Sworn

Chapter 4 - Jerusalem/Rome/Brazil - 2001

4.0

Charles checked his watch. Ten o’clock exactly. He coughed to clear his throat, conscious of the knot in his stomach as he knocked on the door to Nivard's office. He guessed he'd been summoned to explain the failed operation in the Hebron. The brothers he'd been sent to meet had been killed by an Israeli patrol before he arrived. It had been the brothers' fault, but since Charles' contacts had told him where they were, if they suspected him of passing information to Tel Aviv, trust that had taken decades to build would be lost in an instant.

"Entrez."

Charles pushed open the door and stepped inside. Nivard closed his copy of Alquds, took off his reading glasses and slid from behind his desk to greet him.

With the poise of an old soldier, Nivard carried himself like a man of fifty, his taut, slim build commanding immediate respect. A member of the council for as long as Charles could remember, he was now the oldest and, some thought, the wisest of the nine. As was tradition amongst the council's members, at least until the recent inclusion of a female amongst their number, he wore his thinning hair in a smart crew-cut and sported a thick, king's beard. Only their fluorescent whiteness and the deep creases in the weather-beaten hide of his face gave away his true age.

"Charles, mon vieux, comment ça va?" He waved his glasses at a battered pair of brown leather armchairs either side of a small Charles II table, one of its barley twisted legs replaced with a simple wooden strut and its oyster-veneered top stained with coffee rings. "Drink?" Nivard tipped his chin to the bookcase behind his desk. Nestled between voluminous copies of obscure books, a bottle of Balvenie and two lead crystal glasses rested on a silver tray. Charles shook his head. Nivard smiled and shrugged. "How was your trip?"

"Didn't turn out as planned," replied Charles, "as I'm sure you've heard."

"Bof," huffed Nivard, hoisting his shoulders and pouting in a gesture of French nonchalance, "he who lives by the sword..." His voice trailed off as he turned to his desk. The knot in Charles' stomach tightened as he watched Nivard's gaze fall upon a thin, unmarked red file on top of his inbox.

Nivard stared at it for a moment, thinking, then tapped it with his glasses and turned back to Charles.

"Et le petit Marcus?" he asked, smiling, the file forgotten for the moment. "He sounded rather sad last time we spoke."

After five years study in Jerusalem, Marcus had spent three more in Salvador, Brazil. Two in Angola would complete his formal schooling.

"He's fine," replied Charles. It was three months since they'd been together. "He took to Brazil like a duck to water. Surf, sun and-"

"-et rien d'autre, I hope," chuckled Nivard.

"Unfortunately, quite a bit of d'autre from what Joanne tells me. He doesn't appear too interested in studying for uni."

"So I hear," replied Nivard. "But there will always be a place for him here. He is smart. He thinks on his feet. He has initiative, courage, loyalty. Still as important today as a diplôme." He tucked his reading glasses into the breast pocket of his jacket and his lips stretched into a thin smile. He nodded slowly, as if remembering. "Comme le vieux Charles."

Like the old Charles. It was probably an innocent remark, yet to Charles it expressed fifteen years of disappointment. He knew he hadn't lived up to the old man's expectations, but Catarina's death had doused his ambitions and he'd never asked to be his protégé, groomed for a council seat.

Charles grunted. Marcus, like himself at his age, craved adventure. The idea of military service seemed far more appealing than three or more years of university education. That Marcus wished to emulate him gave him a feeling of pride, yet the world of the twenty first century was very different to the world Charles had grown up in. Politics and economics blurred the lines between right and wrong. Everywhere, the endless pursuit of money and power deformed and corrupted ideals, and those excluded from the chase took solace in puritan dogmas. To put it another way, life for those on the street was getting dangerous.