Berta’s eyes grew wide when she said...

“Really!  Are you serious?  Are you suggesting that we remove them from the equation?  We can't kill our way out of this problem!  We all aren't murderers like you.  If your sister were here...she would agree with me."

He glared at her, expressing his warning.  They all knew not to mention his sister, yet Berta had chosen to cross that line.  He reined in his anger, deciding to focus on the problem and not the bane of his existence.  Amateurs he thought to himself and he regretted the day that he'd agreed to grandfather Berta in after her father died unexpectedly due to a skiing accident.  Morpheus bit back his remark because in his sentence he’d planned to call her a sanctimonious cunt; but he didn’t want to offend Eliza.  He’d save that insult for another time.

Instead, his tone elicited the same fear one would experience when stumbling unexpectedly upon a venomous snake.

"Berta...cut that shit out.  You know as well as any of us--there is only one way out of this group.  Death.  So as a reminder; don’t ever let me hear the word Eliza and expulsion spoken in the same sentence.  This warning also extends to the mentioning of any member of my family...  Don’t fucking reference them; not by their names, or by referring to them in general terms.  Don’t allude to them.  Leave them out of your wisecracks or any other bullshit dreamt up in that peanut of an organ you so lovingly call your brain.  Just don’t do it again...and if you forget--I can promise you...you won’t like the consequences of an unwise lapse in your memory.”

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 immunity 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.