"Nina, listen to yourself."
"Vessels for something that can obliterate worlds. Something asleep. To wake it and undo our very existence. It is using men like Purdue, like Napoleon, Hitler, dictators, magnates, men who lust for power so that they will remain blind to the true intentions of whatever is contained in the Spear of Destiny. My God, Sam, why do you think it has that name?" Nina's eyes stretched, wet and laden with sincerity. He held her hands in his and he could feel the moist texture of her ice-cold fingers.
"Nina," he finally whispered, "I hear you. I hear everything you are saying and I believe you."
For the first time she blinked, licking her dried lips and animating her limbs. His words comforted her and brought her from her waking nightmare. Sam wisely used his charm to jolt her into action.
"Come on, Dr. Gould. Let's get this fucking knife analyzed so we can get the hell out of here, aye?" he prompted, as he brushed her hair back over her ears. Nina nodded. Content with his alliance and fully aware of what she was handling, she placed the broken Spear under the laser lens. Sam was astonished at her complete calmness and sober thought as she conducted the tests. He recorded all the information she gave and he made sure that he had two copies of everything. Purdue was facilitating a deadly deal here and Sam was not going to wipe the dog shit from his boots again.
Chapter 36
After an uncomfortable, sleepless night Patrick opened his eyes barely an hour after finally drifting off. Not one for superstitions and legends, he spent the night minding his door, gun in hand. It was not the work of some eerie wail, stormy weather or creepy film influencing his nerves, but instead a feeling of impending doom filling his every cell, his very thoughts. All night he sat on the floor in front of his door, waiting for something to happen. He had no idea what it was he had expected, but it was something that smothered the breath from his lungs, an ancient and angry atmosphere unlike the spectral. No, it was pure history that hounded him. For some reason he had realized just where he was and it kept him alert, almost paranoid, until the morning light illuminated the window above his bed. He thought of old Nuremberg, of what had happened there, of what was hidden under the ground, molded with the cement that held the house together.
Patrick could breathe now, as if the darkness had a constrictive hold on his body and brought with it all his doubts about his ability to perform this task. He felt like a tightrope walker, halfway across the chasm when he unintentionally looks down. By now he was established here in his role, his mission clear, his basic trust secured — and now he looked down, discovering that the chasm below breathed harder to sway his rope, threatening to send him plummeting to the rocks below. He could not turn back, neither could he continue. Caught in the middle he was left to fend off his demons and the dreadful second thoughts plaguing his capabilities.
A knock at his door startled him.
"Herr Braun? I have some breakfast for you. Are you up?" Her voice was kind and her tone polite. It was Elsa. The porcelain skinned blond haired woman stood holding a tray when he opened the door.
"Ah! Vielen dank, Elsa," he smiled and took the tray from her.
"English breakfast," she smiled, her mouth still contorted in the same position. She gave him a long look, longer than appropriate and it made him feel uneasy. Her clear blue eyes were wise and old, though her body was nowhere near the wear of years and the way she looked at him implied that she knew more than he thought.
"When you are done, you can leave the tray. I'll get it when I clean your room," she stated and turned on her heel to return to the kitchen. The wind whipped up her hair, revealing a smudge of ink under on her neck. A curious tattoo Patrick would not have minded inspecting some time before his assignment was complete. He smiled and thrust a corner of toast into his mouth, ravenous after his trying night. Something about the way she announced his English breakfast unsettled him. The company he presumably worked for was English, so his odd drop in accent was perfectly acceptable, yet he had a feeling she meant something more concrete.
Why did she say that? She could have said "breakfast" on its own, he mulled it over. It kept haunting him, although he was fully aware that his day needed no mental obstacles, should he have to deal with Eickhart again. After he took a hot shower and got dressed in jeans, flannel and Caterpillars, he took up the plans designed by the old man and marveled at the precision of the measurements. It had nothing to do with the virus strains or the rogue operative he needed to find, but he could not help but find it fascinating.
Heading out to the excavation area where construction was commencing soon, he looked up at the fresh morning sky. Plans tucked under his arm he greeted all who passed him, from the maids to the security, while he was still working his way through the last slice of toast and jam. Patrick stepped into the pit of gravel to check the level of the floor area when his phone rang. With his hands sticky from the jam, he attempted to reach his cell in his jean pocket, but in the process dropped the device on the ground.
"Shit," he snapped, as the melody repeated itself over and over. At once, the ground started to shudder. Alarmed, Patrick looked up at the staff working on the grounds elsewhere, entirely unaware of the tremor he was experiencing. It stopped. He shoved the rest of the toast into his mouth to pick up his phone and as it repeated the tune, another tremor rolled through the building site.
"What the fuck?" he said to himself, as the pattern emerged. Allowing the cell phone to ring, he noticed that, at a certain pitch, the sound emitted prompted the ground to shake under him. What unsettled him most was that only the area dug out was under the influence of the sound waves, leaving the rest of the yard undisturbed. He picked up the phone, spooked.
"Braun."
"Are you on the premises?"
"Yes."
"Ready for briefing?"
"Soon."
"Am Freitag, bitte. Wiedersehen."
"Yes," he replied slowly as the caller hung up, "Friday would be perfect for my balls to get busted. God, how did I get myself into all this weird Nazi shit?" Patrick shook his head and sighed as he paced the length and width of the area, just to make sure nothing else could cause the strange quake he felt twice.
"What is so special about this area? Why would the Spear of Destiny be kept here in a chamber with amplified acoustics?" he wondered under his breath.
A tap on a window drew his attention and he looked up to the tall second-story window it came from. Elsa, sporting the same grin she had that morning, beckoned with her index finger. Unsure, Patrick pointed to himself with a questioning countenance and she nodded.
"Now what would the housekeeper want with me? Fucking hell, I ask myself a lot of questions today," Patrick mumbled to himself, as he made his way to the mansion's back porch area and entered to skip hastily up the staircase. The house smelled like a museum and had quite the same semblance, but quaint as it might have been, knowing that the wealth and rarities inside it came drenched in blood and atrocity, made his stomach churn.
All the things he passed on his way — the paintings, the vases, the statues — were actual war crimes unpunished. Items belonging to families wiped out in genocidal madness stood about him, silent onlookers carrying the spirits of former owners, waiting to be vindicated. It made Patrick's skin crawl.
Reluctant to burst into the room where Elsa had called him to, he slowed his pace on approach to the threshold of the door. He looked around for Eickhart or his personal assistants, but the old man was in his office two rooms up in the wide hallway. The scarlet carpeting bled into all six rooms on this side of the staircase, making them uniform. Eickhart's voice echoed from his open door and Patrick perked his ears to listen.