Counterpoint (8 page)

Carla walked over to the man’s table
and used the remainder of his drink as a mouthwash, spitting the
swill back into the glass and using his napkin to wipe her
face.

One of the other men got up and aimed a
punch at Max’s face. Sidestepping, the blow went over his right
shoulder. Max brought his linked hands, down hard on the man’s
right shoulder, forcing him down by kicking his feet from under
him.

With the man’s face to the floor, one
hand gripping the man’s wrist, the other his elbow, keeping the arm
straight, Max stood on the man’s right shoulder blade with all his
force. The man’s shoulder gave a sickening gristly crunch as it
became dislocated.

Max let the useless arm fall on the
screaming man, who rolled over onto his back and grabbed Max’s
ankle, to unbalance him. Transferring all his weight to the foot,
so it would not slide, Max stamped down hard with the other foot,
onto the man’s lower rib cage, cracking several ribs like twigs.
Overcome with more chronic bone pain the thug lay screaming on the
floor.

As bar staff helped him up and outside,
the remaining man decided to leave, as well. The doorman stopped
him and escorted him back into the pay desk to settle the bill. The
manager, who had seen everything, asked Max and Carla to leave at
once through the back entrance to avoid any trouble.

“Well, Carla! You certainly know how to
give a guy a good time! You won’t be able to go back there
again.”

“I thought I showed great diplomacy and
tact,” she replied sarcastically. “It will be at least a month
before my chap will be able to show his bruised face,
anywhere.”

When they got home, Carla was unusually
quiet.

“What’s troubling you asked Max?”

“I hate this,” she said tearfully.
“When people see a young girl having a good time with an older man
they always think the worst.

They thought I was a cheap tart with
her sugar daddy.

I hate it; I really hate it!

I thought I had left that all behind
and I don’t want it, ever again.”

She left the room sobbing and went to
her bedroom, alone.

Max made a drink for himself and went
to his room; he was so sad, and dreaded what might happen in the
morning.

Maria woke him the next morning with
breakfast on the balcony.

He asked if she had seen Carla yet.
“Yes, she said, but she is in a strange mood.”

Max thought she wanted to add
something, a clue as to what might be the best thing to do in the
circumstances, but she said no more.

After showering and dressing, Max found
Carla wandering about the garden. She turned as he approached and
said, “The time has come to move on Max, I cannot go through that
scene again, I will not be treated as a tart ever again.”

“Where does that leave us?” His stomach
felt sick with dread. “That is the problem, she replied. I think I
love you, I don’t know why, but I feel safe and relaxed with you. I
am not competing with you, and you don’t judge me. I must trust you
even more than the Duke, because my emotions are in your hands. You
have made me vulnerable to my feelings and I can’t bear the idea of
being away from you.”

“To the outside world we could appear
as colleagues,” suggested Max hopefully.

“Perhaps, we shall have to see!”

A phone rang in the lounge, ending the
conversation and leaving the problem unresolved. Carla ran and
answered it. A few minutes later, she reappeared, announcing the
Duke wanted to see them both immediately.

After the call to
Carla, the Duke prepared his desk to receive a visitor he had not
seen for nearly six years, though he had spoken to him on many
occasions recently. It appeared a serious problem had developed, in
a joint project called
Oracle
. It had the potential, to
change the course of history and the future of humankind,
forever.

Philippe was shown into the Duke’s
office, a room about six metres square with beech panels on three
walls. The panels were identical, and some were doors leading to
adjacent offices or exits. The Duke chose which should open from
his desk, or for those who were familiar with the room, a small
button could be used next to the door panel.

The ceiling was a grid of light panels
spreading even illumination to every corner, the floor was polished
marble, gleaming clean and clinical in the light. The Duke’s desk
was a broad, leather topped, beech executive type, with padded
leather Captain’s chair on castors, to complement it. A white
telephone and sheaves of documents ready for signing were placed
neatly on one side of the desk.

Behind the Duke was a bookcase, wall to
wall, floor to ceiling with leather bound volumes covering many
subjects, including law and tax.

On opposite walls at the ends of the
desk were two portraits, one of his late wife, Lana and the other
of Carla. Both portraits showed blonds of a similar age, with long
hair in loose curls and blue eyes. The faces were of a similar type
as well, beautiful, balanced and smiling, but the mouth and eye
expression were quite different. Lana had soft, loving eyes, and
full sensual mouth; Carla had bright, intense eyes and a
mischievous mouth.

The Duke offered Philippe a chair, but
he declined, the matter was urgent and he was in no mood for
pleasantries. As the Duke leaned back in his chair, Philippe leaned
forward, palms pressed firmly on the desktop.

“What, may I ask, has happened to you?”
Asked the Duke, referring to the large swath of bandages, covering
the left side of Philippe’s face.

“I was involved in a car crash caused
by a bitch that not only ripped off €2,000,000 of Marco’s product
and money but also stole Project Oracle.”

The Duke’s face tensed and his eyes
bored into Philippe’s eyes searching for more of the story.
Philippe withered under the scrutiny, feeling foolish at having to
acknowledge the loss at the hands of a woman.

Straightening up, he looked away to one
side seeking composure. Philippe looked briefly at Carla’s
portrait. It was not as he remembered Lana. He looked to the other
portrait. Yes, there she was. He paused a moment longer than he
should have, remembering the secret passion they had often shared,
then he looked back at Carla and stiffened. Take away the ringlets;
remove the glamour, it’s her! The bitch is even grinning at me.

Philippe’s face was red with anger now,
the Duke read the whole scene in his face. Twenty-eight years ago,
Philippe practically lived in the Dukes home. Any chance he could,
he stayed. The Duke was in his prime then, always away on business,
seeing his young wife only fleetingly. Then Lana suddenly went away
to England for a year without giving any reason, and would not
return in spite of the Duke’s pleas. Eventually she did come back,
and their relationship took some time to adjust.

Seven years ago, she went away again
for nearly six months, again giving no reason. The night she did
return, driving a hired car from the airport, she died at Angel
Pass. Apparently, she stopped at a roadside cafe to talk with
someone, and then drove to her death over the pass, when her brakes
failed. He never did find out to whom she talked, but he did
discover she had a child; the first time she left him.

The Duke had not considered the
possibility before, but now the motive and opportunity fitted, just
as the cold and barbaric murder fitted Philippe.

The Duke pressed a button on his desk
and a small automatic pistol, shot out into his hand.

Philippe saw the look on the Duke’s
face, he knew Philippe had murdered Lana and now the Duke had a
gun.

Like lightning, Philippe leaned over
the desk and snatched the gun away from him.

“That seals your fate,” growled the
Duke, but Philippe fired at the old man’s chest, the impact sending
the Duke rolling back across the marble floor, in his chair.

Max and Carla had just reached the
office door when they heard the shot from within. Max opened the
door and ran in with Carla behind him. Philippe calmly swung the
gun around to shoot Max in the head, but caught sight of Carla
behind his shoulder. As she ran in, Carla was looking at the Duke
collapsed in the chair, then looked past Max, at the attacker.

“Philippe!” She gasped, recognising him
instantly, even with the bandages. Philippe re-aimed at Carla’s
face, behind Max’s shoulder.

Seeing the gun pointing at her, she
ducked behind Max. Tracking her move with the gun and pulling the
trigger at the same time, the gun fired hitting Max in the face. He
screamed a sharp cry of agony as he spun round, Carla crashed into
him, and they fell to the floor. Max fell back, fracturing his
skull on the unyielding floor, with Carla partly under him.

Doors were now opening into the room as
staff came to investigate the shots. Philippe could not afford the
luxury of hanging around, he had to get away. He headed for the
door by which he had entered, pressed the release button and ran
out, down to the garage. A security man was running up the stairs
and challenged Philippe, who promptly shot him through the right
eye. This gun fires down and to the left, noted Philippe, who had
aimed centre forehead.

The garage doors were starting to
close, Philippe aimed at the electrical trunking near the motor and
fired several times, shorting out the power cables in a shower of
sparks. The motor stopped closing the door.

Running to his car, he shouted to the
chauffeur to get going, and fell into the back of the saloon. With
squealing tyres, the sleek car shot forward and out of the
garage.

As they drove down the road from the
plateau, they could see cars coming up. They were in convoy,
approaching the last bend.

The driver saw a way through by using
the emergency escape road; it cut across the loop, bypassing the
approaching cars. Philippe saw the plan as well and braced himself
for a rough ride.

The escape road was designed to bog
down and stop runaway vehicles that could not negotiate the tight
bends, on the way down the mountain. The driver powered through the
soft ballast to overcome the drag and emerged from it, with just
enough momentum left in the car to climb onto the proper road.

“Well done!” Praised Philippe. “They
won’t catch us now. “

He called ahead for his helicopter to
intercept them and made good his escape. When airborne, Philippe
felt puzzled at the ease with which his pursuers had given up the
chase. He knew he was now a hunted man, but still more useful to
them alive than dead, at least until Project Oracle was
complete.

As the Duke’s staff ran into the room,
Carla was sliding from under Max and getting up. She froze at the
sight of the pool of blood, starkly contrasted against the white
marble floor, spreading from Max’s head. She rolled him on his back
and gasped at the damage to his face from the gun blast.

She looked over at the Duke, the red
stain on his shirt spreading downwards as blood oozed from his
still heart. The two most precious people in her life, taken from
her in an instant, no time for goodbye’s, or to say how much she
loved them. A brief thought for Max was all she could muster, the
bonds were there, and she did love him, but compared to the Duke,
she hardly knew him.

The way the Duke had turned her life
around since she met him, pulled her from drink, drugs, and
prostitution, given her purpose, challenge, and excitement. Words
would not have been enough to describe her gratitude, but the tears
in her eyes said it all. Perhaps his spirit could see them now as
they rolled down her cheeks, she hoped so, they were all she could
offer. Emotionally strong, though she was, this was more than she
could bear, and she fainted.

The staff with paramedical training
confirmed the Duke was actually dead; they rushed his body to the
mini hospital in the basement.

The contingency of his sudden death had
been allowed for.

He was immediately connected to a life
support machine, his chest was opened, the damaged blood vessels
repaired and then he was stitched up. The fact he was brain dead
did not matter to The Organisation, biologically he was alive, and
in time, the damaged tissue would heal. He could die officially at
a more convenient time, no questions asked.

A complex chain of events had now
kicked into action. The Duke’s business empire was like a house of
cards. Without this key person in control, confidence amongst the
business associates would evaporate, The Organisation would fail;
the house of cards would collapse.

Within moments of his death, the
management of The Organisation contacted the Duke’s double; he
would be flown in to act as the figurehead whilst the management
continued to run The Organisation. The real Duke’s successor had
already been appointed. His name was Sam Leighton.

Eventually The Organisation would
announce the Duke wished to retire and later when all fronts were
stable, would quietly pass away.

Sam Leighton had been running the whole
Organisation for six years as the Duke’s right hand man so there
would be no material changes within the Organisation.

Sam came from an upper crust family
with useful links to seats of political power throughout the World.
He secretly despised the power base of the outside world; it was in
his view, corrupt and did not benefit humanity at all, just the
political system that ran it. Sam vowed to do all he could to
change things for the better.

Like many other top people that worked
here on the mountain, he was assimilated into The Organisation by
what appeared to be, chance. The process was so gradual, it went
unnoticed by him, until the ethos of the group was revealed to him,
six years ago.

The Duke met him at some high society
party in America and their friendship developed from there. Being
rather aimless at the time Sam welcomed the Duke’s invitation to
visit his home in Italy and the subsequent mission, all expenses
paid, to broker a land deal.