Broken Together (10 page)

Well,
that was believable enough. “How do you decide who to recruit or induct?”

Rafael
smiled. “That’s easy. We only approach former military members who have earned the
Medal of Honor or law enforcement officers who have received a comparable
award.”

“Is
the grand master of the Knights Templar in the United States the President of
the United States?” I’d been dying to ask that question for hours now. Since
the restaurant was nearly empty, I figured it was safe.

Rafael
nodded. “I think that’s enough information for one day. Are you ready to see
the palace?” He chuckled when I stole the last bite of pie.

We
spent the next few hours exploring the palace. As beautiful as the building
was, it paled in comparison to the palace grounds. The walking trails extended
for miles through what could only be described as an enchanted forest. Between
the moss covered rocks and columns, the lush ferns carpeting the forest floor,
and the fog drifting through twisted, exotic trees, I half expected unicorns
and faerie to appear. I didn’t want to leave, ever, but Rafael insisted we
continue on to Monserrate Palace so we could watch the sunset over the palace
gardens.

Monserrate
Palace was hands down the most romantic building I’d ever laid eyes on. Never
in a million years would I have imagined that stone carvings could be so
intricate. The delicate arches were carved as finely as a filigree necklace. Those
arches sat atop an endless array of elegant columns with floral capitals. The
hallways, ceilings, balconies, and stairways were carved with such exquisite
detail it made my heart ache.

I
hadn’t a clue who he was, but I mourned the loss of the romantic soul who had envisioned
this masterpiece. What sort of man could turn that vision into a reality? I
counted myself among the lucky ones, simply because I’d been fortunate enough
to see this magnificent building. Someone had poured a lifetime of love into Monserrate
Palace. His love had become a tangible thing.

Rafael
and I were nestled close on one of his balconies, gazing out over the botanical
gardens, a whimsical pond, and a lush forest that spanned as far as the eye
could see. We were the only two people on the palace grounds. The lone man
standing inside the gatehouse at the entrance to the park was in no hurry to
chase us off.

The
sun tugged every last bit of tension from my body before easing behind the
trees. Rafael turned to look at me. “What do you think?”

It
was some time before I could speak. “I can see why you’d want to be married
here.”

His
smile was bittersweet. The pond where his father proposed to his mother was
wreaking havoc on his heart.

“I
think we should,” I whispered. “I think we should marry in this very spot and at
this very moment when the sun slips behind the trees.”

 He
studied me uncertainly. “You still want to marry me, despite the secret Order
and everything else you’ve learned about me?”

I
smiled softly. “You’re still the same man I fell in love with. Isn’t that what
you’ve been trying to tell me?”

His
eyes traversed the many columns and arches, as if envisioning the ceremony,
before gazing down at me. “You just made the only dream I’ve dared dream a
reality.” Then, like a knight charging into battle, he kissed me.

*
* * * *

Rafael
insisted on dining in a
casa de fados
in Alfama, the oldest district in
Lisbon. Alfama was nestled beneath the São Jorge Castle. I’d gotten quite the
workout climbing the steep cobblestone trails that were more appropriately labeled
a medieval maze than passable streets. White-washed limestone buildings topped
with red clay roof tiles were packed to bursting along the hillside. I had
visions of medieval knights racing on horseback toward the castle only to get
caught up in the clotheslines strung between the buildings. Of course, I had
knights on the brain. Knights were all I could think about these days.

The
small, dimly lit restaurant we’d wandered into felt warm and inviting, but the
tables were set so close together I quickly surmised we’d be dining with
strangers. Still, no one seemed to mind. “Tell me about
fado,
” I beseeched
as Rafael took his seat.

The
waiter set a plate of cheese; some warm, crusty bread; and a small bowl of black
olives between us. They had a brief conversation about wine before the waiter
walked away.

“
Fado
is a traditional urban folk music that originated in Portugal. Some claim it’s
the oldest urban folk music in the world,” Rafael explained.

The
waiter returned with a bottle of wine. Rafael paused briefly to sample the
wine. The waiter filled both wine glasses once Rafael nodded his approval.

“Three
or four
fadistas
will sing at different intervals throughout the night.
Out of respect, we don’t eat while they’re singing.” Rafael raised his glass. “
Saude
.”

“
Saude.
”
My eyes widened when I tasted the wine. “What kind of wine is this?” The wine
was effervescent but far more subtle than a sparkling or even a semi-sparkling
wine.

“
Vinho
Verde,
” Rafael replied.

“
Verde?
Doesn’t
verde
mean green?” I studied the wine, which was inarguably
white.

“
Verde
does mean green, but green as in young, not the color green.
Vinho Verde
can be red, white, or rosé, but it’s meant to be savored within a year of
bottling. That’s what sets it apart from other wines. Portugal is the only
country in the world that produces
Vinho Verde,
” he noted proudly.

“It
tastes citrusy, like there’s a twist of lime.” I circled back to the previous
topic. “So what does
fado
sound like?”

Rafael
looked thoughtful. “
Fado
sounds sad, mournful even. The Portuguese are a
melancholy people. This music reflects their sorrow and longing.”

“Like
singing the blues,” I assumed.

Rafael
shook his head. “
Fado
doesn’t sound like the blues you’re accustomed to.
Fado
is more traditional; and
fadistas
are only accompanied by a
Portuguese guitar, an acoustic guitar, or both.”

I
adored B.B. King. I’d seen him perform in concert and couldn’t fathom anything
more sorrowful or traditional than the blues.

A
rather imposing man stepped behind Rafael before I could inquire further. He
barked some foreign command I didn’t understand.

Rafael’s
eyes widened as he shot to his feet.

The
man burst out laughing.

Rafael
shook his hand excitedly. They slapped one another on the back and exchanged
hugs.

Eventually,
the man’s eyes slid toward me. Rafael led him around the long row of tables so
they could stand on the same side of the table as me.

I
rose uncertainly.

Rafael
wrapped his arm around me. “
Comandante
, I’d like you to meet my fiancé,
Kristine Stone. Kristine, I’d like you to meet Leandro D’Souza, the Chief
Superintendent of the Public Security Police.”

I
offered him my hand. “
É um prazer conhecê-lo, senhor,
” I recited
hopefully. I’d been practicing my Portuguese.

Rafael
beamed at me.

“The
pleasure is mine,” Chief D’Souza replied. “I do not wish to interrupt your
dinner Senhorita Stone, but I would appreciate a few moments with Senhor Garcia
if you don’t mind.”

“Of
course,” I encouraged, meeting Rafael’s eyes.

He
kissed me on the cheek before easing me back onto my seat. “I’ll be standing
right outside the entrance.” He stopped a waiter who was walking by. They spoke
briefly before Rafael leaned over and whispered, “I just ordered, so you don’t
have to worry about deciphering the menu.”

I
forced a smile. “I’ll be fine.”

They
walked toward the entrance and disappeared out onto the street.

A
female vocalist approached the microphone. The gentleman accompanying her
leaned against the stone wall on the opposite side of the fireplace. With his
foot propped casually against the wall, he began strumming an instrument that looked
more like a giant banjo than an acoustic guitar. I leaned forward in my seat. I
counted twelve strings, although I wasn’t certain I’d counted right given the
dim lighting. I could only assume this was the Portuguese guitar Rafael referred
to earlier.

I
studied the man’s fingers. I was trying to discern how a single instrument
could sound like two or three. My eyes widened when the woman began to sing. I
almost wished she wouldn’t sing so I could focus exclusively on the strings.

I
looked around the restaurant. Rafael was right. Not a single person was
talking, and no one was eating. Everyone was staring intently at the
fadista.
A few were sipping wine. I shifted uncomfortably. The woman’s mournful song
seemed more like an impassioned cry. I thought about the Chippewa pouring their
grief into the ground and sky.

The
woman visited with a few patrons after finishing her song. A waiter set two identical
plates on our table.

“Grilled
sardines,” Rafael revealed, dropping into his seat.

I
blinked in disbelief. “We’re eating sardines?”

“Grilled
sardines, potatoes, and red pepper salad to be more precise.” His smile didn’t
quite reach his eyes.

Goosebumps
pricked my spine. “What’s wrong?”

“I
can’t. Not here.” Storm clouds rolled through his eyes.

“Maybe
we should leave,” I suggested uncertainly.

“We’re
staying.” He reached for his fork. “So, what do you think of
fado
?”

“The
vocalist was a little too dramatic for me. I liked the guitar, but the singing
was… I don’t know… haunting?”

Rafael
nodded. “That’s a fair assessment. I’m not terribly fond of
fado
, but I
thought you should experience it at least once.”

We
started eating. I peeked at Rafael when he wasn’t looking. He was concerned
about something. His entire body was tense. This wasn’t the same man I’d
entered the restaurant with.

The
food was wonderful, but I could barely lift it from the plate. My arms felt leaden
as if burdened by some invisible weight. I pushed the food aside. I couldn’t
swallow around the lump in my throat. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t know why.

“You
don’t like the sardines?” Rafael looked angry, sad, and frustrated all at the
same time.

“We
need to leave.” A million alarms were going off inside my head.

He
eyed the half-eaten food. Slowly, he nodded. Rafael called our waiter over. He
offered an apology and some assurances about the quality of the food before settling
our bill.

A
second vocalist approached the microphone as we began to leave. She didn’t sing
until we stepped outside. Still, her melodic lament clung to me.

Rafael
strode from the restaurant. I tried to keep up. “What’s going on?”

He
didn’t answer until we turned down an abandoned street. I glanced down at my
feet. I was wearing comfortable shoes, but those tiny mosaic tiles kept poking
through the soles. As beautiful as the sidewalks were, they were proving
painful to walk on, and it appeared we’d be walking the entire way home.

Rafael
slowed. “Do you remember the case I told you about when you discovered that
book on my nightstand?”

I
slipped my hand through the crook of his arm. “The one involving the
international pedophile ring?”

He
nodded. “That case involves a number of prominent and powerful individuals.”

“You
speak as if the case is still active,” I interjected.

“It
is.” A tiny bit of tension eased from his face. “Hundreds of children from the
Casa Pia Orphanage were victimized by this pedophile ring for more than forty
years. Because the individuals involved were extremely wealthy and wielded a
great deal of power, government officials and law enforcement officers turned a
blind eye to the rumors that had been circulating for decades. Victims were
intimidated, evidence was lost, and people were paid to sweep these claims
under the rug.”

“That’s
awful,” I breathed.

“We
identified over one hundred boys and girls who were violently abused; some were
deaf and mute. That only includes the more recent victims… well, the ones who
were willing to come forward. I’m sure there were more. Thousands of charges
were filed against a handful of individuals. Most of these individuals have
already gone to trial. Others have proven more elusive.”

My
eyebrows knit with confusion. “How did you get involved with this case when you
were working in VIP protection?”

Rafael
sighed. “I was assigned to protect a former Portuguese ambassador. I was on
duty when a child was brought to his flat. I assumed he was adopting the child.
You have to spend some time living with the child you’ve applied to adopt in
Portugal before the adoption is finalized, so I didn’t think too much about it.
The only thing that gave me pause was the man’s age. He was older, in his
sixties, and the boy was only nine.” His voice broke on the boy’s age.