Sam scoffed as the thought became a scenario. Across his face a silly smile peeked at the absurdity of it all — but he had been there. He tried to soothe his paranoia, Thank god there aren't people like that influencing the world anymore. Imagine if the Nazis had access to today's technology! Wouldn't that bring about a clusterfuck of epic proportions?
It had been nearly six months since Sam's return to normal life after he and Nina barely survived the collapse of Deep Sea One. It was long enough for him to get over the feeling of strangeness at being home again, and long enough to become disgusted with his home and his job once more.
He reached the top of the Mound and made his way along George IV Bridge, heading for Southside, which meant battling his way through an army of fresh-faced young actors who were in town for the Fringe Festival and desperate to hand Sam flyers for their shows. He jammed his hands into his pockets and stared fixedly at the ground in front of him, refusing to make eye contact.
It's amazing how quickly the boredom sets in, he thought. Maybe Purdue had the right idea. Maybe being a mega-rich thrill seeker is the way to do things. I should give the mad bastard a call and find out what he's doing — see if he still wants me to write that profile on him.Purdue had not been seen since the chaos on his offshore oil rig, but word of mouth dictated that Purdue had been busy. The last thing Sam had heard was that Purdue was developing some complicated new piece of technology that he was unable to talk about, but which would, of course, revolutionize the entire world.
In all honesty, Sam believed him. Anyone who had done research on Dave Purdue knew that the man had been responsible for some incredibly important advances in software and nanotechnology, and, despite wanting to write him off as nothing but a techno-geek turned billionaire playboy, Sam found himself gripped by a sneaking admiration. Despite the danger Purdue had dragged him into, Sam liked him. There was a part of Sam that hoped he would someday get to finish writing the profile that Purdue had requested — although as long as it remained unfinished, Sam's editor would continue to salivate at the prospect of it and give him a certain amount of leeway.
For some reason Purdue had been keeping his possession of the ancient religious relic under wraps and Sam could only imagine that the questionable visitors to Deep Sea One had something to do with his need to hide such information for now. There was also an element of curiosity for Sam, because it was difficult not to wonder what exactly made a man like Purdue tick.
The route home led Sam straight through Edinburgh University's Bristo Square — the heart of Fringe Festival territory, making it a seething, crowded nightmare to cross. As always, Sam fixed his gaze straight ahead and pretended that he was not surreptitiously scanning his peripheral vision for glimpses of petite women with bobbed dark hair and an impatient stride. He knew that in a city this small, it would only be a matter of time before he and Nina ran into each other, but they had been doing a good job of avoidance so far.
In fact, they took great care to not have their paths intersect.
After returning from the frightening adventure in Tibet and the subsequent turmoil on Purdue's offshore oil platform, Nina gave him a call. It was a strange request, but out of respect Sam adhered to it as he had promised.
For her to ask him to keep his distance for a little while until she had "composed herself mentally" was not preposterous in the least, although he was disappointed by it. It was understandable, and, quite obvious by the state Nina was in on returning to Edinburgh, she needed some serious quiet time away from anything that reminded her of the incidents following their discovery of the Spear. Sam did not ask what she was planning to do, but she assured him that she was going to be unavailable for a few months. He trusted that she would resurface when she was ready.
Sam did not like to admit that he was secretly disappointed each time he crossed the square without encountering her. She never came into Dagda anymore. He wondered where she drank now.
Chapter Two
"What the hell do you do on a Vision Quest, anyway?" DCI Patrick Smith asked, with his usual tact and subtlety, taking a swig of his pint. "Isn't it just a bunch of hippies in the desert taking drugs?"
"Mostly." Sam picked up the little water jug and added a dash to his whisky. "I mean, I can understand it if you're an actual Native American Indian, and it's something you do as part of your religion or because that's your tradition. But what Jefferson's doing… it just looks like someone's figured out a way to take ten grand a pop off of middle-aged men for taking them on a little camping trip. And the really clever bit is that they don't have to worry about getting complaints about it being too hot, or too uncomfortable, or the food being terrible, because that's the point. Everyone's there to fast and be uncomfortable." He sipped his drink, and then gave a satisfied sigh. "Wish I'd thought of it first."
"You don't fancy doing it, then?"
Sam shook his head. "Can you see me lasting five minutes in a setup like that, Paddy? I'd get kicked out for drinking or telling the warrior leader to fuck off."
"The shaman, Sam. They are called shaman," Paddy smiled into his glass as he took a swig.
Sam paused with an indifferent leer and carried on, "Mind you, there's a little bit of me that wishes I had the self-control to do it. The money that Jefferson's offering is really damn good. Still, it's not for me."
"So what's the plan instead?" Paddy asked. "Are you staying here?"
"I don't know," Sam replied. "Probably. I've had enough running around to last me a lifetime, and it's about time I started trying to build something permanent. You know, maybe I should buy a flat or something — think about the long term."
Paddy's jaw nearly hit the table. "Sam Cleave thinking about the future? Is all that therapy starting to show? What have they done to you, Sam?"
"You can get straight to fuck," Sam grinned, as Paddy dissolved into helpless laughter. "You bought your house when you were twenty-five, you prematurely middle-aged bastard. It's just time, that's all."
"Sorry, Sam," Paddy gasped for breath and tried to get his laughter under control. "I'm happy for you, really I am. It's just… I wish you could see the change in yourself. The state you were in a year ago, I didn't think you were going to make it. I was forever worrying that you'd walk under a bus or something. And now you're actually talking about buying a house!"
"A flat, Paddy," Sam corrected. "Let's not get carried away. It's just that I've got the money I got paid for the Antarctica trip sitting there, and it's enough for a deposit with a little bit left over, so I thought I might."
"The Sam Cleave I knew a year ago would have blown it all on single malt and binged himself to death. That's what you told me your plan was."
Sam smiled wryly at the memory. "True. And the man I was three years ago would have spent the lot on a trip around the world with Trish." He waited for the melancholy drop in his stomach that he always experienced when he mentioned her name, but it did not come. Cautiously, he continued. "It still pisses me off that we never got to do that, you know. She'd been saving for years. The plan was to start in Paris and just work our way east until we found ourselves back there." Still the gut twist of grief did not happen. Instead, Sam felt a swift pang of guilt, like hundreds of tiny, simultaneous knife wounds, brought on by being able to think about her in such normal terms.
Unable to resist inflicting a little more pain on himself, Sam reached into the recesses of his mind for the memory of Trish, a little bit tipsy on her thirty-second birthday, explaining her travel plans with all the careful detail of inebriation. She — they — would cross Russia on the Trans-Siberian Express, she had informed him. Faithfully he recalled her leaning across the table, too intent to notice the puddle of spilled beer soaking her elbows, pushing a loose tendril of hair into her customary messy topknot.