“Aye, I see what you mean, Father. Any government, monarch, or even common citizen with the crown in their possession would have the counsel of a super-intelligent agent to outwit the enemy and overthrow the world,” Sam spoke in slower syllables that proved that his mind was still sharp, even while his tongue abandoned him.
“Now you see why the Order of the Black Sun was looking for it too. Now you know why, even today, clandestine financial and political conglomerates are still seeking the lost crown of the Templars,” the priest told Sam.
“They are?” Sam asked. Like a child, Sam hung his shoulders and sighed, “Father, I am feeling a right fuckwit tonight. It takes me like, ten seconds every time, before grasping every bloody thing you are trying to tell me.” Father Harper could see that Sam was frustrated with his impaired judgement delaying his understanding. “I get it, I get it now,” he reiterated, shaking his head. “The Bilderberg Conference!”
Father Harper smiled and flicked a gun gesture at Sam. “Spot on, Mr. Cleave.”
“Oh my God! That means that Purdue is unwittingly being used to find this thing for a woman he met at the Bilderberg meeting. Jesus, Father, she could be from the Black Sun!” Sam shrieked under the din of the hammering Oban rain.
Father Harper was done reprimanding Sam for his blasphemy, even under the Lord’s roof this night. He merely poured them both another whisky and decided to write off his pious habits for the rest of the night. And rightly so. Now that his well-kept secret of over a decade was out, he felt a meager sense of relief wash over him.
Tonight he would be one of the Militum once more, partaking in strong drink, and allowing heretic tongues to stain the abode of Christ. After all, there was not a good chance that he would hold this office, this rank, for much longer, even if he survived the journey ahead.
26
Collision Course for the Temple Mount
When Purdue woke alone, he found that his new lover had never come to bed. In the warm afternoon glow of Jerusalem, she sat listlessly sipping her tea. The Countess looked as beautiful as ever, but her facial expression was that of a jilted bride: livid and frustrated.
“You never slept, my dear?” he asked carefully, knowing the extent of her temper. He had the scratch marks to prove it. The side of Purdue’s face was decorated with a thin red line, running clear from his temple to his jaw, making it very painful to shave that morning. She hadn’t spoken a word since her outburst at not finding the relic.
By what she’d ranted about during her tirade, Purdue gathered that she was on sort of schedule to procure the crown she so coveted. However, with the state she was in, he’d elected not to ask why. This morning, though, she seemed a little more accessible. After Purdue had a shower and groomed himself, he walked barefoot to his stunning lover with his white hair still wet. His white shirt, delivered that morning by the dry cleaning service, felt light and crisp against his skin as it flapped about his sides. It was immaculately ironed, just the way his own housekeeper did it. Leaving the buttons undone for the sake of the heat, Purdue poured himself some tea, glancing rapidly at the Countess to ascertain her mood.
“I’ve been in contact with an old friend of mine, my dear,” Purdue told her, trying to ease her into the upcoming meeting with Sam. He thought it would cheer her up to know that help was on the way to look for her precious crown. “He’s bringing a friend and they’re going to assist in the search.”
“What good will it do?” she pouted like a child. “It’s not where it was supposed to be. Obviously it was stolen by some son of a bitch who doesn’t even know how invaluable it is!”
“These people have been on most of my expeditions with me, love, with great success too! I couldn’t have collected half the religious artefacts I have in my collection without them,” Purdue admitted. “Trust me, if anyone can help us, it’s them.” He sat down next to her, running his fingers through her hair. “We will find your crown.”
She shot him a hateful look. “You had better, David, or else our contract is worthless.”
Purdue had almost forgotten about the contract. It had dwindled in significance since he’d started spending time with her, and besides, money was never one of his foremost concerns — ever. He just wanted her to be happy. “Never mind the contract, my dearest. I’m just curious about what the rush is. If it had been buried for so long, what does it matter when we locate it?”
The Countess scowled, looking decidedly furious. “Because I need it. Soon. I need it before my associates discover its existence, David. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“So this is not for a collection, or for your own gain?” he asked.
The room phone rang. Countess Baldwin’s dark eyes were ablaze with unrest and upset as she glared at Purdue. Like fire against a shield of ice, his cold blue eyes absorbed her fiery rage and calmed her fury. “We will get your crown soon. I promise.”
He picked up the phone and smiled. “Thank you very much. Tell them we shall meet them in the dining room shortly.” He hung up the phone and looked like a little boy excited by Christmas morning. “They’re here. Hurry, love. Get ready so that we can go and look for your crown.”
Her face lightened somewhat. Purdue could see a bit of relief loosen her shoulders before she rose to get dressed. Unlike most women Purdue had known, Countess Baldwin took mere minutes to get dressed, do her make-up, and arrange her luggage to be ready for departure.
“Ready,” she smiled. Purdue was elated at her cheer, and they went downstairs to meet Sam, Father Harper, and Jan Harris in the opulent dining hall. From a distance, Sam could see them coming. Purdue looked well. He had put on some weight since his near death ordeal in the oubliette of the Nazi mother a few months before. Even his snowy hair looked thicker and his skin healthy. Sam looked at Father Harper. The priest was clearly of the same opinion as Sam. He smiled, “The man has recovered pretty well, hasn’t he?”
“Aye,” Sam said, smiling as he watched his friend chat with his new obsession. The two were heavily engaged in a light-hearted conversation, stopping briefly to say hello to some other guests they had encountered the day before. Sam’s smile dropped from his face like a snakeskin shed. His skin went ashen and his breathing uneven.
“Hey, Cleave, what’s wrong?” Harris asked him, placing her hand on his shoulder. Father Harper knew Sam not to be squeamish or easily influenced to look this shocked. “Sam?” he said, looking concerned for the journalist. “Sam, what’s the matter?”
“Jesus Christ! Jesus Chr—,” Sam murmured, his brow wet with sweat.
“What?” Harris probed.
Sam swallowed hard, his eyes stiff in their sockets as he watched Purdue and Countess Baldwin at a distance. “It’s Toshana! Sweet Jesus, Purdue has Toshana?”
“Oh my God,” Harris quietly exclaimed, drawing her camera to shoot.
“No,” Father Harper commanded, gently taking the camera from Jan Harris. “Do not let on that you’re a reporter. If Sam is right, and that is Toshana, the Militum would want to know where she is and she knows it. Cameras would spook her.”
“Aye,” Sam whispered carefully, still staring ahead, “and so will I. She can’t see me or she will run. Remember, if she sent those people to kill me at the hospital she might think I’m dead and out of the way.”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Father Harper asked. “Look, Purdue told her we are coming to help look for the crown. If we bow out now, she’ll know something is afoot.”