Degrees of Wrong (34 page)

I had been informed that he wanted to see me in the privacy of his own home. We had flown from off the coast of Australia to Libya and had stayed overnight in the protected confines of one of the UOC’s military installations on the coast there. It was decided that the most practical method of travel from there would be my favorite—a transport pod.

Conveniently, the secretary-general had set up his estate just outside the city of Alexandria, Egypt. We would be able to dock and practically walk into his house, as he had situated it only yards away from the coastline of the Mediterranean Sea.

Oh, that was the enchanted-forest version of the story, I knew.

I was quite sure his private home was under all sorts of splendid surveillance from outer space to sea floor. And I was sure he needed it.

I fidgeted in my seat as I tried to remember his name. I’d never been interested in politics, so the changing of the guard usually went unnoticed by me. Whoever invented the phrase
Ignorance is Bliss
should be shot. Ignorance could go only so far before it should be categorized as stupidity. And stupid was what I felt as I let my mind go blank, hoping a name would pop into it like magic. Didn’t it begin with a B or something? I hoped someone would say it beforehand, instead of just calling him the secretary-general all the time. I was too embarrassed by my ignorance—my stupidity—to ask anyone outright.

I bit my lip with the dilemma as Admiral Rudd helped me from the pod. When my black heels met with the dock, I smoothed out the wrinkles in my gray skirt and adjusted my white button-down blouse. I thought when I dressed this morning that the outfit was appropriate—it just wouldn’t do to betray them in their own uniform. So, in my businesslike attire, I followed the small convoy of pedestrians to the beach, toward the large mansion overlooking the sea.

The closer we got, the more my nerves misbehaved. I took in the majesty of the home, designed exquisitely in old-world architecture with its wrought-iron balconies and arched windows.

I also tried to stifle what was becoming a terrible bout of hiccups.

We followed a concrete path to the west entrance of the house and were ushered in by a well-dressed, middle-aged manservant, who was actually wearing white gloves with his ensemble. I’d thought that sort of thing only existed in old books, and I tried not to stare at his hands. I also tried not to giggle at his pompous demeanor—that would only incite more hiccups.

We walked through a sitting room bigger than my entire house on the island, and more luxuriously appointed. It became clear that the architecture of the home hadn’t been
designed
to look old, but that the house had actually been built at least a century ago. The décor was lavish and meticulously fitted to match the relic feeling of the home, and—despite the fact that I knew it cost more than some smaller countries—it exuded a distinct feeling of coziness.

The silly manservant ushered us into what couldn’t have been used for anything other than a ballroom at one time. My heels clicked on the marble floor, and I gasped in appreciation at the detailed murals painted on the high ceilings. Sunlight shone in from the wall-size arched windows on the right, casting a dancing spectrum of color from the enormous crystal chandelier in the center of the ceiling. To our left, a long, beautifully polished wood table spanned the entire side of the room, and the fifty or so high-backed chairs sat regally in place, waiting for their next patron.

The manservant addressed a smartly dressed man standing in front of the table. “Your guests have arrived, sir.” He bowed his way out of the room after the man acknowledged him with a nod.

I knew by his powerful carriage, by his striking white military regalia, by his upturned chin and statuesque stance, that this was the Secretary General of the United Nations. He had passed the prime of his youth, with well-earned wrinkles pulling at his eyes and mouth, and an air of marked wisdom that could only be gotten with the attaining of years. Still, his black hair showed no gray.

Beside him stood the very embodiment of womanhood, her delicate arm gently entwined with his. She had almost white-blonde hair, creamy skin unmarred by the defects of age, and stunning blue, intuitive eyes, accentuated tenfold by the pale blue of her simple dress.

Those eyes held me now as she stared at me with open curiosity.

“Admiral Rudd, it’s a pleasure to see you again,” the statue said, walking toward us. The blue-eyed goddess beside him followed, never taking her gaze off me. “And, Dr. Folsom, how long has it been? Too long, I think.”

The admiral shook hands with him, and so did Dr. Folsom. She smiled at him warmly, and he returned in kind. “It has been too long indeed, General Marek.”

What
did she just say?
Surely
, I didn’t hear that correctly.

“And this must be the one and only Dr. Morgan.” He extended his hand to me. His large hand encompassed mine, and he shook it with a surprising gentleness. I recognized those eyes.

Deep within, I began to panic.

He nodded to the blue-eyed woman. “May I introduce you to my wife, Lillian?”

She surprised me when she left the security of his arm, and ignoring my extended hand, embraced me instead. I tried to pull away from her without appearing rude—I couldn’t risk close physical contact with her. She didn’t seem to notice my hesitation.

Smiling, she said, “It really is a pleasure to meet you, my dear.” And then I realized that I had seen
her
eyes before as well.

“Ah. There you are.” The general motioned behind us, and I gasped as Nicoli, dressed in the same white regalia as the general, made his long strides across the room to where we stood. His penetrating gaze never left mine as he came to stand in front of me.

He didn’t wait for the general’s introductions. He grabbed my hand and kissed it gently, still not wavering in his stare.

“And, of course,” the general said, “you’ve already met Captain Nicoli Marek, my eldest son.”

“
What
?” I snatched my hand from Nicoli’s.

His eyes softened, and he looked pained from my action. He whispered, “I knew it. I knew that, all along, you didn’t know.”

I rubbed my hand where he’d kissed it, as if it had been burned. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Could only feel. My gut twisted and coiled with new spasms as poorly healed wounds tore open again.

I had made plans to never see Nicoli again. I had already accepted it as finished, had already convinced myself of the absolute certainty of it.

And yet here he was, standing in front of me, handsome as ever. Only now, he was the son of the most powerful man in the world, a fact which wedged us even further apart.

For a stunning moment, the universe aligned in just the exact way for me to see everything I had missed these past months.

The way Ebony gasped that first day upon seeing him.

The way everyone in general seemed to know about the details of his personal life all the time, and how they were shocked that I didn’t.

The way that redheaded snippet always tried to pump anyone and everyone for information about him, and the way Nicoli had suspected her of being an undercover reporter.

The way Lt. Sheldon had thrown herself at him.

The way Dr. Folsom had looked at me dumbfounded when I had asked if his fiancée was beautiful.

The way he looked at me in astonishment that night in the transport pod when he realized I knew nothing about him.

Even the way he had made reservations for us under a false name in Manzanillo.

And especially the way his hands were tied in an irreversible, politically motivated engagement.

The details, large and small, began to reveal themselves to me, and the culmination of the sum left me shaking.

“Elyse, calm down,” he pleaded quietly. I could tell he was thinking about physically comforting me now. I took a step back.

My breathing was audible. This was not the impression I had wanted to make on the secretary-general, especially in light of what I had to do.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” I asked weakly, trying to rein in my reeling senses.

“I live here. This is my home.” He appeared relieved that I was capable of speech again.

“Well, you need to leave, please. At least while I’m here.” I couldn’t have him here distracting me from my purpose. And, the longer he stayed, the more pain I would feel when I had to part from him again.

“No.”

“Yes,” I hissed.

“That’s not going to happen.”

“You have exactly three seconds before I—”

“Stomp your foot? Please try not to scuff the marble.”

I growled and heard the echo of it resound off the wall behind him. Because this indeed used to be a ballroom, it had been flawlessly designed to carry sound to the farthest edges of the room. Ideally that sound would be some sort of music. Not my guttural, animalistic moan that rode the sound wave to our spectators.

I felt the curious stares as they beheld the spectacle of me arguing with the son of the Secretary-General of the United Nations. Dr. Folsom and Admiral Rudd were used to it, but the good general and his stunning wife seemed rather scandalized.

“Er, why don’t we have a seat, so we can address the business at hand?” Lillian Marek called to us with the soothing voice of an expert hostess.

“Yes, Dr. Morgan, let’s do sit down,” Nicoli told me loudly, when he could see the ingredients of a tantrum brewing in my expression. I took a step toward him.

To his apparent relief, Dr. Folsom took my hand and ushered me to a chair the admiral had already pulled out for me.

We sat at the end of the expansive table. Nicoli took the seat at the head of it. The general sat directly across from me with his wife on his right. Dr. Folsom and Admiral Rudd had chosen seats on either side of me—probably easier to restrain me in such close proximity.

I rubbed my throbbing temple. This had not gone as expected.

“Dr. Morgan, are you well?” the general asked.

I looked at the man whose sudden presence now complicated the execution of my plan and played havoc with my insides.
Better get this over with.
I nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Of course, this is an informal meeting, Dr. Morgan. I wanted to meet with you privately before you make your presentation to the council.”

Presentation? To the council?

“I have to admit, I am intrigued, Dr. Morgan—”

I didn’t have the patience or the time for a social visit. My window of coherent opportunity was limited to a few hours at best. The turn of events had already increased my blood pressure—I could feel the beginnings of a fever.

I held up my hand to the general. “I appreciate your flattery, General Marek. But I wasn’t aware that I would be required to give a presentation to any council.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that you were
required
to do it, Dr. Morgan. I just thought you would
want
to take credit for your findings.”

I took in a deep breath and tried to ignore the fact that the man I loved would probably hate me by the end of this conversation. But it had to be done.
So, here we go.

“It’s not that I don’t want to take credit for my findings, General. It’s that I haven’t decided yet if I am going to be turning them over to you.”

“I’m
sorry
?” he said. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nicoli stiffen in his seat. I wouldn’t look at him.

“Before I give you the cure,” I clarified, “I would like to discuss the UN’s plans for the disbursement of it to other countries. And, of course, for the method of testing it on humans.” Again, I was aware of Nicoli pinching the bridge of his nose. The tension radiating off Dr. Folsom and the admiral almost stifled me.

General Marek regarded me for a long time. Finally he said, “Very well, Dr. Morgan. I’ll concede. What exactly do you want to discuss? Clearly, your agenda for this meeting differs from mine.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “I wouldn’t exactly say that it is open for discussion, though.”

The general did not like this. “I’m still listening.”

I inhaled again, trying to calm my blood pressure, as I could see that Nicoli had inherited his tense jaw from his father. Still, I had to press on. Lives were at stake. Even if I had to step on a few toes—or a lot of toes—I had an obligation to keep.

“First and foremost, I will have it in writing that the preliminary human trials will be conducted on a volunteer basis.” I thought back to the journal entry of the hostage scientist who’d been forced to experiment with living, breathing people. A spasm of nausea ripped through me. The United Nations could do the same thing, on a much larger scale.

General Marek folded his hands on the table in front of him. “I don’t think we’ll be in short supply of infected volunteers, Dr. Morgan. I’m sure you’ll agree that given the choice between death and hope—”

“Don’t pretend to misunderstand me, General,” I clipped. “You of course realize I’m referring to the circumstances under which the subjects become infected. There will be no intentional exposure to the virus for the sake of testing.”

“Of course, Dr. Morgan. Such unethical practices—”