Under the Sign of the Cross - Part I

Under the Sign of the Cross

December 24^th, 2001

Paris

'This is a bloody disaster,' Ferdinand von Kleist thought when he was informed in the middle of their early flight to Paris that, due to an electrical storm, their plane had been diverted to Strasbourg. 'We can't cancel the meeting in such a short notice, and the bad weather will continue until tomorrow afternoon, so taking another plane is out of the question. So much for planning and getting up at four in the morning!'

The loud snort he heard from the man at his side, let Ferdinand know that his long-time friend was irritated at the problems caused by a ‘minor occurrence’ such as bad weather conditions. 'Marie and the pilots should be glad if they can keep their jobs after tomorrow. He is going to blame them for… not being on good speaking terms with the Almighty and convincing Him to grace us with nice weather.'

“Do you have any idea if there are early morning trains from Strasbourg to Paris, at least?”

“I assume so, Konrad. Monika is working on it,” Ferdinand answered with a sufficiency he didn't feel. “TGVs are very fast.”

“This is most annoying. We could have saved us the flight and taken the train directly from Zurich,” Konrad buffed as he once more returned to his reports, nervous and cranky because of the upcoming meeting with the associates.

For the first time in his life, he was going to be late. He hated to give them any cause to talk or be suspicious of him.

* * *

Ferdinand closed his eyes when he realised that running through the hallways of the Strasbourg Airport to catch a taxi—as their car had not been able to arrive on time—had been a total waste of time.

They had lost the 8:16 a.m. train and the next one, at 8:46, would arrive at Paris Est train station at 11:05 in the morning. Considering the traffic, there was no way they would be on time at Notre Dame.

“Should we take the metro when we arrive to Paris? I have heard it's the best way to avoid a traffic jam,” Ferdinand asked to the brooding man.

“Do you know how to move in it?” Konrad barked at his friend.

“No, not really. I have never used it,” Ferdinand confessed sheepishly, and the young aide standing next to them, loaded like a donkey with briefcases, squeezed the tickets in his hand, taking several steps away from his enraged superior, not willing to hear the impending outburst.

“Then be quiet if you can't offer a feasible solution to this problem,” were Konrad's last words till both men reached Paris Est and saw the familiar black limousine waiting for them at the entrance to the train station.

* * *

Slightly less upset than before, as the drive from the railway station to the cathedral had been uneventful and his tardiness had been reduced to only forty-five minutes, Konrad entered the cathedral, but his access to the main altar was blocked by Notre Dame's security personnel, oblivious to the meeting that was going to take place later.

A brief inspection of the pews showed Konrad that all of them were occupied, and there was no way he could make his way to the old Prince zu Löwenstein or Mladic Pavicevic without causing a commotion, hence making his delay be more noticeable.

Instead, he walked to one side of the long line of pews and took refuge against one of the cathedral’s massive pillars, in a place that seemed to be less ‘infested’ by tourists. One quick look showed him that the old men sitting on that side of the building were part of the Joan d'Arc Catholic Movement. 'This is a better place to be than standing next to the associates,' he briefly thought as he returned his attention to the homily.

The murmur of an army of footsteps forced him to strain his ears to hear the priest's words, and his morning anger threatened to rise to the surface once again. The noise came from a large group of Asian tourists, meekly following their tourist guide, who was carrying a long stick with a dangling white pendant hanging from the top that reminded Konrad of a she-fox he had seen years ago running across the fields with her tail raised over her body in a way that allowed her cubs to easily follow her.

'They don't stop even if we are in the middle of a ceremony.'

He glanced at his side and noticed Ferdinand throwing a dirty look at four women making photos with a flash, regardless of the ban against them and without caring if their actions bothered any of the faithful. 'It's hopeless,' thought Konrad. 'I really don't understand why they come here if they don't understand a single thing of what we are doing. I wouldn't waste my time in a Buddhist temple or intrude in one of their ceremonies. If they want a cheap thrill, they should go to the Moulin Rouge.'

Konrad noticed that one of the ropes separating the Catholics from the tourists had fallen and the flood of tourists was already advancing towards them. 'They wouldn't dare,' he thought when he saw the tourist guide turn around, noticing the empty spot next to where he was standing. An ideal place for his group to better admire the grandiose stained glass windows.

Unceremoniously, Konrad Maria von Lintorff Sachsen Löwenstein was pushed aside by a middle-aged tourist, armed with several cameras. When he was about to open his mouth to express his opinion of the foreigner's rude manners, his eyes were caught by the most divine sight he had ever encountered.

For the first time in his life, Konrad was speechless, motionless, baffled as if he had been struck by a lightening. Sitting at the end of one of the pews, there was a boy dressed in an ordinary brown sweater and jeans, following the Mass with great attention.

'Roger,' Konrad almost whispered when he could recover from his shock. The young man looked exactly as his former greatest love. The same boyish blue eyes, brown hair, small nose and perfect symmetrical face.

Yet, the young man was also completely different from Roger. There was none of that natural haughty attitude that had made people look at him in awe. Konrad remembered how many times he had felt as the porter when he would enter a place with Roger, as the other man always took the lead.

He was the poor cousin from the countryside compared to Roger, no matter what he did to show the other man who the Hochmeister was.

Nothing was enough for Roger.

'Konrad, your people are parvenus compared to us,' Roger used to say in a casual voice. Never in his whole life, had Friederich, with more titles and a more glorious lineage than his, made him feel him so déclassé as Roger did.

The boy smiled shyly at the man with whom he shook hands during the Rite of Peace, and he knelt down during the Breaking of the Bread with his head humbly bowed, completely absorbed in his prayers.

'No, he's unlike Roger in every possible way,' thought the Duke. 'Roger never felt the communion with God like this boy does.'

The nobleman was enthralled, following each one of the boy's moves or small gestures for the rest of the Mass. He couldn't pry his eyes away from the graceful form on the pew. Someone touched his elbow, and Konrad's eyes met Ferdinand's.

“It's over. Let's meet the others,” his friend said, but Konrad didn't pay attention to him, watching the boy move to the side to let the two old men sitting next to him pass before him.

“Ferdinand, take care of the meeting,” Konrad said bluntly.

“Excuse me?”

“Show them the latest graphics and offer my excuses. Let Dähler start the meeting.”

“Are you planning to transform the most important meeting of the year into a Power Point moment?” Ferdinand blurted out, but Konrad wasn’t listening anymore, walking away after the footsteps of the young man.

* * *

The bright midday sunlight hurt Konrad's eyes when he left the cathedral in pursuit of the young man. The youth walked fast across the long esplanade while Konrad ignored the stares of two of his Serbian bodyguards, who had recognised him as they waited next to their black cars outside the building.

“Sir?” one of the men asked courteously, almost running to catch up with his superior.

“Stay with von Kleist and Pavicevic,” growled Konrad, increasing the speed of his footsteps.

“Should we not…?” the man insisted.

“Stay here,” barked Konrad, and the man froze on his spot, slightly shaken at the Duke’s tone of voice. Four years at the service of their Hochmeister had taught him that this particular tone was the preamble of a nasty situation for the receiver of his barely held in check wrath.

Konrad caught sight of the grey, worn-out jacket as its owner turned to walk towards the Petit Point to cross the Seine. Despite his initial fast pace, the boy stopped in the middle of the bridge to dreamingly contemplate the waters of the river, and Konrad could finally take a better look at his face.

His hair was a light brown that almost looked blond in some parts, and his eyes were of a clear blue. The boy rested his elbows on the cold grey stone and directed his gaze toward the cathedral for some time, while Konrad used the respite to catch his breath after the near sprint needed to keep up with him.

'He definitively looks like Roger, but his attitude is completely different. He seems to be a calm person, while Roger was always in a tizzy and on a permanent rush.'

Unaware of what he was doing, Konrad took two steps towards the boy, hoping to start a conversation, but the young man turned his face down and began to fumble in one of his jacket's large pockets until he found what he was looking for: a pencil and a mini notepad where he started to draw something at an incredibly fast pace. Before Konrad could take a look at what he was drawing, he closed the pad with a dry thud and the item was once more lost in the depths of his pocket. The boy resumed his walk, passing next to Konrad without paying attention to him.

The youth crossed the river and turned to the right, in the direction of the Quartier Latin. 'He’s probably a student,' thought Konrad as he continued to follow him for some metres. Suddenly, the boy stopped and frowned, fixing his eyes on the blue street sign. He shook his head negatively and once more began to rummage through the many pockets of his jacket. He took out a small, folded map of Paris, printed by the Lafayette Galleries, and began to study it with great intensity, checking the name of the street and the bridge he had just crossed.

'This is the Quai St. Michel! What is to be understood?' thought Konrad.

Sighing and shaking his head slowly, the boy turned the map around and chuckled in relief when he found the right way.

'He's really lost. A tourist no doubt,' Konrad thought as the boy returned over his footsteps, passing next to him once more, and took the Rue du Petit Pont in direction of Cluny.

Walking the familiar streets, Konrad remembered that he had met Roger very near that area one night more than twenty years ago. 'The irony of life.

'Roger told me what to do since the first minute we were together.' Konrad darkly compared the haughty, slightly ironical tone Roger had used when he had told him with a smirk “Rive Gauche, here; Rive Droite, there,” with the boy's soft, good-humoured self-laugh at his own inattention.

Finally, both men reached the Cluny Museum, and the boy looked slightly disappointed that it was already closed. Lying against the metal fence that protected the square in front of the Museum of the Middle Ages, the boy once more got lost in his fast sketching of the Gothic towers of the castle, oblivious to the rest of the world.

Hoping to start a conversation now, Konrad approached him, but an old lady beat him to it and began to ask the boy about his drawings.

Slightly embarrassed, Konrad put some distance between them and, as he observed them talk, he was surprised to hear the boy speaking in French slowly and with some difficulty, nothing that could be compared to the fast-paced Parisian French spoken by the lady. Nevertheless, the Duke felt an odd sense of peace while he eavesdropped on their conversation as the boy showed the woman his drawings of some birds he had seen before. 'That's funny; he speaks with a real classical French accent, but he needs to think on his sentences beforehand.

'Also, a tourist attending Mass? That's certainly strange, nowadays; maybe he's a devote Catholic,' Konrad pondered as he noticed how kindly and patiently the young man listened to one of the old lady's stories about when she was young. 'I would love to have someone that listens to my problems like he does with that perfect stranger.'

The thought gave him pause.

'What am I doing? I am supposed to be at the meeting, but instead here I am, standing in the middle of nowhere! I have to get back to the Carlton as soon as possible. This is nonsense!'

But the soft smile the boy addressed to the lady as he wished her a merry Christmas, petrified Konrad. 'If only someone would smile at me like that.'

He continued watching the boy draw until his mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. Already knowing it would be Ferdinand, he answered it with a brief message: “Don't wait for me. I'll explain you later. Tonight” before switching it off.

'A compass would be an ideal Christmas present for him,' thought Konrad, now visibly entertained by how clueless the young man seemed to be regarding directions as he watched him once more turn around the map several times before he could properly orientate it and trace with his finger a new route.

'Maybe waving a flag is not such a bad idea,' Konrad thought tenderly.

* * *

It was nearing five o'clock and Konrad was almost dead on his feet after being forced to take the “pedestrian tour” of Paris: the Quartier Latin, followed by St. Germain des Près, then down the Rue du Four and Rue du Babylone, passing behind Les Invalides, to finally arrive after a three-hour-walk to the Champ-de-Mars, with only one stop to eat a crêpe and a coffee at a stall. Konrad was never so happy to see the back of the Eiffel Tower in his life.

'Please no, don't get the silly idea of walking there and climbing it up!' he silently prayed when the boy looked in awe at the large park at the feet of the monument.

Fortunately, the boy contented himself with walking the several hundred metres that led him up to the base of the tower and sat down in one of the green benches placed along the street in front of it, watching the already greying sky and the majestic trees adorning the place.

The empty spot next to the boy gave Konrad hope that he could innocently sit there and start an idle conversation like most tourists did. 'They do that, don’t they?' he thought feeling clueless.

Taking a deep breath, he walked in a straight line towards the youth, but a group of Japanese businessmen doing some late tourism overtook him and occupied the bench, surrounding the boy and asking him to make a photo of them with the Eiffel Tower as background.

Konrad watched speechless when, after the boy had taken the first shot, one of the men asked to have a photo with him alone. The shocked boy refused almost in a panic. 'Must be his blue eyes, they're exotic for Asian people.' More than ready to intervene when the man grabbed his boy by the sleeve, Konrad saw how the young man pulled himself free and walked away very fast, crossing the street and passing under the tower in direction to the Pont d'Iéna

'Please, not a visit to the Palais de Chaillot,' Konrad once more prayed silently as the youth crossed the bridge and faced the Trocadéro, uncertain of his next destination. 'It's getting late, there’s nothing more to see. Enough sightseeing for a day,' Konrad thought, wishing he could exert any sort of mind-control over the boy.

The Duke felt very glad when the boy was more attracted by the long line of large trees along one of the neighbouring avenues and went in that direction.

'Excellent! Avenue d'Iéna,' Konrad realised miserably when he saw where the boy was heading. 'Let's pay a visit to my mother. It's only two hundred metres from here.' Following the boy in silence, he passed in front of his mother's large house in Paris and discerned at the distance a new statue standing in the front garden. 'Faubourg must be doing well if he can let her buy such a thing,' he thought maliciously. 'I could ring her bell and ask for a tea.

'And die of poisoning. A clean shot in the head is better.

'Or I could say hello and introduce a nameless boy to the great Marianne von Lichenstein-Fabourg. It would be very entertaining to see her face if her son were to show up with a penniless, twenty years younger boyfriend in the middle of one of her petites soirées.'

He halted in front of the large gate and contemplated the dreaded stairs he had been forced to take so many times in the past, but the mixed feelings of sorrow, fear, displacement and unworthiness were not there any longer. Magically, the place harboured no further meaning for him.

'Enjoy your life, Mother, and don't forget to pay the taxes on the house,' he thought, feeling strangely liberated from her oppression. 'I can live and be happy on my own.'

He continued to follow the young man, still oblivious to his presence.

* * *

'So this is the famous Metro of Paris,' thought Konrad as he contemplated the big automatic ticket machine, wondering if one or ten tickets were the most appropriate thing to buy. 'Do you have to pay extra for the transfers? A ten-ticket pass should do. Just to be on the safe side,' he decided.

He saw the young man sit on one of the benches at the station, and once more he fell under his spell. Even if the boy had been walking the whole day and looked tired, his face radiated a serene calm and kindness that Konrad had never seen before. The station was crowded with people, nervous and in a hurry to arrive home before nightfall, but the youth didn't seem to be infected by it. Instead, he watched them with great attention, taking in every detail of their gestures, clothes or moves. He was certainly fascinated by a group of Muslim women wearing their customary heavy scarves, as if he had never seen them before.

Expecting the metro to be noisy, Konrad was surprised when, instead of screeching against the railways, its wheels moved almost noiselessly along the tracks, the tires made of some sort of rubber that had a faint smell to it. He entered the wagon after the youth and watched how he moved aside to let two elder men take the free seats.

'He's really old fashioned. I couldn't ask for more,' he caught himself thinking.

'What’s wrong with me? I don't even know his name, or if he would be interested in me, and I am already considering to have an affair with him?

'I am finally going mad,' he thought.

'No. My life is relentlessly sinking, and I have to put a remedy to it before my loneliness drives me insane.'

* * *

After two transfers, the boy reached the second to last station of the line: Porte de Bagnolet. This time, more sure of his surroundings, the youth decidedly walked down the Boulevard Davout, and Konrad felt dismayed when he saw the kind of neighbourhood the boy was staying in.

It was nothing like the elegant places they had visited during the day. The long lines of poorly maintained buildings and the gangs of young boys that stood next to their cars with nothing else to do but talking or listening to blaring stereos told him that the area was a “multicultural” one. The group of menacing-looking policemen that had formed a barricade to ask people for papers just confirmed his earlier suspicion.

After showing his papers to a sturdy policeman, armed with an assault riffle, and being asked twice if he was sure of where he was going, Konrad saw the boy turn around the corner to the Rue Vitrube.

The youth went inside a small kebab restaurant and asked for a kebab at the counter, attended by an old man who spoke little French and looked bored at the lack of customers. Konrad took a seat at one of the tables as the waiter—a young man that looked to be the son of the man behind the counter—asked him what he wanted. Feeling lost, as all the times he had been in the Middle East on business he had always been served Western food, he had no idea of what to order. He quickly said, “Dönner kebab,” the only words he knew.

He watched the boy attempting to have a conversation with the old man, who was trying to explain him the Eid ul-Fitr festivity and about his childhood in Fez. The aristocrat was captivated by the way the boy smiled and carefully listened to a stranger while eating the odd sandwich placed in front of him.

Konrad left his own plate of food untouched as he couldn't stand the smell of it, feeling a bit guilty because throwing food away was a sin. He knew he should feel hungry as he had had nothing since breakfast, but somehow he felt exhilarated, and food was the last thing in his mind.

The boy rose from the bench at the counter and said good-bye to the man, putting his jacket back on. Konrad imitated his moves, loudly dragging his chair against the marble floor in secret hopes of finally being noticed, but nothing happened.

Slightly disappointed, Konrad followed the boy through the streets to a tall white building: a youth hostel. The entrance stairs were occupied by several boys and girls drinking cola despite the cold weather and the darkness. The boy briefly greeted them in English and entered the hostel.

Uncertain of his next move, Konrad stood there and the young people looked at him with clear distrust written in their eyes. “Cop,” one of the boys mumbled loudly, and Konrad realised that, with his dark blue suit, tie and coat, he must certainly look like one.

'One can always bribe the doorman,' he thought before deciding to go inside. Just for appearance’s sake, he removed his tie and hid it in his pocket.

The bright lights and colours of the lobby stated beyond any doubt that the place was designed for young people. Konrad didn't have time to grimace at the dubious taste in decoration as he saw the boy walk to the large open bar and join a group of students that were loudly chatting and drinking beer.

A slightly older-looking boy with brown hair moved aside to let the youth sit next to him on one of the bar’s long benches. The brunet put his arm around the boy’s shoulder in a proprietary way, and Konrad felt his blood begin to boil as the stranger very obviously interrogated the blond boy about his whereabouts before introducing him to the other people sitting at the table.

Discreetly, Konrad walked to a corner and observed how the boy looked a bit upset that his friend was touching him in a way that left no doubts of his ownership over him. Without saying a word, the blond disengaged from the arm around his shoulders and feigned to be interested in the conversation for the minimum time required for politeness’ sake, excusing himself after ten minutes probably tired of the loud talking. He then moved to another table, which had better light than the first, and began to sketch on his ever-present notepad.

'I would be very happy if someone like him were to sit next to me just reading or drawing to keep me company.'

* * *

“What is the name of the young artist sitting over there?” Konrad asked the large black man that stood behind the reception counter facing the open bar, pointing with his head in the direction of the boy quietly drawing there.

“We have over four hundred guests,” the man answered with a big smile.

“Perhaps I could help your memory,” said Konrad as he discreetly left several notes over the desk.

“We are celebrating Christmas. We are fully booked,” the receptionist said, and Konrad added more notes till the amount reached 500 francs.

“They're Argentineans. We were speaking with them a while ago about the revolution in their country.”

“Name?”

“I don't know.”

The glare Konrad directed to the man made him very nervous, and he quickly added, “When people register here they get an entrance code to their rooms. Normally, one name is enough for us to give them a room.”

“Don't you have to be a member to stay here?” Konrad retorted, pointing at the big “Féderation Unie des Auberges de Jeunesse” sign hanging from the lime green wall.

“I can look for the name of all Argentineans with reservations and nothing else,” the man admitted defeated, feeling very uneasy under the weight of the steely eyes fixed on him. “Here they are: Paula Chávez, Fedérico Martiarena Alvear, and Lucía Costa.”

“When does the boy leave?”

“The code is valid till the morning of the 27^th,” the man replied after reading something on his computer screen.

Konrad turned around and left the place. He already had a name where to start: Fedérico Martiarena Alvear.

* * *

Konrad had not even had time to leave his thick coat over a chair when Ferdinand burst into his suite at the George V. “Where were you the whole day?” he almost screamed.

“Walking around,” answered Konrad nonchalantly as he inspected his wrinkled silk tie, probably ruined in his haste to make it disappear.

“Walking around? During one of our most important meetings?”

“Did something happen in my absence?”

Ferdinand looked at him in disbelief, but Konrad held his gaze coldly. “Well?” he insisted.

“No. Boring as usual,” confessed Ferdinand. “Michael Dähler bombarded us with so many numbers that even I was dizzy after forty minutes. Zu Löwenstein was upset with you but happy with the results.”

“Good,” Konrad said as he poured two glasses of his favourite cognac, extending one to Ferdinand before sitting in one of the armchairs.

“Your behaviour today was most unusual,” Ferdinand stated, knowing that if his friend had served him a drink and sat by the fireplace, he wanted to talk about something personal.

“I think I'm in love,” Konrad announced simply.

“Excuse me?”

“You have heard me, Ferdinand. I'm in love with an Argentinean boy.”

Ferdinand felt dizzy along with an odd pressure in his temples. “Are you telling me that you are in love with an Argentinean boy?” he repeated slowly. 'No, not again!'

“I believe he's Argentinean, yes. You should tell Dähler to come by later. I want him to investigate this boy.”

“A boy?” croaked Ferdinand. “I thought you had enough adventures as it is!”

“This is not an adventure, Ferdinand,” Konrad retorted sharply. “You’ve known about my preferences for a long time.”

“You haven't been in a single committed relationship with a man since… 1989,” Ferdinand bit his lips to avoid pronouncing the heinous name. “I mean, nothing serious. I know you have dated people over the years, but you never told me you were in love with any of them.”

“He looks exactly as Roger. I saw him at Notre Dame,” Konrad told him and drowned his cognac in one go, instead of drinking it slowly as it was his custom. “He must be around twenty-years old.”

“Roger? You want to date someone looking like the snake that almost sent you to the other side?” shouted Ferdinand.

“He's nothing like Roger.”

“Really? What's his name?”

“I'm not sure. It could be Fedérico Martiarena Alvear.”

“Are you telling me you're in love with someone whose name you don't even know?” yelled Ferdinand on the brink of a collapse. “Are you—?”

“Crazy? Maybe. I saw him and couldn't stop looking at him.”

“Konrad, since Roger, you hate blonds. Heck! You only date brunettes, like that witch of Stefania or sassy Charles.”

“Roger was everything that I wanted in a lover. We had our good moments too.”

“You need help… and soon,” Ferdinand said for what had to be the hundredth time. “Did you speak with him?”

“No, I couldn't. Perhaps tomorrow or the day after.”

“Let's start again because I think I missed something on the way,” huffed Ferdinand. “You come here, after disappearing for a full day, and tell me you are in love with a boy who looks just like Roger de Lisle?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“Tomorrow, we go back to Zurich. The situation in Argentina is getting out of control, and there are strong rumours of a total default. Not that we are going to be hit, but some of the associates might experience some difficulties,” Ferdinand said in a neutral voice.

“The face, the hair and the eyes are Roger's. In fact, they could be brothers, but he's much younger, shorter, shyer and kinder than he ever was. He truly looks like a kitten,” Konrad continued dreamingly. 'And I met him at the Lord's house, not in a whorehouse like Roger. That is a sign. God sent him to me,' he realised suddenly.

“Did you hear me? Argentina is a time-bomb.”

“He gives me a sense of peace that I've never felt before,” said Konrad, realising that despite the marathon through Paris, he had never felt so contented in his life. Not even the sight of his mother's house, the site of so many childhood nightmares, had been able to ruin his good mood or destroy the new focus on life he was experiencing.

“Do you even know if he's into men? You could get a well-deserved punch in the face,” huffed Ferdinand.

“So be it, but love is finding your better half, regardless of the gender. It's not easy to explain it, Ferdinand. It's something you feel with a clarity you have never experienced before.”

“You are… enticed by a twenty-year-old boy who looks like Roger. Nothing else. It's the midlife crisis, Konrad. Be careful. Go to bed with him, and get him out of your head.”

“It's not about sex,” started to protest Konrad, offended that the almost mystical revelation he had undergone inside the cathedral had been reduced by his best friend to a mere romp between the sheets.

Ferdinand couldn't help to snort at his phrase, and in a flash Konrad realised how ridiculous everything must sound to the other man. 'Nowadays, it is better to be considered an obsessive psycho than a mystic. God has shown me the way.'

“Yes, you are right, my friend,” Konrad said out loud after a long pause, wolfishly smiling and shaking his head as if he would like to cast a silly idea aside. “It's probably nothing, but still I would like to give it a try. Roger could be real fun in bed. As for that other matter, nothing ever really happens till after Epiphany Day. Everybody is on holidays,” he continued, much to Ferdinand's relief as Konrad had finally realised how foolish he had been.

* * *

December 25^th, 2001

“This is not the boy,” Konrad huffed in utter frustration as he shut close the leather-bound folder that Michael Dähler, his Head of Security, had given him not one minute ago.

“Good, because this boy looks like a total moron and of the troublesome kind,” Michael spoke his mind out loud, much to his superior's annoyance. “We already hacked the hostel's registers, but it is as the receptionist told you, sir. One name is enough to register,” he added sheepishly after he saw the killer look aimed at him.

“Dismissed.”

* * *

December 26^th, 2001

Les Invalides, Paris

Tired, nervous, cranky and furious with himself, Konrad began to walk along the long esplanade that led to Les Invalides. He was completely alone, save for the blond boy walking some fifty metres ahead of him. 'How can he not see me? I can understand that he missed me in the metro, the Quai d'Orsay and the streets, but this place is as empty as a desert!' He saw the boy approach the ticket office, pay his admission ticket and listen to the explanation the guard gave him.

'Enough!' thought Konrad furiously as he walked towards the gentle-looking old man that was picking up his book to continue reading. 'This ends today.'

Without any kind of preambles, he barked to the old man, “Inform the Director that Konrad von Lintorff is here.”

The clerk gaped at the foreigner, but his tall frame and stern expression made him pick up the phone and dial the Director's secretary, mumbling something to her on the line.

“Where did the boy go?” Konrad asked once the man looked at him again.

“He bought a ticket for Napoleon's tomb, the church and the museum.”

“Good. Tell Dr. Thibaudet to meet me at the museum’s entrance in twenty minutes,” he ordered and walked away, following the boy's footsteps.

* * *

Konrad went inside the empty monument and saw the boy removing his long scarf and jacket as it was warm inside the grandiose tomb. He resolutely walked towards him, but froze on his spot when the boy bent down to read better one of the plates on the floor and a golden chain escaped from under his shirt showing the small cross pending from it.

A crenel cross.

Konrad's heart stopped in that moment. That cross was the most sacred symbol of the Order. Only the original founding families, the members of the Council and the Executors had the right to carry it.

The boy caught the shinning cross dangling in the air and absentmindedly tugged it back under his shirt.

* * *

“With all due respect, Your Grace, do you say that this person is a member?”

“Exactly, and he wears a crenel cross, Dr. Thibaudet,” Konrad said as he accepted a steaming cup of tea from the director of the museum, one of the Order's best historians.

“Young people wear things without having any idea of what they are, sire,” the elderly man said taking a seat at the table placed in the back room of the visitors’ area. One quick look through the small squared windows showed him that the strange boy was still carefully looking at the XVII century cannons displayed in the inner courtyard.

“I am sure of its authenticity, Dr. Thibaudet. I do not recall this person ever being introduced to me. You only have to find out his name when he comes to visit the arms collection.”

“I will do my best, Hochmeister.”

* * *

The boy barely listened to the long explanation the Director gave him, the man so nervous in his new role of ‘clerk’ that he didn't know how to act in such a situation. 'We never have visitors immediately after Christmas, and in less than a minute, the Hochmeister is here along with a Knight!'

Thibaudet was glad when the boy thanked him and went directly to watch the World War II weapons and the deathly devices created by the French Resistance. The Hochmeister was driving him very nervous with his intense study of the oblivious young man as he walked along the showcases.

Somehow, the blond reminded him of someone he had met in the past, but the boy was obviously a foreigner by the way he spoke French. Yet the brief glimpse of the cross the lad wore around his neck showed it to be real, perhaps made in the XIX century by the way its points were shaped and its overall Spartan look, unlike those made in the XVIII century.

The two hours the boy spent watching the collection and a short film about the Second World War were some of the longest in Thibaudet’s life. He felt like a complete idiot with his lame lie of the museum being conducting a visitor’s poll, but the young man took the folder and wrote his name down.

For the old historian, to read a name that had been banished from the Order's records was a great shock. A member of the de Lisle family! In France! Had they not been erased from the face of the earth for their crimes against the Order?

“Then your blood is French,” he babbled to the boy. “Thibaudet, à vôtre servis.”

* * *

Still trembling, the old man opened the creaking door to the office where his Hochmeister awaited. Unable to speak, he placed the folder in his superior’s hands and fixed his eyes on the battered wooden floor.

The Duke read the six words scribbled in a round and still childish handwriting. He only nodded at Thibaudet before he rose from his chair and left the office.

Guntram de Lisle. French. Buenos Aires.

* * *

December 27^th, 2001

Ferdinand von Kleist was aghast. His idiotic friend had fallen in love with a “total despicable snake” once, and it seemed he had learned nothing out of the experience, as he was now determined to share his life with someone who shared his poisonous blood.

“He's Roger's bloody nephew! The child whom that piece of shit of Jerôme de Lisle traded for his brother's life!” Ferdinand yelled to an almost catatonic Konrad, obtaining no reaction at all.

“It's a trick!” he repeated pacing around the suite's living room. Konrad had returned from his latest escaped with the news and the craziest idea: to take the boy under his wing.

“Are you even listening to me?” Ferdinand shouted again. “He's Roger's nephew! If I were him, I would want to roast you alive! It's a trap!”

“No, I don't think so,” spoke Konrad for the first time in hours.

“Oh, really? A de Lisle sits in the middle of the Order's Christmas meeting just because? Last time I met them, they didn't strike me as the ‘sitting duck’ kind of people,” Ferdinand snorted. “If he was there, he had a good reason to do so.”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps? Someone told him about you and his uncle, and now he wants to settle the score! Do you have any idea how many people were murdered in their beds by their lovers?”

“He never noticed me. If his original idea was to seduce me, he did a poor job of it.”

“No, he didn't need to seduce you. You were running after him like a puppy!” Ferdinand shouted and regretted his outburst two seconds later. “I'm sorry, Konrad, but this entire situation is too far-fetched for my taste.”

“What Dähler has researched on him up until know only proves my initial evaluation of the boy. He's exactly as his father told me he would be,” he said slowly, as if talking supposed a great effort for him.

“All this can be faked.”

“Even the photos in the school's magazine of him with the people living in that slum?” inquired Konrad, starting to return to his senses. “He studies Social Work, and has good grades too.”

“It can be an elaborate trick. Dähler should look deeper.”

“So elaborate that he has gone every night to a public university just to fool me?”

“Records can be altered and you know that,” Ferdinand huffed, upset that his attack had been dismounted in less than two seconds.

“I'm not so sure, Ferdinand,” Konrad said pensively. “Anyway, the boy is mine, and I intend to fulfil my oath to his late father. He's my responsibility now.”

“I don't remember you being that keen to fulfil your paternal duties towards the little flea some fifteen years ago,” Ferdinand said with all the venom he could muster.

“I looked for the boy after his father passed away.”

“In Europe. You do know that Argentina is in the Americas, right? Jerôme said very clearly the boy was in Argentina. I remember that,” Ferdinand pointed out.

“If you would excuse me, I have some pending engagements to attend to,” Konrad said ignoring the last taunt.

“Don't you dare to go running after that boy again!”

“I am not running after the boy. I am just taking a train to Venice. I feel like visiting the city for the holidays,” he clarified with a shrug.

Konrad took his coat and calmly put his gloves on under the furious look of Ferdinand. 'It's very strange that his companion for the trip just vanished after Christmas and he goes alone to Venice, but it’s my window of opportunity. Dähler's people did a good job in finding that out.' Without casting a glance at his fuming friend, he walked towards the door and opened it.

“I would say: 'See you in Zurich', but I am sure that you will be banging at my door tomorrow afternoon,” Konrad said in that tone of sufficiency Ferdinand hated the most. “I'll be staying at the Danieli while the house is being prepared.”

“Bon voyage,” Ferdinand answered in a neutral and slightly cheerful voice. Without saying anything else, Konrad crossed the door and closed it behind him.

Once he was alone, Ferdinand sneered and got his mobile phone out. 'If you think for a minute that I'm going to let you do what you want, you're seriously mistaken, Konrad,' he thought as he dialled the well-known phone number. 'Time to call the cavalry in.'

“Hello, Mr. Elsässer. This is Ferdinand von Kleist speaking…”

* * *

End of Part I