15. Club dinner in Barcelona (9 pgs.)

ACT I - CHAPTER 15

CLUB DINNER IN BARCELONA

Wednesday February 7, 2018

Hotel Tres Cruces event room

Barcelona Spain

When the leaders spoke, Alexandre ignored their words. His mind replayed epistemology lessons and what had happened with Francisca. He saw her naked body mingled with the clouds he had glimpsed before opening his parachute, all mixed with logic, percepts, fancepts and the tetrahedron.

The speeches ended. Guests moved to the cocktail at the Club de los Reyes de Barcelona. Coaches, club leaders, owners, girlfriends, journalists, agents, brand reps, and football friends mingled. Dinner would follow. Victoria wore a sleek black dress.

Franco Gambino stood beside Lenel Anston. Alexandre wanted to strangle him on the spot. Victoria chatted about her marriage. Alexandre seized the moment to approach Lenel. He needed to meet his enemy.

“Congratulations!” Franco said. Alexandre raised an eyebrow and thought, Congratulations on what, damn.

“On your marriage and your football performance. You might surpass legends like Maradona,” Franco added.

“Thank you. But Diego is insurmountable.”

“Do you know Lenel?” Franco asked.

“No.”

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“Nice to meet you,” Lenel said, extending his hand.

“What is your relationship with the football family?” Alexandre asked without offering his hand. I’ll kill you if you did it, he thought.

“He’s my friend,” Franco said, noting Alexandre’s refusal.

“Congratulations, Franco. This party shows the best and worst of human nature,” Alexandre said, locking eyes with Lenel. He walked backward, never turning his back.

Lenel felt the strike. In the depths of his mind, he swore to kill him.

“You handled your friend Ronald well, but no further action is needed. Alexandre is clean,” Franco said.

“I follow him too,” Lenel said, thinking, You won’t fool me, old decrepit. He added, “He locks himself in his apartment. Once a month, he disconnects his phone. Isn’t that strange?” He suspected Alexandre was secretly writing Ronald’s book with someone else.

“The Family wants peace. No more violence. Capisci?” Franco said.

Lenel had sworn to destroy The Family’s leaders, whom he saw as cowardly old men. How could they save the world on this path? They were wolves in collars and ties, surviving generation to generation.

He would take control. Then his mother would be proud. His divine destiny would be fulfilled. He had been born in an eclipse.

Lenel truly believed in the brotherhood’s ideals and inspired fear. Unlike the others, he sought more than personal gain. He would purge the brotherhood when he rose to power.

Franco was useful. Lenel had risen quickly thanks to him, obeying every command to gain trust, but he despised him. However, killing Alexandre required Franco’s consent. He would wait.

“No more violence. Capisci?” Franco repeated. This bambino still thinks he’s smarter than me. Pathetic.

“Capisci,” Lenel replied, thinking, Wait and see, old retrograde man.

Franco’s phone buzzed. The message read: “GC: INRI. GC.” It was the Great Coordinator’s secret key. He oversaw several Families like Franco’s, old dynasties forming The Family’s ruling class.

The Great Coordinator remained unknown. Suspected identities floated, but no one knew for sure. No one had more power. Everyone obeyed. Defiance meant disgrace: illness, bankruptcy, or death.

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Lenel did not know of him. Only chosen members knew, like Franco. They came from powerful families at the brotherhood’s top. Before joining, loyalty tests required acts of blood, murders or sacrifices filmed to ensure obedience. The Great Coordinator used the evidence against traitors. A system that had lasted millennia.

The INRI message was Latin: Igne Natura Renovatum Integra, nature’s fire renews all. It rhymed with Gambino’s favourite: to make omelettes you have to break eggs.

The Great Coordinator planned a new world government called INRI, the Phoenix reborn from ashes. Only the chosen, like Gambino, could decipher its secret meaning.

INRI

Our ideal has arrived,

after centuries of work.

Phoenix will be sacrificed.

We shall be reborn from fire.

Among thousands of possibilities, Franco was one of ten elite members who received the Great Coordinator’s verses. The ten controlled thousands who controlled millions. They were the true rulers behind the rulers. Some feared their propaganda might be exposed. Yet they were satisfied. Ronald was dead. His book would never be written.

“Argentina is always a finalist candidate,” a journalist said in the cocktail lounge.

“Brazil qualified first. Strong team,” said another.

“This time England will win,” added an Englishman who had joined from Manchester Lions.

Alexandre, listening nearby, felt his phone vibrate.

SIROB URGENT NOW. CAFÉ ITALIA, CORNER AT HOTEL EXIT, RIGHT SIDE.

He left for the bathrooms, removed the phone’s battery, and sealed everything in a steel fiber case. Then he went to the parking lot, opened his trunk, hid his jacket, put on a hoodie and sunglasses, and exited through the parking ramp. He searched the street and entered the café.

“What’s going on?” Alexandre asked.

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“Do you know Peter Bolt?” Boris replied.

“No. Who is he?”

“A hacker. Officially, he was killed by a thief who broke into his apartment the day of Ronald’s funeral. I doubt it. Did you notice anything strange that day?”

“No. Except that Franco Gambino gave me his card and offered a free pass to the Vatican Library if I wanted to talk about books. It was odd.” Alexandre paused, remembering. “Wait! Ronald sent me a coded message.”

“On the day of his funeral?” Boris asked.

“No, the day of his accident.”

“I asked about the funeral, not the accident. Anyway, what was the message?”

“It looked like a letter code. I couldn’t solve it.”

“Do you remember it?”

“Yes, I saved it on my phone,” Alexandre said, showing him.
“Write it on paper and delete it,” Boris said, copying it on a napkin.

dpejhp fo qfoesjwf

“I’ll try to decode it,” Boris said, thinking, This is getting interesting.

“What’s the urgency?” Alexandre asked.

“This is more serious than I thought. I believe Peter Bolt wasn’t killed by a thief, but by Lenel,” Boris said.

“Are you sure?”

“It’s only a clue, but I’m working on it. This is bigger than expected. Take this GPS keychain. Click here, and I can locate you. It’s Russian tech, from my old KGB contacts. The best hackers. Use it only in emergency or if kidnapped.”

“Thank you,” Alexandre said, pocketing it.

“Did Ronald know the hacker?”

“He never mentioned any hacker. Ronald and I learned hacking as a game. I once joked if he trained with Scotland Yard. He joked back, said the CIA.”

“The CIA?”

“Yes, but jokingly. I’m sure.”

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“You learned to hack?”

“Yes. We both did. In the end, he outpaced me. We never harmed anyone.”

“Why hacking?”

“It was sport. Another way to compete.”

“This is worse than I thought. Apparently Bolt discovered a large-scale military operation. If he told Ronald, maybe they thought Ronald knew too much. If Ronald worked for the CIA, it changes everything,” Boris said.

“I knew Ronald well. He didn’t work for the CIA. That was a joke.”

“If Ronald didn’t, Bolt did. I confirmed it. They used him for tough cases. He was the best hacker in the world,” Boris said.

“If Bolt trained him, that explains why Ronald beat me in hacking competitions.”

“If the CIA is involved, we’re in deep trouble. Anything else about Ronald you haven’t told me?” Boris asked.

“No.”

“Did he write a book?”

“You already asked. He wanted to, but never did,” Alexandre said, thinking, Boris, you’ll never know I’m writing it.

“You have to protect yourself. Use the GPS keychain in an emergency. I have to go.”

“And I have to return to the party.”

“Alright. Bye.”

Victoria scanned the room. She hadn’t seen Alexandre for ten minutes.

“Congratulations, darling! You two make a beautiful couple. Where is your fiancé? He’s very handsome!” a lady said.

“Actually, I’m looking for him,” Victoria replied.

“He’s probably with friends, talking football. That’s all they talk about, right?”

“Alexandre sometimes talks philosophy,” Victoria said, thinking, What a misplaced woman.

“Philosophy? How boring! I hope it’s not frequent. Who understands that academic jargon? They like to be obscure to feel important and get university jobs. Couldn’t they speak plainly?”

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Victoria nodded. Tremendous truth! Does she understand or just repeat like a parrot? She searched for Alexandre but he was nowhere. Elegant men. Beautiful women. Yet she trusted him. Darling, don’t even think about it. I made things clear.

“Do you remember me, Victoria?” Francisca appeared behind her, extending a hand.

“Yes. Alexandre saved your life at the funeral. You won’t trip me here, will you?” Victoria returned the greeting. Phew, that was rude. She considered asking about the kiss in the message but decided it wasn’t necessary.

“I’m Francisca Walker. I wanted to congratulate you on your marriage. You make a beautiful couple. Such a handsome man with a woman as attractive as you. It must be hard walking the streets.”

“You are beautiful too, Francisca. Thank you. What is your connection with the club?”

“My father owns three hotel chains hosting the club pre-match. I work with him. I also love football, especially the Club de los Reyes de Barcelona. They have the best and most attractive players.”

“Indeed! Very attractive,” Victoria said, tensing. Don’t even think about sleeping with him behind my back! she thought.

“I’d like to offer you and Alexandre a special dinner, courtesy of the hotel. Intimate, quieter, where we can talk philosophy.”

“Why philosophy?” Victoria asked. This is weird, she thought.

“It’s Alexandre’s passion. With Ronald, they were called ‘The Philosophers’ and even appeared in newspapers.”

“Yes, I know. What do you want?” Victoria interrupted.

“I don’t believe footballers don’t use their heads. Everyone follows a philosophy to succeed, even unknowingly. As an aeronautics expert, your conversations with Alexandre must be fascinating.”

“How do you know so much about me?” Victoria asked, eyes on her.

“Your marriage is all over the press. I read you studied aeronautical engineering.”

“Indeed. And your interest in philosophy?”

“I learned it from my father. He admires Aristotle. Accept my invitation. I won’t interfere with your marriage. I can organize a beautiful dinner for three. Goodbye.” Francisca handed her a card, thinking, Are you as innocent as you appear, little bird?

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“Thank you. Bye.” Victoria watched her walk away in a green suit that highlighted long, red, curly hair. I don’t blame you, Alexandre. She’s enchanting. But what does she want? For now, I’ll play along until I find out.

A hand touched her shoulder.

“Alexandre! Where were you? Don’t disappear like that! I looked for you everywhere!” she said, looking at Francisca, and thought, Have they slept together?

“I’m here, my love. I wasn’t feeling well. Went to the car for something for my headache,” he said, hand in his pocket, holding Boris’s GPS keychain.

“Do you want to leave?”

“No, I’m better. Who were you talking to?”

“I think you know better than I do.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s the woman you bumped into on the funeral day, and kissed in London. She greeted me and invited us to dinner as a courtesy of the hotel.”

“Courtesy of the hotel?” Alexandre asked, pretending not to understand.

“I guess it’s because of our marriage. She’s the daughter of the owner of this hotel chain, where your team stays before games,” Victoria said, passing him the card.

“Francisca Walker. Chief Operating Officer of Walker Hotels? I didn’t know any of this,” he said.

“She congratulated me on our marriage and invited us to dinner.”
“What kind of dinner? Where? When?” he asked, holding Boris’s GPS keychain.

“I don’t know. She said it would be quiet, intimate, where we could talk philosophy. Her intelligence makes her even more attractive, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” he said, remembering her naked. “So, what do you want to do?” He looked away, thinking, Hope you join the party!

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“About what?” she asked, holding back a laugh at his thoughts. He wants me join the party.

“About her invitation,” he answered.

“I’ll think about it,” she said, putting the card in her purse.

Victoria outlined a plan. Maybe she would attend. She needed to know her opponent. It was better to stay close to the enemy. She would not lose the man she loved.

“Did she propose talking about philosophy?” Alexandre asked, hiding his intentions.

“That’s right,” Victoria said, glancing at the floor and suppressing laughter at his hidden desire for her.

Alexandre felt intrigued and vulnerable. What do you want, Francisca? he thought. Are you going to tell her I saw you naked and didn’t want to sleep with you? He remembered her statuesque body. Don’t tell Victoria anything before I do! he thought.

He would spend many nights finishing the summary of the next meeting. Time was scarce. He also had to master packing his parachute. In ten days, he would jump. He needed to understand the logic behind each fold. He packed it once a day, slowly, studying every cause-and-effect detail.

One mistake could be fatal. He had a reserve chute folded by an expert, but he refused to rely on it. If the main chute failed, or the lines tangled, death was certain. Free fall at two hundred kilometers per hour allowed no errors.

He watched skydiving videos over ten times and practiced opening moves on the ground, stomach down. He needed to automate horizontal positioning. The hardest part was staying completely relaxed before deploying the chute, or he could lose control, spiral, and die. Hundreds of repetitions made the movements automatic. Mechanizing them could save his life; terror paralyzed first-time jumpers.

He also had to navigate to the landing zone and brake at the precise moment. Braking too early risked losing lift, falling backward, and breaking his spine.

Lastly, he had to be alert before jumping. If the chute accidentally caught on the plane tail, the crash would kill everyone. His instructor had told of an accident at that airport: two pilots and eight paratroopers died.

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His mind returned to the reception. He saw Lenel and Franco leaving. Without thinking, he reached for the GPS keychain Boris had given him.

“I’ll wait for you tomorrow for lunch with the new sponsors,” said Patrick, his representative, passing by.

“I’ll be there. Will they take photographs?” Alexandre asked.
“Yes. The session will last three hours,” Patrick replied.

Alexandre knew it would be six, at least. Patrick had a public image expert advising him, ensuring Alexandre’s ads didn’t contradict his footballer image. He thought, He’s as detail-oriented as a good skydiver. That’s why he’s successful!

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