One thing she knew about the Dutch—they were never reserved.
“I believe you have obtained our journal?” he asked as they sat down on opposite sides of his desk.
“Yes, Mr. Bloem. Right here,” she replied. Carefully she placed her leather case on the polished surface and unclipped it. Bloem’s assistant, Wesley, entered the office holding a black briefcase. He was much younger than his boss, but equally elegant in his choice of clothing. It was a welcome sight after spending so many years in underdeveloped countries where a man with socks was considered posh.
“Wesley, give the lady her money, please,” Bloem exclaimed. Agatha thought him an odd choice for the council, as they were stately, senior men with hardly an ounce of Bloem’s personality or penchant for the dramatic. However, the man had a seat on the board of a prominent art school, so he was bound to be a bit more colorful. She accepted the briefcase from young Wesley and waited for Mr. Bloem to examine his purchase.
“Exquisite,” he gasped in awe as he pulled his gloves from his pocket to handle the piece. “Miss Purdue, aren’t you going to check your money?”
“I trust you,” she smiled, but her body language betrayed her anxiousness. She knew that any affiliate of the Black Sun, no matter how accessible in nature, would be a dangerous individual. Someone of Bloem’s reputation, someone who walked with the council who trumped the other members of the order, would have to be formidably wicked and apathetic by nature. Not once did Agatha allow that fact to slip her mind in exchange for all the pleasantries.
“You trust me!” he exclaimed in his heavy Dutch accent, looking decidedly amused. “My sweet girl, I am the last person you should trust, especially with money.”
Wesley laughed with Bloem as they exchanged mischievous glances. They made Agatha feel a right idiot, a naïve one at that, but she dared not act out in her own condescending way. She was a very sharp tack and she was now in the presence of a new level of bastard that made her insults toward others look weak and juvenile.
“Is that all, then, Mr. Bloem?” she asked in a docile tone.
“Check your money, Agatha,” he suddenly said in a deep, serious voice while his eyes drilled into her. She obliged.
Bloem paged carefully through the codex, looking for the page that was the photograph he had given Agatha. Wesley stood behind him, leering over his shoulder, looking as invested in the writings as his master. Agatha checked that the fee they had agreed on was there. Bloem looked up at her in silence, making her feel dreadfully uncomfortable.
“Is it all there?” he asked.
“Yes, Mr. Bloem,” she nodded, staring at him like a submissive idiot. Her brain spiraled and calculated her timing, her body language, and her breathing. Agatha was terrified.
“Always check the case, sweetheart. You never know who is out to fuck you over, right?” he warned, and turned his attention back to the codex. “Now tell me, before you skip off into the jungle ...” he said without looking at her, “how did you come by this relic? How did you manage to find it, I mean?”
His words froze her blood.
Don’t fuck it up, Agatha. Play dumb. Play dumb and all will be fine, she argued in her petrified, throbbing brain. She leaned forward, clasping her hands neatly in her lap.
“I followed the clues in the poem, of course,” she smiled, taking care to say only as much as was needed. He waited; then shrugged, “Just like that?”
“Yes, sir,” she said with a feigned feeble minded self-assurance that was quite convincing. “I just figured out that it was located in the Angelus Bell at the Cologne Cathedral. Of course it took me quite some time to research and guess most of it before I figured it out.”
“Really?” he smirked. “I have it on good authority that your intelligence surpasses most great minds and that you have an uncanny ability to unravel puzzles, like codes and such.”
“I dabble,” she said plainly. With no idea what he was fishing for, she played it straight and neutral.
“You dabble. Do you dabble in the things your brother dabbles in?” he asked, dropping his eyes to the very poem Nina had translated for her in Thurso.
“I’m not sure I understand,” she answered, her heart pounding erratically.
“Your brother, David. He would love something like this. In fact, he is known to chase after things that aren’t his,” Bloem sneered sarcastically as he caressed the poem under his gloved fingertip.
“He is more of an explorer, I hear. On the other hand, I enjoy the indoor life far more. I don’t share his innate trait for placing himself in peril,” she replied. The mention of her brother already had her anticipating that Bloem suspected her of employing his resources, but he could be bluffing.
“You are the wiser sibling, then,” he declared. “But tell me, Miss Purdue, what kept you from investigating further into the poem that clearly states more than what old Werner snapped on his old Leica before hiding the journal of Ernaux?”
He knew about Werner and he knew about Ernaux. He even knew what camera the German had most likely used, shortly before he hid the codex during the era of Adenauer and Himmler. Her intellect was far superior to his, but that did not serve her here, because he had an advance in knowledge. For the first time in Agatha’s life she was cornered in a match of wits because she was unprepared in her assurance that she was smarter than most. Perhaps playing dumb would be the very sign that she was hiding something.
“I mean, what would stop you from going after the very same thing?” he asked.
“Time,” she said with the strong tone reminiscent of her usual confidence. If he suspected her of deviousness, she reckoned that she should admit to being conniving. It would give him reason to believe that she was honest and proud of her abilities, even unafraid in the presence of the likes of him.
Bloem and Wesley gawked at the confident rogue before unleashing their boisterous laughter. Agatha was not used to people and their quirks. She had no idea if they took her seriously or if she was being ridiculed for trying to sound intrepid. Bloem leaned forward over the codex, his devilish appeal rendering her helpless to his charms.
“Miss Purdue, I like you. Seriously, had you not been a Purdue, I would have considered employing you fulltime,” he chuckled. “You are a bloody dangerous cookie, aren’t you? Such a brain with that kind of immorality ... I cannot help but admire you for it.”
Agatha elected to say nothing in return, apart from a graceful nod of acknowledgment while Wesley carefully replaced the codex in the case for Bloem.
Bloem stood up and adjusted his suit. “Miss Purdue, I thank you for your services. You were worth every penny.”
They shook hands and Agatha walked toward the door that Wesley held for her, her briefcase in hand.
“A job well done, I must say ... and in record time,” Bloem raved in good spirits.
Although she had concluded her business with Bloem, she hoped she had played her role well.
“But I am afraid I don’t trust you,” he abruptly stated from behind her, and Wesley closed the door.
26
Purdue said nothing about the car following them. He needed to first figure out if he was paranoid, or if the two were simply two tourists on their way to Wewelsburg Castle. This was not a time to draw attention to the three of them, especially with the fact that they were specifically doing reconnaissance to engage in some illegal activity to find whatever Werner was referring to in the castle. The structure, which had been visited by all three of them previously on their own occasions, was far too vast for them to go on luck or guessing games.
Nina sat staring at the poem, suddenly consulting her cell phone Internet for something she thought might pertain. But a few moments later she shook her head with a disappointed grunt.
“Nothing?” Purdue asked.
“Nope. ‘Where the gods send fire, where prayers rise’ makes me think of a church. Does Wewelsburg have a chapel?” she frowned.
“Not as far as I know, but then I have o
nly been to the SS Generals Hall. Didn’t really take in much of anything else under those circumstances,” Sam recounted one of his more dangerous covers a few years ago.
“No chapel, no. Not unless they’ve made changes of late, so where would the gods send fire?” Purdue asked, still keeping his eye on the gaining car behind them. The last time he was in a car with Nina and Sam, they almost got killed in a chase, something he did not want to repeat.
“What is the fire of gods?” Sam pondered for a second. Then he looked up and suggested, “Lightning! Could it be lightning? What are the precautionary measures at the Wewelsburg against lightning?”
“Hell, yes, that could well be the fire the gods would send, Sam. You are a godsend ... sometimes,” she smiled at him. Sam was taken off guard by her sweetness, but he welcomed it. Nina researched any past instances of lightning near the village of Wewelsburg.
The beige 1978 BMW 530 moved in uncomfortably close to them, so near that Purdue could see the faces of the occupants. He figured they were odd characters to be used as spies or assassins by anyone who hired professionals, but maybe their unlikely image served that very purpose.
The driver had a short Mohawk and heavy eyeliner, while his associate had a Hitler hairstyle with black braces over his shoulders. Purdue did not recognize either of them, but they were clearly still in their early twenties.
“Nina. Sam. Seatbelts,” Purdue ordered.
“Why?” Sam asked, and instinctively looked out the back window. He looked right into the barrel of a Mauser with a psychotic Fuhrer-lookalike laughing behind it.
“Jesus Christ, we’re being shot at by Rammstein! Nina, on your knees on the floor. Now!” Sam shouted as the blunt clap of the bullet slugs embedded themselves into the body of their vehicle. Nina curled up under the glove compartment in her foot space and bent her head down while the bullets rained down on them.
“Sam! Friends of yours?” Purdue yelled as he sank deeper into his seat and floored the gas pedal.
“No! They look more like your type of friends, Nazi relic hunter! For fuck’s sake, can’t we ever just be left alone?” Sam growled.
Nina just closed her eyes and hoped not to die, clutching her phone.
“Sam, grab the spyglass! Press the red button twice and point it at Mohawk behind the wheel,” Purdue bellowed, passing the long pen object between the seats.
“Hey, careful where you point that bloody thing!” Sam cried. He quickly placed his thumb on the red button and waited for a pause between bullet clanks. While laying low, he moved right to the side of the seat, against the door, so that they would not anticipate his position. Instantly Sam and the spyglass appeared in the corner of the back window. He pressed the red button twice and watched as the red beam fell right where he pointed—on the driver’s forehead.
Again baby Hitler shot and the well-placed bullet shattered the glass in front of Sam’s face, assailing him with spattering glass. But his laser was already on the Mohican long enough to penetrate his skull. The profuse heat of the beam boiled the driver’s brain in his skull and in the rearview mirror Purdue briefly saw how his face turned red and snotty blood was bubbling from his nose, before his head fell onto the steering wheel.
“Bull’s eye, Sam!” Purdue cried as the BMW swerved violently off the road and disappeared behind the ridge of the elevation that slanted into a steep drop. Nina unfolded herself, hearing Sam’s gasps of shock turn to moans and shrieks.
“My God, Sam!” she screeched.
“What’s wrong?” Purdue asked. He stretched to see Sam in the mirror, holding his face with bloody hands. “Oh, my God!”
“I can’t see! My face is on fire!” Sam screamed, as Nina slipped through between the seats to see to him.
“Let me see. Let me see!” she insisted, pulling his hands away. Nina tried not to yelp in panic for Sam’s sake. His face was riddled with small shards of glass cuts, some still protruding from his skin. All she could see of his eyes was blood.
“Can you open your eyes?”
“Are you daft? Christ, I have boulders of glass in my eyeballs!” he wailed. Sam was far from a squeamish person and his pain threshold was quite high. To hear him shriek and whine like a child had both Nina and Purdue thoroughly worried.
“Get him to a hospital, Dave!” she said.
“Nina, they will want to know what happened and we can’t afford to be exposed. I mean, Sam just killed a man,” Purdue explained, but Nina would have none of it.
“David Purdue, you take us to an emergency room as soon as we hit the next town or I swear to God ... !” she hissed.
“It would be a waste any time. You see that we are already being pursued. God knows how many more are following, thanks to Sam’s email to his Moroccan friend, no doubt,” Purdue protested.
“Hey, fuck you!” Sam roared. “I never sent him the picture. I never replied to that email! This is not coming from my contacts, pal!”
Purdue was perplexed. He was convinced that this was how it must have leaked out.
“Then who, Sam? Who else could know about this?” Purdue asked as the village of Wewelsburg came into view a mile or two ahead.
“Agatha’s client,” Nina said. “Has to be. The only person who knows ...”
“No, her client has no idea that anyone but my sister alone operated in this assignment,” Purdue quickly stomped out Nina’s theory.
Nina was gently pinching the minute glass fragments out of Sam’s face while her other hand cupped his face. The warmth of her palm was the only soothing Sam could feel in the immense burn of the myriad of lacerations and his bloodstained hands rested on his knees.
“Oh, crud!” Nina suddenly gasped. “The graphologist! The woman who deciphered the handwriting for Agatha! No shit! She told us her husband was a landscaper, because he used to dig for a living.”
“So?” Purdue asked.
“Who digs for a living, Dave? Archeologists! News of a legend actually having been discovered would certainly pique such a man’s interest, wouldn’t it?” she hypothesized.
“Great. A player we don’t know. Just what we need,” Purdue sighed, surveying the extent of Sam’s injuries. He knew there was no way around getting the wounded journalist medical care, but he had to press on or forfeit the chance to discover what Wewelsburg was hiding, not to mention others catching up to the three of them. In a moment of common sense above the thrill of the hunt Purdue checked for the nearest medical facility.
He pulled the car deep into the drive of a house within the vicinity of the castle, the practice of one Dr. Johann Kurtz. They randomly picked the name, but it was a fortunate hand of chance that brought them to the one doctor who had no appointments until 3 p.m. With a swift fib Nina told the doctor that Sam’s injury was due to a rock fall when they drove through one of the mountain passes on their way to Wewelsburg to sightsee. He bought it. How could he not? Nina’s beauty clearly stunned the awkward middle-aged father of three who ran his practice from his home.
While they waited for Sam, Purdue and Nina sat in the waiting room, which was a converted porch that was closed up with large screened open windows and wind chimes. A pleasant breeze passed through the place, a much-needed bit of tranquility for them. Nina continued to check what she suspected about the lightning simile.
Purdue held up the small tablet he often used to survey distances and areas, unfolding it with a sweep of his fingers until it could capture the Wewelsburg Castle outline. He stood staring at the castle from the window, seemingly studying the three-sided structure with his device, tracing the lines of the towers and mathematically comparing their height, just in case they needed to know.
“Dave,” Nina whispered.
He looked at her with a still-distant stare. She gestured for him to sit down next to her.
“Look here, in 1815 the North Tower of the castle was set alight when it was struck by lightning and here, until 1934, a rectory existed in the south wing. I’m thinking, since it speaks of the North T
ower and the prayers rising obviously in the south wing, one gives us the location, the other where to go. North Tower, upward.”
“What’s at the top of the North Tower?” Purdue asked.
“I know the SS planned to construct another hall, like the SS Generals Hall above it, but apparently it was never built,” Nina recalled from a dissertation she once wrote about mysticism practiced by the SS and unconfirmed plans to use the tower for rituals.
Purdue mulled it around in his head for a minute. As Sam emerged from the doctor’s office Purdue nodded. “Okay, I’ll bite. It’s the closest thing we have to a clue. The North Tower is definitely the place.”
Sam looked like a wounded soldier fresh from a war zone. His head was bandaged to keep the antiseptic ointment on his face for the next hour. For the damage to his eyes the doctor gave him drops, and suggested he wore sunglasses, but his vision should be fine within a couple of days.
“So, there goes my turn to drive,” he jested. “Vielen Dank, Herr Doktor,” he said wearily. Nina giggled to herself, finding Sam utterly cute; so pitiful and helpless with all his bandages. She wished she could kiss him, but not while he was obsessed with Trish, she promised herself. She left the smitten general practitioner with a kind farewell and a handshake and the three made their way to the car. Awaiting them in the near distance stood the ancient building.
27
Purdue arranged hotel rooms for each of them.
It was odd that he did not share a room with Sam, as he usually did, since Nina had locked him out of all privileges with her. Sam figured he wanted to be alone, but the question was why. Since they left the house in Cologne, Purdue had been acting more seriously and Sam did not think Agatha’s sudden departure had anything to do with it. Yet he could not readily discuss this with Nina, because he did not want her to fret over something that could be nothing.
Order of the Black Sun Box Set 3 Page 15