by P. W. Child
“Mr. Purdue, in March 2016, an expedition you led and funded, allegedly stole the religious relic known as the Ark of the Covenant from a temple in Aksum, Ethiopia. Am I correct?” the prosecutor said, whining nasally with the proper amount of condescension.
Purdue was his usual calm, patronizing self. “You are incorrect, sir.”
A hiss of disapproval echoed among those present and Harry Webster lightly tapped at Purdue’s hand to remind him of restraint, but Purdue cordially continued, “It was, in fact, a replica of the Ark of the Covenant and we found it inside a mountain face outside the village. It was not the reputed Holy Box containing God’s Power, sir.”
“That is peculiar, you see,” the advocate said snidely, “because I would think that these esteemed academics would be able to tell the difference between the real Ark and a fake.”
“I agree,” Purdue replied quickly. “One would think they could tell the difference. Then again, since the location of the real Ark is but speculation and has not been irrefutably proven, it would be hard to know what comparisons to look for.”
Prof. Imru stood up, looking furious, but the advocate motioned for him to sit down before he could utter a word.
“What do you mean by that?” the advocate asked.
“I object, My Lady,” Prof. Imru cried as he addressed the judge in sitting, Judge Helen Ostrin. “This man is ridiculing our heritage and insulting our aptitude at identifying our own artifacts!”
“Be seated, Prof. Imru,” the judge ordered. “I have not heard any accusations of the sort from the defendant. Please wait your turn.” She looked at Purdue. “What do you mean, Mr. Purdue?”
“I am not much of a historian or theologian, but I do know my bit about King Solomon, the Queen of Sheba, and the Ark of the Covenant. From its description in all of the texts, I am relatively certain that it was never said to have carvings on the lid that date to the Second World War,” Purdue reported casually.
“How do you mean, Mr. Purdue? That makes no sense,” the advocate challenged.
“For one thing, it is not supposed to contain etchings of a Swastika on it,” Purdue said nonchalantly, relishing the shocked reaction from the audience in the boardroom. The white-haired billionaire mentioned selective facts so that he could defend himself without revealing the underworld beneath where the law would only get in the way. Carefully he picked what he could tell them as not to alert Karsten to his actions and to make sure that the fight with the Black Sun was kept out of the spotlight long enough for him to employ any means necessary to sign off on that chapter.
“Are you out of your mind?” Col. Yimenu shouted, but he was promptly joined by the Ethiopian delegation in their objections.
“Colonel, please restrain yourself or I shall hold you in contempt. Do not forget that this is still a judicial hearing, not a debate!” the judge snapped in her firm tone. “The prosecution may continue.”
“You claim that there was a Swastika etched in the gold?” the advocate smiled at the absurdity. “Do you have any photographs to prove this, Mr. Purdue?”
“I do not,” Purdue replied regretfully.
The prosecutor was delighted. “So, your defense is based on hearsay?”
“My records were destroyed during the pursuit in which I was almost killed,” Purdue explained.
“So you were pursued by authorities,” Watts grinned. “Perhaps because you were stealing an invaluable piece of history. Mr. Purdue, legal authority for monument destruction prosecutions derives from a 1954 convention that was implemented due to the destruction caused after the Second World War. There was a reason you were shot at.”
“But we were shot at by another expedition party, Advocate Watts, led by one Prof. Rita Medley and funded by the Cosa Nostra.”
Again, such a furor erupted from his statement that the judge had to call them to order. The MI6 officers looked at one another, having not been aware of any involvement by the Sicilian Mafia.
“So where is this other expedition and the professor that ran it, then?” the prosecutor asked.
“They are dead, sir,” Purdue said bluntly.
“So, what you are telling me is that all data and photographs proving your discovery was destroyed and the people who could support your claim are all dead,” Watts chuckled. “That is rather convenient.”
“Which has me wondering who decided that I even left with the Ark,” Purdue smiled.
“Mr. Purdue, you will only speak when spoken to,” the judge warned. “However, that is a valid point I would like the prosecution to address. Has the Ark been found in Mr. Purdue’s possession at all, Special Agent Smith?”
Patrick Smith stood up respectfully and answered, “No, My Lady.”
“Then why was the order from the Secret Intelligence Service not rescinded yet?” the judge asked. “If there is no evidence with which to prosecute Mr. Purdue, why has the court not been notified of this development?”
Patrick cleared his throat. “Because our superior has not given the order yet, My Lady.”
“And where is your superior?” she frowned, but the prosecution reminded her of the official memorandum in which Joe Carter appealed to be excused due to a personal emergency. The judge looked at the members of the tribunal with stern reprimand. “I find this lack of organization alarming, gentlemen, especially when you decide to prosecute a man without solid proof that he indeed possesses the stolen artifact.”
“My Lady, if I may?” the snide Adv. Watts groveled. “Mr. Purdue has been well known and well-documented as having discovered various treasures in his expeditions, including the famed Spear of Destiny, stolen by the Nazis during the Second World War. He has donated a myriad of relics of religious and cultural value to museums all over the world, including recently the find of Alexander the Great. If Military Intelligence could not find these artifacts on his properties, then it only proves that he was using these expeditions to spy on other countries.”
Oh shit, Patrick Smith thought.
“Please, My Lady, may I say something?” Col. Yimenu asked, to which the judge motioned her permission. “If this man did not steal our Ark, against which an entire group of laborers from Aksum swears, how did it go missing in his possession?”
“Mr. Purdue? Would you like to elaborate on that?” the judge asked.
“As I have said before, we were pursued by another expedition. My Lady, I barely escaped with my life, but the Medley excursion party subsequently took possession of the Ark, which was not the real Ark of the Covenant,” Purdue clarified.
“And they are all deceased. So where is the artifact?” asked the passionate Prof. Imru, looking decidedly shattered by the loss. The judge allowed the men to speak freely as long as they maintained order as she delegated.
“It was last seen in their villa in Djibouti, Professor,” Purdue answered, “before they left on an expedition with my colleagues and I to investigate some scrolls from Greece. We were forced to show them the way, and that was where…”
“Where you staged your own death,” the prosecutor accused harshly. “I need not say more, My Lady. MI6 was summoned to the location to arrest Mr. Purdue only to find him ‘dead’ and to find out that the Italian members of the expedition had perished. Am I correct, Special Agent Smith?”
Patrick tried not to glance at Purdue. Softly he answered, “Yes.”
“Why would he stage his death to avert arrest if he did not have something to hide?” the prosecutor continued. Purdue ached to explain his actions, but to bring up the entire drama of the Order of the Black Sun and having to prove that it too, still existed, was too much detail that needn’t be disturbed.
“My Lady, may I?” Harry Webster finally rose from his seat.
“Go ahead,” she said approvingly, since the defense attorney had not said a word yet.
“May I suggest that we come to some sort of arrangement for my client, as clearly there are a lot of holes in this case. There is no concrete evidence against my client for
harboring stolen relics. In addition, there are no persons present to testify that he did indeed report any intelligence to them regarding espionage, either.” He took a pause to pass his look to each and every representative of Military Intelligence 6 present. Then he looked at Purdue.
“Gentlemen, My Lady,” he carried on, “with my client’s permission I would like to opt for a plea bargain.”
Purdue kept his straight face, but his heart was racing. He had discussed this outcome in detail with Harry that morning, so he knew he could trust his main attorney with making the right choices. Still, it was nerve wrecking. Even so, Purdue agreed that they should just get it all behind them with as little hellfire as possible. He was not afraid to take the whip for his transgressions, but by no means did he like the prospect of spending years behind bars without the possibility of inventing, exploring, and most of all, putting Joseph Karsten where he belonged.
“Alright,” the judge said, folding her hands on the table. “What are the defendant’s conditions?”
9
The Caller
“How did the hearing go?” Nina asked Sam on Skype. Behind her, he could see seemingly endless rows of shelves stacked with ancient artifacts and gloved people with white coats cataloguing various pieces.
“I haven’t heard back from Paddy or Purdue yet, but I’ll be sure to fill you in as soon as Paddy calls me this afternoon,” Sam said, exhaling with some relief. “I’m just glad that Paddy is there with him.”
“Why?” she frowned. Then she chuckled in amusement. “Purdue usually wraps people around his little finger without even trying. You don’t have to fear for him, Sam. I wager he will walk out without even having to get overnight lube for a local jail cell.”
Sam laughed with her, thoroughly amused at both her faith in Purdue’s abilities and her jest about Scottish jails. He missed her, but he would never admit it out loud, let alone tell her directly. But he wanted to.
“When are you coming back so I can buy you a single malt?” he asked.
Nina grinned and leaned forward to kiss the screen. “Aw, do you miss me, Mr. Cleave?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he smiled, looking about him self-consciously. But he loved looking into the beautiful historian’s dark eyes again. It pleased him even more that she was smiling again. “Where is Joanne?”
Nina took a quick glance behind her, the motion of her head stirring life into her long dark tresses as they were swept up by her movement. “She was here…wa-wait…Jo!” she cried to somewhere beyond the screen. “Come say hello to your crush.”
Sam chuckled and laid his forehead in his hand, “Is she still after my drop-dead gorgeous ass?”
“Aye, she still thinks you are the dog’s bollocks, precious,” Nina joked. “But she is more in love with her sea captain. Sorry.” Nina winked as her eyes trailed her approaching friend, Joanne Earle, the history teacher who had helped them uncover the treasure of Alexander the Great.
“Hi Sam!” The jovial Canadian waved at him.
“Hey Jo, are you well?”
“I’m doing great, hon,” she beamed. “This is a dream come true for me, you know. I’m finally getting to have fun and travel, and all while teaching history!”
“Not to mention that finder’s fee, hey?” he winked.
Her smile vanished, relinquished for a gawk of greed as she nodded and whispered, “I know, right? I could so do this for a living! And as a bonus, I landed a sexy old Canuck with a fishing charter business. Sometimes we go out on the water just to watch the sun set, you know, when it is not too shy to show.”
“Sounds brilliant,” he smiled, silently praying for Nina to take over again. He adored Joanne, but she could talk a man’s head off. As if she read his mind, she shrugged and smiled, “Okay, Sam, I’m going to give you back to Dr. Gould. Bye now!”
“Bye-bye, Jo,” he said with a raise of his eyebrow. Thank God.
“Listen, Sam. I’ll be back in Edinburgh in two days. I’m bringing with me the booty we made off with for donating the Alexandrian treasure, so we’ll have a reason to celebrate. I just hope Purdue’s legal team puts out so that we can celebrate together. If you’re not on some assignment, that is.”
Sam could not tell her about the unofficial assignment Purdue had put him on to find out as much about Karsten’s business affiliations as possible. For now, it had to remain a secret between the two men alone. “No, just some research here and there,” he shrugged. “But nothing important enough to keep me away from a pint.”
“Lovely,” she said.
“So will you be going straight back to Oban?” Sam asked.
She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t know. I considered it, since Wrichtishousis is off limits right now.”
“You’re aware that yours truly has a quite lavish townhouse in Edinburgh as well,” he reminded her. “It’s no historical fortress of myth and legend, but it does have a very cool Jacuzzi and a full fridge of cold beverages.”
Nina chuckled at his boyish attempt to lure her to his place. “Alright, alright, you’ve convinced me. Just pick me up from the airport and make sure your car’s boot is empty. I have a shit load of luggage this time, light packer that I am.”
“Aye, I will, lassie. Got to go, but you’ll text me your arrival time?”
“I shall,” she said. “Stay hard!”
Before Sam could throw a suggestive comeback to counter Nina private joke between them, she’d ended the call. “Shit!” he groaned. “I have to get faster than that.”
He got up and headed to the kitchen for a beer. It was almost 9 p.m., but he fought off the urge to bother Paddy, begging for an update on Purdue’s trial proceedings. He was quite nervous about it all, and this made him a little reluctant to phone Paddy. Sam was in no position to receive bad news tonight, but he hated being so predisposed to the negative outcome scenario.
“Strange how courage fills a man when he is holding a beer, don’t you reckon?” he asked Bruichladdich, who was stretching lazily on the lobby chair just outside the kitchen door. “I think I’ll give Paddy a call. What do you think?”
The large ginger cat gave him an indifferent look and leapt onto the protruding wall section next to the stairs. He slowly stole towards the other end of the mantle and laid down again – right in front of a picture of Nina, Sam, and Purdue after the ordeal they’d survived after searching for the Medusa Stone. Sam pursed his lips and nodded, “I thought you would say that. You should be a lawyer, Bruich. You are very persuasive.”
He picked up the phone, just as there was a knock at the door. The sudden rapping almost had him dropping his beer and he gave Bruich a glance in passing. “Did you know that was going to happen?” he asked under his breath as he peeked through the peephole. He looked at Bruich. “You were wrong. It’s not Paddy.”
“Mr. Cleave?” the man outside implored. “May I please have a word?”
Sam shook his head. He was not in the mood for visitors. Besides, he really enjoyed the solitude from strangers and demands. The man knocked again, but Sam placed his finger over his mouth, gesturing for his cat to keep quiet. In response, the feline just turned around and curled up to sleep.
“Mr. Cleave, my name is Liam Johnson. An associate of mine is related to Mr. Purdue’s butler, Charles, and I have some information that might be of interest to you,” the man explained. Inside Sam, a war waged between his comfort and his curiosity. Dressed in only a pair of jeans and socks, he was not in the mood to look decent, but he had to know what this Liam bloke had to say.
“Hang on,” Sam cried inadvertently. Well then, I suppose my curiosity got the better of me. With an anticipatory sigh, he opened the door. “Hello Liam.”
“Mr. Cleave, good to meet you,” the man smiled nervously. “May I please come in before someone sees me here?”
“Certainly, after I’ve seen some identification,” Sam replied. Two old ladies of the gossiping variety passed by his front gate, looking taken aback at the handsome, rugged jou
rnalist’s shirtless appearance as they nudged each other. He tried not to laugh, giving them a wink instead.
“That certainly made them move along faster,” Liam grinned as he watched them hasten, holding out his credentials to Sam for scrutiny. Surprised at the swiftness with which Liam produced his wallet, Sam could not help but be impressed.
“Inspector/Agent Liam Johnson, Sector 2, British Intelligence, and all that,” Sam murmured as he read the fine print, checking for the little authentication words Paddy had taught him to look for. “Alright, mate. Come in.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cleave,” Liam said as he stepped inside quickly, shivering as he shook slightly to rid the loose rain droplets that could not penetrate his pea coat. “Can I put my brolly on the floor?”
“No, I’ll take that,” Sam offered and hung it upside down over a special coat rack where it could drip down onto his rubber mat. “Want a beer?”
“Muchly thanks,” Liam replied happily.
“Really? Did not expect that,” Sam smiled as he picked up a can from his fridge.
“Why? I am half Irish, you know,” Liam jested. “I venture we could outdrink the Scots any day.”
“Challenge accepted, my friend,” Sam played along. He directed his guest to sit down on the two-seat couch he kept for visitors. Compared to the three-seater where Sam spent more nights than in his bed, the two-seater was a lot firmer and not so lived in as the other.
“Now, what are you here to tell me?”
Clearing his throat, Liam suddenly became quite earnest. Looking very concerned, he answered Sam with a softer tone of voice. “Your research came up on our radar, Mr. Cleave. Luckily I caught it right off the bat, because I have a keen reaction to movement.”
