Hunt for the Lost Treasure (Order of the Black Sun Series Book 17) Read online

  Order of the Black Sun - Book 17

  HUNT

  FOR THE

  LOST TREASURE

  PRESTON WILLIAM CHILD

  © Copyright 2017 by Preston William Child

  Edited (USA) by Usnea Lebendig

  Prologue

  Labrador, Canada – 1981

  Screeching tires caterwauled behind Leslie as she scampered violently to escape the chase. Above her the cement bridge felt like a tombstone of gray silence, sealing her doom by allowing the Cadillac access to her hiding place. Broken slabs of concrete jutted up towards the sky, having been shed by the structure the last time the rain had stayed long to eat away at the edges of the parapets. Veering to evade them, she failed thanks to the soggy mud that held the tall grass and weeds of the moor-like terrain.

  Leslie screamed out loud as a protruding steel rod sank into her calf and dragged itself along the length of her leg until her knee joint expelled its tip with a sickening lapping sound. It happened so swiftly that Leslie hardly noticed her fresh wound spitting blood all over the leaves and stems surrounding her. Writhing in agony, she fell into the cold, wet grass, grasping her leg between her palms.

  “Shut up, shut up,” she mouthed, barely uttering a breath for fear of having been heard. Holding her burning leg, she curled up and waited, listening. She had to determine the position and distance of the big V8 on her track if she was to successfully avert capture. Her heart thundered in her chest as she heard the engine stall a few meters away, but when she heard two doors slamming shut instead of one, she couldn’t stop the tears.

  Deep in her heart she believed that she was going to be alright, but common sense threatened to debunk her faith. There was very little chance that she could escape these people, especially in a barren area where only weeds grew. Along with her inaudible weeping, the frigid wind harmonized in a morbid aria while caressing her raven hair like a cruel mother filled with malice. Her long, straight hair impaired her vision, adding further to the obscure sight her tears had already caused, leaving Leslie practically incapable of surveying her environment.

  “She’s here. I can smell her,” she heard a man say. His voice gave her the chills because of her unfortunate familiarity with it since the morning before when she had met him apparently by chance.

  Two doors slammed, she thought, waiting for the awful truth to affirm itself. There were two people in the Caddy. He has someone helping him. He has someone helping him kill me!

  Afraid to breathe, the fleeing young woman from Quebec shivered under her thin pink cardigan. She was by no means prepared for the cold in this region. Losing her coat while sneaking out of the bathroom window of her attacker's apartment had been a serious error, leaving her exposed to elements her body was not capable of fighting. The second voice interrupted her thoughts – a voice she did not know. By the revelation of its tone Leslie Michaud was introduced to her diabolical second hunter – a woman.

  “Well, find the little bitch, Erich. I’m not spending the night out here again. This is not the first time I’ve had to save your ass by apprehending people who got away from your inept keep.” Leslie perked her ears. The woman sounded older than Erich, perhaps in her forties? Her accent was heavy. Leslie guessed that she was German, perhaps Austrian, a supposition based only on a previous encounter with an Austrian roommate at her university.

  Leslie’s foot had grown ice cold, but not from the harsh autumn weather. Blood loss had effectively put her in peril of bleeding out entirely, and if she didn’t do something to stop the bleeding soon she faced a grim end. Another dreadful result of it was her impending unconsciousness. Perhaps her adrenaline rush was playing a smaller part in her concentration at the moment, with the wind chill forcing her into an uncomfortable state of survival. The freezing whip of the gale reminded Leslie of the potency of a cold shower to remedy the fatigue of a hangover. It kept her awake, even while her racing heart was making work of pumping out every drop of blood that still kept her alive.

  Dizzy and nauseated, she listened to their trampling steps crunching into the marshland as the dropping temperature warned of the coming night. When she dared open her eyes she could see the tops of their heads bobbing up and down over the tips of the long grass as they searched the savage tract for her. The light was rapidly dimming, which left Leslie wondering whether the arrival of night was a curse or a blessing. If they discovered her she was done for, no doubt. However, against the hellish cold night she had but similar chances. The darkness might dissuade her hunters and hide her, but she would not survive till morning.

  “I can smell you, Liebchen!” the woman suddenly sang out, jolting a bolt of panic through the wounded young woman. The wicked song persisted as far as the female pursuer advanced toward her. Leslie's body started shaking uncontrollably. “I want my pound of flesh, along with that little treasure you’re keeping from us, little kitten!”

  Low pitched and elegant, the guttural voice of the Austrian woman sawed through Leslie's ears. To her dismay, the bobbing head emerged farther above the top of the grass and with every step closer, the woman's face pieced itself together more and more. Leslie Michaud could not look away from the terrifying, tall female as her face grew bigger the closer she got. Around her head she wore a fancy head scarf and a thick shawl made of some animal pelt adorned her neck and shoulders, keeping her warm and allowing her to seek out her prey in comfort. Before she laid eyes on the girl in the grass, Leslie quickly let go of her leg and, with her bloody hand, she pulled something from her pocket and promptly swallowed it.

  “Hello, Liebchen,” the elegant witch smiled. The young woman's movement had drawn her eye and she shouted for Erich to join her. “Give me that trinket, will you,” she ordered Leslie. “Give it to me and I might consider leaving you here for the bears.”

  “If I don't?” Leslie asked in a quivering voice, fighting the urge to regurgitate the unnatural morsel she’d just swallowed. The last thing she remembered was the 9x19 mm Parabellum the woman produced from her coat pocket. “Then Herr Luger will save you from the bears.”

  Chapter 1 – Libation on the Isle of Mull

  The television was an old one, mounted in the old way against the pub wall: rickety nails fixed it to an old iron kitchen cupboard door that was being used as a make-shift shelf.

  “Oh, Lenny, when are you going to get a flat screen and join Scotland A.D.?” Nina asked when the owner and bartender planted her whiskey in front of her. “This is a sports bar, right? You’re supposed to feature a big flat screen monitor with HD specs so that your patrons can hear – and see – the matches.”

  The plump sixty-year-old man ran his hands over his bald head and pinned the petite brown-eyed beauty with his glassy green eyes. “My bonny lass,” he started eagerly, but slowly, setting his weight on the left elbow he elected to lean on the counter with. “The only specs they'll need to see the game are the ones on their noses.”

  Nina laughed. She found his indifference toward his technological ignorance both refreshing and highly amusing, and she enjoyed the unique rhythmic speech he used when explaining something in his defense. Second to that, Lenny was her hero for violating public law and allowing, no, insisting on smoking in his bar. It gave the joint a feel of rebellious freedom, derived only from old values and an older defiance. She didn’t even mind that the smoky atmosphere made whatever happened on the telly even more difficult to discern.

  It was her favorite new haunt, simply labeled Lenny's Tavern, aptly bland for a man who found no appeal in glamour. Frequenting the place allowed her to imbibe her liquor in peac
e away from her hometown of Oban on the other side of the water. It had become her sanctuary – one of very few in this world. The little primitive pub & grub had been born twenty years before, yet showed no sign of progress with the times, and the locals on the Isle of Mull had no problem with that. Behind her, at one of the two pool tables, three sauced blokes were playing pool. In particular, the largest lard-ass of them all was constantly yelling 'sink the pink!' at the top of his lungs.

  “Why are you so late?” Lenny bellowed as his son entered the establishment. His sudden roar made Nina jump. “I'm sorry, my dear Dr. Gould,” the rowdy fat man apologized with a gentle hand tapping Nina's on the surface of the bar. “The little bastard is over half an hour late, but I did not mean to jab at your skeleton there. Sorry, sorry.”

  “No, it's alright, Lenny,” she replied with a relieved sigh, her sense of order still annoyed by the old television and its snowy delivery of the old Telefunken. Her slim fingertips played on the smooth, worn wood of the bar as she watched the owner scold his son from behind the bar, taking in the reprimand as entertainment while she sipped the neat alcohol slowly warming her innards.

  “Where have you been? Christ, I’ve been struggling to keep up here by myself!” Lenny ranted at the nonchalant bugger, whose skinny frame danced around inside his over-sized clothing.

  “Dad, I told you we went ghost hunting. I said I might be late,” the young man protested, but his father would not look a fool in front of the bustling crowd of people in his keep.

  “You said no such thing! You get behind this bar right now, dammit. I can't keep up all alone here and you know it.” Nina tried not to laugh as Lenny's son secretly counted the patrons in the pub. As he appeased his father by taking his place behind the bar, he met eyes with the lady historian and nodded courteously.

  “You should know better than to give your father such sorrows, young man,” Nina jested, feeling wonderfully relaxed as she crossed the threshold a bit tipsy.

  Lenny's son leaned slightly forward to keep his father from hearing as he replied, “There are, like, seven people in here, for God's sake. What’s he on about? I should’ve taken him ghost hunting with me, it seems.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Um, well, clearly he sees a crowd of people in here, right? The man must be clairvoyant or something, seeing people who are invisible and such in here,” he ribbed playfully, evoking a hearty chuckle from the merry Dr. Nina Gould. He had served her before, but they had never engaged in a conversation as such. She made sure Lenny was not looking before she asked the question she was dying to ask.

  “Where did you go hunting ghosties then?”

  He smiled, delighted that someone at least was interested in his hobby. “Duart Castle. You know it?”

  “Aye,” she grinned, lighting up a Marlboro and closing her eyes for that first ecstatic rush. “The Dark Headland. Did you see anything...headless?”

  “No, but I aim to. I will,” he said with such zest that he arrested his father's attention for a moment. Quickly he quieted down and resumed his duties, still beaming at the historian's interest. Nina's ears blotted out the incomprehensible comment of the television as the whiskey quite literally drowned her sorrows, however few she harbored. Her body felt relaxed.

  Through the past few years she had triumphed over injury and illness, both of which had spelled certain death at first. For the first time in a long time, Nina was healthy. Back in shape and medically spicy, the feisty academic felt strong and able, even for the vexing remnants of her past tribulation. Even her mind was a bit calmer than usual. There was, God forbid, no ructions in her personal life – for now.

  A word from the blurry noise of the ancient telly on the makeshift shelf punched her to pay attention.

  “Purdue.” Nina perked up. Her eyes searched the TV screen for anything that would justify the surname she had just heard. A female reporter stood in front of a very familiar estate, but the few men at the pool table were making so much noise that she could not make out a single word from the television journalist. Normally Nina was an assertive person, although she was not inclined to be bossy or mean unless pushed. In fact, she’d carefully worked at her tolerance for the painfully intolerable since she’d been given a second chance at life a few months before.

  However, with her gullet thoroughly imbued with liquor and her general aversion for patience just about peaking in favor of the television news broadcast, the wee Nina rose to her feet and flicked her cigarette at the sweaty ogre with the limp who found it impossible to formulate words under the 20 kHz sound barrier. The cherry exploded in minute fireworks against the skin of his neck where it made contact, quickly shutting him up. He swung around, holding the back of his neck.

  “Can you keep your voice down long enough for other people to hear themselves think, mate?” she shouted, her dark eyes ablaze with annoyance. The manner in which the small historian leered at the pool-playing oaf conveyed an oddly threatening quality and instead of taking her on, the local simply rubbed his neck. He picked up her fag and smoked it, turning his back on Nina and making his shot in astonished, but indifferent, silence.

  Lenny's son, in awe of her gutsy move, smiled and turned up the television. Nina was completely focused on the bulletin as the scratchy sound delivered the journalist's report.

  “...here behind me. But authorities have joined forces with international rescue agencies to facilitate a joint effort on searching for Mr. Purdue in the location where he went missing. Although presumed dead, several organizations agreed that a search party for the explorer would be worth a try...”

  “Of course they do,” she murmured by herself. “The pricks want to find him so they can arrest him, you idiot.” Her lips quivered slightly before she finished the last of her whiskey. Nina took note of what the TV anchor reported, especially to keep careful track of what the authorities, such as the Archaeological Crimes Unit and MI6, planned for Purdue once they discovered him alive and well. Until they devised a plan to liberate him from these charges, Nina had to keep her friend's secret and harbor him as far as she could, along with their mutual friend, Sam Cleave.

  “...until Mr. Purdue's status is ascertained, the British Secret Service will take custody of the Wrichtishousis mansion and estate to make sure that the property does not play host to any undesirable guests. This is Natalie Graham, Channel ...”

  Oh my God, that’s all we need now – Paddy's consorts and colleagues writhing like earthworms all over Wrichtishousis while he is absent. Jesus, what if they find things they don't understand in that maze of his? She gestured for Lenny to supply more fire water. Nina had reason to be concerned. Although she and David Purdue had had their differences over the years, the man was ultimately one of her only friends left in this world, as was Sam Cleave.

  After shielding him against MI6 during the last excursion she really had no other course to follow but to keep hiding him from those who were looking for him. Sam Cleave had helped Purdue stage his own death on camera during their last run-in with shady forces, just barely escaping capture by government authorities – and barely escaping death by affiliates of the Order of the Black Sun. Between the two of them, Purdue had gone undetected thus far.

  The fact that Sam was a world-renowned investigative journalist with contacts in the media was, of course, highly beneficial as well. It also helped that he was childhood friends with Patrick Smith, an agent at MI6, a friendship recently rekindled thanks to Sam's success in rescuing Patrick's daughter from a most sinister abductor.

  With these valuable assets in place the media was being kept surprisingly ignorant of Purdue's warrants where it mattered, such as keeping MI6 in the dark about the fact that he was still alive. However, Nina was still not sure if special agent Patrick Smith even knew that Purdue was, in fact, still drawing breath, even after the operative's careful edits of Sam's video footage where Purdue's so-called demise had been recorded.

  But for now she knew that Wrichtishousis, Purdu
e's vast historical manor that played sentinel over the ancient city of Edinburgh, was off-limits. She sighed, leaning on one arm as Lenny delivered her a spare shooter.

  “What's this?” she frowned.

  “From that gentleman across...” Lenny smiled.

  “Len, I don't accept drinks from strangers. I told you before,” she whispered loudly in reprimand, practically lying her head on the counter to keep her voice low.

  “Oh,” Lenny's scarlet cheeks sank, “but I thought you knew him.”

  “How would you know that?” she inquired in short snappy grunts.

  “Well, because he said to tell you...happy birthday? How would he know your birthday?” the pub owner shrugged. Nina kicked away from the heavy wood of the counter, sending her chair twirling. She stopped it abruptly when she caught sight of the dark figure at the far corner of the establishment. He was draped in shadow, his gloved hands folded on the table in front of him and his clothing generously obscured his frame. Still, she could not deny those eyes. Light blue, piercing eyes stared back at her from under a thick woolen knit hat.

  “Unmistakable,” she smiled. “Thanks Lenny.”

  “Do you know him, then?” the plump pub owner asked, looking quite relieved for it.

  “Aye, I know that one,” she smiled dreamily as she rose from her seat to join the man in the dark, “but Lenny?”

  “Aye?”

  “...if you tell anyone, I'll kill you.”

  Chapter 2 – Joseph Karsten, Level Three

  “What do you mean, you cannot find her? She has a GPS in her cell phone, you imbecile!” Karsten bellowed. He was furious that the private investigator he’d hired could still not locate either Sam Cleave or Dr. Nina Gould. “What the hell did I pay you for?”

  “With respect, sir, increasing my fee will not make these people surface any better or faster,” came the wry response. Karsten leered at the impudent specimen, his nostrils positively flaring as he panted softly. From the narrow flagstone lane inadvertently formed by the myriad of lined potted plants in his greenhouse, he called an associate he had employed to help narrow the net for him.