Chapter 10
It was a mild and pleasant day in Tomar. The picturesque Portuguese town was alive with activity. Some tourists sauntered about the Castle with too much technology and too little appreciation for the ancient fortress. From where it stood against the clear blue sky, it leered over the brush covered falling hillside to where below the Praça da República evened out the terrain and introduced civilization at the foot of the hill. Bordering the stretching platform of square grey and white paving of the Republic Square, stood the pale Town Hall. Its double arch entrance formed the only shade against the front face battered by the sun and reflecting its blinding whiteness.
In front of the beautiful old building towered the bronze statue of the town founder, Gualdim Pais. His blank expression, antique and weathered by time, stared out in front of him while the two old gentlemen strolled across the large flat area in front of the statue with not a thought to acknowledge it, or even read the plaque. Unlike the scores of tourists, they did not have to. They had been here before. Many times had they met here in all seasons and under differing circumstances. Tomar was the home town of the two men, although they had since settled in more accommodating cities for the authority they held. One made his home in Lisbon and the other chose Madrid, where his wife hailed from. But this is where they grew up, where their fathers and their fathers were tempered into fine men.
Now, the two were pacing soundlessly to the side road where they would sit down for a cup of extra strong coffee in a tiny restaurant situated on ground that existed before most cultures were conceived. Now that they had grey hair and their joints unwilling to the most mundane tasks, they fully appreciated the antiquity of their childhood home. The Town Hall, built in the 17th Century, was infant in comparison to some of the buildings they had considered an everyday sight as young boys. Under the soles of their feet echoed the cries of battle, the clapping of war horse hooves and the vibration of centuries old footfalls. They turned into the small lane of cobblestone and rusted flower frames fixed to the old cracked walls of the opposing buildings, paint peeling at the top ends where the roof edges fell slightly over. Small talk about aches and pains bounced between the two as they came to the quaint coffee shop they frequented every time they visited Tomar.
Some of the patrons glanced nervously at them, while others got up and left. The manager sighed at the arrival of the two loyal customers she wished would just perish already, but they seemed to live forever out of some sort of spite she could not fathom. By sheer practice and experience, she poured their brews just as she knew they would order it and she waddled to their table, smiling uncomfortably at the remaining customers who’s patronage she hoped to keep.
“Bom dia, gentlemen,” she smiled, convincingly at the two hardened old men who refused her the kindness in turn. Both had the same tattoo, on the hand and the neck, respectively. A black disc — and from it radiated black lightning rays in the shape of sharp S’s. The symbol of the Order of the Black Sun.
“Ilda, obrigado,” the one croaked as his companion coughed into a handkerchief, snorting snot and gagging, to the revolt of other patrons. He waited for her to place the cups in front of them and cast a steely look over the repulsed people in the little eatery. Narrowing his eyes and meeting each of their glances with a piercing stare, he quickly rebuked their judgment and left them with heads bowed, slurping at their soup.
“She is a threat, Miro. I don’t like the look of her and I certainly don’t feel comfortable with her wealth. You know that women with money are just pirates with tits, right? Ready to run you through with a cutlass to take what you have,” the snorting old man said after he had crumpled up the wasted cotton rag and stuffed it in his pocket.
“She is a member. I don’t let women intimidate me. That is why you are the one who is married,” his friend commented.
“Oh enough about Rosa, Miro. I won her over fair and square. Enough with the decades of bashing because you lost.”
“You cheated and you know it,” Miro mumbled as he took a sip of his coffee. “Who is our liaison today, Carlos?”
“She is sending an emissary called Slokin to discuss The Brotherhood with us, apparently. The arrogant bitch paid twice my fee just for information, for my time, you see?” the sickly retired lawyer sniffed.
“The Brotherhood? What in Christ’s name would she want with them? I thought we were done with those murdering bastards!” Miro exclaimed, again arresting the unwanted attention of others. This time he raised an open hand in apology and leaned forward over his coffee, lowering the volume in his voice, “How does she even know about them?”
“She doesn’t, Miro. She needs information on the quest for St. Blod, the location of it,” Carlos revealed with what would be construed as a smile, had it not looked so painful.
“St. Blod? She has balls,” Miro said to no-one in particular, his eyes stiff in astonished wariness of the serious subject in question.
Carlos continued as if he recited a homily, “And I am going to tell her about The Brotherhood, my friend. Her perpetual female vexation and all her money will be up against the darkest order … next to our own … and in doing so I will pit them against one another. They will eradicate one another and allow the Black Sun to pick their bones bare and steal the prize from both of their impotent little cliques.”
Miro gave it some thought. Then he nodded slowly, blinking profusely with his beady eyes. It sounded like a good idea to him after all.
“Mr. Oliveira?” a shrill voice invaded their discussion.
“Yes, that is me,” Carlos replied coarsely, not bothering to turn to the man addressing him behind his back, “Come, sit. I am not an owl. I cannot talk to you if you stand behind me.”
The strange voice chuckled momentarily, a horrid, creepy sound that immediately displeased both Miro and Carlos. They frowned at one another as the queer young man fell into the third chair at the table.
Even for the eccentric of taste, the visitor would seem out of place just about anywhere. He was extremely gaunt and his exceptionally wide mouth gave the impression that he possessed a few too many teeth behind the guard of his lips. Miro scrutinized the weird little man who had even less hair than him on his disturbingly round skull
“I’m Jasper Slokin. Slokin, yes, that’s me,” he sniggered through his crooked nose, his twiddling hands and fidgeting fingers attesting to his inability to sit still. Carlos raised an eyebrow at Miro and gulped down the cold coffee he had neglected. Miro in turn scowled at the young bald pest and decided once and for all that he did not like him one bit.
“What do you want, Slokin?” he asked before Carlos could formulate a question over the incessant twitches of the freakish guest.
Immediately, Slokin ceased his squirming, sat static for a moment and then turned his bulbous head slowly to face Miro. It was unsettling to see his mannerisms change so abruptly and to make matters worse, his forehead formed a wicked frown that held nothing but brute malice towards the rude old man.
“I don’t believe I came here to see you, Mr. Cruz, and I would appreciate it if you kept your misguided notions and intolerable attitude to yourself,” Jasper snapped calmly. His eyes showed no fear or respect, even when perceiving the old man’s fury building in his face. As Miro was about to fly into a blind rage, Carlos interrupted swiftly to avert bad blood between the Order and Lita Røderic. She was too important at this juncture of the plan to manipulate her into doing the Black Sun’s dirty work.
“Enough now! We do not have time for the melodrama. Jasper, what is it that your employer wishes to know?” Carlos asked in a firm, but helpful tone. Like a juvenile, Jasper turned his chair completely, as to have his back turned toward Miro. The old man bit his lip for the sake of his friend and hailed Ilda for another cup.