Order of the Black Sun Box Set 8

by Preston William Child

  “I heard, but I thought you would have put up more of a fight to keep the rights, bud,” Cliff drawled in his annoying accent, making sure that his condescension could be heard by all about them in the parking area. “Way to let a goddamn woman take your research. I mean, God, where are your balls?”

  Kasper saw the others glance or nudge as they all headed for their cars, limo’s and taxi cabs. He fantasized about putting his brain aside for just a moment and use his body to trample the life out of Tuft and kick his oversized teeth in. “My balls are perfectly adept, Cliff,” he answered calmly. “Some research demand real scientific intelligence to apply. Reading the fancy phrases and writing the constants in sequence with variables is not enough to transfigure theory to practice. But I am sure a strong academic like Zelda Bessler knows that.”

  Kasper enjoyed a feeling he was not familiar with. It was apparently called gloating and he seldom got to kick the proverbial nuts of a bully like he did just then. He looked at his watch, relishing the astonished looks bestowed on the idiot magnate, and excused himself in the same confident tone. “Now, if you will excuse me, Clifton, I have a date.”

  Of course, he was lying through his teeth. Then again, he did not state with whom, or indeed what, he had a date.

  After Kasper told off the boastful prick with the bad hairstyle, he drove along the bumpy grit of the east road of the parking lot. He only wished to avoid the queue of flashy limousines and Bentleys exiting the venue, but after his well-placed line before bidding Tuft adieu, it certainly looked stuck-up as well. Dr. Kasper Jacobs was a mature and innovative physicist, among other roles, but he had always been too modest about his work and dedication.

  The Order of the Black Sun held him in high regard. Throughout the years of working on their special projects, he realized that the members of the organization were always readily available for favors and cover-ups. Their loyalty, as it was to the Order itself, was unrivaled; something Kasper Jacobs had always admired. When he drank and became philosophical, he thought about it a great deal and came to one conclusion. If only individuals could care this much about the common goals of their schools, welfare and health systems, the world would flourish.

  He found it amusing that a group of Nazi ideologists could be the model of propriety and progress in a social paradigm these days. By the state of the world’s misinformation and propaganda of decorum that enslaved morality and deterred individual consideration, it was clear to Jacobs.

  Flashing in cadence across his windshield, the highway lights lulled his thoughts into dogmas of revolution. According to Kasper, the Order would easily be able to overthrow regimes, if only civilians did not see representatives as power objects, casting their lot into the abyss of liars, charlatans and capitalist monsters. Monarchs, presidents and prime ministers held the fate of the people, when such a thing should be an abomination, reckoned Kasper. Unfortunately, there was no other way to govern successfully, but to deceive and sow fear on one’s own people. He found it regrettable that the world population would never be free. That even thinking about alternatives to a single, world dominating entity was becoming ludicrous.

  Turning away from the Gent-Brugge Canal, he shortly after passed Assebroek Cemetery, where both his parents were buried. On the radio, the female broadcaster announced that it was just past 11pm and Kasper felt a sense of relief he had not felt in a long time. He likened the sensation to the glee of waking up late for school and realizing that it was Saturday – and it was.

  “Thank God, I can sleep a bit later tomorrow,” he smiled.

  Life had been hectic since he took on the new project directed by that academic equivalent of a cuckoo, Dr. Zelda Bessler. She was managing a top-secret program only a few members of the Order knew of, excluding the architect of the original formulas, Dr. Kasper Jacobs himself.

  As a pacifist genius, he always shrugged it off that she took all the credit for his work under the mantle of cooperation and teamwork ‘for the good of the Order’, as she put it. But lately he had begun to feel more and more resentment toward his colleagues for the exclusion from their ranks, especially considering that those tangible theories he came up with would be worth a lot of money in any other institution. Money he could have all to himself. Instead, he had to be content with receiving but a fraction of the value while the Order’s highest bidding pets enjoyed preference in the salary department. And they all lived comfortably off his hypotheses and his hard work.

  When he stopped in front of his apartment in the secure complex off the cul-de-sac, Kasper felt sick. For so long he had been avoiding the antipathy inside him in the name of his research, but tonight’s re-acquaintance with Tuft reinforced the hostility all over again. It was such an unpleasant topic to stain his mind with, but it refused to be repressed all the time.

  Up the stairs he skipped, to the landing of granite slabs that led to the front door of his detached apartment. The main house lights were on, but he always moved quietly as not to disturb the landlord. Compared to his colleagues, Kasper Jacobs led an astonishingly reclusive and modest life. Save for those who stole his work and profited, his less intrusive associates made quite a decent living as well. By average standards, Dr. Jacobs was comfortable, but by no means wealthy.

  The door creaked open, and the smell of cinnamon wafted into his nostrils, stopping him in his tracks in the dark. Kasper smiled and switched on the light, affirming the secret delivery by his landlord’s mother.

  “Karen, you spoil me rotten,” he said to the empty kitchen as he went straight for the baking tray full of raisin buns. Briskly he scooped up two of the soft breads and stuffed them into his mouth as fast as he could chew. He sat down at the computer and logged in, swallowing clumps of delicious raisin bread.

  Kasper checked his e-mails, after which he proceeded to check the latest news on Nerd Porn, the underground science website he was a member of. Suddenly, Kasper felt better after the shitty evening as he saw the familiar logo, utilizing symbols from chemical equations to produce the lettering of the website name.

  Something caught his eye under the ‘Latest’ tab. He leaned forward to make sure that he was reading correctly. “You goddamn moron,” he whispered at the picture of David Purdue with the thread subject line:

  ‘Dave Purdue found the Dire Serpent!’

  “You fucking idiot,” Kasper gasped. “If he puts this equation into practice, we are all fucked.”

  7

  The Day After

  When Sam woke up, he wished he never possessed a brain. Accustomed to hangovers, he knew the consequences of his birthday bash, but this was a special kind of hell smoldering inside his skull. He stumbled into the hallway, every footfall pounding against the inside of his eye sockets.

  “Oh, God, just kill me,” he mumbled as he painfully wiped his eyes, dressed in only his bathrobe. Under the soles of his feet, the floor felt like an ice hockey rink, while the cold swiftness of the wind under his door warned of another chilly day on the other side. The television was still on, but Nina was absent and his cat, Bruichladdich, elected to choose this inconvenient moment to begin whining for food.

  “Bruich, my head,” Sam complained, holding his brow. He sauntered into the kitchen for some heavy black coffee and two Anadins, as was the rule of thumb during his hardcore newspaper days. The fact that it was weekend made no difference to Sam. Whether with his job as investigative journalist, his stint as author or going on excursions with Dave Purdue, Sam never had a weekend, a holiday or a day. Every day was the same as the previous to him, and he counted his days by deadlines and engagements in his diary.

  After satisfying the large ginger feline with a tin of fishy mush, Sam tried not to gag. The awful smell of dead fish was not the best odor to suffer, considering his condition. He promptly alleviated the misery with hot coffee in the living room. Nina had left a note:

  Hope you have mouthwash and a strong stomach. I DVR’d you something interesting about a ghost train on Global News this morning.
Too good to miss. Got to head back to Oban for the lecture at the college. Hope you survive the Irish Flu this morning. Godspeed!

  - Nina

  “Ha-ha, very funny,” he groaned, popping the Anadins with a mouthful of coffee. Satisfied, Bruich appeared form the kitchen. He took his place on the free chair and started happily cleaning himself. Sam resented his cat’s casual happiness, not to mention the complete absence of discomfort Bruich enjoyed. “Oh, sod off,” Sam said.

  He was curious about Nina’s news recording, but he did not think that her warning of a strong stomach was welcome. Not with this hangover. In a quick tug-of-war, his curiosity beat his sickness and he turned on the recorded piece she had referred to. Outside, the wind brought more rain, so Sam had to turn up the volume of the television.

  On the excerpt, a journalist reported on the mysterious deaths of two youths in the town of Maladzyechna, near Minsk, in Belarus. The woman, dressed in a thick overcoat, stood on a decrepit platform of what looked like an old train station. She warned audiences on graphic scenes before the camera switched to the smeared remains on the rusted old tracks.

  “What the fuck?” Sam mouthed as he frowned, trying to make sense of the incident.

  “The young men were apparently crossing the railroad tracks here,” the reporter pointed to the plastic covered red mess just below the platform edge. “According to the statement of the only surviving party, whose identity is still being withheld by the authorities, his two friends were run over…by a ghost train.”

  “I would think so,” Sam mumbled, reaching for a bag of crisps Nina had neglected to finish. He did not believe in superstitions and ghosts much, but what initiated his acceptance of the turn of phrase, was that the tracks were clearly dysfunctional. Looking past the obvious gore and tragedy, as he was trained to do, Sam noticed that sections of the track was missing. Other shots of the camera showed the severe corrosion of the rails, which would make it impossible for any train to run along them.

  Sam paused the frame to scrutinize the background. Other than the heavy growth of foliage and shrubs on the rails, there were signs of combustion on the surface of the drop wall that flanked the railroad. It looked fresh, but he could not be certain. Not too competent in science or physics, Sam had a gut feeling that the black singe mark was made by something that utilized intense heat to produce the kind of force that could reduce two people to pulp.

  Sam replayed the report several times, examining every possibility. It wracked his brain to such an extent that he forgot about the terrible migraine the alcohol gods had blessed him with. In fact, he was used to getting immense headaches while working on puzzling crimes and similar mysteries, so he chose to believe that his hangover was merely the product of a hard working brain trying to unravel the circumstances and causes of this fascinating incident.

  “Purdue, I hope you are up and healing on, my friend,” Sam smiled as he zoomed in on the stain that charred half the wall in matt black residue. “Because I have a doozy for you, pal.”

  Purdue would be the perfect person to ask about something like this, but Sam had vowed not to bother the genius billionaire until the man had recovered fully from his surgeries and felt ready to socialize again. On the other hand, Sam thought it fit to pay Purdue a visit to see how he was doing. He had been in the Intensive Care Unit in Wellington and two other medical facilities since arriving back in Scotland two weeks later.

  It was time Sam went to say hello, even just to cheer Purdue up. For such an active man to suddenly be bedridden for this long had to be depressing to an extent. Purdue was the most active mind and body Sam had ever encountered and he could not imagine the billionaire’s frustration, having to spend every passing day in hospitals, taking orders and being confined.

  Sam contacted Jane, Purdue’s personal assistant, to obtain the address of the private clinic where he was staying. Hurriedly, he jotted the directions down on the white page edge of the Edinburgh Post he had just purchased before his journey, and thanked her for the help. Sam dodged the spray of rain that permeated through his car window, and only then, did he begin to wonder how Nina traveled home.

  A quick call would suffice, Sam thought, and rang Nina. The ring repeated incessantly without answer, so he tried a text, hoping that she would respond as soon as she switched on her phone. While gulping down some roadside diner coffee in a take-away cup, Sam noticed something peculiar on the front page of the Post. It was not the headline, but stuck in the bottom corner with smaller heading lettering, just enough to make front page without being too imposing.

  ‘A World Summit in Undisclosed Location?’

  The article did not furnish much detail, but it did pose the question as to the sudden arrangement of the Municipal Councils of Scotland and their representatives to attend a meeting at an undisclosed venue. To Sam it did not look like a big deal, apart from the fact that Oban’s new mayor, Hon. Lance McFadden, was also named as representative.

  “Punching a bit above your weight there, Mc Fadden?” Sam teased under his breath, while finishing the last of the cooled beverage. “You should be that important. You wish,” he scoffed as he tossed aside the newspaper.

  He knew Mc Fadden from his relentless campaign in the past few months. According to most people in Oban, Mc Fadden was a fascist cloaked as a liberal-minded, modern governor – a ‘people’s mayor’ type, if you will. Nina called him a bully and Purdue knew him from a joint venture in Washington DC, sometime back in 1996, when they collaborated on a failed experiment in intra-dimensional conversion and fundamental particle acceleration theories. Neither Purdue, nor Nina, ever expected the arrogant bastard to win the mayoral election, but in the end, everyone knew it was because he had more money than his opposing candidate.

  Nina did mention that she wondered where that large sum came from, since Mc Fadden had never been a wealthy man. Why, he even approached Purdue himself some time before for financial assistance, but of course Purdue had turned him down. He had to have found some dumb fool who could not see through him to back his campaign, otherwise he would never have wiggled into the nicely uneventful and obscure town.

  At the end of the last sentence, Sam noticed that the piece was written by Aidan Glaston, senior journalist at the political desk.

  “No way, you old dog,” Sam chuckled. “Are you still reporting on all that shite after all these years, mate?” Sam remembered working on two expose’s with Aidan a few years before that fateful first expedition with Purdue which turned him from newspaper journalism. He was surprised that the fifty-something journalist had not retired to something more dignified yet, perhaps political advisor on a panel show for telly or something.

  A text came through on Sam’s phone.

  “Nina!” he exclaimed, and grabbed his old Nokia to read her message. His eyes studied the name on the screen. “Not Nina.”

  It was a text from Purdue, as a matter of fact, and it implored Sam to bring the footage of the Lost City expedition to Wrichtishousis, Purdue’s historical residence. Sam scowled at the odd message. How could Purdue ask him to meet at Wrichtishousis if he was still in hospital? After all, did Sam not check less than an hour before with Jane to get the address of the Salisbury Private Care clinic?

  He elected to call Purdue to make sure that he was indeed in possession of his cell phone and that he did make the summons. Purdue answered almost immediately.

  “Sam, did you get my message?” he started the conversation.

  “Aye, but I thought you are in hospital,” Sam explained.

  “I am,” Purdue replied, “but I am being discharged this afternoon. So, can you do that thing I asked?”

  Assuming that there was someone in the room with Purdue, Sam agreed readily to that thing Purdue asked him for. “Let me just get back home and collect it and I will meet you at your house later this evening, alright?”

  “Perfect,” Purdue answered, and unceremoniously hanged up the phone. Sam took a moment to process the abrupt disconnection before
starting his car to return home for the footage of the expedition. He recalled Purdue asking him to photograph, specifically, the massive drawing upon the great wall under the Nazi scientist’s house at Nekenhalle, a sinister piece of land in New Zealand.

  It was known as the Dire Serpent, they learned, but as to its precise significance Purdue, Sam and Nina did not really have a clue. As far as Purdue was concerned, it was a powerful equation, of what, there was no explanation…yet.

  This was what kept him from taking the time in hospital to heal on and to get rest – he was, in effect, being haunted day and night, by the secret origin of the Dire Serpent. He needed Sam to obtain the detailed image so that he could copy it onto a software program and analyze the nature of its mathematical evil.

  Sam took his time. He still had a few hours before afternoon, so he decided to get some Chinese take-away and a beer for while he waited at home. It would give him time to check the footage and see if there was anything specific Purdue might find intriguing. As Sam pulled his car into the drive, he noticed that someone was darkening his doorstep. Reluctant to act distinctly Scottish and simply confront the stranger, he switched off the engine and waited to see what the questionable character wanted.

  The man fiddled with the doorknob at first, but then he turned and looked straight at Sam.

  “Jesus Christ!” Sam howled in his car. “It is the fucking virgin!”

  8

  The Face Under the Fedora

  Sam’s hand dropped to his side, where he concealed his Beretta. At once, the stranger started shouting madly again, briskly rushing down the stairs toward Sam’s car. Sam started his car and threw the gear into reverse before the man could make it to him. His tires licked heated black marks on the paving as he accelerated backwards, out of reach of the madman with the broken nose.