“I think I have to refrain from childish references to medical puns to brighten your humor, old man, if only to stay in character. It is, I’ll have you know, a dreadful intrusion on my dramatic skills,” the doctor said as he set his medical kit down. “Do you know how I struggled to get Dr. Beach to lend me his old case?”
“Suck it up, Sam,” Purdue said, smiling in amusement as the journalist squinted behind black-framed glasses that did not belong to him. “It was your idea to masquerade as Dr. Beach. How is my savior, by the way?”
Purdue’s rescue team had consisted of two men acquainted with his dear Dr. Nina Gould — a Catholic priest and a general practitioner from Oban, Scotland. The two had taken it upon themselves to save Purdue from an atrocious demise in the cellar pen of the wicked Yvetta Wolff, First Level member of the Order of the Black Sun and known by her fascist consorts as Mother.
“He’s doing well, although he has hardened some since his ordeal with you and Father Harper in that hellish house. I’m certain whatever made him like this would make for a tremendously newsworthy piece, but he refuses to add any light on it,” Sam shrugged. “The minister is zipped about it too, and that just makes my balls itch, you know.”
Purdue chuckled. “I’m sure it does. Trust me, Sam, what we left behind in that hidden old house is best left undiscovered. How is Nina?”
“She’s in Alexandria, helping the museum catalogue some of the treasure we discovered. They want to name that particular Alexander the Great-exhibit something like The Gould/Earle Discovery, after Nina and Joanne’s hard work to uncover the Olympias Letter and such. Of course, they left out your esteemed name. Pricks.”
“Big things for our girl, I see,” Purdue said, smiling gently and happy to hear that the feisty, intelligent, and beautiful historian was finally getting her well-deserved recognition from the academic world.
“Aye, and she’s still asking me how we can get you out of this predicament once and for all, to which I usually have to change the subject, because… well, I honestly don’t know the extent of it,” Sam said, turning the conversation to a more serious vein.
“Well, that is why you are here, old boy,” Purdue sighed. “And I don’t have a lot of time to fill you in, so sit and have a whisky.”
Sam gasped, “But sir, I am a medical doctor on call. How dare you?” He held out his glass for Purdue to color it with Grouse. “Don’t be stingy, now.”
It felt good to be tormented by Sam Cleave’s brand of humor again, and it brought Purdue great joy to once again suffer the journalist’s juvenile silliness. He knew full well that he could trust Cleave with his life and that, when it mattered most, his friend could instantly and superbly assume the part of a professional colleague. Sam could instantly switch from silly Scotsman to vigorous enforcer, an invaluable quality in the dangerous world of occult relics and scientific madmen.
The two men sat down on the threshold of the balcony doors, just to the inside so that the thick white lace curtains could veil them in their conversation, out of sight of prying eyes down on the lawns. They conversed in low tones.
“Long story short,” Purdue said, “the son of a bitch who arranged my kidnapping, and Nina’s for that matter, is a Black Sun member called Joseph Karsten.”
Sam jotted the name down in a beat up little note pad that he carried in his jacket pocket. “Is he dead yet?” Sam asked matter-of-factly. In fact, his tone was so casual that Purdue did not know whether to worry or jubilate at the response.
“No, he is very much alive,” Purdue answered.
Sam looked up at his white-haired friend. “But we want him dead, correct?”
“Sam, this has to be a subtle move. Murder is for the runts,” Purdue told him.
“Really? Tell that to the shriveled old bitch who did this to you,” Sam snarled, gesturing toward Purdue’s body. “The Order of the Black Sun should have died with Nazi Germany, my friend, and I’m going to make damn sure that they become extinct before I lie down in my coffin.”
“I know,” Purdue comforted him, “and I appreciate the zeal to end the track records of my detractors. I really do. But wait until you know the whole story. Then tell me that what I have planned is not the better pesticide.”
“Alright,” Sam agreed, letting up somewhat on his eagerness to end the seemingly perpetual problem presented by those who still preserved the depravity of the SS elite. “Go on, tell me the rest.”
“You’re going to love this twist, disconcerting as it is for me,” Purdue revealed. “Joseph Karsten is none other than Joe Carter, current Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service.”
“Jesus!” Sam cried in astonishment. “You can’t be serious! That man is as British as high tea and Austin Powers.”
“That is the part that stumps me, Sam,” came the answer from Purdue. “Do you pick up what I am driving at here?”
“MI6 is illegally appropriating your estate,” Sam responded in slow words as his mind and wandering eyes conjured up all the possible connections. “The British Secret Service is being steered by a member of the Black Sun organization and nobody is the wiser, even after this judicial skullduggery.” His dark eyes darted rapidly as his wheels turned to drive around all sides of the matter. “Purdue, why does he want your house?”
Purdue worried Sam. He appeared almost indifferent, as if he’d gone numb after the relief of sharing his knowledge. With a soft, weary voice, he shrugged and motioned with palms open, “From what I thought I overheard in that diabolical dining room, they think that Wrichtishousis holds all the relics that Himmler and Hitler chased after.”
“Not entirely untrue,” Sam remarked as he took notes for his own reference.
“Yes, but Sam, what they think I have hidden here is vastly overrated. Not just that. What I do have here must never,” he grasped Sam’s forearm hard, “never fall into the hands of Joseph Karsten! Not in the capacity of Military Intelligence 6 or as the Order of the Black Sun. This man could topple governments with but half the patents I have stored in my laboratories!” Purdue’s eyes were wet, his old hand on Sam’s skin trembling as he implored his only confident.
“Alright, old cock,” Sam said, hoping to sooth the mania in Purdue’s countenance.
“Listen, Sam, nobody knows what I do,” the billionaire continued. “Nobody on our side of the front lines knows that a fucking Nazi is in charge of Britain’s security. I need you, the great Pulitzer Award winning investigative journalist, celebrity reporter… to undo the clasp of this bastard’s parachute, understand?”
Sam got the message, loud and clear. He could see that the omni-pleasant and ever-composed Dave Purdue was showing cracks in his fortress. It was obvious that this new development ran a much deeper cut with a far sharper blade, and it was working its way along Purdue’s jawline. Sam realized that he had to make work of the matter before Karsten’s knife ran the red crescent around Purdue’s throat and ended him for good. His friend was in serious trouble and his life was in clear danger, more than ever before.
“Who else knows his true identity? Does Paddy know?” Sam asked, ascertaining those involved so that he could work out where to start. If Patrick Smith knew about Carter being Joseph Karsten, he could be in danger again.
“No, he knew at the hearing that something had disturbed me, but I decided to keep such a big thing very close to the chest. He is in the dark about it, for now,” Purdue affirmed.
“I think that is best,” Sam conceded. “Let us see how far we can avert serious ramifications while we figure out how to kick this charlatan in the haw maws.”