Morelli's calm facial expression instantly flashed cold, icy hostility, changing as quickly as flipping over a playing card, as drastically as night turning to day. He smacked the desk with his large, heavy hand, catching Grant by surprise, who blinked and snapped his head back as Morelli's voice rose to a dull roar. "They owed me, Grant! They owed me. Thirty goddamn years of my life I gave them, never asking or questioning. Was it so difficult, so impossible for them to do one favor for me, or for Jimmy?"
"But, Jesus Christ, sir—!"
Morelli didn't give him an opportunity to finish, as his voice thundered, "They didn't have to give him those orders to Ben Cat. I requested that he be assigned to a more secure base." He slumped against his chair, suddenly sounding like a man broken, a man who had managed to hide his anguish and rage for so long, from so many. "You knew Jimmy. You saw my grief. He was my only son… my only child." He paused, taking several long breaths. "And you know my wife died three months after him."
Silence, deep and brooding, hung over the office like a thick, black shroud. Grant nodded his head slowly, feeling the ache deep inside him, an unrelenting pain that left an empty space ever since Jenny died. There were times he could almost smell the fragrance of her perfume, imagine the silkiness of her long, brown hair flowing through his fingers. He jerked his head up, as the admiral's voice severed his thoughts, bringing reality back.
"The doctors said Miriam lost her will to live. She died of a broken heart, Grant." He rubbed his hand back and forth under his jaw. "The two most important people in my life… gone."
"I know, sir, and I'm… sorry." Grant backed away from the desk, almost in shock. His long-time friend was no longer the person he knew. But why couldn't he have noticed something was wrong? Why didn't he see it? All the years they had known one another, Morelli had somehow been able to hide his depression and bitterness like a genuine master of deception.
Grant Stevens was feeling acute pangs of guilt over his inability to have helped his long-time friend and mentor. But his guilt ran deep, deep enough to change his emotion to anger, as he began taking on the blame for the whole Bronson incident. If he had helped Morelli, it never would have happened and Seaman Koosman would still be alive. As with Donovan, Grant could only see the uniform of a Navy admiral, the man inside it, a traitor.
Now, he wanted to strike back. "Jesus Christ! Jimmy wanted to go, and he wasn't the only one who died over there. In case you've forgotten, Admiral, you sent a helluva lot of men to Nam who never came back. What gives you the goddamn right to blame anybody?" He watched Morelli, studying a face twisted with grief, now shocked by Grant's reaction. "And why did you send me on this assignment, Admiral? You had to know I'd find out."
Regaining his composure, Morelli reached for the burning cigar in the ashtray, holding the panatela by its familiar orange, white and black band. "You still don't see." A thick cloud of cigar smoke swirled toward the ceiling. "I know you. I knew you wouldn't let them get away with it. I had to see it through, and I knew you wouldn't stop until you put all the pieces of the puzzle together.
“Like I said before, Grant… you're the best. I counted on it being you. I wanted it to be you, don't you realize that? I built these last few years at the expense of many of my fellow officers, Grant, just to be here at this moment in time. You were the key to ending this. Remember when I asked you to be prepared to destroy the trawler, to make it look like an accident?"
"Yes, sir." Grant took a step away from the desk, kneading the muscles in the back of his neck.
"Your instinct told you what you had to do, didn't it?"
"I suppose it did."
"And you got to settle an old score, besides." Grant nodded. "Exactly. And that's what I counted on."
"And what if I didn't, Admiral, what if I didn't?"
Morelli's lips curled into somewhat of a smile. "Then, Commander, we would have blown all the fuckers out of the water." Not taking his eyes from Grant, he added, "The trawler and the sub, Commander."
Another affirmation, Grant thought. That was one of the details he didn't relay, information about a Russian sub being involved in the plot.
"It still doesn't make sense," he said, shaking his head. Then he turned sharply, unable to control his anger, continuously pounding his fist on the desk. "You were willing to give them the Bronson! Give them the technology of the most advanced, destructive weapon in the world! You risked everything, endangered lives… betrayed your country." He leaned toward Morelli, coming face-to-face with him, smelling the odor of tobacco on his breath. "And now you're trying to say you weren't going to let them get away with it from the beginning?!"
Morelli flicked white ashes toward the ashtray, some scattering across the green blotter. He took slow, deliberate steps toward the window, momentarily staring across the parking lot, before turning back to face Grant as he leaned against the windowsill. "I didn't say that. I've carried my anger for many years, an anger strong enough to have let it happen. You see, I had it all planned, and I didn't give a flying fuck what happened to me — court martial, prison, hanging — nothing mattered. I would have my revenge." He held the cigar out in front of him, and shook it slowly at Grant. "That is, I had it all planned, right up until your confrontation with Donovan."
Grant cocked his head to the side, his brow wrinkling. "What did that have to do with it?"
Morelli's body suddenly seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, taking additional effort for him to walk toward the younger officer, whose face still showed genuine bewilderment, disbelief, but most of all, anger.
Morelli's voice wavered. He put his hand on Grant's shoulder. "When I found out what happened, I saw Jimmy's face again. You could've been killed. And I placed you in that situation."
Right before Grant's eyes, Gene Morelli seemed to have aged twenty years in the span of a few seconds.
Grant shook his head as he backed away. "I took the risk, sir, from day one. That's part of my job. It wasn't the first time, Admiral, that you've sent me on mission critical jobs. And it sure as hell won't be the last."
"I'm aware of that, but this time it was because of me, because of my personal vendetta. It hit me like a speeding freight train, and… I'm sorry."
Grant snapped back. "Sorry? If you're sorry, why the hell did you tell the Russians about my plan to parachute onto the trawler?" Grant's anger was unmistakable. He kept his eyes glued to Morelli's face.
Morelli turned his head and stared out the window as if trying to avoid an answer. "We've known each other too long, Grant, for me not to know how you think. You do things by the book — most of the time — and as they say, you never leave a stone unturned. I knew you were after more information, to confirm what you already suspected."
He looked down, watching the cigar as he rolled it between his fingers. Then, he raised his eyes, staring at Grant. "The Russians didn't know who — only when. And they didn't know about Donovan being dead, did they?"
Grant tilted his head back and closed his eyes, then he looked at Morelli again. "You were 'broadcasting' your final flash message… so I would find out."
Morelli walked around him and went to the window. He took a deep breath. His voice was barely audible when he asked, "Can you forgive me, Grant?"
Grant's back stiffened. "Hell, no! No way, sir!"
Morelli's shoulders slumped; he turned sharply and went behind his desk. He crushed the cigar in the ashtray, stared at it for a moment, then let it drop. Grant followed his every move.
The admiral finally sat in his leather chair. He grabbed the edge of the desk and rolled himself closer. He looked up, and when he spoke, it was in his official tone of voice. "You know you have a job to do, Commander."