The Green Lama: Unbound (The Green Lama Legacy Book 3) (6 page)

“Tell me,” Andonis raised an eyebrow. “How was she in the… you know?”

“I try not to dwell on past relationships,” Dumont said with a noticeable frown. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but if you could take care of my friends, please.”

“Oh! Oh! Yes, of course! Dimitri! Dimitri!” he called down the cellar. “Come back up here, we have customers!”

“Pull the other one!” Dimitri shouted.

“Get up here, you idiot!” Andonis barked.

“And, um, sir, can I ask you a few questions?” Dumont quietly said, placing a hand on Andonis’s shoulder as he leaned in.

“Oh, of course, sir!”

“Well, firstly, do you have any green hooded robes?”

• • •

They had arrived on the docks one night several months ago during one of the worst storms Kamariotissa had seen in over a decade. It was still vivid in Vasili’s mind, the black clouds that seemed to soak up the sun and the sky, the rain and the lightning that came at all angles. No one had seen their boat arrive, their clothes soaking wet as if they had walked out of the sea. They hid their faces beneath coral masks; the eyeholes covered in black glass, shaped like a nightmarish idea of what a human should look like. It wasn’t just the masks, though. It was the way they walked, as if they were still learning to use their legs, swaying arrhythmically like a broken metronome; and how they talked, or rather didn’t, only ever speaking in whispers, breathing their words in long gasps of air. He wasn’t even sure if they had names; they were simply known as the Twins.

Whatever you called them, Vasili didn’t trust them and were it not for his boss, Alexei—who had been more than happy to work with the Twins from day one—he would have avoided them like the plague. Right now, they stood in the shadows at the front of the meeting house, looking over the gathered mass of townspeople, whispering to each other in their warbling native tongue.

“So, what do you think, Vasili?” Petros asked, slapping Vasili hard on the back. Petros was at least a head shorter than Vasili, his body ropy from years working the docks. He was also deadly fast, able to move in and out of the shadows without a sound. There were at least a dozen unsolved murders that Vasili knew could be attributed to Petros. “You look like crap. Late night, eh? Knocking boots with Sotiria again?” Petros asked as he scratched at his unshaven jaw.

“Bad dreams,” Vasili replied.

Petros sucked his teeth, disappointed he was denied any racy details. “Pretty big crowd, eh?”

Vasili looked over the people shifting in their seats and milling in the aisles. Alexei had stationed him and Petros by the front doors, just in case. That was, in effect, Vasili’s job; he was always there “
just in case
.” He guessed there were about one hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty people filling up the space by now, a dull roar of conversation echoing up to the rafters. There were familiar faces scattered amongst the seats, but only one stood out: Sotiria, whose amber gaze Vasili could feel raking over his body.

“You know what I think?” Petros said, aggressively tapping his bony fingers against Vasili’s arm. “I think they got Astrapios’s killer. Yup. They got her. It’s gonna be a whole big announcement. You’ll see. They’ll be hanging her by morning. Swing, swing.”

“You actually think the American girl did it, huh?” Vasili asked with a sideways glance.

“Aw, yeah. I mean everyone saw her leaving the place.”

“I dunno, Petros, she seemed all right to me.”

Petros waved a dismissive hand at Vasili. “Everyone seems ‘all right’ to you. A Turk could walk in here with a rifle in one hand, a dead Greek baby in the other, and you’d go over to try and shake his hand.”

Vasili ignored this. “Still, I doubt, of all things, Alexei would call a meeting to announce an arrest. You know how he felt about Astrapios. Hell, Alexei was practically dancing on the man’s grave.”

Petros shrugged in concession. “True, true… Wait, you’re not saying, that you killed…?” he began, aiming a finger at Vasili.

“And here I thought Alexei made you do it.” Vasili smiled bitterly. “Old man probably did it himself and framed the girl, just like he did with that judge back in ’34.”

“Except I was the one who did the killing and it was the mistress we framed,” Petros corrected. Laughing, he nudged Vasili with his elbow. “Though I did get to go a couple of rounds with her before she got the rope.”

Vasili bit back a venomous response. Disgusted as he was, ultimately, who was he to judge? Had it not been for Alexei taking him under his wing as a boy, he would’ve been working the docks, struggling to keep his belly full.

“It’s probably about that storm we had this morning, then,” Petros ruminated, returning to the topic at hand. “Did you see it? Black as night it was.”

Vasili nodded. “We’ve seen worse,” he said. “Speaking of which, your two favorite people are here tonight,” he added, indicating the Twins.

“They smell like week-old fish,” Petros said, sucking his teeth.

“I figured you’d be used to that by now,” Vasili commented.

“They smell like
month
-old fish. Month-old fish that’s been sitting out in the sun,” he corrected.

Vasili chuckled at that. He didn’t like Petros, but he did make him laugh.

A door at the front of the hall burst open, throwing the house into silence. Vasili noticed that even the Twins—twitchy as they were—had ceased their discussion. There was a smattering of unenthusiastic applause as Alexei walked onto the stage, his smile as false as his masked friends’ faces. He wore a simple outfit, as he almost always did, his white hair slicked back. He was tall, slim, tanned and well built for his age, his outwardly joyous manner a veil for a violent temper. As sheriff, Alexei was the most powerful man in the small port city after the now deceased mayor, and as corrupt as Alexei was it had always been debatable as to who really ran the show. Vasili had long ago settled that debate for himself.

“My friends, thank you so much for coming on such short notice. It means quite a bit,” he said with mock humility. “Now I’m certain you’re all wondering why it is I called for this meeting tonight…” He let the word trail into silence. Vasili rolled his eyes. Alexei was forever the showman. “Unfortunately, we have not yet captured our dearly departed mayor’s killer, but as our friend Oretis here can attest to, she is not such easy prey.” Alexei indicated the wounded policeman in the audience, his shoulder bandaged from his encounter with the American woman. There were a few uncomfortable chuckles around the room. Very few had taken the death of mayor Elefterios Astrapios lightly, but they knew better than to show Alexei otherwise.

“Yes, do not worry, we shall find her soon, mark my word,” he said, finger aimed at the heavens. “But that is not why we are here tonight, my friends. No, tonight I am here to tell you of a wonderful opportunity for the citizens of Kamariotissa in these unsure times. As many of you may have noticed, there has been some very unsettling news coming from up north. There’s been talk of war; another Great War, in fact. While I can’t speak for the rest of Greece, I can say to you now, should war ever come to this continent, it will not find itself at
our
doorstep.”

“That’s a pretty tall promise,” someone shouted from the audience.

Alexei smiled warmly and clasped his hands together. “Indeed it is. Allow me to show you how I intend to keep it.” He gestured toward Vasili and Petros. “Gentlemen,” he said,” f you would.”

Vasili and Petros eyed each other as they turned to open the doors, mystified as to Alexei’s plans. Looking out into the dark of night he heard the crowd audibly turn in their seats as twenty men, all of them dressed in matching grey uniforms, marched in tight formation behind a black-collared man in dark grey regalia, a pencil thin mustache lining his upper lip. The black-collared man walked into the meeting hall, arched his back, clapped his booted heels together and shot his right arm forward, palm down.

“Heil Hitler.”

C
HAPTER 4

BLOODLETTING

“ARGGGH!” Dumont screamed as the blade cut across him, leaving a thin line of blood across his chest.

Tsarong placed his sword into its sheath as he stepped back. “What did you do wrong?”

“What did I—? You cut me with a
goddamn
sword!” Dumont yelled, indicating the chest wound.

“You attacked in anger, leaving yourself exposed,” Tsarong lectured, ignoring Dumont’s protests. “When the fire of anger touches you, do not grasp it. Release it like a burning coal lest it burn you. You must let go of your anger.”

Dumont grimaced as he sheathed his sword. “I mean no offense, Tulku, but you are not helping your case right now,” he said in a huff.

“Buddhism is the middle way,” Tsarong said calmly. “We follow a moderate path, avoiding extremes such as asceticism or indulgence, eternalism or nihilism. We must find the balance within ourselves, and burn away the evil inside us that obscures our basic goodness if we are to even the scale
.”

“‘Even the scale?’ ‘Burn away evil?’” Dumont asked incredulously. “I didn’t come here to burn—let alone fight—‘evil,’ Tulku. I came here to find purpose, to understand my destiny. I came here for peace and all I’ve found is madness. First, I get bonded to a scary magic ring,” he said, waving his ringed right hand
, “a
nd now, swordfights! Shouldn’t we be sitting around, cross-legged and humming ‘
Om! Manny padmay hoom
’— or whatever it is you’re always muttering—instead of slicing me in half? I thought Buddhists are supposed to be peaceful!”

Tsarong placed his hands behind his back as he paced around the edge of the circle. “There is no peace in your heart, Jethro Dumont. You are at war with yourself, with what you are and what you will become. Do not dwell in the past, do not dwell in the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment. You must find equanimity inside yourself if you are to attain enlightenment.”

“And how is slicing me open going to achieve that?!” Tsarong paused and turned to Dumont.

“You said you came seeking purpose, did you not?” he asked simply.

“I didn’t expect it to be this
painful
,” Dumont replied, visibly deflated. “Rebirth can often be painful. Close your eyes and calm yourself, find the place of serenity in your mind.”

“You promise not cut me again?”

“I promise you will not be harmed,” Tsarong replied with a slight nod.

“Okay,” Dumont sighed as he closed his eyes. “Breathe deep. Calm yourself,”

Tsarong said softly as he began to pace around Dumont. Dumont exhaled. “I’m calm. I’m calm. I’m calming myself down.”

“Breathe in… Breathe out… You will find your windhorse.”

“Windhorse? That sounds ridiculous.”

“Most people do when they speak English.”

“Ha. Ha.”

“Find your center. The rest will come.”

“You could have just called it ‘my point of Zen.’”

“I would, but last I checked, we are not in Japan.”

“Pain in my ass…” Jethro grumbled with a crooked gin. He closed his eyes and continued to breathe deeply. After several minutes of silence, Tsarong said: “How do you feel?”

Dumont breathed deeply. “Calm.”

“Good.” There was the soft whistle of steel slicing through the air followed by the
clang!
of metal striking metal. Dumont opened his eyes to discover he had—in an instant and without thought—unsheathed his blade and deftly blocked Tsarong’s sword. Dumont’s mouth fell open as his eyes moved back and forth between the blades and the smiling Tulku
.

“Holy moley.”

• • •

“I’ll tell you what I think,” Vasili said as he slammed his stein down, splattering beer onto the table. “This is bad. This is big time bad. Nazis,” he added, spitting to the ground. The bar was filled to the brim with the usual late night clientele, though there was a sense, despite all their merriment, they were trying their best to ignore the assembly at the back of the establishment.

“That’s some pretty big talk there, Vasili boy,” Petros said, propping his feet up onto the table. “What ya gonna do about it?”

Vasili shrugged, starring at Alexei, the Twins and their goose-stepping compatriots at the other side of the bar. Only four uniformed officials sat at Alexei’s table, the rest of the regiment had been sent back to their makeshift camp outside of town. Alexei sat at the center of the inexplicable gathering, acting as both host and jester. To Alexei’s right was the man with the pencil thin mustache Vasili had learned was
Obergruppenführer
Albrecht Gottschalk. Seated besides Gottschalk were his subordinates, none of whose names Vasili had been able to learn: one had hollow cheeks, dented with horrible acne scarring; the second had black balls for eyes and picked at his Van Dyke incessantly as though he was unaccustomed to its presence; the third was a balding man with a terrible scar that stretched from his scalp to his right cheek. The Twins sat silently to Alexei’s left, enjoying the spectacle.