King Solomon's Diamonds (Order of the Black Sun Series Book 18)

by P. W. Child

  “What is this?” Karsten’s blubbery face quivered as he received another setback in his efforts concerning David Purdue.

  “One of the reasons the tribunal had to concede to Purdue’s plea was the illegal seizure of his estate in Edinburgh, sir,” Nigel explained, welcoming the emotional numbness he felt in preparing for another outburst from Karsten.

  “That property was seized for a reason! What in God’s name is going on with authorities these days? Illegal? So a person of interest to MI6 concerning international military matters is cited with while no investigations into the contents of his property are lodged?” he shouted, chipping his porcelain cup as he pounded with it on the wrought iron tabletop.

  “Sir, the lads at MI6 field offices combed the estate for anything incriminating and they found nothing to implicate military espionage or illegal acquisition of any historical objects, religious or otherwise. Holding Wrichtishousis ransom was therefore unfounded and deemed illegal, since there was no evidence to support our claim,” Nigel clarified plainly, not allowing the fat face of the tyrannical Karsten to shake him while he made things plain. “This is the release order for you to sign to restore Wrichtishousis to its owner and to rescind all orders to the contrary, as per Lord Harrington and his representatives in the seat.”

  Karsten was so livid that his replies came in soft words, deceptively calm. “I am being overruled in my authority?”

  “Yes, sir,” Nigel affirmed. “I’m afraid so.”

  Karsten was beyond angry at the thwarting of his plans, but he elected to pretend that he was professional about it all. Nigel was a sharp lad, and if he got a whiff of Karsten’s personal reaction to this matter, it might shed too much light on his involvement with David Purdue.

  “Give me a pen, then,” he said, refusing to show any trace of the tempest ravaging his insides. As he signed the order to restore Wrichtishousis to his nemesis, Karsten felt the debilitating blow to his elaborate plans, thousands of Euros later, pulverize his ego, reducing him to some impotent organization head with no potent authority.

  “Thank you, sir,” Nigel said as he took the pen from Karsten’s shaking hand. “I will send this out today so that the dossier can be closed on our side. Our legal staff will keep us posted on the developments in Ethiopia until their relic has been returned to its rightful place.”

  Karsten nodded, but he heard little of Nigel’s words. All his thoughts yielded was the prospect of starting over again. Trying to wrack his brain, he attempted to figure out where Purdue kept all the relics he, Karsten, had hoped to uncover on the Edinburgh properties. Unfortunately, he could not implement an order to enforce searches of all Purdue’s holdings, because it would be based on intelligence gathered by the Order of the Black Sun, an organization that was not supposed to exist and especially not to be run by a high officer of the United Kingdom Military Intelligence agency.

  He had to keep what he knew to be true to himself. Purdue could not be arrested for his theft of prized Nazi treasures and artifacts, because revealing this would compromise the Black Sun. Karsten’s brain ran into overdrive, trying to get around it all, but still the same answer came on all accounts – Purdue had to die.

  14

  A82

  In the coastal town of Oban, Scotland, Nina’s house remained vacant while she was away to attend to the new excursion planned by Purdue after his recent legal matters. Life in Oban carried on without her, yet she was quite missed by a few residents there. After the ugly business of abductions that had made headline news in local newspapers a few months prior, the place had returned to its blissfully uneventful existence.

  Dr. Lance Beach and his wife were getting ready for a Medical Conference in Glasgow, one of those gatherings where it was more important who knew whom and who wore what than actual medical studies or grants for those experimental medicines pivotal to progress in the field.

  “You know how I despise these things,” Sylvia Beach reminded her husband.

  “I know, darling,” he replied, wincing at the effort of getting his new brogues on over his thick wool socks. “But I only get considered for features and special inclusion if they know I exist, and for them to know that I exist, I need to show my face at these stuck-up to-dos.”

  “Yes, I know,” she moaned through parted lips, talking with her mouth open while applying her rose dew lipstick. “Just don’t do what you did last time, leaving me with that hens’ club while you go off. And I don’t want to stay too late.”

  “Noted.” Dr. Lance Beach mustered a smile while his feet screamed in the confines of the tight new leather. In the past, he would have had little patience for his wife’s whining, but after the scare of losing her during the time she’d been abducted, he’d learned to appreciate her presence more than anything. Lance never wanted to feel like that again, fearing that he’d never see his wife again, so he put up with a bit of bitching with glee. “We won’t be long. I promise.”

  “The girls are coming back on Sunday, so if we make it back a bit sooner we’ll have a whole night and half a day alone together,” she mentioned, glancing quickly at his response in the mirror. Behind her on the bed, she could see him smiling at her words with a suggestive, “Hmm, that is true, Mrs. Beach.”

  Sylvia chuckled as she pushed the pin of her earring through the right lobe and gave herself a quick gander to see how it looked with her evening dress. She nodded in approval at her own beauty, yet she did not look at her reflection too long. It reminded her of why she was kidnapped by that monster in the first place – her semblance to Dr. Nina Gould. Her equally petite frame and dark tresses would fool anyone who did not know the two women, and to boot, Sylvia’s eyes were almost like Nina’s, apart from being narrower in shape and more amber than Nina’s chocolate-colored eyes.

  “Ready, love?” Lance asked, hoping to sever the bad thoughts his wife no doubt suffered when she stared too long at her own reflection. He succeeded. With a little gasp, she snapped out of the staring contest and briskly gathered her purse and coat.

  “Ready to go,” she abruptly affirmed, hoping to negate any suspicions he might have as to her emotional well-being. And before he could say another word, she flew gracefully out of the room and down the corridor to the hallway at the front door.

  The night was foul. Above them the clouds muffled the shouts of the weather titans and wrapped the electric streaks in a blue static charge. Rain poured down and turned their walkway into a brook. Sylvia skipped over the water as if it would keep her shoes dry at all, with Lance simply walking behind her to hold the large umbrella over her head. “Wait, Sylla, wait!” he hollered as she moved swiftly from under the cover of the brolly.

  “Hurry, slow poke!” she teased and reached for the car door, but her husband would not be mocked for his slow stride. He pressed the immobilizer of their vehicle, locking all the doors before she could open it.

  “No man who owns a remote control needs to rush,” he bragged with a laugh.

  “Open the door!” she insisted, trying not to laugh with him. “My hair will be a mess,” she warned. “And they will think you are a negligent husband and therefore a bad doctor, see?”

  The doors clicked open just as she was really starting to worry about her hair and make-up being ruined, and Sylvia jumped into the car with a cry of relief. Soon after, Lance got in and started the car.

  “If we don’t leave now, we’ll really be late,” he remarked, peering through the windows at the dark and unrelenting clouds.

  “We’ll make it way before, darling. It is only 8 p.m. now,” Sylvia said.

  “Aye, but with this weather it’s going to be fucking slow going. I tell you, slooowww goin’. Not to mention the Glasgow traffic once we hit civilization.”

  “True,” she sighed, flicking down the passenger seat mirror to fix her runny mascara. “Just don’t drive too fast. They’re not important enough to get us killed in a car accident or something.”

  The reverse lights looked like beaming star
s through the downpour as Lance maneuvered their BMW out of the small street and onto a main road to get them started on their two-hour journey to Glasgow’s elite cocktail party, hosted by the Scottish Premier Medical Society. Finally, after careful work during the car’s incessant turning and braking, Sylvia managed to correct her messy face and looked pretty once more.

  Much as Lance did not want to take the A82 at the split of the two available routes, he simply could not afford the longer route, as it would make them late. He had to take the dreaded main road that lead past Paisley, where his wife had been kept by her abductors before she was moved to, of all places, their destination: Glasgow. It pained him, but he didn’t wish to bring it up. Sylvia had not been on this road since she’d been in the company of the evil people who’d made her believe that she’d never see her family again.

  Maybe she’ll think nothing of it if I don’t explain why I took this route. Maybe she’ll understand, Lance thought to himself as they travelled towards the Trossachs National Park. But his hands were clutching the wheel so tightly that his fingers went numb.

  “What is wrong, love?” she asked suddenly.

  “Nothing,” he said casually. “Why?”

  “You look tense. Are you worried that I would relive my trip with that bitch? It is the same road, after all,” Sylvia asked. She spoke so nonchalantly that Lance was almost relieved, but it was not supposed to be easy for her, and that left him concerned.

  “To be frank, I was actually worried about that,” he confessed, stretching his fingers a bit.

  “Well don’t, alright?” she said, rubbing his thigh to comfort him. “I’m fine. This road will always be here. I can’t avoid it for the rest of my life, you know? All I can do is tell myself that I’m driving it with you, and not with her.”

  “So, now this road is not scary anymore?” he asked.

  “Nope. Now it is just a road and I am with my hubby, not some psycho bitch. It’s a matter of directing fear at that which I have reason to fear,” she theorized dreamily. “I can’t be afraid of a road. The road did not hurt me or starve me or cuss me out, right?”

  Amazed, Lance stared at his wife in admiration. “You know, Sylla, that’s a very cool way of looking at it. And it is beautifully logical.”

  “Why thank you, Doctor,” she smiled. “God, my hair has a mind of its own. You left the doors locked for too long. I think the water spoiled my style.”

  “Uh-huh,” he agreed light heartedly. “It was the water. Of course.”

  She ignored his insinuation and drew down the little mirror again, desperate to get the coils back into the two locks of hair she’d left untied to frame her face. “Holy shi…!” she exclaimed irately and turned in her seat to look back. “Can you believe this idiot with his lights? I can’t see a bloody thing in the mirror.”

  Lance glanced up at his rearview mirror. The piercing headlights of the car behind them illuminated his eyes and blinded him momentarily. “Good God! What is he driving? A lighthouse on wheels?”

  “Slow down, love, let him pass,” she suggested.

  “I’m already driving too slow to make the party on time, darling,” he argued. “I’m not going to let this asshole make us late. I’ll just give him some of his own medicine.”

  Lance adjusted his mirror to reflect the trailing car’s beams directly back at it. “Just what the doctor ordered, tosser!” Lance sneered. The car slowed down after the driver clearly suffered a glare in the eyes and then stayed a safe distance behind.

  “Probably Welsh,” Sylvia joked. “He probably didn’t realize his high beams were on.”

  “Geez, how could he not notice those bloody lights searing the paint off my car?” Lance gasped, evoking a fit of laughter from his wife.

  Aldlochlay had just released them as they travelled south in silence.

  “I must say, I’m pleasantly surprised at the meager traffic tonight, even for a Thursday,” Lance remarked as they sped down the A82.

  “Listen darling, could you slow down a bit?” Sylvia implored, directing her victim face at him. “I am getting scared.”

  “It’s alright, love,” Lance smiled.

  “No, really. The rain is coming down much harder here, and I think the lack of traffic at least affords us time to slow down, don’t you think?”.

  Lance could not argue. She had a valid point. Being blinded by the car behind them would only exacerbate things on the wet road if Lance maintained his maniacal speed. He had to concede that Sylvia’s request was not unfounded. He slowed down considerably.

  “Happy?” he asked her.

  “Aye, thanks,” she smiled. “Much better on my nerves.”

  “And your hair seems to have recovered too,” he laughed.

  “Lance!” she shouted suddenly as her make-up mirror revealed the horror of the car on their tail speeding frantically forward. In a moment of clarity, she assumed the car hadn’t seen Lance apply the brakes and couldn’t reduce its speed in time on the soaking road.

  “Jesus!” Lance grunted as he watched the lights grow larger, coming at them way too fast to avoid a collision. All they could do was brace themselves. Instinctively Lance put out his arm in front of his wife to bar her from the impact. Like a flash of dragged lightning, the piercing headlights behind them bolted to the side. The car behind them had swerved slightly, but connected with their right backlight, sending the BMW into a volatile spin upon the slippery tarmac.

  Sylvia’s inadvertent scream faded in the cacophony of crumpling metal and shattering glass. Both Lance and Sylvia felt the sickening gyration of their out-of-control vehicle, knowing there was nothing they could do to avert tragedy. But they were wrong. They came to a standstill somewhere off the side of the road, among the strip of wild trees and brush between the A82 and the black, cold water of Loch Lomond.

  “Are you alright, darling?” Lance asked frantically.

  “I’m alive, but my neck is killing me,” she replied through the bubbling of her broken nose.

  For a moment they sat still in the twisted wreck, listening to the hard patter of the rainstorm on the metal. They were both caught behind the forceful protection of their airbags, trying to ascertain which parts of their bodies still functioned. Dr. Lance Beach and his wife, Sylvia, never expected the car from behind them to charge through the darkness, heading straight for them.

  Lance tried to take Sylvia’s hand when the diabolical headlights blinded them one last time and struck them at full speed. The velocity snapped Lance’s arm off and severed both their spinal chords, sending their car into the depths of the loch, where it would become their coffin.

  15

  Casting the Players

  At Wrichtishousis, spirits were high for the first time in over a year. Purdue had come home, gracefully saying goodbye to the men and women who had been occupying his home while it was in the grips of MI6 and its callous executive, the two-faced Joe Carter. Much as Purdue used to love throwing lavish parties for academic professors, businessmen, curators, and international benefactors of his grants, this occasion called for something more low key.

  Since those days of grand feasts under the roof of the historic mansion, Purdue had learned that prudence was imperative. Back then, he had not clashed yet with the likes of the Order of the Black Sun or its affiliates, although, in hindsight, he had been closely acquainted with many of its members without realizing it. However, one wrong move cost him that perfect obscurity he had moved in all those years when he was just a playboy with a penchant for historic items of value.

  His attempt at appeasing the dangerous Nazi organization, mostly to stroke his ego, came to a tragic conclusion on Deep Sea One, his offshore oilrig in the North Sea. It was there, when he stole the Spear of Destiny and aided in the breeding of a super human strain that he first stepped on their toes. From there, matters only worsened until Purdue went from an ally to an annoyance, until he finally progressed to be the biggest thorn in the side of the Black Sun.

  Now the
re was no turning back. No recovery. No way back. Now, all Purdue could do was systematically eradicate all the members of the sinister organization until he could safely appear in public again without fearing assassination or attacks on his friends and staff. And that gradual eradication had to be discreet, subtle, and methodical. By no means did he intend to kill them off or anything, but Purdue was wealthy and smart enough to clip them one by one by using deadly weapons of the age – technology, media, legislation, and of course, the mighty Mammon.

  “Welcome back, Doctor,” Purdue jested as Sam and Nina got out of the car. Drips and drabs of the recent siege were still evident as some agents and Purdue’s staff stood around waiting for MI6 to clear out their posts and remove their temporary reconnaissance devices and vehicles. Purdue’s address of Sam confused Nina a bit, but she could see by their exchange of laughter that it was probably another thing best left between the two men.

  “Come now, lads,” she said, “I’m famished.”

  “Oh, but of course, my dear Nina,” Purdue said kindly, reaching out to embrace her. Nina said nothing, but his emaciated form bothered her. Although he had healed much since the incident in Fallin, she could not believe that the tall, white-haired genius could still look so thin and weary. In the breezy morning, Purdue and Nina stayed locked in their embrace for a while, just savoring each other’s existence for a moment.

  “I am so glad you’re alright, Dave,” she whispered. Purdue’s heart skipped a beat. Nina rarely, if ever, called him by his first name. It meant that she wished to address him on a very personal level, which was like a stroke of heaven to him.