by K. S. Ruff
“So how do you describe this organization to others, like when you’re recruiting or inducting people in the United States?” Last night, I’d learned there were only three groups of people with whom Rafael could discuss Templar business; with people who were already working for the Order, his betrothed, and those he was recruiting. Since those working for the Templar and their betrothed were required to issue a vow of secrecy and support, the greatest risk occurred during recruiting because there was no guarantee that individual would actually join the Order. Understandably, they were extremely selective in their recruiting practices.
Rafael finished his rice. “I think the civil order is best described as an elite security force with humanitarian objectives.” He walked back to the counter, placed another order, and returned with two cappuccinos and a small lemon merengue pie.
I ate every last bite of my salad and quiche. “You said there was a religious order as well?” I tried the lemon meringue pie. The tart filling bit at the taste buds just behind my jaw.
Rafael laughed when I moaned rather than spoke my appreciation for the pie. “I would describe the religious order as an elite security force charged with protecting religious figures, artifacts, and sites. Most republics and constitutional monarchies have a civil order. Some countries, like England, Italy, Spain, and Israel maintain a separate religious order.”
I sipped my cappuccino. The froth was creamy and thick with nutmeg sprinkled on top. “Why do you have to strengthen the faction in the United States?”
Rafael frowned. “Your government didn’t really see a need for us until recently. They already maintain a number of elite forces, far more than any other country. Additionally, your Department of State Bureau of Diplomatic Security offers protective services to foreign dignitaries, which fulfills your country’s obligations under the Vienna Convention. With the recent economic crisis, your looming debt crisis, and the resulting budget constraints, it has become increasingly difficult for your government to fulfill its obligation to protect visiting dignitaries. They’re allowing the Knights Templar to augment those services for some but not all visiting dignitaries, which is something my country has been doing for centuries. Additionally, your country doesn’t offer protective services for those providing humanitarian aid except in war zones, so we’ve assumed that role.”
“Who funds your work?”
“Centuries worth of investments, public and private donations allow us to absorb the cost of those services.” He dug into the pie.
“So you formed a public private partnership that allows you to achieve your shared objectives.”
Rafael nodded. “Increasingly, your government has shifted responsibility for social services and humanitarian aid to charity groups. This is no different.”
Well, that was believable enough. “How do you decide who to recruit or induct?”
Rafael smiled. “That’s easy. We only approach former military members who have earned the Medal of Honor or law enforcement officers who have received a comparable award.”
“Is the grand master of the Knights Templar in the United States the President of the United States?” I’d been dying to ask that question for hours now. Since the restaurant was nearly empty, I figured it was safe.
Rafael nodded. “I think that’s enough information for one day. Are you ready to see the palace?” He chuckled when I stole the last bite of pie.
We spent the next few hours exploring the palace. As beautiful as the building was, it paled in comparison to the palace grounds. The walking trails extended for miles through what could only be described as an enchanted forest. Between the moss covered rocks and columns, the lush ferns carpeting the forest floor, and the fog drifting through twisted, exotic trees, I half expected unicorns and faerie to appear. I didn’t want to leave, ever, but Rafael insisted we continue on to Monserrate Palace so we could watch the sunset over the palace gardens.
Monserrate Palace was hands down the most romantic building I’d ever laid eyes on. Never in a million years would I have imagined that stone carvings could be so intricate. The delicate arches were carved as finely as a filigree necklace. Those arches sat atop an endless array of elegant columns with floral capitals. The hallways, ceilings, balconies, and stairways were carved with such exquisite detail it made my heart ache.
I hadn’t a clue who he was, but I mourned the loss of the romantic soul who had envisioned this masterpiece. What sort of man could turn that vision into a reality? I counted myself among the lucky ones, simply because I’d been fortunate enough to see this magnificent building. Someone had poured a lifetime of love into Monserrate Palace. His love had become a tangible thing.
Rafael and I were nestled close on one of his balconies, gazing out over the botanical gardens, a whimsical pond, and a lush forest that spanned as far as the eye could see. We were the only two people on the palace grounds. The lone man standing inside the gatehouse at the entrance to the park was in no hurry to chase us off.
The sun tugged every last bit of tension from my body before easing behind the trees. Rafael turned to look at me. “What do you think?”
It was some time before I could speak. “I can see why you’d want to be married here.”
His smile was bittersweet. The pond where his father proposed to his mother was wreaking havoc on his heart.
“I think we should,” I whispered. “I think we should marry in this very spot and at this very moment when the sun slips behind the trees.”
He studied me uncertainly. “You still want to marry me, despite the secret Order and everything else you’ve learned about me?”
I smiled softly. “You’re still the same man I fell in love with. Isn’t that what you’ve been trying to tell me?”
His eyes traversed the many columns and arches, as if envisioning the ceremony, before gazing down at me. “You just made the only dream I’ve dared dream a reality.” Then, like a knight charging into battle, he kissed me.
* * * * *
Rafael insisted on dining in a casa de fados in Alfama, the oldest district in Lisbon. Alfama was nestled beneath the São Jorge Castle. I’d gotten quite the workout climbing the steep cobblestone trails that were more appropriately labeled a medieval maze than passable streets. White-washed limestone buildings topped with red clay roof tiles were packed to bursting along the hillside. I had visions of medieval knights racing on horseback toward the castle only to get caught up in the clotheslines strung between the buildings. Of course, I had knights on the brain. Knights were all I could think about these days.
The small, dimly lit restaurant we’d wandered into felt warm and inviting, but the tables were set so close together I quickly surmised we’d be dining with strangers. Still, no one seemed to mind. “Tell me about fado,” I beseeched as Rafael took his seat.
The waiter set a plate of cheese; some warm, crusty bread; and a small bowl of black olives between us. They had a brief conversation about wine before the waiter walked away.
“Fado is a traditional urban folk music that originated in Portugal. Some claim it’s the oldest urban folk music in the world,” Rafael explained.
The waiter returned with a bottle of wine. Rafael paused briefly to sample the wine. The waiter filled both wine glasses once Rafael nodded his approval.
“Three or four fadistas will sing at different intervals throughout the night. Out of respect, we don’t eat while they’re singing.” Rafael raised his glass. “Saude.”
“Saude.” My eyes widened when I tasted the wine. “What kind of wine is this?” The wine was effervescent but far more subtle than a sparkling or even a semi-sparkling wine.
“Vinho Verde,” Rafael replied.
“Verde? Doesn’t verde mean green?” I studied the wine, which was inarguably white.
“Verde does mean green, but green as in young, not the color green. Vinho Verde can be red, white, or rosé, but it’s meant to be savored within a year of bottling. That’s what sets it apart from other wines. Portuga
l is the only country in the world that produces Vinho Verde,” he noted proudly.
“It tastes citrusy, like there’s a twist of lime.” I circled back to the previous topic. “So what does fado sound like?”
Rafael looked thoughtful. “Fado sounds sad, mournful even. The Portuguese are a melancholy people. This music reflects their sorrow and longing.”
“Like singing the blues,” I assumed.
Rafael shook his head. “Fado doesn’t sound like the blues you’re accustomed to. Fado is more traditional; and fadistas are only accompanied by a Portuguese guitar, an acoustic guitar, or both.”
I adored B.B. King. I’d seen him perform in concert and couldn’t fathom anything more sorrowful or traditional than the blues.
A rather imposing man stepped behind Rafael before I could inquire further. He barked some foreign command I didn’t understand.
Rafael’s eyes widened as he shot to his feet.
The man burst out laughing.
Rafael shook his hand excitedly. They slapped one another on the back and exchanged hugs.
Eventually, the man’s eyes slid toward me. Rafael led him around the long row of tables so they could stand on the same side of the table as me.
I rose uncertainly.
Rafael wrapped his arm around me. “Comandante, I’d like you to meet my fiancé, Kristine Stone. Kristine, I’d like you to meet Leandro D’Souza, the Chief Superintendent of the Public Security Police.”
I offered him my hand. “É um prazer conhecê-lo, senhor,” I recited hopefully. I’d been practicing my Portuguese.
Rafael beamed at me.
“The pleasure is mine,” Chief D’Souza replied. “I do not wish to interrupt your dinner Senhorita Stone, but I would appreciate a few moments with Senhor Garcia if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” I encouraged, meeting Rafael’s eyes.
He kissed me on the cheek before easing me back onto my seat. “I’ll be standing right outside the entrance.” He stopped a waiter who was walking by. They spoke briefly before Rafael leaned over and whispered, “I just ordered, so you don’t have to worry about deciphering the menu.”
I forced a smile. “I’ll be fine.”
They walked toward the entrance and disappeared out onto the street.
A female vocalist approached the microphone. The gentleman accompanying her leaned against the stone wall on the opposite side of the fireplace. With his foot propped casually against the wall, he began strumming an instrument that looked more like a giant banjo than an acoustic guitar. I leaned forward in my seat. I counted twelve strings, although I wasn’t certain I’d counted right given the dim lighting. I could only assume this was the Portuguese guitar Rafael referred to earlier.
I studied the man’s fingers. I was trying to discern how a single instrument could sound like two or three. My eyes widened when the woman began to sing. I almost wished she wouldn’t sing so I could focus exclusively on the strings.
I looked around the restaurant. Rafael was right. Not a single person was talking, and no one was eating. Everyone was staring intently at the fadista. A few were sipping wine. I shifted uncomfortably. The woman’s mournful song seemed more like an impassioned cry. I thought about the Chippewa pouring their grief into the ground and sky.
The woman visited with a few patrons after finishing her song. A waiter set two identical plates on our table.
“Grilled sardines,” Rafael revealed, dropping into his seat.
I blinked in disbelief. “We’re eating sardines?”
“Grilled sardines, potatoes, and red pepper salad to be more precise.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Goosebumps pricked my spine. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t. Not here.” Storm clouds rolled through his eyes.
“Maybe we should leave,” I suggested uncertainly.
“We’re staying.” He reached for his fork. “So, what do you think of fado?”
“The vocalist was a little too dramatic for me. I liked the guitar, but the singing was… I don’t know… haunting?”
Rafael nodded. “That’s a fair assessment. I’m not terribly fond of fado, but I thought you should experience it at least once.”
We started eating. I peeked at Rafael when he wasn’t looking. He was concerned about something. His entire body was tense. This wasn’t the same man I’d entered the restaurant with.
The food was wonderful, but I could barely lift it from the plate. My arms felt leaden as if burdened by some invisible weight. I pushed the food aside. I couldn’t swallow around the lump in my throat. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t know why.
“You don’t like the sardines?” Rafael looked angry, sad, and frustrated all at the same time.
“We need to leave.” A million alarms were going off inside my head.
He eyed the half-eaten food. Slowly, he nodded. Rafael called our waiter over. He offered an apology and some assurances about the quality of the food before settling our bill.
A second vocalist approached the microphone as we began to leave. She didn’t sing until we stepped outside. Still, her melodic lament clung to me.
Rafael strode from the restaurant. I tried to keep up. “What’s going on?”
He didn’t answer until we turned down an abandoned street. I glanced down at my feet. I was wearing comfortable shoes, but those tiny mosaic tiles kept poking through the soles. As beautiful as the sidewalks were, they were proving painful to walk on, and it appeared we’d be walking the entire way home.
Rafael slowed. “Do you remember the case I told you about when you discovered that book on my nightstand?”
I slipped my hand through the crook of his arm. “The one involving the international pedophile ring?”
He nodded. “That case involves a number of prominent and powerful individuals.”
“You speak as if the case is still active,” I interjected.
“It is.” A tiny bit of tension eased from his face. “Hundreds of children from the Casa Pia Orphanage were victimized by this pedophile ring for more than forty years. Because the individuals involved were extremely wealthy and wielded a great deal of power, government officials and law enforcement officers turned a blind eye to the rumors that had been circulating for decades. Victims were intimidated, evidence was lost, and people were paid to sweep these claims under the rug.”
“That’s awful,” I breathed.
“We identified over one hundred boys and girls who were violently abused; some were deaf and mute. That only includes the more recent victims… well, the ones who were willing to come forward. I’m sure there were more. Thousands of charges were filed against a handful of individuals. Most of these individuals have already gone to trial. Others have proven more elusive.”
My eyebrows knit with confusion. “How did you get involved with this case when you were working in VIP protection?”
Rafael sighed. “I was assigned to protect a former Portuguese ambassador. I was on duty when a child was brought to his flat. I assumed he was adopting the child. You have to spend some time living with the child you’ve applied to adopt in Portugal before the adoption is finalized, so I didn’t think too much about it. The only thing that gave me pause was the man’s age. He was older, in his sixties, and the boy was only nine.” His voice broke on the boy’s age.
I stepped in front of him so I could study his face. His eyes were steeped in pain. “Are you okay?”
Rafael shook his head. “I was protecting this man while he abused that little boy. I ignored the child’s cries. I thought he was being rebellious, that he didn’t want to be adopted. I just assumed he was missing his friends at the orphanage.”
I grasped Rafael’s hands.
Tears welled in his eyes. “I intervened the second night. The boy’s screams were just… more than I could bear. The ambassador didn’t hear me when I entered the apartment. He was…” Rafael’s eyes slammed closed. “He was raping that little boy while whipping him with a
belt.”
I pressed my dampened cheek to his chest. “I’m so sorry, Rafael. That’s horrifying.”
“I lost it. I couldn’t believe I’d allowed such a monstrous thing to happen on my watch. I beat the ambassador until he was unconscious and left him lying there with his pants tangled around his legs. I didn’t dare take the boy back to the orphanage. I knew there had to be some staff members at the orphanage who’d been bribed, who’d allowed this child to be violated. I didn’t know who I could trust on the police force, given the ambassador’s prominence and his wealth. So I took Manuel, the little boy, directly to Chief D’Souza. He was the highest ranking person I could trust.”
“Is Chief D’Souza a Templar?” That would certainly explain the trust.
“Yes. Chief D’Souza is the one who petitioned for me to be inducted.” Rafael wrapped his arm around me as we resumed walking. “He had his suspicions about who was involved in the pedophile ring. We took Manuel to the hospital before placing him in protective custody. Then we developed a plan for nailing the other members. I was assigned to protect the politicians and the celebrities we suspected were participating.”
“Were you able to implicate anyone else?” I inquired softly.
“One other individual. Only seven individuals have been prosecuted so far, although I’m sure there were a lot more people involved.”
I peered up at him. “Is this what Chief D’Souza wanted to talk to you about?”
Rafael stopped walking again. “Yes. Benjamim told him I was in town. He wants me to come back and help him put an end to this pedophile ring once and for all.”
My heart sank. “Is this a request from an old friend or an order from the Templar?”
“It’s currently being framed as a request, which leaves some room for negotiation, but the President of Portugal has deemed this a national priority. Portugal has lost its standing among the international community for allowing these children to be violated for so long, and our citizens have lost faith in their government.”
