"I am . . . well, you can call me Al," the boss said, clearly using a false name. "I represent a group of investors who look for international real estate bargains and other areas of profit. Recently, we took possession of a property, just north of the city of Durres, Albania. It was a governmental repossession, and my group has requested that I be the one to notify you of the situation. Here, the papers are all in order."
He handed me the crumpled sheets, and I looked them over. Unfortunately, the political pressures of the recent months had made things chaotic in Albania. Refugees, Greek banks, and just in general the economy of the European union meant that it was not very well settled. According to the papers, the Albanian government had implemented a new tax, and that my family's property had not paid it. Swooping in, these vultures had paid the tax and had placed a lien on the property. With what were obviously bribes and the assistance of some corrupt officials, they now had a legal claim to the property. It was one of the advantages and disadvantages of living in Southeastern Europe. Corruption meant that you could get away with a lot. But it could bite you in the ass very quickly if you were on the wrong end of things.
I turned to Syeira and Charani, who had come out of the house along with Jordan. "Did you know about this?"
Syeira looked the papers over and shook her head. "No, of course not. When you left for America, everything was in order. My cousin should have notified me if something like this occurred."
Charani shook her head. "No, nothing. These papers must be a lie."
"Lie or not Mrs. Hardy, the facts are, we have the property. But, my group isn’t heartless. Instead of us fighting for what could be years or even decades in various courts, letting your property waste away and fall into disrepair, there is another solution."
"Yes," Charani replied, her spirit rising. "We are Romani. That is our land, I dare anyone to try and take it away from us."
"Mrs. Hardy, we’re ready to do what’s necessary to secure this land. I’d advise you to not make a fuss. Like I said, we’re not heartless, and my investment group is willing to give the title back to you, for a simple piece of work."
"What kind of work?" Jordan asked, speaking up for the first time.
"You must be Miss . . . what is it, Burrows? Or is it Banks?" the man said with a tight grin. "Not that it matters. We want to employ the Hardy brothers in a demonstration of their unique talents."
"What unique talents?" I asked, frustrated. While Jordan's papers may have fooled a customs official in Paris, they obviously were not as foolproof as I thought. Or else this man, Al, had connections with some of the very same people that I worked with. Either way, it pissed me off. “I’m just a Romani vineyard owner."
"You’re the son of Guillaume Hardy, the Mist," the man replied, using my father's nickname. "You and your brother are also following in his footsteps. Although that job in Los Angeles didn’t go as smoothly as expected, did it?"
"What do you want?" Francois spat. “Just get to it already.“
The man nodded, relaxed and as cool as a cucumber. He reached inside the long coat he was wearing and pulled out a disc.
"Technical specifications and data on your target, as well as what we know of the security involved. You have one week to decide, Mr. Hardy. If you agree to our terms, there’s an encrypted e-mail that you may contact. Good day, Mr. Hardy."
The man and his bodyguard left, their car raising dust in the yard. I looked at the data disc in my hand, then at Francois and the three women. "Let's go inside," I said, the pain in my ankle returning. "It seems we have some research to look over, as well as songs to plan out."
"Songs? What do you mean songs?" Jordan asked. "You seriously expect me to want to play guitar after that?”
I smiled and kissed her on the temple. "It is times like this, Jordan, that music and celebration are more important than ever. Why do you think the Romani are such a musical people? We've been handling things like this for thousands of years. We play music when we’re happy, when we’re sad, and when we’re angry. The time to worry is when the music stops."
Chapter 20
Jordan
Despite Francois's teasing, Felix was a decent violin player, and I enjoyed the evening even with my worries. Felix was right, losing myself in the music was exactly what I needed, and it allowed me to, at least for the evening, set it all aside. Combined with the wonderful cooking, it was a good evening.
The next day, Francois and Felix shut themselves off in the barn, taking Felix's computer with them. “We need to talk for a bit," Francois told me gently. “We’ll be out for lunch.”