Rocky beaches

[Holy Frankish Empire]

Syracuse

Consul Balbi looked out over Syracuse's grand harbor. A luxury liner slowly put out to sea, its horn blaring to warn smaller vessels. He watched as a small sailboat casually and stupidly cut across its bow no more than 50 feet from it. He stood high above it on Pulpar Hill, leaning over a rail along a public walkway. It was a famous place for tourists and even locals to come to take pictures. He frowned as he looked and saw Nicosia's aging destroyer. The largest ship in commission since the 19th century. 'A waste' he thought as he sipped lemonade from a street vendor through a straw. Nicosia needed no blue water navy. He frowned again, realizing the lemonade was entirely too tart for his liking. He turned to see Rikold approaching. The Nordic man had lived in Nicosia since age 5 and somehow became one of the most vocal members of the legislature. Deeply tan with blonde hair, he was often mistaken for a tourist. His cheap suit made him seem like a low grade bank clerk. Balbi took Rikold's hand and searched his gray eyes for a moment. "They are never going to give" said Rikold walking towards the rail that Balbi had left. Balbi followed. "What do you mean?" said Balbi, pressing the issue and visibly angry. "The Orange Party wants you gone. Now, we both know we can't have that. Too much money involved" said Rikold, almost howling.

The two had been laundering charity money for years and now were stuck. If Balbi left power, they could both be exposed if loose ends were not securing tied up. "Well?" asked Balbi. "Simple, you hold on. Do what it takes. I can stall my party. I can even stall the King" said Rikold, a twinkle in the eyes. "How long?"

Rikold thought for a moment, taking Balbi's lemonade from his hand. He tried his and nearly snarled. Rikold looked at Balbi who shook his head and Rikold examined the bottle once more and threw it over the railing onto the rocky beach some 100 feet below. "2 weeks? 3?" guessed Rikold quietly. "I can't hide the money if I am not in power. It doesn't work that way" said Balbi, staring at the sailboat who had nearly been halved by the liner. Rikold was quiet. Neither spoke for a few minutes as they both continued to watch the harbor. Balbi nearly jumped into the air. "Eastern Cape" he said quietly. Rikold's eyebrow shot up.

"Nobody knows whats happening down there. What government they have is in total chaos. We could build a resort in the middle of every city there and nobody would notice for at least a weak" said Balbi, half jesting. "We send a reliable man down there" began Balbi as Rikold nodded, "we do it right. We open an office, staff it with some local secretary and our man. We have a charity office...something for kids. We funnel our money there. We do some really half assed PR thing there. Buy some school books. Our charity is on record there. We get it printed here..."Not Jounalio, they are too good" said Rikold, noting Jounalio did have a reputation for accuracy and could be a dangerous foe. "Right, not Jounalio. By the time I am gone from power, our money will be safely in the Eastern Cape. When thing's stabilize, our charity closes shop and moves its headquarters to Mozambia or some such. We put our money...or charity money in banks there. Give it some time and we close shop there. By then, the money is clear and we walk away clean and rich" said Balbi. He got no response except to see a large grin on Rikold's face.

 

[Holy Frankish Empire]

The Consul's Residence was not grand by any means compared to that of others. It had once belonged to a bishop then a merchant and then had been derelict until the 1850's. The old stone house was built of tan stone and had sat since at least the 1600's. It was sheepishly small for somebody to run a government from but was still functional. Consul Balbi's study was no more than a simple office with a modern gray metal desk. The walls remained stone, without plaster, and was only graced with a picture of the King and a smaller picture of the Breotish King, a personal friend of Balbi's. A bust of Beethoven, well worn, sat on the only ornate piece of furniture in the room, a gilded end table which was rumored to have belonged to the Monkecian embassy. The lore stated that the Monkecian envoy, drunk, dragged it down the street from the embassy and threw it in front of the Consular guard and said "gift" before stumbling away sometime around 1910. Balbi doubted the story but was amused enough by it to keep the end table around.

Before Balbi sat Rodrigo Henstro. He was a somewhat dubious chap but utterly faithful. Henstro was an orphan and had slowly climbed the ranks of Nicosia's infantile intelligence service. Retired, he plied his trade where he could. Balbi eyed him as Henstro casually picked dirt from under his fingernails, dumping the nail scum onto the polished wooden floor. Balbi said nothing. He was intimidated by few, politically at least. But something about Henstro disturbed him. Only 5'5 with jet black hair, engorged sideburns, and nostrils that flared when annoyed, Henstro was something of lore like the table. It was rumored that he was a bull. His small stature was often the only thing 3 men saw before succumbing to his vicious, almost rabid side. Balbi had read the reports carefully. Balbi had noted the man even held a degree in philosophy.

"Mr. Henstro" began Balbi, noticing that the man did not even look up. "You need work. I need a man" said Balbi, watching the man nod as he extended all the fingers of his hands and held them out in inspection. "Eastern Cape. How does that sound" he asked. Henstro paused, grunted, and nodded. Balbi had his man.