The Black Sun Conspiracy

Chapter Twenty-Seven

There was silence in the room for some time after Axelle left. Nina drew her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them, staring into the fire. Sam slowly sipped his whisky. When he had finished his he picked up Axelle’s untouched glass from beside her chair and started on that. He looked over at Purdue, who sat still and silent in the corner, his eyes fixed on Nina, awaiting her response.

From the depths of Sam’s mind, memories that he had not allowed himself to revisit began to force their way into his consciousness. There had only been one situation in his life that had found him in a similar position… the day he and Trish had made up their minds whether to pursue the story of the arms ring or abandon it.

They had got home in the early hours of the morning, back to the tiny flat in Stratford, still full of boxes of Trish’s belongings yet to be unpacked. Sam’s muscles were cramped and sore after a long evening spent hiding out in the cleaners’ cupboard next to Charles Whitsun’s suite in the Century Hotel in Mayfair, listening to Trish’s conversation with him over an earpiece and furiously transcribing as much as he could.

After months of wrangling her way into Whitsun’s circles, Trish had eventually succeeded in capturing his attention. She was posing as a fashion journalist, a lie that was close enough to the truth to stick. It justified her interest in his circle of friends, or at least in their designer-garment-wearing wives. It brought her close enough to him that he had — inevitably, to Sam’s mind — noticed her many attractions and started asking her out. She had hesitated at first, partly to prolong their interactions and partly out of concern that she might be compromising her ethics for the sake of a story. It was not until Whitsun dropped the first mention of a deal done in Afghanistan, a lucrative deal selling arms to the highest bidder, that Trish decided that it was worth compromising herself far enough to learn whether there was any truth in his tale.

After a couple of weeks of dinners, parties and long, late-night conversations, Trish was on the point of learning the truth. Whitsun was not a cautious man, and it was clear that he believed that this starry-eyed fashionista was attracted to powerful men with military connections. As he worked harder and harder to get her into bed, he had grown more reckless and told her far more than he should have.

Crouched in that cupboard, Sam had listened to Charles Whitsun dropping the names of rich and powerful men — politicians, financiers, newspaper editors — and regaling Trish with accounts of his close personal friendships with them, all while trying to persuade her to stay the night. Judging by the volume and the wet smacking sounds in his earpiece, Sam could only imagine that Whitsun was somewhere behind Trish, perhaps with his arms around her, sweeping her hair out of the way to kiss the nape of her neck. It made Sam deeply uncomfortable.

And then he had offered Trish the prize. In ten days, Whitsun told her, some mates of his from Dubai were going to be in town and they had asked him to cast an expert eye over some merchandise for them. He wanted Trish to meet them. He wanted them to meet her. His new girlfriend, sexier than their trophy wives by far. Of course, he made it clear that he needed to be able to consider Trish his girlfriend by that time…

She had escaped from his suite that night by pleading an early start the next day, and when they got home she and Sam had sat at the breakfast bar in their tiny kitchen, working their way through a bottle of Cava that Sam had lifted from the hotel and discussing what was to be done. This was the meeting Trish had been waiting for. This was her chance to discover the identities of the other members of the arms ring, and if they contacted the CID and Interpol she might bring it down altogether. But if anything went wrong…

“What if you didn’t?” Sam had asked her that night. “What if you just walked away now?”

Trish had twisted a loose curl around her finger, pulling it taut and then letting it spring back into place. “If I walk away he’ll wonder why. If he comes looking for me he’ll find out who I really am. He knows people, there’s every chance that he’ll find out what I’m up to, and if that happens I’m dead. He might find his way to you as well, and I’d never forgive myself if any harm came to you over this. And more to the point, these people would be able to continue doing what they’re doing unchecked. All I can do now is press on and hope that we can take them down before he finds out who I really am.” Sam remembered the pressure of her fingers as she took his hand and squeezed it. “Besides,” she had said, “if I wanted to be safe, I really would be a fashion journalist. This is what I’m here to do, Sam.”

He recalled how he had searched for an argument to counter hers. He longed to tell her that he would find a way to keep her safe, that if she just walked away from the story and stayed with him he would make sure that no well-connected enemies could touch her. But he knew he could not promise that. Nothing short of new identities and a life in hiding would have saved them by that point. He remembered the cold sensation that had washed over him like a bucket of iced water as he realized that they were in far, far too deep to turn back.

‘And this time,’ he thought, ‘even new identities and living in hiding won’t help. They’ll find us wherever we go. But this time, unlike last time, we have the option of subjecting ourselves to our enemies’ mercy…’

He watched Purdue watching Nina. He wondered if he would ever figure their relationship out — or if they would. He could not see them as lovers in the way that he and Trish had been lovers, sharing a free, easy and indisputable bond, unable to imagine life without each other. All he could see was Purdue’s determined pursuit and Nina’s desire to keep the world at arm’s length. But as he observed Purdue now he began to think that there was more genuine tenderness there than he had given the man credit for.

As if on cue, Purdue leaned forward and gently laid a hand on Nina’s, which were clasped in front of her shins, holding her folded legs in place. He said nothing, no apologies, explanations or attempts at persuasion. Just a touch. Nothing more. Nina freed a hand and took hold of his. She did not look at him. Sam, however, saw the flicker of relief on Purdue’s face as she reciprocated his gesture.

‘Whatever choice Nina makes, I’ll go with that,’ Sam decided. ‘No matter what Purdue’s allegiance might be, I’m pretty sure that no matter what happens he won’t let any harm come to Nina — and if that’s the case, whichever choice she makes is the right one.’