Order of the Black Sun Box Set 6

by Preston William Child

  “Strange weather, hey?” the driver suddenly remarked. Penekal nodded in agreement, surprised that the man should note such a thing while Penekal was pondering upon the events looming.

  “It is, yes,” Penekal replied out of courtesy. The overweight man behind the wheel was satisfied by Penekal’s response, for the moment. A few seconds later he said, “Rather gloomy and unpredictable rains too. It is almost as if something in the air is changing the clouds and the sea has gone crazy.”

  “Why do you say that?” Penekal asked.

  “Did you not read the papers this morning?” the driver gasped. “The shoreline of Alexandria had declined by 58% in the last four days and there has been no indication of atmospheric change to support the happening.”

  “What do they think caused the phenomenon, then?” Penekal tried to hide his panic in a steady voiced question. For all his sentinel duties, he did not know that the sea level had risen.

  The man shrugged, “Don’t really know. I mean, only the moon can control the tides like that, right?”

  “I suppose, but did they say the moon is responsible? Did it,” he felt silly even for implying it, “somehow change in orbit?”

  The driver peeked at Penekal in the rear view mirror with a look of ridicule. “You are joking, right, mister? That is absurd! If the moon changed the whole world would have known about it, I am sure.”

  “Yes, yes, you are correct. I was just speculating,” Penekal replied quickly to stop the driver’s mocking.

  “Then again, your theory is not as crazy as some I have heard since it was reported,” the driver laughed. “I have heard some absolutely ridiculous shit from some people in this city!”

  Penekal moved in his seat, leaning forward. “Oh? Like what?”

  “I feel stupid even relaying this,” the man chuckled, now and then darting his eyes up to the mirror to speak to his passenger. “There are some older citizens who spit and wail and cry, saying it is the doing of an evil spirit. Ha! Can you believe that shit? A water demon is loose in Egypt, my friend,” he taunted the idea with a rowdy laugh.

  But his passenger was not laughing along. Stone faced and deep in thought Penekal slowly reached for the pen in his jacket pocket, upon retrieving which he scribbled on his palm, ‘Water devil’.

  The driver was having such a good laugh that Penekal decided not to burst his bubble and add to the amount of insane people in Cairo by revealing that, in a way, those ludicrous theories are quite correct. For all the new concerns he had the old man chuckled coyly to satisfy the driver’s amusement.

  “Mister, I cannot help but notice that the address you asked me to drive you to is,” the driver hesitated a bit, “a place of great mystery to the average person.”

  “Oh?” Penekal asked innocently.

  “Yes,” the zealous driver affirmed. “It is a Masonic Temple, although few people know that. They just think it is another of Cairo’s great museums or monuments.”

  “I know what it is, my friend,” Penekal said quickly, tired of bearing with the man’s flapping tongue while he was trying to unravel the ensuing catastrophe in the heavens.

  “Ah, I see,” the driver answered, looking a bit more tamed at his passenger’s abruptness. It seemed that revealing that he knew his destination was a place of ancient magical rites and world-governing forces with a high-class membership had slightly frightened the man. But if it frightened him into silence it was a good thing, thought Penekal. He had enough on his plate as it was.

  They turned into a more secluded part of the city, a residential area with a few synagogues, churches and temples among the three schools situated in the vicinity. Around the street, the presence of children lessened gradually and Penekal could feel a change in the air. Houses grew more opulent and their fences more secure under the thick of lavish gardens where the street meandered. At the end of the road, the car turned into a small side avenue belonging to the grand building that peeked out through the harsh security gates.

  “Here you go, mister,” the driver announced as he brought the car to a halt a few meters away from the gate as if he was wary to be within a certain radius of the temple.

  “Thank you,” Penekal said. “I shall call you when I am done.”

  “I’m sorry, mister,” the driver objected. “Here.” He passed Penekal a business card of a colleague. “You can call my colleague to pick you up. I will not come here again, if you don’t mind.”

  Without another word, he took Penekal’s money and pulled away, speeding up hastily before he even reached the T-junction to the other street. The old astronomer watched the brake lights of the taxi vanish around the corner before he took a deep breath and turned to face the tall gate. Behind it, the Masonic Temple stood brooding and silent as if it was waiting for him.

  20

  The Enemy of my Enemy

  “Master Penekal!” he heard from a distance on the other side of the fence. It was the very man he had come to see, the local master of the lodge. “You are a bit early. Wait, I’ll come and open for you. Hope you do not mind sitting outside in the fresh air. The power is out again.”

  “Thank you,” Penekal smiled. “I have no problem getting some fresh air, sir.”

  He had never before met Prof. Imru, Head of the Freemasons of Cairo and Giza. All Penekal knew of him, was that he was an anthropologist and the chief executive of the People’s Movement for the Protection of Heritage Sites, recently having been involved in a global tribunal on archaeological crimes in North Africa. Although the professor was an affluent and powerful man, his personality proved to be very agreeable and he made Penekal feel at home at once.

  “A drink?” Prof. Imru asked.

  “Thank you. I will have what you have,” Penekal answered, feeling rather silly with rolls of old parchment under his arm here in the solitude of natural beauty outside the building. Unsure of protocol, he kept to smiling cordially and keeping his words reserved for answers instead of statements.

  “So,” Prof. Imru started as he sat down with a glass of ice tea, giving the other to his guest, “you say you have some queries about an alchemist?”

  “I do, sir,” Penekal admitted. “I am not a man to play games, for I am simply too old to have the time for subterfuge.”

  “I can appreciate that,” Imru smiled.

  Clearing his throat, Penekal dove right in. “I was just wondering if currently the Freemasons are perhaps engaging in alchemic practice that involves…uh…,” he struggled with the formulation of his query.

  “Just ask, Master Penekal,” Imru soothed his visitor’s nerves.

  “Are you perhaps busy with rites that could influence the constellations?” Penekal asked, narrowing his eyes in a wince of discomfort. “I realize how it sounds, but…”

  “How does it sound?” Imru asked curiously.

  “Unbelievable,” the old astronomer conceded.

  “You are speaking to a purveyor of grand rituals and age old esoterica, my friend. Let me assure you, there are very few things in this Universe that is unbelievable to me, and precious little that is impossible,” Prof. Imru revealed proudly.

  “You see, my brotherhood is also an obscure organization that was founded so long ago that there is practically no record of our founders,” Penekal explained.

  “I know. You are from the Dragon Watchers of Hermopolis, I know,” Prof. Imru nodded assuringly. “I am after all, an anthropology professor, my good man. And as a masonic initiate, I am fully aware of the work your order has been engaged in all these centuries. As a matter of fact, it locks in with much of our rites and bases. Your forefathers followed Thoth, I know, but what is it you think is happening here?”

  Almost leaping up in enthusiasm, Penekal presented his scrolls on the table, unrolling the maps for Prof. Imru to scrutinize. “See?” he panted anxiously. “These are stars that have fallen from their seats in the past week and a half, sir. Do you recognize them?”

  For a long while Prof. Imru was silently regarding
the stars marked on the map, trying to make sense of them. Finally he looked up. “I am not much of an astronomer, Master Penekal. I know this one is very important in magic circles, also present in the Codex of Solomon.”

  He pointed to the first star Penekal and Ofar had marked. “It is significant in alchemical practices from France in the mid 18th Century, but I must confess, as far as I am aware we have no alchemist working at the moment,” Prof. Imru informed Penekal. “What element is at play here? Gold?”

  Penekal answered with a dreadful countenance. “Diamonds.”

  Then he showed Prof. Imru the news links of the murders near Nice, France. With a low tone, quivering in urgency he disclosed the details of the murders of Madame Chantal and her housekeeper. “The most prominent diamond stolen during that incident, Professor, is the Celeste,” he groaned.

  “I have heard of it. Some miraculous stone of higher quality than the Cullinan I, I have heard, but what is its significance here?” Prof. Imru asked.

  Penekal looked terribly drained, the professor noticed, a demeanor that had visibly grown darker since the old visitor learned that the Freemasons were not the architects of the recent phenomena. “The Celeste is the prime stone that can defeat the collection of Solomon’s seventy-two diamonds, should they be used against the Magician, a great sage of terrible intention and power,” Penekal explained rapidly and continually so that he began to run out of breath.

  “Please, Master Penekal, have a seat here. You are exerting yourself too much in this heat. Take a moment. I will still be here to listen, my friend,” Prof. Imru consoled his visitor. The professor was suddenly in deep contemplation.

  “W-wha…what is it, sir?” Penekal asked.

  “Give me a moment, please,” the professor begged, frowning as his recollection burned. In the shade of the acacia trees that sheltered the old Masonic building, the professor paced in thought. While Penekal sipped up his ice tea to cool both his body and his worries, he watched the professor mutter quietly to himself. At once, his host seemed to snap out of it and he turned to Penekal with a peculiar look of disbelief. “Master Penekal, have you ever heard of the Sage Ananiah?”

  “I have not, sir. Sounds biblical,” Penekal shrugged, admitting his ignorance.

  “The Magician you described to me, his abilities and that which he uses to wreak pandemonium,” he tried to explain, but his own words failed him, “he…I cannot even think this, but we have seen many absurdities coming to truth before,” he shook his head. “This man sounds like a mystic encountered by a French initiate in 1782, but it cannot be the same man, obviously.” His latter words sounded frail and uncertain, but for logic. That was something Penekal understood greatly. He sat staring at the intelligent and righteous leader, hoping to have formed some sort of allegiance, hoping that the professor would know what to do.

  “And he is collecting King Solomon’s diamonds to make sure they cannot be used to thwart his workings?” Prof. Imru inquired with as much passion as Penekal when he first presented the predicament.

  “That is correct, sir. We have to get our hands on the rest of the diamonds, numbering sixty-eight in total. As my poor friend Ofar suggested in his infinite and foolish optimism,” Penekal smiled bitterly, “short of buying the stones that are in the possession of the world’s famous and rich, we will not be able to obtain them before the Magician does.”

  Prof. Imru stopped his pacing and stared at the old astronomer. “Never underestimate the ludicrous aims of the optimist, my friend,” he said with an expression between amusement and renewed interest. “Some suggestions are so preposterous that they usually end up working.”

  “Sir, with respect, you do not seriously consider buying over fifty well known diamonds from the world’s wealthiest people? That would cost…uh…a lot of money!” Penekal struggled with the concept. “It would amount to millions, and who would be crazy enough to spend that much money for such a fantastical conquest?”

  “David Purdue,” Prof. Imru beamed. “Master Penekal, can you come back here in 24 hours, please?” he implored. “I might just know how we can help your order to battle this Magician.”

  “You do?” Penekal gasped, elated.

  Prof. Imru laughed. “I cannot promise anything, but I know a lawless billionaire with no respect for authority and a lot of zest for troubling powerful and evil people. And as luck would have it, he owes me and he is on his way to the African continent as we speak.”

  21

  The Portent

  Under the gloomy skies of Oban, the news of the local doctor and his wife’s vehicle accident spread like wildfire. Shocked, local shop owners, teachers and fishermen all shared the mourning of Dr. Lance Beach and his wife, Sylvia. Their children were left in their aunt’s temporary custody, still reeling from the tragedy. Everyone liked the general practitioner and his wife and their gruesome death off the A82 was a terrible blow to the community.

  Hushed whispers made their rounds through the supermarkets and restaurants about the senseless tragedy befalling the poor family so soon after the doctor almost lost his wife to the nefarious couple who kidnapped her. Even then, the citizens of the town were surprised that the Beaches had kept the events of the abduction and Mrs. Beach’s subsequent rescue such a well-guarded secret. However, most people just assumed that the Beaches wished to move on from the terrible ordeal and did not wish to talk about it.

  Little did they know that Dr. Beach and the local Catholic priest, Father Harper, had been forced to venture past the lines of morality to save Mrs. Beach and Mr. Purdue by giving their reprehensible Nazi captors a taste of their own medicine. Obviously, most people just would not understand that sometimes the best revenge on an evildoer was – revenge – good old Old Testament wrath.

  A teenage boy, George Hamish, was running through the park at a rapid pace. Known for his athletic ability as the high school football captain, nobody found his focused racing at all strange. He was clad in his tracksuit and Nikes. His dark hair was at one with his wet face and neck as he ran at full speed across the green rolling lawns of the park. The rushing boy was not paying attention to the tree branches that hit and scratched at him as he ran past and under them towards St. Columbanus Church across the narrow street from the park.

  Barely dodging an oncoming car as he darted over the tarmac, he leapt up the stairs and slipped into the darkness beyond the open doors of the church.

  “Father Harper!” he cried, out of breath.

  Several congregates present inside turned in their pews and hushed the daft boy for his lack of respect, but he did not care.

  “Where is the Father?” he asked, unsuccessfully begging for information as they only looked more frustrated with him. An older lady near him would not take the youth’s disrespect.

  “You are in a church! People are praying, you insolent brat,” she scolded, but George ignored her sharp tongue and started running down the isle toward the main pulpit.

  “There are people’s lives at stake, lady,” he said in flight. “Save your prayers for them.”

  “Great Scott, George, what the hell…?” Father Harper frowned when he found the boy hurrying toward his office just past the main hall. He swallowed his choice of words when his flock scowled at his uttering and dragged the exhausted teenager into the office.

  Closing the door behind them, he leered at the boy. “What the hell is with you, Georgie?”

  “Father Harper, you have to leave Oban,” George warned, struggling to catch his breath.

  “Excuse me?” the Father said. “What do you mean?”

  “You have to get far away and don’t tell anyone where you are going, Father,” George implored. “I heard a man asking about you at Daisy’s curio shop when I was making out with h…uh…while I was in the back alley,” George corrected his tale.

  “What man? What did he ask?” Father Harper.

  “Look, Father, I don’t even know if this bloke is right in the head for the stuff he claims, but you know, I
just thought to warn you anyways,” George answered. “He said you were not always a priest.”

  “Aye,” Father Harper affirmed the fact he spent much time relaying to the late Dr. Beach as well, every time the priest did something men of the cloth were not supposed to know. “This is true. Nobody is born a priest, Georgie.”

  “I suppose, aye, I never think of it that way, I suppose,” the boy stammered incoherently, still out of breath from the shock.

  “What exactly did the man say? Can you be more clear what made you think he was going to do me harm?” the priest asked, pouring the teen a glass of water.

  “Many things. It sounded as if he tried to rap your rep, you know?” George rambled.

  “Rap my rep?” Father Harper asked, but soon snapped the meaning and answered his own question. “Ah, hurt my reputation, never mind.”

  “Aye, Father, and he was telling some of the people in the shop that you were involved in killing some old lady. Then he said that you kidnapped and killed a woman from Glasgow few months back when the doctor’s wife went missing…he just went on. Also, he was telling everyone how you are a sanctimonious bastard who hides behind your collar to make women trust you before they disappear,” George’s telling poured from his memory and his shivering lips.

  Father Harper sat down in his high back chair, just listening. George was surprised that the priest did not show the faintest sign of offence, no matter how vile his recounting became, but he chalked it up to the wisdom of clergymen.

  The powerfully built, tall priest sat staring at poor George, leaning slightly to the left. His folded arms made him look thick and strong and the index finger on his right hand was brushing gently along his bottom lip as he took in the boy’s words.

  When George took time to empty the glass of water, Father Harper finally changed position in his chair and rested on his elbows on the desk between them. With a great sigh he asked, “Georgie, can you remember what this man looked like?”