MARKABIA
1845 HOURS
A FEW WEEKS AGO
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That Friday afternoon, the Alfonso Cafe, located at the intersection of Fourth and Tenth, was busier than other times. The rain that started falling a few minutes ago had led many to stay there a while longer and ask for an extra round of what they were taking. Something hot, preferably; with the precipitation, the temperature had dropped.
There were the usual ones. Lawyers debating the latest court cases; the military and congressmen, gathered around a small table as if it were a Crisis Room, giving speeches about how important it was to bet on the maritime industry; the older retired officers sharing the same war stories they already shared the day before, and others who talked about things as momentous as the weather.
Everyone enjoyed the last hours of the day with a coffee in between; although most of them did so by occupying the tables in the center to stay away from the windows. This was a deliberate choice that, at least to Mr. Mizar, by now was as obvious as the reason for it.
They did it so as not to expose themselves to those who passed by on the street. Period. Perhaps because by staying there, they gained a certain sense of protection. The security there was superb; few areas in the metropolis were as well-guarded as that. But sometimes unforeseen events happened, and if one had a dirty conscience—like many of those present had—staying for a long time next to a glass wall, it could make one the target of a sniper.
Fools, Mizar called them.
He, who knew most of these people for work reasons or because they were regular Alfonso clients, preferred to sit next to the window to enjoy the view. He knew that, if it was written that an unforeseen event would happen to you, no matter how many qualms were taken, how many crystals there were between the potential victim and the attacker, fate would tamper with whatever to impose the tragedy.
The old wooden and glass entrance door opened, and the bell tolled once again, announcing customers. This time, it was a group of prosecutors; Mizar knew it; a few hours ago, he’d seen them in the Imperial Citadel.
The youngest of the newcomers looked around; his eyes met Mizar’s and drew away with a spark of shyness. Then he exchanged a comment with another in the group, and they took their seats at the first table they found available.
They recognized me. They know who I am.
Proudly, he sipped his tea and returned his brown eyes to the holo-newspaper spread out on the table. The holographic edition of the Consensus newspaper that day had a huge picture showing him, dressed in his military uniform, going up on the dais to receive the honorary title from an elderly officer in a long green cape, with a note that read,
Chief Officer Mizar has finally been appointed Secretary of Defense, in recognition of his achievements in the Markabian Empire’s arms industry. At the age of fifty-two, the man responsible for making Photias possible today, driving the Grenadier program forward, has become the youngest member of the Imperial Council.
He deactivated the Consensus plastic card and activated the Elite card, the next among the many publications he’d bought. He looked for the pages that spoke of his triumph and was captivated by the article with the same enthusiasm with which he had done with the previous ones.
Of course, everyone in the cafe knew who he was. Who could not recognize him, especially in that part of the city where congress and court buildings abounded? If he was already a well-known figure before being promoted, now that he held such a high title, he was even more so. The question was, how many of those present shared his enthusiasm? Was there anyone there who would have opposed his appointment, had they had the chance?
He knew some people argued against him, saying that it was inconceivable to give the position of Secretary of Defense to someone who had not undergone traditional military training like many of his peers, while others argued it was disrespectful to families who had forged entire generations of military personnel, for a simple businessman to go so far.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Nonsense! Weren’t his merits the most important thing? The entire military scheme was based on merit, and he had done far more for the military than his detractors. The Markabian Empire had the mighty Grenadiers thanks to him! How many of those who were against him could boast of such a thing?
Staring at his reflection in the windowpane, with his fingertips, he evened out the gray that painted that white streak in his dark hair, just above his ears. He didn’t care about gray hair; he cared about looking handsome and flawless, there was no age limit to look good. Who would tell him otherwise, the same lunatic who had told him that coquettishness and military service didn’t go hand in hand?
Piercing his reflection, he watched the rain falling on the city. It was beautiful. The weather had helped it to get dark prematurely, and through the wet glass, the streetlamps around the café looked like balls of lights, suspended in a gently swaying curtain of water.
The rain put him in a good mood. Besides, if good news were added to it…
Now the only thing missing was the finishing touch.
He took the last sip of his tea. The young waiter beside him tipped the kettle to pour him more, but he covered the cup with his hand. He was full.
“And you?” Mizar said and opening the edition of The Emperor, the only printed newspaper of the many he had bought, he pointed to another picture of him holding the title in front of a formation of soldiers. “What do you say about this?”
The waiter, a thin young man with a handsome face covered with freckles, took a deep breath, and gulped.
“Congratulations, Mr. Mizar,” he said, his voice trembling slightly between shyness and nervousness.
“Thanks, but you don’t have to congratulate me just for pleasing me, Jake,” Mizar smiled, and hiding his hand behind the tablecloth, he caressed the young waiter’s leg. “Or is it that we are no longer friends? Huh?”
The waiter, petrified, took a glance at those behind the Secretary and then settled his eyes somewhere in the window. His white face had lit up like a campfire.
“Oh! Now I get it,” the Secretary said and looked at his custodians. “Well, you’ll have to get used to them; they have just been assigned to me. But don’t let them intimidate you, Jake. These dogs don’t bite… Unless I ask them to.”
The waiter tried to keep his eyes out of the reach of the Secretary’s voracious eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Mizar,” he said.
The Secretary stood up, leaving the money to pay the check, along with a generous tip, on the table, and picked up the printed newspaper along with the holo-cards. He brought his lips close to the young man’s ear and whispered, “Hope to see you later.”
And he left, and behind him, were his custodians: two Grenadiers dressed from head to toe in their shiny black and white armor; cutting-edge technology with an almost medieval look.
Mizar moved between the cafe tables with his publications in hand; his head held high and a triumphant smile, knowing that he took with him the gaze of most customers and even their voices. Along the way, from the table to the exit door, the widespread murmur had been reduced to a few sounds: a teaspoon knocking on a cup and some isolated squeaking. The crackling of his shoes against the wooden floor, and the clink, clink, clink, caused by the soldiers as they walked in their armor, became the only beat besides the soft background music.
He picked up his brown raincoat from the cloakroom, put it on, and went out into the open. Clink, clink, rang the bell at Alfonso’s door, marking the end of his day there. Tomorrow he would be back at breakfast time, as usual.
Outside, seeing that the rain had abated, the Secretary turned away from his custodians, walking in the opposite direction.
“Sir,” one of the Grenadiers called him. As the soldier spoke with the mask on, his voice was heard with a metallic echo. “The limousine is parked around this corner.”
“I know,” Mizar replied, “but I feel like walking. The condo is across the avenue. It’s not far.”
The Grenadiers agreed to abide by the wishes of the Secretary and followed him.
Arriving at the corner, under the streetlight, Mizar waited for the pedestrian light to turn green; when the few vehicles passing by stopped, he advanced.
The wind stirred the drops that were dancing in the air, and licked the pavement, sweeping away the thin layer of water that had not yet drained down the sewers. It was getting dark, and the crowd that normally passed by had disappeared. In the sky, the pink clouds had starched into a purple cushion that promised to continue the bad weather. In the distance, behind the stylish buildings of the area—old and very well-preserved constructions that did not reach more than ten stories—one could see the thin and kilometer-long towers that rose in the downtown of Markabia, dissolved between the curtains of the night and the water.
Half a block from his building, standing next to the entrance through which he was to enter, there was someone in a dark raincoat. Was it one of his neighbors? Most of those who lived there, elderly former secretaries, wouldn’t venture out in the open in that weather, but there were always exceptions.
He sharpened his gaze, trying to recognize the man—if it was a man and not a woman, that was—but he couldn’t distinguish him well. The figure remained in the shadows, out of reach of the building’s lights. The stranger’s face was a dark, blurry spot; a few steps later, he knew the reason: the stranger had his head covered with the hood of his raincoat.