by C W Hawes
Jones snapped his fingers in protest.
“What is it, Mr Jones?” Bardon asked.
“We’ve put in a lot of time on this case, and then without letting us shower or even grab a cup of coffee, you tell us we’re through and you’re putting us on another case right away.”
Mostyn didn’t let the smile show on his face, but it was there. Jones always reminded him of a Greek god. He had devastatingly good looks. Right now, though, he looked more like Mars, or Zeus about to throw a thunderbolt.
Bardon was nonplussed. “You do like your paychecks, do you not, Mr Jones?”
“I do, sir.”
“Good. Soon you’ll be earning another one,” Bardon said. “I needn’t remind you that our adversaries, the ones to whom we are nothing, the ones who want our planet for themselves, never sleep. Never take a day off.”
“No, sir, they don’t. We know that,” Mostyn said. “It is, though, as Jones said. We’ve put a lot of time in on this mission. It would be nice to see it through to the end. I was also hoping to spend some time with Helene.”
Dotty Kemper narrowed her eyes at the mention of Helene’s name.
“I understand, Mr Mostyn. However, this new mission is urgent. I need my best people on it.” Bardon’s tone was apologetic.
“Very well, sir. What do you have for us?” At this point, Mostyn knew there was no use arguing further. They’d been replaced.
Bardon assumed a stance as though he were lecturing at a university. “There are many avenues by which The Great Old Ones may be summoned or awakened. One such avenue consists of resorting to the formulae contained in ancient books of arcane lore, many of which were handwritten. Some of these ancient tomes we have copies of. Others are known to us only by name. And we must always be cognizant of the fact that there are probably others in existence of which we know nothing.”
Dotty Kemper raised her hand.
“Yes, Dr Kemper?”
“What is the basis on which these formulas work?”
“A good question,” Bardon said. “The simple answer is magic.”
Dotty snorted her disgust. Mostyn, who was sitting next to her, gently touched her arm. She responded by folding her arms across her chest.
“What’s the non-simple answer?” she asked.
Bardon smiled. “The non-simple answer is also simple, Dr Kemper. We don’t actually know. That brilliant seer of the future, Arthur C Clarke, wrote that any technology which is sufficiently advanced is indistinguishable from magic to those not so advanced.”
“Muskets to Native Americans,” Mostyn said.
“Precisely, Mr Mostyn,” Bardon replied. He took a bent bulldog and tobacco pouch out of his coat pocket, and began filling the pipe. Once the pipe was filled, he continued.
“So, Dr Kemper, one could say the formulae in these esoteric and eldritch tomes are science operating at a level which we have not yet attained, and therefore appear to us as magic.”
Dotty shook her head and muttered, “Science is not magic.”
“Perhaps not to you, Dr Kemper,” Bardon replied.
A guilty look crossed Kemper’s face. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
Bardon chuckled. “I have excellent hearing, in part due to magic. Or science, if you prefer.” He lit his pipe and went on. “Some of these ancient books are well-known. The Necronomicon, for example. Others, such as the Tarsoid Psalms and the Eltdown Shards, which are actually pottery fragments and not a book, are the domain of specialists.”
Jones called out, “What’s the point of all this, sir?”
Bardon puffed on his pipe before answering. “The point, Mr Jones, is this: I have learned that a previously unknown book has come to light and may be used to create, let us say, issues for the Western World.”
“And you want us to find the book,” Jones said.
“I do,” Bardon affirmed.
“That’s right up your alley, Stoppen,” Jones said.
“Which is why Dr Stoppen will be on this mission,” Bardon said, Stoppen being an assistant librarian in the OUP’s secret library.
“Do we know what this book looks like?” Kemper asked. “And why am I here if you want a book? I’m a forensic anthropologist.”
Bardon smiled. “I’ll answer your second question first. There is an interesting phenomenon associated with the book, at least we think it is associated with the book, in which your expertise may come in handy. As for what the book looks like, my sources tell me it is apparently a bound codex, with boards that are covered in black leather. The size of the book is approximately five by eight inches, and it is four inches thick. The title of the volume is Die Unaussprechlichen Riten von Dem dessen Name Nicht Genannt Werden Kann, which translates to The Unspeakable rites of the One Who Cannot be Named.”
Jones rubbed his hands together, and said, “Ooh, spooky.”
“Terrifying is more appropriate, Mr Jones,” Bardon replied. “We do not know what Die Unaussprechlichen Riten contains. My sources are unsure when the codex was written, or even who the author was. The best guess is that the volume dates from sometime in the thirteenth century, and may actually be a translation of a much older Latin manuscript.”
“When do we leave, Dr Bardon?” Mostyn asked.
“Tomorrow morning. The folder here,” Bardon pointed to the brown object on the table, “outlines your mission. The flash drive inside contains the mission details. Any questions?”
No one had any questions for the OUP director.
“Mr Mostyn, you’ll see Jeffries for any special equipment you might need. Good luck to you all.”
3
__________
◼︎
Mostyn looked out the window of the jet. Next to him, across the narrow isle was Dotty Kemper. In the seats facing him and Dotty were Willie Lee Baker, the mission’s photographer, and Dr Otto Stoppen. Baker and Stoppen were discussing F-stops.
The other team members were in the seats and on the sofa in the back of the jet. Jones and NicAskill were talking about weapons, while Winifred Petrie, a zoologist, and Harbin Hammerschmidt, a chemist, discussed gardening.
Dotty touched Mostyn’s arm. “Are you brooding?”
“No.”
“I don’t think you’ve said two words since we got into the air.”
“I’ve said at least two dozen.”
“Are you worried about Helene?”
“A little.”
“The doctor said she’ll be fine.”
“I know.”
“So what else is on your mind?”
“The book. This mission seems too simple.”
Dotty let out a throaty laugh. “If you believe anything Bardon gives us is simple, I have a movie studio in Hollywood I can sell you.”
Mostyn smiled. “I just might take you up on that offer. Do I get to star in my own movie?”
“Sure, Pierce.” She took his hand, brought it to her lips, and kissed it.
“Good thing we’ll be landing in twenty minutes,” Baker said.
“Shut up, Willie Lee,” Dotty shot back.
“Just letting you know so you can get the timing right.”
“Go back to your camera talk.”
Baker laughed, said, “Sure Dot”, and turned back to Dr Stoppen and their conversation.
Dotty turned to Mostyn. “There’ll be plenty of excitement before we even see this damn book Bardon wants. Mark my words.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Dot.”
The pilot’s voice sounded over the intercom, announcing they were making their final approach to the Los Angeles airport. After a moment his voice came back on. “And thank you for flying with OUP airlines, where your secrets are common knowledge to us and we don’t let you know a damn thing. And, as always, good luck.”
“See, Mostyn,” Dotty said, “even the pilot knows the score.”
***
A black unmarked van picked up the team and their luggage at the plane, and whisked them off to their hot
el. Herndon, the accounting wonk, as Mostyn referred to him, had booked everyone into double rooms.
In the lobby, as Mostyn was handing out room assignments, Baker noted, “Herndon’s on a money saving kick again.” To which Jones replied, “He’s always on a money saving kick. What else is new?”
Mostyn chuckled. “At least this time he remembered Dotty and I are together.”
“He had to,” Dotty replied. “It’s simple math. Four rooms or five rooms. Four if you and I are together, five if we’re not.”
“Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Baker said.
Jones slapped Baker on the back. “If they do that we’re going to be short two people for this mission.”
“What do you mean?” Baker protested. “I’m very faithful…” He and Jones went off to find their room, Baker’s protests to Jones’s insinuations slowly fading with distance.
Petrie shook her head, said, “Men”, and headed for the elevator. NicAskill, her roommate, shrugged, and followed.
Mostyn, Kemper, Hammerschmidt, and Stoppen picked up their luggage and made their way to the elevator.
“Do you know how we are going to locate the book?” Stoppen asked.
“Not really,” Mostyn replied. “There is an art exhibit tomorrow. Bardon wants us there. His sources are telling him that’s the place to begin. And if Dr Bardon says that’s where we start, then that’s where we start.”
“I don’t normally do field work,” Stoppen said. “I was just wondering.”
“Quite alright, Doctor,” Mostyn replied. “Sometimes we don’t even have that much to go on.”
There was a ding and the elevator door opened. The four got in and rode to their floor in silence.
Exiting the elevator, Hammerschmidt pointed to a sign. “Looks like our room is down this way. Goodnight, then.”
Mostyn bade him and Stoppen goodnight, after which, he and Dotty walked down a different corridor to their room.
“Looks like this is it,” he said, while swiping the pass card and pushing the door open.
Once inside, Dotty threw her arms around Mostyn and kissed him. “Do you love me, Pierce?”
“You know I do, Dot.”
“More than Helene?”
Mostyn held her tight, kissed her, and said, “That’s unfair, Dotty. Helene is different.”
Dottie pulled away and sat in a chair. “Bardon and his goddamn magic. Sometimes I really hate the guy.”
Mostyn kneeled next to her, and took her hands in his. “I love you, Dotty Kemper. You were first in my heart then, and you’re first in my heart now.”
“But is that you or Bardon talking?”
“I think my lips were moving. Weren’t they?”
“They were.”
“Maybe we should get some other things moving as well.”
She withdrew her hands from his, and placed them on his cheeks. “Never let me go, Pierce. I don’t care what Bardon does. Never let me go.”
“I won’t, Dot. I promise.”
She kissed him. “I’m holding you to that.” She stood. “Okay, Mostyn, let’s get some other things moving.”
Mostyn stood. “You’re on, Kemper.”
4
__________
◼︎
In the morning, the team met in one of the hotel’s conference rooms. Mostyn ordered in breakfast. Before they all got settled, Jones did a perfunctory sweep to make sure there were no bugs.
“Don’t want state secrets getting out,” he quipped.
The team engaged in small talk until the breakfast arrived. When the hotel staff departed, Mostyn began the working breakfast meeting.
“Tonight at eight, we’ll be going to the James Cortado art exhibit. Pay particular attention to the sculpture. Ask around and see what you can find out about it from the guests.”
“What are we looking for specifically?” Winifred Petrie asked.
“I think that will become apparent when you see the sculptures,” Mostyn replied.
“What do you want us to find out?” Harbin Hammerschmidt asked.
“Whatever you can,” Mostyn said. “No matter how outlandish or insignificant it seems.”
“I still don’t understand what all of this has to do with the book,” Otto Stoppen said, his face clearly displaying his puzzlement.
“I don’t either, Dr Stoppen,” Mostyn replied. “However, Dr Bardon thinks there is something of value we’ll learn at this exhibit that will aid our search.”
Stoppen held up his hand. “And if Dr Bardon says it is so, it is so.”
Mostyn smiled. “That’s right.”
“Is this a formal occasion?” Petrie asked. “Because if it is, I didn’t bring anything formal to wear.”
“Yes, it’s formal,” Mostyn replied. “After lunch a team of OUP people will bring the formal attire and get us fitted if we need it.”
“I hope they bring us women different dresses,” NicAskill said.
“I think you ladies will have a selection to choose from, all based on information from your personnel files,” Mostyn said.
“Really?” NicAskill’s face took on a look of genuine surprise.
“You’d be amazed at what is in your file,” Baker replied.
“Then, again,” Jones said, “you probably don’t actually want to know.”
“Wow,” was all NicAskill managed to say.
“If you live long enough, you’ll get used to no longer having a private life,” Kemper said.
“You aren’t helping things,” NicAskill replied.
Dotty shrugged. “It’s the truth.”
Mostyn held up his hand. “Back on topic, folks. You can do what you want for the rest of the morning. Just be back here in this room by one. Because if your clothes need some tailoring we want maximum time for the tailors to make the alterations. Any questions?”
There were none, and Mostyn continued, “Enjoy your breakfast.”
After everyone had eaten and departed, Mostyn asked Kemper if she wanted to see the La Brea tar pits.
“How romantic, Mostyn. Why the hell do you want to go there?”
“Always wanted to. Ever since I was a kid.”
“Never took you for a dinosaur lover.”
“Giant mammals, Kemper. Woolly mammoths and such.”
“Details, details.”
He pulled her to him and kissed her.
Kemper, longing in her eyes, said, “Are we going to do this or see old bones?”
“See old bones. Let’s go.”
Kemper laughed. “Petrie was right.”
“How’s that?”
“Men.”
***
The gallery was located at the corner of Beverly Blvd and Fuller Ave. Mostyn arranged for two limousines to take the team to the gallery. They were posing as wealthy investors and modern art collectors from New York, and, according to Mostyn, had to look the part.
The men were wearing standard black tuxedoes. The dresses the women were wearing, while similar floor length evening wear, were different enough so they couldn’t be accused of wearing the same thing.
Dotty’s dress was a dark wine red sleeveless satin number that had a scoop to the middle of her back. NicAskill’s was a purple A-Line with a sequined halter top. And Dr Petrie’s was black, with lace running along the neckline and making up the cap sleeves.
The team arrived at eight-thirty. The champagne was flowing freely and each team member took a glass. However, Mostyn had warned them there was to be minimal drinking. They were, after all, on duty.
They spread out and began looking at art and making small talk. Mostyn and Kemper made their way to a wall on which hung two rather large paintings.
She whispered to him, “These have to be the ugliest things I’ve seen in, I don’t know, maybe forever?”
Mostyn whispered back, “I’ve seen worse.”
“God.”
An obviously overweight man, who wore his tuxedo badly, stood next to Kemper. The man took
a drink from his champagne flute. “The angst. So palpable. It resonates in the soul. Don’t you think?”
Dotty looked at him. “It’s palpable, alright. As palpable as a morning shit.”
A look of indignation appeared on the man’s face. “Dear me,” he said, and walked away rather briskly.
“We’re play acting here, Dotty. Please remember that.”
“Look, Mostyn—”
Kemper was interrupted by the approach of a tall and slender man. He was dressed in black slacks, a black turtleneck, black shoes and socks, and had longish black hair that he wore combed straight back from his high forehead.
“If you like the paintings, I’ll knock off ten percent for the pair.” He smiled, showing his brilliant white teeth.
“You’re the artist?” Mostyn asked.
The man took a slight bow. “James Cortado at your service.”
“The paintings are very interesting, but my wife was actually more interested in seeing the sculpture.”
Kemper smiled at Cortado. “We have a corner that I think just the right sculpture would be perfect in.”
“Of course. The sculptures are very unique. As one of a kind, as, say, one person is different from another. Follow me.”
Cortado led them to a part of the gallery that was partitioned off from the main room with curtains and movable wall partitions.
“The sculptures are here.”
“Why do you have them hidden?” Kemper asked.
“They are only for special investors.” He paused, and then continued, “I should let you know they are very expensive.” He pulled aside the curtain, and motioned with his hand for Mostyn and Kemper to enter.
Kemper looked at Mostyn, who walked into the area containing the sculptures. Kemper followed, and then Cortado walked in.
One look, and Kemper exclaimed, “Oh, my God, they look real!”
Cortado took a small bow. “Thank you.”
She looked at a bat, circled around it, and said, “This is amazing.”