Chapter Text
“This is bullshit,” Yusuf said. He wasn’t even going to pretend that he wasn’t Very. Pissed. Off. “Come on.”
“It’s not a common situation,” the suit said in his precise Dutch. “But it has happened before, there have been high profile cases where our security teams recommended that not only witnesses but the judges and prosecutorial staff need personal protection.”
“I won’t even be in the same country. Why on earth would they focus on me?” He carefully did not glance sideways at his mother, who sat, contained as always, watching the back and forth. His phone, resting face down on his thigh, buzzed. It would be another message from Andy, no doubt. Something like It won’t be that bad. Maybe you’ll learn Krav Maga or something. Have a story to tell.
The man gave one nod. “This is true. Our security assessment says it is more likely that if they are going to attempt something, they will seek out targets who are clustered together somewhere close to Den Hague. For that reason we are deploying our own teams to those targets, while your protection has been contracted out to a private company. However, Justice Toumi has real concerns and it is within our powers to address those concerns, which benefits everyone.”
“Please, Yusuf,” his mother says, very quietly. She touches him once, lightly, on the wrist. “Allow me some peace of mind. I could not bear if-”
Yusuf tipped his head back and fumed at the ceiling. Not fair, Mamma, he thought. Not. Fucking. Fair. He tapped his head against the wall once, lightly, and kissed goodbye his sabbatical, all his plans for a quiet, studious retreat.
Eyes still on the ceiling, he turned his hand over, palm up, and instantly his mother’s hand was in his. He squeezed once, gently, and sighed. “All right,” he said, and dragged his other hand through his hair. “Fine. When do I meet the guy.” He sat up in alarm. “It’s just one guy, right, not some team of no-neck-”
“We think one guard is sufficient.” The suit was clearly relieved at Yusuf’s capitulation. “As you said, you will be out of the country, in an isolated area which should make an influx of strangers immediately obvious. This is a precautionary measure only.”
Yusuf nodded wearily. He flashed a sideways glance at his mother, offered her a small smile.
“As for when you can meet,” the suit made a small sweeping gesture to a corner of the room behind their chairs and Yusuf froze.
He’d heard someone come in during the meeting, of course, but when they’d waited silently at the back of the office he’d assumed it was administrative staff of some kind – taking minutes perhaps. But when he glanced over his shoulder, instead of some secretary or a young, ambitious law clerk (Yusuf could spot them a mile away after his mother’s rise to prominence), there was a dark-haired, sharp eyed man leaning casually in the corner, his arms casually crossed. Their eyes met and he inclined his head slowly, ironically.
Well done, Yusuf. Pissed him off immediately, he thought, tired already.
“Yusuf al Kaysani, may I introduce you to Nicolò di Genova.”
“A pleasure,” Yusuf said despairingly in Italian, and got to his feet. A little too late to try and make nice with the guy he was going to be living with. The really hot guy he was going to be living with, Yusuf noted a second later as he straightened to shake Yusuf’s hand. His eyes were verdigris, a shade so unusual it was hard not to stare.
“Likewise,” di Genova replied in accented Dutch. It felt like a rejection, or a point scored, and Yusuf bowed his head, resigned. Great. Off to a good start, then.
They travelled by train, which had been Yusuf’s plan anyway, but it felt somehow different to be doing it with a shadow at his side who spoke as little as possible but was clearly tracking every move Yusuf made and had very definite Opinions about how things were going to go regarding almost every (largely subconscious) decision Yusuf made .
Where Yusuf sat, for starters. Whether they needed a private compartment, for another. And whether Yusuf could ever again lead the way as they walked (apparently, he could not).
Yusuf tried not to eye Nicolò di Genova’s luggage too obviously. But he was fairly sure at least one of them contained firearms. Possibly explosives.
Well, obviously, considering their situation. But it was just so odd. Yusuf did not live in a Bruce Willis movie, guns were not a familiar part of his life. On that thought, he dragged his satchel onto his lap and drew out a slim file his mother had passed to him when he asked for it, saying nothing but giving him one of those warning looks that made Yusuf feel ten years old again.
And a warning look from a mother who was also a judge on the International Criminal Court was no laughing matter.
Yusuf drew in a measured breath – not a sigh – and cast his eyes over the brief resume of his new companion.
Born in Sorrento, Italy (despite the name). Two younger siblings and both parents still living. Younger than Yusuf by a couple of years.
Joined the Army at 18, transferred four years later to the Carabinieri. There he joined the GIS, which looks like a special forces group of some kind, Yusuf guesses. Certainly it listed a long line of skills which not every ordinary soldier would be taught: paratrooper training, survival techniques, evasion, resistance to interrogation and escape.
Yusuf felt his eyebrows flick up, but then, he supposed, a company which had qualified to be contracted by an arm of the UN would have high standards. No ordinary rent-a-cops for them. He turns the page and pauses, shoulders pressing back into his seat.
Right there, in between di Genova’s army service and joining Vieille Garde Inc – fifteen months serving in the Corps of Gendarmerie of Vatican City. That’s… quite a leap. Why would a highly trained soldier, presumably something of an adrenaline junkie, make such a switch? Yusuf directs his gaze out the window and turns it over in his mind. An Italian Catholic, taking a job which would see him closer to the Pope, to the seat of Catholic power.
He sighs a little. Nicolo is likely devoted to his religion, then. Well. Yusuf can see no reason why a devout Catholic and an atheist who was raised Muslim would need to discuss religion. Ever. Even if they are going to be effectively living together for weeks. Or perhaps, months.
Fuck.