Finishing my breakfast, I met the other members of the team near the barn, where the men were sleeping. With there not being enough bedrooms for all of them to have one, they'd shunned them completely, politely informing me that the house would be for the ladies only. Francois had also given up his bedroom in the main house to sleep with them, at least until the men had deemed him unworthy and had thrown him out on the second night. For the entire two and a half weeks since, he'd slept in a small tent outside in the yard, without any complaints.
I didn't know if Francois was accepting the difficulties because he was trying to gain the men's respect, or if he was trying to atone for his mistakes. I just knew that when I stepped out of the house that morning, the sun was just thinking of breaking the horizon, and he was already up, cleaning his Kalashnikov rifle in the pink morning light.
“Good morning, Jordan,” he said softly, not wanting to make too much sound. I could understand why, too. Not only was the rest of the team still sleeping, but there was something about the way the morning was in Durres as spring bloomed. The Adriatic was close enough that you could see it out on the horizon, and the high cliffs that separated the land from the sea let just a hint of the waves pounding away reach your ears. Life in Albania seemed to operate at a slightly slower pace too, as if the night wasn't ready to let go and the people were aware of it. It wasn't the languid start of Mexico, but instead had a hint of older, more primal fears. The power of darkness reigned, even on the Adriatic Riviera.
“Good morning,” I answered him, coming over and squatting down. “How was your sleep?”
“Reasonable,” he said, adding no details. I knew from staying up one night that in fact Francois slept terribly, often tossing and turning through most of the night, tortured by nightmares and a hard, unforgiving ground that didn't let his body recover from the rigors of training properly. Still, he never let on, and my heart went out to him. I still hadn't forgiven him, and had not let him have any moments of tenderness from me, regardless of if the foolish side of me wanted it or not. “Are you ready for today?”
“Last chance to make any changes to the plan,” I said. “I’m ready. I want to be on those trucks — I don't like what the new reports are saying. It doesn’t make sense.”
“About Felix being allowed to roam free?” Francois asked, sliding the bolt back into his Kalashnikov and finishing his reassembly. “It doesn’t. There could be complications that we didn’t think about.”
“Such as?” I asked, fear twisting deep in my gut. “Tell me what you know, Francois. Or at least what you suspect.”
“Vladimir Ilyushin has connections with some of the deepest parts of the old Soviet and Russian systems,” Francois said, setting his rifle aside and reaching into his tent, retrieving a canned ration that he opened and began spooning into his mouth. “And from what I know of him and his syndicate, he has a penchant for the chemically enhanced interrogation systems they developed.”
“In plain English, please,” I said, irritation in my voice.
“I mean that Vladimir has a history of brainwashing,” Francois said, stirring at the dirt between his feet with the end of his spoon. “And if they're letting Felix roam free, then there may be cause to believe that they have at least partially turned him.”
“Then what are we waiting around for?” I hissed, fear filling my heart. “We should have been on the move yesterday!”
Francois shook his head. “If they already have him to the point they trust him outside the buildings, then there is nothing more we can do until we get him back. We’re better off making sure we’re ready.”
I clenched my fist, anger flooding me as he went back to polishing off his rations, and I stood up, nearly storming off. “I'll go wake everyone up,” I said instead, clamping down on my emotions. “Do they know?”
“No, but it won't matter to them as much as it does to us,” Francois replied. “They want their King back, not another court jester like they have now.”
I stopped and looked over at my shoulder, who for the first time since we got to Albania looked tired and defeated. “You're hardly a jester,” I reassured him. “And even if you are, well, every village needs its idiot.”
* * *