The Black Sun Conspiracy

Chapter Thirty-One

“Are you ready to co-operate, Mr. Cleave?” The voice echoed around Sam’s room. Since his arrival he had been trying to figure out where the microphones and speakers were, but to no avail.

“I’ve no idea,” Sam replied, feeling foolish as he addressed the empty air. “Honestly. This isn’t bravado, I’ve genuinely got no clue what it is you want me to co-operate with. If you tell me a bit more — Christ, if you tell me anything at all — I might be able to give you an answer.”

“Very well.” A few beeps, a few clicks and the door to his room slid open. A pair of guards waited outside. “Go with them,” the voice instructed. “We shall negotiate.”

In a display of uncharacteristic obedience, Sam stepped out to meet the guards. They escorted him down the back stairs, down to the first floor, and came to a halt before a set of ornate double doors decorated with an elegant, abstract interpretation of the same Black Sun insignia he had seen so many times before. Untouched, the doors swung open and Sam was pushed forwards into a long, exquisitely decorated room, containing a large oval table. At the far end sat Renata, lounging in a gilded seat that Sam could only think of as a throne. She beckoned him to come closer and indicated that he should take the seat to her left.

‘Christ, what is it about the Black Sun high council and its predatory females? Lita Røderic, Sara Stromer, Greta Heller, now this mad cow…’

Up close Sam could see that what he had initially thought was a lectern was actually a raised touchscreen. She wiped it clear as soon as she noticed Sam looking at it, but not before he noticed that the display was divided into multiple small windows. He recognized his own empty cell in one of them, but Renata cleared the screen before he could catch a glimpse of Nina’s.

“So what are you asking me to co-operate with?” Sam asked bluntly. It seemed a waste of time to indulge in small talk with his captors.

Renata’s brow furrowed. “Have you never been taught the proper way to address me?”

“I’ve only got the faintest idea who you are,” Sam said. “Secrecy is one thing your colleagues have been very good at. All I know is that you’re called Renata.”

“My title is Renata. But you are correct, that is the name by which you will address me. The point is that you will address me by name.”

“If I were a member of your Order I’d address you by name,” Sam said. “But I’m not.”

“You could be. That is what I have asked you here to discuss.”

“Asked?”

Renata ignored the jibe. She flipped open a panel on the armrest of her chair to reveal a number of small buttons. At the touch of one of them a wall panel slid back to reveal a well-stocked bar. “Would you care for a drink, Mr. Cleave?”

At the sight of a bottle of Lagavulin, Sam found himself practically salivating — but he thought better of it. ‘Who knows what she’s up to.’ He thought. ‘I learned my lesson back at Parashant. Nobody’s drugging me out of my mind again unless I want them to!’ Renata poured a glass for herself. The scent wafted across the room. Sam inhaled greedily. ‘Focus on getting out of here, not on the drink,’ he told himself. ‘Yes, it’s been a few days, but I have more self-control than that…’ “Just water, please.” She handed him a sealed plastic bottle and a glass. Still wary from his previous experiences, Sam pushed the glass away and drank straight from the bottle. He waited for Renata to speak. She said nothing but began tapping the screen in front of her. Sam jumped as the whole table lit up and flickered into life.

Images of himself stared back at Sam from the polished surface. What he had taken for wood was nothing of the kind. The entire table was capable of functioning as an extension of the screen before Renata. One by one she highlighted the images in front of her and with a flick of her finger, sent them shooting and spinning across the table to create an extensive collage of Sam’s life.

Pictures he had never seen before were mixed in amongst familiar photos. ‘How on earth did they get these photos?’ he wondered as he caught sight of a particularly unflattering image of himself surrounded by a group of people he hadn’t seen since secondary school, all sporting signed shirts on their last day of sixth year. Another flew past, Sam with a girl he had briefly dated at university. ‘I can’t even remember her name. But surely that photo’s not on the internet, is it? I think it was taken with my camera. I don’t even think anyone else had a copy…’ There were also images harvested from newspapers — early byline photos, Sam accepting his Pulitzer, Sam looking dazed in the aftermath of the arms ring shoot-out. Then the more recent ones: Sam wrapped in a blanket, stepping off the boat in Ushuaia. Sam leaving the offices of the Edinburgh Post for the last time. Sam in the glass elevator of the Verbena Hotel, the fire extinguisher held aloft, seconds away from sending the FireStorm acolyte plunging to his death.

A snap of Sam and his friends engaging Lita inside the hall of Valhalla was followed by one of him leading Nina from Professor Kulich’s group in the tangled woods of Hoia Baciu. Then appeared a shot of him leaving the scene where Interpol grabbed Greta Heller’s son while Sam slipped off with Heinz Heller to escape arrest. These were all testament, not only to the more insignificant moments of his life, but to the incessant thwarting Sam had dealt agents of the Black Sun in the past years.

“Where did you get these?” he asked.

“That’s not important,” said Renata.

“Then what’s the point of this? You’re trying to show me that you’ve got control over me, right? That you’re everywhere? Well, I know that, so you can—”

“No, Mr. Cleave. The purpose of this is to impress upon you that we are interested in you, and that we have gone to some trouble to learn about you. You should feel flattered, not intimidated. We do not take such pains for everyone, and hardly anyone gets their invitation from me, personally.”

“And who are you, exactly?” Sam’s patience was beginning to wear thin. “It’s not easy to appreciate the honor you’re supposedly bestowing on me when I don’t know you from Adam.”

“The prize-winning investigative journalist hasn’t figured it out.” Renata chuckled and took a long sip of whisky.” I’m the head of the Order of the Black Sun, Sam.”

The words sank in slowly. Sam stared blankly at Renata. Then suddenly, involuntarily, he burst out laughing. Her expression turned sour at once. “You were expecting a man, perhaps?” she asked through pursed lips.

Sam spread his hands in a gesture of appeasement. “I wasn’t expecting anything! Frankly, if I had any expectation at all it was probably that I’d get killed off by some underling or other. I wouldn’t have thought that the head of a global secret society or however you’d describe it would have time to waste on the likes of me. I’m not really the kind of person who gets sit-down meetings with powerful people unless it’s part of my work.”

“You are right,” she said. Her tone thawed, but only a little. “As talented as you are, you are not the kind of person I would normally approach in person. Under normal circumstances, someone of your particular skills would be approached by a Member of the Fourth Level, or the Third at the very highest. You would be invited to become an Initiate, a Member of the Seventh Level, and it is very likely that you would never have learned my identity. I would have been aware that you had joined us, but we would have had no contact. However, considering the amount of trouble you have caused us and the failure of even a Member of the Third Level to bring you in… I thought it best to attend to the matter personally.”

Sam wondered who the Member of the Third Level had been. Not Purdue, presumably, since he had been trying to keep Sam away from the Order.

“The offer is this, Mr. Cleave,” she said, leaning back in her seat. “You are invited to join us. In light of your particular skills and everything you have already learned about us, you would be brought in as a Member of the Fourth Level. We propose to place you in a major newspaper. Any city in the world, any salary you like. However lavish the lifestyle you choose, we will fund it. You will be supplied with a list of the newspapers we would approve, but you will find it extensive. You will be doing what you have always done, what you have been so successful at doing, but the targets of your investigations will be provided by us. The work you produce will be consistent with the messages we wish to send to the world. You will be responsible, in part for the furthering of our aims.”

“Write your propaganda pieces, you mean? Take down anyone who happens to displease you? Will I have any way of knowing whether I’m investigating genuine corruption, genuine wrongdoing, or will I just have to trust you and your Order that any evidence I uncover is sound?”

Renata shrugged. “You may think what you like, Sam. Most of our members have already come around to our way of thinking by the time they join, but those few who join while still having doubts tend to get over them fairly quickly.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” said Sam. “But writing to order isn’t really what I do. I appreciate the offer, but honestly, I’d rather just get out of your hair.”

“Mr. Cleave, that argument is beneath you. You’re an intelligent man. I am sure you are aware that we cannot simply leave you to your own devices now. But in case there is any doubt remaining, let me make it perfectly clear… You will take this job and enjoy its many, many benefits, or you will not leave this place. Your reticence is unsurprising, and I understand that it is important to you to see yourself as a man of integrity. We would value your integrity… once you have been taught to appreciate our way of thinking.” She waited for Sam to speak. When he did not, she leaned forward and spoke into the panel in front of her in a language Sam did not know. “I can see that I have not persuaded you, and I have no more time to spend. Perhaps my colleague will succeed where I have failed. I look forward to having you join us, Mr. Cleave. When you are ready.”

She rose and strode out of the room, exiting through the double doors. As she left, a man Sam had not seen for some time entered, nodding respectfully to her as he passed. Sam looked the newcomer up and down, taking in the wiry frame, the mad black-brown hair, the husky eyes and the deep scar on his cheek.

“Alexandr,” he said with an involuntary smile. “Long time no see.”