Game of revenge (Francis Scott-Wren Series Book 2) by Charlotte Larsen

Author:Charlotte Larsen [Larsen, Charlotte]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Buoy Media
Published: 2019-04-30T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 24

“What is it, Dhammakarati,” Jo whispers, laying a hand gently on the monk’s arm. She has recognized a tiny ripple of movement around his eyes. The monk shakes his head, gently removing her hand.

But Francis picks up the thread. “Dhammakarati, you seem to have had the most dramatic week of us all; why don’t you go first? Tell Thomas and Jo what went down in Alexandria.” He nods to Thomas, who touches one of his screens and large panels of electronic whiteboards glide slowly down, covering the glass walls.

A moment later, the room is dark until Thomas touches his screen again, where a three-dimensional scene of Alexandria springs to life on the walls. Thomas hands Dhammakarati a small pointer. “Take us through your experience in Alexandria,” he says.

Dhammakarati looks as if he has been handed a live snake. “Can’t I just tell you?” he mumbles.

Francis laughs, “Let Thomas have his pleasures, Dhamma, this is his latest toy. You can actually take us for a walk around the streets of the old city. We will follow in your footsteps, so to speak.” He laughs again. Nothing like a little emotional disturbance in his team. He enjoys the destabilization it gives them, their need to stay alert. Even Dhammakarati, who is always so cool.

The monk breathes deeply, then points the small device to the wall along the furthest side of the room. “Here is the Hotel Cecil, where Francis was staying right next to the bay. You see?” He seems, for a moment, amazed at his own ability to conjure forth such a vivid impression of the city where he, only a few days ago, left a man dead. “If we now turn from the Al Naby Danial to the El-Gaish Road, you can see how it runs along the bay. It is obviously a busy road, but nevertheless, it is also where young lovers—or rather—young married people—walk at night. The locals call it El Kornesh. And tourists love it for the beautiful promenade along the sea and the historical, colorful houses and small cafes.” He looks around at his colleagues.

Francis nods encouragingly.

Once again, Dhammakarati draws a deep breath, but now he seems to plunge himself back into the past, forgetting everything around him. “Nobody shadowing Francis as he met with Benedict Hardley in the airport. Nor going back. I followed Francis in a taxi. But when Francis entered the lobby, I saw him. He was already sitting in one of the deep leather chairs, ostensibly reading a paper. I noticed the paper was English. He was a tall man. Blond hair and eyebrows, almost white. And pale eyes with skin the color of a dead man, almost like an albino, but not quite. He walked with the grace of a martial arts fighter. That is, softly and delicately, like a panther. I wasn’t sure Francis had seen the man, for he sat down at the other end of the lobby bar.” He looks at Francis, who doesn’t give anything away, except an, “I had tea,” and a benevolent smile at them all.

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