‘Take him away,’ shouted Aehrenthal. ‘Someone clean up this mess. I have no time to lose.’
A servant hurried in and set about cleaning the blood from the glistening floor. The two men who’d been in charge of Fodor dragged him from the hall.
‘I’m sorry if I have ruined your appetites,’ Aehrenthal said. ‘But there may be serious consequences for all of us as a result of Fodor’s lack of control. He has been punished, and I take responsibility for that. You have all known, from the day you vowed to serve our Order, that it is an order of iron discipline and rigorous obedience.
‘Gentlemen, we have reached a crossroads. I have in my possession things you have scarcely dared to dream of. After so many years in our quest, and the quests of those who have gone before us, we can see and touch the unreal, and know that it is very real indeed. At midnight tonight, I shall parade them before you. I shall keep them with me at all times and in all places. All here will bear witness to the truth that gives life to this Order. All here will touch tonight the Spear of Destiny and the Crown of Thorns. I shall give you wine to drink from the Holy Grail. Your journeys have not been in vain, your sacrifices have not been wasted.
‘But before that there is someone we have to find, someone who can lead us to the place where these things came from, to the bones in their caskets, to the bones and the dry flesh.’
He stopped and looked at the assembled acolytes. Their food sat in front of them, growing cold. The flames behind them devoured the logs and danced less brightly.
‘I shall need twelve of you tonight,’ he said, then reeled out the names of the men he wanted to help him.
They reached Sancraiu aboard three four-by-four vehicles, fitted with snow tyres and hunting lamps. Together, they drove into the main square and got down, leaving their powerful engines running. Aehrenthal had already given instructions. Each of his deputies was armed with an H&K G3 semi-automatic rifle.
They spread out through the village. Aehrenthal led two of his closest followers into a bar on the far edge of the square. It was filled with cigarette smoke, smoke from a beechwood fire, the sounds of men’s voices, a woman’s quick laughter, and the underlying smell of beer.
An old man was sitting near the fire, surrounded by his usual crowd as he dredged up memories. Aehrenthal recognised him right away. This was the town mayor, a much respected old soldier by the name of Bogdan Bogoescu. He held court in the inn every night, treating it as a sounding board for the opinions of local residents, and a place where they could listen to his recommendations on village affairs, together with his reminiscences about life as a soldier in World War Two.
Aehrenthal went up to him.
‘You,’ he said. ‘Old man.’
Eyes turned to examine the newcomer. Most of them knew or guessed who Aehrenthal was. He spoke Romanian with what they took for a German accent, and he faced them down with frigid contempt.
The old man looked up at Aehrenthal like someone who had better things to do with his time. He noticed the two men with him, the way they swaggered with their large rifles.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
Aehrenthal’s answer was crisp and to the point.
‘I want the name of the person responsible for keeping the man and woman in the hunting cabin west of my castle. I believe it’s a woman I’m looking for, and I want her name now.’
Bogoescu wasn’t particularly frightened of Aehrenthal or what he considered his pomposity.
‘Can’t think who you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘I never go up that way myself.’
Aehrenthal had expected this response. He didn’t hesitate. Lifting his rifle, he blew a hole through the old man’s head. Blood leapt in every direction, drops of it spinning like red wasps onto furniture, clothing, and skin. Fragments of skull flew back into the fireplace and rattled against the back. The woman screamed and threw up. The air was filled with exclamations. Aehrenthal stood stock still. No one here was going to attack him. He had nothing but contempt for the villagers, their way of life, their prejudices, their lack of concern for matters of higher importance, their lack of respect for someone like himself.
He turned his head and spoke to the first man he saw.
‘Perhaps you have a better memory than Grandfather here. I’m sure you understand that I’m impatient.’
The man trembled and wet his pants. His companions darted glances everywhere, wondering if there was anywhere for them to run, seeing Aehrenthal’s companions blocking their way on both sides.
‘Ilona,’ came a voice from further back. ‘Her name is Ilona. Her family name is Horváth.’
Aehrenthal spotted the man who had spoken.
‘Very good,’ he said, ‘come with me, take me to her house.’
The man made to shrink back, but the nearest of Aehrenthal’s assistants simply dived into the group he was with and dragged him out.
The house stood in a short street between the church and the Rózsavölgyi bakery. It had been freshly painted; a street lamp nearby cast a wash of dim light over its façade, as if varnishing the painted surfaces. There were lights behind the windows on one side, and from further in came the sound of a television. Someone was watching Te crezi mai destept? on Prima TV.
Aehrenthal had brought four men with him. One was a bodybuilder from Budapest, a tall man they called Samson behind his back. He seemed to do no more than lean against the door. It buckled under his combined weight and strength, and fell with a crash to the ground. He stood aside to let Aehrenthal lead the way, a pistol held in one hand.
The whole family was assembled in the living room. They had just finished dinner and were watching TV together: Ilona’s father, mother, two brothers and sister. The brothers were aged fifteen and thirteen, the sister, a pretty girl called Ecaterina, just nine. Aehrenthal killed the little girl first, with a single shot to the head. The room was instantly in uproar. Ilona’s father made to grab Aehrenthal’s handgun and was shot summarily in the throat. He staggered, choking on his own blood, while his wife, terrified beyond endurance, made to go to him, only to be thrown backwards onto the sofa. The two boys, seeing their sister and father killed, began to whimper. Aehrenthal snapped at them.
‘Shut up, you two! If I hear another peep out of you, you’ll be next.’
He went across to Mrs Horváth.
‘I want answers,’ he yelled. ‘If I don’t get them, I will shoot your boys. And if you give me any false answers, I’ll come back and burn this house down round you and these brats.’
The mother was close to hysterics, but the ice in Aehrenthal’s voice and the imminent danger to her two sons acted as rods to stiffen her.
‘Where has Ilona gone?’
No answer. She just looked wide-eyed at him, not knowing what would pacify his terrible rage. She was praying without words or the presence of God.
‘I asked you where your daughter is. She left Sancraiu earlier today. Where did she go?’
He pointed his gun at her youngest boy, and she looked into Aehrenthal’s eyes and saw no pity.
She could not answer. The words were trapped inside her, between fear for her sons and dread for her only remaining daughter.
Aehrenthal shot the young boy once in the head. The boy did not shake or jerk or fall backwards, but simply collapsed in a heap, like a toy whose string has been cut. There was no time for him to cry out. His brother shuddered and ran to hold the younger boy, talking to him as if he was still alive. He knew an end was coming. On the television, the programme that had been such a cause of mirth only minutes before rattled on like a tram down lines that would soon lead to a wreck.