Page 5 of Skotos
I let the silence hang a moment longer, the sharp corners of my impulse dulling under his steady gaze. Finally, I nodded, stood, and set my glass down. “Fine. At least, not tonight.”
“Not tonight,” Will echoed.
1. The Directorate General for External Security (Direction générale de la Sécurité extérieure) is France’s foreign intelligence agency, the equivalent to the British MI6 and the American CIA, established on 27 November 1943.
3
In the dim undercroft of a forgotten abbey, six robed figures encircled a narrow table of worn, gray stone. Candles flickered in the still air, their flames warping ancient murals, armor, and swords—as well as statues of long-dead martyrs—on the walls and in the alcoves surrounding them. Cloaks swayed with the weight of secrets as the figures stood in silence, heads bowed not in prayer, but in grim anticipation.
The eldest among them stepped forward into the candlelight. His face was mostly hidden by his cowl, but the thin line of his mouth was visible, curled in something between satisfaction and solemnity.
“Regnum Graeciae cecidit,” he intoned in Latin.
The Kingdom of Greece has fallen.
A ripple of murmurs stirred the group.
One of the older men chuckled under his breath.
“Ave Rex. Dead in his own garden—how poetic,” said another gravelly voice. “He planted olive trees for peace, and now they shade his grave.”
The men met here, always here, in the dark corners of forgotten sanctuaries. The world above had changed, yes—but down here, nothing ever did. Stone and ash, blood and scripture. They had chosen this abbey because it had been erased from most records, shuttered since long before the war. No curious eyes wandered here: no parishioners, no police, no tourists.
They spoke in Latin—not out of tradition, but necessity.
Latin was the old tongue of power, the sacred barrier that obscured their purpose from prying ears. Even if overheard, few outside the Church or universities would understand a word. It was their veil, their armor, and in some ways, their confession.
The youngest among them, his voice taut with restrained excitement, added, “The queen still clutches at the reins, but she will not hold them long.”
Another asked, “What of the boy? A child does not rule. Is the regent in place?”
“Yes, the regent is ours.” The elder lifted his hand for silence. “Stefanos Stephanopoulos will act in accordance with our counsel. His debts are not forgotten. Nor are his beliefs.”
A figure near the scribe leaned forward. “And what of the Americans? They have long arms. Their fingers pry at Europe’s wounds.”
“They sleep,” said the elder with certainty. “They still debate whether the king fell to age or nature. Their hesitation is our advantage.”
“They will wake,” another muttered. “They always do.”
“Then we must strike while they are still blinking into the sun.” The leader’s voice was calm but firm. “The next must fall quickly—before questions harden into convictions.”
The man to his right, a Germanic accent hiding behind his Latin words, growled, “Name the next. We deserve to know. Let us speak the name of the second, as we did the first.”
“You will know in time.” The leader turned toward him, not unkindly. “Names are not spoken lightly.”
“But you are certain he will attend the event?” asked another who clearly knew more about the next mission than his brother. “His schedule is not yet confirmed.”
“We are certain,” the leader replied. “The state visit proceeds. He will arrive, and he will not leave.”
The scribe scratched furiously.
“Then let the flame be lit again,” said the youngest. “Let the world feel what judgment tastes like.”
“We bring not judgment, but cleansing. Hitler was a fool, drunk on his own power and importance. Our calling is far greater, to bring righteousness firstto Europe, then to all,” the leader intoned. “Let the world tremble at the voice of our Lord.”
The others echoed, more solemn now, their voices carrying beneath the stone archways: “Et mundus trepidabit.”
And the world will tremble.
