Rome
Crowley stood over the two unconscious men, fury raging through every fiber of his being. He was angry that Rose had been abducted, angry that he had been so close by and let them take her, and angry that he had been reduced to these measures to learn more. He certainly wasn’t proud of the fact that he knew torture techniques, and he absolutely hated having to employ them.
An old sergeant he had served under once said, “When we torture, we’re barely a single step away from being wild beasts. But sometimes, especially in war, being a wild beast is the only way to survive.”
“A single step away?” Crowley had asked. “What’s the last step?”
“Actually eating your enemy,” the sergeant had said. Then he grinned crookedly, but his eyes were pained. “And don’t write off that possibility either, just in case.”
And what had Crowley learned this time? Not a whole lot, as was often the case with torture. If you pushed too hard, people would tell you anything, just to make you stop. They’d tell you what they thought you wanted to hear, to make sure you didn’t hurt them any more. One of these two had been something of a buttercup and started out that way, blabbing all kinds of contradictory stuff. Some people couldn’t be tortured because they were too scared of pain and poured out everything and anything, and right away it was uncertain how much was good info and how much was desperate shots in the dark. In many ways, it was the best defense against torture, but too hard to fake. But the other one, he’d been something of a hard man.
The second guy had tried to hold out. He’d stared Crowley in the eyes and gritted his teeth and refused to say anything. So Crowley amped up the pain. Still the guy held out. So Crowley went back to work on the weak one, knowing he wouldn’t last long. Sure enough, that man passed out in no time. Crowley returned to the tough guy, more rattled now than before, and he upped the ante again. Hiding his own disgust at what he was doing, acting like he enjoyed it and had all day to spare. One of those things was true, after all. Without a lead, Crowley had nothing to go on, no way to find out where Rose might have been taken. The stress of that threatened to unhinge him, after all he had managed so far. And slowly, the tough guy cracked, just a little bit.
“You’ll never get there in time,” the thug finally said through swollen lips, his head lolling, half-conscious. His words were almost lost among sobs.
“Get where?” Crowley cajoled. “Where can I never get?”
“It’s too far, you’re too late.” The man’s voice was almost singsong as he surfed consciousness, blacking out and swimming back briefly.
“Where’s too far?”
“It’s too far. Berk’s too far.”
“Berk?” Crowley said.
The man’s eyes snapped open as he forced himself into a moment of strength despite his myriad hurts. He cursed Crowley out quite elaborately. Then, “You’ll never break a soldier of the esserar...” Then he sneered and gave in to Crowley’s ministrations, his head falling forward. His chin rested against his chest and a dribble of blood and saliva ran into the thick blond hair there.
Crowley frowned. Berk and a soldier of the esserar? He must have not heard those things correctly. That was another problem with torture. If they finally told you something useful but it was a word you didn’t know or a language you didn’t speak, it was easy to miss. Especially through busted lips, missing teeth, restricted throats and whatever else might have been inflicted on them.
Crowley’s eyes tracked the rivulets of scarlet blood on the man’s chest and he winced, again horrified by his actions. Then his eye fell on the strange brand again, raised welts of shiny scar a little pinker than the man’s skin. He crouched, looked more closely. It was entirely possible that the little swirl of writing under the circular design could be letters, an acronym. Capital letters. He moved to check the other thug and smiled, the truth of it confirmed in this man’s slightly clearer brand. Not esserar. It was three capital letters: SOR.
He stood, looked around the room. It was dangerous to stay here much longer, especially in case whoever had taken Rose sent others to find the men who hadn’t returned. They’d booked into the hotel under a false name, so perhaps Crowley should just slip away. He gathered his things and packed Rose’s few possessions too. Carrying two backpacks, he hurried out of the room, locking it behind himself. The cleaner would have a shock in the morning when she came in to find those two tied up and bleeding on the floor. But they’d get help, no doubt be sent to the hospital, and they would hardly come clean to the police about what had happened.
Crowley went cautiously down the back stairs, doing his best to keep his face down from the many security cameras. There would already be footage, from when they had arrived, but his identity here in Rome was the least of his concerns right now. And he had a feeling he would be leaving the country soon. He just needed to figure out where to go.
Out on the street, in the warmth and bustle of a normal Rome day, he walked two blocks, then hailed a cab. Once the driver was well under way to the airport, Crowley called Cameron.
“Yo, not much yet, I’m afraid.”
Crowley nodded to himself, not surprised. “I might have more though. Perhaps it’ll help you?”
“I hope so. I’ve got all kinds of bits and pieces here, but nothing concrete. I can’t tie it all together.”
“What about the acronym SOR?” Crowley said. “And a place. Berk. Or something like that. Maybe with an ‘e’ or ‘u’? Could even be an ‘i’, I suppose. I don’t know. The guy wasn’t talking very clearly.”
Cameron chuckled down the line. “You been up to some old tricks, Crowley?”
“Not particularly willingly, but yes.”
“Must be a bit of a thrill for a history teacher.”
Crowley grinned, despite his anxiety for Rose. “You know what? It kind of is. It’s exciting to be back out in the world, taking some risks and cracking heads. I always said I didn’t want to be shot at any more, though, and that still stands. Too many idiots pointing guns at me lately.”
“I hear ya,” Cameron said. “I don’t miss that.” His voice was a little distracted.
“What have you found?” Crowley asked, trying not to get excited that there just might be a lead.
“How about Birka?” Cameron asked, and spelled it out.
“Yep, sure could be.”
“Because that fits with Landvik, the name you messaged before.” Cameron made a sound of satisfaction. “Ah! And SOR. That’s what it says under those brands in the photos you sent me.”
“I think so, yeah. One guy called himself a soldier of the SOR.”
“Then I’ve got something. Okay, it’s messy, I’ll have to dig more, but here’s the general shape of it. SOR is short for the Sons of Ragnar. That’s a reference to Ragnar Lodbrok, a Viking hero.”
“I’ve seen that show, Vikings,” Crowley said. “They fans too?”
“No, don’t get sidetracked by pop culture.”
Crowley laughed. “Mate, I’m joking. I’m a historian too, remember?”
“Right. Well, shut up and listen then. The Sons of Ragnar still worship the old Norse gods. They’re trying to bring that worship back into the mainstream. They want to make the Norse religion the official national religion of Scandinavia, and reunite all the Scandinavian countries back into a single kingdom.”
“A kingdom? Like with a king. Not a unified republic?”
“Wait, reading.” Cameron breathed down the line for a moment and Crowley watched the streets of Rome slide by out the window, then the cab moved onto the highway heading for the airport.
“Okay,” Cameron said. “It’s all a bit complicated. They want a united Scandinavia, no longer any part of Europe, to be run like a kingdom but with an elected council in charge. They’ve got a secret draft charter that we’ve managed to get hold of. It would take me too long to read through it all now, but I can send it to you. Anyway, the upshot is that it’s not just some band of hippy cranks with delusions of pagan glory.”
“No kidding!” Crowley said. “The kind of people coming after us have been well organized and well-armed.”
“Right. And they’re well backed. The Sons of Ragnar is controlled and bankrolled by businessmen mostly, a band of very wealthy people. Some politicians are cozying up to them too, if our intel is to be trusted. Which it usually is. That means they have all kinds of power structures available to them. And it’s all managed by one man in particular, an incredibly wealthy businessman.”
“Let me guess,” Crowley said. “His name is Landvik?”
“You got it. Halvdan Landvik. A notoriously xenophobic man, very well known in Norway for his brutal and cut-throat corporate methods. He’s powerful, with many powerful friends. I got a picture of him here, I’ll send it over. Tall guy, something like six-three, fit and strong, in his mid-forties. It’s not public that he’s in charge of the SOR, of course, but that’s what all our intel points to. His full name is Halvdan Ragnar Landvik, if you believe that, and he runs the SOR from its secret base on the island of Björkö, in Sweden, not far from the archeological site of Birka.”
Crowley nodded to himself. This was why it always paid to have informed friends to help decode information gathered by unpleasant means. “You think the site, this Birka place, is relevant?”
“Relevant to what, mate? I’m not sure what it is you’re up to. But you know what? This is a pretty interesting place. Björkö means ‘Birch Island’, and it’s only about thirty kilometers from Stockholm, in Lake Mälaren. Back in the day it was an important trading center, used for goods from all over Scandinavia and Central and Eastern Europe, and the Orient too. Birka, on the other side of the island, is a significant archaeological site with loads of Viking lore attached to it. It’s been a UNESCO World Heritage Site since 1993. According to this, a silver ring from a Viking-era grave in Birka is the first with an Arabic inscription from that era ever found in Scandinavia. Think about the significance of that! I’ll send all this info over to you. Well, the relevant parts at least.”
Crowley blew out a long breath. What did it all mean? It was fascinating stuff, but how did it relate to Rose? He thought about her birthmark, like the result of the blood eagle torture. And didn’t Ragnar Lodbrok die that way? He’d need to check his history books again, but it was all too far-fetched and complicated to figure out now. Regardless, whatever the deeper reasoning, he had a lead. “Bless you, Cam. You’re worth your weight in gold. Looks like I’m going to Sweden then. Can you figure out the best way for me to get to this island of Björkö? I’ll fly to Stockholm on the next plane out of Rome.”
There was silence from the other end for a moment.
“Cameron? You still there?”
“You’re really going up against this Landvik and his people?”
“Don’t try to lecture me now, Cam. I don’t have any choice. He’s got Rose and I don’t think he means to treat her well.”
“And you say you’re enjoying a bit of action in the field again?” There was a slight longing in Cameron’s voice now.
Crowley laughed. “Sitting at a desk starting to get to you, mate?”
“You fly to Stockholm, Jake. I’ll meet you there.”