Order of the Black Sun Box Set 8 Read online

  “Would you like me to drop you off at the hotel first, ma’am?” Misha stirred deliberately.

  “No, no, can we just go to the train station and get the tour over with?” Henry said, masking his firm resolution as a request to sound considerate.

  Misha hoped his friends would be ready this time. There could be no glitches this time, especially a urinating ghost caught on the tracks. He was relieved to find the eerie deserted station as planned – solitary, dark and miserable. Across the overgrown tracks, the wind swept the autumn leaves, bending the stems of weeds in the Minsk night.

  “Now, the story goes that, if you stand on Platform 6 of the Dudko Railroad Station at night, you will hear the whistle of the old locomotive that carried condemned prisoners-of-war to Stalag 342,” Misha recounted the fabricated details to his clients. “And then you see the station master, looking for his head after the NKVD beheaded him during an interrogation.”

  “What is Stalag 342?” Carly Brown asked. Her father looked a bit less cheerful by now, as the details sounded a bit too realistic to be a scam, and he answered her with a solemn tone.

  “It was a prison camp for Soviet soldiers, hun,” he said.

  They strolled in a tight scrum, reluctantly traversing Platform 6. The only light on the morose building came from the beams of the Volkswagen van a few meters away.

  “Who is the NK…what again?” Carly asked.

  “Soviet Secret Police,” Misha bragged to make his story more believable.

  He took great delight in watching the women shiver, their eyes like saucers as they waited to see the spectral form of the stationmaster.

  ‘Come on, Viktor,’ Misha prayed that his friends would pull through. At once, a forlorn train whistle echoed from somewhere down the tracks, ferried by the icy northwestern gale.

  “Oh sweet Jesus!” Mr. Brown’s wife shrieked, but her husband was skeptical.

  “Not real, Polly,” Henry reminded her. “Probably have a group of people working with him.”

  Misha paid no attention to Henry. He knew what was coming. Another louder wail whistled closer to them. Desperate to smile, Misha was most impressed by the efforts of his accomplices when a faint cyclops glare emanated from the darkness on the tracks.

  “Look! Holy shit! There he is!” Carly whispered in panic, pointing across the sunken rails to the other side, where Mikel’s slender frame came into view. Her knees buckled, but the other frightened women barely supported her in their own hysteria. Misha did not smile, maintaining his ruse. He looked at Henry, who just watched the shaky movements of the towering Mikel doing his headless station master act.

  “Do you see that?” Henry’s wife whined, but the cowboy said nothing. Suddenly his eye was on the approaching light of the screaming locomotive, puffing like a leviathan dragon as it tore towards the station. The fat cowboy’s face drained of blood as the vintage steam engine emerged from the night, gliding towards them with pulsing thunder.

  Misha frowned. All of it was a bit too well done. There was not supposed to be an actual train, yet, there it was in plain sight, hurtling toward them. No matter how he wracked his brain, the attractive young charlatan could not fathom the events present.

  Mikel, under the impression that Viktor was responsible for the whistle, stumbled onto the tracks to cross and put a decent scare into the tourists. His feet felt their way across the iron bars and loose stones. Under the cover of his coat, his hidden face was snickering with glee at the terror of the women.

  “Mikel!” Misha shouted. “No! No! Go back!”

  But Mikel stepped over the tracks, onwards to where he heard the gasps. His sight was obscured by the cloth fabric that covered his head to effectively resemble a headless man. Viktor stepped out from the deserted ticket office and raced towards the group. At the sight of another silhouette, the whole family scampered, screaming, for the safety of the VW. Viktor was in fact trying to alert his two friends that he was not responsible for what was happening. He leapt onto the tracks to push the unsuspecting Mikel to the other side, but he misjudged the velocity of the anomalous manifestation.

  Misha watched in horror as the locomotive crushed his friends, killing them instantly and leaving nothing behind but a sickening scarlet mess of bone and flesh. His large blue eyes froze in place, as did his gaping jaw. Shocked beyond cogency, he beheld the train dissipate into thin air. Only the screams of the American women rivaled the fading whistle of the murderous machine, as Misha’s mind took leave of its senses.

  2

  The Virgin of Balmoral

  “Now you listen, boy, I will not allow you to walk through that door until you turn out yer pockets! I have had enough of fake fuckers acting like real wally’s and prancing ‘round here, calling themselves K-squad. Over my dead body!” Seamus warned. His red face was shivering as he laid down the law to the man trying to leave. “K-squad is not for losers. Aye?”

  The group of robust, furious men standing behind Seamus agreed in a roar of affirmation.

  Aye!

  Seamus pinched one eye and snarled, “Now! Fucking now!”

  The pretty brunette folded her arms and sighed impatiently, “Jesus, Sam, just show them the goods already.”

  Sam turned and looked at her in horror. “In front of you and the ladies here? I don’t think so, Nina.”

  “I’ve seen it,” she scoffed, looking the other way, nonetheless.

  Sam Cleave, journalistic elite and prominent local celebrity, had been reduced to a blushing schoolboy. Regardless of his rugged good looks and fearless attitude, compared to the K-squad of Balmoral, he was nothing but a prepubescent altar boy with a complex.

  “Empty yer pockets,” Seamus sneered. His skinny face was crowned with a knitted hat he wore on the sea during fishing hours, and his breath smelled like tobacco and cheese, rounded off by flat beer.

  Sam bit the bullet, or else he would never be admitted to the Balmoral Arms. He lifted his kilt, revealing his bare kit to the panel of brutes that called the pub home. For a moment, they stood in judgment

  Sam whimpered, “It is cold, lads.”

  “Wrinkled is what it is!” Seamus bellowed in jest, leading the choir of patrons in a deafening cheer. They opened the door to the establishment, allowing Nina and the other ladies to enter first, before ushering the handsome Sam through with pats on the back. Nina grimaced at the embarrassment he endured and winked, “Happy birthday, Sam.”

  “Ta,” he sighed and happily received the kiss she delivered on his right eye. The latter had been a ritual between the two, even from before they were former lovers. He kept his eyes closed a while after she pulled away, savoring the flashbacks.

  “Give the man a drink, for Christ’s sake!” one of the pub men shouted, pointing at Sam.

  “I take it the K-squad stands for kilt-wearing?” Nina guessed, regarding the flocking collection of crude Scots and their various tartans.

  Sam took a swig of his first Guinness. “Actually, the ‘K’ is for knob. Don’t ask.”

  “Do not need to,” she replied, putting the neck of her beer bottle to her deep maroon lips.

  “Seamus is old school, as you can tell,” Sam appended. “He is a traditionalist. No skivies under a kilt.”

  “Of course,” she smiled. “So, how cold is it, then?”

  Sam laughed and ignored her teasing. He was secretly ecstatic that Nina was with him on his birthday. Sam would never admit it, but he was elated that she survived the horrendous injuries she suffered during their last expedition to New Zealand. Had it not been for Purdue’s foresight, she would have perished, and Sam did not know if he would ever survive another woman he loved, dying. She was beyond precious to him, even as a platonic friend. At least she still allowed him to flirt with her, which kept his hopes up for a possible future rekindling of what they once had.

  “Have you heard from Purdue?” he asked suddenly, as if trying to get past the obligatory inquiry.

  “He is still in hospital,” she reporte
d.

  “I thought he was given a clean bill by Dr. Lamar,” Sam frowned.

  “Aye, he was. Took him time to recover from the basic medical treatment, and now he is proceeding with the next stage,” she said.

  “Next stage?” Sam asked.

  “They are preparing him for some corrective surgery,” she answered. “You cannot blame the man. I mean, what happened to him left some ugly scars. And since he has the money…”

  “I agree. I would have done the same,” Sam nodded. “That man is made of steel, I tell ya.”

  “Why do you say that?” she smiled.

  Sam shrugged and exhaled, thinking of their mutual friend’s resilience. “Dunno. I reckon the wounds heal and the plastic surgery restores, but Christ, the mental torment of that day, Nina.”

  “You are too right, love,” she responded with an equal amount of concern. “He would never admit it, but I think Purdue’s mind must endure unfathomable nightmares at what happened to him down in the Lost City. Jesus.”

  “Tough as nails, that bugger,” Sam shook his head in admiration for Purdue. He raised his bottle and looked Nina in the eye. “To Purdue…may the sun never scorch him and the snakes find his wrath.”

  “Amen!” Nina echoed, clinking her bottle against Sam’s. “To Purdue!”

  Most of the rowdy crowd in the Balmoral Arms did not hear Sam and Nina’s toast, but there were some who heard – and knew the meaning of the chosen phrases. Unbeknownst to the celebrating duo, a silent figure observed them from the far side of the pub. The strong built man who watched them drank coffee, not alcohol. His hidden eyes glaring in secret at the two people he has taken weeks to track down. Tonight things will change, he thought as he watched them laughing and drinking.

  All he needed was to wait long enough, so that their libation would efficiently render them less than sharp enough to react. All he needed was five minutes alone with Sam Cleave. No sooner had he wondered when the opportunity would present itself, when Sam laboriously came off his stool.

  In a comical way, the famous investigative journalist clutched the edge of the bar, whipping his kilt down for fear of his buttocks finding the lens of one of the patrons’ cell phones. It had happened before to his mortified surprise, when he was photographed in the same kit, atop an unstable plastic fair table at the Highland Festival a few years back. Wrongful footing and an unfortunate flip of his kilt soon had him voted sexiest Scotsman in 2012, by the Ladies’ Auxiliary Military Corps in Edinburgh.

  He crept carefully toward the obscured doors to the right side of the bar, marked ‘Hens’ and ‘Cocks’, heading hesitantly for the applicable door. Nina watched him with great amusement, ready to rush to his aid, should he confuse the two genders in a moment of inebriate semantics. In the rowdiness of the crowd, the elevated volume of the footie on the big wall-mounted flat screen played a soundtrack to culture and tradition. Nina took it all in. After having being in New Zealand the past month, she was homesick for the Old Town and the tartans.

  Sam disappeared into the right restroom, leaving Nina to focus on her single malt and the merry men and women about her. For all their boisterous shouting and pushing, it was a peaceful crowd visiting the Balmoral tonight. In the commotion of spilling beer and stumbling drinkers, the movement of darts opponents and dancing ladies, Nina quickly noticed the one anomaly – a figure sitting alone, practically motionless, and quietly by himself. It was rather intriguing how out of place the man looked, but Nina figured that he was probably not there to celebrate. Not all drinking was to celebrate. This, she knew all too well. Every time she lost someone close to her, or mourned some regrets of the past, she took drink. This stranger seemed to be here for the other reason to be drinking.

  He appeared to be waiting for something. That was enough reason to keep the sexy historian’s eye on him. She surveilled him in the mirror behind the bar while she sipped at her whiskey. It was almost sinister, how he did not move, save for the occasional lift of his arm to drink. Suddenly he rose from his chair and Nina perked up. She watched him moving remarkably swiftly, to which she discovered that he had not been drinking alcohol, but ice coffee in an Irish coffee guise.

  ‘Oh, a sober wraith, I see,’ she thought to herself, following him with her eyes. From her leather purse, she pulled a pack of Marlboro and slipped a fag from the carton lid. The man looked her way, but Nina maintained her ignorance while lighting her cigarette. Through her deliberate smoke billows, she could watch him. She was silently grateful that this establishment did not adhere to the smoking law, since it was on land owned by David Purdue, the rebel billionaire she used to date.

  Little did she know that the latter was the very reason this individual chose to patronize the Balmoral Arms tonight. Not a drinker, and evidently not a smoker, the stranger had no reason to have picked this pub, Nina reckoned. It made her suspicious, but she was aware that she had been a bit too protective, even paranoid, before, so she let it go for now and returned to the task at hand.

  “Another one, please, Rowan!” she winked at one of the bartenders, who promptly obliged.

  “Where is that haggis who was here with you?” he joked.

  “In the bog,” she chuckled, “doing God knows what.”

  He laughed as he poured her another amber soother. Nina leaned forward to speak as discreetly as possible in such a loud environment. She pulled Rowan’s head to her mouth and plugged his ear with her finger to make sure he could hear her words. “Have you noticed a man sitting in that corner over there?” she asked, motioning with her head toward the empty table with half an abandoned ice coffee. “I mean, do you know who he is?”

  Rowan knew of whom she was speaking. Such docile characters were easily discernible at the Balmoral, but he had no idea who the patron was. He shook his head and returned the conversation in the same manner. “The virgin?” he shouted.

  Nina frowned at the epithet. “Been ordering virgin drinks all night. No alcohol. He has been here for three hours already when you and Sam showed up, but he only ordered ice coffee and a sandwich. Never said anything ‘bout anything, you know?”

  “Oh, alright,” she accepted Rowan’s information and lifted her tumbler with a smile to dismiss him. “Ta.”

  It had been some time that Sam had been in the toilet and she started to feel an inkling of concern by now. More so, since the stranger had tailed Sam into the men’s room and he too, was still absent from the main room. Something did not sit well with her. She could not help it, but she was simply one of those people who could not let something go once it bothered her.

  “Where are you heading, Dr. Gould? You know what you will find in there cannae be good, eh?” Seamus bellowed. His group roared in laughter and suggestive yelps that only provoked a smile from the historian. “I did nae know you were that kind of doctor!” In their howls of merriment, Nina knocked on the door of the men’s room and leaned with her head on the door to better hear any response.

  “Sam?” she cried. “Sam, are you okay in there?”

  Inside, she could hear male voices in heated conversation, but it was impossible to distinguish if either belonged to Sam. “Sam?” she kept hounding the occupants, knocking. The argument became a loud crash on the other side of the door, but she dared not enter.

  “Fuck,” she sneered. “That could be anyone, Nina, so do not go in and make a fool of yourself!” Impatiently, her high heeled boots tapped on the floor as she waited, but still nobody emerged form the ‘Cocks’ door. At once, another massive racket ensued inside the restroom, sounding quite serious. It was so loud that even the wild crowd took notice of it, somewhat subduing their conversations.

  Porcelain smashed and something large and heavy thumped against the inside of the door, knocking hard against Nina’s petite skull.

  “Good God! What the hell is going on in there?” she shrieked angrily, yet she was simultaneously afraid for Sam. Not a moment later, he jerked open the door and bolted right into Nina. The force knocked her over, b
ut Sam caught her in time.

  “Come, Nina! Quick! Let’s get the fuck out of here! Now, Nina! Now!” he thundered, pulling her by her wrist through the crowded pub. Before anyone could ask, the birthday boy and his friend vanished into the cold Scottish night.

  3

  Watercress and Pain

  When Purdue pried his eyes open, he felt like an undead lump of roadkill.

  “Well, good morning, Mr. Purdue,” he heard, but he could not trace the location of the friendly female voice. “How are you feeling, sir?”

  “I feel a bit queasy, thank you. Can I have some water, please?” he meant to say, but what Purdue was mortified to hear from his own lips was a request better left behind the doors of a brothel. The nurse desperately tried not to laugh, but she too, surprised herself with a cackle that instantly shattered her professional conduct, and she sank to her haunches, holding her mouth with both hands.

  “My God, Mr. Purdue, I do apologize!” she mumbled from behind her hands, but her patient looked decidedly more ashamed of his behavior than she could ever. His pale blue eyes gazed at her in horror. “No, please,” he surveyed the accuracy of the sound to his intended words, “excuse me. I assure you it was a scrambled broadcast.” Finally, Purdue dared to smile, although it was more of a wince.

  “I know, Mr. Purdue,” the kindly green-eyed blond acknowledged as she helped him sit up just enough to take a sip of water. “Will it help to tell you to know that I have heard far, far worse and much more jumbled than that?”

  Purdue wet his throat with the clear coolness of the water and answered, “Would you believe it would bring me no solace to know that? I still said what I said, regardless of others making fools of themselves as well.” He burst out laughing. “It was rather lewd, was it not?”

  Nurse Madison, as her name tag read, giggled heartily. It was a genuine cackle of delight, not something she staged to make him feel better. “Aye, Mr. Purdue, it was superbly well aimed.”