Deep Sea One (28 page)

Only when Sam put his hand on hers and caressed her back with the other, did she snap out of her admission. He said nothing. She took pause before continuing in a gentler tone, "In 2003 a British metallurgist was allowed to examine the spear and he determined that it dated from
AD
seventh century. It was not old enough to have been the one from Golgotha, Sam," she said. Whispering, she spoke near his ear, "I think this one is."

By her tone of voice Sam could feel the chill of what she insinuated. Nina, the sober-minded historian, the workaholic academic, was terrified. However, he did not want to perpetuate her assumptions.

"All right, then. Study it. Take it through all the tests you need to date it and if you find that it is older than the more famed one I will document it on film, I will publish it and we will have to decide what to do with it," he coaxed, hoping she was wrong about the object's alien intelligence and apparent malice.

"Hitler started a world war to acquire this thing, only, I don't think he obtained the correct item. If a man as evil as that plummeted the entire world into despair to procure it, do you think he did it to cure cancer? To obtain riches that would provoke the envy of Midas? To have power over nations?" she rambled incessantly.

"Hitler did want the Spear of Destiny so that he would have power over nations, Nina," he tried, but she was not done.

"He did have power, Sam! He did! With a fake religious icon, six centuries too young, in his possession he swept through the world like a plague. It was all him. But had he had the true spear . . . .this Spear, Sam . . . I believe he could wield its evil to bring forth something far, far more emphatically devastating to the world," Nina ranted, as quietly as she could.

Sam could feel the truth in her madness, see the conviction in her argument while her lips quivered. Like someone who had come on the greatest secret in history she shivered as the insight capsized her beliefs. Even now, merely in the presence of the relic, Nina Gould had become a lunatic emissary for its intent. He could not believe how her words flowed as if she was steered to knowledge by some unseen presence and soon he allowed the absurdity to settle in his mind and nestle in his considerations.

"Nina."

"Sam, this artifact contains the essence of evil. It enforces a . . . a . . . karma, I dare say, to those who seek out greed and power. It seeks a master becoming of its malevolence, so that it can turn men to vessels—"

"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.

He heard Eickhart speak to someone on the phone, but the ambience of the house made it difficult for him to hear everything. In the conversation he heard keywords he would research later. Words such as platform, contaminants, gathering, Lanze and Purdue stood out and with his training Patrick effortlessly memorized them all as Elsa appeared, impatient, in the doorway. As he came closer to her, he heard Eickhart use a name, but he was not sure if it was the person the old man was addressing on the phone or someone in the discussion, but he memorized that too—Calisto.

"Herr Braun, as an architect, I was wondering if you could give us some advice on the window frame of this room," she said. At first Patrick thought she was jesting, but then he noticed various sample drawings of windows on the coffee table of the room.

"Considering the height of your ceiling and the amount of light you want, I would have to go with this one," he said as he pointed to one of the samples depicting a tall, wooden-frame style.

"And I was thinking that watery-looking, obscured glass instead of typical window glass. What would you say? Would it spoil the view much? I don't want everyone down there just looking in, you see?" Elsa babbled, yet she stood on the other side of the room, nowhere near the window. Patrick felt something off about her performance. Did she want him to stand at the window for a reason? In his mind he imagined scenes from action movies where men like him would be thrashed through the glass and thrown from the window.

Now she was not smiling, which actually suited him better. He never trusted people who smiled all the time—like clowns. Torn between his suspicion and her intentions, Patrick elected to slowly make his way to the window while speaking to Elsa, so that he could keep an eye on her while fooling her into mundane conversation.

"You have interesting taste, Elsa," he said, moving toward the window. His distrust was dismissed as she nodded, "Please pick the one you think best before you go. I have to get to the dusting or else this mausoleum will grow cobwebs within the day. Please excuse me." With that she left the room and Patrick was alone, unharmed and feeling especially paranoid. Like the breakfast remark that morning he could not help but feel that she had invited him up here for a reason. Her striking blue eyes constantly pinned him as if subliminally sending him a message, something he noticed again a few minutes before.

Wavering slightly in his purpose he went to the window, which did not look like it needed remodeling at all. A scowl haunted his brow as he tried to decipher the woman's odd behavior and strange request. First he looked at the especially wide windowsill outside, not seeing anything wrong with any of the structural work. Then he saw it.

Patrick's mouth fell open as he looked down over the excavation area, cordoned off for his pending construction job. Fumbling roughly for his phone he heard Eickhart's voice fall silent after ending his call. Patrick felt his heart racing. He had to make haste as not to be discovered by the old man while snapping pictures of the area stretching out below. The house had wooden floors, yet it was difficult to hear footsteps on account of the plush carpeting. He had no way of knowing when someone was approaching. From the second-story window he could see the diagram, a large occult schematic encompassing the entire building site where the chamber was to be built to house the holy relic.

"No fucking way," he whispered. "This is incredible."

He snapped a few pictures of the motif on the ground, which reminded him of pagan burial grounds and lay-line markings.

"What the fuck is going on here? The next Stonehenge?" he marveled. Its precision was flawless and completely undetectable from the ground. In the room up the hallway he heard the robotic sound of Eickhart's wheelchair moving. Briskly he put the phone back in his pocket and sat down on the couch, immersing himself in the different samples Elsa had supplied him with.