The Eye of Moses - Vatican Knights Series 22 (2020), Rick Jones [learn to read books txt] 📗

burned deep inside him. He never gave up on life or would allow himself to die, when others would have given in. He suffered through the pains and agony as his body healed, always fighting with an ember of anger fueling him. In time, as he found family within the Consortium, his drive to find those responsible never escaped him. Someday, he believed they would meet once again, only this time they would be at the end of his gun barrel.

The Consortium.

Those under his management were now his brothers, those who he had grown close to and watched over. Now as he looked at the number of weapons in their racks, he wondered how many of his brothers he would lose in the upcoming operation. Two? Three? More? Even the loss of one would be too much. The secret to moving on after such losses was to learn how to live with it, which he did after the deaths of his wife and daughter.

Find that spark of anger within yourself and allow it to burn . . . until it can burn no more.

Opening the glass panels, Mr. Spartan began to remove all the firepower and wares necessary to see the mission through.

* * *

The house’s central room was surrounded by twenty-foot walnut paneling, bookshelves that were lined with first editions dating back centuries, French-style furniture, and a floor-to-ceiling fireplace that was made from fieldstone. It was the only elegant room within the safehouse which served as a haven for Consortium members to congregate and hold conversations, as well as to drink expensive cognac from crystal glasses. When Hayden entered the room after his time with Mr. Spartan, the members were either reading or enjoying a cigar. Sitting at the bar and keeping his own company was Mr. Plato, who was enjoying a fine liqueur.

Hayden walked up to the bar and pointed to the vacant chair beside him. “May I?”

“Please do. If you want something to drink, however, you’ll have to pour it yourself. There’s no barkeep here like there would be at the lounge inside the Stronghold.”

“No. I’m good,” said Hayden, taking the seat.

“Something I can help you with?”

Mr. Plato was a well-fit man with dark conservative hair, bottle-green eyes, angular features and somewhere in his early thirties. And he saw no ring, meaning that Mr. Plato was neither married nor had children to speak of. His absolute dedication was his allegiance to the Consortium. And the others inside the lounge—everyone from Galileo to Shakespeare to Archimedes, and not discounting Donatello or Michelangelo—appeared as facsimiles to one another with shared builds, hairstyles and, to a degree, a flat affect.

“You sure?” asked Mr. Plato, who held up his glass. “It’s best to relax before the storm.” Then he brought the glass to his lips and sipped from its edge.

“Mr. Spartan,” Hayden began, “appears somewhat . . . concerned.”

“He probably is. What we’re about to come up against is something not made for little boys to attend.”

Hayden wasn’t sure if that was a shot against him or not, so he dismissed it and said, “He seems—what, detached? I’m not sure if that’s a good thing right about now.”

Mr. Plato took another sip from the glass before setting it down. Then: “Believe me, there’s no one more focused than a man who has an ax to grind. What you see, Kimball, is a man who lost everything except the brotherhood of the Consortium. We’re all he has left. And he lives through us as a proxy for his family.”

“A proxy? Meaning?”

“Meaning, three years ago his wife and daughter were murdered, and Mr. Spartan was left for dead by an assassin who was trying to pinpoint the location of the Stronghold and its Grand Master, Mr. da Vinci. Mr. Spartan, however, decided to remain true to his allegiance to the Consortium, rather than sparing the lives of his family. A decision I believe he deeply regrets. Since then he hasn’t been the same—at least not here.” He pointed to his chest to indicate the heart. “Mr. Spartan does remain focused if that’s your worry. But if there was any man I would follow into battle—ever—it would be him.”

“And the assassin who killed his family?”

Mr. Plato shrugged. “Disappeared. He discovered Mr. Spartan’s weakness and used it against him, even though Mr. Spartan remained true to his code to keep the Stronghold safe. But the cost was too great.” That was when Mr. Plato raised his hand to show Kimball his ringless finger. “I noticed that you were looking at this before,” he said, wiggling the ring finger. “Just before you sat down. But the reason why I don’t wear a ring is simple enough,” he told him. “I’m not married or have any close ties. You want to know why?”

“I can probably make a good guess.”

“Yeah. And you’d probably be right, too.” Then Mr. Plato leaned in Hayden’s direction to the point where Hayden could smell the man’s alcohol-accented breath. “The thing not to do, Kimball, with all respect to Mr. Spartan, is to never allow your enemy the advantage of finding your Achille’s heel. We all have one. Mr. Spartan’s happened to be in plain sight, which made him an easy target. Family always are, which is the reason for this.” He wiggled his empty ring finger again. “What the weaknesses were for Mr. Spartan and Mr. Copernicus will never be mine.” He eased away and went back to drinking his liqueur. Then: “I understand you have a girlfriend. Shari Cohen.”

Hayden seemed genuinely surprised by this. “Does everybody in the Consortium know about my personal life?”

“Everybody in this room.” He turned to face Hayden so that their eyes locked. “Look, Kimball, life in the Consortium can be both a blessing and a curse. It has its rewards and its tragedies. The only way to tilt the scales in your favor for the incentives provided by the organization is to take precautions. Your girlfriend—don’t allow her to become your weak spot.”

“I was