THIRTY-EIGHT
THE TEMPLE
Okay, let’s not panic. I count six men—two in the front and four in the back, all armed with worryingly elaborate assault rifles. A couple of them sandwiched us after strapping us tightly to our seats. One of them took March’s gun and scanned us quickly with some kind of flashlight—a handheld metal detector, I suspect. Another went down the ladder to go get Bahjin, whose smiling face appears in the doorway. After the Lion is done helping him into the back seat opposite to ours, Bahjin winks at us with a shrug. I grit my teeth and glare at him in return. We should have let that asswipe get eaten by seagulls . . .
Goose bumps prickle all over my body as the rest of the men stare at us through their sunglasses. Black-gloved fingers await on the triggers of their weapons, and you could cut the tension in the cabin with a knife—which of course they brought, I note with a wince, spotting the incurved hilt of a karambit tucked into one of the men’s tactical vest. March places a hand on my shoulder and sits still. I think he knows better than to try something for now . . .
Bahjin turns to the Lion sitting next to him, a guy with a short blond beard—their leader, maybe? It’s subtle, but there’s something in that guy’s features that suggests he’s more relaxed than the rest of his little gang. Yep, that one’s in charge.
“Strength and honor!” Bahjin barks happily over the roar of the rotor as the chopper flies away from our little pod.
Blond-beard remains silent. He searches the pockets of his tactical vest for something. I barely have the time to identify a syringe before he casually stabs Bahjin’s neck. Bahjin’s eyes go wide, and his mouth works in vain for a couple of seconds before he passes out.
“Could never stand that kid,” Blond-beard shouts to our attention.
Obviously. I gulp, wondering whether we’re next. Rather than playing doctor though, the Lion sitting to my left lowers his rifle and opens a compartment between our seats to retrieve two headsets. He hands me one while his colleagues ostensibly aim at March when he reaches to take his—at least they’re learning from their brothers’ mistakes. I adjust my headset hesitantly. In the opposite seat, Bahjin has been reduced to a ragdoll held together by his seatbelt’s strap, his head lolling gently against the headrest. I don’t know what to make of all this. I thought they were basically here to rescue Bahjin and take us prisoner, but I pick up . . . mixed signals.
“Better?” Blond-beard asks with the hint of a smile once the headset is secured on my head.
“Is this an invitation we are free to refuse?” March asks coldly.
Blond-beard’s lips quirk through the golden bristles, and he replies, “I was told the lady would be well rewarded for her attendance.”
I try to read his eyes through the sunglasses, to no avail. Are we talking rewarded as in free T-shirt or rewarded as in Ha-ha-ha, a slow death shall be your reward, traitor?
In a moment of rare self-awareness and honesty, March stares into the guy’s sunglasses and replies, “If you hurt her, I will kill you all. I will carve up every single one of you until there’s only meat left.”
I freeze in my seat when two barrels rise to point at his head in response.
“So I’ve heard,” Blond-beard says, the r rolling softly off his tongue. “But there’ll be none of that. We’re here to deliver a peace offer.”
“From who?” I probe cautiously.
He shrugs one big shoulder. “You’re gonna have to follow us to find out.”
“What guarantee do I have that Island will be safe?” March retorts.
“You have the word of a Lion, broer. Isn’t that enough?”
Now that’s a good question, and one that does not call for an honest answer, for the stark truth might vex our new friends. So, I pinch my lips, and really, March’s disdainful glare speaks for itself. The rest of the flight is spent in religious silence, under the calm scrutiny of Blond-beard and his bros. Holding March’s hand, I watch through the helicopter’s windows as the sun sets over Nassau, painting pristine beaches and luxurious resorts with shimmering gold and coral pinks.
Beneath us, the airport comes into view, and soon enough, we land at the end of a runway where a lonely black jet awaits us. I have this incongruous thought that if this was a romance book, a muscled billionaire would be awaiting us in the jet to fly us to the other end of the world and do filthy things to us in the privacy of some well-guarded mansion. But the only muscles are those of our deadpan escorts, and I don’t think March would want to surrender to a billionaire anyway.
“You’ll have breakfast in Paris,” Blond-beard announces before one of the men takes our headsets, and the helicopter’s door opens.
March and I exchange a look. Paris. Where Dries sent Isiporho and Dominik . . . Where the answers await?
“Let’s see this through,” March says softly. “I’m with you. Whatever happens . . . I’ll be with you.”
I give his hand a squeeze as Blond-beard and his men escort us toward the jet. “I know,” I murmur. “I’m not scared.”
It’s when I reach the airstair that I notice they’re not taking Bahjin with us. His prone body just got loaded into the back of a white van that stopped a few yards away from the helicopter.
“What are they going to do with him?” I ask Blond-beard.
He shrugs one big shoulder. “He has a date of his own.”
I wouldn’t exactly call it an answer . . . March’s hand rests on my back, a silent encouragement to leave Bahjin to face his own judgment. But that little speck of guilt at the back of my mind simply won’t be ignored. “Are they going to kill him?” I insist.
“No,” Blond-beard replies with a finality that suggests I’m gonna have to take a Lion’s word for it.
At last, March and I follow him up the airstair and inside the jet. Unlike the Queen’s little flying palace, this plane, while comfortable in its own right, speaks of sobriety. Beige factory furniture, simple plastic closets, and a tiny lavatory that will at least allow for a little cleaning up if no one pulls out a gun and says, “No water for you.” But I don’t think they’re going to do that. We’re guests after all, formally invited and stuff, and this is no kidnapping, since everyone here boarded of their own free will. Perhaps to better live that lie, a younger Lion goes to retrieve clothes wrapped in plastic from a closet after takeoff. He hands them to us and flicks his head to the lavatory.
See? Five-star service, not a kidnapping at all.
Half an hour later, I’ve freshened up, and I’m wearing a knee-length blue cashmere dress and elegant high-heeled pumps that look like a wardrobe malfunction on me. I come out of the lavatory to find March similarly disguised, in a dark suit that’s really not him at all. But the dimples creasing his cheeks when he sees me, they’re his, and it’s all I need.
When it becomes clear that our hosts still won’t talk to us, I curl up in my seat and fall asleep, safe at March’s side.
•••
I’m floating in the dark with Anies, each crease and angle of his face sculpted by the red light. He’s looking down at me, and his hands are around my neck, squeezing. I gasp for air in the void of space. I’m cold, and there’s no way out, no knife, no one to save me . . . March!
I jerk upright in my seat and directly into March’s welcoming arms.
His palm rubs my back in soothing circles. “It’s all right, biscuit; we’re landing.”
As my heart slows down, I massage my eyes with the heels of my palms, fighting a slight headache. Through the window, I see a gray tarmac glistening with rain. That’s Paris all right, where all colors fade between November and April, and the asphalt is the same color as the sky—which also happens to perfectly match the buildings and the ashen faces of the Parisians.
I realize with a derisive smile that this is, yet again, one of the things I can’t remember ever learning. But I’ve been here before; I can tell. The strange concrete curves of Roissy Airport’s massive dome are familiar, as is the heavy French accent of the ground attendant who welcomes us. She seems perfectly unfazed at the sight of a bunch of paramilitary creeps pouring from the jet—she must be used to seeing much worse. Prince of Thailand worse.
I hesitate to ask whether we should be showing passports somewhere, but Blond-beard and his bros behave like they own the place, and that pair of French cops actually opens the gates to the parking area for us—the things you can accomplish in this world with a dash of glamour and corruption . . . We’re led to a pair of dark Mercedes SUVs. Blond-beard sits across from us in the back, along with the young goon who gave us the clothes. It’s hard to tell because of the glasses, but I pick up a sense of self-satisfaction in the air. We glide away from the tarmac in solemn silence, until all of a sudden, in the speakers, Selena Gomez’s voice starts cooing sensual encouragements to kill us with kindness.
Blond-beard jerks in his seat. March’s and my brows rise in sync when the smoked-glass partition separating us from the driver slides down, and he barks, “Louis, we’re working here.”
Louis glances at us in the mirror. He must be forty; the temples of his black crew cut are graying. His mouth curves down in something I suspect to be half-contrition, half-protestation. “He said it was allowed because he likes that one!”
The mention of the mysterious “he” appears to settle the conflict: Selena keeps singing as we enter the freeway and race toward Paris. Her voice urges us to remember that no war was ever won in anger, and by then, I’m pretty sure I know who summoned us, who finds his solace in pop when he rides . . .
Soon we’re driving along, Haussmannian stone buildings, cafés, and naked trees lining the street—on the Seine’s right bank, if I’m correct. We take a few turns left onto small streets, reaching Paris’s historical center, where the oldest mansions still stand. The SUVs park in front of an ancient stone wall in which a set of wrought-iron gates bars access to a private French garden.
“We’re at the Paris temple,” March says.
I suspected so. I think of Isiporho and Dominik: Did they make it here? And more important, if so, did they make it out? Alive? My fingers briefly lace with March’s before we climb out of the car, seeking reassurance. As the gate creaks open, his palm lingers on the small of my back, a warm reminder that whatever happens, he’s at my side.
We follow our sort-of-but-not-quite captors into the garden. Our feet crush gravel as we make our way toward a neoclassical hôtel particulier, whose heavy wooden doors are guarded by two fierce lions roaring for eternity in the sculpted stone. The doors open and warmth engulfs us. It’s now a soft Persian rug under out feet, over a parqueted floor whose heavenly beeswax scent tickles my nostrils. An ample flight of stairs leads to a series of salons on the second floor. Crystal chandeliers gleam softly above our heads, the floorboards sigh under our steps, and Roman warriors watch us with eyes of marble. This atmosphere could only get any Frenchier if someone pulls out a beret.
After we enter a salon whose walls are lined with cream brocade, Blond-beard invites us to sit on a baroque sofa lined with burgundy velvet. I gaze at the dead trees in the garden, past windows that reach all the way up to a fifteen-foot ceiling where angels frolic among gilded moldings. I remember March saying that the temples are museums of a sort: I concur.
Blond-beard goes to knock at a set of doors at the other end of the room. They come ajar, and a few words are exchanged in hushed tones. March watches the exchange with narrowed eyes, and I peer in anxiously, hoping to get a glimpse of our host. The door opens at last, and the first thing that comes out, well . . . suffice to say that my jaw goes slack.
Blond-beard and his colleague stand in quiet dignity as the orange tabby rides past them, enigmatic and regal on its black Roomba. The noble steed whirs around the room, vacuuming the Ghum silk carpet’s intricate pattern with steady alacrity.
“The commander will see you now,” Blond-beard announces, his gaze straight, as if he didn’t notice the Roomba now bumping against his boots repeatedly while the cat stares up at him with guileless turquoise eyes.
March and I get up and enter the room in a state of mild stupefaction. A war has been won without being fought, and indeed without anger. Stiles stands before us, wearing his eternal gray suit and soft, bulletproof smile.
He walks up to us and holds out his hand to shake with March, who stands still—some wounds won’t close anytime soon.
I manage to find my voice, not without some effort. “You . . . took his place.”
“It was time for some change, and I can’t thank you enough for your help.” He’s talking to me, but his eyes are set on March as he adds, “My friend.”
March gauges him, dark ice crackling in his irises. “Never.”
Stiles gives a good-natured shrug. “The offer remains on the table.”
Meanwhile, I’ve managed to swallow my shock. “You used us against him . . . from the start.”
He walks to a finely adorned liquor cabinet standing behind a long Napoleon desk covered with papers. “I’m a romantic at heart,” he says. “When we found Auben and his fingers in Rio and it became clear that Mr. November was still in the picture, I had an inkling that love could move mountains, with a little help, of course.”
March’s lips set in a hard line. “You would have never gotten your way through rebellion, not in Anies’s dictatorial system. So you undermined him and chose Dries and me to strike the finishing blow. It couldn’t be you killing him, nor one of your men.”
Stiles gestures to the row of rare spirits sitting inside the cabinet. “A drink?”
March remains silent, but my eyes widen when I recognize the green hue of the absinthe bottle. Stiles notices the direction of my gaze. Pure kindness shines in his baby blue irises as he says, “Oh don’t worry; I wouldn’t give you that. Never to a friend.”
My throat constricts. “You were poisoning him; that’s why he was sick.”
His mouth purses comically, like a little boy caught stealing from the cookie jar. “He did have terminal pancreatic cancer, but you know how it is . . . Sometimes the schedule needs a little adjustment.”
And Stiles adjusted Anies’s schedule . . . weakened him so he’d die faster. I’m starting to think he could almost scare me more than Anies, this kind killer. Because in the last moments, I saw Anies for who he was—I saw a man and his madness. I can’t find that in Stiles. I stare at him, scan every line on his face, the pleasant and banal features forged by surgery fifteen years ago, and I can’t find the man underneath. I sense no anger, no weakness. Sweet Jesus, that new boss is gonna be much worse than the previous one . . .
He closes the liquor cabinet with a sigh. “I know you’re angry, and I’m sorry I had to play you both a little. It was for the best. No more nuclear warheads,” he announces, his voice suddenly a notch sterner. “We’re going back to our roots. There’s a lot of work that needs to be done to preserve the temples and a lot of people who need a little shove to the other side. That’s what we do best; we’re not cut for the light.”
That’s true, but listening to him casually mention the people he’s going to kill, I see no major improvement in the Lions’ line of business.
“And I’m working on smoothing things with the Board and the agency,” he adds. “Mr. Erwin was very happy to collect our friend Bahjin in Nassau. And the Queen . . . well she wasn’t exactly pleased that Anies died before she could get a hold of him, but I think she likes this new direction we’re taking, and of course, we’ll help her regain her position. We need that balance between all the players; your father was right about that.”
My heart tightens unbearably when he mentions Dries. “You watched him die,” I rasp. “You didn’t lift a finger.”
He shakes his head sadly. “We’d have ended up with another succession war on our hands. There was no other solution, and your father knew it. Both he and Anies had to go. We needed a clean slate.”
“Or rather you didn’t want to risk competition after Anies’s death,” March grinds out, his chest heaving with the same pain and anger I feel crushing mine.
Stiles winces. “You really won’t give me any credit, will you? Well, let me tell you this: Dries and I had our differences in the past, but it’s all water under the bridge. I forgave him a long time ago.” He tilts his head at us, in that attentive, predatory way I’m pretty sure he inherited from Anies. “I could have executed his men when they came here to search the archives.”
March’s jaw works silently while I try to remain indifferent, my spine rigid. He knows about Isiporho and Dominik’s mission.
“But I let them take what they wanted because I didn’t mind. We need to stop killing our own brothers like that all the time or else we’re gonna have to lower our recruitment standards,” he muses, sending a pointed look at March before opening his arms wide. “I want reconciliation. If they ever want to recover their place among us, tell them they’re welcome.”
I listen to Stiles’s little tirade warily, wondering if he let Isiporho and Dominik live out of the goodness of his Southern heart or rather because he wanted them to succeed and let Dries know that Anies’s reign was coming to an end one way or another . . . “So you really won’t go after them?”
He shrugs. “Not unless they give me a good reason to. By the way, Island, in the same spirit, I want you to know there’ll be no retribution for your heinous crime under my watch.”
The floor seems to collapse under my feet, like I’m free falling again in the reentry pod. “I’m sorry, my heinous—what?”
Stiles tuts me. “Island, you murdered the Lions’ commander. Anyone else would face dire penalties for that.”
“Don’t even try to go there,” March warns him, his fists clenching.
“Calm down, Mr. November,” Stiles chides. “You’re always so testy . . . I didn’t bring her here to point fingers.” His eyes cut to me. “I brought you here because your father asked something from me, and I intend to deliver.”
My vision blurs a little as I picture Dries’s peaceful golden gaze again, the last seconds . . . You’ll fix my daughter. No matter what it takes, you’ll fix your mess.
“Follow me,” Stiles requests.
He leaves the office and returns to the salon where his tabby is still ambling around Blond-beard and his pals. Stiles kneels, and the cat immediately leaves its Roomba to trot to him. He pets it amorously and picks it up. “Bring her in,” he orders his goons.
The salon’s doors open, revealing a lean and elegant gray-haired woman clad in a pink turtleneck and beige pants. I instinctively take a step back, my stomach heaving. He didn’t kill Bentsen. The faded gray-blue eyes that used to pick me apart during our sessions gaze at me, quiet fear now simmering in their depths. She doesn’t want to be here any more than I do.
Next to me, March has gone still. His nostrils flare. I wrap my hand around his clenched fist in an attempt to placate the storm I can feel roaring inside him.
“You will take this thing out,” March orders, his usual politeness frightening in its absence.
She crosses her arms and stares through the window at the bare trees outside, unable to sustain his gaze. “The procedure is invasive. Island should recover well, but there might be some marginal loss.”
March inhales sharply, but I take the hit without flinching. Without really knowing it for sure, I’ve come to terms with that possibility. I was ready to live again even if I didn’t recover any of my memories: the sacrifice of some of them suddenly feels trivial in light of everything that happened to us.
I nod slowly. “When do we start?”