The Hunt for Excalibur

16 The Blissful Boredom of Sam Cleave

“I have told you before and I am telling you again. There is nothing I am hiding!” he panted. “I swear. That was all I had! Look, I will make you a deal. If you let me go, I can find out where the rest is, alright?”

Green eyes leered at Sam, having none of it. His pleas fell on deaf ears, but he had to persist, otherwise it would derail his plans. “Listen, Bruich, I promise that I will just be a few minutes. I will be back before you know it,” Sam tried again, but his giant ginger cat persisted in the pathetic glare of neglect. It was five minutes before kick-off and Sam had gone shopping for snacks to watch during the game, but forgot to get Bruichladdich’s favorite nibble.

“Okay, listen, half time! Half time I will get your Webbox sticks, I promise,” Sam negotiated. The huge feline was unperturbed, but the whistle sounded on the flat screen’s speakers. Similar to a gallows bell tolling for a doomed criminal, the poor cat knew that all bets were off. Sam lunged sideways onto his couch, popping open a Heineken and kicking back.

Not impressed, the cat leapt onto the coffee table, capsizing Sam’s guacamole dish onto the floor. Usually, Sam would have shoved his feline roommate off the table for his insolence, but this time he reckoned he had it coming. “Well done, you bastard,” he muttered as he dashed for a cloth and cleaned up most of the mess. Bruichladdich sat atop the table, licking his paw without a care while Sam missed the first few minutes of the footie.

As soon as Sam had finally returned everything back to normal, his phone rang.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he bellowed. “That was what I forgot!” Referring to switching off his phone and communication devices, Sam could feel Bruich mentally adding, ‘That was not all you forgot, dipshit.’ Sam, however, was not going to answer, letting the phone ring out until the caller ceased the need to speak to him. He summarily grabbed the cell phone and was about to switch it off when he saw who had been trying to contact him.

“Purdue?” Sam read. “Why now?”

Sam was not one of the best investigative journalists in the world for naught. The only thing he excelled at more than investigating illegal activities, was being inquisitive. His curiosity was his most powerful driving force, and that counted for phone calls as well.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he muttered as he gave in to his urge and called back. “Purdue! I was about to watch the game. How are you?”

“Well, thanks Sam!” Purdue exclaimed in his old jovial way. “Listen, I get the hint about the footie, so I will keep this short. How would you like to join me and some people tomorrow evening for the inauguration of my new and improved dining hall?”

Sam chuckled. “Dining hall, you say. It used to be a dining room. Is it bigger now? Or did you make it all Game of Thronesy?”

Purdue laughed, “Almost right, I suppose. No, the renovations are complete and it has a new, shall we say, image. Come and join us, will you?”

“Is Nina coming?” Sam asked inadvertently, keeping Bruich away from his beer.

“Already confirmed,” Purdue answered.

“Who else is going to be there? The rich and ridiculous, I presume. Do I have to dress like a penguin again?” Sam babbled, watching the first goal miss by his team as he spoke. He heard Purdue laughing.

“Nah, old cock. Just smart casual, nothing fancy. I am having some new acquaintances over in the antiques business, so we will be no more than a handful of people,” Purdue informed him. Bought this amazing antique table from them at an auction hosted by the Euphrates Society. Nina is going to be so jealous, but do not tell her anything if she calls you, okay?”

“‘Course not,” Sam agreed blindly, not really listening anyway. He just wanted to get back to the game. “Listen, I will see you then tomorrow night, Purdue?”

“Yes, yes, go on. Go watch your team losing again,” Purdue chuckled.

Only a while after the phone call did Sam realize that something was off about the information Purdue gave him about the table. During a momentary lapse of concentration on the fieldwork, the phone conversation came back to him like a bad burrito.

“Euphrates Society,” he said to himself. “I know that name. Don’t I know that name?”

Throughout the entire first half, Sam tried to recall the significance of the organization Purdue spoke about, but his memory eluded him. Frustrated, he looked up the name on the internet while keeping his eye on the game, but it yielded nothing suspicious. What he could find was a website that included a link for donations from private collections and funding of museums. For good measure to ease his mind, Sam followed the private collections link to find a list of previous donations. Not really focusing, Sam’s sharp mind had a tendency to record information, even when he was not really trying to memorize details.

The list read as long as the rest of the page down, citing different names from throughout the world. From military veteran officers to archeologists, Hollywood celebrities and Arabian Emirs, all merited a place on the ladder of esteemed members due to their generosity toward the society and its beneficiaries.

“Hmm,” Sam scoffed, impressed. It was no small organization trying to get rich people to appease their charity efforts, nor was it a small-fry company trying to trick people like Purdue into funding it. No, from what Sam read on the website, the Euphrates Society was so legit, that he was surprised it was not better known.

Then again, in his profession he had previously learned that the big knobs usually do not have to brag about it. Most legitimately powerful publishing houses and antique dealers moved under the radar, simply because they had the clientele and the reputation already. These companies did not need to advertise or acquire new blood — ever. Intrigued, Sam bookmarked the website for further study later, as he had five hundred quid on this game.

Since his last assignment for Channel 8, covering a human trafficking scam masked as a talent agency, Sam had spent a blissful three weeks doing nothing, in other words ‘important guy stuff’. The pub grew tiresome, as did the gym sessions with Tara, the Olympian nymphomaniac. He knew that, eventually, he would have to beg Purdue for something more adventurous than a house-warming party for the new dining hall. Soliciting Nina had become predictable and futile, so he hoped that she would indulge too much tomorrow night.

Other than that, he watched the footie like a drone, his shouts of fouls and blind referees coming with intervals. Bruich curled up lazily on the carpet, having accepted that he would not be getting his stick snacks while the humans on the square ran frantically chasing the black and white dot on the green.