Princessa

Chapter 9 Reign of Terror

Back at the palace all the lights come on outside all along the grounds, like Disneyland, while inside the buildings it’s all dark. A guard climbs up to the top of a roof and is shot once in the chest. He falls and after a few moments you hear the thud of his body hitting the ground below.

Then an old-fashioned siren starts to wind up, like the air-raid signals they used from so many years before. The men in black clothing look at each other and one of them signals wildly with his hands for all of them to run forward now and attack. They were tipped somehow, he thinks, and it’s all lost. All of it; my men, our mission, our cause; and what can you do.

They run recklessly hurling themselves through any windows they can find but are shot repeatedly as they break through. Their leader drops down to a balcony and breaks the padlock and window glass with the butt of his carbine. For a split second he hides himself beside the stone casement, back to the wall, waiting, then turns quickly and sprays the room with the entire magazine of his gun in a flashing crossways pattern.

He dives in and runs to the door; no one there in the dark hallway; then he runs to his left grabbing at the trip-wire on his belt as he is shot over and over again. A guard sees him pull at his belt and jumps forward onto the falling body as the massive explosion rocks the entire area, shaking everything into a loud rumbling quaking shattering blackness of everything blown to pieces and crumbling down and apart like the whole world’s breaking in half and fragmenting into oblivion.

Then it’s quiet, dead, soundless in the seconds that seem like forever or like time no longer exists. No one moves, no one does anything. Police sirens wail approaching in the far off distance. “Get the lights” yells the king. Then after a few seconds, he repeats “somebody get the lights on, okay!” A member of the house staff throws a breaker in the basement and a few lights come on in parts of the buildings far away from where any of the fighting was.

Around the explosion and all the broken windows, guards and staff members stagger and struggle to get to their feet and click on flashlight beams if they still work, into the thick black dust. It’s like a scene in a mining disaster, black soot and debris raining down gently like black snow in a cave, bits of paper and cloth blowing around in newly created drafts of air, shattered wood and carpet and jagged stone with crumbling mortar showing and all out of place in the sides of walls and broken-up ceilings with ripped tapestries and wall-covering hanging down like moss; wooden beams and chandeliers at odd angles broken against the floors, shattered glass everywhere, reflecting back against the beams of the flashlights.

“Get some lanterns in here” orders Petros. He starts up the stairway carefully putting weight onto each step to see if it will hold. He looks up with his light but then looks down again as there is nothing but smoke and soot dropping down on him, into his eyes. “Vald!” he calls out as he wipes at his eyes “I want you here, beside me.”

The general has his pistol drawn, no intention of letting down his guard just because it’s quiet now. “Over here” yells the king, standing with his back in the corner of two stone walls, covered in soot, debris all around the floor. “Are you okay” asks Petros. “Yeah, let’s see about the others.”

A guard appears at the top of the steps, his uniform in tatters. Petros shines his light on the man’s blank expressionless face and calls out to him. But he has no hearing. He’s in shock and totters unevenly trying to brace himself against the wall. He reaches out his hand but there’s nothing there and his legs buckle and he falls down the stairs into the general’s arms. “Medic!” yells Petros, the words sounding funny, hurtful in his ears. This isn’t a field of battle, no medical staff to care for the wounded. “Help me” he says with the dying boy in his arms, almost in tears as the king comes over and takes the limp body from the general’s arms. “I’ve got him Bruno; I’ll find the… someone to help him.” “No; leave him… he’s… set him down; we need to see who else is up there.”

“General” yells one of his men coming into the large room “what are your orders, sir?” Again this sounds so strange in here, so out of place, in the king’s palace. “We need ambulances” he says to the man “and bomb squads; keep the police out of here… tell them to, set up a perimeter, along the fence-line.” He shakes his head, it all sounds so wrong, but he continues “tell them to keep everyone out. We need the fire department, or find some… get someone to get some extinguishers; and bring some lanterns up here!”

“It’s all being done General” reports the soldier. “Mr. Salin has already contacted them and they’re on the way. They should be here… soon. Juren is bringing the lanterns. Here he is.” A young guard rushes in carrying two brightly lit propane lanterns in each of his hands. He trips and almost falls over the debris on the floor. “Easy boy!” says Petros “there’s no hurry; we’re going to do this… slow; just relax, you’re a soldier.” “Yes my General” says the young man, bringing the lanterns over to him.

A policeman enters through the main doorway and all weapons are instantly leveled against him. “It’s okay” he says “I’m with the capitol police.” “Don’t move” says the king with a carbine pointed at the man’s head. “Turn around, go back outside and tell everyone to stand clear… except fire department, bomb squad, and medical personnel. Wait, hold on a moment, what’s your name, officer?”

“Hernan” the man replies. “Well Hernan, who’s in charge out there?” “Captain Treski. He was on duty when… tonight.” “Okay” says the king “tell Treski I want an area search of the grounds; orderly, don’t want anyone milling around. And I want all personnel searched as they enter, with positive picture ID of everybody before they come in. Okay, you got it?” “Yes sir” he says “oh, and… who are you.” The officer realizes he might need to tell his superiors who’s giving these orders. “I’m the king. A little bit dusty, but still the king.” “Okay… your majesty” says the man as he turns to leave, with a slight bow.

Princessa

Chapter 8 The Getaway

Andy speeds the car down the road trying hard not to go too fast. Zoltep crawls over the seat and gets in front beside the girl. “It was dark back there, scary.” “Hey!” “Oh, sorry, thought that was my leg.” “Yeah right.” “So, Jori” says Andy, trying to think and talk and drive all at the same time “what was all that about.” “I didn’t touch her man, I swear.” “You know what I mean.”

“Oh, yeah…uh, hey, you got a cigarette?” “Don’t smoke in the car” says the girl. Both the young men look at the girl like they can’t believe she’s saying that. “Okay” she says “go ahead, but give me one too.” They light the cigarettes as the cold air blows in on them through the broken windows.

Zoltep takes a deep drag like he hasn’t had one for awhile, then starts in with the same fast rambling talk, trying to say everything all at once. “I been into some deep shit, man. You wouldn’t believe it.” “Well, gimme the believable version.”

“Damn, you’re a good looking girl” says Zoltep, looking at Maria as they pass under a light. “What was that stuff on the train” she says to him in a dead serious tone, coming down from the rush “we coulda all been killed.” “Ah nah...I put those charges way back in the back, nobody back there. I checked. And even  made sure we’d be at…just crawlin along when they went off.”

“Why did you want to blow up the train?” she asks, trying to keep things simple for him. “Well, Princessa, uh…you’re a target of opportunity. Sorry about that, but…when we got word from the cabbie…well..” “Jori works for us” says Andy, trying to get things straight. “Who’s Jori” asks the girl. “I am” says the kid “and, well, we were gonna hit the palace tonight. That is, at least, you know if everything went like it ‘sposed to. And then, the guy calls and says you’re bookin out on a train, right? So, you know, plans change, right bro…sir.” “They always do” says Andy.

“So, okay…we chase down the train. Man that takes some doing, goddamn express, doesn’t make many stops. But I get on, at Dravalek, and…look all over hell, every goddamn car ‘uh, excuse me’ you know; but can’t find you. So, now we’re gettin close to the border; gotta do sumpin. Don’t want no fuckin terrorist attack goin down in Iran; them motherfuckers don’t like that shit, you know.”

“They got no sense a humor” says Andy. “Yeah, and anyway…so, hey I figure, little explosion; create a diversion, right. Maybe the trains stops. But no, motherfucker jumps right off the goddamn tracks; scares the shit outta me, that does.” “Me too” says Maria.

“So” he continues “guessin you’re maybe in one of the compartments with the doors all locked, curtains drawn…smoochin or something.” “Maybe not!” says the girl. “Well I dunno” says the kid “if it’d a been me.” “I don’t think so” says Maria. “Kids” says Andy “just …tell us what’s goin on, okay.” “Well” says Jori “the rest is history. Princessa invites me to come with, so here I am.”

“You were pointing a gun at us” says Maria “a big gun.” “Yeah, sorry, usually keep that in my pants.” The girl laughs at him “you’re a funny boy.” Then she looks at his face, so young, so childlike. “How old are you, anyway? And who are you, huh?” “Oh, I’m about…uh, seventeen or so; and I’m…your new bodyguard.” “Seventeen, huh?” she says.

“I don’t think” says Andy “Jori’s gonna get to see fifteen, the way he’s goin at it.” “Ah geez, Andy, gimme a break, I’m workin here. Got the girl all askin about my personal profile an stuff.” “Who were the guys you were with” she asks, like sticking a knife into a balloon. Zoltep starts to speak but then doesn’t say anything, lost for the moment, feeling all the blood drain out of his face.

Finally he says in a slow quiet voice “friends of mine…good people.” “I’m sorry” says Andy and then thinking about it adds, with nothing else to say “maybe you shoulda said somethin.” “Yeah…like what” asks the kid, all serious now “like you put me in a squeeze here, Captain. So…I gotta go kidnap princessa here…or my pals gonna waste my worthless little ass for bein a stoolie, y’know.

“These people…they take this shit pretty seriously, you know. You’re either with them, all the way with them; or they fuckin leave you dead on the doorstep.” Nobody says anything, so Zoltep continues. “And man… you can’t fake that shit, you know. After… after you spend all that time, tryin t’get…to get into, that…bubble, and it’s so hard t’do that. But, once you’re in, man, when you’re finally in…y’start, y’really start t’start thinkin like they do, y’know. Y’start t’believe what they believe. An y’know, those guys, those two guys, Mkmar and Sehroz; man, I lived with them, like brothers, at their homes, man; and, I ate with them, and all that kinda shit.”

“Which side are you on” asks Andy. “Fuck if I know, man; who’s on my side, huh?” “I’m on your side” says Maria. “Well, hey girl” he says, tryin t’be upbeat again “then there’s two of us, and against…a whole lot more of the others.” And then not wanting to think about it anymore, he adds “where we goin, anyway.” “America” says the girl. “Fuck me” says Jori, all enthused now “I aint never been to America before.”

Princessa 

Chapter 7 Trainwreck 

He lights a cigarette and looks out the window at the blackness of the night. Then sets his lighter down on the little fold-out shelf below the window. For some reason the lighter starts to dance and clatter around by itself. Something’s wrong. A slight tremor shakes the train from the rear and then to the front. The lighter jumps up and falls off onto the floor. Andy opens the door and looks out out into the hall but the shuddering intensifies now, shaking the compartment and rattling the windows. “What’s wrong” asks the girl, not frightened just wondering what’s going on.

They hear the muffled sound of the explosion, distant, from somewhere back by the end cars. The huge heavy train totters from side to side on the tracks like an unsteady skater on the ice. Then skips off the tracks, screeching, jamming together, coming to a dead stop in the soft grassy turf. Then slowly like in slow-motion, topples over onto its side throwing Andy on top of the girl.

A young kid in dark clothes and black-hooded sweatshirt plunges in through the doors and falls down on top of them. Quickly he kicks himself upright and starts screaming at the top of his lungs; an Uzi aimed point blank at the two of them. “Hands up! In the air! Nobody move! Now!”

Andy looks up at the kid’s face “Zoltep? Is that you?” “Fuck it…oh fuck oh goddamn goddamnit” the kid keeps repeating stammering cursing in a frenzy of fear and confusion. “Andre sir goddammit goddamn what the fuck what am I gonna do now huh. There’re gonna kill my ass. They’re gonna kill me for sure. Goddammit.”

He sees Maria “my God…you’re a pretty girl. Goddammit goddamn what am I gonna do huh!” “Well don’t panic, boy” says Andy. “Okay, okay” he says, trying to get a grip. And then like he’s quickly figured it all out “I know…I’ll shoot you, and take the girl.” “Zoltep, put the gun down, okay. Please, you’re scaring me.” The kid doesn’t realize he still has it pointed at them “yeah sure okay, but what am I gonna do? I’m supposed to get her” nodding at the girl with a quick smile “and take her…and…they’re waiting for me, outside. What, huh? What am I gonna do?” “Just relax” says Andy “calm down.”

“You could come with us” says Maria to the boy. “Yeah…okay” he says, handing the gun to Andy, like finally here’s an idea that makes sense. “Who’s out there waiting?” asks Andy. The kid, all relaxed now and helping the girl to her feet, turns to him in the cramped little on its side compartment. And like he’s reciting a battlefield report now “two of them, in a white car, at the crossing; got automatics, pistols too…that’s about it.”

“Okay…good” says Andy handing him back the Uzi “you stay here, with her; guard her, okay. I’ll be right back.” “Yes sir” says the boy, then quickly adds “oh shit, wait, hey wait. They’re gonna attack the palace too, We gotta do something, we gotta warn them.” “Yeah, okay” says Andy. “Here” says the girl, grabbing into her purse “here’s my phone” she dials 9 twice and hands it to him.

Andy listens for the ring and asks the girl “who…” “The king” she says. “Hello!” the voice says into the phone “where are you!” “Uh, king” says Andy “listen, the palace is going to be attacked at any moment.” “Who’s this!” he demands in a loud voice “where’s Maria!” “Listen, just shut up and listen. This is Andy Korzene, Maria’s okay. My inside-man tells me the palace is gonna be hit by terrorists …any minute now. Now get somebody on each window, somebody up on each rooftop; get all the civilians…to shelter. And do it right now.”

“Okay…”says the king, and in a forceful monarch’s voice “stay on the line.” Andy hands the phone to Maria and climbs out of the compartment. Jumping up to grab hold of the wooden frame of the door, he pulls himself up and through. Then balancing on top the doorway, reaches for the window across the aisle which is facing upward and at an angle.

Pushes the window down, feeling the rush of cold air on his face, then pulls himself up and clear, outside now. Holding on, then sliding down the cold dirty metal to the ground. Other passengers are trying to do the same, to get windows open. He sees their heads pop out, like jack in the box, as he runs down toward the back end of the train.

Seems like forever, running alongside the big steel monster now all overthrown and lying there on its side, groaning of death as creatures inside clack back the windows and poke out their heads. Some of them see him running alongside in the shadows and smoke and the eerie yellowish light, and they call out to him, thinking he must know what happened, or what they’re supposed to do.

Finally at the end of the long string of cars, he sees a dark crossroad in the dust and smoke; and in the distance, the vague outline of a vehicle. Runs toward it, and as he nears to within almost being able to see it clearly, he begins to sway and stagger from side to side, clutching at his forehead. The driver steps out of the car and yells at him, waving his arms for him to get out of the way; heart is pounding with fear, waiting for the boy, and their prize.

He thinks Andy might be a cop, maybe the boy’s been caught, maybe he’s gonna be next. The train wreck wasn’t supposed to happen; and that’s a big deal, even for a good cause. But just to get the train stopped was all, to get the girl, drive away, get back home, and everything be all right then.

Andy drops to a knee, draws his pistol and aims at the man “don’t move!” he yells “it’s over.” More than anything, the other man fears failure, wasting in jail, being of no use. He grabs for his gun, feels everything stop around him dead still, and fires at the man in front of him. Then falls backward as a shot hits him in the chest and then another, and he can relax now, and pray. It’s all over, like the man had said.

Andy jumps up and sprints toward the car, the man on the other side watching from his open door jumps back in and slides over behind the wheel trying to get the car started. Turns the key in the ignition, hands shaking, heart pounding. Looks up and sees this other man with the gun and the fancy clothes and then gone as the car starts. Andy dives down alongside the door and fires two shots through it as the car lunges forward. Then spins around on his knees and carefully aims at the slowly moving vehicle; two three four more shots at a target somewhere inside. The car slowly stops and just sits there.

Andy turns behind him, puts a final shot into the man on the ground, then runs over to the car. The dead man’s face is slumped against the window of the door streaked in blood. He falls forward and onto the ground when Andy opens the door. He watches him fall there, down by his feet, like a sack of groceries tumbling over, then he reaches in and switches off the ignition.

They’re very poorly prepared, he thinks. Indecisive in everything they do, every move; whether to shoot or wait and see who’s running toward you; whether to back up your partner or watch what’s going on, hoping it’s just some injured passenger looking for help; whether to stay and fight or drive away, one hand on the steering wheel, pistol in the other…everything; and it costs them their lives.

He looks at the face of the man in the darkness, a young face. They’re college students maybe, all full of causes and courage; and no idea what they’re doing. He gets the man’s gun and throws it into the back seat of the car, not wanting to think he might have explosives on his body. Just, isn’t any time for bomb squads or anything, just hope for the best or not think about it. But it’s a shaky feeling, just the same; and feeling so sorry for the poor young stupid college boys at the same time.

Maria and Zoltep run up beside him. “That was pretty stupid, don’t you think” she says to him, angry, shaking with fear. “Get in” says Andy, like giving orders, thinking of nothing now but being in charge, getting things done. Maria looks in at the blood on the seat and Andy pulls off his coat and throws it over to cover it up.

She crawls in, mindful of keeping the coat in place as Zoltep jumps in the back. No one wants to go around the other side, the black void of night. They know what’s on this side here, and that’s better than not knowing. Andy gets in, starts up the engine and turns the car around, driving past the other man, lying there motionless on the ground. It hurts to see him there in the darkness, illumined by the headlights, all alone and cold and lifeless now; and what was that for.

You just react to that, and do what your side thinks is right; and however it finally comes out, whoever survives in that instant, is the one who is right for now. And the lives and the deaths of the people caught in between just don’t seem to matter much.

“Zoltep, where’s this road go.” “Hell, I don’t know” says the kid “it’s just a road; where do any roads go?”  “What’s the status?” he asks Maria. “There’s nothing, going on at the palace. They’re all ready, I guess, all prepared; but… so far, nothing.” Then she adds “one of the guards, Freddi, is keeping me updated. Gonna call, if there’s, anything new.”

“Freddi, huh” he looks over and smiles, instinctively expressing the outward appearance that tells you nothing of what’s going on in his mind. The others feel the same way he does; happy, guilty, confused, not dead or seriously wounded. But like the lid’s been blown off the pressure cooker and all that steam and tension is suddenly released and gone and you don’t know why but it feels so terribly good just to be alive when in the split seconds of gunfire, others aren’t so lucky.

Princessa

Chapter 6 Strangers On A Train

 “Why’d you join the army anyway” the girl asks “why not go to university, become something.” She’s looking out on the dark night from the partly-open window of the speeding train “oh, and by the way, I read your file” she adds. “What’s in my file?” he asks her “and… why would want you read it?” “Oh, I dunno, I like soldier boys, I guess; I admire them, their courage. I dunno, their… eagerness to take matters into their own hands. And you… seemed different, somehow; you didn’t seem to really care all that much about getting your medal or meeting the king, whatever.”

“Well let’s see” says Andy, all eager for the chance to talk about himself “if you read my file… you know what kind of” searching for the right word “troublemaker, I was. I mean, it was either the army or jail, right?  And… I was, even at university for awhile… when I was your age, I think”

“And?” she asks “didn’t you like it.” Yeah, he’s thinking, sex drugs stealing exams. “Um, nice school” he tells her. “It’s a great school” she says “one of the best.” “Oh yeah, that’s right. Your mom, runs the place.” “No” she says “she’s minister of education” then adds kinda sheepishly “and culture. And we have the best schools, the best museums and galleries and opera and theatre and…” “It’s true” he says “your mother… has made a big difference in our country; as big a… impact as anyone, I suppose.” “But she doesn’t run, the university” the girl says “the dean runs it, Dean Julus Moratye.

Andy knows that, having met the man on the sitting there smiling bored version of being screamed at. The fat old dean leaning over his big heavy ornate desk, almost spilling his coffee on the lovely colorful woven carpeting. All red-faced and perplexed as to why their most gifted young student would rather break all the rules, and laws on top of it, than just apply himself like anyone else would.

“No university president, huh?” Andy asks her. “We don’t do presidents in Malvia” the girl says. “Too bad, I’d vote for you.” “Half the country would vote for me” says the girl “just wear some tight jeans, and bend over. There’s half the vote right there.” “Two-thirds” says Andy. Unfortunately they both know that’s true. But aside from joking about it, it doesn’t seem to make any sense that people would actually decide such important matters based on how someone looks. And that wasn’t what the girl wanted to talk about or know about anyway.

“So…why always, be the bad boy?” Well that’s interesting, he thinks, coming from her. Maybe she’s wanting to try to figure out why she does all the things she does. But hell, all y’can do is talk from your own experience. He looks at young girl, so sweet and innocent, and with such a ‘wild reputation’ at least in all the magazines.

“I was… always the best at everything” he says “you know; as a kid, I was always the best athlete, the best student, all that sort of stuff. And… I guess I was always looking for something more; something wilder or more daring. More meaningful, you know.”

“What sports” says the girl. “Huh?” he asks, thinking of something else. “What sports were you… so good at.” “Oh, tennis, futbol, basketball… but my favorite was always hockey. That’s what I always… was pretty damned good at.” He thinks back to that time, being bigger quicker smarter than everyone else on the ice. Coulda played for the Russian national team, he thinks, maybe woulda liked that.

“Really” says the girl “that’s my favorite too.” “You’re kidding.” “No really” she says “it’s all we did when I was kid. Me and all the guys… at the palace. I played center, and I was great at it, really, like Gretzky.” “Yeah” says Andy “don’t suppose you got checked much.” Thinking of the skinny little beautiful girl, skating rings around a bunch of young boys all scared to knock over or rough up the king’s little granddaughter.

“Hell no” says the girl “drop the gloves... and have it. Then they leave you alone after that.” “Hmm” he says, impressed “thought you’d be more of a figure skater type.” “Oh, yeah, I did that too. Mom, wanted me to… you know, like Olympics and stuff.” “So why didn’t you?” “Oh God” she says “that takes… like ten hours a day. To be on, like their level, the girls who do that. It’s really hard. You know, people think it’s just, sissy stuff. But it’s all hard work, precision, practice, over and over again. I just, would never have time for it, you know.” Yeah, thinks the young man, just never time, to do, all the stuff you might want to.

“So what about you” she asks “what was it like, when you were a kid.” He thinks about it, his life as a boy. Growing up, in and out of trouble all the time. Finally sent away to reform school in the city. And even then they couldn’t do much with him, his penchant for wreaking havoc when he was around, and then not being around when he didn’t feel like it. What can you say, especially to someone who couldn’t possibly know anything about that kind of reality.

“Hey, here’s something” he tells her “I was...raised by my mother’s oldest brother, my uncle. He was a lot older than her, and a real mean son of a bitch. Liked to beat the crap outta me all the time. You know, try to make me into a good boy.” He smiles, thinking of how useless that was. “But anyway, I had this other uncle. A younger guy who was kind of a hunter-trapper type, you know. This was a small village, up in the mountains, way ways away from… anything else.

“So this other uncle, Georgi, he liked to drink, and play cards, you know, in the little village pub where everybody’d be, during the day or at night, whenever. I mean, there’s nothing else to do there, right. And he’d play music on his little concertina accordion, and dance with all the girls; young ones, old ones, he didn’t care. Well, that’s what... I wanted to be like, you know. That, ‘who cares’… do whatever you want to, whenever you want. And t’hell with anybody else, whatever they might think about it.”

The girl likes that, likes hearing about simple things and life in the little villages tucked away in the sunny snow-capped mountains. It’s a dreamy scene in her mind, so ways away from the bustling capitol. She relaxes and smiles and leans against him. Imagining herself in the cozy little pub there in the mountains with the sunlight flooding in from the windows. Maybe a fiery wood stove in the middle of the floor and the rugged old people in their rustic clothing and big heavy boots with traces of mud around the edges. Sitting there around the little tables in hard wooden chairs, eating a sandwich or drinking a beer.

She sees herself there with them. Coming in from skiing down the uneven slopes lined with evergreens and the stark contrast of the brilliant white and the wet black bark at the base of the trees where the snow melts in the sun. Inside now warming up, all out of breath, relaxing with a cappuccino and a little shot of grappa and some chocolates maybe, or fresh-baked cookies. It’s so quiet there. Such a tranquil natural way to live, as she thinks of it, like an endless vacation.

Andy puts his arm around her, but there’s something…a loose end, somewhere, in his train of thought. “Oh” he says “how come… your mother, isn’t; won’t, become queen.” “Huh?” says the girl, coming back to reality. “Oh, um… Mom’s got, like really bad nerves. She, doesn’t… get much involved in politics and stuff.” “But, she’s so much, into all of it” he says, thinking of all the times he’s seen her on the public service announcements for schools, on television. And ribbon-cuttings, and opening a new exhibit at a museum, all that kinda stuff.

“She hates it” says the girl “it’s tough; I mean, she’s like really into doing, all whatever, her job you know. Trying to make things better; in education… the arts, and all that stuff. But… any part of it, that’s like public or anything; with a bunch of people around, and you know, schmoozing and all, and tv and cameras; all that kinda stuff just kills her. It’s like… uh, all pills and booze and, just to make it through the day. You know, like a, kind of nervous condition, I guess.”

“I don’t get it” he says, all confused as to why rich royals wouldn’t just have it all made and be just perfectly happy in their perfect little world. “I mean, she seems like such a… so different from that, when you see her.” “Yeah, well” says the girl “I really don’t know, all that much about it… they don’t talk about it much. But I guess when she was a kid, it was… tough times, you know.

“Grandpa, her dad, was in prison, for… quite a while, waiting to be executed, I guess. And, her mom was, like… killed, or whatever; or she died in prison, anyway, I don’t know. But… so here she is, supposed to be some kind of little princess and all. And got no money or anything and… supposed to never let anybody know who you really are, because then you might be a target or something like that. So, I guess to her being the princess meant that, they murder your mom and throw your dad in prison, and then maybe come after you next. And all that was… just hard for her to deal with, as a little kid, anyway. Maybe she never got over it, I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry” he says, feeling all that hurt and pain. How terribly cruel, sad it is for that poor little girl to, should’ve had everything, but have nothing instead. It’s just not fair for things like that to happen. “Do you ever think, that maybe your grandfather should’ve just… stayed there, and… you know, not come back here, or whatever.” “Yeah, sure” she says “it’s a tough thing, isn’t it. He coulda maybe… stayed in France, or should have, who knows. Maybe been a shopkeeper or something. You know, ‘the king’s doughnut shop’ or something like that. But then I suppose you’d always have people coming up and asking you stuff like, so if you’re really the king of so and so, what’re y’doing here, baking bread. Why’nt you go home and throw the Russians out, and free your people, and be a real man. Or maybe you’d always be asking yourself those same questions. And who knows… does it make any difference, one way or the other.”

“I don’t know. But it’s… too bad, anyway.” But they both know that ‘too bad’ is a pretty relative term in their little country, where over the course of history more than half their people had been slaughtered or maimed or scarred by Turks, Russians, Nazi’s. ‘Too bad’ is just something everyone, every family has to deal with every day of their lives.

“Your mom?” asks the girl. “I dunno” says Andy, kind of detached “I guess… I was about four or five maybe, the last time I saw her… at like Christmas or something. She was a happy girl, a fun-loving girl. After that… I don’t know.” Hardly more than it had said in the file, thinks the girl ‘mother deceased, father unknown.’ The train slows down and then almost comes to a clanking stop before starting to gradually pick up speed again. We’re nearing the border now thinks Andy, be outta here soon. Like leaving the unknown past and heading toward the unknown future. 

Princessa 

Chapter 5 Back At the Palace

Back at the palace, King Valdamir is screaming at his defense minister. “Where the hell is she, goddammit!” The king feels closer to his pretty young granddaughter than anyone else in the world and he greatly loves having her with him, even under house arrest. Even if it’d been a strain lately, arguing politics all the time. When the guards discovered she wasn’t in her room, he went into a rage.

“I’m sure she’ll be okay” says Petros; they’d found a note stating ‘she’s with me - AK.’ “She’ll be killed” yells Valdamir, trying but unable to control his voice “she’s going to get killed, you know that, don’t you?” “No” the general insists “she’s going to be fine, it’s going to be alright.” “How the hell do you know. How do we know where she is, or who the hell she’s with…this guy, who is he, anyway.”

“He’s, he’s one of our best agents” says Petros “but… well, he’s young; he’s impulsive… people, see the world coming to an end, and they do crazy things.” “He’s kidnapped my granddaughter!” the king yells at him. “Yeah, and I’m guessing that didn’t take a lot of persuasion.” “What the hell… what the hell do you mean by that?”

But he’s just bluffing, just blowing smoke. Trying to find an outlet for the feelings that are overwhelming him. Petros knows that, knows him, better than anyone does. “The girl… the girl is a free spirit” he says “she likes adventure, likes being full of life.” “Yes, yes I know. I deal with, these adventures, all the frickin time. But this is not the time… to be running off, on larks.” “Kids” says Petros “their feelings… who can; there’s never any time to wait for the right time, to be young.”

“My God! You gotta, get all mush-headed when… I’m trying to find Maria, and deal with all these other little matters at the same time.” “Must be tough, to be king” says the old general. Valdamir’s thinking the exact same thing, but not so sarcastically. “Yeah, it is; so… who is this guy, Andre Korzene, anyway? And how does he get the gall, the nerve, to break in here and… leave with her.”

“Sounds like something you’d’ve done, way back when; huh Vald?” “No” says the king, considering way back when “I wouldn’t have left a note. But I would like to know something about this guy.” “Well, you remember you pinned a medal on him that one time, right here in this room.” “Yeah, and he laughed at me, the son of a bitch. I should’ve pinned that medal up his ass. And now we’ve sent, this boy, out…on this mission” getting up in the general’s face “suicide mission! And he’s decided to take Maria along for the ride.”

“Smet will be there too” says Petros, like throwing out the anchor and there’s no rope attached. “Yeah, Smet. Our head of security; and what a fine job those guys did. I wonder if they held the doors open for them!” “It’s not them” says Petros “don’t blame them; he’s good, this fellow, real good. She’s safe with him, you’ll see.” And then thinking about the pressure they’re all under now, he adds “maybe she’s safer with him... than she is here.”

The king looks up at the portrait on the high wall above the staircase and feels his heart break in half. Tears coming into his eyes. Everyone who sees the painting thinks it’s the young princess. But actually it’s her grandmother, Marie, the king’s lovely young bride, the general’s sweet little sister.

After the Nazi’s had come, Prince Leomont had left his only son, a boy of five, with the Petros family in the mountains. The little boy was the last of them. All the others in the royal family had been captured and executed by then. Valdamir was half Bruno’s age at the time, and Marie was barely three. But they and the others in the family had survived, hiding in the hills and caves until it was safe.

And they grew up together, even after the Russians came, and after they began searching for the rumored survivor of the royal family. Later Valdamir had been secreted away to Europe, when they’d come too close to catching him. Years later he and Marie were married, and they had a daughter, the princess’s mother.

But he’d always been committed to coming home, throwing out the invaders, as his father had tried to do. He led a revolt that caught them off guard and would’ve gained international interest and maybe even support, in another part of the world. But it was quickly crushed and he and many others were thrown into prison. His young wife Marie had died there. There were never any photographs of her, for security reasons, and the painting had been done from the king’s memory as he had described her to the artist.

Petros follows the king’s gaze and sees the tears swell in his own eyes. “She was a lovely girl” he says to the king. Valdamir says nothing, wiping his eyes, with his back to the general. He finally turns toward him. “I should have protected her” he says, then quickly puts his hand over his eyes again. The general comes over to him “yes… and I should have too. But… I was in the wrong army, then.”

He goes over and pours himself a drink and brings one to the king. Together they sit at the bottom of the stairs and drink the strong grappa. “I can’t live, without Maria” the king says “without knowing that she’s alright.” “I know. She’s just... so much like her.”

The king stands up and goes over to get another drink hoping his old friend is right. That Maria will be safe, safe and protected from all the troubles that are falling down all around them. He knows that they’re all targets now. Now that he’s just come back from his meeting with Tomkin. Just come home with him on the one side of ‘you’ll need to make some concessions’ and himself on the other, the short end of no way out, gonna lose no matter what you do.

It still burns in his head, that meeting, with the great and powerful Mr. Tomkin. And him being king of this ‘never heard of it before little country.’ Yeah, now they’ve heard of us, he thinks, because they want our border, our airspace. Want to run oil from here to there. And we’re in the middle of all that, in their way, so to speak. If he could’ve just made Tomkin realize. Could just get him to come here, to his country. See the people, the land; where they’d come from, how bright their future was; or was going to be and now wasn’t. Now everything just crushed to ruin under this boot stomping edict of pumping the oil.

His biggest worry is that his darling Maria is somehow going to get caught in the crossfire. Not that he’ll be overthrown in some sort of phony put-up coup. Or that his country will again be overrun by foreign armies. Not that his beautiful ancient palace will once again be ravaged by their bombs. Or that he and all the good and decent people of his court will be killed or maimed. But that something… inadvertent, something accidental might befall his lovely little Maria, who was all in all, about everyone’s favorite in this whole backward little country.

“Keeping her safe… is my job” says the king. “Yeah well looks like someone beat you to it” says the general. “You better be right.” “Yeah, we better all be right” says Petros “or we’re all gonna be fucked to pieces, aren’t we.” “You want me to cave in? Okay… I’ll cave in; we can be… Beirut or Belfast or Mogadishu. I don’t care. Maria’s gone… and I’m… surrounded by toothless old clowns.”

The king is running out of steam now and that’s just the opening Petros is looking for. He gets another drink and leans against the heavy wooden table by the wall. “I remember... fighting the Russians, after the war.” He looks over at Valdamir. “You were in exile somewhere. And then later, I fought for them. Hell they didn’t know who I was, just some guy volunteering to join up. They needed volunteers, they didn’t care.

“And all day long, every day, I was the best soldier… the best. And all night long, every night, I would steal around like a thief and take their secrets, their codes, their plans, logistics, whatever I could find. Every day, every night. And then later, I got to be a troop commander, a leader of men in battle. And it was, like I didn’t even know which side I was on, or if there was a side for me, Petros… Bruno. The traitor to both sides, or so people might have thought.

“But I would make plans for attack, for defense, battlefield maneuvers; and then give these same plans away to the enemy. What do you think of that… my troops, my young Russian troops. They were good boys, most of them; just wanted to go home, is all. And I sent them home in body bags to their mothers. And do you think I didn’t feel for those brave young men, my troops. Do you think that sometimes I wouldn’t maybe withhold information, or fix it so we’d have the upper hand. These are tough choices Valdamir, difficult choices for a man to make; who lives, who dies.

“One time one of my aides found me in a tent, weeping, alone. He says to me ‘Marshall Bruno, we have had setbacks, I know; but don’t you worry, we will prevail.’ Do I want you to give up, to give in? No, of course not. We can’t allow that to happen, to our country, to our people. But it’s all on you… and me. Just you and me; and we have no options.”

The king comes over and puts his hand on the general’s shoulder. “Yes my friend… Bruno; I know... I know. And as the book says, when you have no options, you attack.”

Princessa

Chapter 4 Rumors of War

This is always the hardest part, he thinks. Once you’ve freed a hostage or kidnapped someone, you can never expect them to pass across all the barriers and obstacles with the same deftness as a skilled commando. But the girl does so, and amazingly well. Even seems to enjoy the danger of where one slip of the foot can send you plummeting a long long way down.

Surprisingly, at least to Andy, she seems to skim over the tiles of the roof, across the ledges and down the walls almost like she could’ve done this blindfolded while talking to a friend on the phone. He’d heard about all the wild parties and goings on, who hadn’t. About the times the princess had run off, run away and would turn up in Greece or Italy or Monaco. Her photos on all the gossip magazines detailing what she’d allegedly done. Maybe they were true, he didn’t know or really care. She whispers and motions for him to follow her on a shorter quicker route than the one he’d taken to get there.

Once they make their way down and scurry across the grounds and over the high iron fence, Andy retrieves his coat and they’re alone under a streetlamp on the cold wet sidewalk. He pulls the girl toward him and looks down at her face “my God, you’re just a kid” he says, a bit confused at the slightness of her body and her little girl looks.  

“Yeah” she replies drawing out the word like wasn’t that obvious huh? “But…you’re in university; you’re …” “I’m an advanced student” she tells him “y’know; my grandfather’s king, good education and all….” “Well…” he says, trying to be composed “you’re prettier than you are in your pictures.” She doesn’t say anything, like heard that one a million times. And the young man can’t see the irritated look on her face.

They walk along quickly through the dark streets. But Andy continues, pressing the point with nothing else he can think of to say “that last one, in the Prenza, I think; you were… on a motorcycle.” “I don’t know” she looks up at him, kind of bored with the subject “I don’t read those things. It doesn’t… really interest me, you know.”

Then not wanting to sound so pretentious, she adds “I think my mother saves all those photos; you know, scrapbook kinda stuff. Well… not that last one, on the motorcycle, when my blouse is blowing open. I don’t think Mom liked that one very much; me either, for that matter. But y’know it’s pretty damned irritating when every time you bend over to tie your shoe there’s some… photographer trying to stick his camera down your shirt. I mean really, I’d just like to live and have fun like everybody else; right? Without… being watched and looked at and stared at all the time.”

Andy considers the hazards and pitfalls of being the richest most beautiful most sought after kid in the country. Most be a pretty terrible ordeal, he thinks. Not like being poor and unwanted and spat upon like some raggedy beggar on the street. But the way she says it, with her sweet sincere melt your heart voice, he almost believes her.

They turn the corner into the large city square, all dark and quiet now even around the great large statue in the center. The gallant prince on his noble horse, rearing up with Leomont holding the reins in one hand and his sword held high in the other. But no one there to see him tonight, just the cold mist and the darkness. Andy hails a taxi and they speed off, heading for the train station.

The girl is wearing a dark felt hat pulled down covering her eyes. But even so the cab driver keeps glancing up into the mirror at the girl in the backseat of his cab. She makes a face at him and he quickly looks away and then swerves to avoid hitting a parked car. Then they’re at the station and once inside the compartment of their train, they can lock the glass doors and close the curtains facing the aisle and sit back and relax.

“I’m Andy” he says reaching for her hand. “Yeah... I know” she says “I saw you before, one time… a couple of years ago.” “Really?” he’s confused, can’t imagine having run into this beautiful young girl before and not remember it. “You were at the palace” she tells him “a young soldier boy getting a medal pinned on by my grandfather. I remember, he fumbled at it, and you smirked at him… later he was angry about that.”

“But you weren’t there” says Andy “I didn’t see you.” “I was... up at the top of the stairway, hiding; peeking through the railing.” “How come? I mean… the only reason we, that anyone would… want to go to the palace and get a medal, is to get a chance to… see you.” “Yeah, exactly” she says like that’s all so clear but only to her and no one else. “What?” he asks, lost for what she’s trying to say.

“Don’t you get it” she asks him “I don’t want to see all the brave young soldiers come home from their stupid wars, all shot up, all hurt, or dead. And all for nothing; just some stupid little medal; some little piece of brass and cloth. Or worse yet, even worst of all, just to get a chance… to see me. You’re gonna risk your life, maybe get maimed for forever, just… for that? I mean, if that’s really your reason, if that’s… makes some kind of ridiculous sense at all, then it’s like I’m the one who’s making you go do that in the first place. Like I’m the one sending you out there. No, I don’t want that; not any part of it; okay?”

Andy doesn’t say anything. Can’t think of what to say or how to explain… something so obvious to everyone. Yet somehow this girl doesn’t understand it at all. The wars, fighting, killing, dying, it has nothing to do with her. Well… maybe it does, what do people fight for anyway. Freedom maybe, that’s a nice idea. But everybody knows you’re only free if you’re very rich or very poor. Otherwise you just work for a living and do what you’re told, and then you get old and die.

He sits there quietly thinking, listening to her as she goes on “and I remember you because, you looked so… nice, in your uniform, even with your arm in a sling.” He laughs at that, and she’s surprised. “Sorry” he says “uh, that’s funny… there was nothing wrong with my arm. I… had a little throw away camera, and was gonna snap a photo of you.” Laughing again “but you weren’t there; or, I didn’t see you anyway.”

The girl just shakes her head, like there’s no end to it. “At supper, that day” she says “Grampa said you were an arrogant son of a bitch.” “Yeah, I suppose. But you know, the funny thing is, when I got back to the barracks, nobody even wanted to know anything about… the king, or the palace, or medals, or any of that stuff. They just asked me if I’d seen… the little girl princess. And I lied, told them I had. Told them you were all so much more beautiful and charming in person.”  

“So that’s why you went off to the war, huh?” she asks him. “No. Look, I don’t come from... the same place that you do. In the real world, when you’re nobody, nothing, and you get a chance to, to do something. Maybe, be somebody; make a name for yourself.” “By joining the army?” she asks. “Yeah, and… doing, something special, or heroic, maybe.” “Killing people” she says to him. “They’re trying to kill you too” he says, thinking, doesn’t she understand that at least. “And… whoever succeeds…gets the medal; or the girl” she says, matter of factly.

“You, you simplify things, that aren’t all that simple” he tells her, frustrated that she can’t get the point. “Okay then” she says, like knowing she’s got all the trumps “explain it to me.” “Well, I did my job, okay; and… better than others, maybe, alright? And I got rewarded for it.” “You got, a medal, and, a chance to see the little princess.” “I got, to the palace” says Andy “how many people you think get to do that. I mean, in the real world.”

“Wow” she says “was it all that you imagined it would be?” “Well, it’s something” he says, and then adds “and, I almost got to see you, didn’t I.” “Gee, just think, you coulda just gone down to the coffee shop where I hang out at lunch time.” “Yeah” says Andy, considering that “I suppose… but, I tend to do things the hard way, I guess” like she’s just made everything he’s said or done sound totally silly and meaningless.

Then, thinking of something else, he says “I met with your uncle, earlier this evening. We had dinner.” “Yeah? He’s mad at me; doesn’t like this… school protest stuff.” “So why do you do it?” he asks, with more than just interest. More like got no idea what the hell she’s thinking of. Doin that kinda shit, with all this other stuff goin on in the country right now “that’s a pretty dangerous game, don’t you think, the king’s granddaughter...”

“Yeah, well, what are you gonna do, huh? Just let the Americans push us around, stomp all over us. Stick their… frickin pipeline up our… valleys and whatever, pastureland; huh?” Andy suddenly realizes that there’s a lot more to this pretty young girl than just all those poster-photographs that all the guys are embarrassed to have hanging on their walls, and she being such a youngster and all. But more than just that, she’s like inner circle, like at the top of everything his world revolves around.

“There are two rules we live by” the girl says, like explaining the political workings of her country to him “we don’t fuck with other people, and we don’t let them fuck with us.” “So, what does… the king, think about that?” he asks, while comparing her version to the way Petros had put it.

“He won’t tell me anything, you know. It’s like ‘I’m handling it; I’m dealing with it’ or… ‘I’m working on it.’ That kinda stuff. I mean, who knows… it’s like he’s afraid to do anything. You know they’re gonna force it down our throats, like it or not. And, he’s not gonna do anything about it. And then… we’re gonna be the crossroads of the whole planet for every fuckin terrorist who wants to blow up a train station, or a bus, or a restaurant… And that’s gonna be… well, you know, just all really fucked up.”

She pauses, wondering about who she’s telling all this stuff to. And then figures, what the hell, and continues anyway. “Our beautiful little country… our home, is gonna be just like any other shithole. And… all the people, and all, and everything my parents have worked so hard for; for so long, and so hard, to make this country what it is…”

Andy can see how upset she is about all of it, like feeling personally responsible for what’s been going on. Can see the tears slipping down her face and hear them in her voice. And that tense knot in her stomach like she’s all way past being frustrated and just worried sick now about having tried to make these same arguments over and over again, to anyone who will listen. These same arguments that half the country’s been torn apart over for the better part of the last six months.

“People say” says Andy “that if the king is overthrown, for some reason or other, then… your father will cut a deal with the Americans.” “That’s a bunch a crap” says the girl. “First of all, my father isn’t in line for the throne; my uncle is; that’s by decree. Everybody knows that.” “Yeah, I know. But… just in case, for some reason, if both your grandfather and your uncle, were… not around, then your father, would be king, right?”

“My father, would never cut a deal with the Americans. Good God, do you think he’s worked his whole life, to, build up our economy, to build up trade, and infrastructure, everything; just to… throw it all away? He cares about our country! It’s… what his life is all about.” “Yeah” says Andy “your father is… a fine man, a good man” but he’s thinking, like everyone else thought, that Khail Salin, the wimpy little minister of finance, had never fought a battle in his whole life; never even served in the military; just a pencil-pushing economist.

“I know what you think” says the girl “that Dad is weak and, a push over; but he’s not like that… he isn’t. And anyway, he’s not, interested in being king. He’s not even, in succession.” “But he could be.” “No” says the girl, and pauses, wanting so much to make her point but at the same time not wanting to say what she’s not supposed to. “I am…  after Uncle Bruno; if he… isn’t around, then it goes to me.”

“Wow… that’s pretty weird” says Andy, feeling a shiver go up his spine. “Yeah, pretty fuckin weird. The little bratty bitch… is going to be fucking queen someday. Pretty weird, huh?” “Well, uh” says Andy “I didn’t know.” “Nobody does; it’s a secret. Nobody knows except Mom and Dad and Grampa of course, and Booski.”

“Booski?” “Bruno” says the girl “it’s a nick-name.” “I like that” he says, and then thinking about it, asks “why Booski?” “Oh, it’s from a long time ago. He used to always like to sneak up on me and scare me when I was little; like a big bad ogre, or something.” Andy laughs at the thought of the stodgy old minister of defense sneaking around scaring his little niece when she’s a kid.

And then asks her “you have a nick name?” She thinks about it for a moment “cupcake; but that was when I was a real little kid; a little fat kid, y’know?” That’s hard for him to imagine. This skinny little princess looks hardly big enough to even be in university, let alone to have ever been a plump little girl. But then coming back to reality, he asks her “what would you do?”

“If I was queen” she asks. “Yeah.” “Well… I suppose, just what I been sayin, in school, you know; attack both sides.” “Hmm... you want to attack the terrorists and the Americans both; and… we be the smallest tiniest country in…” “Well was else are y’gonna do” she demands, like if there’s another way, any other way, then let’s hear it. “It’s okay” he tells her, calmly “I’m gonna fix it.”

She takes a deep breath and then realizes what he’s just said. “Huh?” she looks over at him and smiles at what a dumb thing to say “you’re gonna what?” “We’re going to… um, we’re going to… get rid of Tomkin.” Maria laughs, and then sees that he’s serious. “Well, that’s, pretty fucking radical, huh.” “Yeah… us or them” he says succinctly, like summing it all up to the simplest equation.

She kind of takes that all in and sorts through it with some mixed feelings. Some reservations about it. “You’re an assassin.” “Just a humble soldier” he replies using an old line that falls off his lips a bit too easily. But he can see that it doesn’t work very well with her. “And, you just had to bring me along with you” she says “for…what?”

He’s kind of stuck there. But Andy knows that if all else fails the truth can be as unsettling as anything. “Well, I didn’t want t’die without meeting you first.” He means that in all honesty and wants it to sound the way he wants it to. But instead it just seems to make her all angry again. “Yeah, well… you know, I go to state funerals; don’t want to, but I do. And… there’re flags, over… the caskets, it’s not all that great, y’know. The boys… the kids; like, they’re just like guys I go to school with…young and… they don’t wanna die or get all…”

“It’s a real world isn’t it” he says; having been to those funerals too. Sometimes even a guy he knows or had trained with; now gone. “Not like something we’d make, if we could” he says, and then adds “but… if you’re gonna go t’war, things break. And... y’know when you go and attack the Yanks and the terrorists both; gonna be a lot a state funerals.”

“I’ll go with them” says the girl resolutely, perfectly assured of her own convictions. Andy smiles at her and thinks of all those sweet crazy notions that kids have about being so intractably righteous and idealistic in their views of the world. He pulls the girl over to him and kisses her on the forehead.

Princessa

Chapter 3  A Knight's Gambit

After the meal, Andy decides to walk home, through the chill night air, trying to clear his head, make some sense of it all. Feeling the cobblestone of the dark empty streets of the capitol under his feet. Listening to the echoing sound of his own footsteps. But he’s floating, barely feeling the chill mist surrounding the sight of his own winter breath. And yet aware of being able to see and sense everything all at once as if for the first time. Or the last, he doesn’t know which.

The muffled sound of taxis honking their horns in the distance, the stone and brick and wood of the buildings appearing sharp and distinct, even in the mist. And the names of the little shops, even the mist itself looks alive and moving graceful in the wind, like all part of the same cosmic dance. It’s exhilarating purely totally, and he wants to enjoy it absorb it and let all the myriad sensations sink in.

He’s feeling an absolute release from any bonds, and a freedom like he’s never felt before. Like a helium balloon slipped from a child’s hand in the park and just floating away by itself above everything. It’s magical serene intoxicating. Like good hashish, he thinks, but more powerful more intractable. Like he can do anything he wants to, whatever and get away with it, anything whatsoever. It won’t make any difference, ever again. He’s locked in fated zoned in inextricably sealed. And nothing at all matters now.

Like all the young boys in his country, he used to dream of growing up to be king one day. And like all the young boys, he’d given that up, become practical, joined the army. Now he’s just met the minister of defense, who is somehow related to the king, or at least is his chief confidant at any rate. And he has this mission, to take out the leader of the free world. They trusted him to do that; they believed in him, enough to give him this responsibility, only the wildest and boldest move his tiny little country had ever made in all their long struggling history. And it was all all of it in his hands; the whole future…of all these people, this place, and everyone, was on him. Things were looking up of a sudden, out of the blue.

But it wasn’t like the old general gave him any impression that they expected him back. This was more like a one-way ticket sort a deal. And why him, of all people. There were others they could’ve picked, older, more experienced. But none more, what was the word.... clever, he thinks. Or quick-thinking, able to think and act so quickly on your feet. Like racing full speed and suddenly changing directions, that nobody’d ever guess or be able to follow. Like a rabbit running full out and then suddenly stopping and turning and no one could ever catch you.

Well, that’s something, maybe; and… after all, he was their top marksman, by far, had the highest marks ever in target shooting. That was true enough. Could’ve even gone to the Olympics probably, maybe medalled in the biathlon. He would’ve liked that, would’ve been fun… yeah, some other time maybe, he thinks. But then…this other stuff, like his contact, Smet. What’s that all about, some kind of shake up at the top, or what; very strange.

Smet’s head of secret service now, the king’s bodyguards. And had been the chief of training at special forces when Andy was there, a couple of years ago. He liked Smet; a rugged old dyed in the wool war horse who had one focus and one focus only, the mission first, above all above everything. But Smet’s also the boss, or his boss anyway, why would they send an old dinosaur like that out on a field mission, albeit an extremely important one. And why had this mission come from Petros, minister of defense, and not Smet, head of security. Strange goings-on. He wonders about that.

Was the old man going to be there to watch over him, make sure he was okay, and that everything went off as it should. Or to clean up afterward if something went wrong, to eliminate any trace of evidence that could be linked back to them; like him, for instance. Just stuff y’have to think about, or consider anyway. But there was something else too. Something overshadowing all the other stuff somehow; making it hard to keep focused, to concentrate on these other things. Something Petros had said.

He turns the corner and sees the gleaming colored lights of the palace a few blocks off to the left The soft-hued pink and blues amidst the searching white. Like Disneyland, thinks Andy, though he’d never been there. But yeah… that was it, something Petros had said about meeting his niece. The amazingly beautiful Maria who was the most talked about kid in the country. At sixteen her photos were all over the magazines in Eastern Europe, had been for years, ever since she was a kid. That stunningly pretty young girl who was somehow the general’s niece, somehow the king’s granddaughter; and the most photographed royal, or royal wannabe, in this part of the world.

She’s at university now, even at such a young age, and had just been arrested for leading a student protest against the king’s policies. What a kid, and what a wild time in such an otherwise peaceful quiet out of the way little country. His footsteps lead him near the perimeter of the palace grounds. He knows this place, had walked by here often during his stays in the city. Had even been here once on a field trip when he was a boy in boarding school, and again once after that, a couple of years later when he was a decorated young soldier.

But why go here now. Just to think, just to sort things out. It was a test, he thinks to himself, like everything else. The meeting with the old general, in a public place like that. They just wanted to see how he’d react, how he carried himself. And he’d passed their test, he thinks, smiling to himself. Dazzled them with his arrogance and unpredictability, blown them right out of the water, like he always did. Or at rate, they hadn’t thrown him overboard as sometimes happened. Well… let’s see what they think of me now.

At a dark corner toward the rear of the buildings he takes off his coat and drops it to the ground. Then puts his hand on the iron grating and quickly scales the fence, hurls himself over and drops soundlessly down onto the soft turf. Hmm, he’s on their grass now, on the king’s lawn of  the king’s palace. And that brings him back to his senses. Must be some sort of crime, and feeling right at home now; spying is his business, crimes are a part of the job.

He moves through the shadows to the side of one of the buildings that flank the rear of the ancient palace. Then quickly quietly crawls up an old-fashioned drain pipe up to window levels and then higher, up to more windows and finally up to roof tops. Easy enough, no one around in the cold dark silence; and he’s good at this sort of thing, very good. Across the ceramic tile roof, like a cat burglar, calm, unhurried, mindful that in the foggy mist, one slip and you die. Nothing to grab onto between here and the dew-covered grass so far down below. That’s something to keep in the back of your mind as your ears strain for sounds and your eyes struggle with the shadows and the light.

But all this is natural to him, things he’d often done as a kid, even before joining the army, the special training, the elite status he’s now attained, even for such a young man. Just take your time, he thinks, do it right, blot out everything but getting across this roof, this building, crossing to the next, reaching the objective.

There’s only one light on in the windows of the residential quarters of the main palace building. He moves toward it, like a moth or a night creature and then hangs from the rooftop by his fingertips just briefly, to look down and around at the grounds far below. Just to do that because you aren’t supposed to. Without a sound, he drops down to a balcony. Then edges along the crevices of the cold stone walls, hugging body weight onto toes, fingers pressed into the mortar between the stone. Past a few more windows, finally to the one with the light.

It’s shuttered by old iron grates which are chained and locked with a shiny new padlock. That’s odd, all out of place here in the midst of all this reverent antiquity. He opens it and accidentally drops the lock on the stone casement where it rings out echoes into the dead night air. Strange, his hands are shaking; that’s never happened before, he thinks, looking at them objectively, like they’re just some tools you used on the job.

And even though it’s cold out, slick, even though he’s breaking into his king’s royal residence; things like that shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t make any difference. They never had before. He silently opens the window lock, pulls open one side of the glass panes and pushes the heavy drape aside to take a quick glance around the room before stepping in, out of the dark. It is all so different now, inside, in here. So warm calm tranquil after all that crawling along the cold wet rooftops controlling your breathing on the lookout for guards with automatic weapons, or cameras, trip wires. All the sort of things you have to bypass to get into the places they send you.

He sits on the edge of the bed and tries not to think, just look around. Be captivated by the splendidly decorous old palace bedroom, all the pretty fabrics and colors, the plush carpet, tapestry, portraits on the walls, the brilliant chandelier hanging from the high gilded ceiling, and the big solid wooden door with the fancy scroll work and heavy iron hinges. He barely notices when a young girl wrapped up in a robe and towel walks out of the steamy bathroom. “What do you want” she asks.

“Shssh” he puts his finger up to his lips and whispers “I’ve come to rescue you.”“Huh?” The girl is even prettier than her photographs. Her presence makes the whole room warm and glowing, outshining everything else.  She comes over and stands in front of him “are you one of the guards?” Andy smiles and shakes his head “secret service, come to set you free.” “You’re crazy” she says “I’m going to bed, okay?”

“Come with me” he whispers, strangely inviting. “Where?” she asks him. “America.” The young girl scrunches up her eyebrows “why?” He pauses and looks at her warm soft face “it’ll be fun.” She sits down on the bed beside him and starts to dry her hair with the towel. “Nice clothes” she says, noticing his fancy suit, all wet and soiled now “Milan, huh?” “No, well…almost. Just, outside there.”

The girl isn’t sure what this charming young fellow is up to. But it’s been so boring being locked in her room these past few days. She doesn’t much like it here anyway, preferring the wild excitement and freedom of university life. And to be locked up with guards at the door and escorting her just to go down to the kitchen to get a snack or something to drink; that kind of stuff makes her angry makes her want to get even with them for doing that to her, even though her “house arrest” is more formality than anything else.

She decides to get dressed and go with this crazy fellow. If for nothing else, than just to get out of the house, as it were, just to teach them a lesson. Once ready she starts for the door but Andy takes a hold of her sleeve and leads her over to the window. “This way” he says, smiling at her. 

Princessa, a story of love and war

 Chapter Two - Dinner and Bullets

There are people who decide things in the world, or try to anyway. General Petros is one of them, the king's advisor, next in line for the crown. Sitting at the end of the bar now, in the ritzy hotel, waiting. Angry at the man for being late, making him wait around for him. Who the hell does he think he is, anyway. 

And of course, the general had gotten there way early, like always. Be able to size things up ahead of time, make sure there’re no surprises. Now he’s getting bored, sitting there, the bright lights flooding the room. Wanting but not going to have, that second drink. Hoping none of the well-dressed businessmen will have the gall to come up and talk to him. Ask him about politics as it relates to their business deals. Ask him...whether he’s going to start a war or not.

They’re all piling in here now, under the glistening chandeliers, on the soft warm carpeting, after their days work. Coming in out of the cold dark evening, filling up the room with their boisterous noise and cigar smoke, their camaraderie and success stories.

The general looks at their fat happy smiles and fancy tailored clothes, and feels all out of place here. He doesn’t like civilian dress, doesn’t much like civilians. What a waste, that this is what we fight for. He gives in and orders another drink, double scotch, and thinks about the long-brief history of his little country. They’d been free from the Russians for less than two decades. Before that, it had been the Turks who’d occupied the country, enslaved the people. And in between, it was the Nazi’s turn to run roughshod over their land.

But that was the time the general remembered best, even fondly, when he was a boy; and the crazy Prince Leomont had ridden his gallant white horse throughout the countryside, rallying the farmers and peasants to go with him, to fight with him, and die with him. The old king had been massacred along with the entire army in the first and only battle against the mighty Germans. But his son, the young prince had refused to surrender. Had insisted that they would fight on forever if need be, in the mountains and forests, and farmlands and vineyards; from behind every rock and every tree… Well, that didn’t last long; the Nazi’s didn’t think much of a poorly equipped peasant resistance, no matter how zealous they were. But it was a time when every young boy in the country dreamed of riding alongside the fearless prince and fighting to the death like brave gallant fools.

And now the way things are going there’s that same feeling again. But he’s not young anymore; just a tired old soldier, more concerned with politics now. And there’s nothing gallant or brave about that. His country, his poor little country hasn’t been involved in any of the recent wars that have been going on all around them. It was the one thing they’d done, this neutrality, this struggle to stay out of all the foreign entanglements, that he and the king could point to with pride and…dignity even.

And all that’s crashing down on them now, falling apart like broken glass. And what could you do, but just watch it fall and break. They’d tried to be smart about it, clever even. Sent more troops than anyone, for their size anyway, to all the UN peacekeeping missions, in every part of the globe; anytime, anyplace, without hesitation; just go and fight, do your job. Hopefully be able to stay on the cutting edge of all the new armaments and gear and technologies they could no way afford back here at home.

And everyone would know, or should know at least, and appreciate that they’re willing to do that; even eager to. Isn’t that enough…what more could you ask of them. And their soldiers. Often distinguished themselves, made a name for themselves as the toughest, meanest, bravest fighters anywhere. Always ready to be sent in first, in the riskiest missions, the deadliest fights. And at what a cost…these men, these boys, my boys, he thinks…all the lives, the heartaches, and funerals of the gallant fallen young men you send out there to die. But it’s how they survive; on a shoestring budget anyway.

He finishes his drink and finally sees his late-arriving guest, gracefully pushing through the crowd; dapper, smiling, right at home here in the fancy hotel. To the general, he looks so young so self-assured so friendly; and he hates him even more. Taller than the general, broader, and good looking too; a real charmer, thinks Petros. But just look at those clothes, tailored-Italian. Some kind of silvery-green silky material with the shiny white lining showing from underneath that flashy suit and cape-like overcoat.

Goddamn it, aren’t we supposed to be discreet, in the service; low-keyed, not standing out like some kind of goddamned count making a grand entrance. And those shoes, Italian shoes! My God, he wants to tell the boy, we make shoes right here in our own country; shoes good enough for anyone. He squeezes hard on his empty glass, but like it or not, Andre Korzene is the best they have.

He expects the young man to be ever so gracious and grand with a well rehearsed apology for arriving late, but instead he signals to a waiter and orders a drink. “Can I get you something” he says to the general. Petros isn’t easily caught off guard; but he too was expecting himself to be so gracious and eloquent at this first meeting, make that good first impression, you see. Smet had told him that the kid was genuine warm real; fuck Smet, he thinks.

“Let’s eat” he says gruffly. Korzene follows him into a simple elegant dining room and they sit at a white-clothed table in the corner, away from everyone else. “I’m Andy” he says shaking the general’s hand “pleased to meet you.” “Bruno” replies Petros. He wants to get a feel for the young man’s grip, see what he’s made of. But he instantly lets go, drops the hand and jerks back his own, trying not to look startled. It’s magnetic, like feeling you’re meeting your long lost son or your brother back from the grave, someone who knows you inside and out.

“Is your niece as beautiful as they say” asks the youth. “You should meet her sometime” says the general in all sincerity, though taken aback by such an arrogant question and at the same time reminded of the captivating charm and loveliness of the sweet young Maria.

A waiter comes to their table handing them finely decorate menus, burgundy-leather, hand-written calligraphy on fine woven paper. They’re very proud of these here. Proud to be the country’s finest hotel and restaurant; as good as you’d find anywhere in this part of the world. “I’ll have the stuffed goose” says Andy waving him off.

The general takes the menu, opens it and looks up with a relaxed smile “give me a moment” he says. But his mind isn’t on the food. The menu items all look the same, each more inviting than the last, and he doesn’t have time for all that. He looks back up at the waiter “so… what, do you suggest.” “Uh…the stuffed goose is today’s specialty” he says, all apologetically for sort of sticking it to the old aristocrat. “Fine” says the general, having survived a lot more over the years than a little awkwardness in a fancy restaurant.

As they eat, and talk about the food, politics, the world situation, Petros tries his best to find everything wrong with the guy. He’s way too young of course, that’s obvious. Anyone can see that. What is he, thinks the general, a couple of years out of boot camp, or what. And he’s just a bit too charming too engaging almost to a fault; like a peasant boy who’s got some education now, some refinement, and wants to impress you with that, make you and even himself forget all about where he comes from.

To Petros it’s like an act he can see through. And even at that, there’s something so likeable about this fellow, so genuine, as Smet had said; it’s sad cruel unpleasant, to be sending him off to die on this suicide mission; unavoidable though. “You know our country” says the general “and our people…maybe you even know a little bit about our history.”

Yeah, Andy’s thinking, been there done that, read all the books, fought for you guys, and even made a few daughters’ fathers mad at me. But old people…always think they know everything. Always think you know nothing. “There are two things” says Petros “that our country has always stood for; that we’re known for. We never involve ourselves in all the little wars and conflicts that our neighbors always get themselves tangled up in.

“We maintain absolute strict neutrality, always; we don’t interfere…ever. And secondly, if anyone ever…ever invades our soil, we fight them to the death, with all our blood and passion and…strength. We never, never surrender. You know that of course.” Of course he does, they tell you that in first grade history class and everyday throughout your schooling, again at military basic, and before every mission you go out on. It’s like a mantra, like our national anthem; so what.

“Of course, I know that” says Andy “it’s…our national pride.” “Yeah” says Petros, reflectively “it’s who we are.” How callous thinks the general, how brave and noble and shallow these gallant young boys are. So eager and anxious to die for king and country without hesitation without thought without even knowing why, or anything else you might learn over the course of a long life.

He’d hoped to…make things clear for the kid; that what he was saying would be more than just words, those same old words you hear all the time and don’t even hear what they mean. The young man seems to sense the general’s uneasiness and almost imperceptibly changes to reflect the older man’s demeanor, serious businesslike precise.

“So…what can I do for you” he asks with a drink of the strong flavorful wine. “You know” says Petros, like mulling ideas over in his head “we’ve never taken a penny, not one penny of foreign aid; not from the Russians, or the Europeans, or even the Americans.”

The young man knew that of course, it’s reflected in his meager salary, in the meager budget of his country’s defense forces, in fact in just about everything throughout the whole country. “And the reason for that is” continues the general “that these generous, generous offerings always come, with strings attached, like that of a puppet. Sooner or later, they always call in their marker, and jerk you into dancing to their dance.”

The old general takes a drink and then continues “do you know how much…you can’t imagine how much, they offered us, to join with them, to side with them in this war. And…just for show, if nothing else; a show of support.” Yeah, thinks the young man, millions the papers had said, maybe even a billion…and, well, why not, why not take some…the country’s almost broke, always has been, just surviving on a shoestring, almost literally.

But then, like the old man says, maybe better to be poor and free than chained to the demands of international debts and obligations, who knows. The old general rambles on, like he’s talking to himself, or thinking out loud “well, sooner or later, you know, they’re going to want things from you; payback. Maybe a little base, here or there, out in the hill country, maybe…or, an airstrip, small, hidden away. And then of course a staging area on the border, for deploying troops; and…well, there’s never, never any end to it.”

He pauses, and then looks into the young man’s eyes “we can’t go down that path, and survive; we simply can’t, okay. And they haven’t given us any choice, in the matter. So…we’d like…to be rid of Mr. Tomkin. He’s…troublesome.”

Korzene shows no emotion, as he’d trained himself to do, no matter what; but even so he can’t help but smile a little, with a dancing gleam suddenly in his eyes. But inside he feels so wildly excited elated and at the same time amazingly calm serene, giddy almost, like being high. The minister of defense has just asked him to remove the most powerful leader in the world. “Okay” he says savoring his last bit of supper.