“No,” he said after a few seconds of scanning through each name’s record, “not Algeria.”
Sam was at the coffee table, having actual coffee from the percolator so coveted by Agatha the day before. He had his laptop open, emailing a few sources to help him trace the origin of the lore behind the old soldier who wrote a poem about the world’s lost treasure that he claimed to have laid eyes on during his stay with an Egyptian family.
One of his sources, a kind old Moroccan editor from Tangiers, responded within an hour.
He sounded stunned that the story had reached a modern-day European journalist like Sam.
The editor replied, “As far as I know, that story is but a myth told over two world wars by legionnaires here in North Africa to keep the hope alive that there was some magic in this savage part of the world. Not really ever considered to have any flesh on those bones. But send me what you have and I’ll see what I can help with from this side.”
“Is he trustworthy?” Nina asked. “How well do you know him?”
“I have met him twice, when I covered the skirmishes in Abidjan back in 2007 and again at the World Disease Charity’s convention in Paris three years later. He is solid. Very skeptical, though,” Sam recalled.
“That is a good thing, Sam,” Purdue said and tapped Sam on the back. “Then he will not see this assignment as more than fool’s errand. That is better for us. He will not want a piece of what he doesn’t believe to exist, will he?” Purdue grinned. “Send him the copy of the page. We’ll see what he can get from it.”
“I wouldn’t just go sending copies of this page to anyone, Purdue,” Nina warned. “You don’t want it out on the airwaves that this legendary story could have historical validity to it.”
“Your concerns are noted, dear Nina,” Purdue assured her, his smile somewhat sorrowful at the loss of her love, certainly. “But we need to know that for ourselves too. Agatha knows practically nothing about her client, who could just be some rich kid who inherited family heirlooms and wants to see if he can get something for this journal on the black market.”
“Or he could be baiting us, you know?” she accentuated her words to make sure both Sam and Purdue understood that the Black Sun’s council could be behind this from the beginning.
“Doubt it,” Purdue replied instantly. She reckoned he knew something she did not and therefore had the confidence to roll the dice. Then again, when did he ever not know something others did not. Always one step ahead and furiously secretive about his dealings, Purdue showed no concern for Nina’s notion. But Sam was not as dismissive as Nina. He gave Purdue a long look of anticipation. Then he hesitated to send the email before saying, “You seem awfully bloody certain that we are not being… coaxed.”
“I love how you three are trying to have a conversation without my realizing that there is more to what you are saying. But I know all about the organization and how it has been the bane of your existence since you inadvertently fucked with several of its members. My God, children, this is why I hired you!” she laughed. For once Agatha spoke like a cogent client, not some barmy waif with too much time out of the sun.
“She was, after all, the one who hacked into the Black Sun’s servers to activate your financial status… children,” Purdue reminded them with a wink.
“Well, you don’t know all of it, Miss Purdue,” Sam replied.
“But I do. My brother and I might be in constant competition in our respective fields of expertise, but some things we do share. Information about Sam Cleave and Nina Gould’s trying task for the infamous Brigade Apostate is not exactly covert, not when you speak Russian,” she hinted.
Sam and Nina were shocked. Would Purdue then know that they had to find Renata, his ultimate secret? How would they ever get her now? They looked at each other with a bit more worry than they wished.
“Not to worry,” Purdue broke the silence. “Let us help Agatha obtain her client’s artifact and the sooner we do that… who knows… we might be able to come to some arrangement to secure your allegiance with the brigade,” he said, looking at Nina.
She could not help but recall the last time they had spoken before Purdue disappeared without a proper explanation. His “arrangement” obviously meant a rekindled, unquestionable loyalty to him. After all, in their last conversation he assured her that he had not given up on getting her back from Sam’s embrace, from Sam’s bed. Now she knew why he also had to have the upper hand in the Renata/ Brigade Apostate matter.
“You’d better keep your word, Purdue. We… I… am running out of shit-eating spoons, if you catch my drift,” Sam warned. “If this goes south, I’m out, for good. Gone. Never to be seen in Scotland again. The only reason I have come this far was for Nina.”
A tense moment had them all quiet for a second.
“Good, now that we all know where we stand and how far we are all riding until we get to our stations, we can proceed to send the email to the Moroccan gentleman and start following up on the rest of these names, right, David?” Agatha directed the group of awkward colleagues.
“Nina, would you like to come with me to my appointment in town? Or do you fancy another threesome with these two?” Purdue’s sister asked rhetorically, and without waiting for an answer, she took up her antique satchel and placed the significant document inside. Nina looked at Sam and Purdue.
“Will you two play nice while Mummy’s gone?” she jested, but her tone was brimming with sarcasm. It pissed Nina off when the two men insinuated that she belonged to them in some form. They just stood there, Agatha’s usual brutal honesty having shaken them to their senses for the task at hand.
Chapter 16
“Where are we going?” Nina asked after Agatha procured a rental car.
“Halkirk,” she told Nina as they started driving. The vehicle bore south and Agatha looked at Nina with a peculiar smile. “I’m not kidnapping you, Dr. Gould. We’re going to see a graphologist I was referred to by my client. Beautiful place, Halkirk,” she added, “right on the River Thurso and not more than a fifteen-minute drive from here. Our appointment is at eleven, but we’ll get there before then.”
Nina could not argue. The landscape was breathtaking and she regretted not getting out of the city more to see the countryside of her native Scotland. Edinburgh was beautiful in its own right, fraught with history and life, but after her consecutive ordeals of the recent years she considered taking up residence in a smaller village on the Highlands. Here. Here would be good. From the A9 they turned onto the B874 and headed westward to the small town.
“George Street. Nina, look for George Street,” Agatha told her passenger. Nina whipped out her new phone and activated her GPS mapping with a childish grin that amused Agatha into a hearty chuckle. When the two women found the address, they took a moment to catch their breath. Agatha hoped that analysis of the handwriting could somehow shed light on who the writer was, or better yet, what was written on the obscure page. Who knows, Agatha reckoned, a professional who looked at handwriting all day would surely be able to make out what was written there. She knew it was a stretch, but it was worth exploring.
As they stepped out from the car the gray skies breathed a pleasant light drizzle over Halkirk. It was cold, but not uncomfortably so, and Agatha clutched her old case against her chest, covering it with her coat as they ascended long cement stairs up to the front door of the small house at the end of George Street. It was a quaint little dollhouse, Nina thought, that looked like something from a House & Home edition of Scotland. Impeccably shorn, the lawn looked like a patch of velvet just thrown in front of the house.