by Lars Teeney
“Fair enough, Manuela. However, there is another matter. Beyond my long-term goals, there is an urgent short-term matter. I have connections with the Church of New Megiddo, and they have tasked me with a mission to rid them of dangerous enemies: Apostates. It will be a lucrative contract, and if you assist the Order, you will receive a fair amount of it.” Carafa tried to entice her.
“Yes, I remember you had mentioned this Apostate fleet sailing for the Strait from the north. You have come to the right person. There is a reason we built a fort at the entrance to the Strait,” Manuela said confidently.
“The fort is key, but my terms are that I need those old ships you have moored out at the marina near the fort,” Carafa stated.
“Very well. I will get villagers to relinquish those vessels. They are rust buckets anyhow. Hardly combat worthy, though.” Manuela was a bit confused.
“Not to worry, they will not be used in combat.” Monsignor Carafa did not elaborate.
“Well, well. This makes me very pleased that we are now allies. However, there is one more thing that I require from you to seal the deal.” Manuela had poured another glass of wine. She looked at him with interest.
“Oh? What would that be?” Carafa narrowed his eyes with suspicion.
“A handshake of course.” Manuela held her hand out in front of her. Carafa looked at her hand then up at her eyes. She wore a smirk on her face.
“Okay.” He clasped her hand with his. She held it tightly, then, began to walk in the opposite direction, attempting to lead him to the marble staircase. He protested slightly but did not pull his hand away.
“Manuela, what—” She cut him off as he spoke.
“Nonsense, priest. Now you must prove to me that you are not a gelding!” she commanded sternly. He looked puzzled, then, he felt a burning in his mind. Something told him to put the woman in her place: to take charge of he situation like a God-fearing, obedient servant of Christ. His pragmatic side had told him that what he was doing was for the bigger picture. So, he let her guide him, up the marble stairs, down an ornate corridor, through massive, wooden, double doors, and into her private chamber.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
Monsignor Carafa and Friars had ridden on horseback down to the marina at the rear of Fort Noriega. The Order members were drawn up in a row on a ridge overlooking the marina and Panama Strait waters. It was a sweltering day, and the sky was clear and direct sun rays beat down on their garb. Numerous seagulls circle overhead, some dived for small fish. Monsignor Carafa felt revitalized this morning. He was almost in a cheerful mood, and he moved with renewed purpose. It seemed that the late night regimen worked wonders for revitalization.
The surrounding waters had been whipped-up and agitated by scores of rusted-out trawlers that struggled out from the docks, into the Strait. The rickety hulks limped out across the water, nearly to the opposite shore of the Straight. The old ships formed a rough line across the Strait, like a convoy of ships, but closely situated to one another. Once the ships had reached their destinations, the anchors were lowered by skeleton crews. The crews began to evacuate each ship, boarding dinghies, and motorboats, they all made for shore, leaving the rustic vessels derelict. Friar Benedict had been watching the progress from down on a jetty. He walked town the other Order members in a half-waddle. As he approached he performed a clumsy bow to the Monsignor, then gave a thumbs up gesture. Carafa nodded approvingly from atop his mount.
Friar Benedict turned to the ships out in the Strait and smiled gleefully. He watched intently as the dinghies full of men rowed toward shore and the motorboats careened away from the line of trawlers. After several moments of waiting the boats were clear and were safely ashore. Friar Benedict had a satchel strapped across his shoulder. He reached into it and pulled out a nondescript pen sized object: it featured a small, red button on top of it. When Friar Benedict depressed the button the fireworks started. One after another massive explosions tore through the hulls of each ship at the waterline. Cavernous holes were forced open, causing a surge of sea water to be sucked into the cavities. As each ship took on more water the vessels listed this way and that. Soon fore and aft sections of the vessels floundered and sank beneath the waves. The depths of the Straight were relatively shallow so when the ships sank and settled at the bottom, portions of the cabin and masts pierced the surface.
With just a push of a button, the Order had scuttled a fleet of trawlers and fishing vessels in a manner that any ship attempting to traverse the line would run aground on wreckage, or at the very least slowed to maneuver through the dangerous labyrinth of sunken obstacles. The final piece was in place for the Order’s ambush. Carafa was pleased with how everything had fallen into place. His plan thus far had developed without a hitch.
The trails of smoke from all the wreckages under the waves converged into one morass. When the Order members were satisfied that all was well with the aquatic trap, they wheeled their horses around and set off for La Chorrera. This evening Manuela Noriega had invited the Monsignor and the Friars to a feast in their honor, celebrating the new alliance. Manuela had promised that it would be a sumptuous feast. Monsignor Carafa felt enchanted by all the extravagance and excess, but also a part of him despised it. Deep down he felt he was betraying the Lord’s trust. But, all the same these actions were necessary to achieve the end goal, so he buried the thoughts and moved on to other matters.
The Order members led their horses into town and to a hollowed-out shell of a building that served as a stable. The Monsignor and the Friars dismounted and stable hands grabbed the reins. Friar Benedict’s wagon had trailed further behind not being as fast After a time, the wagon was pulled up into the stable, and the Friar nearly fell off the wagon. Friar Benedict lumbered to catch up with the other Order members. Finally catching up they all strolled to their Town Hall quarters to freshen up for the evening’s festivities.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
Manuela had spent all day directing caterers and house staff in setting up all the finest furniture and placing out vast spreads of hors d’oeuvres and hotplates. Taxidermied creatures of the jungle were placed on end tables throughout the space. Stuffed monkeys, a jaguar, peacocks, and even a three-toed sloth dotted the gathering hall, looking noble in an inanimate way. The bar was fully-stocked and looked regal with Art Deco splendor. Manuela took a step back to take in the full view of her handiwork. She felt confident that the decor and refreshments were up to par for this special occasion. Manuela had noticed that the band had not yet arrived. She clapped her hands and a porter came rushing over to her, to expedite her desire.
“Where is the band that I booked? Why haven’t they arrived yet?” Manuela snarled.
“Many pardons, Miss Noriega! I will go now to find out what the delay is!” The porter curtsied, and rushed off through the main entrance of the building. Manuela fretted over the lack of a band, as she needed everything to be perfect, and if the guests arrive without the band already present and playing then the ambiance, to her, was ruined.
Manuela experienced a clausrophobic sensation suddenly, and felt the need for air. She ascended the marble staircase to the second level. She stepped out through doors onto a shoddily-constructed balcony. The evening air was cool to her skin and was a welcome relief to the violent heat earlier in the day. A light mist was in the air from clouds coming off the Bay of Panama. Manuela felt relaxed now, and she took in the view of the town’s skyline, and the fort, shining in the salmon-pink light of the sunset. She lit a cigarette and took a drag, releasing the smoke.
Manuela felt a ghostly presence approaching her. She turned around to face the door and spied a hooded and cloaked figure. The figure approached Manuela slowly. As the figure got closer Manuela recognized the pentagram insignia on the cloak.
“Pietro, why are you skulking around in the shadows like that? Come to me, love.” She held her hand out toward the cloaked figure.
“I think you have the wrong member of the Order in mind, Miss Noriega,�
�� Friar Francis stated coldly from beneath her shrouded veil. She emerged from the shadow into the illumination of an overhead lamp. She stood there, with her cloak, hood and veil masking any hint of her body.
“Ah, my mistake! Friar Francis is it?” Manuela was taken aback by the Friar’s odd way of interacting.
“Yes, that is the name the Order has bestowed upon me.” Friar Francis said without breaking her icy gaze.
“Well, Friar, can I interest you in a drink or something?” Noriega gave her a suspicious eye.
“No. I do not partake in such vice. I have only come here to offer you some useful advice,” the Friar said in a manner that insinuated a threat.
“Go right ahead. I am listening. Why don’t you remove that veil from your face? I can’t see your face when you speak. You must be a really pretty girl,” Manuela said impatiently.
“The veil is part of my suffering. It separates me from those who would tempt me. I am here to tell you that the influence that you cast upon Monsignor Carafa is one that distracts him from the grace of God and the suffering of Jesus Christ,” Friar Francis announced coldly.
“Oh, Friar, honey, surely a body can cut loose every now and again? I’m still a loyal Catholic!” Manuela exclaimed, trying to lighten the mood.
“You, Manuela, are a proprietor of vice and a temptress. The Order is built upon the suffering from the Wounds of Christ. We harness it and turn it outward upon the sinners of the world. That is what will happen to all enemies of the Lord. It is just a matter of time,” Manuela swore that she could have seen Friar Francis’s eyes glow red for an instant.
“Okay, I believe you. But, fortunately, you have nothing to fear from me. Our two groups are part of a profitable alliance. You say I am a proprietor of vice, but that is what drives our economy, without that there is nothing but poverty,” Manuela tried to explain her position.
“The Right Hand Wound of Christ does not make alliances with smut-peddlers. The Monsignor may lead this Order, but that does not mean he is free from scrutiny. If a member of the Order has been found to stray from the Path of Suffering, then the other members can take...corrective measures,” the Friar explained.
“Friar Francis, I do not know what you presume that I am intending to do. I only desire to maintain a profitable partnership with the Order and help reach mutual goals,” Manuela replied defensively.
“Miss Noriega, I am beyond worldly temptation, unlike the Monsignor. My mission alone is to follow in the footsteps of Christ bearing the Cross.” The piercing look that the Friar shot her made Manuela recoil ever so slightly. With saying that the Friar’s ghostly form glided over to the edge of the balcony. She stood upon the parapet, and dropped without hesitation, disappearing from view.
“Creepy bitch,” Manuela said inaudibly. She stamped out her cigarette on the parapet and walked back in through the double doors. It took her a moment to compose herself standing in the upper corridor, before returning to the gathering hall. She descended the stairs into the foyer and already she could hear muted tones of a band playing. The rhythm of Afro-Caribbean Calypso music, with a hint of Rocksteady influence, could be heard reverberating throughout the cavernous hall. The horn section, consisting of trumpet and trombone, played with confidence. A Spanish Guitar player picked at his instrument, with dexterous hands. The rhythm section played a beat on bongos, maracas, and the steel pan, that formed the foundation for the rest of the band to play off of. The band members all wore black suits, skinny black ties, and fedoras. A more attuned listener might have found it ironic that the Spanish lyrics to the song that they sang had to do with class struggle and oppression of the poor. The sound lifted her spirit and her festive mood returned to her. There was nothing more important than a good party to Manuela: it’s what she was born to do. As she looked over the room she could see that some of the guests of leading oligarch families had already arrived. Also present were representatives of cartel families from around the region. Manuela made out the presence of Jacinto “Cyclops” Sierra, head of the El Paradiso cartel. The man wore a black eye patch over one eye, and he looked to be on edge. Several members from the Order’s camp had arrived as well. She figured that she should get in amongst the crowd and mingle like a good hostess.
Manuela made her rounds, hobnobbing with the rich and influential from around Central America. She engaged in witty banter and heard gossip from the wives of cartel lords and exchanged pleasantries with puppet politicians. She was invited to dance to the music by an older mayor who still seemed to have plenty of vitality despite his age. He looked her up and down with hungry eyes as she danced to the beat. Another man, a chief of police from a town in Costa Rica cut in, and she gave him an obligatory dance. As Manuela was engaged in a slow dance, she glanced toward the entrance of the hall and saw that Monsignor Carafa had arrived with the Friars, except for Friar Francis, who seemed to not be present. Manuela excused herself from the slow dance, courteously. Manuela made her way over to Monsignor Carafa and the Friars.
“Members of the Societatum Pentagram, please feel welcome as you are the guests of honor at this celebration. Do come in!” Manuela exclaimed pleasantly with a charm that took years of rehearsal to master. She gestured for the Order members to mix with the crowd.
“I thank you for your hospitality, Manuela. You are truly a paragon of humility,” Carafa replied. Manuela tucked her arm under his and the walked together down the steps and into the crowd.
“Won’t you drink with me, lover? Relax for a bit?” Manuela attempted to get him to enjoy himself. He gazed over toward his enemy: Jacinto, leader of the El Paradiso cartel, who returned a sideways glance.
“I am afraid I must refuse your offer, Manuela. Though I appreciate it, I must always be on guard when amongst adversaries,” Carafa said coldly.
“Nonsense, this is neutral ground. There are no enemies here. They wouldn’t dare—” Carafa interrupted her.
“I appreciate the notion, but I will never sacrifice security for pleasantries. I will, however, play along, and attend this social function,” Carafa confirmed to her.
“I am glad to hear that at least.” Manuela was consoled slightly. She pulled him through the crowd and introduced him to various players. He exchanged pleasantries in a distant, condescending manner. Friar Benedict had made a beeline to the hors d’oeuvre table. He picked up a plate and piled it high with tostones, chicharrones de pollo, and a scoop of seafood paella. He found a table in the corner of the room and began shoveling food into his mouth. Friar Pius and Friar Leo moved to opposite ends of the hall, strolling along the perimeter of the crowd. Friar Pius made his rounds and moved toward the front entrance of the hall. He nodded to a man standing by the door, then the man moved off into the night.
Monsignor Carafa and Manuela waded through the crowd toward the bar. Carafa leaned up against the bar. He smiled at Manuela.
“You know, Manuela, I am feeling a bit festive. I think I shall call a toast,” Carafa told her cheerfully.
“Oh, Pietro, this is great!” Manuela put her hand on his and smiled.
“Yes, well. Here it goes.” Carafa gestured for the barkeep to pour him a glass of red wine. Carafa picked up the glass and made his way through the crowd to the raised platform that the band played on. He gestured to the band to take it down and then stop the music. The dancing of the crowd stopped and they slowly turned to Carafa. Manuela joined him on the platform and was handed a microphone.
“My friends and associates, I have brought you all here today for celebration. It is a celebration of a mutually beneficial accord that has come to fruition. We are here to honor the cessation of hostilities between the leading families and the Societatum Pentagram. This accord ensures the continuation of profitable business practices and trade routes in return for oaths of loyalty to the new power that is taking shape in the land. This power stretches from the border with Honduras in the north to the Panama Strait in the south. So my friends, the Societatum Pentagram offers a strong military an
d culture: stability and protection for business interests. In return, the leading Families will reign in elements of their organizations that act on territorial ambitions. Now I am pleased to introduce, Monsignor Carafa: leader of the Societatum Pentagram, the Spear Wound of Christ, and the wielder of the Spear of Destiny!” Manuela gestured to the man clad in the white cloak with her on stage.
“Thank you most graciously, Miss Noriega. You are an inspiration to us all, to arrange such an accord that brings peace to the region. This development truly excites me, that is why I wanted to propose a toast,” Monsignor Carafa raised his glass of red wine high in the air above his head. Manuela stepped off the stage and rejoined the crowd on the dance floor. Jacinto Sierra walked over and stood next to her. He was flanked by two serious looking bodyguards.
“Very moving speech, Manuela, I hope what the Monsignor has to offer us is satisfactory, because he and the Order have a lot of our blood on their hands,” Jacinto said to her, skeptically.
“Jacinto, I am here specifically to ensure that every party to this accord is satisfied,” She said to him, keeping her eyes peeled on Carafa.
“I hold in my hand a chalice full of the blood of Christ!” Carafa held it high, and then tipped it slightly, dribbling the wine over his head and white cloak.
“Christ has anointed myself and the Friars of the Order to exact retribution on the enemies of the faith.” The crowd murmured with confusion as Carafa poured the wine on himself. Suddenly, from behind Jacinto Sierra, stood Friar Francis. She drew her saber and grabbed the back of Jacinto head of hair, and drew her blade across the man’s neck, and spilled his blood over the dance floor. Women in the crowd shrieked in horror, and the men panicked. Manuela looked at the spectacle and screamed. The two bodyguards sprang into action after the shock wore off. Carafa drew a sidearm and shot one of the bodyguards in the back, the other was run through by Friar Francis’s blade.
