“Of course he didn’t. It’s bloody ludicrous. I am a Scottish goddamn national. Even if I were involved in military matters, it would have to be MI5 that pulled the strings. The international relation to this is rightly cumbersome, I tell you, and it bothers me,” Purdue speculated. “Charles, I need you to contact your brother-in-law for me.”
“With respect sir,” Charles replied quickly, “if you do not mind I would rather decline getting my family involved with this. I regret taking this resolve, sir, but honestly, I am afraid for my sister. I already find myself worrying about her being married to a man affiliated with the secret service – and he is just an administrator – and to involve them in an international debacle such as this…” He shrugged apologetically, feeling terrible about his own honesty. He hoped that Purdue would still value his capabilities as a butler and not dismiss him for some lame form of insubordination.
“I understand,” Purdue answered weakly, stepping away from Charles to look out through the balcony doors at the lovely serenity of the Edinburgh morning.
“I am sorry, Mr. Purdue,” Charles said.
“No, Charles, I really do understand. I do, believe me. How many horrible things had befallen my close friends because of being involved with my pursuits? I am fully aware of the implications of working for me,” Purdue explained, sounding utterly hopeless without the intention of provoking pity. He was honestly feeling the burden of guilt. Trying to be cordial about being respectfully rebuked, Purdue turned and smiled. “Really, Charles. I do understand. Will you let me know when Special Agent Smith arrives, please?”
“Of course, sir,” Charles answered with a stiff drop of the chin. He left the room feeling like a traitor, and by the looks of the officers and agents in the lobby, he was considered as one.
4
The Doctor is In
Special Agent Patrick Smith visited Purdue later that afternoon, for what Smith told his superiors was a doctor’s appointment. In consideration for what he had gone through in the home of the Nazi matriarch known as Mother, the board of judiciaries granted Purdue permission to receive medical assistance while he was in temporary custody of the Secret Intelligence Service.
With three men on duty during that shift, save for the two outside at the premises gate, Charles had his hands full with the housekeeping, feeding his vexation for them. However, he was more lenient in his courtesy towards Smith because of his aid to Purdue. Charles answered the door for the doctor when the doorbell sounded.
“Even the poor physician has to be searched,” Purdue sighed as he stood at the top of the stairs, leaning hard on the banister for support.
“The bloke looks weak, hey?” one of the men whispered to the other. “Look at how swollen his eyes are!”
“And red,” the other added, shaking his head. “I don’t think he is going to recover.”
“Boys, do hurry, please,” Special Agent Smith snapped, reminding them of their task. “The doctor only has an hour with Mr. Purdue, so get on with it.”
“Yes, sir,” they sang in chorus as they concluded their search of the medical professional.
When they were done with the doctor, Patrick escorted him up to where Purdue and his butler waited. There Patrick took sentinel post at the top landing of the stairs.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” Charles asked as the physician held Purdue’s door open for him.
“No, thank you, Charles. You can go,” Purdue replied loudly before Charles closed the door. He was still feeling terribly guilty for brushing off his boss, but it seemed as if Purdue was sincere in his understanding.
Inside Purdue’s private sanctum, he and the doctor waited, not speaking nor moving, for a moment to listen for any disturbances outside the door. No sound of scuffling came, and through one of the secret peepholes Purdue’s wall sported, they could see nobody eavesdropping.
“I think I have to refrain from childish references to medical puns to brighten your humor, old man, if only to stay in character. It is, I’ll have you know, a dreadful intrusion on my dramatic skills,” said the doctor, as he set his medical kit down. “Do you know how I struggled to get Dr. Beach to lend me his old case?”
“Suck it up, Sam,” Purdue said, smiling in amusement as the journalist squinted behind black framed glasses that did not belong to him. “It was your idea to masquerade as Dr. Beach. How is my savior, by the way?”
Purdue’s rescue team had consisted of two men acquainted with his dear Dr. Nina Gould – a Catholic priest and a general practitioner from Oban, Scotland. The two had taken it upon themselves to save Purdue from an atrocious demise in the cellar pen of the wicked Yvetta Wolff, First Level member of the Order of the Black Sun and known by her fascist consorts as Mother.
“He is doing well, although he has hardened some since his ordeal with you and Father Harper in that hellish house. I am certain whatever had made him like this would make for a tremendously newsworthy piece, but he refuses to make light on it,” Sam shrugged. “The minister is zipped about it too, and that just makes my balls itch, you know.”
Purdue chuckled. “I am sure it does. Trust me, Sam, what we left behind in that hidden old house is best left undiscovered. How is Nina?”
“She is in Alexandria, helping the museum catalogue some of the treasure items we discovered. They want to name that particular Alexander the Great-exhibit something like ‘The Gould/ Earle Discovery’, after Nina and Joanne’s hard work to uncover the Olympias Letter and such. Of course, they left out your esteemed name. Pricks.”
“Big things for our girl, I see,” Purdue smiled gently, happy to hear that the feisty, intelligent and beautiful historian was finally getting her well-deserved recognition from the academic world.
“Aye, and she is still asking me how we can get you out of this predicament once and for all, to which I usually have to change the subject, because…well, I honestly don’t know the extent of it,” Sam said, turning the conversation into a more serious avenue.
“Well, that is why you are here, old boy,” Purdue sighed. “And I don’t have a lot of time to fill you in, so sit and have a whisky.”
Sam gasped, “But sir, I am a medical doctor on call. How dare you?” and held out his glass for Purdue to color it with Grouse. “Don’t be stingy now.”
It felt good to be tormented by Sam Cleave’s brand of humor again and it brought Purdue great joy to once again suffer the journalist’s juvenile silliness. He knew full well that he could trust Cleave with his life and that, when it mattered most, his friend could instantly and superbly assume the part of a professional colleague. Sam could instantly switch from silly Scotsman to vigorous enforcer, an invaluable quality in the dangerous world of occult relics and scientific madmen.
The two men sat down on the threshold of the balcony doors, just to the inside so that the thick white lace curtains could veil them in their conversation, out of sight of prying eyes down on the lawns. In low tones they conversed.
“Long story short,” Purdue said, “the son of a bitch who arranged my kidnapping, and Nina’s for that matter, is a Black Sun member called Joseph Karsten.”
Sam jotted the name down in a beat up little note pad that he carried in his jacket pocket. “And is he dead yet?” Sam asked matter-of-factly. In fact, his tone was so casual that Purdue did not know whether to worry or jubilate at the response.
“No, he is 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 sneered and gestured toward Purdue’s body. “The Order of the Black Sun should have died with Nazi Germany, my friend, and I am 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 detractor
s. I really do, but wait until you know the whole story. Then you 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 are 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 frowned in astonishment. “You cannot be serious! The 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 had 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 soothed the mania in Purdue’s countenance.
“Listen, Sam, nobody knows what I do,” the billionaire continued. “Nobody on our side of the front lines know 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 it ever was 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 would perhaps 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,” he implored.
“I promise, we can do this your way, but if things get out of hand, Purdue, I am calling in the Brigade Apostate to back us up. This Karsten has power we cannot fight alone. At the top offices of military intelligence there is usually a relatively impenetrable shield, 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 will 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 have to trap him with,” Sam told Purdue. On his notes he had all his information and now that he knew the extent of 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 in mostly 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 had the damnedest trouble to maintain his strictly professional demeanor this day, until they got 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 was 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 cannot 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 are done for.”
“Oui, I do, of course. 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 am not selling the diamonds. It is the only proof of our status left!” he moaned, but his words came out 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, and Henri 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 the 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 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, but it was not for the sake of being alone. 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 to. 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 have not announced his arrival yet.
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 prose to commemorate it. Memories of the anniversary of every day was 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.
Order of the Black Sun Box Set 6 Page 40
