Chapter 38 Shifting Winds #2
He indicated my dishevelled hair and my skin still flushed from having passed several hours in Einar’s arms, his stubbled jaw tracing every inch of it. He laughed despite Einar’s murderous look and the question posed without a trace of humour.
“Ah, so you want to die, do you?”
A bolt of lightning split the sky outside. Its sharp luminescence seeped through the dust-covered window and fell on Jean-Luc as he paced around the small antechamber. There was a heavy wooden door, and beyond it, our guest awaited our arrival in one of the lesser-used halls.
“Einar, Renny!”
Jean-Luc stopped in his tracks as we filed through the main entrance, soaked as hens despite the walk from our townhouse being very short.
Jean-Luc looked gravely at us and told us without preamble, “I don’t like this. At all. I think I know who this man is,” he added in a whisper, indicating the door behind him with an extended thumb.
“You know him? From before the Outbreak?” I asked.
“Well, yes and no. I feel like his face is familiar. Like maybe I have seen him on TV.”
Einar raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“From how he speaks, how this whole new government is presented ... I have a hunch. You see, a few years before the Outbreak, a new group of separatists formed, calling themselves Les Fils Véritables de la Corse.”
“True Sons of Corsica?” I translated, and Jean-Luc nodded as Einar turned to me in surprise.
“Translator, love of languages,” I told him out of the corner of my mouth in explanation.
“If I’m not mistaken, he was—and perhaps still is—one of their higher-ups.
Individuals were never convicted for a lack of evidence, but this group was known to be armed and highly militant.
Responsible for several bombings and multiple attacks on French officials and even some of the more prominent French residents.
I myself am pro-separation, or used to be, when it still mattered.
But not at the cost Les Vrais Fils were willing to pay for it. This group, they are very dangerous.”
Einar listened intently, not taking his eyes off Jean-Luc, and nodded eventually when the latter finished.
“Did the man agree to be searched for weapons?” he asked.
“Aye,” Russ replied promptly. “He carried a rifle, a revolver, and a large knife. Surrendered them all with’oot makin’ fuss, explainin’ as how they were all fer personal protection in case he got stranded on the way ’ere and had to face the infected.
I searched him and found no other weapons concealed on him.
Fer what it’s worth, he seemed ... an alright bloke.
He brought an envelope which he said contains a written invitation for you two. ”
“Well, that doesn’t sound like a trap at all,” I scoffed, and Jean-Luc nodded vigorously, but to my surprise, Einar didn’t join in.
“Let’s hear the man out first,” he said.
“See if he mentions the name of one Victor Ioan Santini,” Jean-Luc advised us. “He was, and perhaps still is, the rumoured leader of the group.”
However I had imagined the man based on Jean-Luc’s distress and Russell’s depiction of him, Angelo Rossi did not meet my expectations in the slightest. He was young and darkly handsome, his narrow face dominated by big brown eyes with long, curled lashes.
He was small, but had an air of lean, quick ferocity about him.
He looked like the first heartbreak of many a schoolgirl.
“Einar, Renata.” He got up from his seat as soon as we entered, abandoning his cup of coffee. “I meet the legends at last.”
His accent was subtle, the traces of his native French barely perceptible in his speech.
He strode towards us with what appeared to be a genuinely excited smile.
Enveloping my hand in his, he raised it to his lips instead of shaking it, placing a demure kiss on top of it.
Then he grasped Einar’s much larger hand in both of his and shook it, his smile not faltering despite Einar’s steely, unreadable expression.
He introduced himself, saying he came as a representative of the new government.
“I just can’t believe I’m finally seeing you in person,” he repeated after that. “Over the past few weeks, I’ve heard so much about you. You’ve done some sick things!”
One had to judge that sick was meant as a compliment in the context.
“Strangely, we heard little about you. Or your government,” Einar pointed out, unaffected by Angelo’s enthusiasm. “Why are you here?”
“I have an official invitation for you two.” Angelo rummaged in his pocket and took out a slim, elegant envelope from it, handing it over to Einar. “From our Prime Minister. Well, interim, until a true election can be held, of course.”
“Is his name Victor Ioan Santini by any chance?” Einar asked harshly, piercing Angelo with one of his most direct, cold looks; the kind that was certain to make him feel more than a little uncomfortable.
The young man’s smile faltered for the first time, replaced by a pensive, calculating expression. The thunder roared angrily outside, and the hall was flooded with a brief, bright light that made the room seem dark and full of shadows upon ceasing.
“Yes,” Angelo Rossi said after a short consideration. “I see that you may have heard about us after all.”
Einar said nothing in response.
“Even if you could believe all that may have been said about us”—Angelo held his glare unwaveringly, a remnant of a smile resurfacing in his features—“Surely, as a man who weaponised CanLys and used it to seize this fortress, you must know that there are times when the end justifies the means. All that stands between our mutual understanding is agreeing on the end. And our leader, Monsieur Santini, believes that we can certainly come to an understanding there.”
Something like a smile tugged at the corners of Einar’s mouth.
I knew that meant that Angelo had just confirmed something that Einar had suspected.
He ripped open the envelope wordlessly, and we both scanned the contents of the short, formal-sounding letter inside, signed by none other than the infamous Victor Ioan.
“Why didn’t Mr Santini just come here?” I asked. “Why send you to bring us? Seems ... inefficient.”
“He is too busy to make such a long trip. And he thought you might understand our position better if you saw our set-up at Bastia for yourselves. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the visit. We have once again running water and electricity.” Angelo said proudly.
Einar’s features remained impassive, and I left it up to him whether he thought it necessary to enquire after the assurances of our safety on such a trip. Or whether he thought it prudent to ask what may happen should we refuse.
“Renata has many engagements here. I’ll come alone.”
Whatever I had expected him to say, it wasn’t that. My eyes nearly popped out of their respective sockets, and I choked on the protests already tearing their way up my throat.
“I don’t! At all! I’m coming too.”
Einar’s eyes flashed with rage, his lips but a thin line, and a dark storm gathered in his eyes, which I had no doubt he would unleash on me later. That didn’t matter. There was no way in hell I was letting him go alone.
“That’s good to hear. Mr Santini would have been very disappointed otherwise.”
Angelo’s smile attained a new quality to it; an unspoken understanding of Einar’s concerns. As if it were a mere afterthought, he added, “To make you even more comfortable, Monsieur Santini asked me to let you know that you will not be required to surrender your weapons upon arrival.”
See. I raised my eyebrows at Einar in a mute plea for him to be reasonable. We can even keep our weapons!
His nostrils flaring, his only response to both me and Angelo Rossi was a strangled, guttural ‘humpf’.