The Vault of Hercules

Chapter 8

Across the border of Ethiopia, traversing Eritrea's eastern region, northeast bound, Purdue fled with his illegitimate prize. The way he saw it, it could not be construed as a capital crime to steal an artifact that was, in fact, a cheap knock-off of the item spoken of in history. If he had stolen the Holy Grail he would absolutely be demonized by the world's academic society as a plain grave robber, but to procure a very bad duplicate of a legendary relic was hardly worthy of guilt.

Still, he felt guilty about the men who had lost their lives and livelihoods because of his zealousness for the item, not to mention the contrition for shaking the faith of a thousand years for the men of the village. But above all this, Purdue felt only relief at his own escape. He couldn’t wait to return to his home, Wrichtishousis, in Edinburgh, to investigate the contents of the wooden chest.

If he could find anything interesting inside it, he would feel that, to some measure, Adjo's death would be vindicated. Purdue still fully intended to remunerate the Egyptian's family as he had promised. Dave Purdue was wealthier than a sultan, yet he never forgot those who helped him or those who saved him when he’d naught but a glimmer of hope and a whole lot of craziness to go on. A sick sadness filled him when he looked over the sporadic lights on the desert surface, where only a few tents or bungalows served as shelter. The noise of the helicopter lulled him to a strange numbness, after the close calls he had endured during the day.

First, the tabernacle had collapsed and he’d been cussed and cursed out by locals for intruding. Then he’d had to leave the failed excavation with empty hands after months of careful financial funding, followed by the bad threat under the mountain. Finally, his insatiable need to feed his curiosity and his obsession with history had caused a good man his life. It was a day Purdue wished he could redo, relive, and ultimately change to be quite different. He imagined the news of Adjo's death reaching the man's family and it depressed him deeply.

“Where are we now, Larsen?” he asked the pilot.

Larsen's green eyes moved to the instruments before he confirmed, “Just passed Rama, sir. We should reach the border in the next fifteen minutes.”

“The border with Eritrea?” Purdue asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Purdue sighed. “As soon as we get to Asmara, we can load this relic onto the cargo plane. You did book the cargo plane, right?”

“Of course, Mr. Purdue,” Larsen replied, sounding every bit as surprised as he was that his boss still thought to ask such a thing. After all, Larsen had been one of Purdue's pilots for many years and knew the protocols of retrieval flights and jet-setting very well by now.

“I'm sorry.” Purdue exhaled hard. “It’s just been a trying day and I want to get back home as soon as possible. Nothing more needs to go wrong on this excursion. I should know better than to hire only men from local and surrounding settlements. This time I did just that, because I’d gotten tired of putting my friends' lives in danger whenever I wanted to chase after something like this, you know?”

“I agree, sir. Better to pay people to risk their lives, I say. That way they’re not doing you a favor or a service. That way, they agree that what is coming to them is entirely business,” Larsen comforted his boss. These were words that Purdue needed to hear, however loosely cemented they were on a foundation of sycophantic consolation.

But what Larsen was saying was, in fact, was the opposite of what Purdue was admitting — that involving close acquaintances and friends was actually the best way to go about it. He agreed with what Larsen had said, but using strangers posed many threats: threats of betrayal, threats of assassination, and threats of employing double agents to cheat him out of his finds. “Either way is a conundrum, Larsen. Using hired hands could get me jailed or killed… have my finds stolen from under me; while using my friends for peace of mind runs the risk of baring the guilt of their possible demise in the process.”

“It’s a difficult decision, sir. One would think mixing the two would yield the answer, but instead of doubling your capabilities during such an expedition, one would just be increasing the risk of both problems coming to fruition. I suppose it’s a gamble, no matter how you work it, sir,” Larsen explained, giving his honest opinion this time. “So what are you going to do?”

“We cannot let them take this item from me. I have to prove it a fake if only to get to keep it. Once the authorities know that this is not the Ark of the Covenant as spoken of in legend and Biblical contexts, the Ethiopian government and the International Historical Societies will cease to write me up as a common grave robber and stop trying to arrest me.” Purdue was reciting the good alibi he’d been formulating for stealing another country's historical relic.

As he looked into the darkness around the craft only illuminated by the lights of the controls, he continued more to himself, “It never bothered me in the past. I would flash the cash and procure a dozen willing scientists, historians, archaeologists…” he looked at Larsen, “… pilots. Now I actually care about the fate of the individuals I involve. I’ve finally crumbled, Larsen. I fear to admit this, but I seem to have become a rather humane and considerate madman.”

A day later, Purdue and his crew touched down at RAF Milltown's lonely airstrip to return his private jet to its clandestine home under the secondary hangar marked 'Squadron Darling — SA Bulldog.' Inside the over-sized hangar lived a small 121 Model, long since as abandoned as its glory days in the RAF. But it was merely a decoy in times of emergency, when it would be hoisted up and the floor it stood on would fall away on the east side to create a ramp. This ramp was utilized by Dave Purdue's companies to access his aircraft, well out of sight of any prying organizations.

He owned the local radius of grounds for some magnitude around, and wherein the pinnacles of radio antennas peeked out in between dry trees, reaching for the airwaves. The place had been converted for different uses over time, which is why Purdue had purchased some of it. That way, his little part of the property could not be traced under the umbrella of various owners and he had the desolate and unassuming grounds to cover his subterranean hangars.

The purpose of the base had been quite confusing, since it had been built as a RAF bombing decoy in the Second World War. It was the perfect place for Purdue to hide his flight craft. B1- and T1-type hangars populated the flat coastal site, remnants of the base's initial services as an airfield and training unit for the Coastal Command and Bomber Command. With the Royal Navy taking command after the war and employed as the Deck Landing Training School, the compound once more sprouted a larger purpose relating to air operations, whether military or civilian.

This historically rife location was an asset to someone like Dave Purdue, quite the find in itself for his flying endeavors, when he needed such. After his constant run-ins with the malice of the Order of the Black Sun and their abilities to reach their tentacles into any international real estate transactions they chose, Purdue had elected to go underground, so to speak. And it had been working swimmingly.

“Afternoon, Mr. Purdue!” the third shift security guard greeted cordially as Purdue emerged from the Squadron Darling hangar.

“Afternoon,” Purdue smiled, already feeling better about his death-trailed escaped from Ethiopia now that he was on home soil. “Will you make sure my flight crew take the shuttle I hired from this checkpoint, please?”

“Of course, sir,” the security officer nodded. Purdue always had a shuttle available for his crewmembers to arrive safely at their own homes after a few days away. “And you, sir?”

Purdue waved dismissively at the inquiry. “Oh, no, no, thank you. I’m taking one of the private fleet vehicles. I’ve had enough of being chauffeured about, believe me.” He chuckled with the friendly security man who gave him the necessary log documents to fill out and sign.

“Pardon my forwardness, sir, but aren't you taking the daring approach a bit far here?” the security officer asked Purdue.

“How do you mean?” Purdue asked, barely looking up from the papers he was perusing.

The man whispered, “Transporting such a priceless relic in an unguarded vehicle seems, um, a bit careless? Aren't antiques and historical valuables usually transported in some kind of…” he shrugged with a layman's look, “convoy or armored vehicle?”

Purdue laughed slyly and finally met eyes with the concerned security guard. “My friend, that is precisely what they would expect, is it not?”

The man's face lightened up and he smiled suddenly. Wagging an index finger at the billionaire, he chuckled, “Ah! I see! I see what you’re doing, Mr. Purdue. You’re a sly fox with a keen mind for evasion. I think the Secret Service or one of them covert government agencies should take lessons from you.”

“Oh, believe me, officer,” Purdue smiled, “some people can be taught lessons a million times over and not learn a bloody thing.”

“Like some sly evasive actions can be out-thought by those who recognize your psychology?” a woman's voice asked. The security officer stiffened awkwardly at the woman's remark and stepped one pace back from Purdue to regain his professional position as guard. Purdue was still signing, not bothering to look up at the guard or the woman. He simply replied, “It is my prerogative, I believe, to reveal my psychology to those whom I trust, my dear Nina.”

Dr. Nina Gould could not help but smile while he was not looking, but the security guard noticed her smile yield to a firm expression when Purdue looked up to greet her. “You haven't forgotten my voice, I see,” she said, clumsily starting the small talk, but he tolerated it. After trying so hard to win back her trust and cultivating a renewed friendship with Nina, he would forgive her just about anything — even more than he used to.

From the shadow of the security office the guard chuckled in amusement. He did not mean for them to hear, but he could not help but react to the revelation of the woman's identity.

“Can I help you?” Nina asked firmly.

“No, ma'am. Apologies,” he replied, clearing his throat awkwardly. It was plain that he couldn’t take his eyes off Nina, something she was quite used to, but there was something about his stare that unsettled her into a feisty response. “Look, officer, why don’t you just come out and say what you’re thinking?”

The man removed his beret like a respectful funeral attendee, wringing the hat in his hands. The lady was adamant, so he was forced to oblige her. “I'm sorry, madam, but… aren't you that Lady Godiva who saved that other lady from a serial killer or something?”

Purdue tucked his head down to muffle a giggle, though he was not aware of what had happened in his absence from the United Kingdom.

“Aye,” Nina sighed, relinquishing her need to flare into fury for the vexing remark. At her reply the security guard looked awfully satisfied, which perplexed Purdue. He felt like he’d missed something everyone else knew.

“Oh, do tell,” he smiled, folding his arms gleefully. To have Nina referred to as a historical nude noblewoman was just too good to abandon curiosity for. She rolled her eyes. Addressing the security man directly, Nina shrugged, “Just tell him.”

Beaming in delight, the officer smiled, “I don't have to. I have the clip on me phone!”