“I don’t think she is here, Zain," Sibu murmured, leaning with his back against the front door, scanning the visible parts of the flat.
“We’ll see about that. I don’t enjoy having to come to the shittiest part of P.E. this time of night and be fucked with by a stupid bitch. How smart can a junkie whore be?" Zain fumed. He made for the small bedroom opposite the tiny kitchen that made up pretty much the entirety of the flat, save for the toilet and shower just by the front door where Sibu stood. He could see clear into the tiny bathroom. There was no wall or door to Cheryl's kitchen if one could call it that. It was nothing but a sink and a fridge with a ripe trash can in between.
Zain came back. He was furious. He was breathing heavily with frustration, wiping his perspiring brow, about to unleash his tirade.
“Sibu,” he whispered suddenly, holding his breath and staring at the large sash window in the living room, the one allowing the outside street light to shine in. He motioned for Sibu to keep quiet, sneaking past the furniture in his path to the window. It was unlocked but slid down completely. Outside the window, he noticed the flapping of a dress in the mellow breeze that escalated into quite a forceful gust at this elevation.
Zain smiled. “Gotcha.”
1
The Daring Solution
Dr. Billy Malgas packed up after his lecture, shaking his head at the dwindling numbers of his students. The Dean had already called him in a month ago to convey his concern for the doctor’s lack of students, suggesting that Malgas should perhaps reconsider his curriculum or reduce his lectures to accommodate his faculty status. If his students kept dropping out, the university would have no choice but to let him go.
Billy Malgas was perplexed by the situation, mostly by the lack of interest in his classes. He had an MA in Archeology, having obtained his Honors from the University of Cambridge, and extensive experience in the field, throwing in Anthropology in his spare time from a lesser institution. The black academic never admitted that the privilege of education had befallen him thanks to his British mother who hailed from a rather affluent Birmingham family. To him, the bit of help from his maternal side had not assured his success; it had been his own discipline and aptitude.
“I see the seat section was bald again today, Doctor,” Mieke, his aide, lamented as she came to join him. She held two disposable paper cups with coffee from the campus cafeteria in her hands. He looked up and just shook his head with a hard exhale, not even cheered up by her kind eyes and her blonde permed locks that fell in cascades over her ample breasts. Had it not been for her well-known intellectual prowess, she may well have been construed as a dimwitted bimbo by the campus dwellers.
From the remarks of his remaining students, he had surmised that their dwindling interest was due to the political climate of the country. With the importance of medical advancement and the soaring crime statistics, the money and opportunity lay in other vocations.
“Yep, nobody wants to learn about the past anymore. They just want power, authority and, of course, big money,” he grumbled as he shut down his laptop. It took him several hours to prepare the PowerPoint presentation for this week’s subject, but hardly anyone benefitted from it, it seemed. “Lawyers and Advocates,” he ranted, “…like we need more deviousness and greed to cheat justice with the amoral art of law.”
Mieke held her tongue, familiar with her professor’s moods and opinions. She placed the coffee on his desk. Dr. Malgas looked exceedingly distraught at his looming dismissal.
“Sir,” she finally dared, “if I may make a suggestion?”
He did not even merit her attempt with a glance as he tossed the remaining papers into his briefcase, but she was used to this kind of treatment when he was in one of his moods. Even though Mieke understood his predicament, she was one of those people who believed in solutions and proactive approaches to even the darkest of storms.
“What do you suggest, Mieke?” He sighed.
It was crystal clear that Dr. Malgas did not give a damn what she had in mind, but she knew her idea was so opprobrious that it would get his attention – probably a sermon born from shock as well – but his attention was all she wanted.
“I would like to suggest,” she lowered her voice to an almost inaudible level, “a hoax.”
If it was shock she was after, she got it in spades.
“Oh my God!” his voice rasped in a hard whisper. His eyes froze in disbelief at her notion for a moment. “Are you out of your mind, Miss Badenhorst?”
“Are you ready for the long queue at the unemployment office, Dr. Malgas?” she retorted, smiling. She knew that hammering on his insecurities would force him to listen. "You know more than God about the hidden treasures of history. It would be very hard for any old dick in the history field to refute what you claim. Don't you see? Nobody cares about your passion or the incredible secrets of the old world! They won't want to go through all that trouble to test the validity of your claims, believe me."
“I don’t know…” he frowned, contemplating it. But Mieke felt his vulnerability, and it was time to strike while the iron was still hot.
“Nobody knows as much as you do! No-one could possibly prove your theory wrong. They are too bloody busy with their own little pursuits to impress the government, Dr. Malgas. You are one of the world’s foremost authorities on relics and maritime war history,” she pushed gently.
He looked terrified. A rigid believer in morality and truth, he found her suggestion reprehensible, yet his desperation swallowed up every bit of his ethics every time Mieke reminded him of what happened to has-been academics with no tangible claims to fame.
She did not take this course to condemn her favorite lecturer, no matter how it appeared. Mieke had no aspirations for fame and fortune and she typically didn't believe in lies. What she was prepared to do, to put her reputation as an academic and her brilliant future at stake for a hoax was purely due to the admiration for her mentor who meant the world to her. Had it not been for Dr. Malgas, Mieke would have lost faith in the wonders of the hidden world long ago. There was no way in hell she was about to let his genius go unnoticed, and she was willing to put her own future on the line to help him become the master historian she found him to be.
Suddenly Dr. Malgas was sweating. He could not believe that he was even entertaining her horrible idea, but had it not been for the Dean’s subtle hint at firing him from his only purpose in life he would never have considered it.
“What do you have in mind, Miss Badenhorst?" he cringed. It was evident that the 45-year-old man was struggling with his conscience.
“Don’t worry, Dr. Malgas,” she consoled. “I’ll take care of everything. All you need to do is to be ready with answers when the press hears about your….discovery. Alright?”
"Provided I know what the discovery is,” he whispered.
"Of course, I will fill you in on all the details once I have set everything up,” she assured her teacher with a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“You’ll set it up?” he scowled. “Forgive me, Mieke, but what do you know about historical secrets?”
“I don’t know half of what you know, sir,” she said, “but do not underestimate me. I know more than you think. After all, you are the one who taught me what I know now.”
“How will I know what you chose to lie about?” he asked in all honesty. Malgas was very much aware that his aide was a student close to his caliber, but she lacked the years of experience and thus practice.
“I will fill you in on everything before I go public with it, sir. I am not a fool,” she reminded him as she took a sip of her coffee. “I will bring you in the loop before letting anybody else know. Believe it, Dr. Malgas; I only have your best interest in mind. I want the world to notice you. I want them to see your passion for history, especially World War II history,” she raved. Then she whispered, “But only if you are willing to take the risk. It could just be my cynicism talking here, but,” she drove the last nail, “I don’t think you re
ally have a choice anymore.”
Wearily, he stared at Mieke. Stiffly leaning on the lectern, he looked at her with hardly a spark of resistance left in him. In the end, he figured, it did not matter anymore whether he was caught or not. How could his reputation get worse than that of a lecturer who failed to fill up even one measly course, let alone do anything significant in the world? Malgas realized that Mieke only suggested to him a means to revive what he had already deemed dead and gone – his career as a historian, holding extensive knowledge of secrets no longer pertinent to the chase for glory these days. Even if he was discovered, his ruse exposed, he was a nobody, so it wouldn’t change much anyway.
Dr. Malgas looked at all the books, pamphlets and research he had prepared for the class of students who did not appreciate his efforts and had no respect for his years of studying. Mieke was right. He knew that now. She was the only one who knew how hard he had worked to bring the University students an enjoyable and informative course.
“They probably only take this class to get credits when they would have failed other courses,” he admitted. His voice trembled with disappointment in the dim light of the immaculate lecture hall. Only his projector and one spotlight above him illuminated the lectern, just as his career only barely kept alive by the meager admiration of few.
“We both know that,” Mieke agreed. “And once they hear of the secrets you have uncovered in your study of Nazi artifacts of post-World War II, they will be flocking to your lecture hall to hang on every word, every fact, every morsel of information you give them.”
Gradually, in the context of her desperate idea, Dr. Malgas realized that Mieke Badenhorst was meaning well and that her unorthodox methods were perhaps just the level of recklessness he needed to resuscitate his career. He had never been one to break the rules, but his reluctance was now challenged by utmost necessity.
When he had everything packed, he gave Mieke a long, stern look, “Are you aware of the possible repercussions of what you are suggesting?”
“I gave it more thought than you think, sir,” she answered, dead serious.
He gave a weary sigh, collected his case and motioned with his head, “Let’s get out of here. This is not something we should be discussing at the institution, let alone in a bloody auditorium.”
Mieke nodded, adamant to dispose of every last bit of doubt Dr. Malgas might still have been harboring. As a matter of fact, even if they were to be caught she was prepared to own up to it and take the brunt of the blame, as long as her mentor started shedding his self-doubts and found his confidence in the process.
Something moved in the far distance of the auditorium. It drew Dr. Malgas attention, but in the darkness, it was hard to discern. He flicked the lights on just before they left the lecture hall, quickly surveying the room. Uniform in their appearance the rows of seats revealed no intruders.
“What’s the matter, sir?” Mieke asked, peeking around the doorway to ascertain what he was looking at.
“Just thought I saw something,” he frowned. He had a distinct feeling that they had unwanted company.
Eventually, he abandoned his suspicion and switched off the lights. Together they walked along the main hallway toward the staff room and main entrance of the University of Port Elizabeth.
“When we are ready to make this public we will need someone we trust to report on it, Dr. Malgas. I know a few journo students who would love the opportunity…”
“No!” he cut her off. His face was contorted in focused somberness. “No amateurs, Mieke. This is far too serious to entrust to the fumbling vocabulary of rookies, let alone their ineptitude in dealing with press vultures should they get put on the spot.”
He breathed heavily in his urgent thoughts and kept his voice low as they approached the lobby. “We need someone who had experience in spinning the truth, a sharp mind, fearless in the business of journalism, someone who is credible.”
“It would help if this sharp mind were a friend or close colleague, I agree,” she remarked. “Do you know anyone?”
“I do. The best. His name is Sam Cleave.”
2
After Whuppity Scoorie
The water rippled around the keel of the small boat, waves spreading outward on the silver shimmer of the surface. It was hard to tell where the water ended, and the equally gray skies began, but Sam's lens could tell the two apart just perfectly. He used a telephoto lens for his photos to capture the perfect lines of the lake, even though he had ignored Father Hennessey's good advice to sleep off the whisky before embarking on his photography journey aboard the small row boat he lent the world famous journalist.
Sam was exhausted after two days of the local festival in Lanark, but he had to stay at least another day to interview the visiting old Colonel McAdams, a veteran of two wars and local C-list celebrity. The Whuppity Scoorie festival had turned raunchy after the first day, just the way Sam Cleave liked it, even though he had become wary of his drunken public performances after the kilt incident a few years back, where he had fallen off a table while dancing and exposing way too much to the cheering crowd.
In the far distance, he saw a few other boats, all larger than his, bobbing under the afternoon sky. Sam memorized where the reverend’s jetty was, making sure that it would not take him long to get back there before dark. Clumps of trees lined the park along the lake, and he heard the occasional cry of golfers in the distance, triumphing over a difficult hole.
Peaceful and clear, the water carried a group of swans near the banks, and Sam wondered how he had spent so many years in the bustle of Edinburgh's news industry. Briefly, his thoughts dipped into the inky black of his past, where he had stored bad memories, and he recalled the sound of the gunshot that killed his fiancé. He remembered the grime of the docks and the warehouses where he had spent so many nights stalking the criminals he had been investigating, living on bad coffee and cheap cigarettes for the pursuit of justice – or fame? Even the fact that he had exposed those criminals all those years ago when he was the king of investigative journalism didn't make the loss more bearable.
Since his involvement with the Wolfenstein expedition he had evolved into a more sophisticated writer, and was able to choose his assignments. Working on and off as freelancer with billionaire inventor Dave Purdue had granted Sam an elite reputation as a fearless professional. His time of peace had come, and that meant that he was no longer forced to accept an assignment without a measure of control or agreement – not to mention the lucrative nature of Purdue’s excursions. Purdue’s generous remuneration and his bestselling book had established Sam financially, no longer leaving him desperate for gigs. Now he had relative freedom and watching the swans gliding on the mirror of the lake reiterated his mental state, his all-encompassing tranquility of late.
Sam thought about Nina. He had helped her lug some crates to her house a few weeks ago, upon which they had discovered some old, mostly insignificant, relics and a whole stack of old hand-drawn maps. He recalled their reluctance at handling the contents of the box that creeped them out, but on closer investigation found that the grisly taxidermy was nothing but the failed hobby of the box’s original owner. The tatty old skin and balding skull had nothing to do with the writings and only served to frighten off would-be thieves of his valuable maps.
Nina had handed the box to Dave Purdue for examination since he had mentioned something similar that he had unsuccessfully been searching for. Since then, Sam had not heard from either of them concerning the find. He decided to wrap up his photography session, put his equipment back into his camera bag, and started rowing back to the bank of the lake. The calming sound of the oars breaking the surface every time came to a distinct rhythm as Sam urged the small boat forward. For a moment, the dark water beneath him kicked his imagination into gear.
Wonder what is under this pretty lake? The water is rather black, so it must be deep… “Stop it,” he said out loud, and his thoughts retracted their tentacles. “Just get to the bar.”<
br />
As far as he knew, Sam had no phobias, although there were things that came pretty close. Dogs, heights, and spiders did not exactly provoke amicable emotions in him, but while they were hardly phobias per se, he realized that he had been wary of bodies of water far more than he should have. He figured that that was how phobias began, so he ignored his silliness and abandoned any thoughts not involving whisky, his cat, Nina or the collective of all three, soon to join him at his house for the weekend.
Once he had moored the boat, he made for the warm glow of the small establishment that was already crowded. It was going to be a long night, but first he wanted to store away his gear and change clothes. While Sam reorganized his luggage, his phone rang.
“Not now,” he moaned, dropping his razor to retrieve his cell from his jacket. On the screen, he saw a name he had never expected to see again. During their last encounter both had almost died fleeing from a criminal smuggling organization that they had exposed: they had caught eight men stealing Portuguese coins and a trunk containing antique swords and daggers from a shipwreck. It had been sometime in the mid-nineties when Sam had followed a lead to an institution in Angola concerning a ring of smugglers robbing museums and university store rooms for black market antique sales.
“Malgas?” Sam asked in a tone between surprise and concern.
"Hello, Sam. How have you been?" the voice on the phone replied, but Sam was hoping the question was directed out of propriety and not serious interest. If Sam had to catch up on all the incredible things he had experienced since last seeing Billy Malgas, they would be on the phone for days.
"Fine. Fine, thanks, old mate. What a surprise this is!” he marveled.
“A good one, I hope,” Malgas replied with a nervous chuckle.
Order of the Black Sun Box Set 4 Page 20