The Black Sun Conspiracy (Order of the Black Sun Book 6)

by P. W. Child

  “Sounds serious,” he said. “Let go for a second. Here. If it’s going to be serious, we’ll probably need these.” He pulled out his remaining cigarettes and lighter. “It’s not like we’re going to have to worry about setting the smoke alarms off, not with the window gaping open like that.”

  Gratefully Nina accepted a cigarette, then curled up at one end of the bed and tucked her feet under her. Sam sat opposite, shoving her pillow against the brass rails behind his back. There was something oddly comforting about these moments, he found. From the depths of an Antarctic bunker to the moonlit riverbank at the far end of the Grand Canyon, from sticky-floored pubs in Edinburgh to this strange Belgian prison, the one thing that stayed constant was Nina, and the feeling of being in this together – even when they had not known exactly what “this” was.

  “Professor Lehmann came to see me,” said Nina, searching for a way to begin. “He told me… well, he told me a lot. Things about the Order in general and how he got involved with it when he was young, and how he hoped that when he moved to England he would be able to keep a low profile and avoid being an active member. Unfortunately for him – unfortunately for all of us – he has Steven for a son. As Steven grew up, some of Lehmann’s old contacts from the Black Sun began offering him jobs. Eventually they invited him to join the Order, and when Professor Lehmann suggested that it would be a bad move, Steven decided to go for it. That’s always been the way with him. He’s got this massive inferiority complex where his father’s concerned – thinks he’s out to keep Steven down and make sure he’s never as successful as his father was. It’s nothing of the kind, as far as I can tell. Just one of those unfortunate cases where a genius father manages to have a stupid son. Or rather, a son who’s just intelligent enough to recognize that he’s not in his father’s league, but not clever enough to figure out why.”

  She paused and took a deep drag on her cigarette. “Sorry. I’m rambling. The point is that Steven got involved because of his father’s contacts, who realized that he was fairly easy to manipulate and enough of a thug to be useful if you put him in the right position. He was also good friends with Charles Whitsun.”

  “You’ve mentioned that before,” said Sam. “Are you going to tell me that Steven was part of the arms ring? Because I’ve had my suspicions for a long time.”

  “He was,” she nodded, staring out at the dark sky. “I didn’t know that at the time, of course. When we were together. As far as I knew, he was a marketing manager for a global spirits retailer. He went abroad quite a lot, because part of his job was to go and convince people in the Middle East to buy vodka or gin or whatever it was that he was peddling. Apparently that was a front. He was really acting as a go-between for this arms ring. Not a very powerful position – and he was working closely with Charles Whitsun and always in his shadow. But it must have made Steven feel like he was hanging around with the big boys, and he always liked that.”

  “So did Professor Lehmann say that Charles Whitsun was actually running the ring?” Sam asked, his curiosity getting the better of the pain involved in dredging up the memories. “I thought he was in charge, but ever since Antarctica I’ve thought that his father was pulling his strings.”

  “That’s exactly what was happening. Charles had responsibility for one small part of it, moving weapons through that warehouse in East London with Steven as his bully boy, but Admiral Whitsun was the one responsible for the global operation. The only person he was answerable to was the head of the Order. Professor Lehmann didn’t go into much detail about who that was, but he referred to ‘Renatus’ rather than ‘Renata’ so we can assume it wasn’t the woman we’ve seen. From what he’s said, she hasn’t been in power very long. The point is that Admiral Whitsun was considered much too valuable to go down when the arms ring fell, so he sacrificed his own son instead.”

  Sam nodded pensively. He had supposed as much when he had speculated about Admiral Whitsun’s involvement. Charles Whitsun had never struck him as sufficiently charismatic or an effective enough leader to run such a dangerous operation. He had been far too indiscreet, too puffed up with pride and keen to use his status to impress a hot girl. People who ran black market arms deals successfully, Sam was sure, did not spill their secrets that easily.

  “Apparently Whitsun had hoped to avoid a trial and all the exposure that went with it,” Nina ploughed on. “His intention was that Charles would get caught in the cross-fire during the shoot-out that you were involved in. He even asked Steven to be the one who saw to it. I doubt he would have, because he was honestly devoted to Charles, but he got shot himself and didn’t have a chance to do it – or at least that’s what he told the Order when they found him hiding out afterwards. If they’d thought he had disobeyed a direct command they would probably have executed him. As it was, it took Professor Lehmann calling in a lot of favors to keep Steven safe. But he told me… he said that after you went to their house that time, he and Steven fought bitterly. Steven thought you’d gone there because his father was trying to set you on him and have him taken down the way Charles was. While they were arguing…” she broke off, searching for the right words. “While they were arguing, Steven said that Charles had known about Patricia’s real identity. He had known that she had been planning to write an expose to bring down him and the arms ring, and that’s why he’d invited her along that day. He had given Steven the task of… of shooting her. He killed her, Sam. Steven Lehmann was the one who murdered Patricia.”

  Sam was silent. The world around him seemed to have slowed to a stop. He searched for something to say. Nothing much, just a few words to acknowledge what Nina had said. He had nothing. He had always assumed that he would never know exactly who fired the bullet that robbed Trish of half her face. In the cross-fire, he had thought, it could have been anyone. Seeing the arms ring fall and Charles Whitsun brought to trial was all the vengeance or closure he was ever going to get.

  Now, to learn that her death had not been a matter of chance, and that the man who set out to kill her was right here under the same roof… It was bizarre. ‘I should be reacting differently,’ he thought. ‘I should be on my feet now, I should go after the bastard. I should be halfway down the stairs, ready to smash his head to pulp or die trying. So why am I not? Why am I just sitting here?’

  “Sam?” Nina had moved along to his end of the bed without him even noticing until she put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you ok? I thought I’d better tell you…”

  He gave his head a swift shake, trying to pull himself back to reality. “Yeah,” he said distantly. “Yeah, I’m fine… You were right to tell me. You had to.”

  She watched him intently. “There’s more to tell,” she said. “After the arms ring fell, and apparently just before Renata was appointed, there was some kind of schism within the Order. Professor Lehmann thinks it might have had something to do with her appointment. She was an odd choice, but her predecessor named her and that’s all it took. There was a faction within the Order that wanted to overrule it and appoint someone else, but it didn’t end well. The ones who didn’t support her formed a sort of splinter group, and now there’s a weird standoff going on between the Order of the Black Sun and this other organization. They’re based in one of the old arms ring strongholds on the border between Mongolia and Russia, but Professor Lehmann thinks they’re drawn from all the different branches of the Order and that no-one knows how deeply the splinter group has infiltrated.”

  Her words washed over Sam. He tried to follow what she was saying, but his mind was still full of Trish’s ravaged face and the thought of Steven Lehmann pulling the trigger. Slowly a few words began to sink in, but not quickly enough for Nina. She grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him a little.

  “Sam! I know it’s a lot to take in, but it’s important. Listen. If there is a splinter group, then these people are not all-powerful. It means we don’t have to give in to them. Someone out there is already fighting them. We can, too. There’s still a chance!
If we can find a way out of here, perhaps we can make contact with this group – I know where they are, Professor Lehmann told me. We still have a chance!”

  Like a man waking from a deep sleep, Sam felt himself piecing things together. The sense of being lost was beginning to clear. If the Order of the Black Sun was responsible for Trish’s death, then he would not join it to save his own life. Not under any circumstances. If he knew the identity of Trish’s killer, he would make sure that man paid. And if there was a chance, however slim, that he could fight against the Order, then that was what he was going to do. He had played his part in the fall of the arms ring, and in the collapse of FireStorm. He was involved in the biker brawl in Valhalla that silenced the most powerful threat to the human race and her iniquitous plans. He had done all of those things when his only fights had been against injustice and threats against the people he loved.

  “Let’s fight them, then.” Sam’s voice was a resolute growl. “Let’s fight them every step of the way.”

  Then somehow, Sam did not quite know how, Nina was in his lap and his arms were around her and his lips were on hers, her hands were on his skin and all sense of everything beyond the rush of sensation was lost.

  Chapter Fi fty

  The vivid colors of Jan van Eyck’s painting stood out clearly and beautifully against the plain white walls. It took pride of place in Renata’s strange gallery, completing her collection. Purdue eyed it up indifferently.

  “This is what all the fuss was about,” he observed. “This is what you were willing to risk lives for.”

  Renata pushed a cold glass into his hand. The smell of potent slivovitz assailed his nostrils. “Don’t insult my intelligence,” she said. “You knew very well what all the fuss, as you put it, was about. The paintings were just a convenient focus. The object of the exercise was power. Gaining it, demonstrating it, keeping it.”

  Purdue toyed with the glass, turning it around in his hand. “Then if I were to throw this drink over this delightful piece, it would not trouble you?”

  “I warned you not to insult me.” Renata’s mouth twisted into a scowl. “This kind of baiting is beneath you and besides - I know you would not do it. You have too much appreciation for the exquisite.” She pulled up a stool and sat down facing the painting, crossing one long leg over the other. “Sit,” she ordered, pointing her foot towards the other stool. Purdue obeyed mechanically. “Oh, stop moping, Dave. So your little girlfriend knocked you back. In case you hadn’t noticed, you are one of the world’s richest men. You’re powerful. You’re attractive. Move on. You won’t be alone forever. I’m sure the next woman you take a fancy to won’t be able to resist such a touching little speech.”

  “You promised me that you would not listen in.” Two deep pink patches began to form on Purdue’s pale cheeks. “You promised me a moment of privacy, Mirela.”

  She shrugged. “Well, I reneged.”

  Purdue checked the impulse to walk straight out of the room. He knew that it was pointless. The doors would be locked, and even if they were not there was nowhere to go. The dramatic gesture would only be undermined when he was forced to return and grovel to her later. He took a sip of the drink, letting the tang of alcohol spread out over his tongue. “This is why you will never make a good leader, Mirela. You have never learned to resist the temptation to be needlessly cruel. You must wield power judiciously, or expect to have it taken from you.”

  “Is that a threat?” The note of anger in her voice gave way to one of amusement.

  “Friendly advice, if such a thing is possible between us,” Purdue replied. “If you do not wish to lose your power, you must not use it arbitrarily. There has already been at least one attempt to take it from you that I know of. If you do want to prevent another, I believe the decision is still in your hands.”

  “I refuse to be dictated to,” Renata said. “The people who opposed me have been beaten back. Let them hide out in their cave and plot against me, why should I care? I am the one with the power. I have the whole Order behind me. Let them rise against me, and next time I shall crush them completely.”

  “It might have gone better for you if you had crushed them completely the first time round,” Purdue pointed out. “Letting a defeated enemy live is a risky strategy.”

  She looked at him. “Oh, and you would know? I seem to remember you being keen to avoid power when the opportunity came up. I learned everything I had to learn from you a long time ago, Purdue. Don’t presume that you can still teach me.”

  As she glared at him, Purdue caught a glimpse of the furious young woman she had been on the night when he had caught her attempting to rob his house. He had also been a lot younger then and new to wealth, yet to install a full security system or hire his first bodyguard. Indeed, it had been her successful break-in that had prompted him to design more than just a basic entry-detection system and place his first call to the agency that had kept him protected for so many years.

  He remembered how ferociously she had fought to escape him, sometimes running and hiding and hurling his possessions at him, sometimes getting close enough to engage in brief bouts of hand to hand combat. Feeling her knife swish past his cheek and hearing it bury itself in the wall behind him had been a great adrenaline rush. Eventually he had trapped her in a windowless box room and barricaded the door, then left her to scream and rage and hurl herself against the door until her energy was spent and she could easily be questioned. His defeated enemy had been allowed to live.

  His capricious imagination had been captured by this strange young woman, hissing at him like a cornered cat. She had entered his house in the hope of stealing a Mondrian painting – the first piece of original artwork that he had ever bought. He could not let her have it. Its sentimental value was simply too high. That painting was the symbol of finally having become a rich man. The day he bought it, he had promised himself that it marked the end of his career in art theft. Never again would he steal to order.

  However, while he had not been inclined to let the girl take the painting, he found himself admiring the tenacity she had showed in tracking it down, breaking into his house and not showing a second’s fear when caught. She had put up a valiant fight, and he wanted to reward her. Instead of turning her over to the police or inflicting any violent justice of his own upon her, he decided to tell her about his past. He explained his own background in art theft and offered to train her. He had taught her everything he knew about stealth, breaking and entering, valuing work, identifying fakes and creating them herself. What he had never been able to teach her was patience. The art of controlling her temper had always eluded her, and she would not learn.

  “You may not wish to be taught by me,” Purdue said in a carefully even tone, “but sooner or later someone will teach you the consequences of baiting conquered opponents. If you torment them but give them the chance to recover and come after you, sooner or later they will. If you do not wish to crush them, learn to play them. Win their loyalty. Don’t antagonize them further.”

  “No!” she snapped. “I will treat them as I please. They will learn to fear me again!”

  “But what if they do not, Mirela? What if they remember how narrowly you hung onto power? Or how suspicious the circumstances of your appointment were? You want to send Sam or Nina into their camp for the pleasure of knowing that they will be tortured for information they do not have. It appeals to your malice and your sense of drama. You think that your enemies will mistake their inability to speak for refusal, and that they will be reminded that you are surrounded by people who would rather die than give you away. But what if your plan goes wrong? What if Sam or Nina manages to explain their circumstances? You do not know them as I do. Sam is remarkably personable and easy to like, and there are plenty at Mönkh Saridag who would welcome the man who brought down Charles Whitsun with open arms. And as for Nina… Don’t you realize what a gift she would be to them? A woman who could lead them straight to my home and knows her way around there? Thes
e are pragmatic people, Mirela. They will forego the satisfaction of sending your spy back in pieces if it means they have the kind of privileged information they could obtain from my… from someone who was once my lover.”

  “And Steven Lehmann’s lover.” Renata threw her pointed words at Purdue like darts. “Yes, what a mine of information she could be. Perhaps an alternative solution might be needed.” Her face lit up with malevolent pleasure. “I know! I shall send one of them to Mönkh Saridag, but instead of finding an alternative mission for the other I shall keep them, and you, here as my hostages. In the event of my envoy failing to return with the Longinus… well, I am sure you can figure it out. Considering the way -”

  Her attention was suddenly caught by something on the flickering screen in the corner. She stared over Purdue’s shoulder at it, then threw back her head and laughed. “I think I have found the test of loyalty I require for you, if you are to remain one of us,” she said. “Look at the screen, and do not look away until I give you permission.”

  Purdue turned. The screen was set to display Nina’s room. Renata had not turned it off after watching him confess his love to Nina and be rejected. Now he saw Nina in the arms of Sam Cleave, her legs wrapped tightly around him and her head thrown back as he thrust into her. As he watched the way they kissed, he knew that she had never kissed him that way.

  Under Renata’s scrutiny he could not look away. He focused his attention on his breath, in, out, calm, regular. He kept every muscle in his face perfectly still. He made himself relax his hands. No matter what she knew, or thought she knew, all he would let her see was indifference. He would not give her the satisfaction of watching his soul burn.