max counts them - is a small, naturally formed cavern. There's a wall of sandstone blocks directly opposite the steps, and there's nothing natural about it. Chiselled into the face of each large, rectangular block of stone is a single hieroglyph.

Kowalski (reads aloud)

'These be the Arrows of Akhenaten. Only the most loyal and faithful of subjects may pass. The Falcon kneels before the one true God.'

Max

'What is it? Some kind of riddle?'

Kowalski

'The men who designed and built the royal burial tombs would always have more than one way in and out. But what's the prize? The half-circle over a feather next to a zig-zag over a donut is Aten, the Sun. Akhenaten's one true God. Horus is the falcon. Not to be confused with Re, who has the head of a hawk but whose hieroglyph is a donut on a stick and a man holding what looks like a candle. A young fellow from Oxford only made that mistake once. Nasty things, scorpions.'

Max

'What are we supposed to do? Stand on our heads and say their names backwards?'

Kowalski

'It's not magic, Max. It's science. My guess is there's some kind of hidden mechanism behind the wall that unlocks a concealed door. Put your hand on the block with Horus and push. I'll do the same with Aten. On the count of three. Ready? One. Two. Three.'

The stone blocks glide into the wall with little effort, and there's a loud, metallic clank, followed by the sound of a cogged wheel turning. Three irregular shaped flagstones in the chamber's floor suddenly drop away, revealing another narrow tunnel with another set of steps.

Max

'You're a genius!'

Kowalski

'Not really. The Knights of Saint John had something similar in their citadel on Malta. Pick the right apostle to win a prize.'

Max

'What was the prize?'

Kowalski

'You didn't die horribly.'

Twenty-eight steps lead down to a second chamber, another cave, but this one is long and narrow, and instead of a wall there's a stone wheel segmented like pieces of a pie.

Kowalski

'The two Queens of the night wear one Crown.'

Max

'Who are we looking for?'

Kowalski

'Bastet and Khensu. One's a cat and the other is another bird-man with horns and a full moon. Look for a vase and two half-circles. And a full circle over a horizontal zig-zag next to a corn-stalk next to a baby chicken.'

Max (confidently)

'These are easy.'

Kowalski

'Don't count your baby chickens before we have our ducks in a row or we might end up with egg on our faces.'

There's no loud clank this time. Just the rumbling of the heavy wheel rolling into its cut to fit recess. The passage way is level and thirty-five paces in length. At the end is what is unmistakably a door, cast in solid bronze, between two stone columns. Another riddle is inscribed above the door.

Kowalski

'The Mother devours her many Children. Mother is Isis, Goddess of the Nile. Tall building next to a half-circle over a suppository next to a finger-puppet. The other is Hapi. Lord of the Fish and Birds of the Marshes. Twisted vertical ribbon next to a pipe over a square with two lines leaning to the left. You know what to do, Max.'

The bronze door swings open on an inward arc. Another passage way, forty-two steps going up at a steep angle. At the top of the steps is a large, flat slab of smooth stone. Another puzzle is cut into its surface.

Kowalski

'The Scales that weigh Eternity. Set or Sutekh. Murdered his brother. And Thoth. Decides who goes through to the after-life. Knotted rope over half-circle over spoon. A bird with a long curved beak.'

Max

'Nothing's happening.'

Kowalski

'Try lifting it.'

The large, flat slab of stone is part of a floor. Max is able to work the slab free and push it to one side, and they climb into the largest chamber so far. It has a high ceiling with holes in it that allow sunlight and fresh air in. Relieved to finally be able to stand up straight, Dr Kowalski kneads the kinks out of his aching back.

Kowalski

'This is more like it. A man needs room to move! Mites and tites, Max. See them? Do you know how to tell the difference? The "mights" go up when the "tights" come down.'

There's no wall, no wheel, no door, and no slab. The riddle is chipped out of one of the stalagmites, with veins of quartz that glitter rose-pink.

Kowalski

'The Sun's rays are brightest beneath the Earth. Amun-Ra. God of creation. Look for a feather next to balls on a table over a zig-zag line next to a man holding a golf putter.'

Max finds what might be the answer scratched into a stalactite. Centuries of water dripping from the roof of the cave have worn it away until it's almost indecipherable. Pressing on the hieroglyph has no effect. Max doesn't give up, but cups both hands under the rounded tip of the stalactite and heaves.

Max (sings)

'Heave away, me hearties!'

A minor avalanche of loosely piled rocks tumble to reveal another passage way. It's a ramp that slopes down.

Max (counts)

'Forty-seven. Forty-eight. Forty-nine. Forty-nine paces.'

Kowalski

'I expected as much. Multiples of seven. A sacred number to the Egyptians.'

The fifth chamber. The sixth Arrow. A low stone plinth against the far wall.

Kowalski

'The Lion roars with no Man's voice. Has to be Sekhmet. Woman's body. Lion's head. The other one I'm not sure.'

Max

'You're not sure?'

Kowalski

'Could be Ma'at. Goddess of truth. And all men are liars. Or so my wife says.'

Max

'Could be?'

Kowalski

'Okay, let's try candle in a holder next to circle over half-circle next to finger-puppet. And ostrich feather. If that doesn't work then... '

Max

'Scorpions?'

Kowalski

'Let's hope not.'

The stone plinth separates into two equal halves. Behind it is a cramped, narrow, twisting crawl-space. The only way through it is on their hands and knees. It opens onto a square, vertical shaft. Niches dug into the rock provide places for gripping fingers and the toes of their boots.

Max

'The only way is up.'

The exit is a building. One room. Low mud-brick walls. A collapsed roof of terracotta tiles. A sea of red sand outside the unobstructed arched doorway.

One final Arrow scribed with faded ink on a piece of ragged parchment lies among the rubble.

Kowalski

'A King remains a King beyond the River.'

Max

'Are you sure?'

Kowalski

'Relax, Max. This one's as plain as the nose on a sphinx. Tall building over an eye next to a bearded lady. Feather, zig-zag over square, baby chicken, dog on a box.'

Max

'But there aren't any hieroglyphs except those on the note.'

Kowalski

'That's because it's not a riddle. It's a map. These are the directions to Akhenaten's actual resting place. Godfric's the scholar. He'll know. We have to get back to Cairo. Hurry, Max. There's no time to lose!'

Max

'Back the way we came?'

Kowalski

'No! No! We must still be near Amarna! Come on!'

The City of Cairo

Dr Kowalski's research assistant Miss Merrily Mountjoy is enjoying her day burrowing through the bazaars. She doesn't return to the hotel. Dr Templeton begins to worry.

A short walk away from the hotel, Dr Templeton sits at a table in the dining room of a much grander and more luxurious hotel, the aptly named Grand Imperial. He wears a marigold in the breast pocket of his navy-blue suit. A dark-haired woman in a green silk dress slides into the seat opposite.

Templeton

'I need your help.'

Dr Godfric Templeton and British Agent Marigold start searching Cairo for Merrily. An obscenely obese, extremely unattractive Arab, whose known as Baksheesh, tells them Merrily is being taken to Port Said. Where a Soviet submarine will be waiting for Volodkin.

The road to Port Said. Volodkin drives a six-wheeled Bedford truck left to rust when the British army pulled out of Egypt at the end of the war. He has Miss Mountjoy with him. She isn't happy about it.

Dr Templeton and Marigold race after them in an open-topped jeep with Marigold driving.

Volodkin leans out of the driver's side window with a Tokarev TT semi-automatic pistol.

Templeton

'He's shooting at us!'

Marigold hands him her Webley Mk IV .38 service issue revolver.

Marigold

'So shoot back!'

Templeton

'Slow down. You're going to hit the truck.'

Marigold

'Relax, Doctor. I've done this before.'

She jinks the steering wheel with a casual twist and speeds up beside the driver's side of the truck. Volodkin bumps them. Metal scrapes metal as the two vehicles grind together.

Templeton empties all six rounds from the Wembley and draws his own Beretta .32 / 9mm. A compact pistol with a lot of punch.

Marigold

'We have company!'

Max rides out from behind a red-ochre sand dune on a white arabian stallion. Dr Kowalski and Mosul Bin Muhammed aren't far behind. With them are maybe thirty or more Bedouin horsemen.

A vintage WW1 Fokker D.VII biplane - piloted by the one and only pilot serving in the Royal Egyptian Air Force - and armed with twin machine guns mounted on its top wing dives out of the cloudless sky.

The Bedouin scatter. The Fokker comes back for a second run, machine guns strafing the road. The Bedouin return fire with their antique weapons.

Max asks Muhammed if he can borrow his Lee Enfield.

A sceptical Muhammed hands Max the rifle.

Standing in the stirrups, Max puts a .303 bullet between the spinning blades of the biplane's propeller and into the centre of the pilot's forehead.

Muhammed

'It was a lucky shot.'

The Fokker veers away erratically, dips its wings, ploughs nose first into a sand dune, cartwheels end over end, and bursts into a ball of fire.

Volodkin loses control of the truck and crashes into the side of a roadside building on the side of road.

Nick Flaire looks up from behind the bar. Sees a hole in wall of his hole-in-the-wall with the unconscious Volodkin slumped over the Bedford's steering wheel. He helps Merrily out of truck.

Nick

'Of all the dives in all the world, you had to crash into mine.'

The City of Port Said

The hole in the wall of Nick's "Club Cleo" is an improvement. The two Drs Kowalski and Templeton, Marigold, Max and Merrily sit around a table, talking. Nick is back behind the bar.

Max

'I still don't understand why Volodkin had you kidnapped.'

Merrily

'He said something about exchanging me for a British agent. The Russians know they have the Hector Device. I guess he was going to torture Marigold to find out where.'

Marigold

'Good luck with that!'

Templeton

'You don't know?'

Marigold

'I know it's somewhere the Soviets and you Americans won't be able to get your homicidal hands on it.'

Max

'You're the lady from Crete.'

Marigold

'And you're the kid with the golden arm.'

'You saved my life on Icaria when Professor Faust was going to shoot me and throw my body off the cliffs.'

Marigold

'Not just me.'

Max

'Did the Navy find what they were looking for?'

Marigold.

'Yes. We have that too.' *

Kowalski

'So the world is safe?'

Templeton

'For another day.'

*{See Max Rush / The Perils of Hector}

The Oasis of Little Birds / Egypt

Beyond the Bedouin camp the desolate red-brown wastes of the desert stretch as far as the horizon. Unable to sleep, a restless Max stands star-gazing.

Dr Kowalski steps out of his tent and joins him.

Kowalski

'Thinking about tomorrow, Max? I know I am. A lost city. Imagine that! Even the hairs standing up on the back of my neck have hairs standing up on the back of their necks!'

Max

'It was amazing how Dr Templeton remembered the story of the fabled city of Zerzura.'

Kowalski

'True! True! Good old Godfric!'

Max

'Can you hear something? Like voices a long way off? I thought it was just the wind but... '

Kowalski

'Now that you mention it, yes. You know, there’s a tale that Herodotus tells of the Persian king Cambyses. The story goes that he sent a vast army into the western desert to seize the Oracle of Amun in the Siwa Oasis. They were halfway across the desert when a terrible sandstorm swallowed them whole, every last one of them. The Bedouin say their voices can be heard on the wind, pleading to the Gods to release them and grant them the peaceful repose of eternal death.’

Max

'I think they're the voices of my mother's family. I hear them in my dreams.'

Kowalski

'I sometimes wonder if it isn't the people of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.'

Max

'Those, too. A world of wounded souls.'

'What in the name of all that's holy could ever have possessed us that we would do such dreadful things?'

Dr Kowalski takes a silver flask from a vest pocket, unscrews the cap, puts the flask to his lips, and doesn't stop drinking until it's empty.

Morning. Everyone's up bright and early. A little too early for some.

Dr Templeton (quotes)

“You will find palms and vines and flowing wells. Follow the valley until you meet another, opening to the west between two hills. In this valley you will find a forsaken path. Follow it. For the path will lead you to the City of Zerzura. It is a city of white, like a dove is white. By the closed gate you will find a bird sculpted from the whitest marble. Stretch up your hand to its beak, and take from it a key. Open the gate and enter. There will you find much wealth. There also will you a find king and his queen, sleeping the sleep of enchantment...

Do not go near them...

Do not trespass upon their rest...

Take the treasure and that is all.”

All around them, half-buried beneath the desert dunes, are the ruins of the lost city of Zerzura.

Templeton

'In the end, all must turn to sand and dust.’

On either side of the entrance to the temple of Aten stands a tall, imposing statue.

Kowalski

’The figure on the right is clearly Set. The other is Osiris. This is the place.'

A series of short corridors and stairs twist their way into the building. There are no false entrances, no sealed chambers, no puzzles to solve. The central chamber is full of light, mirrors carefully aligned one with one another capture and disseminate shards of bright sunlight.

In the very centre of the chamber is a black granite stele, and on either side of it are two stone sarcophagi. The heavy lid of one has been forced open. Inside it is a simple coffin of wood, and in the coffin are the wrapped, mummified remains of Akhenaten. All except for his skull.

Kowalski (murmurs)

'Ibrahim. You inglorious bastard.'

Templeton

“Akhenaten. Great in his lifetime. And the Queen whom he loved. What treasure is greater than peace? Into His hands I commit my spirit, taking nothing with me. For I am content to follow the true path. The destinies of all men are written in the stars. And the Arrows of Aten shall point the way."

The City of Cairo

The hotel elevator of the Grand Imperial. Marigold has Max pressed up against a wall. Max has her dress hiked up and his hands on her narrow waist. He kisses her neck the way a trout kisses flies on the sunlit surface of a rippling stream.

Max's shirt is open. Marigold lifts his gold Star of David on its chain.

Marigold

'I didn't know.'

Max

'Does it matter?'

Marigold reaches with two fingers into the valley between her high, firm breasts and shows Max a pendant of her own.

Hers is a round wafer of solid silver with a blue enamelled six-pointed star.

Marigold

'I'm kind of wild. Do you think you can tame me?'

Max

'I'm not sure. But I can try.'

Marigold

'Use your whip, Max. Make me jump through hoops.'

Max

'I don't know your name. Your real name.'

Marigold

'It's not important. Seize the day, kid. You might never get another chance.'

Marigold is not a shrinking violet.

Cold blooded killer. Hot blooded lover. As American as apple strudel. Sixteen year old Max Rush is a young man on a mission. A mission full of action, adventure and intrigue, as Max rushes headlong into danger in a race to save the world from an ancient weapon. A weapon so powerful it could herald the dawn of a Fourth Reich.

Nazi Berlin / 1944

The city at night. A sky lit by anti-aircraft batteries and filled with the sound of air raid sirens. Near Hochmeisterplatz. The dark interior of a parked car.

Maximillian Rorsch presses the barrel of the silenced Walther PPK into his father's temple and pulls the trigger. The lead slug takes bone, blood, and a blowout of mucilaginous brain with it, and punches a hole through the driver's side window of a black Mercedes sedan.

Fifteen year old Maximillian can see no alternative. Alive, Feldmarschall Albrecht Rorsch could prolong the defense of Germany, and the city of Berlin itself, by months, possibly even as long as a year. Claiming a million more lives, many of them innocent civilians, like Maximillian's mother.

An attempt to assassinate both the British Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, and American President Franklin Delano Roosevelt while they were meeting in the Iranian capital Teheran to discuss the planned invasion of Normandy (Operation Overlord) has failed. But the possibility that another attempt could succeed is very real.

A Germany with Feldmarschall Albrecht Rorsch in command could slow the Allied advance, giving the Nazis the time they need to complete Projekt Hektor. A weapon

that will not only alter the course of the war, but would give Nazi Germany absolute domination of the entire world.

Convinced he's doing the right thing, Maximillian puts the gun in his father's gloved hand, takes the black leather courier case that's between them on the seat, opens the passenger side door of the staff car, and walks into the night.

Occupied Berlin / 1945

An expanse of public square. Ruined buildings in the background. An American MP post in Potsdamer Platz. A sergeant sees Maximillian Rorsch approaching.

Sergeant

'Buzz off, kid.'

Maximillian

'Please. I'm an American citizen. My mother was from Boston. I was born there. I have my passport and birth certificate to prove it.'

Maximillian hands over his ID.

The sergeant inspects them and hands them back.

Sergeant

'They could be forgeries.'

Maximillian

'They're not. I'm telling you the truth. We were visiting my father's relatives when the war started. He was a scientist. The Nazis came and took him away. I don't know what happened to him, or where he is now. My mother was killed in an air raid.'

The sergeant turns and calls to one of his men.

Sergeant

'Brodsky! Escort this young man to MHQ. He says he's one of us. Let them sort it out.'

Cambridge Massachusetts / 1946

Some eleven months later, Max Rush is a high school sophomore living with his Great Aunt Freida in a four storey house of red brick and Boston Ivy; built when the Americas were still a British colony.

Aunt Freida hasn't exactly welcomed the responsibility of taking in a teenager she's never met, but in the short time Mas has been there her attitude toward him has warmed.

Max wonders (at first) how Aunt Freida can change her hair colour as often as he changes his underwear, which is every day, but the penny soon drops. His aunt has a large collection of wigs, all of them 100% human hair, all of them made in Italy, and all of them excellent quality.

Their relationship is strengthened further one rainy Sunday in September when Aunt Freida encourages a bored and restless Max to try on several of her wigs, and the two of them laugh themselves silly.

Aunt Freida's bedroom is redolent with Queen Anne furniture. Authentic (antique) persian rugs. Silk tapestry on one wall. Abstract art on another. Rain on the windows. Several wigs are arranged on plaster heads on a sideboard. As many again are scattered casually on the king-sized bed.

With the easy androgyny of youth, his brown eyes full of the promise of mischief, and a little artfully applied make-up, Max makes a convincing girl.

Aunt Freida might not be as rich as the Rockerfellers or the Vanderbilts, but her late husband Freddie has left her "comfortably cushioned". At seventy-something, Aunt Freida looks fifty, plays tennis four days a week, and is still a social moth.

Freida

'Age is just a number on a birthday card. The only number that counts is the one in your head. Think young to be young.'

Max (playing the coquette)

'I like being the age I am. It's a great age to be.'

Boston Massachusetts / 1947

Dinner guests gather in twos and threes under a crystal chandelier. Men in tuxedos. Women in evening dresses. Drinking. A happy buzz of conversation.

Max is introduced to his Aunt Freida's conspicuously homosexual friend Dr Emile Faust, Professor of Archaeology at Harvard University. Max, with his blond curls and youthful looks, has caught the Professor's twinkling eye.

Max likes girls. It's as simple as that. But if Professor Faust's physical displays of misguided affection sometimes cross the line, Max doesn't mind. It's easy enough for Max to casually redirect Emile's wandering hands.

Inside Dr Faust's office at Harvard University. A restless Max stands fidgeting nervously. The Professor sits behind his cluttered desk.

Max has his fingers crossed for a summer placement with a team of archaeologists and students who are hoping to search for the lost city of Ilios.

Faust

'It won't be easy. Just getting to Turkey will be exhausting enough. The weather there will be warm, if not downright unpleasant some days, and you'll be doing a lot of digging and shifting. Hard work, believe me. There won't be any hot showers or comfortable beds when we're in the field. And the food will be basic fare, at best. So, Max, do you still want to come?'

Max

'Yes, sir. More than anything!'

Faust

'I'll see what I can do. But you have to remember, Max, that this is for students of the college, and you're still a sophomore in high school.'

Max

'If you can swing it, Doc, you won't regret it. I promise.'

Faust

'I scratch your back and you scratch mine?'

Max shrugs and thinks, What the heck? It's worth it.

Faust

'Be careful what you promise, Max. I wouldn't want you to regret it.'

New York to Liverpool

The passenger ship Olympic crosses the North Atlantic in three days. From there it's Liverpool to London and London to Dover by steam-engine. From Dover to Calais by ferry. Then another train from Calais to Paris, to catch yet another train - the famed Orient Express - to Istanbul, Turkey.

Onboard the ship, Professor Faust's port-holed cabin is 1st class. The Professor has spared no expense (for himself). Max is bunking in steerage.

Faust

‘What do you know of Ilios?’

Max

'It’s the city Homer wrote about in the Iliad. Also known as Troy. The Greeks launched a thousand ships against the city after the abduction of Helen of Sparta by Paris, the second son of King Priam. Or that's the story, anyway.'

Faust

'Latin Troia, Troja, or Ilium. A city in northwestern Anatolia. Ilios occupied a key position on trade routes between Europe and Asia. The legend of the Trojan War, fought between the Greeks and the heroes of Troy, is the most notable theme from ancient Greek literature and forms, as you say, the basis of Homer’s Iliad. Although the actual geographical location remains a matter of scholarly debate, the ruins of Ilios are thought to be at Hisarlık.

Max, already bored, pretends to listen.

Faust

’Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, and burned the topless towers of Ilium? It was the German archaeologist, Heinrich Schliemann, who first uncovered what he thought were the ruins of Troy in 1870. Hisarlik means "the Place of Fortresses". Schliemann made some remarkable discoveries, uncovering no less than nine buried cities on the site. But his conclusions were completely wrong.'

Faust is convinced, from his own extensive research, that he can succeed where Schliemann had failed.

Max paces as Faust continues.

Faust

‘What's known as Troy II couldn't possibly have been Homer’s Ilios. We have to dig deeper. I'm almost certain that the level we commonly refer to as Troy VII/a is where we will find the answers! Max?’

Max

'Uh-huh. Yeah. What?'

The Professor ushers Max toward the door of his cabin.

Faust

'Go on. Go. Out. You'll learn more at dinner tonight. We're dining with the captain.'

At the Captain's Table. Faust ignores his smoked salmon. Max pokes at his with his fork, wondering what it is. At the table with them are the Professor's colleagues, Drs Templeton and Kowalski. Seated next to each other they remind Max of a giraffe and a bulldog. Suitably tweeded. Templeton's glasses have round tortoiseshell frames and he wears bow ties that are too small. Kowalski has coarsely bearded jowls and bushy eyebrows. His barrel chest produces a booming basso voice.

Faust

'Daedalus was the greatest engineer of the ancient world. Forget Archimedes, Daedalus was a true genius. His accomplishments were lost long ago, and only stories about him survive, embedded in myth. The tale of the Labyrinth. The greatest maze ever devised. Home of the Minotaur.'

The captain's oiled comb-over isn't fooling anyone, but Max admires his Erroll Flynn moustache.

Captain

'Fascinating!'

Faust

'How he and his son Icarus were imprisoned by the Cretan king Minos. How they escaped their imprisonment when Daedalus devised intricate wings from bird feathers held together with beeswax. And how Icarus was lost in the escape attempt when, in disobedience of his father, he flew too close to the sun.'

Templeton

He perished in the plunge, as it were, into the Aegean Sea. Somewhere off the coast of the island that was named after him. Icaria.’

Captain

‘I know the story.’

Kowalski

‘What you might not know, is that Daedalus was responsible for the greatest invention ever devised in ancient times. The very pinnacle of Minoan civilisation. Before it was destroyed in the Thera explosion.’

Captain

'You don't say?'

Faust

’It was one of the most cataclysmic events in human history. The Aegean island of Thera, or Santorini, was a volcanic island that was two-thirds destroyed when the volcano exploded in around 1600 BC. Bigger than Krakatoa in 1883, and far bigger than the eruption of Vesuvius that destroyed Pompeii.'

Templeton

The earthquake that followed the eruption generated a tsunami that devastated coastal regions all around the Aegean and much of the Eastern Mediterranean. The ash clouds would have devastated crops for years, causing widespread famine.'

Kowalski

'The nearest we've come in the twentieth century is the Hiroshima bomb.’

Captain

'That was terrible. I know it ended the war in the Pacific but, all those poor people.'

England / 1947

A British Railways engine steaming from Liverpool to London. The carriage rocks and lurches. Max and Professor Faust sit opposite each other in uncomfortable seats.

Faust

‘That was the way the world ended, for the Minoans, and Daedalus’ great legacy was lost in the aftermath. But I think we can find it again.’

Max

‘What do you mean? The expedition to Ilios? But that’s hundreds of miles away from Crete.’

Faust

'The Hector Device isn't on Crete. It's in Berlin. What we're looking for is the key that unlocks the Perils of Hector.'

Max

'I thought we were looking for Ilios.'

Faust

'We are. But why not kill two birds with one stone? I’ll tell you more another time. Let’s just say, for now, that Daedalus left behind a decoder of sorts. Found by another archaeologist, an Italian named Luigi Pernier, in the ruins of the Minoan palace at Phaistos. The Phaistos Disc is the key. It went missing during the German occupation of Crete. And since Hisarlik is only a hop, skip and a jump away from Heraklion, I thought we might have a poke around.’

London

The Savoy Hotel. Max's room isn't much. But, at the Savoy, "not much" is still something. A double-bed. A wardrobe. And, weirdly, a kitchen sink in one corner. Or that's what it looks like. The bathroom is at the end of the hall. Max doesn't fancy sharing. What if he's taking a dump and some guy walks in?

Max sits on the bed and opens a small chest of carved sandal-wood. Inside it are his most treasured possessions. A photograph of his mother. A pearl brooch she wore. Her wedding ring. Among them is a curious, circular object - about four inches across - made of a heavy metal. One side is blank. The other is intricately designed with wavy lines radiating out from a central figure. Around the edge are carved symbols that could be some kind of ancient script.

But what script? And what language? It isn’t Latin, or Greek, or Phoenician. And the characters aren’t Egyptian hieroglyphs, or Babylonian cuneiform. The figure - which would be revealed if someone could decipher the inscription - is Daedalus. Max is holding the key the Professor is looking for. It was in the black leather courier case he took from his father's car.

The question Max keeps asking himself is why the Professor would want it. Could he really be thinking of using the Phaistos Disc to unlock the Perils of Hector? But that would be crazy!

London is a nightmare Max can't wait to wake up from. Destruction, desolation, and the inescapable dark cloud of depression. There isn't enough of anything, so everything is rationed. The food is disgusting and the weather is abysmal.

Berlin had been no different. Even when his father was one of the highest ranking officers in the Wehrmacht, Max's family weren't spared the horrors of a world gone mad. Would Paris (France) be any better? Max puts the disc back in the chest and takes out one last treasure. It's a small pendant on a gold chain. He kisses the Star of David and fastens the chain around his neck.

Also in London / At around the same time

A nondescript office in the underground bunker of a nondescript building. Two unremarkable looking men in unremarkable suits sit either side of an unremarkable desk.

It's an open secret - in other words no secret at all - that the head of the British Secret Intelligence Service (known as MI6) is referred to as ‘C’.

C for ‘Chief’ according to some. C for ‘Control’ according to others. Or, alternatively, C for a part of the female anatomy, depending on who's asked. In truth, it's simply because the first holder of the post had had a surname beginning with the letter C. But it had stuck, regardless.

The current ‘C’ is the third holder of the post in the organisation’s existence.

C

‘Smoke?’

Agent

‘No, thank you, sir.’

C

’Filthy habit. Ever been to America? Fascinating place. Terrifying. But fascinating. If only our people knew how much we’re in debt to them. The British Empire’s all but bankrupt. We pretend we’re a great power still, but it’s all smoke and mirrors. And the Service has an important part to play in maintaining the illusion.'

Agent

‘If you say so, sir.’

C

’Right. Down to business. We’ve had a report from our Washington station. From our agent there, Homer. A rather interesting development. The Hector Device has been uncovered inside a storage facility leased by the Berlin Museum of Ancient Antiquities.'

Agent

'Aren't all antiquities ancient?’

C

'Mmm. The key is the key, so to speak. The Phaistos Disc. The Americans want it. So do the Russians. But we're not going to bloody well let them have it. The device has been secured by our people and is on its way here. Your mission is to recover the key and to bring it back. We must have both. Wiser heads must prevail.'

Agent

'Does our friend in Washington have any idea where the key might be?'

C

'It's last known location was also Berlin, in the possession of Feldmarschall Albrecht Rorsch. Rorsch was supposed to hand it over to an expert in ancient languages to be translated. Only, for some reason, that never happened. Rorsch committed suicide and the Phaistos Disc disappeared. All very odd. Until now. Homer has had his ear to the ground, and the word on the grapevine is that Rorsch's son has turned up on the other side of the pond. Living with an aunt in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Except he isn't. The boy is here... In London. On some kind of jaunt with a team of American Archaeologists from Harvard.'

Agent

'Do we know if the son has the key with him?'

C

'Not for certain. And we don't want to step on any toes. Not yet, anyway. Washington says he's one of theirs. American mother. German father. We want you to follow them. Don't let the boy out of your sight. Agent Marigold will be going with you.'

Agent

'Why her? She was very nearly killed in that trouble in Palestine. I would have thought she's done enough for us. Marigold's time in covert operations is over, surely.'

C

'It's never enough. And it's never over. Never.'

En-route from London to Dover

Professor Faust has returned to Max's (not) favourite subject. This train rattles and shunts even more than the last one. The seats are wooden benches. Max shifts uncomfortably.

Faust

'Ilios commanded a strategic point at the southern entrance to the Dardanelles, or Hellespont, a narrow strait linking the Black Sea with the Aegean Sea via the Sea of Marmara. The city also commanded a land route that ran north along the west Anatolian coast and crossed the narrowest point of the Dardanelles to the European shore.

In theory - '

Max

'Do you think the conductor could find me a cushion?'

Faust

'You look tired, Max. Did you sleep last night?'

Max

'Not really.'

Faust

'Bad dreams?'

Max stares out the window.

The bright summer sun blazes down from its zenith upon Max’s perspiring brow. All around him, in every direction, ascend tall gleaming towers of the most lustrous marble and the finest rose quartz. But beneath the delicately scented lemon tree within the royal gardens at the heart of the palace, Max only has eyes for the young woman who stands before him. The daughter of a king.

He knows there'll be trouble if he's discovered with her. But he doesn’t care.

Athea

‘My father will kill us both if we're seen together.’

Max

Come away with me. We can take a ship to anywhere.'

Athea

’We will be hunted down like animals. The ends of the known world and beyond would not be far enough to escape my father's wrath.'

He embraces her with a suicide's passion.

Max

'Then let us die in the other's arms.'

Athea

'I cannot leave. Not while Icarus is here. They say he has brought a great gift for the mighty king of Atlantis.’

Max pushes her away. Atlantis? He looks around, taking in the marbled halls, fluted colonnades, and sacred temples of the great city. How suddenly they resembled more the white-washed tombs of the dead. As splendid as they might appear, he can't help thinking the very stroke of doom is at hand.

The roar of the blast when it comes is deafening. The sun vanishes in an instant, hidden behind a pall of thick, black cloud and, in the far distance, above the city's walls, Max can see a curling, steadily rising wave, rushing towards them.

As the ground shakes violently beneath their feet, Max and the last princess of Atlantis desperately cling to one another. Helpless against the remorseless judgement that mighty Zeus and pitiless Poseidon have together unleashed.

Max wakes up to the zest of lemon. The curtains of the open carriage window softly billowing. A hand on his shoulder. The Professor leaning over him. Holding a china cup and saucer.

Faust

'Tea?'

On the saucer is a thin wedge of lemon.

A ferry from Dover to Calais

Max has found Dr Kowalski.

Max

'Do you think Ilios was real?'

Kowalski

'I wouldn't be looking for it if I didn't.'

Max

'And Atlantis? Could that have been Thera?'

Kowalski

'The name Atlantis came later, but yes, I think so. There are too many similarities for it to be mere coincidence. Let me give you an analogy I tell all my students. In the same way pearls are formed around single grains of sand inside oyster shells, legends grow from small grains of truth. But why the interest in Atlantis? Have you caught the archaeology bug?'

Max

'Is that a bad thing?'

Kowalski

'No, Max, not at all. Just remember it's a science, and like every science, what we do is a whole lot of theory based on very little actual evidence. We know the pyramids in Egypt are burial markers, and if we apply logical reasoning, we can explain how they were constructed. But why? All that cutting and shaping and transporting enormous blocks of stone, when all they had to do was dig a hole and drop the body in?'

Max

'To be closer to the Gods?'

Kowalski

'What need have we of Gods, when we make Gods of ourselves?'

The Orient Express from Paris to Istanbul

Max is getting tired of trains, but at least the seats are upholstered. And Max has a bed. A narrow bunk in a cramped compartment that Max has to share with three of the students who are part of the expedition. They're older but they're okay. They talk about baseball. And girls. And music. And girls. Cars. And girls.

In the opulent dining car of the OE, Max is looking (definitely not staring) at an English rose. She's his age, he thinks. And the interest is mutual. Max would like to talk to her. But there's a goon in a suit. He leaves the dining car, and his plate of untouched snails, to find his friend Merrily.

Miss Merrily Mountjoy is Dr Kowalski's research assistant. A pretty but practical twenty-something, Merrily is too busy for pearls and perfume. The only female on the team, Merrily has a compartment all to herself.

Max

'I need a dress.'

Merrily

'What? Why?'

Max

'There's this girl, and I really like her, and I think she likes me, but if I go near her a goon in a suit will probably shoot me.'

Merrily

'Okay. But why do you need a dress?'

Max

'I think if I was a girl, I could maybe not get shot.'

Merrily

'You want to look like a girl to talk to a girl. It's different from the usual approach.'

Merrily takes her suitcase down from an overhead rack and opens it on her bed.

Merrily

'Most of what I packed is for when we get to the site. Work clothes. I only brought one dress. It's my Sunday dress.'

She holds up a powder-blue bodice and petticoated skirt combination with puffed sleeves and lace collar: that was (possibly) the latest fashion when the pioneers were crossing the great plains to settle in the wild west.

Max (undressing)

'Can you help me put it on?'

Merrily's eyes linger on Max's body. In fact, they linger long enough for Max to notice.

Max

'What?'

Merrily

'Nothing'

Max suddenly thinks of something.

Max

'I don't have breasts!'

Merrily (laughing)

'Not all girls do. But if we tighten the belt... Like this... I think the blouse will be loose enough.'

Max's brown leather lace-up shoes and white socks don't look out of place.

Merrily

'Max? Your hair. It's not... '

Max

'Girly? I can fix that. I have a wig.'

Max leaves before Merrily can ask any embarrassing questions.

The bathrooms of the OE are in a separate carriage that's connected to the dining car. Max is about to push through the Homme door when the girl from the dining car takes him by the elbow and gently but firmly guides him to the Femme.

Girl

'This way. It's confusing, I know. Thank God there wasn't a queue. I'm Elizabeth.'

The girl (Elizabeth) closes and latches the door.

Max

'It's me.'

Elizabeth

'I know who you are. Where did you get that horrid dress? It's positively ghastly! And the wig?'

Max's wig is a black pageboy that curls in at the collar.

Max

'No time to explain. Where's the gorilla?'

Elizabeth

'Edwards? He won't follow me here. These are the only private moments one has.'

Max takes Elizabeth in his arms and kisses her. There's no time for polite conversation. He has the hem of her skirt up and her underwear out of the way before she can finish unbuttoning her blouse. By the time the train has crossed the bridge over the river Danube from Buda to Pest it's all over.

Elizabeth powders her nose, while Max makes a quick exit (from the bathroom).

Merrily's Compartment. Merrily points at Max's wig.

Merrily

'Can you explain that?'

Max

'Not really. My aunt gave it to me because she says it suits my bone structure.'

Merrily

'So? Did you get to talk to your mystery girl? I don't see any bullet holes.'

The answer is written all over Max's face. He takes the wig off and tosses it onto Merrily's bed.

Merrily

'You didn't. You did! You didn't get anything on my dress, did you? Take it off. Let me see!'

Max is all thumbs. Merrily has to undress him. Her eyes linger longer. The carriage shudders. The lights flicker. Merrily's fingers are in Max's hair. His hands are on her breasts. They topple onto Merrily's bed. Max can smell her arousal. Merrily's hands find Max ready and more than able.

Merrily

'I can't believe I'm doing this.'

Hisarlik Turkey / Heraklion Crete / Icaria /

Professor Faust leaves Drs Kowalski and Templeton to supervise the excavation while he takes Max to Heraklion, Crete, (supposedly) looking for clues to deciphering the Phaistos Disc.

Heraklion. Mismatched tables and chairs are arranged haphazardly in front of a popular kafeneío.

Max can’t help feeling he's being watched by the bewitching olive-skinned woman at the next table. If only he was ten years older, but then, who dares wins, right? The woman is in her thirties. Her evenly balanced features are in almost every aspect, completely perfect. It was just a shame about the livid scar on her temple. He wonders how it happened.

The woman stubs out her cigarette and gestures at a passing waiter. They exchange a few words Greek, but Max can’t quite catch what they say. Professor Faust takes a seat opposite Max, flapping his straw hat.

Faust

‘My, this heat! I’m sorry to have kept you waiting so long. Professor Economides is anything but economical when it comes to the Hector Device.’

Max

‘Did he help you decipher the script on the Phaistos Disc?’

Faust (nodding)

'The man's been studying it for years. Has quite an obsession with it. I received a telegram from Templeton this morning. Seems that he and Kowalski have completed their excavation of what they're convinced is the ancient throne room of Priam. Not much to show for all their hard work, alas. The Greeks thoroughly ransacked Ilios, just as Homer wrote.’

Max

‘Taking the Perils of Hector with them?’

Faust

‘No, I don’t think so. I think the Greeks had good reason to fear it. It was Aeneas, last surviving member of the House of Priam who spirited it away, before or during the fall of Ilios. Of that, I'm now certain. As to where he stopped on his voyage across the Aegean? Finish your milk. We have to find someone who can take us to Icaria.’

Max

‘What's at Icaria?’

Faust

’A one-time German artillery redoubt, during the war, guarding the passage through the eastern Aegean.'

Max looks for the woman but can't see her anywhere.

Agents Mandrake and Marigold watch Max and the Professor leave.

Marigold

'What exactly is this Hector Device?'

Mandrake

'It's a bomb in a box, basically. An atomic bomb. Iron and nickel composite cobalt casing thought to be from a meteorite. No one's sure how it works but, at its maximum capacity it has the potential to wipe every living thing from the face of the earth.'

From Crete the Professor and Max take a fishing trawler to the island of Icaria.

Faust

'Did you know your father was here briefly during the war? A team of Polish slave labourers extending one of the tunnels discovered two strange objects, very old, very mysterious. Your father was ordered to collect them and take them back to Berlin, where an expert on ancient languages from the museum was supposed to examine them. Unfortunately, your father shot himself before the meeting could take place, and one of the objects disappeared. The Phaistos Disc. It wasn't found on your father's body, or in the car, at your home, or anywhere else. But you already know that, don't you, Max? Because you were the last person to see your father alive, and therefore logic dictates that you must have it.'

Max

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

Faust

'I think you do. Give it to me.'

Taking a small pistol from one of the many pockets on his many-pocketed jacket, the Professor points the gun at Max.

Faust

'I didn't bring you all this way for nothing. I know you have it. Where is it?'

Max

'I don't know what you mean. I've never seen any disc with strange writing on it.'

Max realizes his mistake too late. The Professor steps closer and holds the gun to Max's head.

Faust

'Who said anything about strange writing?'

Max

'Maybe I do have it. But I didn't bring it with me.'

Faust

'I don't believe you. Take off your rucksack and open it.'

Max does, pretending to have trouble unbuckling the straps.

Max

'There's only clean socks and a change of underwear.'

Faust

'Do stop being difficult. It's appropriate, don't you think? Ironic that we're here on Icaria. You remember the story, the boy who flew too close to the sun. I didn't bring any feathers with me, so I guess you'll just have to wing it, as they say.'

Max

'You don't seriously expect me to jump?'

Faust

'No. I expect I'll have to shoot you first and toss you off after.'

Max

'One last grope for old time's sake?'

Faust

'Very funny.'

MI6 agents Mandrake and Marigold have approached Icaria from the sea and have scaled the cliffs by rope. Appearing just in the nick of time.

Mandrake has his gun aimed at Professor Faust.

Mandrake

'Drop it, Doctor. He's only a child.'

Max (offended)

'Hey. I'm sixteen, nearly seventeen!'

Faust

'I need the key. With the Phaistos Disc, I can activate the Hector Device, and then you'll see a Brave New World.'

Max

'Gays aren't exactly the Nazi's favourite people.'

Faust

'Did your mother really die in the Allied bombing of Berlin? Or in the cellars of the Gestapo SD? There won't be any Nazis. No politics. And no religion. Only the Haves and the Have-nots who serve them.'

Mandrake

'How is that any different to the way the world is now? There'll always be someone who's higher up the ladder stepping on some other poor bastard's fingers.'

While all this is going on, Max has found his box of treasures and is holding the disc hidden inside his rucksack. Moving quickly, he hurls it over the edge of the cliffs and into the sea. Faust runs after it, straight at Mandrake, who drops the Professor with three clean shots right in the middle of the chest. Faust's momentum carries him over the edge but he's already dead before he hits the rocks below.

When Max has his breath back he recognizes the female operative from the cafe.

Marigold

’You did good, kid. That was a great throw. Not great for the divers who'll have to look for it, but it'll give the Navy something to do.'

Mandrake

'And the Hector Device is safely tucked away.'

Max

'Don't suppose you can tell me where.'

Mandrake

'I could. But then I'd have to shoot you.'

Marigold (winking)

‘Kali tychi, Max. It means good luck.’

Max walks back to the nearest town and reports a terrible accident to the local police. His friend the Professor has slipped and fallen from the cliffs of Icaria while they were sight-seeing.

An envoy from the American Embassy in Athens travels with Max back to the dig site.

The ruins of Ilios / Hisarlik Turkey

Merrily and Max are walking together through the ruins of what might be Ilios.

Merrily

'What really happened to Professor Faust, Max?'

Max

'He made a deal with the Devil.'

Merrily

'You never did tell me about your mystery girl. Does she have a name?'

Max

'Elizabeth something. I don't know.'

Merrily

'Not Elizabeth Windsor!'

Max

'It might be. Why? Who is she?'

Merrily (laughing)

'Oh, no one. Her father's only the King of England.'

Washington / United States

The man known as ‘Homer’ searches through the draws of his desk in frustration. Faust and his plot had been thwarted. He winced as his ulcer flared. It was an occupational hazard of the unending stress caused by the life he led, diplomat, British spy, Soviet counter-spy. Guy had warned him this would be a consequence of the choices they had made. But what cause could be higher than serving the Party and working to build not heaven on earth, but a new, and more egalitarian world?

Homer steps into the outer office and smiles at his secretary.

Homer

‘I’m leaving early, Miss Greenaway. Tickets for the opera. All's quiet on the western front. See you next week.’