Verlag für E-Books (und Bücher), Handwerks- und Berufszeichen
Sie sind hier: The Way of St. James Conspiracy von Ulrich Hinse: TextAuszug
The Way of St. James Conspiracy von Ulrich Hinse

Klicken Sie auf das gewünschte Format, um den Titel in den Warenkorb zu legen.

Preis E-Book:
11.99 €
978-3-96521-186-5 (E-Book)
ca. 334 Seiten
Belletristik/Thriller/Spannung, Belletristik/Krimis & Detektivgeschichten/Internationale Krimis und Mystery-Romane, Belletristik/Krimis & Detektivgeschichten/Polizeiprozesse
Kriminalromane und Mystery: Polizeiarbeit, Thriller / Spannung, Kriminalromane und Mystery, Spanien, 21. Jahrhundert (2000 bis 2100 n. Chr.)
Jakobsweg, Templer, Mord, Kriminalpolizei, Spanien, Pilger, Templerschatz
Zahlungspflichtig bestellen

On the way over the narrow bridge on the railway line, Raschke left the town of Sarria, enjoyed the singing birds and watched a small field mouse running in front of him on the edge of the path, only to disappear into the grass after several metres together. Behind him he heard other pilgrims stumbling over roots. A steep ascent made him pant, while some young people passed him by with loose steps. The landscape reminded him a little of the Eifel near Monschau on the border to Belgium. A mosaic of hedges, natural stone walls of grey slate, small oak forests, fields and meadows. The valleys were muttered by numerous streams that pilgrims had to cross on large boulders. Between the gravel stones of the paths the water gushed from small springs towards the hiker. Yellow lilies shone at the edges of the stream. Lichens and mosses hung down from the oaks.

No pilgrim had overtaken him for a long time. The fast runners were over. So he wandered alone towards the kilometer stone on which the magic 100 stood. Only a hundred kilometers to Santiago. From then on, the distance was only two figures. Four more days and he was at the end of his long journey.

As if Saint Jacob wanted to give him another sign here, it began to rain again. Raschke laboriously dug out the poncho and wrapped himself up. As soon as it was ready to rain, it stopped trickling again.

     "The saint's bullshitting me," Raschke mumbled, peeling himself out again and trotting on. The game was repeated at quarter-hour intervals.

The path wound its way through the lush green, unclear landscape. Only a few yelping dogs in the few villages took note of the lonely pilgrim, in contrast to the occasional farmers who did not even comfort themselves to return the greeting of the day.

After a rather adventurous stretch of road, in which Raschke had to balance over narrow granite stones through a gravel field with a clear stream flowing through it, he came into a hollow that led through a dark oak grove. To the left and right of the path all kinds of plants gleamed out of the crevices of more than a metre high natural stone walls. Suddenly a fighting dog came out of a narrow opening in the wall, took a few steps, turned to Raschke and stopped in the middle of the path. A mastino, it shot Raschke through the head. That's all I need. So far there had been no problems with dogs along the way. But this one looked dangerous as he stood in the middle of the road staring at him. Raschke dropped his walking sticks. Not for fear or fright, but to be able to rummage better in his pocket for the pepper spray that he had taken with him especially for such cases. As he searched more and more hectically, the dog slowly began to dig towards him. At that moment Raschke recognized the British man, who stood in the semi-darkness between the oaks on the other side of the stone wall and watched the scene. Where the Briton was, Ulla couldn't be far either, thought Raschke and was about to call for her, when on the way where the dog had come from the man appears in a trench coat with an expressionless face, a dog whistle in his mouth and both hands casually in his pockets. A cell phone rang. As if this had been his starting signal, the dog trotted faster towards Raschke. A few more yards and he'd be ready to jump. Raschke still hadn't found his pepper spray and took his arms up protecting him because he expected the dog to jump at any moment when suddenly a shot was fired. Raschke's heart almost stopped. He expected the pain or the darkness. But he felt nothing. Adrenaline shot through his body. He was incapable of any controlled thought. As if in slow motion, he saw the dog, which was about to jump, bend forward and fall into the dirt. The massive body overturned, slipped, carried by its own momentum, still one meter above the gravel, lay exactly in front of its feet, twitched several more times, then the runs stretched. The animal was dead. Raschke stared spellbound at the dead dog and hardly noticed what was happening around him.

The Brit had disappeared between the oaks at the shot or seconds before. The trench coat man who had slowly followed the dog tried, after a moment of rigor of horror, to run back into the safe cover of the wall behind which he had come out. At that moment, an athletic man in a dark sweatshirt and hiking trousers with a drawn weapon ran past Raschke and pursued the fugitive. He got stuck with his coat on a stone in the wall, pulled his hand out of his pocket, suddenly had a weapon in his hand and aimed at his pursuer. Raschke dropped instinctively and came to lie next to the dog's body. In the next shot a loud scream mingled, which turned into a moaning groan. Still lying on the ground, with his nose in the dirt and his backpack in his neck, Raschke heard the characteristic metallic ratchet that always occurs when handcuffs engage. Now he looked up.

The young wanderer was picking up a mobile phone that must have fallen out of the arrested person's pocket, looked at the display and held it wordlessly under the injured person's nose. He did not react, but stared past the officer into emptiness, groaning and trying to press his hands on the shoulder injury despite the handcuffs. The Spaniard did not take care of him, but helped Raschke to his feet. Tediously, hindered by the backpack, he lifted himself up at the arm of the helper. He was able to take a look at the display of the mobile phone. Plan autorizado. Muy exito plan approved. Good luck with the reading.

A second Spaniard, similarly dressed as his savior, hurried breathlessly towards her and told Raschke to keep going. Raschke hesitated. But the energetic hand movement made it seem advisable to him not to ignore the invitation. Another Spaniard came, talked briefly with the other two, greeted Raschke friendly, pulled him with him and accompanied him for the next minutes. That was pleasant for Raschke, because the Brit didn't go out of his mind. While they walked together over the Camino a conversation did not really come up. Therefore Raschke stopped his communication attempts and walked silently next to his companion. Shortly before Portomarine, when they met pilgrims who had just finished their rest, his companion suddenly turned back, left him alone without comment and disappeared in a small, dark alley between the houses of a small hamlet. Raschke looked after him irritated for a moment, but then turned around and walked on to Portomarin as if in a trance. Raschke remained seated on a wooden bench in a small park with a view of the reservoir. Now he found time to process the impressions. The silence of the park and the calming view of the calm water from which the stony walls of some ruins rose did the same. He had barely collected when his cell phone rang. Lopez Castela was on the line.

     "I couldn't bear to let you walk alone. My people were watching you. I guess that was a good thing. Bogart's clipped is under guard in the hospital. We'll take care of him. I can imagine that our arguments will convince him and that he will find it advantageous to work with us."

Raschke could imagine what Lopez Castela meant by that, but had no desire to pursue the matter.

     "What about the British?"

     "What about it?"

     "I'd seen him at the crime scene, too."

     "My people don't. But I'd like to ask her again. I'm approaching you. Stay where you are."

Then he hung up on me.

     "Where am I supposed to go now?" Raschke growled unkindly. But Lopez Castela hadn't heard that before. Since Raschke had no desire to go to his hotel room, he roamed through the city. In the Centro salud he went to see the doctor again, who looked at the inflamed toe, which did not particularly impress him. Probably he had seen his feet in much worse condition. He muttered something that Raschke didn't understand, dribbled Betaisodona on the inflammation and bandaged the toe.

     "Don't tie so tight. My toes have become accustomed to blood circulation in the last 56 years," complained Raschke.

     "To the surprise of the German, the young doctor explained in his mother tongue that "an amputation would be more painful."

Raschke trotted to his hotel, put down his luggage and went shopping. He met Christof at the cash register.

     "Hey, Comperegrino. We wouldn't have met here by a hair's breadth."

Christof looked at him surprised and without understanding.

     "Really. A dog almost ate me right behind Rozas."

Christof's grin got outrageous.

     "Then we should have found you. Even the biggest dog wouldn't have finished his meal that fast."

Raschke set up an insulted mine.

     "I don't think you're taking me seriously."

     "Yes, yes," Christof hurried to confirm, "what happened?"

Raschke thought he heard that the interest of his fellow pilgrim had come across as somewhat artificial.

     "Suddenly a fighting dog stood in the middle of the hollow and blocked my way."

     "And how did you get past him?"

Now Raschke realized that he had made a mistake. He could not possibly tell that a policeman had shot the dog and arrested the trench coat man. And if it wasn't him, then the story sounded as if he wanted to tell a pilgrim fairy tale.

Christof noticed his hesitation and continued.

     "Well, what's the matter? Did that bad, bad, bad dog still beat you up?"

Raschke was clear, he had to gain time to come up with a plausible sounding story.

     "I'll tell them over dinner when the others are there."

Christof nodded in wonder.

     "For my sake. We meet Carola and Michel in the small bar opposite the church. It's run by a Spaniard who worked in Frankfurt for a long time.

When they arrived, Michel and Carola were already waiting, who didn't seem surprised when Christof brought him along.

Raschke got doubts whether the information from Lopez Castela about Carola was really true.

     "Hola, take a good look at Raschke. He almost got eaten by a dog," Christof burst into the round, gurgling with serenity.

Carola was shocked, as Raschke believed to recognize, while Michel watched him curiously. To save time for the story, Raschke first ordered something to eat and a martini with ice cream.

     "Now tell me," Christof asked him, "don't let us die stupidly. You sharpened your mouth in Supermercado, now you have to whistle too."

     "So, just behind Rozas, where it went through the hollow road between the stone walls, suddenly a Mastino stood in the middle of the way. No one was to be seen far and wide. No other pilgrims either. I..."

     "Well, sure," Christof interrupted, "they didn't want to be eaten."

An energetic look from Michel silenced him again, although he still wanted to say something.

     "...I tried to dig my pepper spray out of my pocket, but you can imagine that you can't find it in the excitement. That's how I did it. When I thought I had it, I held a banana in my hand."

The three broke out laughing so loudly that the pilgrims at the other tables looked irritated at them. Raschke played the offended man.

     "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I didn't feel like it at that moment."

     "And?" Michel wanted to know, "did the dog eat the banana?"

The laughter began again. Raschke waited until his companions had calmed down.

     "Well, I think I'll let you die stupid. You're making fun of my fear."

     "No, no, no, no. Not about your fear. Only about the situation where you're standing in front of a mastino with a banana in your hand. A sausage might have been better."

The laughter began again.

Raschke poked around in the shells, which he had not ordered in the proper style for his martini. At that moment Marianne came into the bar, looked at those present and headed straight for the table where Raschke sat with his three companions.

     "Hola, I see you're having a great time. May I sit with you?"

     "Hello, Marianne", they greeted the old lady like from a mouth and Michel asked her to sit down.

    "Raschke is telling the story of his miraculous salvation from a wolf who likes to eat bananas."

Marianne felt stultified. Somewhat disbelieving, she looked from one to the other. Carola stood up, took her in her arms and pulled her to the chair.

     "Come on, Marianne, don't let those stupid guys pull your leg. They're not talking about you. They're talking about Raschke. He's telling a really funny story right now."

     "Raschke tells a funny story," Marianne wondered, "that's really something new. So far, I've gotten to know him as a lazy-ass, not a storyteller."

     "Maybe, but when he tells, it's not exactly a believer. It sounds like he wants to make himself important."

     "Make important? Come on. I don't need that. I'm not saying anything anymore."

    "Oh, you poor thing," Carola comforted him, took him in her arms and breathed a kiss on his cheek, "now tell me. We're really curious to see how you beat the Mastino."

     "I didn't defeat him. It ended quite unspectacularly because his master appeared from a dirt road and whistled him back."

     "Oh, that's too bad," Christof couldn't resist, "I would have liked to hear something more about Siegfried defeating the dragon."

While the others all grinned, Marianne remained serious.

     "Where did you say that was?"

     "Shortly behind Rozas, in the hollow path between the stone walls."

     "And you're really not hurt?"

     "No. Why do you ask?"

     "Because I heard shots and saw blood on the stones exactly where you described it. In addition, two young men were busy carrying away an animal. I thought they were hunters carrying a hunted game."

The others immediately stopped laughing and looked at the old lady in surprise.

     "Now is not a hunting season," Michel laconically threw in and looked a little strangely over to Raschke. He just shrugged his shoulders.

     "I haven't heard any shots, and I haven't seen any hunters either. I was glad that the path was clear again and that I could walk on to Portomarin."

     "What did the men look like?" Carola inquired.

     "Oh, you know, I was too far away and without my glasses I couldn't see them exactly. They also disappeared into the woods a little later."

     "Did you see a car?"

     "A car? On the Camino? No. But I haven't given it any more thought. I was thinking about hunters. I wanted to leave quickly so they wouldn't shoot when I was around."

The Way of St. James Conspiracy von Ulrich Hinse: TextAuszug