Order of the Black Sun Box Set 8

by Preston William Child

  “I am doing well, thanks,” Kingsley said hastily, clearly eager to get her back inside so that he could tell her something. He gently shoved Nina backwards over the threshold, and remarked on the foul weather to support his action. Still holding onto her, she could hear him say, “You still have the hula hoop?”

  Nina held her breath. She recalled the phrase from Norman’s early teenage years, when the two of them would keep each other’s secrets from their parents and used silly phrases to communicate. His question came as a sudden memory from the deep caverns of a long lost previous life, but she knew at once what the code meant.

  Play along.

  “Aye, I do,” she replied, confirming that she got the signal. Terry stepped inside and closed the door, still not having seen their hostess, what with her petite body enfolded in Kingsley’s. They chuckled. Kingsley added, “So, Dr. Gould, I promise we will not be keeping you long. I know your husband is due home soon.”

  ‘Oh Christ, the charade actually has layers? He is in some deep shite, I bet,’ she thought to herself.

  “Let me introduce my associate, helping me with the research on my latest role,” Kingsley told Nina.

  ‘Oh, man, there is more bullshit under all this. I just wish I knew how far this well reaches before I drown in it,’ Nina’s mind raced.

  “This is Terry Jones, from the theater company I am working with,” Kingsley lied his ass off. It was then that Terry first saw Nina, reaching out her hand reluctantly, pushed by propriety to shake hands.

  “Good to meet you, Mr. Jones,” she fibbed, but found that his rough, big hand was remarkably tender in its grip of hers. At first, he said nothing, but upon Kingsley’s encouraging throat clearance, Terry spoke his mind and uttered two words only.

  “Holy shit.”

  9

  The Reluctant Guide

  Kingsley was nervous. Nina was surprised. Terry was in love.

  The thug’s dark blues could not stop staring at the tough little historian with the face of a porcelain doll with an attitude. He had always been a fan of the blond female variety, but this dark-haired beauty knocked the wind right out of him. She was dressed in denims and a loose sweater, mismatched socks on her feet.

  “S-so, so, tell me, Dr. Gould,” Terry plunged headlong into awkwardness. “How was the Urals?”

  Kingsley’s eyes flashed wildly at the question, unsure if Nina would inadvertently betray him for his initial lie. He soon remembered that his stepsister was marvelously sharp. Shrugging nonchalantly, she answered, “Cold, as always. My second trip there. So glad it is over. Tea or coffee, gentlemen?”

  Nina’s eyes met Kingsley’s briefly as if she wished to reiterate that she could beat him at acting convincingly. It made him smile. “I will have some chamomile, if you have?”

  “Aye, I do. Mr. Jones?” Nina enquired smoothly.

  The scatterbrained thug smiled too, seeking an appropriate beverage to appease his hostess with. Little did he know that Nina Gould was not easy to impress, especially not with a choice of drink. “Coffee,” he hesitated, testing her expression for a response, but she gave him no indication whether she was pleased or not. “Please,” he completed the request hopelessly.

  “One tea, one coffee. You mind if I have a single malt?” she asked the men, deliberately.

  Nina found herself deeply amused by the big guy’s sigh of defeat. ‘That will teach you to be yourself, you ass.’

  On her small antique dining table, Terry saw used plane ticket receipts and some rental contracts from an estate agent in Guernsey. They were documents that Nina’s friend, David Purdue, asked her to finalize and sign witness for.

  “You went to Guernsey? Channel Islands?” Terry asked Nina. “Oh, I am not prying. Just saw the name here…”

  Kingsley looked completely befuddled. He had no idea the thug knew anything more than whorehouses and bookies, let alone geography. Nina answered, “Oh no, no intrusion. That is from the last excursion I was on, before my,” she peeked around the corner, staring hard at her stepbrother, “recent trip to the Urals.”

  Kingsley held in a chuckle, and composed himself enough to act as if he did not know her well. “And this excursion in Guernsey was for old scrolls or something?” he asked.

  She emerged from the kitchen with a tray and set it down on the coffee table in the main living room. Sinking back in her favorite chair, she savored the odor of the whiskey in her glass to torment the large stranger. “No, it was just a small expedition where we managed to find Excalibur. No big deal.”

  Her two guests sat in astounded silence, cups in hand, looking stupid. Nina had great fun. The first company she had had since Sam left, brought her far more amusement than she could have dreamed and she truly enjoyed playing with them. So much so, that she had forgotten that they were visiting for some reason they had not yet disclosed.

  “Excalibur,” Kingsley repeated plainly.

  “Aye,” she affirmed confidently, sipping at her drink. Still they sat motionless before looking at one another. Neither knew whether to laugh or feed their curiosity at first, but then Kingsley laughed, “Get the fuck out!” Terry, on the other hand, remained intrigued. If this were true in any form, this woman was indeed the right person to help them find the Grail. The pretty brunette just smiled, revealing nothing to set them at ease. Terry shifted to the front of his seat with a deadly serious expression. Carefully, gently, he proceeded to ask her to elucidate.

  “You mean, the Excalibur?” he marveled in a soft tone that was quite the contrary to the man poor Kingsley had had to tolerate for the last two weeks. “The mythical sword of King Arthur…it exists? Please, be honest, Dr. Gould.”

  Her dark eyes glimmered with mystery as she revealed, “Aye, Mr. Jones. It exists as true as you and I.”

  “Where is it, then?” Kingsley hastened like a child, forgetting what he had come to see her for.

  Nina laughed. “It is in a safe place, on display in a friend’s mansion, Norman. Pipe down, kiddo. I am not divulging more, so let it go.”

  Terry was ecstatic. He trusted her, against his own nature, not only because he was taken with her beauty. Something about the historian was genuine, like the men of the Perceval Chapter were. Thinking about them suddenly recalled the purpose of his visit.

  “Oh Jesus, I forgot,” Terry said aloud. He looked at Kingsley and motioned with his head. Kingsley did not get the message at first, returning the gesture with a frown. Again, Terry nudged him with the same jerk of the neck, and that was when Kingsley snapped what he was trying to say. “Oh, uh, yes, Dr. Gould,” he said quickly, “we were hoping you could direct us to the nearest representative of the Templar Knights around here. You know, for us to speak to someone who knows the modern associations of it…for the script, you see?”

  Nina was no longer amused. What were they up to? This was like asking to have audience with the Queen. Such a thing was only requested when something big was going down, and to ask about the Templars was a dead giveaway that something large scale and secret was ensuing. Of course, being a woman of intellectual fortitude, Nina used the stereotype and decided to play the dumb girl.

  “Oh, aye, the role you are researching, right?” she asked nonchalantly.

  “Right,” both men answered in unison. Their faces were beset with keen anticipation as they awaited her next reply.

  “What exactly do you need to ask this representative of the Templars, then?” she asked.

  “That is our business,” Terry said unintentionally. It was a natural response from a hoodlum such as him, and he regretted it immediately. Not only did he not want to piss off the pretty woman he crushed on, but he needed to follow Kingsley’s instruction and not rock the boat. This was a very delicate operation and his natural behavior would destroy all possibility of Nina’s cooperation, thus he swiftly corrected his error. “But we would really appreciate your help with this.”

  Nina was done being dumb and nice. Like Terry, her innate behavior pressed forwa
rd, but unlike him, she applied no reins to it. “Listen up, the secrets of the Templars and their charges are not privy to outsiders, lads. I will have to decline your request.”

  Terry rose to his feet, his shadow falling over the small woman in the chair like a bad day coming. Kingsley knew there was about to be trouble. He held his breath, but when Terry pulled out his gun, he pinched his eyes shut in fear.

  “Dr. Gould, I do not accept your rejections,” he said quite calmly. “I demand to speak directly to the custodian of the Templar archives. Do not let me hurt you, because I will. What is at stake here is much more important than a pretty corpse.”

  He stepped closer to Nina, aiming the barrel at her forehead. “Now, I am looking for the man in charge.”

  Nina got up from her chair, staring him straight in the eye. With a defiant sneer she replied, “You found her.”

  “Oh God,” Kingsley said under his breath. It was as much of a surprise to him as anyone, having been completely unaware that his stepsister was actually involved in such a male-dominated organization. He used her name on that fateful night with Mr. Keating solely because she was a historian, a random name that carried some relevant credibility, but not intending to insinuate her concrete involvement.

  “What?” Terry scowled. “He believed the Excalibur thing, but he was not going to believe this. “The Templars would never let a woman into their ranks, sweetheart. Don’t try to bullshit me.”

  “Alright,” Nina shrugged. “Then I cannot help you.”

  “Nina, please,” Kingsley implored. “He will fucking shoot you.”

  She looked resolute, terrified as she was. “Listen, Norman, if he shoots me he will never know anyway! Think about it.” Her dark eyes darted to Terry. “Think about it, genius,” she hissed. “You think I am lying. Well, a liar or a corpse – does not matter now, does it? Either way, you will be left with no information whatsoever. You will just have racked up a travel bill and a day wasted from whatever the hell you do on a daily basis.”

  “She has a point, Terry,” Kingsley said.

  “Shut up!” Terry yelled at him. “Let me think!”

  Nina tried to defuse the situation by acting perfectly normal, considering the circumstances. She sat down again, taking up her whiskey while working hard at not shaking visibly. If she could maintain the status quo, and given Terry was not the Neanderthal he shared his features with, she could persuade him not to kill her.

  “Can you prove it?” was the resounding virtuosity he came up with.

  She cocked her head to one side and tried really hard not to be condescending while a gun was pointed at her. “Prove it? The Templars and their brotherhood clans all over the world are existing out of fact, Mr. Jones,” she explained in a desperately even tone. “Even if I was telling the truth, and by some absurd turn of events I was in fact deemed suitable for membership, I would obviously not prove it upon enquiry. Would you betray the existence and inner workings of your secret society?”

  Terry hesitated. He considered her reasons while wondering how she knew that he belonged to a secret sect. Still, he could not allow her cogent argument overpower his task.

  “I suppose that is a no, then,” he finally said.

  “I am afraid so, Mr. Jones,” she replied, waiting for the muzzle flare. Kingsley expected the same, but he kept his eye on Nina in some masochistic venture of self-torture. He had done this to her. Because of him, his mother’s daughter was going to die and he was going to watch. It would only be fair that he be haunted for the rest of his life, no matter how short that might be, with the image of Nina’s head cleaved open by Terry’s bullets. For a moment he considered distracting Terry, even attempting to subdue him, but Kingsley was not a fighter, much as he regretted the flaw.

  Against their expectation, Terry dug into his pocket and brought out his cell phone. With his gun still pointing in Nina’s direction, he made a phone call. In silence, Kingsley and Nina waited to hear what he was playing at.

  “Oi, Martin,” Terry exclaimed when the call was answered. “Kingsley’s contact refused. Persuade her, alright?”

  A deep frown slowly formed on Nina’s brow. She looked at her stepbrother, but he only shrugged in return. Terry waited for this Martin character to finish his sentence, his dark blue eyes leering cruelly at both Nina and Kingsley. Something about his expression made Nina extremely uneasy, much like those times she had found herself in the company of the Black Sun. Rightly so, as the emblem tattooed on Terry’s wrist was the Irish division of the Meisters, associates of the Order of the Black Sun. This was how she knew about his membership of a secret society. He finished the call with a casual command. “Let me know when you have alerted Interpol.”

  “What was that about?” Nina asked. “Threatening me with persuasion will not get you closer to what you want.”

  “No threats, sweetheart, just a little encouragement to help you help us,” he replied, letting down the hammer of his gun and holstering it. “Give me your phone.”

  By now, Kingsley was practically crying in terror. He sat quietly, his feet pulled up on the couch and his eyes were wide as saucers. His body language revealed to Nina that the company her stepbrother was in, was not idle in persuasion. For now, she would just have to play it by ear.

  10

  Meeting the Mourning Mother

  Lisbon was bustling, but Sam really enjoyed the reserved nature of the people. He was immensely curious about the fascinating buildings of historical splendor, but he was not here to play tourist. Former Inspector Carroll had sent him on a very important errand, one that could save the lives of children, if he managed to unearth any facts behind Peter Carroll’s theories. Right now, though, Sam had no idea what to look for, exactly, other than to start at the obvious place to investigate a killer – the latest crime scene.

  Humberto Delgado Airport was not as busy as he thought it would be, being closing in on Christmas season and all. The white steel construction of the place reminded him of a space station as he walked along the large Arrivals hall on his way out. With him, Sam had only his laptop bag, his leather satchel with his camera equipment and a black tog bag with a few days’ clothes. He made a point of dressing like the average tourist as not to arouse suspicion that could betray his mission to investigate the finer details of the case of murdered boy, Mario Cruz.

  Sam rented a vehicle for the hour and a half drive to Peniche, picked up some Portuguese takeaways to take in the culinary culture of junk food.

  “All in the name of research,” he told himself as he opened the bag of spicy chicken he had purchased at a local restaurant in passing. “When in Lisbon…” He took a bite of the chicken and moaned out loud. His reaction got the momentary attention of a few teenage girls sitting at the bus stop nearby. Sam tried to eat less like an animal once he noticed them giggling. All he could think of was to give them a wink and walk off to where his rental was waiting. One of the girls shouted something at him, evoking a roar of laughter from her friends.

  Sam had no idea what she was saying, but he hoped it was not too degrading. He was certainly not about to ask her what she said, given that he did not want them to know that he was not Portuguese. After all, the Scottish journalist had the same dark rugged looks of the average Mediterranean man and was constantly confused for being Spanish or Greek, so why not Portuguese?

  With the help of his GPS system, the one Purdue produced and customized for him, Sam was soon on his way under the cool sun on the A8 heading northwest to the opposite coast. A good deal later, on passing Torres Vedras, Sam began to have the most horrific daydreams pertaining to the child who was murdered. He could not help, as he was approaching his destination, but imagine the terror of the poor little boy at that very moment when he realized that he was about to die. Being inquisitive by nature and vocation, Sam could not help but wonder how a child of such innocence and undeveloped life skills would perceive the reality of imminent death.

  “Stop it!” Sam yelled in the monot
onous hum of the car. His fingers reached for the knob on the radio. Perhaps listening to the unintelligible blabber of radio DJ’s would keep his mind of the grotesque things he was bound to find in Peniche. Stretching his arm across his passenger seat, Sam grabbed hold of his disposable coffee cup and shook it gently. Nothing. It was no solace to drive past a winery on his right and having no time to pull over and engage in another sort of investigation.

  The music was not too bad, he had to admit, but Sam could not shake the impending sickness he felt in his gut. Try as he may, he could not shake it – a subliminal warning of some sort. Maybe it was the subject he was sent to deal with. Sam Cleave was a hardened investigative journalist. He had taken on cartels single-handedly. He had faced certain death on three continents and lived to tell. He had, he had, he had. Now, he was introduced to another kind of atrocity he had always been privileged enough to avoid and he had no idea how to pry into this case.

  Peter Carroll’s dossier contained privileged medical files with hideous post mortem pictures of the recent four victims. Usually, such images were par for the course to Sam, but these scratched at a part of his humanity he had never known existed. It was different when the slain were so young. Somewhere inside him, it provoked a sadness that married with rage and helplessness. ‘How could people not be horrified with slitting the throats of children?’ he wondered while a visible wince tortured his handsome face. ‘How do you get your muscles to even move that way?’