“Minimum wage I think (she lied). Just handle it. And use some common sense... I have to go now; I have a plane to catch. See you tomorrow. And... Thanks.”
“Okay. Have a nice trip, Eunice,” and he hung up the phone.
Eunice immediately called Senator Alberquist, “John? It’s Eunice. Morgan will be in Washington tomorrow; he’s agreed to take them. He’s bringing the blonde.”
“Thanks Eunice. He’s tried calling me. I’ve been waiting to hear from you before I returned his call.”
“He claims he’s being followed by Arabs and the FBI. He hired a bodyguard. Does he need that, John?”
Eunice heard her own sincere care of him come through with that simple question. And then the fact that he was down the hall sleeping with her new employee pissed her off.
“How much did you tell him, Eunice?”
“I told him about you...suggesting I hire him. I didn’t know anything about him being followed, and I told him so. He asked about Margolova. I told him I knew she was in Iran. I’m getting worried about this, John. I’m not very good with this intrigue. I want to be open and above board.” Eunice was biting her fingernail and she was oblivious of her own action.
John weighed her feelings, “I do understand Eunice,” and he made a decision, “I’ll talk with him. I want him to know what I’m planning. I think he’ll go along with it. I think it’s only fair.”
“Thank you, John. I’ve got to run. Call me after you talk with him. Can you make a seven o-clock dinner tomorrow night?”
“Where?”
“The Institute, my house. Casual. I’ll send a car for you, six-thirty, it’ll be Jimbo, his flame, and the three mind readers. Your wife’s in Iowa, isn’t she?”
“Yes. She’s running the farm through harvest. She’ll be back in October.”
Eunice was out her door and passing Morgan’s room while still talking with the Senator. As she looked at Morgan’s room number, she involuntarily stuck out her tongue toward the hidden occupants. “I’m sure it will be an interesting dinner, John.” And she had a passing thought that she wished it was her in Morgan’s room instead of, Miss Cutie Pie.
“I’m getting on the elevator, John. I’ll talk with you later, ta-ta.”
Morgan made three more calls, the first one went to the hotel desk clerk where he booked the suite for a second night and requested a noon wake up call. The second one was to room service where he ordered a pot of coffee, two toothbrushes and a tube of toothpaste to be delivered at exactly twelve-ten, and clarified, “Ten minutes after twelve P.M., noon.”
The third call went back to Oscar Bradley, “Oscar, are you up for a trip to Brazil?”
“Yes. When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow morning. We’ll fly to D.C., and spend two days at the Institute of Intuitive Thought. Then, we fly to Sao Paulo on Saturday morning. I’m guessing a week. Maybe two.”
“You got it, pal. I want a grand a day plus expenses. I’ll fly to D.C. tonight and meet your plane. Your back’s covered.”
They talked a few minutes on details and Morgan okayed a 25 large advance on his American Express card. They agreed to have a few drinks together when the trip was over.
He turned off his cell and the desk lamp and slipped quietly into the king-sized bed next to Catherine and fell asleep with her pleasant scent caressing his senses.
Chapter Twelve
Abdul prevailed the mad moment. His youth and tenacity allowed him to withstand the demands of the demented terrorist, Margolova. She used him like a prop in an illicit sexual sideshow, ordering him about with vicious demands and all the while she never let go of the empty Lugar. After satiating her foul need, she strode off to the shower leaving her clothes and Abdul behind like so many spent shell-casings after a shootout.
Abdul watched her exit the bedroom. She was no longer a fine piece of ass. Her breasts were sagging pathetically and the sweat odor that enveloped her was reminiscent of the garbage dump down the road from where he grew up. And he thought that he would rather touch a dead fish than to ever touch her aged flesh ever again.
When the bathroom door closed, he dressed hurriedly; his T-shirt was on inside out, as was one of his socks. He snuck into Joseffie’s room and pried the .38 Special from his friend’s dead fingers. He stuck the gun in his waistband and then took a wad of cash that sat loose on the bed and stuffed it in his pockets, some of it fell to the floor in his haste but he didn’t bother picking it up. He walked rapidly and as quietly as he could to the condo’s door and left the building -- with his life intact. Once out on the street he felt a deep consoling relief. Allah had indeed blessed his corrupted soul.
Abdul felt a sharp pain in his back and his body was propelled forward slightly in his escaping jog. And he lost his motor control and saw the ground rising up to his face as he stumbled and fell. And when he recovered his fall to a sitting position he looked back down the street at where he had escaped and saw a naked woman holding an AK-47 rifle aimed at his head. A tiny puff of smoke left the barrel of her weapon about the same time that the bullet causing the puff reached the middle of his forehead.
Margolova fired two more rounds into the fallen Iraqi Arab before she tiptoed back into her condo careful not to step on any errant pebbles along her return path. Once inside, she set the rifle against the alcove wall and went to her room to dress and pack an extended overnight bag. It was time to leave Tehran, Iran, and to leave it fast.
* * *
A sleepy eyed Ames finished copying the unread four- hundred-page portfolio on the mysterious Catherine Harris and pouched it over to Senator Alberquist’s office. It was going on two in the afternoon and he hadn’t had time to read more than the first five pages. He needed help, he needed an assistant, and he wanted his boss back in his office. But more importantly, to himself, he needed to succeed with this operation, on his own. Returning to his cubicle he tossed the fat Harris packet on his desk. It caught the edge and teetered once before it fell to the floor and scattered all over the highly polished tiles.
Ames got down on his hands and knees and began gathering up the now un-collated pages. His girlfriend Emily, a GS-3 clerk, looked in while passing, “What are you doing, Arnold? I thought you got promoted? Did you get the concert tickets?”
“No. I’ll call for them in a minute.” He didn’t look up at her and continued pulling the pages into small piles.
Emily was a little disappointed that he didn’t already have the tickets, “Good. I hope you can get them. These guys are really sick. I can’t wait, I’m so excited.”
“Sick? What do you mean, sick?”
“You know... Bitchin’... Hot!”
“Oh. I haven’t heard that one, yet.” And he began to wonder if it was going to work; his dating a girl ten years younger then himself...but thought, damn, she’s such an angel.
“Got to run, Arnold. Lunch is over,” and she walked away.
Arnold peeked after her from the floor of his cubicle and watched her short-skirted ass disappear into a crossing hallway.
“Enjoying the view from down there, Ames?” Asked his boss’s boss while visually taking in the mess of all the scattered paperwork littering his floor, and desk.
“Oh, ah... Not really, sir.” Ames stood, and pointed down the hall, “Emily’s my girl.” And added, “I’m on top of everything, here, sir.”
The Director of Operation’s suggested, “Looks like you need a larger office, Ames. Discuss it with Annerson when he gets off his... Comp time.”
“Yes sir, I’ll do that, sir.”
Chapter Thirteen
Morgan’s hotel room phone rang at exactly noon. Room service would be there in ten minutes. He roused Catherine with soft caresses over the entire length of her subtle body through the warm bedding. She stretched under his hands in a pleasurable waking movement and made an audible plea for him to continue the external massage.
“Okay, Sleeping Beauty, coffee and croissants will be here in a few minutes.”
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Catherine sat up pulling the sheets up around her breasts, her hair was tousled, and she fluffed at it with her manicured fingers, “I must look awful...” Yet she felt cute, “...without my make-up. I never even thought to bring my toothbrush.”
“I want to see a lot more of this waking-up-model look,” and he bent into her and kissed her. The sheets fell away exposing Catherine’s firm nipples; the little thimbles were a pleasant surprise to Morgan’s own awakening senses. He began a teasing tug downward on the covering sheet in a delightful attempt to expose her nudity, completely.
Catherine smiled and allowed him to visually explore her well-toned body. And he did, and a knock at the door sent her scooting off the firm mattress and into the marbled bathroom.
“Just a second!” Morgan yelled out, while putting on the hotel’s robe, “Coming. Be right there,” as he mentally fought off a forming erection.
Showered and dressed, they sipped a superb coffee while admiring the view of the city, both above and below, from their thirty-first floor room window table for two. It was a beautiful, sunny, Wednesday afternoon.
Catherine’s silky dress practically glowed in the incoming sunlight, “That’s a great dress, you enhance it well,” Morgan flattered – without deliberateness. He wanted to tell her a lot more, too. He wanted to say that she was a great piece of ass and that she was the best fuck that he had ever experienced. But he caught his mental dialogue in its flippant formation and said, “Last night... Well, it was very beautiful. I mean... You’re...” And they both flushed at the table.
Catherine’s dimples highlighted her grin, a sexual grin, a grin that told a tale of her own personal enjoyment of their loving escapade. And she glanced at the bedroom with a powerful suggestion to her still blushing, and also dimple displaying knight, as her chemistry ignited a hidden passion, a need deep in her psyche that screamed out to express her feelings for this lovable man via the ultimate act of spontaneous commingling, and she stood...
And he stood, and they walked hand in hand knowing nothing sensible or reasonable about where and what they were about to experience. But they went... Shedding clothes anew, and two fates were evermore physically and mentally cast into the wind from Cupid’s excited wings.
And to their mutual chagrin, the bedside clock made a nasty statement that it was seven forty-two, P.M., and Wednesday was almost over. The pair of nouveau love junkies showered and dressed and took a taxi to Catherine’s south side hotel.
Catherine’s life was undergoing a tremendous upheaval. She had fallen in love. Jim Morgan’s life was undergoing a tremendous upheaval, too. He had also fallen in love. And they both held a sense of, how can this be happening so fast? And they both held another beautiful but unshared sentiment, whatever it is that’s happening dear lord...please, don’t ever let it stop.
Catherine called her roommate from the taxi. She was at an open bar buffet hosted by Tolstoy Press as part of the publisher’s row writer’s seminar. “Mary Lynn, here.”
“Hello, Mary Lynn. How’s the seminar going?”
“Cathy? I’ve worried myself sick over you! Where are you?”
“I’m in a cab on my way to our room. I hope you’re not mad at me? I couldn’t call, until now. My cell is...was on the blink,” she lied. “How’s the dinner? Is it crowded? Are you staying sober, Lynn?”
“There’s a lot of food, Cath. A lot of no-shows, but maybe they’re still coming. I’m on my fifth Gin and Tonic, but who’s counting? I met an editor from Baltimore and he’s using some really smooth lines on me. I think I’m falling for the lug. Where have you been? I saw that sports car in the parking lot. What happened with the limo?”
“A long story, Lynn. You can read about it in my next book.” She looked at Morgan as she spoke, “I think I’m in love with this handsome writer I’m with.” And as she waited for Lynn to reply, she smiled and gave Morgan a delighted wink, knowing that he had heard her statement.
“That’s awfully fast, Cath. Maybe you should sleep on it a while? There are some real hunks walking around here tonight. Are you coming over? Want me to come and get you?”
“No. I’m going to leave the seminar, Lynn. I’ve been offered a job as Jim Morgan’s private secretary. I’ve agreed to go with him down to Brazil for a couple of weeks. All expenses paid. He’s going to put me on his payroll as his private secretary.”
“Get out! You’re joking, right? How much is he going to pay you, Cath?”
“Nope. I’m not kidding. We’re leaving on Saturday for Sao Paulo. He wants to pay me twenty-five dollars an hour. Can you believe it?”
“Well, you can still make Thursday’s and Friday’s classes, then. And the big bash on Friday night, right?”
“No. We’re leaving from Washington, D.C. We fly there in the morning...to D.C., then leave for Brazil on Saturday.”
“Well, will I see you before you leave? Damn girl, this is really a bombshell you’re dropping on me. I’m in shock, except I’ve had a lot of gin. Will you still pay for half the car?”
“Yes, Lynn. I’ll leave a check on your bed. Okay?”
“Ah, no. Put it on top of my make-up bag. I have to run, Cath. Call me when you get back. Oh! And have fun. Okay?”
Catherine kept her cell in her hand, “I have to call my dad and let him know what I’m doing. I don’t want him to worry. I live with him, sometimes. I’m using his winter house in Miami. He summers on Rhode Island. He’s in New York this week. My dad and mom are divorced. I love them both dearly.”
“Then you should call your mom, too. We don’t want her to worry either.”
Catherine hit the number one on her speed dial, and put the phone to her ear, she glanced at Jim while waiting for her father to answer. She spoke to Morgan as her father’s phone rang in New York, “Mom’s abroad for the summer...”
“Hi daddy.”
“Hello precious. How’s the seminar? Are you back in Dade County? How was your flight?”
“Everything’s fine, dad. I just wanted to let you know I’m going down to Brazil on vacation. I’ll be back in two weeks.”
“Okay, thanks for letting me know. You be careful down there, precious. Our political relations are a bit strained with them right now.”
“Yes daddy, I’ll be fine.”
“They just purchased some fighter aircraft from Cuba or...”
“Dad! Dad,” she interrupted his fatherly warnings, “I’ll call you when I get back. Love you,” and she closed her cell and placed it back in her purse.
“Parents are parents, what can I say? At least he won’t be worried about me for a while.”
“What does your dad do, Catherine?”
“He’s in banking. But he likes to buy cargo ships and then he re-sells them. It’s just a game with him.” Catherine had a melancholy shadow cross over her face.
Morgan picked up on it, and prompted her, “What’s that look all about?”
“Dad enjoys another game, Jim. He likes to run off every boyfriend that I’ve ever dragged home. He’s really good at what he does...” And then, more to herself than to Morgan, “No one’s ever been good enough for his daughter.”
As their taxi pulled into her hotel driveway, with three other cars discretely following behind them, Catherine offered, “I’ll tell you more about this later, if you want to hear it?”
Morgan took up her hand, “I don’t get intimidated all that easily. I went to Purdue. Where did he go?”
“Harvard... Then Oxford.”
“Oh...”
After packing Catherine’s luggage into the Austin, the clandestine motorcade moved west toward Morgan’s parents. The line up in the parade was Morgan, an Arab in a Checker Cab, the FBI tail in a gray sedan and, unobserved by anyone, Morgan’s private eye, Oscar Bradley. Oscar drives a wrenched-up, purple, Dodge Ram conversion (surveillance) van. Ultra inconspicuous, but can turn a quarter-mile in 14 seconds and cruise at 160 until the cows come home.
Morgan blew through a yellow light j
ust past Halsted Street; the Arab continued to follow through on a hence turned red light, speeding up to maintain his tail. He had become downright reckless in his mandated pursuit.
Observed by a blue and white Chicago police cruiser, an interim chase, with flashing lights, ensued upon the Middle Eastern cabbie/spy. The chase didn’t last long as the Arab immediately pulled over.
The FBI man pulled up behind the blue flashing squad car. With his badge in hand he approached the officer, “Officer, I’ve been behind this guy, he pointed to the taxi, for the last two miles. He’s been swerving all over the road – he must be on drugs, or really drunk. You need to get this bastard off the road before he kills someone.”
The cop thanked him, withdrew his Glock, and carefully made his approached to the green and yellow Checker’s door. The flotilla of rubber-tired vehicles was now down to three.
Morgan pulled into his parent’s garage where he’d store the Austin until his return. His parent’s were out attending a civic function and would not return before he packed his bags and left.
“Do your parents have a staff?” Catherine asked, testing the affluence of his family.
“Sort of,” Morgan asserted, “Mom has a cleaning lady in once a week. But mom cleans everything before she gets here. Dad has a kid working for him that keeps up the yard in the evenings. Mom takes care of the flowers, it’s a hobby kind of thing, and she loves it. She’s a Rotarian or Rosarian ...something to do with roses.”
“That would be Rosarian, Jim.” And they went on a grand tour of the, relatively small, 4,200 square-foot Morgan household.
“My dad’s a machinist, Catherine. He has ten employees, not counting me. I help out when he asks. But basically, I stay out of his hair. We get along better as just buds.”
“I think my dad said he had 3,000 employees. Not counting me, either. And you’re right; it’s hard to work for a parent. Every time my dad would get mad at one of his VP’s he’d come screaming at me. Once, he told me to go fire one. But I refused. The guy’s still there, he won’t do it on his own.”
Orchids to Die For (Jim Morgan Adventure Series) Page 7