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  Order of the Black Sun

  Book 1 - 3

  PRESTON WILLIAM CHILD

  Copyright © 2014-2019 by Preston William Child

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication might be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Publisher's Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author's imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Contents

  ICE STATION WOLFENSTEIN

  DEEP SEA ONE

  BLACK SUN RISING

  Untitled

  ICE STATION WOLFENSTEIN

  Order of the Black Sun - Book 1

  Preston W. Child

  Edited by Joni Wilson and Anna Drago

  Prologue

  Violent weather outside caused the doors to shudder. The dead of night was broken by many sounds, especially the angry wind whipping at trees. The gale forced hard branches to grate like talons against the panes and agitate the roof gutters. Harald always thought that particular ruckus resembled the sound of the ocean waves lapping hard against the iron hull of a ship; a noise he had for a lullaby as a younger man.

  At first, the scraping would start him from his sleep, but soon he would get used to its incessant thundering against the gutters clanging repetition, and he would fall right back asleep. Tonight, already past midnight, the sound was not what kept him awake. In his plain bed he lay awake, staring at the ceiling where the faint shadow of the trees danced against the walls. Moving with the swaying shapes, his eyes followed curiously. He was half asleep, but for some reason more alert than usual to the shaking doors.

  “Gott im Himmel!” he finally mumbled as he dragged his stiff limbs over the side of the bed, put his feet into his slippers, and closed the double doors properly. With that, he aimed to draw the curtains as well while he was up, to keep the moving trees from staining his walls and occupying his eyes when he should be sleeping. His joints refused, and he elected to take a moment until he was ready to stand up. From where he sat, the blue hue of the security lights bled over the door’s hazy glass, letting through only the movement of the branches. All else was obscured.

  Slowly, Harald shifted toward the edge of his bed, testing his strength. He looked down at his tartan pattern slippers, nudging the right one with his big toe to line it up, but something got in the way of his light. Cast on the floor and over his shoes, a shadow fell, making it impossible for Harald to see his slippers. He cussed again in frustration. With a strong scowl, the old man looked up to see what was blocking his light, and he gasped. Outside stood a large figure, black and still.

  He reached for the security button with shaking fingers as the lock clacked open, a Bowie knife pried between the door and the wooden frame. Harald felt his heartbeat explode the moment he heard that subtle click, and he could do little else but sit and watch the intruder enter his room and head straight toward him.

  When Harald came to, he felt restraints tearing the skin of his wrists and ankles. Tied to his chair, he faced the very entrance that allowed his tormentor in. No sound escaped him, his eyes frozen and wide in pain.

  “You don’t have to tie me up, you idiot. What could an old man possibly do to you?” he said evenly, his eyes fixed upon the balaclava and the ice blue leer behind it.

  “I didn’t tie you up to restrain you. The ties serve as tourniquets,” the person spoke, and it was then that Harald noticed that several of his fingers had been cut off. Before he could scream from shock, a dishcloth was shoved so hard into his mouth, that his neck snapped backward and blood trickled from his split lip. Judging from the intruder’s voice, Harold determined that he was German or Austrian. Suddenly, Harald knew why he was there. He knew what his attacker was looking for.

  As the questions came, Harald felt his old self return, and he smiled defiantly in his muteness. No matter the threat, no matter the consequence. As the intruder inflicted more pain with each unanswered question, the old man thought of his Elisabeth. She was there with him in this trying hour, waiting for him. No matter how the agony of broken bones and torn flesh possessed him, he only grew colder, quieter. With a smile he welcomed his demise, “Ich werde nichts sagen.”

  1

  "YOUR MOVE, BRUICH. Get out of that one, if you can."

  Sam Cleave leaned back triumphantly, pushing the hair back out of his eyes. He reached for his cereal bowl and shoved a spoonful of cornflakes into his mouth, wrinkling his nose at the blandness of them. Next to the chessboard was a tumbler of whisky left over from last night. He picked it up and carefully poured it over the cornflakes, distributing it evenly.

  "That's better," he said, taking another spoonful. "Bruich, I saw you touch that knight. You've got to move it now."

  Bruichladdich lifted his ginger head and meowed at Sam.

  "Don't talk to me like that," Sam said. "That's the rules, you wee cheat. Now hurry up and move so I can beat you."

  The cat reached out a tentative paw and kicked the knight, Sam's queen, and a couple of pawns off the board. He stepped onto the board, turned around a couple of times, then curled up and stared accusingly at Sam.

  "What?" Sam demanded. "What is it? What are you looking at me like that for? You've had your breakfast. Don't you try and tell me you haven't." He spun his chair around to face his desk. An untidy pile of papers lay on top of his laptop. He picked up the bundle and put them on the floor, then opened the laptop and stared at the open document.

  Bruntfield Residents' Fury Over Planned Tesco Metro

  He had gotten no further than that. His digital voice recorder was full of sound bites from concerned citizens who objected to the presence of another urban supermarket near their expensive homes. He had not yet transcribed them; he was not sure that he would either. They had all said pretty much the same thing, and Sam was struggling to care.

  He closed the document. With nothing else open on the screen, all he could see was the desktop wallpaper—a smiling man and a woman with their arms around each other. The woman was tall and slim with long, ash-blonde hair and blue eyes. Her head was slightly tilted, and her face turned toward the man, so Sam could just make out the little bump in her nose where it had once been broken.

  The man was a little taller than she was, with brown hair, brown eyes, and a five o'clock shadow. He was a little too thin perhaps, and his dress sense left much to be desired, but with the woman in his arms, he looked like the happiest man alive. Sam could hardly believe that just eighteen months ago, that man had been him. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could almost hear Patricia's sweet voice and sultry laugh. Again, he reached for the whisky bottle.

  2

  THE BUZZER SOUND, and Sam froze. Bruichladdich shot under the couch. "Let's just wait this one out, Bruich," Sam whispered. Too many mornings had been ruined by debt collectors banging on his door recently, which made it very difficult to ignore the growing pile of unopened mail accumulating beneath the mail slot. Gingerly, as if they might hear him from the street outside, he picked up the bottle and took a swig. He counted out one minute, then two, then five. At last, he reasoned that the coast must be clear and breathed a sigh of relief.

  That was when the pounding at the door began. Damn it, Sam thought, one of the neighbors must
have buzzed them into the building. Ah well. Just lay low for a—

  "Samuel Fergusson Cleave!" an authoritative voice called from the other side of the door. "Open up! Police!"

  At once, Sam relaxed. He strode over to the door and flung it open. "Come on in, you old bastard," he said, welcoming DCI Patrick Smith into the flat.

  Smith grinned. "I thought you'd never ask," he said. "I think I scared the students upstairs when I buzzed them. Told them it was the police; I think they thought I was coming to take their stereo away. Now, they just think I'm here to arrest you." As Smith made his way into the living room and cleared himself a space on the messy couch, Bruichladdich emerged from his hiding place and jumped onto his lap. Smith scratched the cat behind the ears. "Hello Bruich. You never miss a chance to cover me in ginger fur, do you?"

  "You should think yourself lucky," Sam remarked. "Some of us never get Bruich’s softer side. Some of us just provide him with Whiskas and get hissed at for telling him to get out of the sink."

  "Well, it's not like you use it for washing up or anything."

  "Touché." Sam gathered up some scattered pieces of crockery as nonchalantly as he could. "Want a cup of tea?"

  "Please."

  Sam disappeared into his tiny kitchen and put the kettle on. It was a stereotypical single man's kitchen: chipped, mismatched mugs that had to be washed before use, well-hidden tea spoons, and milk that had gone past its prime over a month ago. In a moment of optimism, Sam opened the carton to examine its contents. He took a sniff and recoiled, screwing the lid back on as fast and as tightly as he could, then dropping the whole thing into the bin.

  However, even if he was out of fresh milk, Sam could be relied on to have a ready supply of tea bags. He put two in each mug, added the hot water, and stirred each until they resembled crude oil. He dumped a heaped spoonful of sugar into each, then added another for good measure to make up for the lack of milk.

  "There you go," he said, handing one of the mugs to Smith. "Now what brings you here?"

  Smith, settled on the couch with Bruichladdich curled up on his lap, looked doubtfully at the tea. "Something I thought you'd want to know about. I got called out to an old folk's home last night. Some old boy was murdered. Pretty gory, to tell you the truth. We haven't let the media know yet, but we'll have to soon, and I thought you might want to get in there first."

  "Might be a bit too exciting for me these days, Paddy," Sam replied, taking a large gulp of scalding hot tea. "Covering anything more dramatic than whatever's upsetting the Bruntsfield moms might set me off on a downward spiral again."

  "Sam, have you looked at yourself lately?" Smith asked. "Frankly, the only way is up.” He took from his mug. “Ugh, what's this supposed to be? I thought you said it was tea?"

  "Spoken like a true friend, Paddy." Sam said. "It is tea; it's just not the kind of wimpy tea you're used to. I know you boys on the force all think that you know about caffeine and tannins, but I wouldn't give the stuff you drink to a baby."

  "That is why no one would leave you in charge of a baby," said Smith. "You'd just put whisky in its bottle. Anyway, I need you to cover this. It's a bit weird, and I'd like to know that there's someone out there who'll cover it sensibly. I have a feeling that the local papers are going to go nuts with this and blow it out of all proportion. That means, when the nationals get hold of it—and they will, because it's an old folk's home—it'll be a giant mess. If you cover it, the national papers will look to you because they know you. That way, I'll know that they're getting something resembling the actual facts, not some nonsense dreamed up by a kid barely out of university waiting for her big break."

  Sam shook his head. "Gory murders aren't my thing anymore," he sighed. "No murders, no drug deals, no international crime rings, nothing. How gory can it possibly be, anyway? Your beat is South Queensferry, for Christ's sake. Nothing interesting happens out there."

  "Not usually, I'll grant you," Smith conceded. He took another sip of his tea, as if trying very hard not to taste it. "But this ... I've never seen anything like it. I mean, you don't expect this kind of thing to actually happen, except on the television. I got called to check out a possible intruder at the assisted living facility—Forth Valley, do you know the one? No, of course you don't. Anyway, I got there and found this old boy tied to his chair, mouth stuffed with cloth, and he'd had his throat cut."

  "Sounds to me like someone broke in, tied the old guy up while they robbed the place, then got spooked and killed him in case he identified them," Sam speculated. "What's so weird about that?"

  Smith took a deep breath, staring intently into his tea as he spoke. "His fingers and toes had been cut off. Not all of them. Two fingers, both on the left hand, and the little toe on the right foot. But they hadn't been taken off in one go. When we found the digits, they'd been cut off bit by bit. Really nasty. And his throat wasn't just slashed open. It was slit, neatly, like whoever was holding the knife really knew what they were doing. If it was just an interrupted burglary, you'd expect it to be messy, just someone hacking away because they were angry. But this ... it looked like a professional job."

  He looked up at Sam. "Now can you see why I'm worried about it getting sensationalized? It's bad enough already, and the last thing my department needs right now is journalists telling the public that South Queensferry's the kind of place where elderly people in secure housing facilities get hits taken out on them—and get tortured to death. I really need someone who can handle this sensitively. Sam ... please?"

  Sam leaned back in his seat and pressed his fists into his eyes. He was still a little hung over from the previous night, when he had made his first attempt at the Tesco Metro article and accidentally drank himself to sleep instead. Listening to Smith was causing the slight ache behind his eyeballs to grow into a full-blown pounding headache.

  "Paddy," he groaned. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, ok? I know you think you're being really subtle, but its bullshit and we both know it. Look, I know the state I'm in. I know you're just trying to get me out of it, and you think that if I get my teeth into a big-time story like the old days, it'll bring me back to my old self, right? Well, forget it. It doesn't work that way. You can only do what I used to do if you really care about it, and I don't any more. My days of valiantly pursuing a story to the bitter end, risking my life like I’m some superhero? They're over. Sorry."

  Smith grimaced. "Sam ... you're right, I'm not subtle. But honestly, seeing you like this is painful. I know things have been tough. What happened to Patricia shouldn’t have happened to anyone. You shouldn't have had to see it. I understand it's done a number on you. But this ... Sam, you know damn fine that if you don't get your act together, you're going to get fired. You're already on your final warning. I was hoping that this might help give you get your edge back." He looked Sam straight in the eye. "Patricia wouldn't want to see you like this, Sam."

  Sam's mug went flying, spilling tea all over the floor as he leaped to his feet. Bruichladdich’s eyes shot open and the startled orange beast scampered beneath the sofa .

  "Don't you dare tell me what she would have wanted!" he yelled. "You don't know what Patricia would want. No one does. She's dead, all right? Patricia is dead, and no one—not you, not me, not anyone—knows what she'd want." Smith put up his hands in a conciliatory gesture, hoping to calm things down, but Sam plunged on. "Maybe she’d choose to be alive instead of seeing me go after your big scoop. Maybe that's the only thing that actually matters. Who gives a damn what happens to me? I don't." He collapsed back into his desk chair and glared at his laptop. "All I need is for The Post to keep me on long enough to let me drink myself into a stupor."

  "Sam, I'm sorry—"

  Sam waved the sentiment away with a gesture of his hand. "It doesn’t matter," he said forlornly. “Look, I need to be on my own for a bit."

  Smith was just about to leave when he saw Sam's hand close around the whisky bottle. "Isn't it a little early for that?" he asked in a pare
ntal tone: firm, yet gentle.

  "Nope," said Sam, taking a prolonged swig.

  DCI Patrick Smith decided it was time for a tactical retreat. He showed himself out.

  He did not even make it to the end of the street before his phone beeped. He took it out and read the text from Sam.

  ‘Sorry. I'm a grumpy bastard. Tell me more about this old folk's home.’

  3

  FORTY-FIVE MINUTES later, Sam and DCI Smith were in the car, approaching South Queensferry. At Smith's insistence, they stopped at a café on the way out of town, and Sam bought them breakfast. While Sam’s preference for rolls containing black pudding, haggis, and fried egg topped with brown sauce turned Smith's stomach, he was happy that Sam had eaten something other than whisky-soaked cornflakes. He had also persuaded Sam to have a quick shower before leaving the flat, but as far as he could tell, it had not made much of a difference.

  "So, what else do we know about this guy?" Sam asked as they got back in the car. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. "Apart from the fact that he's dead."

  With a pointed glance at Sam's lit cigarette, Smith rolled down his window. "He's German," he said. "Born in Potsdam in 1916, and his full name's Harald Josef Kruger. No relatives, as far as anyone knows, and no next of kin. The nurse at the home said nobody ever came to see him and he paid all his bills himself. Very neat, though. Organized. He didn't have much stuff, but his papers were all in order. Every bank statement for the past ten years, all his receipts, and all his personal documents were neatly filed. Not that it made for very exciting reading, as he's been in the home since 1998. There certainly wasn't anything to suggest that anyone would want to chop him into wee bits."