The Black Sun Ascendant: An Assassin's Tale

SYNOPSIS:

Victor Colvin, assassin, reluctantly accepts one final job before putting away his gun for good. This assignment will take him across continents and through countries - dodging the local authorities who vow to take him down. Inadvertently, he also stumbles on an archaeological mystery and the beautiful, strong-willed archaeologist behind it.

Meanwhile, Doctor Ahu Eser, Chief Archaeologist at a Turkish excavation, is suddenly missing some recently discovered artifacts. To add to her troubles, some of her colleagues are murdered. Why has there been this theft? Who would want her people dead? Are these events linked, and if so, how?

As fate throws these two lives together, the one must use all his cunning to avoid capture and stay alive while the other will find herself stymied at every turn in her attempt to discover the truth. Visiting exotic locations in Canada, England, Italy, Germany, Switzerland, Turkey, and the United States, watch as their paths lead them through intrigue, mayhem and a little romance. Will they finally succeed? Find out in "THE BLACK SUN ASCENDANT: An Assassin’s Tale", (c.2010 & 2015), Book 1 of the "Black Sun Series".

THE BLACK SUN ASCENDANT:

An Assassin’s Tale

A Novel by

Hans V. von Maltzahn

Copyright © by Hans V. von Maltzahn, 2010 & 2015

Published by Hans V. von Maltzahn at Smashwords.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

ISBN: 978-1-4581-7642-4

Original series design by the Author with help from Smart Design Corporation of Mississauga.

SECOND eBook Edition.

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including any electronic or mechanical means, or through information storage and retrieval systems without express permission in writing from the Author or by Access Copyright licence or tariff (except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review).

DISCLAIMER: This book is a work of pure fiction. The characters and events herein presented are fictional and any resemblance to real persons (living or dead) or real occurrences (past, present, or future) are strictly coincidental. In addition, the opinions expressed by the characters in the book are not necessarily identical to those of the author.

The print versions of the Black Sun series of books are in a 12 point, Verdana font, while eBook versions are in 12 point, Times New Roman font.

To C. and my father, Hans Victor III,

who were my inspiration for Ahu and Victor.

THE BLACK SUN ASCENDANT:

An Assassin’s Tale

CHAPTER ONE

"The identity of all men is buried beneath the rubble

of their own histories."

Bill Granger, The British Cross, 1983.

May 2002.

He had made the commitment and there was no turning back now. As the low rumble of the engine and the chunga, chunga from the rail cars passing over the points grew louder, no power of will could delay this train's arrival. The weather had turned foul with the coming dusk and only helped to add to his sense of foreboding. Standing alone on the platform, rain trickling down his neck and matting the hair on the exposed portion of his scalp, he felt the sharp chill gnaw through to his skin.

Instinctively, he knew the train had made the final bend in the track and was beginning its approach toward the station; his insides churned in consort with the ground's vibrations as it advanced. The glare of train’s headlamps bathed the station in a milky glow while the rhythmic ‘thrum’ of its engine and piercing clang of the bell intensified into an auditory climax. Squinting against this brightness, the man forced his cap further down on his head and pulled his collar as high as it would go. The wall of air that preceded the train broke over him in waves. Preparing for its arrival, he wondered why he had said he would do this assignment; he sensed something about it was not right.

Descending upon the station's platform with a renewed ferocity, the train drove to within a few feet of where the man stood as he began his assault toward the platform's edge. Cutting a path through the wind, vibration, and noise chaos seemed defined in this very moment. Concerned only with boarding he neglected to notice that someone had come up behind him. A firm grip took hold of his shoulder, spun him around, and with a powerful thrust, pushed him into the path of the train. He could just make out above the noise, I bid you a good night, Mr. Glasgow! The last thing he saw before he fell was a shadow fleeing the platform.

*****

The shriek from the alarm clock jolted the man from his sleep; leaving him with his heart in his mouth, and racing to God knows where. Bathed in sweat he mumbled to himself, Damn this dream, why again? A shaft of sunlight pierced a crack in his curtains. Absently, he reached out and punched the alarm clock into silence. The choking rumble of a poorly tuned engine accompanied by the hollow clank of empty garbage cans tossed to the ground, filtered through the partially open, bedroom window. Looking at the clock, seven in the morning, he should have remembered that you could set your watch by these guys.

Automatically the man felt for the pistol he had placed under his pillow the night before - still there; would it ever be otherwise? The older he got the more he was second-guessing himself and this was a bad sign. Removing the Glock, he slipped it into its holster hanging on the bedpost by his night table and swung his feet over the edge of the bed, greeting the accompanying pain with a resigned grimace.

Arms, neck, shoulders, even his legs all ached and it seemed that the man could feel the sting of every old scar. In his youth, even the toughest jobs would never put him out of action for more than a few days; now it took months to get back to normal. Still, what complaints could he have? At 42 years of age, he had been in the business for eleven years and was way ahead of his peers who were in jail, in hiding, or dead. Ironically, he had not lost his reputation for being the best in the business, although he secretly knew he was slipping.

Lately he had begun to crave retirement, a wife, fat babies - a family; yet these feelings surprised him since the idea of being a husband and father had never appealed to him before. However, like a persistent throbbing at the back of his mind he could not rid himself of this idea of starting his own little clan. He knew however, that his clients would not let him retire quite so easily - they had become addicted to his fast and efficient methods. The gold watch and a comfortable retirement were not the way his line of work ended anyway, he thought to himself, smirking.

Padding to the washroom the man threw his sweat soaked pajamas in a laundry bin and then absently looked at his image in the mirror. He had heard a great line from Harrison Ford in one of the actor’s movies, It's not the age, but the mileage. Still, when he considered that his 200 plus pounds were mostly muscle and that he still had a full head of hair, graying and short, but all there, hey, he could be doing worse! He had even had the wife of his next-door neighbor tell him that he resembled another actor, Clive Owen, with his square jaw, dimpled chin, and broad forehead. Right - now if he could just wake up and get this shit out of his head...

The man pulled the washroom’s stall door shut and surrendered to the torrent coming from the showerhead. Letting out a palpable groan, he allowed the blistering stream to paint his aching body a ruddy hue.

*****

I take a brief look through the kitchen window – no strange cars, or unidentified people lurking outside, only Janet standing on her driveway. Curiously, I see that the blinds remain drawn on the Henderson's bedroom windows; this is not something I expect from neighbors who are consistent early-risers.

Good morning Victor. There she is, the ‘wife next door’ calling out to me as I lock up my house.

Janet is, I guess, approximately 39. She has brown, shoulder length hair, and big, luminous dark eyes that seem to twinkle every time she sees me. Her husband Bert, an accountant, leaves home at eight o'clock each morning, allowing her time to flirt with me as we both make for our cars at eight-thirty.

Good morning Janet, how's Bert? I haven't seen him around the last few days. I deadpan this, hoping she would not take it as a come-on.

Oh Bert's still Bert, you know, boring. He's at one of his conferences again; what do you imagine accountants have to talk about? She moves closer to my car as we speak.

Taking another quick glance at the Henderson's bedroom window and noticing a quiver in the blinds I reply, I can't imagine. Have a good day Janet. As I feel the hair rising on the back of my neck, I try to cut our chat short, no luck.

Why don't you and I get together Friday night, I can cook up one of my Italian specialties and you can tell me more about yourself. Now within arm’s reach her perfume has become overbearing and unwelcome, had she ever heard of moderation? I had never seen her act this aggressively and the twinkle in her eye has turned mischievous. It was time to go; a fellow can only be so polite.

Retreating to my car I pull open the door and lean in to sit behind the wheel. My whole body seems to go weightless, giving me a sense that I am floating, while an unexpected wave of nausea brings bile into my throat. There is also a ringing in my ears, Dr. Richards to the OR STAT, Dr. Richards to the OR STAT. There are unintelligible words popping out of nowhere to rattle around in my head.

As quickly as the ringing started, it stopped. I fall heavily into my seat and it is with a tremendous effort that I avoid throwing up all over the dashboard. I hear myself mumble aloud, What…? Huh, what...? Glancing toward the open, driver’s side door I find Janet's face is uncomfortably close to mine with a note of concern glowing in those dark eyes. I find her presence suffocating.

I said the kids will be staying with their grandparents this weekend, so we can have some privacy. Are you all right Victor, you look awfully pale, that is, in a handsome sort of way? Janet's smile returns with amusement playing in the lines around her eyes.

Fine thanks… I gasp. I need space, fresh air, and time to think...

Pulling the door shut, I start up the car and begin to back it out of the driveway. She just manages to say that I should call her tonight as I drive away.

Pointing the car in the direction of the Henderson's house, I notice Janet in the rear-view mirror, hands on her hips, watching as I slip away. My sense of relief grows as my privacy returns. Are my instincts correct? Am I being watched? I will have my last look at the Henderson's home to find out.

*****

The dark-skinned young man with black, curly hair let the blinds fall gently back into place. He's on the move, passing your way. BE CAREFUL! He spoke into a miniature mike on his collar.

Roger that, we see him now and will give him a two minute lead. We're picking up the transmitter's signal very clearly, there should be no problem following him. This came from a disembodied voice in the young man's earpiece.

He turned to a leather clad, equally curly, dark haired beauty bending over the body of a woman; holding a syringe in her right hand. Cathy Henderson lay in her nightgown with the bed sheets tucked up around her shoulders.

You finished? His voice was deeper, and gruffer than his youthful appearance belied.

Yes, she responded, she won't remember a thing with this injection, but she'll have one hell of a hangover when she comes to. The woman gave a measured reply in a heavy, eastern Mediterranean accent. Her hazel eyes shone out of an olive complexion as she looked with disdain at the young man.

Good, let's get out of here. This woman was not supposed to be here in the first place. Abel will have to answer for this slip in surveillance when I see him! He spat the words out as if they were a poison.

A gentle breeze from the adjacent bathroom window followed the two out of the bedroom, leaving only the lingering scent of chloroform behind.

CHAPTER TWO

Some history is based on truth; some on lies…

Anonymous

Three years earlier - 1999, Western Anatolia, Turkey.

It's not right Emre! Turkey is a sovereign country. For her to give up control of the excavation is just not right! Ahu's dark, almond-shaped eyes flashed the reflected crimson of the evening sky as she turned from her companion toward the vast expanse of the rocky, Anatolian steppe below her.

This is a Muslim country. This is our history. Sagalassos belongs to us, not to the Roman Catholic Church! Her lean body stiff with anger, she shouted these words out toward Sagalassos, which sat quietly for the evening at the base of Alexander's Hill.

Emre looked up at her with a genuine sympathy. How many times in his own career had he felt and expressed similar frustrations over Turkey’s indifference to its own sovereignty in all things archaeological? Their sense of national pride was for nothing however, since the Turkish government had sold-out their country in the faint hope of becoming part of Europe’s Union.

But Ahu, they have the money. You know as well as I that Sagalassos would still be lying under this grass and rock if it weren't for the generosity of the Vatican. The crack in his voice belied the lack of sincerity in his statement.

Turning back to him, she looked over this shriveled little man. Sparse gray hair, dark skin deeply etched with wrinkles of a thousand digs and a permanent stoop caused by a lifetime of bending over artifacts. Dr. Emre Guven was very near his seventies now and yet he had remained true to the meaning of his name, ‘loving friend.’ He had been her mentor for decades while she clawed her way up the archaeological ladder, teaching her the patience and perseverance needed to succeed where others failed. Most importantly to Ahu, Emre had been the father that she had never known. His emotional support, their shared confidences, and the problems that they had overcome together, these were the things her diplomat parents had never been around to do.

Dr. Ahu Eser by contrast, at five-foot-nine inches was tall for a Turkish woman, slim and olive skinned. Years of working outside had left her gently weathered, so that she looked older than her thirty-six years. Through hard work and Emre's guidance, she became highly respected in her field, and was now the youngest person to hold a Directorship at the British Institute of Archaeology in Ankara. Sagalassos was her first major excavation to manage as Chief Archaeologist. Her joy was brief however, when she learned that the government had passed ultimate authority for the dig to a special Vatican envoy. A specialist in forbidden archaeology, this envoy had given her nothing but grief since his arrival.

Having calmed down somewhat she changed the subject, What do you make of Sagalassos so far Emre?

Based on what we've found, pottery shards, tiles, coins, it's pretty straight forward. We've got evidence of Hellenistic, Byzantine, and Roman occupation, with perhaps older periods yet to be found.

Neither had noticed that the stars had begun to appear in the sky; on a warm summer night such as this, their conversation could go on for hours.

Don't you find it odd that the Vatican would send such an important Papal representative to oversee an excavation of an ancient city known only for being on the Silk Road’s trade route? What do you suppose this expert in ancient religions hopes to find here? She swept the dark hair away from her face as the soft night breeze began to pick up.

Odd yes Ahu, but remember that we have only uncovered...

Emre turned, startled into silence as a young urchin brushed past him, and pushed an object wrapped in rags into Ahu's hand. No more than eight or nine years old, the young boy was jabbering excitedly in Turkish.

Seeing this boy, whom everyone at Sagalassos called Mert, Emre relaxed and smiled as he recognized himself six decades ago. No place to go, starving and without friends or family, he’d attached himself to a dig and offered whatever labor a ten-year-old could in exchange for a little food and shelter. Through keen observation, inquisitiveness, hard work, and the kindness of many over the years, he eventually earned himself a place in university with a scholarship to study archaeology. He vowed to return that kindness shown to him as a child, with equal generosity whenever he could. He hoped that Mert, as with Ahu, would be just such a chance.

Accepting the block shaped object from Mert, Ahu found it heavier than expected; no wonder the little boy had had to hold it with both hands. Ahu carefully unwrapped the object, and pulled a mini-light from the pocket of her khaki vest to shine the light's beam over its surface. In the few seconds it took to examine it, her eyes grew wide and her pulse raced.

Ahu, for Heaven's sake, what is it? What has young Mert brought with him? In the fading daylight, Emre could see her look of astonishment.

Without answering, she passed Emre the object and the mini-light, and then knelt down in front of the boy. Looking him in the eye she asked him where he'd found the object. Pointing excitedly, Mert grabbed the sleeve of Ahu's canvas jacket and urged her to follow him. Before moving however she turned to Emre, Could it really be what I think it is?

Emre took a few moments to get over his own shock and excitement. Yes, he concurred, it's a clay tablet with cuneiform writing. However, which script it is, what these symbols mean and how old it is I can't say for sure until I consult some sources. He knew what a find like this meant for Ahu and her team. Archaeologists had their private dream of the fame and respect that came through stumbling upon some significant discovery.

My thoughts as well; we’ve got to smuggle it to our friends in Ankara. I don't want Father Pedretti finding out before we've had time to examine it further.

Turning again to young Mert she looked closely at his handsome, dirty little face and studied the excitement in those dark little eyes. Even in the last remaining evening light, she saw a glow of affection for her that his eyes could not, would not hide; she knew she could trust him completely. Not a word of what you've brought me to Father Pedretti or his helper, yes? she asked, and knew that she need say no more.

Evet eje (Yes mother), he answered, continuing to tug at her sleeve in the direction he wanted to take her. His use of ‘Eje,’ an affectionate term he reserved only for her, Ahu knew was a Turkmen word that made her believe that he’d had Turkmen parents. She returned his gaze with a warm smile; this was the type of little boy she would like to have someday, when she was finally ready to have a family of her own.

Raising herself, she grabbed Mert's little hand and slipped the tablet into a large pocket of her canvas jacket. The three proceeded down the well-worn and rock strewn path that led northward toward Sagalassos' southernmost point.

As the sun slipped below the horizon, the air became a blessed fourteen degrees centigrade, a welcome relief from the blistering summer days at the excavation. The little artificial light there was from Sagalassos in no way obscured the brilliance of the night sky. A million shining diamonds scattered across a black velvet canvas and a moon that painted rocks, grassy fields, ruins and the occasional olive grove in its icy white glow.

Aside from the faint, monotonous hum of the portable electric generators at Sagalassos' north side, the only other sounds were of crickets, muffled conversations and the occasional clanking of tools. The archaeologists and their teams of students and helpers were packing up their areas after another long day's work.

Hurrying north through the recently discovered Colonnaded Street at the south end of Sagalassos, Ahu automatically surveyed the dig sight. She mentally checked off the discoveries found so far: wooden vendor's stalls, ancient gaming boards, and Roman graffiti. The occasional, single light bulb suspended from wiring throughout the excavation threw these areas into stark contrast to other locations left in semi-shade or in total darkness. If one lingered long enough you could feel the souls of the departed begin to re-populate the space around you - a disconcerting form of time-travel even for an archaeologist.

At the north end of the Colonnaded Street a newly uncovered staircase led to the south side of the Lower Agora, a place that contained remains of Roman shops and homes. At this height, more of the ruins were awash in moonlight, creating shadowy areas that crept along walls and into alleyways as the moon rose higher into the night's sky.

Mert turned westward using a partially excavated road that ran along the south wall of the Lower Agora, leading Ahu to realize where he must be taking them. Directly to the west of the Lower Agora, on a small hill sat what the Sagalassos team called the Sanctuary of Apollo Klarios. A shrine to Apollo during the Roman times, it became a Christian basilica during a later period. A team under the guidance of a young student archaeologist, Fehime Fulin, was excavating three of its rooms. In one of these, they discovered a Byzantine era, glass bracelet.

Continuing on a path that led toward the eastern entrance of the dig, they advanced toward the only pool of light coming from the ruined basilica. Muffled voices came from behind a stone wall at the site. Mert stopped as he recognized a louder, angrier voice speaking in rapid Turkish ending with the only audible word, kapali (closed), which seemed to echo across Sagalassos' entire area.

Pushing on, Ahu picked up their pace toward the east entrance hoping nothing was wrong. While just out of sight, she quietly moved Mert to a position behind Emre, who indicated to Mert the need for silence by placing one finger on his lips. The youngster nodded his understanding. Checking to see that she had securely fastened her prize within her pocket, Ahu stepped into the illuminated area with Emre following right behind her.

This part of the basilica's excavation contained the three rooms discovered only a week before. The bracelet, unearthed in room two, was just below the surface of what had been floor level. Ahu and Emre stood looking in disbelief at what lay uncovered before them. Fehime's team had opened up a six-foot-long, by four-foot-deep trench at the wall shared by rooms two and three. Lying at the bottom of this trench were two human skeletons in the fetal position; something Ahu and Emre had seen in other digs and was a feature that usually indicated a burial site. Sitting next to them was an altar-like stone from which protruded rows of steer horns. Two of the rows lay fully uncovered, while a third was only partially so. Some stone jewelry and small pottery shards appeared to make up the remaining debris.

Father Marco Pedretti turned a startled face toward the newcomers; he had obviously not heard their approach. Bozkurt Beyazit, Father Pedretti's Turkish assistant and translator, continued to glare at the young Fehime Fulin. He had reduced the young woman to tears as she stood shaking, with her back pressed against the north wall of the excavation.

Recovering his composure, Father Pedretti allowed his face to take on a more solemn appearance.

Iyi aksamlar (Good evening) Dr. Eser, Dr. Guven and…young Mert if I'm not mistaken. Pedretti nodded to each in turn and allowed himself a faint smile at Mert before becoming serious again. Knowing little Turkish himself he still attempted its niceties, while saying everything else in lightly accented English. From the north of Italy, his accent seemed to infuse his every word.

Iyi aksamlar Father, Bozkurt, Ahu answered returning the Father’s nod.

Bozkurt Beyazit only grunted in reply, his dark eyes, misshapen lips, and leathery, pockmarked face hidden under a thick, dirty black beard. He still faced Fehime, a short, twisted body, registering tension even as one knotty fist remained extended toward the young archaeologist. He wore loose fitting and very soiled Arab dress, which could not disguise the putrid stench of his unwashed body. What an ugly beast of a man, Ahu thought.

Merhaba (Hello) Fehime, nasilsmiz (how are you)? Ahu asked more gently, turning to Fehime.

She's fine, growled Bozkurt, before Fehime could reply. Eyeing her again, the girl seemed to melt further into the wall under his stare.

Holding up his right hand to silence Bozkurt, Father Pedretti took a few moments to collect his thoughts. Ahu noticed the strained look on his long, narrow face. As his high forehead, under the safari hat, became furrowed, his light gray eyes took on a harder edge. His whole appearance resembled that of a hawk wearing a clerical collar and a desert safari suit.

It appears, Father Pedretti began, that Bozkurt and I were just in time to stop Fehime from doing some irreparable damage to some of her team's most recent finds. Glancing swiftly at the