by P. W. Child
Pity he could not stifle that appetite for destructive habits. If anything, they seemed to serve as an exciting spark in the mundane happiness of his current situation. Even Sam’s image had shifted: from the at times scruffy, maverick journalist writing for the Post to a freelance writer just short of a literary Jim Morrison. Only projects he wanted to engage in, got his attention. There was no more yielding to public duty to inform, but instead he elected to indulge himself in the interesting matters of life. Not three days before, he attended the Cowal Highland Gathering in Dunoon and got himself into an embarrassing, but merry bout of Highland Dancing, kilt and all. He learned quickly that it was not something one should try even with a clear mind of focus, let alone with an inebriated brain with no natural sense of coordination.
Wanting to keep things authentic, he had worn his kilt the proper way. As one could have expected, he regretted it sorely after taking a tumble from the makeshift stage of tables when his left foot caught on the crossed swords. To the delight of the onlookers, the attractive journalist modestly pulled the hem of his blue tartan kilt down to cover his thighs again and like a true Scotsman, bellowed for more Whisky.
Oh yes, Sam Cleave was an all-round hit with the clans present and even more so with the tourists, who thought this behavior part of the culture. They were not entirely inaccurate with the assumption and took note of the dark haired man’s mannerisms and quickly simulated his rambunctious passion. It made for quite the party, even by Highland standards.
Sam had never been this happy, not since before the death of his beloved Trish. He lost her to the cruel intervention of fate as reward for his involvement with the Whitsun arms smuggling ring in his attempt to expose them.
Not even since he befriended the petite and feisty historian, Nina Gould, had he felt this free and hopeful. Nina. His heart felt warm at the thought of her, even after their ups and downs. After he had been through so much with her on so many perilous endeavors, he had only grown more protective of her. Even when she broke his heart with her constant alienation of his affection, her selection of unlikely suitors above him, just the mention of her name instilled the sensation of warm whisky over a parched gullet on a cold winter’s evening.
Sam smiled.
“Yes, I will serve without question, Bruich,” he groaned as the large cat pawed his moving lips inquisitively. Sam sat up on the couch where he keeled over a few hours before, shivering at the slight chill in the summer air that permeated through his slightly parted curtains. For the entire duration of his slumber, he was perfectly comfortable in his boxers and socks. Now that he was awake, sitting up, his body decided to start shaking from the cold. It reminded him of a show he saw on TV the night before, a show about how the presence of the supernatural could drop temperatures in a room within seconds. He looked at Bruichladdich. His wise feline roommate simply perched himself on one of the living room chairs and ran his coarse tongue over his right back paw, stroke by stroke.
“Well, you are unperturbed, as usual. You are a sad indicator of ghostly presences, Bruich. Truly,” Sam announced at the cat’s indifference to the chill he felt. “Maybe I should get a dog instead,” he muttered as he headed for the kitchen, grabbing his knitted sweater from the table as he walked. The wool was welcome on his cold skin and as he shot a glance to Bruich, the cat eyed him keenly. Sam was not sure if this was a disdainful look over the dog reference or if Bruich was simply watching what his human slave was going to feed him.
He reached for the remote control on the nook counter and pressed the power button. Sam still kept track of more serious developments, but hardly entertained them anymore. Lighting a cigarette, he switched on the kettle and waited for the water to boil so that he could soften the cat’s food and make himself a much needed cup of black tea. Sam ran his fingers through his wavy shoulder length hair, the curls at the ends rounding his fingertips. His dark eyes scrutinized his cell phone screen as he opened his mobile e-mails.
Apart from some spam and pointless notifications of change in conditions of services, there were no messages worth checking. Nothing from Paddy. Nothing from Nina. Somehow those two were the only reason he bothered to check his mobile anymore. Bruich leapt up on the counter and stalked his bowl before his food was even ready. Wincing, the big cat pecked at the steaming pellets, each time recoiling from the heat and licking its lips profusely.
“Aye, Bruich. I know what that is like. You are as impatient as I am, but nobody sends you to a shrink, hey?” Sam spoke earnestly, but his conversation was interrupted by the reporter on the television screen pointing to the British Museum in the background. He turned up the volume and listened to the report of a theft and the unfortunate consequential murder of a night watchman, one Emile Jeffrey, aged 42.
Apparently his colleague, Henry Williams, aged 37, was absent during the incident. The reporter told of how Williams had raced to get help because their radios were faulty. She imparted on the public audience how he returned with two other guards and found the body of Mr. Jeffrey, slain, in the room where several Viking artifacts had been stolen. The robbers entered the museum through the wall by way of a hidden crawlspace between two sections of the building.
“Museum authorities have been unable to establish how the wall was broken though,” the reporter announced as Sam sat down on the couch with his cup of black coffee, spellbound by the account. “A forensic team has been summoned to determine the method and materials used to penetrate the thick wall of the Department of Prehistory and Europe here at the British Museum in London.”
Pictures of the missing Viking hoards flashed onto the screen, prompting members of the public and traders of antiquaries to keep an eye out for the stolen artifacts. Sam sucked on the last bit of tobacco he could manage and snuffed his fag, but his eyes remained glued to the TV screen. For a moment his heart skipped a beat, just as it used to when he heard of some high profile case and jumped at the chance to cover it. His zest for investigating arcane and dangerous cases came back with a jolt and he switched on his laptop to tell Nina all about it. But, as he had been programming himself with the psychological help of a professional, the very urge triggered a back-up response from his own reasoning.
‘You gave it up, remember?’ it screamed in his mind, along with the sickening feelings he had suffered when he first learned that his wife-to-be did not survive their run in with the arms ring all those years ago. Short of envisioning her split open face on the morgue slab, Sam was jerked out of his excitement by his trigger response and reminded of his vow to distance himself for any more high risk ventures for the sake of investigative journalism or any other incentive offered for sticking his nose into deadly situations.
“You’re right. You’re right,” he said to himself as he opened the bottle of anti-depressants for his daily dose of normality, “Let others get themselves killed. You are just a spectator. Just watch. There is nothing wrong with keeping track of developments, yeah?” He swallowed the capsule and slammed down his cup. It was a new bad habit – coffee. But he refused to quit smoking, so he needed a new bad habit to even out his impotent will for danger.
There was more harm to the medication and therapy than any good, he thought, apart from getting through his days without the threat of death around every turn. But being Sam, he missed the rush, the adventure of waking up every morning having no idea what the new day would bring.
There was an addiction there and most addictions had a purpose, no matter how dark the need for them. There was a reason for getting hooked, regardless of the high you sought. For Sam, it was the excitement of ancient knowledge, the travel to places he could not even point out on a map before. His thrill was the excavation of the unknown, the uncovering of sinister things coursing under the thin layer of everyday life, like a veil hiding them to prevent panic, yet they undeniably existed.
In front of the LED screen he sat in some variation of contemplation, leaning toward indecision. Should he share?
According to his last
conversation with Nina, she was in Spain with Dave Purdue, the thrill-seeking millionaire she suddenly became romantically involved with. Sam could not understand how she could finally yield to Purdue’s affections after years of vehement refusal, based on an apparent dislike for the man. There had to be more to it. Nina was a firecracker. She was a brilliant professional. She was a vulnerable and defensive hothead as well. But one thing he knew her not to be was a gold-digger or a woman who engaged men purely for financial or career improvement. Sam knew her to be someone who could not be bought, less even seduced. Many times since he saw her last he had considered just coming out and asking her what compelled her to become involved with Dave Purdue, the man she just about hated. Even if not for his annoying nature, she would certainly have loathed him for always luring her into adventures that soon became life threatening, leaving her less satisfied in her accomplishments as she had been before. But Sam cared greatly for the petite historian and did not allow his childish insensitivity to spoil things between them, no matter how curious he got.
He found himself staring at her name on the screen while the cursor was pulsing on the empty body of the e-mail. Come now. Are you going to write or not?
Suddenly his choice was made for him. Bruich jumped up on the desk and walked carelessly over his keyboard, closing the program under his second paw while dragging his tail across Sam’s face in an arrogant display of authority.
“Thank you, Bruich,” Sam said evenly, his fingers still stretched in mid-air from the surprise.
Meow.
Like Nina, his cat always had the last word.
Chapter 3
“His death was unfortunate, yes, but that is no reason for you to act like a shivering simpleton and leave the organization because you have a sudden influx of emotion!” Lita chided loudly in her intimidating tone. Like a teacher, she circled her subordinate in the hazy room filled with her cigar smoke. He looked up at her, weary of her, as they all were. From her lips, the thick smoke seeped as she mouthed her words, giving her the likeness of a human dragon.
‘No wonder they call her “Fire Breather” behind her back,’ he thought. To make matters worse, the ambitious Lita had flaming red hair down to her waist. It impressed upon her employees and associates her fiery disposition and passionate pursuits of her goals. Once Lita set her mind on something, no amount of discourse or argument could deter her.
She most certainly had the means to support her confidence, being an heiress of a great fortune and boasting an education most could only covet. Now she was sucking on her Dominican cigar, pacing around the chair where her best thief sat shaking. Her eyes flashed to his, quickly reading his every facial expression to determine his attitude and loyalty.
“Sebastian, you are one of my best people. Please don’t make me…” she stopped to take another drag of the choice tobacco and Sebastian’s pleading brow followed her tall silhouette crossing the daylight-lit window. Through the smoke that curled and billowed as her figure disturbed it, he saw her as a primordial deity. Perfect beauty, even in mature age, she walked gracefully. “…get rid of you. You have given me over two years of promising service thus far and I would hate to see you…go,” she sighed, clearly finding it tedious to have to select her words to sound less malicious.
But by reputation, all who knew her name knew that Lita was malicious without pardon. Fearful of her vast knowledge of history, science, physics, and anthropology, many of the people she employed never corrected her or dared call her bluff on anything. She was as reckless as she was smart and she made no secret of her intentions.
‘If Lita says she is going to kill you, you had best update your will.’ Sebastian recalled the words of his first colleague after he joined the ranks of her organization. At the time, he thought it a rookie joke, something to warn and unravel the new guy, but he soon noticed that some of the men he worked with had disappeared after failing at missions on occasion. Now, here he sat, confronted by the Dragon Lady herself, only just managing his bladder control.
“Now, tell me again: why you did not collect the vial in the store room, as you were told?”
“Madam, the vial was not there. It really wasn’t. I checked the lock box you showed me in the picture, but it was empty, I swear! Even the other containers – I checked them too! Nothing,” he explained, hardly capable of keeping his voice even.
“I lost a man, Sebastian. A very capable man whom I have trusted for years. He was killed while serving as a decoy…” she lunged at him, the devil in her low growl as she planted her slender hands on either sides of his chair, frightening him to the bone, “…for you! For you! And all that for you to fail? You could not bring me the one thing I sent your party for, Sebastian! And I lost Jürgen! I should put your fucking head on a spike for this!” she roared in her damaged voice, hoarse from smoke and a childhood stint of chronic bronchitis, which almost destroyed her vocal chords. Many of her subordinates imagined she would sound like Marianne Faithfull if she ever tried her hand at singing. But the only singing one could expect from Lita would be the Banshee keening of a death omen.
“I’m so sorry!” he cried out. He did not mean to, but his voice gathered volume in desperation. Lita mistook it for raising his voice to her and before he could retract or explain she landed a devastating blow against his cheek bone, leaving his skull burning and his mind in perceptive twilight for a good 10 seconds.
“Don’t you ever! Ever!” her snarl sank low as she slowly mouthed each word in his ear. Her breath burned into his outer ear, her lips grazing the skin as she grunted. His skin crawled from the sensation, but he did not feel the expected follow-up strike.
“I’m sorry, Madam. I’m sorry. I did not mean to…” he whispered in a shivering whisper which appeased her.
“Don’t grovel, Sebastian. It is not becoming – especially in a man,” she said plainly.
“Leaving my employ will not absolve you of your inadequacies and it will most definitely not save your life if I decide to correct your mother’s mistakes,” she continued. This time Sebastian simply nodded. The sweat trickled from his temples and he could feel his legs numb when she dealt him one of her sadistic looks.
“Now, if the relic was not in the store room, I venture to guess they would have thought to move it from its container, but not from the premises. Unless they thought it good to split up the find to separate possible dangerous conjunctions,” she said to herself as she rounded the table, the hem of her long emerald dress dragging behind her on the untreated cement floor of the small musty room. Then she stood still for a moment and all Sebastian could see was the orange burn of the cigar’s end as she sucked on it.
“Conjunctions, Madam?” Sebastian uttered in deep uncertainty, expecting a roaring reprimand, but Lita simply looked his way.
“This may surprise you, my dear pet, but in ancient times, there were as many biological and chemical hazards as there are today,” she smiled a cold grin of condescension. “In fact, much of what we know about metallurgy and alchemy, things that have helped our historical tyrants create a vast array of killing methods throughout the ages, come from antique scrolls. Museums have become overlooked by recent generations as lazy storage facilities for sentimental objects their benefactors could not bear to throw away. Houses of forgotten glory. Nothing more than pawn shops for the historical snobs and arrogantly wealthy.”
Sebastian watched his employer thinking, but at the same time he knew she was painfully aware of his attempt at provoking her pity by exhibiting interest. As a matter of fact, he knew Lita was humoring him only to use the opportunity to make him feel like an ignorant idiot. She was successful.
“Conjunctions of chemicals, conjunctions of incantations, whatever you can summon to your little brain as being two components of one weapon, are locked away in a myriad of ancient artifacts. The world, those who still bother to employ calculation or philosophy, would be terrified to know what power lies in the past they are so ardently trying to shove onto shelves fo
r school children to marvel at,” she almost whispered now, as she approached him with swaying hips, her hair forming a scarlet halo around her upper body and head in the blinding light of the small window. “Inside many of these relics, you see as dust-covered bookends lie secrets of terrible power, components of deadly force embedded in sciences that could pulverize the world as we know it with consummate ease. Sometimes, in an attempt to preserve the genius discovery, and to prevent them from being utilized as weapons of mass destruction, the past scholars and scientists have elected to harbor the different cog wheels of one machine in different items, usually those that would seem least conspicuous to the scrutiny of the suspicious,” her lips curled as she concluded her sermon and she doused her cigar.
Chapter 4
Fort Kinnaird was its usual bustling self when Nina entered Clarks for a pair of sandals she had been coveting for some weeks now. She simply could not get Dave to let her come back early without some sexual bribery and a promise to wait with her plans to embark on a new independent career until he returned to Edinburgh. It had started raining and she could feel her soles slipping as she sped toward the door and quite literally fell into the doorway.
The assistant, who had a chipped name tag and an awkward smile, helped Nina in, taking care not to let her stumble over the hidden stand near the door.
“Easy now, Ma’am,” the lady chuckled as she gripped the small woman’s arm securely and kept her upright. Nina howled with laughter, more from a bit of embarrassment than anything else. She soon found her footing and acted as her professional attire would have dictated had it not been showering outside. Her hair hung over her shoulders and scalloped on her back, darkened by the wetness and left rather unkempt. Her beauty, however, made up for the messy hair and she quickly made her way to the shelves where the shoes were that she had come for.