In the shadow of the Bavarian Alps, a forgotten map leads to an unsolved mystery buried for decades. When Ivanna discovers the sketch among her late grandfather’s belongings, she stumbles upon a secret that connects her family’s harrowing past to the Nazi regime's stolen treasures.
What begins as a curious family discovery quickly escalates into a perilous adventure, drawing the attention of law enforcement, intelligence agencies, and dangerous criminals.
The Alpine Fortress is a thrilling tale of survival, betrayal, and redemption. From the chilling depths of Nazi conspiracies to the breathtaking heights of the Alps, this story will keep you on the edge of your seat as the past and present collide in an unforgettable race against time.
Will Ivanna uncover the truth—or will the secrets of the fortress remain buried forever?
Sven withdrew his wallet from his back pocket. “I’m sorry for the mix-up with Freya. Here,” he said, holding out a fifty euro note, “please buy her some flowers from me.”
“I’m perfectly capable of buying flowers for my wife myself!” Matteo retorted angrily. “Goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow at seven.”
Matteo went outside and looked at his mobile. Five o’clock. The flower shop would still be open. He got into the Unimog and drove down into the centre of Berchtesgaden. The windscreen wipers worked furiously against the falling snow, merely managing to push it into the corners of the windscreen. It started steaming up.
His head throbbed and he was in a bad mood. Mainly because he hadn’t thought of buying flowers himself. The town was deserted, not surprising in this weather. For the first time in ages, he found a parking space at the bus station. Great, he thought, more cheerful now. He went to the flower shop and chose a bunch of mixed roses that were fragrant, not like the supermarket ones. He wondered whether he should get some ice cream, too. There were several Italian ice-cream parlours in town, but Freya’s favourite sort was ‘Raffaello’, which only one Italian made. It was made with white chocolate, coconut and almond chips. He pulled his collar up against the snow and decided to make a run for it.
As he dashed across the street, a Porsche suddenly appeared from nowhere, driving much too fast and headed straight for Matteo. Shocked, he dived head-first onto the icy pavement, landing painfully on his right hip. The Porsche braked, skidded, and came to a halt fifty metres down the road. Matteo looked after it but couldn’t recognise the number plate. All he could tell was that it was black. As he watched, it drove off again, the motor revving unpleasantly loudly. Matteo stood up gingerly and brushed the snow from his trousers. The streets were lonely but an elderly woman walking along the pavement picked up the flowers that had flown from his hand and handed them to him.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
Matteo took a few careful steps and then stood on his tiptoes and went down on his knees.
“Yes, everything seems fine, thank you.”
“You were lucky,” the woman said. “What a crazy idiot, driving at that speed in this weather. Probably had his summer tyres on too.”
“Did you catch the number plate?” Matteo asked.
“No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t really looking. But he looked as if he was aiming for you on purpose! Do you want an ambulance? Or should I call the police?”
“No, there’s no point. I’m fine, and the police aren’t going to find the black Porsche. There are too many of them here.”
“Well, if you’re sure. Goodbye, then. Have a good evening.” “Thank you. You, too,” Matteo answered.
Matteo walked more carefully to the ice-cream parlour, bought the ice cream, and drove home. So much snow was falling that just by going from the car to the front door he was covered in it.
“Hello, darling, I’m back,” he called out.
Freya came from the kitchen with a wooden spoon in her hand. “Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “You look like the abominable snowman.” They both giggled.
Matteo gave her the flowers and put the ice cream in the fridge. The aroma coming from the oven made him hungry. “That smells nice,” he said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Freya had put the flowers in a vase on the table, and now that her hands were free, she gave her husband a kiss and a hug. “You could pour us both a glass of wine. I think we deserve it after a day like this.”
“Yes, good idea,” Matteo answered. “Red or white?”
“I’ve cooked salmon and spinach tagliatelle, so maybe white?”
“Okay. Which would you prefer? A Riesling? Or we still have a bottle of Sauvignon blanc in the cellar, I think.”
“Let’s go for the Sauvignon blanc.”
“Fine, I’ll go and get it. I got some ‘Raffaello’ ice cream on my way home. It’s in the fridge.”
“Mmm, fantastic.”
The evening at home relaxing with Freya was just what Matteo needed. After the meal he had a hot shower, took an ibuprofen, and decided to make an early night of it. Freya joined him. As she bent over to kiss him, she knocked his hip, and he cried out in pain. Freya threw the sheet back and saw his hip was black and blue.
“Okay, what haven’t you told me?” she demanded.
Matteo tried to play down the events of the day, but Freya wasn’t fooled. Afterwards, they made love gently and Freya fell asleep straight away. Matteo couldn’t sleep. He tossed back and forth replaying the events of the day. Suddenly, he had a thought. Why had Rudolf Hoffmann said that the identity cards were all in order when they obviously weren’t? Things just didn’t add up. He spent a restless night and finally got up before his alarm blared. His hip was very sore, so he smeared ibuprofen cream generously all over the bruise and took another tablet. He made a coffee and kissed Freya, who was still in bed.
“Goodbye, I’m off,” he said.
Contrary to what was usual for this time of the year, a little snow had remained on the ground. The temperature had dropped to just two degrees. Despite his warm clothes, Matteo shivered. He looked at the sky. It was grey and seemed full of even more snow. Mount Watzmann was half-hidden in dark clouds, looking like its nickname, ‘Mount Doom’. Matteo drove to the Kührointhaus feeling uneasy.
Rowena Kinread grew up in Ripon, Yorkshire with her large family and a horde of pets. Keen on travelling, her first job was with Lufthansa in Germany.
She began writing in the nineties. Her special area of interest is history, after researching her ancestry and finding family roots in Ireland with the Dalriada clan, particularly this era. Her debut fiction novel titled “The Missionary” is a historical novel about the dramatic life of St. Patrick. It was published by Pegasus Publishers on April 29th, 2021 and has been highly appraised by The Scotsman, The Yorkshire Post and the Irish Times.
Her second novel “The Scots of Dalriada” centres around Fergus Mór, the founder father of Scotland and takes place in 5th century Ireland and Scotland, and is published by Pegasus Publishers.
The author lives with her husband in Bodman-Ludwigshafen, Lake Constance, Germany. They have three children and six grandchildren.
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