by P. W. Child
After a cup of tea and another steeping on the counter of the open plan kitchen on the second floor, Nina was feeling more focused. Her eyes had become clear again and her mind crisp while she poured the second cup for her and the middle aged blond woman with the staring grey eyes who sat across from her.
“I am so sorry to bother you this time of the morning, but...” Professor Kulich started, but Nina interrupted her.
“Let me guess,” she said calmly as she lifted her cup, “you are on your way to the Amazon?”
“How did you know?” the guest asked, but Nina figured she already knew, because her facial expression was a mix of curiosity and affirmation.
“Déjà vu,” Nina replied casually, and sank her nose into the cup to slurp the hot tea, her gaze dropped.
The professor nodded slowly. She sipped her tea and looked at her hostess with a look of sincere interest.
“Dr. Gould, tell me, what is your experience with the occult?” she asked, straight and clear.
Nina raised her big dark eyes at the woman with a slight frown. It was a gesture of two thoughts. Did she not know about Nina’s constant clashes with the Nazi-affiliated Black Sun Order - the very organization that spent its time and funds to locate and procure religious and historical relics important mostly as objects of occult practices?
“I know a little more than the average person, professor. As you might know, because why else would you show up at my home, asking for help? I am mainly a historian, but I have had first-hand experience with some strange practices, yes. Why?” Nina asked. She would not admit it, but she was somewhat excited by the inquiry and intended to do a full background search on her esteemed female guest.
But she did not have to. The tall thin woman with the ash blond hair leaned slightly forward and locked her fingers in front of her on the counter. Her voice was thick and low, but for some reason, soothing. She sounded as wise as she looked and by the way she conducted herself Nina could tell that Professor Kulich was a refined woman, a lady. She imagined the professor to have a title one day, like ‘Dame.’
“Dr. Gould...Nina...I am currently involved in a covert project on ancient magical artefacts.” She sighed and rolled her eyes, “God, I hate the word ‘magic’, but it is just so much more convenient than ‘scientifically plausible once we have the physics to prove it’.”
Nina laughed. The professor smiled and shook her head in serene amusement.
“I know. I know all too well. I have also come to that conclusion, Professor,” Nina chuckled.
“Petra. Please call me Petra,” Professor Kulich nudged.
“Petra. My own conclusions came to that very opinion, you know. These ancient cultures and their miracles, their shamanic magic and rites all worked because, not only were they psychic, but they seemed to have known things about the earth and its elements to such an extent that they could employ natural laws of science to produce these miraculous things,” Nina said in a low tone. In the rage of the thunder and rain outside the soft lamp light just on the other side of the kitchen counter and the smell of fresh muffins she was warming up gave the place a suited atmosphere of quiet philosophy on obscure subjects.
“This is true, my dear Nina. And it is exactly that working logic, that open-mindedness of yours that I need. I have approached two other historians, but they were very set in their ways, older people who were far more rigid in their beliefs than to be swayed by the evidence they might find while with me on my chase, you see?” Petra coaxed, accepting her fresh warm blue berry muffin from the historian.
“On your chase?” Nina asked. Her tummy tingled as she said it...in the good way.
“Yes, after my week in the Amazon, where I will be gathering up my final records and talking to one more tribal chief, I am off to my home in the Czech Republic to collect some documents left to me by my brother,” she explained as she took a hearty bite out of the moist baked goods the cooking staff of Wrichtishousis offered. “You see,” she continued with a mouth full of muffin through which she attempted to speak as properly as possible. Nina found it quite endearing. “I am a professor of Anthropology. Much as I know about cultures and religious practices, superstitions and such, I am not quite up to date with the history of these places I visit. That is where I need someone with the know-how of where and how all the tribes or nationalities came to be where they are today, how the progression through wars and legislation had brought them to the areas they now occupy.”
“How would that help you with the magic of their relics?” Nina asked. She had not eaten any of her muffin. It was too early to eat, but she did not want to seem un-social. Her dainty fingertips played with the domed crust of the muffin instead.
“I just need to know what happened in certain places so that I would know why I find there what I find there,” Petra explained with a strained voice, uncertain if her weak command of proper English was getting her actual point across. “Ugh, I don’t know if I say this right.”
“Oh, no worries,” Nina smiled, “I get it. You need a historical advisor to fill in the blanks of the documents you are to peruse, right?”
Petra Kulich nodded eagerly. She had only understood about half of that sentence properly, but she knew Nina was willing to help her for more reasons than the money. The latter was never a problem. With Professor Kulich’s family history, money was never an issue, yet she knew most of the historians she had considered employing before choosing Dr. Nina Gould would have asked too many questions or would have leaked her family’s identity before long. This little energetic woman was her choice of advisor. Decision made.
“Alright, so tell me what the documents are about and when you would like me to commence my involvement,” Nina urged. She picked off little pieces of the muffin and nibbled on them. It was clear to Professor Kulich that she had found her assistant. The petite pretty woman in her thirties struck her as a credible professional, but also as a logical and emotional judge of character which could come in handy once they were in Eastern Europe. The petite Scottish historian would keep her grounded, no doubt ask questions to make sure Petra did not get lost in the myth and magic of whatever she would discover. She did not want to tell Nina too much about the excursion, but she had to tell her enough to prepare her for the kind of historical line they would have to keep keenly in their focus.
“I shall contact you at the end of the week,” Petra Kulich replied as she dabbed up the remaining crumbs of the delicious muffin on her plate with her fingertip. “It pertains to the World War II secret SS occupation of Chateau Zbiroh. Are you familiar with it?” Professor Kulich asked. She knew that Nina, an expert on recent history of Germany would be familiar with the tales of Nazi doings during the Second World War, but she was not one for assumptions, so she asked.
“I have heard of the SS operation where they evicted the owners of the Czech castle to hide treasures and, from what I recall, they used the natural stone deposits under the chateau to distort radio signals...or something like that?” Nina reported. She had in fact learned about the small part of Nazi history a long time ago, but as any professional, she was not an encyclopedia on legs and even doctors and professors needed to touch up on their knowledge every now and then – something this professor took into account.
Unlike Nina’s old nemesis and superior at the University, Professor Matlock, Professor Kulich too into account that academics were forever scholars, supposed to learn continuously instead of attaining tenure or reputation and then stagnate in their knowledge until they keeled over and dropped dead as white grey old fools rigid in their ways and teachings.
“I see you have heard of it. Good. While I am in South America I trust you will reacquaint yourself with the details of the castle so that you would be well prepared once we make our journey to the Czech Republic,” she stated as she rose from her seat. She looked out the window where the daylight had now been born from the black of night to the grey paleness of morning light.
“I trust you have your pass
port in order?” she asked Nina with an inquisitive look.
“Always, Professor,” Nina reassured her with a smile and a pat on the arm as she walked her to the security guard who was waiting at the end of the hallway to accompany her out.
The two women shook hands.
“Thank you so much for agreeing to accompany me on this very important journey, Dr. Gould. You will be duly compensated...financially and culturally,” Professor Kulich smiled at the door.
“Oh I am really looking forward to it. I hear the goulash and beer is legendary!” Nina jested, and they both laughed heartily before the professor left.
When the door closed and the cordial chattering grew quiet on the other side of it, Nina experienced the oddest feeling. She was so alone – so utterly alone, yet she was excited for the coming adventure. For once she would not have her life in peril. She did not need the money, but for a change she would be earning her own again as opposed to using the monthly funds she received from Dave Purdue’s accountants. Not that she complained, but it was nice to earn her own money, giving her some elusive sense of worth.
Nina sat down at the kitchen counter. Suddenly the muffin looked really good to her and she took it into her hand. Taking a big bite into the warm soft crumbs she groaned in ecstasy from the robust taste of cinnamon, berries and the slightly over baked hardness of the crust. Chewing, deep in thought, Nina imagined herself looking like a chewing camel with its swiveling jaws and she laughed out loud in the loneliness of her kitchen. Even while missing Sam, even with not knowing the whereabouts of her billionaire boyfriend or even whether Dave was alive or dead, she felt good. Dr. Nina Gould felt a warm and gleeful feeling of hope crawl through her system.
“The Czech Republic,” she said to herself as he typed the country’s name into her search engine. “Prague, the capital of old Bohemia.” She read the words on the screen, enthralled by the beauty of the antique city and its rich history and culture. She had never given Eastern Europe much thought. Images of bombed villages destroyed by wars and third world management always went along with her opinion of places like this...erroneously so. Nina had never been to this part of Europe, where images of women with head cloths and socks halfway up their pale white legs jumped into her mind. She knew full well not to judge a country by the stereotypes presented by the media, yet this was – she hated to admit – all she knew about places like Hungary, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Romania or the Ukraine.
Nina thought of all the times she thought of the Bohemian culture as engaging and beautiful, while in the same context she saw images of slavery and gang rapes, prostitution and really sick pornography. Now she was about to find out what it was really like. Fortunately she would be in the company of an educated academic; therefore Nina knew that she would not be subjected to the lower, more dangerous types of Eastern Europe’s third world hierarchy. Little did she know that sometimes the lower sorts of any nationality are pitched right at the top of the food chain.
Chapter 5 – Shot in the Dark
Sam’s body shook violently from the cold night that refused to be kept at bay by the deficient shelter he had erected between two small thorn trees on the edge of the rivulet where they had stopped for water an hour before. The wind had picked up considerably and the weather was growing more aggressive. All the stars were eclipsed by rolling thick clouds which were rapidly consuming the heavens, entirely covering it from all directions. A brewing storm held no promise for Sam and he knew that it would be better for him if he rode as far as he could in the direction of the main road to Weimar instead of trying to weather what may be coming.
“Come horse,” he said, feeling a measure of pity for the poor animal that was as cold and uncomfortable as he was, inadvertently strolling into Sam’s predicament while simply looking for refuge in the shed a few miles back. “I’m so sorry, boy, but we are looking for trouble staying here,” Sam said as he mounted the horse. It was a catch 22 for both of them. The dark had made it virtually impossible to see where they were going, but what aggravated matters was the concern for holes and sudden slants. This is why Sam could not just spur the horse to speed up their escape from the brunt of the foul weather and he held the animal’s pace steady so that any accident would not cause grave injury to either of them.
Sam shook the leaves out of his shoulder length hair and the black ends stung his eyes from the whipping of the wind. He tried to tie it back, but the elastic snapped and left him with a head of brunette mane sweeping incessantly across his face and eyes, impairing his ability to see properly.
Over the first stretch of terrain things went well enough, but with the stars gone Sam soon realized that he was veering off course. By now he should have reached the main road. A sickening, sinking feeling writhed in his stomach at the realization that he had been fleeing in the wrong direction. Not only was he completely lost, but the angry weather prevailed as far as he travelled. The sudden shock of feeling that first ice cold drop of rain swatting him on the forehead had him crying out in frustration. So upset, Sam let go of the reins to throw his arms up in the air, furious at his spiteful and merciless fate. The horse changed direction under him and Sam had to grab onto its mane.
“You know the way?” he asked the horse over the chaos of the whining gale. “How do you know where I am going?”
But the horse kept walking, now and then dipping under its flabbergasted rider who was clinging to its neck, but one thing became clear – the horse knew the landscape. Like an invisible geomagnetic beckoning, the horse appeared to be guided through the dales and mounds, stepping around uneven rock rises.
“Well, I take it back, God,” Sam told the rumbling sky above. “I can see what you’re doing. Held back the insane killers and their dogs, sent me a horse and then told it where to take me. I guess I was wrong about you...and I almost feel guilty for betting Jimmy McClintock twenty quid that he would not flash the nuns of St Mary’s after the bingo that night on my birthday.”
The thunder growled as the clouds illuminated momentarily as if in answer to him and Sam smiled at the coincidence.
“Ich habe ihn!” someone shouted not a stone’s throw from Sam. From behind and to the right four men emerged from the cover of the trees and brush.
Sam looked up at the sky and wailed, “Oh come on!”
He grasped the mane of the horse tightly and kicked it hard in the loins, shouting “Yah!” like an old time cowboy. The pain of the rider’s sudden urging and the fear in his shouting compelled the horse to bolt forward and take to a stiff gallop, zig-zagging as the bullets flustered it. Sam held on for dear life, his heart throbbing in rapid cadence with the horse’s hooves as it raced onward through the unforgiving storm. Thunder shuddered on the ground under the animal as it equally shook the sky above the snorting beast and its inept rider who were dashing to outrun the bullets and the lightning at their backs.
“Oh, god! Oh god, I’m going to die!” Sam screamed through the storm as the rain pained his face and arms like frigid darts in unlimited amounts cast by unseen assailants. His back ached from the slamming of his tailbone on the hard pounding back of the running horse and his thighs burned from the burden of clutching his thighs tightly against its sides. Sam could not stay on the horse for much longer. The rain wet its hide and loosened Sam’s secure hold on it, flinging the journalist about like a rag doll as the shooters aimed narrower and barely missed Sam. He could almost imagine the feeling of a bullet penetrating the back of his head, a feeling he had imagined several times during his dangerous career, but he was convinced that tonight was going to be special – and not in a favorable way.
Ahead of him he could faintly discern two floating lights in mid-air, but from the turbulence of his mad ride it was almost impossible to tell for certain. His vision was marred by the piercing rain that joined his wet hair in and over his eyes. His body shaking profusely and his eyes could not focus on the lights ahead. They merely looked like wiry glowing veins that went in and out of Sam’s periphe
rals. Sam Cleave was a man of instinct. That was what made investigative journalism his forte. His instinct was, unfortunately for him, dead-on this time. Moments after he saw the lights for the first time he heard an ominous whistling grow louder behind him.
A shattering pain shot through his right shoulder and the bullet ripped his flesh and damaged his clavicle. Sam screamed, more from shock than pain. The cold wind and the freezing rain had numbed his skin and the adrenaline of riding for his life added to his body’s survival reflex, but not feeling the pain did not trivialize the injury. Sam ducked his head down behind the horse’s neck and held on for dear life, but the blood he was losing threatened a black out. More shots clapped, but now he was aware that some of them came from ahead. Sam was disheartened at the fact that he was not outrunning them after all, but only rode the horse right into the approaching onslaught. They had ambushed him.
Now I’m fucked, he thought as his head started spinning. His shoulder and chest burned like fire and acid. The wounded quarry cringed as the snapped bone’s ragged ends wriggled inside the bruised tissue and they saw him flop around loosely on top of the rogue horse. With every gallop the limp body of their target slid gradually down the left side of his horse and they watched his arms flailing in the flash of the lightning. By the next flash of the rumbling clouds the horse was without rider and the two men chasing Sam on horseback halted their own horses to investigate. He could not have been far, having fallen seconds before.
What they did not count on was the approaching lights that came with the hail of shots fired from ahead.
“Get off my land! Schweine!” a man’s voice shouted through the pouring rain, and another gunshot flowered in orange sparks in the pitch dark. The two lights became four, then six, and the men who pursued Sam had no choice but to abandon their search. All they could do was hope that he was dead, that the shot was fatal, because they had no way of telling where they had hit him. They knew better than to continue their hunt onto the neighboring land and be discovered. They were trespassers, not only on the owner’s smallholding, but in Germany itself. What they were doing there could never be exposed; therefore they had to remain faceless. They had to be no more than phantoms here. No-one was even supposed to know that they were here, but the problem was that Sam Cleave had in his possession the camera that harbored their likeness and the small tape that captured their execution of civilians from Denmark, Czech Republic and Germany.