“Good God, it’s like a feeding frenzy,” Nina told the others. “Did the sharks just attack the crocodiles? Am I that wanted?”
“Maybe it is the police,” Richard suggested.
“No, I don’t think so. Who would have called them?” Nina argued, shaking her head.
“Listen, they are moving toward the back of the house. Now is the time to make a run for it,” Gretchen urged frantically, “before they come back. We can’t sit down here for the next God knows how long!”
“I concur,” Nina nodded, grabbing the tall man by his collar. “Come, Richard.”
The three of them crept toward the wooden staircase, the moist and saline air having eroded it and carpeted it with mossy growth over the years. They waited directly beneath the trapdoor and waited for the footsteps to disappear.
“Now!” Nina yelped, and they stormed free from the subterranean hole. But the footsteps they had heard belonged to only one man, while the other remained in the kitchen to guard the door. They rushed right into him and before they knew it, he had his arms outstretched, his hands clasped expertly around a Beretta’s butt. His sharp, dark eyes looked down the top of the barrel at Nina. Her jaw dropped.
“Sam?”
Chapter 18
Francois Debaux was in charge of the council membership’s medical arrangements. Being of the mature age they were, the gentlemen of the council had to keep medical records at all times, so that any terminal or severe conditions could be assessed immediately and arrangements could be made for successors, if need be. It was an archaic procedure, but with such old organization, tradition was seldom altered.
Apart from basic medical care, the council members were of course subjected to another practice courtesy of Alfred Meiner, third-generation doctor, geneticist in particular, and all-round mad scientist — in the true sense of the word. A genius who did not waste time with petty things like finishing high school, at least until his fourteenth year, Alfred was a virtuoso since his teenage years and it went straight to his head. Needless to say, the narcissistic doctor quickly reverted to the underground where his work would be admired, instead of the mundane praise of grateful families.
But what society viewed as personal and psychological flaws, the Order of the Black Sun naturally saw as potential and he was soon brought into the fold, even in the earlier years. His special work started when he was enlisted to maintain the monstrous Nazi superweapon, Lita Røderic, lapdog godchild of Himmler himself. Needless to say, when Purdue, Sam, and Nina toppled her empire and she disappeared without a trace, Alfred was given another task. Serving the council, the silent high command over the management of the Black Sun was an honor and a much higher calling, he felt.
Francois Debaux was one of his patients and also in charge of Meiner’s schedule and permissions, therefore he was Meiner’s superior. They worked together very well. The old French gentleman had a love for the more refined and avant-garde, so the twisted genius of Alfred Meiner suited his company swimmingly. He fed the mad doctor’s depravities and vanity with unflinching compliments, gifting him with praise every chance he got.
Debaux enjoyed the company of freaks. He loved the mindset of the mentally grotesque, the immorally rabid; and being a medical superintendent at one of the best sanitariums in Paris held his public mask beautifully in place. A man of honor, compassion, and great medical knowledge, Francois Debaux was held in high esteem by society and most of the benefactors of his hospice institution regarded him as a saint. They knew nothing of his past affiliations with Hitler’s legacy or the powerful underground realm of kings and demons where the rules of the modern world held no sway.
It was good to be back in lively old Paris again, the place he promised his heart to, leaving his soul for the devil. This was where he was born and raised for the first twenty years of his life before trailing a young charismatic man he was obsessed with in the 1950s. His pursuit failed and he married a loose, heroin-addicted actress from Berlin instead.
Now he was a widower, by his own doing but not so that anyone would know.
On his barge he poured himself a drink and kicked off his shoes. After the heavy business in Rotterdam the past few days he was happy to just be Francois, not keeping any capacity or looked to for orders. The only orders and decisions he had to deal with for now was his small crew, but he was going to let the men have some time off as soon as they reached Pont de Sully. From there he would drive his own barge up the Seine toward Bassin de l’Arsenal to dock and just spend the next few days relaxing, while Jaap Roodt took care of the council’s obstacle before moving on to the next step.
The river was bustling with boats and smaller craft, probably tourists and tour groups, mostly. Francois wished he could take a swim, but it was not allowed here and he would have to wait until he could get to the home of a friend and his wife in the 16th arrondissement. They had a lunch appointment in a few days, as soon as his friends returned from business in China, and Francois fully intended to fit in a few hours in their massive azure pool.
He stood on the deck as the sun deigned to color the horizon one last time, challenging the little balls of light that lit up here and there all over Paris as the night dawned. The sky was clear and pale purple in the last light of the day, birds floating past occasionally to bring some movement to the otherwise vast and still canvas above. His crooked fingers clasped around a glass of Chivas Regal as he watched the young people engage in their senseless pursuits of romance and doing their best to impress the objects of their affection. Debaux just shook his head, not because he did not understand their modern mating games, but because he knew what was coming.
It astonished him how obtuse the new generations of the era had become. Of course that was the end to the means of the New World Order that organizations like his served, but they never thought it would be so easy to implement television and manipulate media to effectively brainwash the masses. Herr Kamler and his colleagues at the French arm of the Thule Society always talked about this, when Debaux was still a bit skeptical that this magnitude of cerebral regression was possible on cogent, basically intelligent beings.
Now he saw the harvest of their work. Looking at the reckless and ignorant way in which civilians conducted their business, and their pleasure, it was almost comical. Not since the Roman Empire forced the Christian Bible on the world to stage the biggest mass subjugation of mind and manner had Debaux seen such a successful deposition.
“Monsieur,” a lady spoke behind him. Francois turned and saw that it was his cook, Antoinette, a middle-aged, single mother with a plump body and attractive face. Her smile always lit up the room and Francois sometimes kept her on for trips abroad simply because she had such a pleasant way about her.
“Oui, Antoinette?” he smiled.
“While you were shopping a small parcel came for you,” she replied and handed him an envelope with a small box like that used by prominent jewelers.
“Merci,” he said slowly, scrutinizing the black envelope with his name written in silver on the flat square. “Who delivered it?”
“I don’t know. When I came out of the galley it was on the bar fridge. Nobody other than the usual staff was aboard, not that we know of,” she informed him in a concerned tone. “Please, don’t open it.”
“Why?” he asked, cocking his head in interest at her protest. Did she know something?