Villains' Reunion by Gary Smiley. Copyright 2025 by the author. All rights reserved.

 

 

A Running Start

 

17:00, Monday

 

Present Day

 

Lagos, Portugal

 

Matilde Urbano is frantic. On the face of it, the path along the Estrada São Roque to the Lagos train station is straight. And yet, with every step forward on the sweltering and blinding white limestone pavement, this twenty-one-year-old Portuguese is blocked by an errant vacationer. This is the Algarve, a region in southern Portugal with dramatic beaches, and it’s high season—tourists everywhere. Smells like sunscreen. She hears what could be fado from one bar, and rock music from the next, dueling rhythms, anything to draw in customers.

​

Just her luck, she thinks. The first obstacle—a drunk mate with his football pals. Birds of a feather. The second—an outdoorsy, free-spirited woman who, while gesturing to her friends, swings a massive backpack around. The weight of a camping frying pan clocks Matilde in the face.

​

“Ow!” she cries and wonders, Any damage? No, the pan was buffered by clothes, or something soft. Matilde can keep moving forward, teeth intact. Maybe a bruise will form, but that’s a trifle. And a matter for later.

​

Rui, her brother, two years her senior, stomps menacingly ahead. She watches him. A different tact from hers, but more effective. Way more. He’s sometimes “big and scary,” and so can carve a path like no other. A slow tourist doesn’t see him. Rui warns, “É pá, anda lá!”

They tourist offers a meek “Sorry,” and moves aside.

​

That’s not Matilde. Nobody moves away for her.

​

Now, the second group of obstacles. More drunks. Scandinavians, swaying, shuffling, singing lyrics off-key, the heat adding to their stupor. But they need to move, now, please! Part of the groups wants to pull to that bar, another to who knows what. They are blocking, they stink of smelly armpits, and are coffee “enthusiasts” because they have oversized mugs. How to get past them?

​

In a flash, it comes to her—ram right through.

​

Head low, like a linebacker, she barrels forward, cutting through the crowd. As she runs, she congratulates herself for the improvisation. But the fair-skinned Scandinavians overreact due to the alcohol. Elbows flail. It isn’t coffee, no. It is a caipirinha—the Brazilian cocktail, a mix of cachaça, lime, and ice—and it takes flight.

​

Matilde makes it to the other side with a grimace. Something isn’t right. I made it through clean, she ascertains, but my backpack didn’t. It’s because her backpack snagged on a faux-leather band of a wristwatch. Connected to a hand, and by extension, an oversized caipirinha.

​

Up it goes. Matilde watches it in slow motion. She doesn’t want to be there when it comes down. But it’s faster than she expected. Splash. Now, the aftermath. The Nordics are sticky, with spilled drinks on their otherwise pristine, hip, boho outfits. Chaos ensues as they try to figure out what happened. Drunken fists fly, but turn into slaps. People get hurt. That’s when Matilde realizes they aren’t coffee lovers after all—they are plastered, it’s hot, and they have issues.

​

Get away. Fast. That voice in her head pushes her forward. More people join the fray, attempting to break up the fight. Embarrassed, Matilde ducks around a corner, trying to make herself small.

​

She startles as she nearly bumps into Rui, who leans casually against the wall and stifles a yawn. So cool. Detached. Professional. “Not safe yet, sis.” He grabs her shoulder, and grouses, “Come on.”

​

They move except for a quick peek at the horários—the timetable. “Fifteen minutes!” she gasps. The Alfa Pendular, the high-speed train, is slated to leave at 17:20.

​

Fifteen minutes. An eternity, given the circumstances. On edge, pursued by the worst, Matilde scrutinizes the crowd. Everyone suddenly looks out of place. She meets the gaze of a security guard—stubble, and dark standard-issue shades—but quickly looks away. That guy has muscles. Act normal, she tells herself, with a loose definition of what that means.

Okay, don’t act normal. Do this instead: Remember your enhanced training.

​

Her pensive look must have thrown the guard off. When she glances back, he’s craning his neck toward a kiosk. He’s looking for petty thieves, she ventures a guess. But the longer she watches, the more plausible alternative theories seem. No. There’s something off about him. Too perfect. Bluffing? Stalling? Calling for backup?

​

Move now, the voice in her head insists. It’s too dicey.

​

She glances at Rui, and he meets her gaze. She nods toward the guard, raises her eyebrows, and almost winks, and Rui’s expression shifts—now it’s intense. Message received. Rui, immobilize the threat.

​

A guy like Rui has a basket of options: Conceal a syringe of M99—etorphine—beneath a city map and approach using the method of a delusional blood spatter analyst from Miami who thinks killing is fun and worthy of television. But in this case, just enough to make the guy pass out. Or apply the classic rear-naked choke. Worst case, a knife to the jugular. Messy, but yes, all the options are on the table. Matilde feels a pang of remorse but steels herself. It has to be done!

​

Rui movers in. Syringe hidden beneath the map, thumb on the plunger, fingers on the flange. The M99—a semi-synthetic opioid up to three thousand times stronger than morphine—gleams as it oozes from the needle. It’s not his first time.

​

Moments before Rui strikes, a little girl darts ahead of a woman. Rui slows, watching the family reunion unfold. The guard hoists the girl into the air. Just before there would be contact, an arm’s length away, Rui veers towards the waste basket, feigning sudden interest in pigeons and trash and the sticky corners where the derelicts relieve themselves. Rui tosses a piece of paper into the basket to end that mission.

​

Matilde shudders, I would have been complicit! Immobilization or worse—the death of an innocent man. A father. A husband. With witnesses. She exhales sharply. So much for their enhanced training. Only luck saved that guard’s life.

​

When Rui returns, he whistles. Cool as ever.

​

She wants to whistle, too, but can’t. Instead, the thought is, How does he do that? Remain so cool? Or, cruel? No, soldierly. That’s it, that’s the word, soldierly. He has a mission, he does it, and that’s it. No drama. Yes, they are siblings, two years apart in age, sure, she has that cocktail of panic and remorse, a range of feelings and they are all full of shame. But Rui? He takes it easy.

​

Back to the original goal and that’s to get on that northbound train. Get out of here, leave the past and Lagos behind. Just under thirteen minutes now. In front of them in line, a precious elderly couple shuffles forward. Picture perfect, Matilde thinks as a brief image unfolds in her mind: Will that be her in the future, having someone at her side?

​

The lone ticket agent beckons them, and they shuffle ahead, helping each other as they should. Matilde sighs, resigned to waiting. But not Rui. “Come on!” he snaps in Portuguese.

To which the woman replies, “Mal educado.” Her partner nods in agreement, that was rude.

It looks like Rui might escalate this as he says, “Pois.” But that’s Rui. He’s different. Stout and barrel-chested, ever fit with a military haircut, he considers himself superior. Like a prince among commoners. Then we have Matilde, the peacemaker. Things impact her. She feels it, but this time, like others, she says nothing.

​

Rui gestures at the slow-moving couple like he’s pushing them. “Could they walk any slower?”

​

Matilde says nothing. Taller, lithe, with her brunette hair pulled into a ponytail, she lacks Rui’s physical prowess. A somewhat clumsy and awkward child, she grew up in Rui’s shadow and shunned by doing things boys do and he was always besting her. She discovered books, puzzles and other things to occupy her time. Less drama, less crying. Over time, she stopped asking to join in.

​

There are now ten minutes to make the train. The couple take a step towards the counter, so finally, there’s progress. The timing looks promising until the husband decides now is the time to rummage through his shoulder bag. He pulls out a book with a paper sticking out and places it on the counter. His wallet must be in there, Matilde thinks.

​

Part of her wants to grab the wallet, rip out the payment, and slap it on the counter.

​

“Ah…” she concedes in a whisper, “Rui, maybe it’s over.” In her mind, images flash, which translate: I accept it. I will die in a pool of blood surrounded by these drunken tourists. All mad at me too, probably. That’s the girl who spilled our drinks. And caught, well, because of the sweet elderly couple unpacking their lives at the counter.

​

But maybe an end to life would also mean an end to the relentless tension she always feels, that feeling that something awful does await at the end of the rainbow. Because hers is a very different life. The statement about Rui being like a prince, well, is kind of appropriate here. For she has a secret—she is guilty. At the moment, giving up, her eyes glaze over; her head slumps. All she would need to do is extend her arms out, making it easier for the police to handcuff her. Or, she thinks, Just stay still when the shooting starts.

​

Rui notices everything, practically reading the story from the changing expressions on her face. Until now, they have no secrets between them. He sees defeat. But no, he won’t accept it. He elbows her hard in the ribs, a seldom used violent gesture, and never ever used otherwise, but appropriate given the circumstances, jolting her out of her funk, and adds a defiant “Ha!” for effect.

​

“Ouch!” she cries. “What’s that about?”

​

“We’re not quitting, sis,” he seethes. Of course, Rui is on edge and has that adrenaline but he can channel it and therefore hide it better. Has that way that seems cool and in control. Sure, he’s all the negatives, self-centered, maybe even a sociopath. But she won’t label him that. Once labeled, it would stick. She wants to think positive things about him.

​

“I wasn’t thinking that,” she replies. That’s not true.

​

But at this moment, to survive, his boldness is what’s needed. Trust his instincts, she tells herself, and it will be alright. They could run into Lagos, disappear in the labyrinth of cobblestone streets, but Rui argued for the train station to go northward, far from Lagos.

The plan—and there is almost always a plan—is to get to a safe house near Aveiro, an hour south of Porto, in central Portugal, with everything laid out in advance. There, plans laid out to the smallest detail, Matilde will assume a new identity and disappear. Trouble is until the train arrives, the station is an obvious place to look for anyone fleeing their past.

​

Problem is, eight minutes to go. Rui sways slightly, and as the seconds tick away, even he begins to waver. His bravado fades just a little. That’s when fate cuts them a break. In the form of a new Comboios de Portugal ticket agent, with a scruffy beard and sleepy eyes, as he slumps into his seat. He absently waves them over with a “whatever” look.

​

They almost crash into the plexiglass, yelling in Portuguese, “Two tickets, second class, to Aveiro!”

​

The agent yawns, “We have one, with a stop at Oriente Station in Lisbon. Arrival at 21:47.”

“We’ll take it,” Rui replies as he offers cash through the little window. Cash instead of cards. Zero trace. Second class to blend in—just get them out of Lagos.

​

The agent waits as the tickets print, circles the details with a pen and explains, “Platform one. Several changes, here and here, okay? Morning train leaves Oriente Station at 6:39, arriving in Aveiro at 9:02.”

​

Tickets in hand, they turn and race for the platform. The guard is gone and they see it. As they huff up the stairs, Rui tugs on his Italian-made shirt, and Matilde is not quite sure if it’s a joke when he says, “Second class? Not my style.”

​

“It’s fine…” she relents.

​

Four minutes to go. At the top of the stairs, Matilde scans the platform. Tourists are everywhere. She assesses each group, hunting for the outliers, the loners, the contract killers, angry Scandinavians.

​

At first, no one seems to fit that profile. No, wait. Slow down. Each person here is important and needs to be vetted. So this guy, in his twenties. Nice eyes, looks kind of lost actually. She ponders, he has a map of Portugal. Who used physical maps anymore? Now that stands out. Could he be a contract killer who’s just doesn’t have it together because it’s only the second kill?

​

She’s overthinking. Paranoia grips her as she glances around. Next, she sees a couple arguing. Lovebirds from Lisbon, she overhears, quarreling about their city, about politics. But could this quarrel be a cover? Guns for hire, pretending to be an ordinary couple?

​

The lovers swivel to face her, and Matilde freezes. This could be the moment they draw weapons. But they point toward the exit and leave. Relief washes over her. Her poker face is slipping, and she whispers, “We might have done it.”

​

Two minutes to go.

​

“Huh, maybe so,” Rui agrees. He eyes the top of the stairs. That last minute addition. Matilde makes a rookie mistake, because of nerves, and looks in the same direction. Stupid. Don’t make it obvious. She looks away.

​

The AP train arrives with a hum, thunder, and a whoosh bringing in fresh air in the process. Even dries some of the sweat on her forehead, but that’s quickly replaced with new. Matilde takes a final look at the stairs. No one seems suspicious. No one’s rushing the platform. Definitely, not the guard from earlier, and so there’s no alarm. But she’s lost in checking, too paranoid.

​

Rui tugs her arm. “Let’s go!”

​

She nods, and they leap onto the train.

​

They did it. “Whew,” she exhales as they move through the carriages. Only when the train chugs out of the station does the tension finally begin to ebb. But the adrenaline is still too much. Her hands tremble, as if she’s had too much caffeine, and she grips the cushions of the seats as they pass more than needed. She exaggerates her breathing, trying to calm herself. Until that garners a strange look from a passenger. Stop that, she tells herself. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands and goes from folding them in front of her to keeping herself from falling over when the train hits the curves.

​

Too late—Rui notices but says nothing. He knows his sister—every one of her weaknesses. To him, and he’s said this over and over, Matilde is too sensitive, too burdened by the past and what others think. Rui doesn’t waste energy on such things. Efficiency is his creed. Take it. Do it. That’s Rui. Arrogant, sure, but with the markings of a leader. Do you want to be a leader, Matilde? He’s posed this question before. She’d laugh and look away.

​

And that’s what they are meant to be. They are heirs to a secret society, the next in line to its leadership. Outlaws. With their parents and mentors dead, their claim to power is both clearer and more dangerous. But problem solved, Matilde is no leader, and she really doesn’t want to be heir to a secret society. She doesn’t have the skills, temperament, or motivation, so why even think it?

​

Farther down the carriage, a twenty-five-year-old American, navigates the narrow aisle with backpack and an English–Portuguese phrase book. The book looks new and therefore never opened. Maybe he just bought it. Means nothing. Well, what about the backpack?

​

Oh course! She dwells on this some more. What was my earlier suspicion? Could he be a contract killer in disguise? Paranoia creeps back. Of course, a stupid phrase book screams ‘I don’t know what I am doing!’ She observes his friendly demeanor, the way he jerks the suitcase. It’s all clumsy, and now she thinks she’s got him pegged. Too affable, too clumsy. It’s a front. Clever, he’s an assassin.

​

She watches him interact with a passenger, trying to pass him in the cramped corridor. The train rocks, and Wes almost bumps into the guy. It’s awkward. She says to Rui, “Check out this guy.”

​

“American tourist,” Rui scoffs. “Through and through.”

​

She thinks, Maybe I keep my theory to myself.

​

Wes nears. Rui sees that he’s spotted the two open seats opposite them, meaning they’d have to face him the duration of the trip. Rui sighs, “No—”

​

“What are you going to do?”

​

“Watch me,” Rui says.

​

Wesley “Wes” Turner does a final verification of the seat number versus that on his ticket. With a big grin, he states, “Hi. I think that’s my—”

​

“No. You’re wrong,” Rui cuts him off.

​

“Uh, what?”

​

Rui waves his hand like a Jedi knight. “This isn’t your seat.”

​

“Is too. That’s my seat.”

​

“Well, good for you,” Rui says. “If you think so—”

​

“Good for you too,” counters Wes. A stalemate.

​

Matilde sees her opportunity. After what they just escaped in Lagos, there are things she wants to discuss with Rui—privately. But she wants to be the peacemaker too. To give Wes a diplomatic way out of the situation instead of confronting Rui and putting him in his place. Well, she’s weak—the beta dog. “You don’t want to sit here, because…” So, in that moment, she offers up a stupid comment. “We’re icky.”

​

For the first time, Wes gives her a candid look. They lock eyes a bit too long, and Rui notices this. Another ‘Matilde mistake’ logs in his mind. Wes shifts his weight to counterbalance the train’s momentum. “Medical condition?” he asks, playing along.

​

Rui’s eyes go to Matilde as he bites his lip. Okay, she knows it. Truly unprofessional, this flirtatious exchange. Instead of letting this stranger move on, she’s extending the encounter. Still, Rui decides to keep quiet and let them chat. Later, he could chastise her. Because, as part of their enhanced training, even the most innocuous exchange with strangers could be one’s undoing. Wes could be studying them right now.

​

But the other side of Matilde wants to rebel—it needs to flirt. The moment is about to pass and contradictory thoughts battle for her attention. Something’s pent up and all the tension wants out, so she blurts, “Exactly. We have rashes in embarrassing places.” And immediately regrets it.

​

Now the ball is in Wes’ court. He blinks, caught off-guard, and responds, “Right.” Matilde doesn’t know it, of course, but Wes is on the rebound. He wants to keep talking, meeting people, and so, against his better judgment, he engages that fine line between flirting and offending. “So, let me get this straight. You claim to be sick, yet you’re traveling in public? Jeopardizing everyone?”

​

“Great summary,” responds Rui with that annoying voice of his.

​

“Uh-uh. Well, no argument here.” Wes is bucked by the momentum of the train reaching high speeds and rounding curves. She watches as he squeezes the back of a seat, bracing himself as his torso jerks with the momentum. Truly, now would be the time to offer him a seat, Matilde thinks.

​

Just as she’s about to speak, she meets Rui’s eyes. With a shake of his head, she gets the message.

​

Wes observes their back-and-forth, all the while thinking of a pithy reply. He leans in closer, about to speak, then rethinks the move. He decides to be tactful and move on, and that’s what he does.

​

As Wes saunters down the aisle like a drunkard, occasionally bumping from seat to seat due to the train’s speed, apologizing here and there, Rui sighs. “I just want five minutes of peace.” He removes his jacket and rolls it up behind his head as a makeshift pillow. “Instead, I have to talk to that guy. What a dweeb.”

​

Matilde thinks something else. It’s sad what they did to that guy. She offers a feeble, “Hey, Rui, do you think...?”

​

But Rui has his earbuds in. Matilde decides not to repeat her question and looks outside at the Algarve countryside, but she sees only a blur of olive-green and brown, with some orange thrown in, too. She decides to let him sleep, and she should too. And why is that? Why try to wind down? For something tragic happened up the beach, not far from Lagos—they’d barely escaped being mowed down by a Jeep and riddled with .50 caliber BMG bullets—shot from a helicopter. Oh, and they were being chased by an eccentric, evil billionaire dude named Tiago Nacio Alexandre, who had staged a coup for an ancient secret criminal organization. That’s why. These are the things that happen to very special siblings, born into a world few can understand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chasing Ghosts

 

17:28, Monday

 

Present Day

 

Lisbon

 

Inside the Interpol indoor gun range, in Lisbon, Division 89—DIV89—rookie Agent Beatriz Mitchell focuses intently. Concentrate. You’ll get it back, she tells herself as a silhouette of a man, a new target, speeds away from her, carried on cable fifteen meters away. Something is keeping her from greatness; some wound keeps opening up.

 

A native of São Paulo, Brazil, she just turned twenty-four. She followed her family to northern Portugal—the city of Braga, to be exact—as a teen. Beatriz is a truly serious type, an underdog wanting to make things right for the little guy. At heart, she fits in nowhere. She is a misfit—often misunderstood but trying her best. Exhaling, and though her hand wobbles a bit, she zeroes in on her target and quickly fires five rounds.

 

BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM!!!

 

Another poor grouping. The wound in a nutshell, the reason why her hand wobbled. This isn’t Beatriz’s first job. No, she is a veteran. Previously, she had done military service in the jungles of Brazil. Suffice to say—and not many people know about this, so this stays here—her partners depended on her, and as they rappelled from a helicopter over the drug den and the firing started, Beatriz was overcome with fear. Seeing her colleagues square off one-on-one and lose, she, of smaller stature, knew she would have no chance with these monsters from the jungle.

 

And so she lived to tell the tale. This was essential in the prosecution of the criminals, but it also amplified her role as someone who conveniently sat the firefight out. True, she was a coward. No, that needs to be reviewed. And here is the new version, the one that helps her sleep—she is a survivor because she understood the futility of drawing attention to herself.

 

At any rate, the dueling thoughts tormented her mind. No more weakness. She hit the gym with newfound rage. She ran miles under the blazing sun, making herself dizzy to the point of passing out. But she didn’t want help, for she didn’t give it to her comrades. In short, she was punishing herself, assuring she would answer the call the next time a partner says, “Watch my back.”

 

In the adjacent booth, there is none of that self-loathing. DIV89 rookie Agent Hélder Oliveira chuckles. He had been watching her. Hélder, from the Chiado neighborhood in Lisbon, was once a midfielder for Benfica B in the Liga Portugal 2—European football. Not bad at all, but being twenty-six and having a recurring knee injury ended his dream of the first division.

 

He was inspired by all the bravado of the Navy SEALs but didn’t quite have the skills. So, to the range he went, and learned about different calibers. The other part of the equation was physical encounters. He found his affinity for the aikido style, and that’s like Steven Seagal slapping somebody one hundred times when a solid two punches would have done the same. Not a fair assessment, but something like that. But the end result is humiliation.

 

And so it burned both of them to try but be rejected by Interpol in Lisbon. Misfits, go away. Pressing, being annoying, got them pointed down the hallway until a door closed behind. Continue on, they were told, or leave. Curiosity getting the best of them, they arrived at DIV89—beneath Interpol, down the hall, take a right, and it’s near the bathroom. He has eleven months experience, hers is just eight.

 

She mutters, “Knock it off.”

 

Hélder sees her lips move, but his lip-reading training only works when facing a person straight on. He pulls down his ear-muffs and cries out, “What?”

 

Beatriz spins to face him squarely. “I said, knock it off.”

 

“Oh… That’s mean.” Hélder attempts to backtrack. “I guess my laughing could be interpreted, or misinterpreted, that way.”

 

“You bet it was,” she says with a sneer as she packs up her gear. Beatriz is unleashing all her rage out on him—the stuff that happened in the Brazilian jungle, which she hadn’t left behind.

 

He doesn’t get it—her backstory, her rage. Hélder calls out, full of bravado, “Hey, Beatriz, check this!” With a casual hold on the pistol, he turns it sideways, like in the movies, with a smug grin, and he fires off a perfect grouping without even looking. “Woo hoo hoo! Oh yeah!”

 

Beatriz storms out the door.

 

Hélder removes his ear-muffs and mutters, and whispers, “What just happened?” Checking his watch, something occurs to him. “Oh, no!”

 

 

***

 

17:30, Monday

 

Inside the Interpol meeting room at headquarters in Lisbon, DIV89 Section Director Alva O’Rourke addresses a room full of agents. She is tired, and at sixty-one years old, yes, sixty-one, we are talking about a life of stress. So, virtually sixty-one going on ninety-one. Hence, she oozes exasperation. In the back of her mind, thoughts of retirement tug at her. If she could just hit a high note—a vindication of her work, some evidence of sanity—she could finally rest. She begins to ruminate…

 

 

1991

 

Dublin

 

Leadership—telling people where to stand, what to do—is not Alva’s thing. In fact, Interpol wasn’t even on her map. At best, she’s mid-level manager, according to her own assessment, with no aspirations of rising higher. Because she’s mousy. Doubtful. But she ended up here.

Years ago, she was finishing her studies, majoring in Russian, at University College Dublin. Not just mimicking Russian accents like they do in movies—actually speaking Russian. She initially wanted to teach, small groups and not auditoriums—fear of large groups of people, public speaking—which meant continuing her studies until the day, week, or decade when the Soviet Union collapsed.

​

One afternoon, in the library, she was approached by a man who called himself Samuel.

Sam, as it turned out, offered her a job as an assistant at Interpol, which was in desperate need of people fluent in Russian. That would be her. But in 1991, the Soviet Union was crumbling. Alva kept pursuing this line of work, moved to Moscow, but then couldn’t find Sam. He’d just disappeared.

​

At that time, Russia was undergoing seismic transformations, and Alva became drawn to a case involving the rise of the Petrov clan. The Petrovs were a powerful family that had seemingly risen from nowhere after the revolution of 1917.

​

Bookish as always, Alva spent her evenings in the library researching the Petrovs. Something about their history felt off. Over the years, members of the family had been systematically murdered—every one of them, even a three-year-old girl. She also noticed a strange lack of interest in solving the case. Both Interpol and the Russian authorities seemed determined to let it vanish into the shadows.

​

Something—or someone—was behind this, and whoever it was, they were powerful.

Late one evening, Alva stumbled across a curious name buried in a document: The 30. She’d never heard of The 30 before. At first, she thought it might be an album title. She even went to a record shop, hoping it was by some of the depressing musicians she loved and loathed—The Smiths, The Cure. Instead, she ended up back in her apartment, eating cookies in bed and lamenting how much it had rained.

​

It was early 1992 when Alva first heard of Luger Landprov. His base of operations was near Lake Baikal, deep in the Russian hinterland. His fortune had skyrocketed after the fall of the Soviet Union, as he seized control of mining, oil and forestry empires. The last of the Petrovs died in 1992, just as Luger consolidated his power. One dynasty fell and another rose.

​

Alva found it unsettling how Luger, originally from Moscow, seemed to shadow the Petrov family. Had his father or grandfather been behind the killings over the years?

​

Alva began to build a case, though much of it was based on rumors. She fired up the Internet—modem-to-modem handshake, burr-bree-burr-bree, as it sounded back in the day—and started surfing. She wanted to know how someone like Luger Landprov, with little apparent backing, could grab state assets and get away with it. How does a man become an overnight billionaire? Was he in The 30?

​

It wasn’t long before she had sixty megabytes of research saved on her computer. But it was her undoing. Using key search terms in Russian, she typed “Luger Landprov” in Cyrillic and hit return. That was it.

​

The very next day, she had an unsettling encounter at a café. The waiter brought her coffee and a note, saying it was from a gentleman “over there.” But when she looked, there was no one. The note contained a threat.

​

When she showed it to her superiors, along with her theory about The 30, about that missing guy named Sam, about Luger Landprov and the murdered Petrov family, she assumed they’d take her seriously. They didn’t. She was told maybe she invented the story of Sam, maybe wanted to be important, a hero.

​

Her sixty megabytes of research vanished shortly after.

​

Soon after, she received a call from her superiors. Late that evening, she was on a plane to Lyon, France—Interpol’s headquarters. Demoted, she returned home to Dublin, ashamed. She even tried therapy. It didn’t help much, for they were crazier than her.

 

 

1995

 

In 1995, Alva vanished from the world of intelligence gathering. She spent her days tending to her garden and bird-watching. She was distancing herself from that madness. Getting better. Her life was routine, peaceful, until one day, her phone rang.

Standing there, gardening gloves in hand, she hesitated. If she answered, she knew it would pull her out of this new, simple rhythm.

​

She was right.

​

That call offered her a job in Lisbon. The brass there didn’t care about her foray into therapy, dismissing it as irrelevant. Everything was fine now, Alva insisted. Fixed. No open wounds from her time in Russia.

​

But when she arrived at Interpol, she discovered the job wasn’t what she expected. It was a position as an underling for something called DIV89. She’d never heard of DIV89. Nobody had. Alva felt like the joke was on her, the cruel circle that consumed her was complete.

Alva passed on the job and returned home to Ireland.

​

There, she retreated to her usual comforts—sad music and cookies in bed. She even read the lyrics to her favorite songs, letting them play on repeat in her mind. Having more time to herself, she began to get irritated by the lyrics. She could see why people wanted to kill musicians. The phone rang occasionally, but she never answered. It had to be Interpol, relentless as always.

​

Alva took up new habits, walking different routes and checking for trackers. There weren’t any, of course, and that only made her feel worse. Wallflowers blend in too well.

​

Then, one day, a mysterious woman crossed her path.

​

Agatha slid into the booth where Alva was sipping tea. Beneath the table, she pointed a 9mm at her. Calmly, she began, “Interpol, founded in 1923, had this lofty dream of making the world a safer place. Visionaries, and, I will admit, it may sound like something cooked up at Woodstock, but they—”

​

“Interpol?” Alva interrupted. “Not interested, go away.”

​

“Nah. I have a gun,” Agatha replied.

​

“Then shoot.”

​

“May I?” Agatha gestured at the tea.

​

“Just shoot me. I have had it with you guys.”

​

“As they say… Cards on the table,” Agatha continued, ignoring the taunt. “I’ve read your objections. I know your—”

​

“My history? Here’s what I know—Interpol and DIV89 are…” Alva hissed, “put together, a creep-fest. You are all the same. Playing with my mind.” She put down her teacup and began sliding sideways in the booth. “It’s been—gotta go.”

​

“Hold up. True enough,” Agatha admitted with a shrug. “DIV89 was born in a janitor’s office in the basement of Interpol. It was called Division 1989 because it came about at the end of the Cold War, back when the USSR was crumbling and nobody knew which way it’d go.”

​

“Annoying.”

​

 

“What?”

​

“I’m not interested, and yet here you are explaining.”

​

“Well, DIV89 had to remain a secret. As you know, Interpol’s purview was to gather information, collaborate with national police. Okay. No arrests, no jail. But when the USSR joined Interpol in 1990, DIV89 didn’t disappear. It just became… different.”

​

“Who are you even talking to?” Alva grumbled. “Blah blah blah.”

​

“They made up the rules as they went along,” Agatha persisted. “Meetings in bathrooms, football games, even using frosting on doughnuts to pass messages at bakeries. They proved you didn’t have to be in the office to get results. Over time, the creeps became misfits, and when the circle closed, they were—cool. Had a license to kick ass. Does that excite you?”

​

“You are annoying. No, it doesn’t. Just leave me alone.”

​

The statuesque woman extended her hand. “I’m Ramona Sevilla.”

​

“Swell. Um—Alva O’Rourke. And now, you leave?”

​

They shook hands reluctantly.

​

“No. The unit I’ve been describing—DIV89—are misfits. That’s what you are, Alva O’Rourke. Own up to it.”

 

 

Two days later

 

Évora, Portugal

 

Ramona and Alva were near Évora – a city east of Lisbon in the Alentejo countryside. They weren’t there to admire the beautiful city founded by the Romans in the first century BC, or to explore its Moorish past, the Roman temple, the Cathedral of Évora or even the Capela dos Ossos—the Chapel of Bones. But they should, for they are worth it.

​

No, they were in a creaking, jarring, single-engine Cessna 182 Skylane, lurching down the runway. Ramona and Alva sat opposite each other, decked out in matching tracksuits, helmets and goggles, and snugly secured parachute backpacks.

​

“Bet you didn’t wake up thinking you’d be doing this,” Ramona said with a grin.

“No, actually,” Alva replied, leaning over just as Ramona handed her a barf bag. Alva vomited into it and handed it back to Ramona, who frowned and promptly tossed it into a trash bin. “I am not doing this.”

​

“If you’re going to lead, you need to shake things up, Alva.”

​

“I’m fine where I’m at,” she shot back as the Cessna lifted off the ground. “So, I’ll pass on this ridiculous offer, thank you.”

​

“You’re not diving?”

​

“I’m sane. I told you, heights are not for me. I’ll pass, once again.”

​

Ramona loomed over her and grabbed her by the cuffs. “You will dive!”

​

“Will not!”

​

The pilot craned his neck and shouted from the cockpit, “Five minutes to target!”

​

“Hear that?” Ramona yelled as she opened the sliding door. A gust of wind roared through the cabin, and Alva’s hands clamped tighter on to the handrails.

​

“Heard it. Ignoring it.”

​

“You’re getting old!” Ramona cried.

​

“I am old!”

​

“Nonsense!” Ramona barked, overpowering the frail Alva. “You mind tells you that you are old. Fight it, break it, break the mold that binds you!”

​

“What?”

​

“Fifteen seconds to target!” cheerfully updated the pilot.

​

“Ten seconds. Let’s go,” said Ramona like it’s a mundane task. “Five seconds…”

​

“No. Not going. No.” As Alva’s fingers slipped from the hand-guards—No no noooo, she began to accept her fate: She will die screaming. With a determined shove, Ramona pushed them both out the door. Alva heard one last thing, which stretched out in the wind: “I see talent in you!”

​

Free fall. Horror overtook Alva as she spiraled, careening toward doom. Ramona cursed under her breath—Alva wasn’t making this easy. Ramona tucked her arms to her sides, streamlining her body like a missile. Catching up, the expert Ramona carefully tossed her arms out, allowing her clothing to catch more wind, and thus slowing her descent.

She grabbed hold of Alva, steadying her so she faced the ground. Alva’s expression was a mix of delirium and terror.

​

“You’re doing great!” Ramona screamed as she flipped Alva around, pointing at the sprawling landscape below, her words consumed by the wind. “That’s Évora!”

​

But Alva heard none of that as the wind ate the words up. But something was changing inside her. In the heart-pounding chaos of free-fall, Alva felt an unexpected spark ignite. Hurtling, that spark grew into a flame, and for the first time, she saw herself clearly—a misfit, yes, but someone who can belong. DIV89 isn’t just a group; it can be her home.

She realized she needed to change. To embrace risk. To become bolder. Stronger. Daring.

As the two of them twisted and tumbled through the sky, Alva made a silent vow: She will keep skydiving. She’ll take on the whole workout regimen Ramona swears by. She’ll build muscle, stave off aging and kill all her habit of self-loathing, of whining. Leave the loser version behind in the Soviet Union.

​

Ramona, her guide through this transformation, would eventually retire in 2020. But that day, she was reborn as a new person. The fears, the doubts, they would still be there, but the new persona is pushing them back. Alva’s journey had only just begun.

 

 

17:31, Monday

 

Present Day

 

Lisbon

 

Snapping out of her foray down memory lane, all eyes are on her, the section director, whose mind seems preoccupied by something other than the present issue. And that is another of her many flaws, and a huge one for someone pretending to be a leader. She felt she couldn’t connect, inspire or even steer others. Why? Well, look at her life. It was built upon a quixotic pursuit—the pursuit being one played out in her mind, as the evidence is scant. And when she does try to explain what she is doing, people drift away from her. After many tries, she would get the message. But in the meantime, it zaps her confidence.

 

Alva turns her face toward the floor and looks down the bridge of her nose, giving the appearance that her eyes are not aligned with her glasses. She concludes with, “And so we believe The 30 is an actual organization—” Alva pauses as she looks around the room, meeting blank stares. Another speech, yet the same reaction.

 

Throwing up her hands, she concedes, “We believe—or I believe. I think it’s just me…” Nobody in the audience reacts. The audience sees her confidence fade. Something or someone needs to save her!

 

Beatriz opens the door. Alva’s eyes go in that direction. Beatriz exhales loudly and spreads her hands wide, like in a confession, saying, “Sorry.”

 

“Oh?” shrugs Alva. “Go ahead. Um… I am between thoughts.”

 

“Well, boss, my excuse is that I was target shooting. And, I got lost in the count—”

 

Just then Hélder appears at the door, but he has none of the embarrassment, so he finishes her sentence with “Of bad shots!” Then, referring to himself, says, “Whoa? Did he just say that?”

 

Beatriz looks over his shoulder. “So stupid. I was talking.”

 

“Agents!” yells Alva, as if she is their mom. The room is quiet. It seems when Alva realizes that the issue is The 30, and that she was making a speech, she doesn’t have the will to continue. Her delivery… well, it lags. Everyone can hear it. “Where was I? Anybody?” The audience shrugs with glazed eyes. “Ah—The 30 also known as Illi Trīgintā in Proto-Italo-Venetian-Vulgar Latin as spoken in 697 AD. Well, this secret organization may truly exist. And they may have something big in the works—”

 

And so when someone shows weakness, another can pounce. That would be Hélder, in this case. “Uh, what? The 30?” he interrupts. “Is the new twenty?” he guffaws and is met with laughter. That bolsters him to continue, “Section Director, did I hear that correctly? Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, The 30, with a capital T?”

 

“Yes, you did, Agent Oliveira,” replies Alva. “Try to be punctual next time.”

 

“I’m sorry about that. Truly am—” Hélder gestures as he looks around the room. He’s not going to let his boss off the hook. This is the kill-shot. “In a nutshell, what is The 30?”

 

“We have already gone over that.”

 

“In a nutshell, respectfully,” he presses.

 

“Fine,” she sighs. “Well, we have a vast network on both sides of the Atlantic, ties throughout Asia, Australia, boots on the ground, so to speak, not to mention my years in Russia—”

 

“And?” he interrupts again. “Years in Russia. Does it exist?”

 

“Can you prove it doesn’t exist?” she counters.

 

“Hey, teacher, is this philosophy class?” Getting laughs, he punctuates this by playing metal on his air guitar. “Or religion? Did I ask a question, or did I not?”

 

“Funny guy, this agent. A comedian,” quips Alva. But she’s rattled. The issue is too dear. “So, do I exist?”

 

Hélder retorts, “In Portugal, we have a saying. We have many sayings, actually, but this one is appropriate for DIV89, with all due respect—”

 

“Go ahead. Say what you want to say.”

 

“People in this room will understand it. And the proverb is, ‘Casa onde não há pão, todos ralham e ninguém tem razão.’”

 

“And I understand it, too,” she explains. “In a house without bread, everyone argues and nobody’s right. What is your point?”

 

“It’s that we don’t waste our resources chasing something that doesn’t exist. DIV89 is already on shaking ground. Chasing phantoms is not good policy. That is my professional assessment, Section Director O’Rourke.”

 

Alva has no idea that the director of Interpol Lisbon—Jerónimo Borges—with his salt and pepper hair, slinks in from the side door. Borges is from Ponta Delgada, on São Miguel Island, The Azores. His family is there, he has an apartment in Lisbon, and he travels back and forth. Grim-faced, Borges has the nickname the Pallbearer. Not that he knows of, however.

 

Borges joined Interpol in 1992. When he learned about DIV89, suffice to say, he was pissed. And from that day on, he vowed to shutter it. The bulwark against him was Ramona Sevilla. That was then, and since her retirement, she wanders the mountain ranges of southern Spain. Not aimlessly wandering—no need to go searching for her—but wandering with a purpose. Her new passion is looking for rare animals, like the Iberian wolf, the lynx, the chamois, and always holding out hope to see the Iberian ibex—extinct since 2000—and peak bagging. Impressive, especially for someone with Parkinson’s.

 

Alva, in a soldierly fashion, presses on. “Okay, here it is—we at DIV89, and Interpol for that matter, regarding The 30…” Her brilliant greenish-blue eyes pierce Hélder’s, and he looks away, seemingly irked. She has so much to say, but none of it is relevant to the actual evidence. And in the end, it is nothing. She confesses the truth. In a whisper and zapped of confidence, she utters, “We’ve got squat.”

 

“Pronto, já está,” Borges says with a wicked grin and does a golf-clap. “Well done, O’Rourke. Finally being candid. You admit defeat.”

 

“I never did. It’s not like that.”

 

“How’s that?” presses Borges.

 

“You missed the beginning of my presentation.”

 

Borges guffaws. “Must have been a barn-burner. But I heard the concerns of your agent, breaking out Portuguese expressions about houses and bread, thinking that DIV89 might fall apart chasing phantoms. That was an astute observation.”

 

Hélder grins. “I am Agent Hélder Oliveira.”

 

“Right,” says Borges dismissively.

 

Alva turns, giving the audience an awkward look. “People, you can go,” she says. Some in the audience decide to rap their knuckles against the tables—a form of applause with a hint of anger. As the applause dies out and the room starts to clear, Borges nears her. “Director Borges, what brings you to the briefing?”

 

“I just wanted to see what you do.”

 

 

 

Wanna Drink?

 

17:46, Monday

 

Alentejo, Portugal

 

Nuno Leão looks tired as he pulls a bar-stool up to the huge oak table. He is in the wine cave, and along the wall, he can see barrel after barrel of the good stuff. Nuno is in a room, separated from it only by glass and a glass door.

 

Atop the table, he and his assistant—Gonçalo Balança—with a beanpole build, have ten bottles of wine. Nuno pulls out his pad of paper, pen, and his reading glass. Gonçalo, an orphan, found his way to the winery at a wee age. Nobody really knows his past, just that he is intensely loyal, akin to a dog. Grumpy Nuno and nerdy Gonçalo—what a team.

 

Nuno has a chart printed out on a piece of paper. He is methodically going to taste the ten wines and judge them on a series of factors, such as color when held over a white surface; depth—a description of paler color to a darker one; clarity—clear, brilliant, or hazy. Now, the first bottle is ready to be given his full attention. Nuno, having done this a zillion times, goes into a state of Zen. “Decision time...”

 

In Portuguese, Gonçalo says with a nod as he heads for the door, “I’ll give you some peace, boss.”

 

Nuno pours the wine into the glass as he ponders. He swirls it hard, letting the aromas become magnified in the tight space of the glass. He moves his nose in for a deep whiff. But no, something’s off. He seems preoccupied, uncomfortable. Is it the smell of oak barrels—that’s interrupting? Or, maybe, he thinks, the greater issue is, he’s no longer up for being the one to make such huge decisions regarding the blend of the Alentejano red.