Lovers and Reprisals (Lovers Series) (41 page)

Berta recoiled, but her bravery restored itself mainly because she wasn’t alone.  There were others in the room; those who’d known Morpheus far longer than her.  She’d banked on their experiences and their sense of justice.  She imagined that she’d not been the only bug squashed by his enormous boots.  She wouldn’t accept that she alone had been the victim of his unpredictable outburst.  Berta had wagered that someone else in this room felt as she did, and any minute now, they would figuratively back her up.

Berta spoke with a haughty air.

"You will not speak to me using that tone.  I will not be calm."  Her eyes addressed the other members seated at the table

"Don't tell me that you agree with him.  He is suggesting that we murder socialites and aristocracy; people belonging to some of the riches families in this country. Well...I won't agree with that."

"Berta...."  Woodrow raised a shaky hand.  He was ninety-seven and one of the original members and he'd also been grandfathered in by Hans Gustafson. 

Woodrow's voice was weak but his brain was as sound as a Nobelist.  He said...

"Berta, listen.  Please, listen."  He said.  "Give the man the floor.  Please...let him talk.  This is his area of expertise and that is the reason we defer to him on matters such as this."

Berta shifted in her seat, readying herself to pounce.  She knew exactly what she wanted to say, but Eliza cut her off.

"I agree with Woodrow.  In this area, we must defer to Morpheus because what we do in this room--it isn’t murder.  We are never to consider ourselves using those terms."

Berta's tongue nearly tripped in her mouth, and she couldn't get the words out fast enough if she spoke in English; so she didn't.  Eliza understood every word when a steady stream of Germanic words spilled from her mouth.

Berta spoke in her native language...

"I will not be dismissed just because you are sleeping with his son."

The words cut Eliza like a dull knife and she wondered how Berta had learned about her an Bolden.  She maintained her composure not allowing Berta to know that her jab had hit head on.  She folded her arms and she was grateful that Morpheus only knew German curse words because if he’d been fluent in German, her indelicate remarked would not have been taken lightly.

Eliza leaned across the table and she responded in Berta's native German tongue

"Don't be a coward.  If you want to take me on--then do it....but not here; because I'm not moved by false bravado.  If you'd been listening like Woodrow had suggested, you would know that we don't have time for petty squabbles. And as for my personal life; you would do well to mind your own business “

Morpheus shot a glance in Eliza’s direction, because he admired her fire.  He didn’t understand German but he’d picked up on the gist of the conversation and he only hoped that Eliza had not gotten to close too his son.  Close--but not too close.

Morpheus sat silent because he’d said his peace.  The group yielded the floor back to Woodrow.  But when Woodrow spoke, his remark sent a jolt that rippled like an expanding wave.

“Have any of you ever lost someone close to you?  And I don’t mean a person who was sick or old like me, and already near death.  I’m talking about a vibrant lively little girl.  A child who only seconds earlier had been playing right before your eyes--then before you could call out her name, that precious young life is whisked away on a rush of wind.”

They all stared at one another, but Morpheus didn’t share their gazes.  He lowered his eyes, studying his manicured nails. 

Woodrow continued.

“I’ve seen many wars--and I’ve seen death.  Seeing someone close to you die--well, it does something to you.   I’m not speaking metaphorically--I’m speaking from experience.  You don’t know what you will do, until someone close to you is snatched away.  I know how that feels and we must remember that Andrew isn’t just some name that we picked out of a hat.  We chose him because he understands our mission.  If we abandon him, the decision will be based on reason, and not a fit of anger.  Yes--it is true, Andrew loss his temper and he made an unwise call.  But you must admit one truth...if we’d known that he wanted Tollin dealt with--we would have done it, and the killing might not have occurred.  And even if it did, we would have done it because the act would have furthered our purpose.”

Woodrow paused for dramatic effect and he noticed that he had their full attention.  He said...

“I ask you...  Who in this room wouldn’t seek revenge if they were sitting in Andrew’s seat.”

Berta uncoiled her tight shoulders, and she made a slight move, leaning forward.  Her lips had been formed to talk, but Vincent held up his hand, while saying...

“Berta--do you recall your campus rape--and the mysterious disappearance involving a young white male seven months later.  The same white male that you identified but he wasn’t charged because his father was the Ambassador to France.  Did you really believe the story as reported by the park rangers?” 

Berta closed her mouth, relaxing back in her seat because she had believed the rangers; and not for the reasons any of these people might think.  She’d wanted to think well of her father and at the time she couldn’t accept that he would stoop so low as to order the murder of her rapist.  She still had nightmares, and the details were always the same.  The detective had sat in her fathers home office, expressing his profound apologies, after stating that Peter Boulez’s couldn’t be charged with the crime of rape.  Due to his father’s ambassador status, as his son, he’d been granted diplomatic imm
unity and was exempt from criminal prosecution.  Berta had been hand picked to participate in a fellowship program at Yale and after the rape and the humiliation enduring the rape kit; she’d returned home with the knowledge that her rapist was still out there--free to rape someone else.  Berta had become a shell of herself, and she’d rarely left the comfort of her parents gated property.  No amount of counseling helped and she’d refused to return to her way of life.  She’d cocooned herself in her parents home but her friends refused to abandon her.  Not long after she’d returned to her country,
she’d been visited by one of her friends with news about Peter; the man who’d raped her.  He’d been found in a National Forest outside of San Francisco, lying dead at the base of a cliff.  She’d wanted to believe that he’d fallen; but now, Vincent had confirmed her suspicions.  When her father had told her, not to worry, he would deal with Peter; in his eyes, she’d seen what amounted to a man filled with rage and hate.  Her father had looked like a person capable of killing.

She sat quiet and Woodrow wasted no time saying...

“Now that we’ve established that point--there will be no more discussion on the matter of death because Morpheus has given us our way out.  And as for Andrew...we will do what we can...until we can do no more.”

Woodrow gaged the tone of the room, because this next point would come at a cost to them all.  He would say this because Berta and George had exposed a crack; and there could be no pulling away.  In the old days, they would each clip off a portion of their finger, vowing their allegiance to the day of their death.  Soon after that, the cry for loyalty was demonstrated in more painful ways.  Yes--Woodrow had known the death of someone close.  He’d known because he’d arranged it.

When he spoke, his voice sounded its weakest. 

He said...

“I get no satisfaction out of this but--I see no other way.  There are those among us who are not sympathetic and you do not understand the cost of human life.  As Eliza stated...we are not murderers.  We make adjustments.  When Andrew lost little Amy--he needed to make an adjustment to right a wrong.  If you cannot grasp the reasoning behind his actions, then I say to you, share his pain.  Let us kill someone close to you--then you tell me if you don’t hunger for the taste of vengeance.”

Woodrow stared at them, because his words were not an idle threat.  Killing was a way of balancing the world and no one understood this more than Morpheus.  They sat quiet until Woodrow said...

“It is agreed.  Morpheus will continue on a course that will balance the scales; he will sever the connection or make the problem go away.  That is the solution.  Are we all in agreement?”

Six ays were heard, then Woodrow added his vote.

“Ay.  Now...we have much to do but when we return, the issue concerning Tollin must be resolved.  There can be no dangling strings.  You have the authority to do away with whomever stands in our way.  And Morpheus...if worst comes to worst”

Woodrow stared at him with knowing eyes...

“Do what you must.  Do whatever you believe will balance the scales.  We all understand the cost.  Be well my friend.”

Of course they understood the cost because even though they had not mentioned his name, they all knew about Joplin and his connection to Raal.  They knew because Morpheus had felt bound to tell them.  The irony was that he valued his allegiance to this group of people more than his love for his family.  He didn’t do this because of a flaw in his character.  He did this because that’s the price he’d paid to be a member of this group; and that’s what his father had expressed to him on the
day that he’d stepped down, offering Morpheus his seat.  He’d been honored to have been chosen by his father, especially after the fiasco involving his sister.  When Morpheus stood in his father’s place, h
e’d vowed to protect the group over anything else.  That explained his reason for telling them about Joplin and Raal but this fact didn’t change his regrets and now, Raal and Joplin may never know the other.  If Morpheus couldn’t fix this, someone would have to pay the price--and right now, Joplin was as good as dead.  He pushed that thought aside because regardless of how he felt, nothing else mattered.  Morpheus had to seal this leak, and if he didn’t, more than a few people would end up dying.  He considered the names, and he didn’t give a rats ass about the Delors, the Pettier’s or any of the other nuts who didn’t know when to leave well enough alone.  He would cut them down himself if it came to it.  When he considered Berta’s comment regarding Andrew, and her suggestion that perhaps they should reconsider being his silent backers; he’d never cared for her, and they rarely agreed on a single point; but as for dumping Andrew--on that point, he had to agree.  At the time, he hadn’t shared his opinion because tradition was tradition, and the group held firm to certain beliefs.  Andrew Wilcox had been chosen because he’d agreed to be a puppet president.  He’d agreed to govern the country in whatever manner the group thought would be best.  Most politician’s were corrupt by nature, but only a few were soulless.  Andrew was a rare breed, and he’d sold his soul to the group; they owned him, and there in lied their devotion.  At this late date in the game, dumping Andrew would amount to colossal failures, and two year’s worth of work, flushed down the crapper.  It would mean that the governor would become one of those dangling strings that Woodrow had alluded to.  One of those strings that would have to be cut, because it had frayed from the central purpose of the group.  In other words; the second Andrew was no longer relevant to the furthering of their cause, there would be no need to keep him alive.  To protect the secrecy of the group, Andrew Wilcox would be permanently silenced.

Morpheus summed up his mental list of names, and he didn’t blink when he added Andrew’s name at the bottom.  He wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep if for some unforeseen reason, Andrew’s heart suddenly stopped; but Joplin--now that would keep him up at night.  He studied the notion, rolling the answers in his head; not liking his choices.  There had to be another way.  There had to be one person so important that, killing them would silence all others.  It might even send the nosy warts in a completely different direction; making Tollin’s questionable death old news.   Morpheus couldn’t free himself from one unmistakable truth.  Who had been the initiator.  Who had fired the first shot.  Who had made the first move, forcing wheels in motion that had once sat idle.  He had the answer...and when all was said and done, he would live with his decision.  He just hoped that the others would agree with the way he planned to work this out.

When Morpheus returned to his plane, he couldn’t recall leaving the conference area on the larger plane.  He sat down, and he heard Olga when she said...

“May I offer you something?”

“Privacy.”  was all that he said...

Olga knew not to reply because most times, these meetings were to blame for his sour moods.  He was deep in thought, and he didn’t hear the roar of the planes as they took their turns, flying off in different directions.  When his plane took flight, Morpheus had an idea in his mind.  A notion that just might work; and the idea would serve the bastard right.  He couldn’t believe that he’d not thought about this earlier.

“No matter...”  he said to himself.  “I’ve thought of it now.”

He fished out his mobile, and he scrolled to a secure site on the internet where he kept a number of encrypted files.  He opened the one entitled, ‘Paddox’, then he ran it through a number of virus scans, before finally opening it.  When he’d found what he’d been looking for, he followed a series of sequences, virus checks, and scans, before closing out the file.  Then he covered his tracks by emptying his cache and deleting the search history on his phone.  In his line of work, it paid to be over cautious and his paranoia wasn’t an illness.  He dialed the number, then he sat back in his seat.  After four rings, the person answered.