Counterpoint

by John Day

  Carla left the stage ignoring the pleas for more and sat down smiling at Max. You’re a girl of many talents he said admiringly, I have always loved that slight huskiness in your voice, particularly when you speak softly. She grinned and tapped her knees together, pleased with herself.

  The table was cleared, and they paid the bill.

  Max said, “Shall we go to the bar before we go home?”

  “Ok. I’ll have a pineapple juice, no ice.”

  Max ordered and paid for the drinks. A few minutes later, a man in his early thirties got up from his table, leaving two other men watching him, and approached Carla.

  Obviously drunk, he said, “I heard you sing, and you look very beautiful, I want to buy you a drink.”

  “That’s very kind, but I have one and I am going home in a minute,” she replied.

  “What do you do for a living he persisted?”

  Carla smiled enigmatically and whispered. “It’s very secret work, so I really can’t say,” and moved away from him.

  “Come on! You can tell me, I can keep a secret.” She moved extremely close to him and let her fingers walk up his chest, following them thoughtfully with her eyes.

  Then she looked up with a sweet smile and deadly cold eyes that penetrated to his soul and said, “Well! I could tell you, but then I would just have to kill you!”

  Shocked, he immediately drew back.

  “Well, just a kiss then!” He lurched forward and with his hand behind her head pulled her face to his. She offered no resistance, just stood there, arms by her side, until he forced his tongue into her mouth. She bit it with all her strength and did not let go. He screamed, blood splattering onto her face as he managed to pull away, his tongue was in shreds.

  He lunged at her again, she nutted him extremely hard on the bridge of his nose. More screaming and blood issued from the man and then he suddenly turned and crashed through the doorway into the street.

  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.

  Chapter - The visitor.

  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 Car
la 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.

  All went well with the deal, and he soon realised he had made a difference too many lives, more effectively than any politicians could have done. Best of all he had remained anonymous, the secret power behind the throne, not for him the fanfare and adulation.

  Of course, in reality the Duke had picked him well, as Sam soon realised, when drawn deeper into the web of The Organisation. Sam also realised much of the business was based on illegal practices, with intimate connections to serious organised crime. Whilst this fact went against his whole philosophy of life, he could often achieve greater good for humanity this way, than through the so-called legitimate methods.

  Sam’s coll
eagues at the mountain headquarters were of the same mind, none of them sought personal power. Although collectively they formed a team, they were all high achievers, individuals pulling in the same orchestrated direction; this was the reason for the success, of the Duke’s Organisation.

  All glory went to the Duke; he made the business what it was. Let him bask in the limelight, they did not want it, themselves. Unswerving loyalty to the Duke was the bedrock of their belief, no one was forced to work for him, they truly wanted to. No one there had actually committed an illegal act, though they knew who had. They were all paid reasonable salaries for what work they did and they all knew what everyone else was paid. Nobody was jealous or dissatisfied because they had more in benefits than they could ever use, and in any case, their work was their reward.

  Max was examined by a paramedic and found to be quite alive, but with a severe skull fracture, and extensive powder burns to one side of his face including an eye.

  A business like decision was made by Sam, for the medical team to operate and save Max’s life. Quite simply, the Duke had planned to use Max in the future, as he was the right type for The Organisation. Sam had agreed to this, after he had studied the dossier about Max.

  The three specialists forming the medical team, from the large private hospital in the nearby city, effectively owned by The Organisation, were briefed. They conducted their initial examination of Max by video link, from the mini hospital on the mountain. After basic medical intervention to stabilise his condition, Max was flown by medical helicopter to the specialists, so they could carry out the necessary surgery on him.

  The skull fracture was routine, plastic surgery to the side of his face was under review.

  “Let’s see what nature does,” said the specialist. “We can tidy up from there.”

  The eye was more problematic. The cornea was badly seared and the retina detached by the blast. Bits of wadding and metal fragments had to be removed from the eyeball.