by P. W. Child
“No, he is very much alive,” Purdue answered.
Sam looked up at his white-haired friend. “But we want him dead, correct?”
“Sam, this has to be a subtle move. Murder is for the runts,” Purdue told him.
“Really? Tell that to the shriveled old bitch who did this to you,” Sam snarled, gesturing toward Purdue’s body. “The Order of the Black Sun should have died with Nazi Germany, my friend, and I’m going to make damn sure that they become extinct before I lie down in my coffin.”
“I know,” Purdue comforted him, “and I appreciate the zeal to end the track records of my detractors. I really do. But wait until you know the whole story. Then tell me that what I have planned is not the better pesticide.”
“Alright,” Sam agreed, letting up somewhat on his eagerness to end the seemingly perpetual problem presented by those who still preserved the depravity of the SS elite. “Go on, tell me the rest.”
“You’re going to love this twist, disconcerting as it is for me,” Purdue revealed. “Joseph Karsten is none other than Joe Carter, current Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service.”
“Jesus!” Sam cried in astonishment. “You can’t be serious! That man is as British as high tea and Austin Powers.”
“That is the part that stumps me, Sam,” came the answer from Purdue. “Do you pick up what I am driving at here?”
“MI6 is illegally appropriating your estate,” Sam responded in slow words as his mind and wandering eyes conjured up all the possible connections. “The British Secret Service is being steered by a member of the Black Sun organization and nobody is the wiser, even after this judicial skullduggery.” His dark eyes darted rapidly as his wheels turned to drive around all sides of the matter. “Purdue, why does he want your house?”
Purdue worried Sam. He appeared almost indifferent, as if he’d gone numb after the relief of sharing his knowledge. With a soft, weary voice, he shrugged and motioned with palms open, “From what I thought I overheard in that diabolical dining room, they think that Wrichtishousis holds all the relics that Himmler and Hitler chased after.”
“Not entirely untrue,” Sam remarked as he took notes for his own reference.
“Yes, but Sam, what they think I have hidden here is vastly overrated. Not just that. What I do have here must never,” he grasped Sam’s forearm hard, “never fall into the hands of Joseph Karsten! Not in the capacity of Military Intelligence 6 or as the Order of the Black Sun. This man could topple governments with but half the patents I have stored in my laboratories!” Purdue’s eyes were wet, his old hand on Sam’s skin trembling as he implored his only confident.
“Alright, old cock,” Sam said, hoping to sooth the mania in Purdue’s countenance.
“Listen, Sam, nobody knows what I do,” the billionaire continued. “Nobody on our side of the front lines knows that a fucking Nazi is in charge of Britain’s security. I need you, the great Pulitzer Award winning investigative journalist, celebrity reporter…to undo the clasp of this bastard’s parachute, understand?”
Sam got the message, loud and clear. He could see that the omni-pleasant and ever-composed Dave Purdue was showing cracks in his fortress. It was obvious that this new development ran a much deeper cut with a far sharper blade, and it was working its way along Purdue’s jawline. Sam realized that he had to make work of the matter before Karsten’s knife ran the red crescent around Purdue’s throat and ended him for good. His friend was in serious trouble and his life was in clear danger, more than ever before.
“Who else knows his true identity? Does Paddy know?” Sam asked, ascertaining those involved so that he could work out where to start. If Patrick Smith knew about Carter being Joseph Karsten, he could be in danger again.
“No, he knew at the hearing that something had disturbed me, but I decided to keep such a big thing very close to the chest. He is in the dark about it, for now,” Purdue affirmed.
“I think that is best,” Sam conceded. “Let us see how far we can avert serious ramifications while we figure out how to kick this charlatan in the haw maws.”
Still intent on following Joanne Earle’s advice from their conversation in the muddy ice of Newfoundland during the Alexander the Great discovery, Purdue made an appeal to Sam. “Just, please, Sam, let us do this my way. I have a reason for all this.”
“I promise, we can do this your way, but if things get out of hand, Purdue, I’m calling in the Brigade Apostate to back us up. This Karsten has power we can’t fight alone. There’s usually a relatively impenetrable shield at the top offices of military intelligence, if you know what I mean,” Sam warned. “These people are as mighty as the Queen’s word, Purdue. This bastard can do utterly detestable things to us and cover it up like he was a cat taking a shit in the litter box. Nobody will ever know. And whoever makes claims can be crossed out quickly.”
“Yes, I know. Trust me, I am fully aware of the damage he can do,” Purdue admitted. “But I do not want him dead unless I have no other way out. For now, I’ll use Patrick and my legal team to keep Karsten at bay as long as I can.”
“Right, let me look into some history, ownership certificates, tax records, and all that. The more we know about this fucker, the more we’ll have to trap him with.” Sam now had all of his notes in order, and now that he knew the extent of the trouble Purdue was wading through, he was adamant to use his cunning for its opposition.
“Good man,” Purdue exhaled, relieved to have told someone like Sam, someone he could rely on to step on the right toes with expert precision. “Now, I suppose the vultures outside this door need to see you and Patrick conclude my medical examination.”
With Sam in his guise as Dr. Beach and Patrick Smith feeding the ruse, Purdue said goodbye from his bedroom doorway. Sam looked back. “Hemorrhoids are common for this kind of sexual practice, Mr. Purdue. I have seen it mostly in politicians and…intelligence agents…but it is nothing to fret over. Keep well and I’ll see you soon.”
Purdue disappeared into his room to laugh, while Sam was the subject of some resentful leers on his way to the front doors. With a courteous nod he exited the manor with his childhood friend in tail. Patrick was used to Sam’s outbursts, but he’d had the damnedest trouble maintaining his strictly professional demeanor this day, at least until they’d gotten into his Volvo and departed the estate – in stitches.
5
Distress in the Walls of Villa d’Chantal
Entrevaux – Two Days Later
The mild evening barely kept Madame Chantal’s feet warm as she put on yet another pair of stockings over her silk pantyhose. It was autumn, yet to her the chills of winter were already prevalent wherever she went.
“I fear you might be coming down with something, darling,” her husband speculated as he checked his tie for the umpteenth time. “Are you sure you cannot just bear with your cold for tonight and come with me? You know, if people keep seeing me arrive at banquets alone they might begin to suspect things are not going well between us.”
He looked at her with concern. “They can’t know that we are practically bankrupt, you realize? You not being there with me could incite gossip and draw attention to us. The wrong people might investigate our situation just to still their curiosity. You do know that I am terribly worried and that I have to keep the favor of the Minister and his share holders or else we’re done for.”
“Oui, of course I do. Just trust me when I say that soon we will not have to worry about keeping the property or the holdings,” she assured him in a weak voice.
“What does that mean? I told you – I’m not selling the diamonds. It is the only proof of our status left!” he said emphatically, though his words came more from of anxiety, not anger. “Come with me tonight and wear something extravagant just to help me look the part – the part I am supposed to play authentically as a successful business man.”
“Henri, I promise I will accompany you to the next one. I just don’t feel I could maintain my cheerful face for that
long while I fight the onslaught of fever and pain.” Chantal approached her husband with a laborious gait, smiling. She fixed his tie for him and gave him a peck on the cheek. He placed the back of his hand on her forehead to check her temperature, then visibly recoiled.
“What?” she asked.
“My God, Chantal. I don’t know what sort of fever you have, but it seems to run in reverse. You are as cold as…a corpse,” he eventually forced out the ugly comparison.
“I told you,” she replied lightly, “I do not feel well enough to decorate your side as a Baron’s wife should. Now hurry, you are going to be late and that is completely unacceptable.”
“Yes, my lady,” Henri smiled, but his heart still raced from the shock of feeling his wife’s skin, so low in temperature that he could not fathom that color still flushed in her cheeks and lips. The Baron was good at hiding his feelings. It was a prerequisite of his title and an order of business. He left soon after, desperate to glance back once more at his wife waving goodbye from the open front door of their Belle Époque chateau, but he opted for keeping up appearances.
Under the April evening’s moderate skies, the Baron de Martine left his home reluctantly, but his wife was only too glad for the solitude. It was not for the sake of being alone, however. Hurriedly she prepared for her guest after procuring the three diamonds from her husband’s safe. The Celeste was magnificent, so breathtaking that she did not want to part with it, but what she wanted from the alchemist was so much more important.
“Tonight, I will save us, my dear Henri,” she whispered as she placed the diamonds on a green velvet napkin, a cut piece from a dress she used to wear to banquets like the one her husband just left for. Rubbing her frigid hands profusely, Chantal held them out to the fire in the hearth to warm. The steady heartbeat of the mantle clock paced in the quiet house, making its way to the second half of its face. She had thirty minutes left before he would come. Her housekeeper already knew his face, as did her assistant, yet they had not yet announced his arrival.
In her diary, she made the day’s entry, mentioning her condition. Chantal was a record keeper, an avid photographer and writer. She wrote poetry for every occasion, even in the simplest moments of amusement or pleasure she would pen verses to commemorate it. Memories of the anniversary of every day were looked up in the previous journals to sate her nostalgia. A great admirer of privacy and antiquity, Chantal kept her diaries in expensively bound books and took real pleasure in writing down her thoughts.
14 Avril 2016 – Entrevaux
I think I’m getting sick. My body is cold beyond belief, even though it’s hardly below 19 degrees outside. Even the fire beside me seems only an illusion of my eyes; I see flames while feeling no heat. Had it not been for my emergency I would have canceled tonight’s meeting. But I cannot. I just have to make do with warm clothes and wine to keep me from going insane with cold.
We have sold off all we could to keep the business afloat and I fear for my dear Henri’s health. He does not sleep and is generally distant emotionally. I have not much time to write more, but I know that what I am about to do will dig us out of the financial pit we’ve fallen into.
Mr. Raya, an Egyptian alchemist who has an impeccable reputation among his clients, is paying me a visit tonight. With his help, we will enhance the value of the few jewels I have left, which will fetch a much higher price when I sell them. As fee, I am giving him the Celeste, a dreadful deed, especially toward my beloved Henri whose family considers the stone holy and have owned it since forever. But it’s a small item to relinquish in return for the purification and elevation of the value of the other diamonds that will restore us financially and help my husband keep his Barony and his land.
Anna, Louise, and I will stage a break-in before Henri comes back, so that we can explain the disappearance of the Celeste. My heart aches for Henri, for my defiling his heritage like this, but I feel like this is the only way to recover our status before being dumped into obscurity and ending up in infamy. But my husband will benefit and that is all that matters to me. I can never tell him this, but once he is restored and comfortable in his position, he will again sleep well, eat well, and be happy. That is worth far more than any glittering gemstone.
~Chantal
After signing her name, Chantal once again looked at the clock in her drawing room. She had been writing for a while. As always, she put the journal in the niche behind the painting of Henri’s great grandfather and wondered what could be the reason for her appointment being sabotaged. Somewhere in the haze of her thoughts, while she had written, she had heard the clock chime the hour, but had paid no attention to it so that she would not forget what she wished to enter on this day’s journal page. Now she was surprised to see that the ornate long pointer had dropped from the twelve to the five.
“Twenty-five minutes late already?” she whispered, as she pulled another shawl over her shuddering shoulders. “Anna!” she called to her housekeeper while she took up the poker to stoke the fire. As she threw on another log with a hiss, it spat embers up into the mouth of the chimney, but she had no time to pet the flames and make them stronger. With her meeting with Raya delayed, Chantal had less time to conclude their business before her husband might return. This made the lady of the house just a tad anxious. Quickly, after making a turn in front of the hearth again, she had to ask her staff if her guest had called to explain why he was late. “Anna! Where are you, for God’s sake?” she cried again, feeling no warmth from the flames that practically licked at her palms.
Chantal heard no response from her maid, her housekeeper, or her assistant. “Don’t tell me they forgot that they were working overtime tonight,” she mumbled to herself as she hurried down the hallway to the east section of the villa. “Anna! Brigitte!” She called louder now as she rounded the kitchen doorway beyond which was only darkness. Floating in the darkness, Chantal could see the orange light of the coffee machine, the various little colored lights of the wall plugs and some of her appliances; the way it always looked after the ladies had left for the day. “My God, they forgot,” she muttered, sighing with effort as the cold gripped her insides like the sting of ice on wet skin.
Hastily the lady of the villa moved along the corridors, finding that she was home alone. “Great, now I have to make the most of it,” she complained. “Louise, at least tell me that you are still on duty,” she said to the closed door where her assistant usually worked with Chantal’s taxes, charities, and press engagements. The dark wooden door was locked and no answer came from the inside. Chantal had been let down.
Even if her guest still showed up, she would not have enough time to stage the breaking and entering charge she would get her husband to lay. Bitching under her breath as far as she walked, the noblewoman kept pulling her shawls over her chest and covering the back of her neck by loosening her hair to form some kind of insulation. It was reaching 9 p.m. when she entered the drawing room.
The confusion of the situation was almost smothering her. She had distinctly told her staff to expect Mr. Raya, but what baffled her most was that not only her assistant and housekeeper, but also her guest, had absconded from the arrangement. Had her husband caught wind of her plans and given her people the night off to stop her from seeing Mr. Raya? More worrisome yet, had Henri somehow gotten rid of Raya?
When she returned to where she had laid out the velvet napkin with the three diamonds, Chantal was in for a bigger shock than just being home alone. A frantic gasp escaped her as she slammed her hands over her mouth at the sight of the barren cloth. Tears came to her eyes, burning up from the pit of her stomach and stabbing at her heart. The stones had been stolen, but what exacerbated her terror was the fact that someone had been able to take them while she was in the house. No security measures had been breached, leaving Madame Chantal terrified at the variety of possible explanations.
6
High Price
‘A good name is rather to be chosen than riches’ ~ King Solomon
>
The wind started blowing, but still it could not disturb the silence in the villa where Chantal stood in tears at her loss. It was not just the loss of her diamonds and the immeasurable value of the Celeste, but everything else that was lost because of the theft.
“You stupid, stupid bitch! Careful what you wish for, you stupid bitch!” she wailed through the prison of her fingers, lamenting the twisted fruition of her original plan. “Now you don’t have to lie to Henri. They really were stolen!”
Something stirred in the lobby, a creaking of footsteps on a wooden floor. From behind the curtains that overlooked the front lawn, she peered down to see if anyone was there, but the place was empty. The disturbing squeak was a half story’s flight of stairs down from the drawing room, but Chantal could not call the police or security company to search for her. They would walk in on a real, once faked crime and she would be in deep trouble.
Or would she?
Contemplating the aftermath of making such a call wracked her brain. Did she have all her bases covered if they showed up? If anything, she would rather upset her husband and risk months of discontent than be killed by an intruder smart enough to override her home security system.
You had better make up your mind, woman. Time is running out. If the thief is going to kill you, you’re wasting time allowing him to figure out your house. Her heart slammed against the inside of her chest in fear. Then again, if you call the police and your plan is revealed, Henri might divorce you for losing the Celeste; for even daring to think you had the right to give it away!
