The Black Sun Conspiracy

Chapter Eighteen

Nina had eaten her fill, stuffing herself more than usual. She recalled having these intense hunger spikes sometimes before a nerve wrecking lecture or meetings with financiers when she was still infuriated by Professor Matlock on a daily basis at the University. Today had been one of those days, however this time she had no legitimate reason to feel this way. The soothing warmth of the coffee washing down her throat was just what she needed.

The sloping handwriting that stretched across the scroll was elegant and sweeping, almost calligraphic. Someone had put a lot of work into cultivating that handwriting, Sam could tell. ‘But then,’ he thought, ‘what would you expect from someone who takes the trouble to build this entire mad treasure hunt for the benefit of people he’ll never meet?’

Sam helped himself to a generous portion of Flemish rabbit stew from the serving bowl on the sideboard and cut himself a large slice of fresh brown bread to go with it before returning to join Nina and Purdue at the long refectory table. With another mystery trip imminent, he thought it best to fit in a decent meal while he could. The memories of living on lentils in the desert and freeze-dried macaroni and cheese in the tundra were still fresh enough to make him appreciate good food when it came his way.

“A bridge that’s got one end in the sea doesn’t sound like a lot of use,” he remarked, his mouth half-full.

“It’s Bruges,” said Nina. “At least I’m pretty sure it is. The name comes from the word for bridge — in Dutch, I think, but it’s the same in several languages. If you follow the canals up from Bruges you eventually get to Zeebrugge, which is basically Bruges-On-Sea. The North Sea, to be exact. And it’s more or less north-west from here.”

“It fits the other clues, too.” Purdue tore off a small piece of bread and rolled it into a pill before eating it. “The carillon in the belfry in Bruges is world famous — I believe the city is among the last to retain a permanent carillonneur, and the height of the structure would appear to lend itself to the final clue.”

“It’s that easy?” Sam was unconvinced. “So what, we just get on a train to Bruges, climb the belfry and that’s it? That step is done?”

“Apparently,” said Purdue, smiling slightly. “I do understand your disbelief, Sam. It seems a little too easy. But should we look for complications where perhaps, just for once, none exist?”

“I suppose not,” Sam shrugged. “When do we leave?”

“As soon as possible. I’ve sent a message to Matteus, and he has dispatched someone to arrange our travel and accommodation. Within the next couple of hours, we shall be on our way. And if everything goes according to plan, we should not have to do this again. Our days of safe houses should soon be at an end.”

Nina laughed, a little bitterly. “I’ll believe that when it happens.”

With a couple of hours to kill before their departure and nothing to pack since he had yet to unpack from the last move, Sam decided to use the time to write. He pulled the dog-eared notebook from his backpack and climbed out onto the fire escape to look over the work he had done so far.

To his surprise, Sam found himself a little bit sad to be leaving Ghent so soon. The room was not exactly luxurious, but he liked the tranquility of the place. Being three floors up, looking down over the weeds and long grass, having a smoke in the cold air and watching the sun set was quite calming, he felt. It would have been a good place to write.

‘Well, can’t be helped,’ he thought. ‘We’ll just have to see what Bruges brings. Let’s hope there’ll be separate rooms there, at least.’

He settled down and stared at the page, considering whether to press on and write the story of how Patricia had worked her way into Charles Whitsun’s circles or whether to make a proper outline. Sam’s tendency to write freely, with no more than a couple of bullet points as a plan, had always driven Trish crazy. She had been a meticulous planner, both in her work and in life.

Sam remembered the times when they had challenged each other to swap styles. Trish had taken hours to write a single short article, her thoughts constantly escaping for her as she attempted to work without her notes. Sam, on the other hand, had charged straight through the note-making stage and then found that words deserted him the moment he tried to write the full article. It had already taken shape and come to life in his head, so what was left to write? Every time they had sworn to accept the experiment as a wash-out and never repeat it, yet every so often they found themselves attempting it again, determined that this time they would prove that they could work differently.

‘It wasn’t that dissimilar from how we got together,’ Sam recalled. There had been an irresistible attraction between them from the very first day when Trish had come to work at the Clarion. Sam had dismissed it at first, assuming that she was only interested in talking to him because of his recently-won Pulitzer, like so many other younger journalists. Knowing that she was married, he had considered her off-limits.

Gradually, though, they had found themselves spending more and more time together while Trish and the man she had married too young were growing apart. There had been a drunken kiss followed by a promise that it would never happen again. There had been a night spent at Sam’s after a blazing row with her husband, followed by another similar promise. Then a short while later came the night when Sam blurted out his true feelings and Trish decided to end her marriage, packed a bag, arrived at Sam’s to stay the night and never left.

Sam glanced down at his page. There were no words, just an idle sketch in blue biro. The same rough sketch of Trish that he had drawn repeatedly in the early days of falling in love with her, but which he had never been able to draw again after her death. ‘I’m sure my therapist would say that’s progress,’ he thought.

The window creaked open behind him. Nina leaned out, her hair newly dyed and still a little damp. “That’s us,” she said. “Purdue says the car’s here. Are you ready to go?”

Sam nodded. “Back to brown?” he observed as he climbed back into the room.

“I thought I might as well.” Nina shook her head, showing off the glossy new color. “I missed it, and considering that whoever that was in Florence saw me as a blonde, there didn’t seem to be much point in keeping it as a disguise.”

“Fair point,” said Sam, grabbing his backpack. “It suits you. I might get you to help me do mine when it grows back in a bit.”

“What — cover the greys?” Nina dodged the pillow that Sam threw at her.

“Enough of your cheek,” Sam grinned, catching the pillow as it came soaring back towards his head. “Come on. The next leg of this weird scavenger hunt is waiting for us.”