4 Rainy Days and Monday Read online

  “Explain yourself,” Beatrice commanded. Her eyes narrowed.

  He nodded.

  “The President of the United States is dead at the hand of his wife, one of our faithful.”

  Beatrice snorted.

  “You mean one of your lackeys.”

  “Catherine gave her life to provide us this victory. Her family have been considered the only True Blood in all of America,” he said. He would defend her sacrifice if he must. The President was a dead man, regardless. Catherine had volunteered. Since his other plans were crumbling, he wanted to ensure at least one feather in their cap.

  “From what I understand, we cannot even be assured that this move benefitted our enemy as much as it does us. This is especially true, as we have heard of the reluctance of Mr. Chen to be involved in our plan. He seems to think he can pull his people out of this conflict.” Antiochus smirked as he delivered these accusations.

  He and Beatrice must have rehearsed this scenario. All his strengths would be made to look as though they were weaknesses and his failures to appear to be mortal wounds to their hopes. They needed a scapegoat. He was being prepared to be trussed and taken out the city gates to be sacrificed for them all.

  He narrowed his eyes and met his brother’s gaze. Anger welled up in him. When they were young, he had enjoyed pummeling the little brat for no reason. Now, he appeared to be getting his revenge.

  “The jury is still out on that position. It is yet to be seen how the Pentagon will use this power vacuum. We have plans and a candidate prepared to take his place.”

  Beatrice shook her head.

  “We have not unanimously approved of Speaker Rodman. We cannot hope to continue to manage through fear. We must identify a true believer in our cause. One of our own.”

  He scoffed.

  She scowled at him.

  “Beatrice: that would take another lifetime to foment that sort of candidate. We have tried in the past. Suicides. Assassinations. Massive moral and cognitive disappointments. I thought it was the decision of this council to identify existing political candidates who fit our profiles and manage through them. I thought our resources have been committed to infiltrating the largest corporations and managing our candidates through their influence.”

  “These were the failed systems begun with your mentor Bellamy and continued under your leadership,” Beatrice argued.

  “And you have been stripped of that leadership, brother.”

  He turned his cold eyes to Antiochus again. His brother had suggested that the burden of leadership should fall on the collective council. They were equals and each had an identical interest in the affairs of the Consortium. They had voted to enact a leaderless council that acted in harmony.

  Indeed, for almost five years, they had made the greatest collective gains in their history. Whether that was attributed to an inner harmony due to a perception of egalitarianism or due to any one of their individual efforts was arguable.

  “What do you want from me?” he asked in frustration.

  Beatrice smiled.

  Villeneuve stared at the rings on his fingers, a deep frown on his face.

  Rashidi’s face was contorted in disgust.

  Andronicus realized his error immediately. He had admitted defeat.

  Before he could appeal to his narrow chance in the eyes of his theoretical friends on the council, he had submitted himself to them in a fit of weakness and surrender. He had effectively admitted his guilt.

  Any argument he had considered was now irrelevant. Any escape he hoped would present itself was now neutered.

  Andronicus looked down the table, his eyes desperate for another chance. The problem was: he had none.

  “I am happy that you are willing to submit yourself to this council, Andronicus,” Beatrice purred.

  “I am part of this council,” he argued. “I submit to it as an equal.”

  “We shall see about that, brother. You have failed. You have admitted this. Your position is tenuous. I think I speak for the council when I say that we will require proof that you deserve to remain one of us.”

  “Proof?” Andronicus asked, incredulous. He knotted his hands.

  He had expected that they would execute him. Persecute him. Make of him an example.

  Remove him? Insult him?

  They meant to humiliate him.

  Somehow, this was worse than death.

  Antiochus glanced down the table. The Scot nodded at him. Villeneuve shrugged and raised his eyebrows. Rashidi ignored Antiochus and continued to glare at Andronicus. Beatrice smiled and blinked slowly.

  “Again, I speak for the council. If I do not, they will kindly correct me. We need you to finish what you have started. In fact, we need you to make some...adjustments to your original parameters.”

  He controlled his breathing. He was being offered an olive branch. He was being given an opportunity for revenge. His sacrifice would be akin to Catherine’s. He was curious what his brother had concocted. On the other hand, had it been Beatrice?

  “Tell me of these adjustments, then.”

  His brother squirmed and glanced down at some notes in front of him.

  “We have information that our team has been successful obtaining two vital assets. We are interested in putting these assets to use for our cause. We have not determined exactly how they will be advantageous, but we see potential for both to be used as weapons in our war.”

  Andronicus glanced down the table. He could not read their faces. They were hiding something.

  “What are these assets, then?”

  “Can we assume from this question that you are willing to provide us this proof?”

  They thought they were sending him on a suicide mission. A mission with a purpose, but one in which there was little hope that he would survive. He looked directly at Beatrice and then back to Antiochus. David and Bathsheba.

  Fine.

  He would play their little game. He was going to enjoy the look on their faces when he came back triumphant. On his terms.

  “Of course,” he said. “I am willing to give my life for our cause.”

  “We hope it will not require that much sacrifice,” Villeneuve offered.

  He had a champion on the council after all. He had felt completely abandoned. Or was he underestimating them? Were they more afraid of Beatrice and Antiochus than they were of him? That was not the case for Rashidi. The man feared nothing but a death robbed of his dream.

  He abandoned his guessing game. He needed to work with facts. Solid knowledge. Supposition would get him nowhere.

  “We have acquired a brilliant geneticist, a German doctor raised in America. Dr. Spreckles has agreed to offer his services to us. We want you to meet with him and determine how we can best use his talents. Give him whatever he wants. We have committed enormous funds to bring him to us. We need to spare no expense to keep him in the fold.”

  This sounded harmless.

  What was the catch? He wondered.

  “The second asset is a bit trickier. We have also acquired Giselle Chaput.”

  Andronicus felt his heart leap. Not all was lost. This might even play out in his favor.

  “How might she help, you think?” he asked. His voice sounded strained as he attempted to mask his excitement.

  Beatrice narrowed her eyes.

  “We are completely aware of your sexual proclivities, Andronicus. Do not pretend to deceive us. We know your involvement with this woman,” Beatrice said, acid dripping from her words.

  “What you may not know about Ms. Chaput is that although she was subjected to memory therapy and manipulation by our partners at Galbraith, she was being fed a stream of conflicting programming by our enemies.”

  Andronicus was confused.

  “I do not understand. I thought her father brought her to us for the sole purpose of creating a mole within Sinegem. How was this at cross purposes with our enemy?”

  Antiochus’ face was set in a grim mask.

  “Th
e Brotherhood and its supporters have discovered a more superior and trustworthy way to manipulate the human brain. Your drug and psychotherapy theories were largely unsuccessful. Evidently, they have a coding system that somehow re-writes the human genome in a way that makes it susceptible to suggestion. I don’t pretend to understand it all,” his brother explained with a dismissive wave.

  This was his failure. He had been manipulated. The consortium’s own methods was being used against them.

  It had happened before. World War Two. The puppet Hitler had become too erratic. The Consortium had learned their lesson. So they had thought. Another half century had taught them nothing. Hubris can only be debilitating only for so long. Eventually, arrogance takes its former post.

  He struggled to remain calm, to fight off the impending gloom that threatened to encompass him.

  Andronicus needed to make the most of this opportunity he was being given. He could not begin thinking he was already defeated. He puffed out his chest. Took a deep breath.

  “What has Calvin done this time?” he asked matter-of-factly.

  Beatrice’s heavy-lidded eyes blinked slowly as she regarded him.

  “We were hoping you would ask his father. He has Giselle now. And Lars wants to make amends for his son’s betrayal.”

  Chapter Four

  Like Father Like Son

  The light swung from its frayed wire, sending shadows reeling across the room. Boxes lined the walls, office supplies discarded from the seventies, and an assortment of ordinance.

  Lars rested his club upon a box labeled “Personnel.” It left a smudge of dark blood upon its dusty surface.

  The soldier was slumped in the thick oak chair, blood matted in his close-cropped hair.

  His eyelids fluttered.

  His hand jerked involuntarily.

  Maybe it would be easier just to inject him with Sychol again, Lars thought.

  He waited.

  Sweat poured from his face.

  He wiped it again with the stained handkerchief from his khakis.

  He had blood splattered down the front of his button down shirt. Lars had rolled up his sleeves.

  In some ways, these motions felt familiar. It was a different time and different circumstances. He had interrogated American prisoners in Vietnam in a similar fashion.

  The difference was that now he really cared if he got answers.

  In the jungles of Dak To, he had merely been interested in inflicting pain. And death.

  He could hear his voice echoing back from the past.

  How close are they to the border? How many? Which divisions? Do you have any members of the NLV in captivity?

  Questions and questions. Screams and blubbering. Always blood and death.

  He had been a younger man. A man with fewer convictions, although he had been filled with passion and righteousness.

  Lars was skating on ice thinner than a blade. He was eerily familiar with this particular frozen pond. He understood death. Death was a good friend, a close acquaintance that came to visit but never stayed for long.

  Major Edwards was not dead. He had not reached the pinnacle of pain threshold that enabled complete access to his secrets. Information that was vital to Lars and his cause.

  He waited for twenty minutes.

  Finally, he grabbed the bucket at his feet, dipped it in a tub of brackish water, and hauled it to the middle of the room where Edwards still reeled from his injuries.

  His eyes were caked with dried blood. His mouth was contorted from the absence of most of his teeth. A mass of skin lay flat against his right cheek, broken cartilage sticking out of the fleshy skin that once was his nose.

  His hands were bound, the rope braiding the officer’s wrists in wide red welts and broken skin.

  Lars had spared his legs and feet.

  They would be last.

  He threw the water over the officer’s head.

  The man jolted awake, spewing blood from his mouth, breathing raggedly.

  He groaned.

  “The pain can go away, Major,” Lars promised.

  The man slumped again, his shoulders forward, his mouth agape.

  “Just kill me. You won’t get what you want,” Edwards said slowly. His voice was barely a whisper.

  Lars expected bravery. Not stupidity.

  “I just want to you to tell me what you know about a Pentagon program called TRELLIS.”

  Edwards shook his head.

  “I don’t know TRELLIS. Classified. It does not exist.” Edwards shook his head, his eyes drooping.

  “Which is it, Major? Is it classified or does it not exist?”

  “Classified,” the Major said. His voice was fading. The man would pass out soon from exhaustion, hunger, thirst, and loss of blood.

  “We cannot sleep again, Major. We are almost done here. I am convinced that you are lying to me.”

  Edwards managed to look up at him, hate in his bloodshot eyes.

  “Go to Hell,” he said, his voice level.

  “I will. For the pain I have inflicted, the lives I have taken, I am a damned man. Of this I have no doubt, Major. You, however, have an opportunity to repent. This is the gift I give you.”

  “You are no priest.”

  “This is true.”

  “And I am no saint!” Edwards spat. Blood splattered across the floor at his feet.

  “I think you underestimate yourself, Major Edwards.”

  “Stop. Calling. Me. That.”

  Lars smiled. Taunts could be effective against victims who maintained a high level of pride. Sometimes they worked where physical punishment failed to get results.

  Lars placed his finger under the Major’s chin. He could feel the broken bones there. The Major winced.

  “Tell me.”

  Edwards closed his eyes.

  “If I could kill myself, I would,” he managed. He opened his eyes. They were full of hate and murder. “Maybe then I could put you out of your misery.”

  Lars chuckled at that one. He had interrogated thousands of prisoners. This was the first time he had actually laughed.

  There is a first time for everything, he thought.

  “You are courageous. I will give you that, Major. I suppose you know that either way you will die. I will not make you empty promises. You are correct in assuming that as soon as I have the information, I will finish what I have started.”

  The Major swallowed and tried to pull his face away. Lars sighed and grabbed his chin between his thumb and finger. He leaned in and brought his face close.

  He could smell the man’s sweat, urine, and blood all mingled with some cheap cologne the Major preferred. Lars wanted to instill fear in this man. He was certain he was not capable of doing that. The Major was fearless. Perhaps threats would break him.

  “How many times have you seen your daughter this year, Major?”

  Edwards squinted. Expelled a breath like rotten fruit. His lip puffed out and his jaw set.

  “You leave her out of this!”

  “I am only saying that if you would like, I can have her flown in so she can watch you die. Or maybe we can do some things to her. Would she dance for her Daddy, you think?”

  The heat that radiated from Edwards was indicative of his anger and his fear. Lars could feel him shake.

  “Why do you need this information? Why is it so important to you?

  Honesty was so harmless. It could open doors, close others, and yet felt so wrong.

  “National security, actually,” Lars explained.

  “Well, that changes everything,” Edwards added, sarcastically.

  Lars shrugged and let the Major’s chin drop.

  “The truth is complicated sometimes, Major. Regardless of why I need the information, you will tell me because you cherish the life of your daughter, Melissa.”

  Edwards shook his head.

  “I cannot. TRELLIS is off limits to me. I knew of it. Knew some of the key personnel in charge. That is all I know.”

/>   “Who?”

  “What?”

  “You said you knew some of the people in charge.”

  “I did?”

  Lars smiled.

  “Yes. Maybe you need another shot...” he threatened, glancing at the table.

  “No. I can tell you that,” Edwards offered.

  Lars did not trust him. It would be better for the Major to give the names first. Let him feel safe.

  “Who is in charge of TRELLIS, Major Edwards?”

  Edwards hesitated. Licked his cracked lips with a tongue covered in pasty white globules.

  “Several agents from the CIA: I do not remember their names. One was a close friend with McGowen with the NSA.”

  “Cloverdale. Yes. I know him. Who else?” Cloverdale was already dead. That was the main reason they were here now. Surely, the Major knew the man was murdered in his own house last week.

  Edwards swallowed.

  “Vogler. Henry Vogler.”

  “From the Department of the Interior? That Vogler?”

  Edwards nodded.

  “And General Braxton. I have seen his name on several departmental memos connected with TRELLIS.”

  “You mean at the Pentagon? You have seen this mentioned there?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this was classified to you?”

  “Yes.” The way the Major said that with his jaw clenched gave Lars an idea.

  “This did not set well with you did it? All these secrets kept from you. All these clandestine meetings held in public with a half dozen agencies represented and you were not invited. You had not made it to the prime time.”

  “I put in my time. I had served. I had proven loyal. I should have already been part of The Brotherhood. I had paid my dues.”

  “And now you are here naming names for me. How helpful. How loyal.”

  The Major sighed, his nostrils flaring. His jaw clenched.

  “Come on now, who else?” Lars asked.

  “No.”

  Lars struck him across the face with a closed fist.

  The sound was like a hammer smacking a wet bag of sand.