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

  Under the blue and orange Austrian heavens, Karsten's lone house stood in the cool late afternoon wind. It was a colossal place, built in the fashion of an Italian courtyard, complete with hanging plants and creepers adorning the walls like feral botany from a science fiction novel. On the outside of the rectangular walling of the south boundary, Karsten kept his greenhouse. There he spent most of his time after 3 p.m., escaping the dreaded sharp morning sun, much like his plants did. It was considerably warmer inside the glass house, a temperature difference the private detective could feel by the trickling sweat down his spine.

  The investigator just stood there, waiting for dismissal or further orders, as was the custom when he worked for the Order of the Black Sun or its affiliates. Apparently the person on the other side of the line had similarly empty news, because Karsten suddenly growled, clenching his teeth as he ended the call. The livid Level Three member of the old Nazi organization tried to compose himself, closing his eyes and slowing his breaths gradually from heavy groans to shallow inhalations. If the investigator had not been under the eye of Karsten's bodyguard, he may well have rolled his eyes at the melodrama.

  Karsten opened his eyes, looking decidedly sorrowful. His expression reminded the investigator of a pouting child as the overweight fascist slid his phone into his pocket, sniffing in disgust. To the indifferent investigator he said sullenly, “I want you to find anyone close to Dr. Gould. Even if it is an old lady she helps to buy groceries or a niece who visits her...anyone remotely close to her heart. If she wishes to be invisible I will find someone close to her who beams like a goddamn star! And then she will have no choice but to come to their rescue.”

  “Why Dr. Gould, Herr Karsten?” the private dick had to ask, as the logic of it eluded him. He was met with a look from the Austrian millionaire that resembled a face confronted with the odor of putrefaction. “No, seriously,” the man continued sincerely. “If you’re after David Purdue, why not trail someone close to him?”

  That was it for Karsten. He slowly approached the ignorant buffoon, trying not to lose his cool in the process. “Do you know anything about David Purdue, Beck?” Jonathan Beck's shook his head. “Of course not. This man has no one close to him, save for the esteemed little black-eyed beauty we’re tracking, you see? And do you know why? Purdue had a twin sister he and an uncle abandoned once in Africa when they were mere children. And when they were reunited as adults, it took that insolent bastard no more than a few weeks to get rid of her for good.”

  “Then why would he kill his sister and not Dr. Gould?” Beck asked, to his detriment. Karsten slapped him hard and waited for him to recover before explaining. “Obviously he was not fucking his sister, was he?”

  “I see,” the still shocked Beck stammered.

  “Do you understand now? Do you?” the moody Karsten demanded.

  “I do, I get it. A lover is good bait,” Beck answered. “So I’ll start in her home town watching her house. Give me a week to assemble a dossier of activity by surveillance.”

  “That’s too long,” Karsten protested. “The Super Moon is fast approaching; it’s less than two months away and still we don't have what we need. Dr. Gould is not just a historian versed in modern history, but she has walked in the light of the Black Sun. She understands what we’re about and she knows the other side, the dark side, of political history like no other scholar of her time. I’d venture to say that she’s remarkable and unique in the things we deal with. Whether she fully grasps that is a mystery. Whether she realizes how important her knowledge in the matters of the Order is, is of no consequence right now; just that we apprehend her as soon as possible.”

  “Sir, you must give me time to effectively breach the perimeter of her home. I need to install feeds so I can record all regular activity. That’s the only way we can find out which people Dr. Gould is close to,” Beck explained to the impatient Karsten. Feeling his cheek throbbing from the wallop, he continued to state his idea. “I must insist that you use a little more patience. It’s best not to rush this procedure and to do it right the first time, otherwise the whole plan may be botched...and recovering from that will take twice as long...sir.”

  “The German military does it faster,” Karsten mocked.

  “But MI5 does it thoroughly,” Beck bragged dryly, without meeting eyes with his employer. “My training allows me to effectively arrest her daily life, Herr Karsten. Trust me. In the end, I’m worth every cent of my fee.”

  “So they say,” Karsten calmed a bit, continuing to prune his creeping azaleas and blue Alpine snowbells. “But they don’t have a celestial stopwatch ruling their missions as I do. Just get me Nina Gould and do it quickly so that I can proceed with the second stage of the plan. There are many checkpoints for me to complete, my dear Beck, and stage two is but the start. All the other feats need to be accomplished speedily, you see?”

  “I do. Let me get to Oban, Scotland...and start from there. No more technology. Now I follow the real world, real footsteps and seeking with my own two eyes rather than using machines to do my searching for me,” Beck informed his employer. “Besides, if she decides to come home, we’ll be a few steps ahead already.”

  Without looking at the former MI5 operative Karsten replied, “Let us hope, then.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” was all Jonathan Beck said before turning on his heel and leaving. He passed the typically over-sized bodyguard with the shaved head and wealth of chins under what had once been a strong jawline. Beck simply scoffed as he exited the greenhouse to bathe in the relief of the naturally cooler weather outside.

  He took a deep breath of fresh air, not only because of the contained heat inside the greenhouse, but because the residence would have been stuffy even without the abnormal temperature. Leaving that greenhouse was the air of freedom, of walking away from what felt like an enormous spider lying sprawled at the edge of the Salzkammergut region; a giant monster of wood and glass and ill temperament along with ill temperature. Behind him as he walked, he could almost hear its pincers grinding as it watched him get into his Volvo.

  Only when he started his car did he dare look up at the large house and its vast gardens, perfect for the climate in this mountainous area. Inside it was quite different. The interior of Joseph Karsten's house was like the circles of hell, each a special place of pain or misery, almost proudly so. No plants could possibly flourish inside the house itself, Beck imagined, not with such a stifling atmosphere of negative energy and hate. Peculiar to the place when he first stayed over was the lack of…life. No music was ever heard inside the house, no radio or television broadcast bringing any external contact into the residence, even for entertainment. The entire interior of the manor was silent – silent as a tomb.

  Birds and butterflies did not venture into the gardens nor beautify the courtyard with song and color. It wasn’t the result of a pet predator's presence, as one would think. No, Karsten had no pets either. Nothing living could be maintained or nourished in his chateau and the shelter of the Salzkammergut Mountains was a perfect metaphor for the seclusion of the Black Sun's doings. It was almost ironic how the Black Sun, a symbol of perpetual and inexhaustible energy, could be the representation of such damning and perverse ideologies. At least, this was the perception of the organization from a quite poetic operative who could not wait to drive out of its ineluctable web and return to Britain to start his vigil on Dr. Nina Gould's home in Oban.

  Chapter 3 – The Black Angel

  Purdue had been lying low since that fateful ruse Sam had staged with him. It had been Sam's idea, in fact, in the wake of an investigation into Purdue's involvement with stolen artifacts. The British Secret Service's international dragnet had been getting too tight when the plan was hatched. In fact, it had been Sam Cleave's guilty conscience that had conjured up the idea of saving Purdue at just about the same time the same guilty conscience had him working for Patrick Smith's agency to capture Purdue. It had been a Gordian knot he’d needed to sever without i
njuring either allegiance.

  Such were the dilemmas Sam Cleave constantly faced in his line of work, especially with the opposing characters he kept in his small circle of friends. Having a passion for investigative journalism had caused him little more than pain and had gifted him the constant threat of danger, yet Sam knew these things were par for the course with his passion. His friends were prominent and valuable, even to their foes, but it was when the two worlds overlapped that he felt like a cat on an electric fence.

  For now, he’d garnered some time. Just enough time, to formulate another plan by which he could keep Purdue from being incarcerated while retaining Paddy's friendship. All of these matters were why Sam had decided to put some space between himself and Purdue, why he’d accepted a small assignment for an independent publication in Kuala Lampur. Both men thought it better to cut communications at least for a few months to assure that neither could run the risk of being discovered for their subterfuge.

  It had been a week or two since Purdue's faux demise, but the funeral of Professor Medley was nigh, the one unfortunate outcome of their last meeting. However, since Sam hadn’t known the lady outside of their mutual mission, he had no intention of attending the wake. Nina had informed him that she would be attending, though, out of respect for the woman she’d surely have become friends with had she known her a bit longer.

  Nina stepped out of the shower, her first early morning shower in a long time. She hated to admit that her hangover was getting the better of her, but there was no denying the pounding chiseling going on in her brain. Luckily she was not prone to vomiting like most, which was a godsend since Nina hated hurling with a passion, especially since her bout with cancer where she’d had plenty of daily practice.

  Outside, the wind was blowing like crazy. This wasn’t unusual for Oban, but today the sea was especially wild and breathed hard over the coast. Clouds populated the skies from horizon to horizon in clumps of sinister hues that reflected the erratic nature of the season. Purdue had taken his leave before she’d awoken, but she knew he wouldn’t be far away at any time.

  After the gravel and thorns of their path over the past few months since their horrible encounter in Chernobyl, she welcomed their rekindled closeness. The latter was something she would never have imagined could ever be ransomed from oblivion, and it only taught her to never make assumptions about the scathing events in life; that everything can be more or less restored. In her case, it came at the right time, this chummy thing with Purdue.

  For some inexplicable reason Nina had been swimming in a tar pit of despair since her return from the Vault of Hercules. Even the revelation that her beloved Sam was not, in fact, a murdering son of a bitch who had killed their mutual friend, could not effectively hold up her cheer. She’d really needed last night and she regretted nothing, at first, but as Nina locked her door and stepped out onto her porch to brave the wicked weather for grocery shopping, the black hand of despondency caressed her once again. It affected her so strongly that she struggled to remove her key from the lock of the front door, having no idea that a figure was gliding over her small walkway from the roadside.

  Nina cussed under her breath as the headache persisted maliciously, the only pain that combated her mental anguish enough to make a war of it inside her head. Fumbling clumsily, Nina's fingers couldn’t grip the key in the right way to pull it free until she took a deep breath and paused before trying again. Still the shape came closer, soundlessly under the veil of the gray sheets of fog so prevalent in Oban during such days.

  Just as the figure reached Nina, the key came free and with an annoyed scoff she turned to leave, slamming right into the silent visitor.

  “Geezuss Christ!” she growled as the sudden dark presence appeared before her, startling her half to death. By reflex Nina's hands shot out and she shoved the black-clothed man backward with virtually no effect. He was bulky and heavy against her slight frame and her strength diminished against his. Fortunately for Nina, her visitor was benevolent. Unfortunately, however, he was not one who appreciated the glib blasphemy she so easily uttered.

  “My goodness, Dr. Gould,” he said, “that is indeed a long distance call you are making.”

  Nina straightened up and collected her purse from where it had fallen on the wooden boards, still wheezing from the fright. “Well, Father Harper, that just proves your sermons impotent and untrue, then. It would seem the good Lord is not inside us after all, I presume?”

  “T-That’s not what I meant,” he stammered firmly, feeling embarrassed by the feisty academic's rather valid retort, mentally reminding himself to find another simile from now on. Again, her continual questioning reminded him of the old days when she had been a mere high school girl jousting with him about religion versus the remnants of ancient history. Seeing that Nina was in a hurry and quite indifferent to his presence, he knew he had to say what he had come to say.

  “Just a second, please, Nina,” he implored as gently as he could, knowing how she was when confronted. “I have a favor to ask.”

  Nina raised an eyebrow. “Father, I'm not going back into the house for this. I just went through a gauntlet of troubles getting the bloody key…”

  “No, no,” he smiled, holding up an open palm in polite protest, “you don't have to go back in the house. I shall be brief.”

  She folded her arms and sighed, waiting for him to state his business. The wind rearranged the strands of hair she could not tuck in under her beanie, irritating her eyes with the whipping ends. Her incessant blinking made her appear even more irate than she was.

  “I know you don't see eye to eye with the church anymore, but we were hoping that you could attend this coming Sunday. Mrs. Langley has fallen ill suddenly and we need an organist,” he said hastily, as if delivering the request faster would more likely lighten the blow. “And, well, you being the only person I know who can play well enough…” The clergyman humbly folded his strong hands across his abdomen, trying to look her in the eye. He’d run out of fitting words with which to ask and just waited, while Nina did the same. For a small eternity, the two of them simply stood staring at one another.

  Father Harper could feel her dismissal on his skin and waited for something like 'when Hell freezes over.' In turn, the historian was bewildered, to say the least. It showed in the deepening scowl forming between her eyes. In truth, she was a little flattered that this stuck-up community of Catholics would even condescend to ask her, the black sheep of the land. Now would be the perfect time to get back at them with equal disdain, with similar deference as they’d shown her when she’d first moved into the historical residence she now occupied. They’d been just a few pitchforks short of a mob and now they needed her help?

  “Are you serious?” was all she could utter without thinking. It left her old schoolmaster much in the way he’d expected – disappointed.

  “Aye, but if you have other things to do we’ll, of course, understand,” he shrugged and started down the steps with a polite wave. “I'll try Henry over on Cruachan!” he hollered through the wailing wind, his voice arrested by its low howl as he walked away.

  Inside, though, Nina Gould was honestly considering it. Her more civilized decorum came to the fore, forcing her to choose the path of humility – a far more humiliating punishment for her detractors. Not long after she found herself going over her weekend plans in her head, actually checking if she had time to accommodate them.

  “Father Harper!” she shouted after him, instantly seizing his attention as if he’d been hoping for her summons. He turned, seemingly unperturbed by the wild gusts that rampaged through the seam-tongues and lapels of his blazer and pants. Father Harper was huge by comparison to the average man, like a Scottish lumberjack with Jesus-eyes. Nina could clearly see the hope shining on his docile face and for a moment she almost felt sorry for him.

  “Hang on!” she called, collecting her car keys and walking towards the place where he stood like a raven beacon in the fog. “Let me drive
you back to the church and we can talk.”

  “I'm not going to the church, Nina,” he explained. “I was heading for Kimberly Atkins' home. She’s very ill and couldn’t find anyone to take care of her daughter this morning.”

  “Alright, then. I'll drive you to her house,” Nina offered as she made for her car, “before the bloody wind carries me off to sea!”

  “That would be very Christian of you,” he replied, dreading his involuntary words as he spoke them. “I mean, that would be great. Thanks, Nina.”

  Father Harper knew well that his margin for pushing Dr. Nina Gould away was non-existent. Her lack of faith was not the problem. To him, the problem was what she put her faith in. What little he could gather about the relatively well-known woman who’d grown up right in front of him was that she’d abandoned her Christian upbringing as many others did. But the murky part of the strange river he was paddling down was what exactly she meant when she said she believed, but not in the way he did.

  “Next road left, correct?” she asked.

  “Aye, next one,” he replied gratefully, ducking his head somewhat under the roof of her car. The Tucson was quite a beast of a car, even more so with petite Nina behind the wheel. But it only proved why Father Harper walked or used his motorcycle to get between points. They drove up to the sick congregant's house, a small and modest little place. The garden looked recently neglected, with the grass of the lawn just a little too long and the little green gate swinging away from its lock and slamming back into the posts.

  “Many thanks, Dr. Gould,” Father Harper said as he opened the door to get out. “Will you give it some thought, then?”