Orchids to Die For (Jim Morgan Adventure Series)

by Catherine Burr

  “Oh. I was... I am, an honorary Knight for saving the life of an English, secret agent.”

  “So, you really are -- a knight in shinning armor?”

  “Well, I am a knight.”

  Catherine placed her hand on Morgan’s face and rolled in on him to kiss him on the lips. As she did so, their bodies came full against each other and it felt pleasant, and comfortably warm under the down-feathered bedding. She then placed her leg over his hip so that he could enter her with very little effort, and asked, “What do we do now, Jim?”

  “I’m going down to Brazil, for the Senator. I need to do it for me, too.” Morgan made an attempt to enter her but was ever so slightly off.

  Catherine reached his erection and guided it into her, “I want to go, too. I am going to be with you,” and she drew him into her with her with a pelvic push that came all the way from within her heart. And, after some intense and passionate thrusts, when she knew, and fully felt him climax warm inside of her, she allowed herself a sexual release so intense that stars sparkled behind her tightly closed eyes, and Eunice, two full rooms away, readying herself for sleep, heard the ecstatic primeval cry of, “Oh my God!” A scream so explosive that it reverberated uncontrollably through the pre-twilight morning and entrained the entire upper story of the massive Tudor with one hell of a colorful moment of carnal embellishment as Cathy came into a whole new galactic knowledge of universal satisfactions.

  And Morgan enwrapped her with his arms and held her lovingly in her frenzy and he sensed more than knew that his cuddling of her at that instant had kept her from soaring out into the Milky Way and other cosmic constructions unknown yet to human observance. And as she calmed into the deep breathing of orgasmatic recovery, Morgan’s eyes closed and his over-taxed psyche sent him slam-dunk into a nasal humming snore of oblivion.

  Catherine’s elation subsided to a sweaty, content with the world, vibrancy so highly conducive to sleep that she never heard Morgan’s nasality. And from her lips emerged a loving epitaph that in and of itself ended with a heave of her ample breasts, “I love you... Jim.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Friday morning dawned foggy on the Potomac River which doormats the Institute’s western acreage. Security was stepped up to a ridiculous, to Eunice, fortification of one man per hundred foot of the vast perimeter.

  The northern section, where the Arab kid had walked in, now had a ribbon of yellow police tape outlining his every step. Along with every step that Oscar Bradley made as he followed the suspicious kid, right up to the point that Oscar made the decision to use deadly force to succumb the Middle Eastern religious zealot. Nothing will ever justify an earlier response on Oscar’s part to stop that terrorist’s onslaught. Oscar Bradley was exonerated for his actions, on the scene, and the FBI’s lead investigator formally submitted the paperwork for a citizen’s award for heroism on Oscar’s behalf.

  The FBI put Oscar Bradley on a plane back to Chicago with a pat on the back, a promise that he would not be named as the shooter, and a suggestion that he follow some cheating wives for a while. Oscar would view two sunrises that Friday morning.

  * * *

  Eunice didn’t sleep well – at all. She scanned the grounds from her lanai and counted over thirty vehicles that didn’t belong there. The government was now protecting them. She looked at the shallow fog drifting across the gray water of the Potomac River and felt that some of it was floating around in her own head not allowing her to focus on what she personally needed to accomplish.

  Eunice went back in time, rethinking her stubbornness to forgive Morgan of his drunken infidelity on the night he asked her to marry him three years earlier. She saw, in her mind’s eye, her balled up fist slamming into the topless dancer’s nose and saw the blood pouring down her chin. And she wondered why it wasn’t Morgan that she so precariously socked on the button. And then for an ever so brief flash in time she wondered if anything really mattered, anything at all.

  Eunice shook her head, clearing away the fog. And then she began talking to herself, “The next halfway good looking male that crosses my path... Had better be ready for me.”

  The sliding door to the patio/lanai from the guest suite wobbled open and Jim Morgan, barefooted, wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants and a Camel cigarette dangling from his lips, slipped out onto the deck, “Good Morning, Eunice. Mind if I blast a cigarette?” And, without waiting for an answer, he pulled the glass door closed behind him.

  “I was just going to have Mureatha bring up coffee, it’s a little chilly this morning.” Eunice folded her arms and leaned against the lanai’s railing. She couldn’t help but notice his weight loss since they had last made love a few months earlier. He had clearly lost a good fifteen pounds, he looked good, very good.

  Morgan lit his cigarette and walked over to her. He couldn’t help but notice her model figure that shown through the translucent nightwear she wore. It actually caused him a moment of embarrassment and he said so, “Nice outfit Eun. You’re looking ... good, babe,” and he had a thought, a fear – that he would go erect. She looked more than just, good. She looked damn right erotic.

  “Yeah Jim, we’ll have to quit meeting like this. What would Catherine say?” And she moved off the railing and went toward her open bedroom doors, “I’ll get my robe. Be right back.” And in her heart she wanted him to see her and hoped he’d realize just what he was missing.

  Morgan couldn’t keep his eyes off her ass as she disappeared into her room. And he had a solitary thought run rampant through his mind, “Jesus!” And that thought had nothing at all to do with his religious affiliations. It was a male response to an awkward meeting.

  Eunice returned with one arm in the sleeve of her robe and the other hand holding a cell up to her ear ordering coffee to the elevated garden, “...bring two cups Mureatha, and an ashtray. Mister Morgan is joining me,” and she placed the cell down on her maps of Brazil and finished donning her fur-cuffed cover up.

  “Coffee will be here in three minutes, Jim. I don’t know if I could survive without Mureatha. She’s a rock.”

  “Yeah. More like a huge boulder.”

  “She thinks the world of you, Jimbo. You know it, too.” And Eunice knew that she loved his flippancy and that he had a knack to make her laugh, in spite of her own overtly serious outlook on life.

  “Yeah, you once thought the world of me too, Eun.”

  “Let’s not go there, Jim. Your bed is quite full these days.”

  Morgan glanced at the closed door of his suite; “I’ve only known her since last Sunday. I really like her.”

  “Like her?” Eunice looked up at the sky and imitated Catherine’s three a.m. emotional outburst, “Oh my God!” And she smiled wickedly at Morgan and his reddening face.

  Mureatha entered with a silver tray replete with an assortment of petite Danish pastries, “I’s so happy to see you’s two together dis fine mornin’, yes sir, indeed I is,” and she poured out two large mugs of steaming java. The jubilant and maternal servant left with a hum in her throat, and – a misconception of what she had observed.

  “Hear anything on Alberquist?” Morgan reached a cheese Danish.

  “He’s in critical condition. The FBI promised to call me if there’s any change. He could die.” Eunice’s eyes began to moisten.

  Morgan felt her pain, “He’s a tough old bastard, Eun. He’ll be okay.”

  “Don’t call me Eun.” Eunice broke into an open sob. She stood and went inside her suite.

  Morgan lit a second Camel, picked up the ashtray and went to the railing and looked out over the river. He thought about Eunice. He thought about Catherine. He thought about the shot Senator and the dead Arab kid. And then he thought about himself.

  He lit a third cigarette. Then put it out. He pondered all the security and wondered who was footing the bill. And he conjured up a few mental scenarios of Margolova killing him, of more Arab attacks during dinner parties, and... He lit up another cigarette. And he thought
, what would kill him first, Margolova or his cigarettes?

  Morgan finished his cigarette and moved toward his suite, he showered and shaved and then packed up his toiletries. He dressed conservatively and, as he did so, he planned out what he would take with him to Sao Paulo, which wouldn’t be much. He looked at Catherine sleeping sound, and then went quietly out the hall door and down to the kitchen.

  Chapter Twenty

  Eunice was yelling at the FBI agents, “I don’t understand why I can’t leave. I need to visit the Senator.”

  “I’m sorry Miss North. Everyone at the Institute is under protective custody. No one comes in, and no one goes out until we get the all clear. Look, Eunice. It’s a matter of National Security now. Try to understand, okay?”

  The kitchen Command Post came alive with a phone message from FBI Headquarters. “Okay gentlemen, let’s break camp and get out of here. This gig is now in the hands of our brotherly CIA.”

  “Does this mean I can leave now?” Eunice asked the senior agent.

  “That will be up to the CIA, Miss North. They’re at the main gate right now and will be up here in a minute or so,” and as he talked he folded up his laptop computer, “On behalf of the Federal Government, I thank you for your patience and understanding.” He then handed Eunice a document to sign, “I need your signature on this, Miss North. It just states that we were here and haven’t caused any damage to your property.”

  Eunice signed it with an inner reluctance, and the agent gave her copy of the release. He advised her that she had ninety days to file a claim, if that were to become necessary. He then left, saying, “Best of luck to all of you.”

  Morgan poured a second cup of coffee and never said a word.

  Eunice sat down across from him; she looked tired, but held her appearance of being in charge, “Are you going to go down to Brazil tomorrow morning, Jim?”

  “Yeah. I owe it to the Senator, I promised him. It’s all about Sophie.”

  “Margolova will try to kill you. You do know that don’t you, Jim?”

  “She came close last night. Right here.” Morgan fumbled around for a cigarette.

  “We had some really good times together, Jim.” Eunice was looking at Morgan as if he were already dead. She knew he had to go. She knew he was in peril with the never-let-go Margolova. The Senator’s promise to protect him in Sao Paulo was just political rhetoric.

  “We had some bad times too, Eunice.” Morgan lit the cigarette he was tamping nervously. “What? No speech on the horrors of tobacco?”

  Eunice grimaced, “They’re offensive.”

  They were both quiet, contemplating one another. Morgan tipped his ash in the ashtray not wanting to look her in the eye. He fixated on the orange glow of the smoldering tip. Eunice ran a finger around a coffee cup stain on the tabletop. She hoped he wouldn’t talk. She felt a comfort inside her being, just having him near.

  Morgan drew in on the acrid smoke and watched her index finger circle the spilt milk or whatever it was. He wanted to read her mind. And he looked higher and into her face. Her muscles were relaxed and she had taken on a drained and hopeless demeanor. And he envisioned her laughing and enjoying his wit and their love bouts that were so playful and always turned into such passionate fulfillment and how she’d lay by him exhausted and still desired to touch him and to show that she was there for more than an orgasmatic release.

  Eunice wanted to tell him that she loved him. She wanted to tell him that no man had ever moved her so, as he had. She wanted to tell him of the nights she spent thinking about him in sleepless depression because he was absent. She wanted to scream out that she wanted him, but she couldn’t. He was obviously making love to a beautiful, intelligent, and...

  Eunice looked up and their eyes locked a moment. She saw a pain in them. And she knew it was a pain from the love he still had to hold for her somewhere deep in his being. And she was right in her emotional groping, because he felt the love he had held for her and the pain was there because he had moved on from her as his choice of mate and lover for life. And she felt a tear carving a downward trench across her cheek as she forced herself to divert that second of hellish bonding with what wasn’t ever going to be.

  “Hey kiddo.” Morgan reached out his hand and placed it on top of hers.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Arnold Ames woke to a fist having been slammed down on his desktop. The fist belonged to Phillip Annerson. It was three a.m., Friday morning, “Senator Alberquist was shot last night Ames. What do you have for me?”

  “Shot? John? I mean Alberquist, the Senator, got shot?”

  “Yes, twice in the chest. He’s at Bethesda hanging on by a thread. Where’s the Alerts File?”

  “Alerts File?”

  Annerson poked around in the mess on Ames’ desk, “I’d hoped you’d be more organized than this, Arnold.”

  “I just finished moving everything in, Mister Annerson, I mean – Phil.”

  “You better keep it at Mister Annerson for right now. Find me those alerts and bring them to my office. And get me some coffee. And get yourself some, too. You’re going to need it, Ames.”

  Annerson continued digging through paperwork as Arnold ran out for coffee. When he hit the “Harris File” he flipped through it, asking himself, “Who’s Harris?” And he had one more thought as headed for his own office carrying the “Harris File” with him, “Dear God, let me get through this one and let me retire.”

  At six a.m., Annerson asked, “Ames, do you know how to get to the Institute?”

  “Ah, which Institute, Mister Annerson?”

  Annerson took a deep, relaxing intake of Virginia air, “The North one.”

  “I’m sorry sir, I don’t know which one that might be.”

  “Ok Ames, get me a Map Quest from here to the Institute of Intuitive Thought, it’s in D.C., we’re going to set up a field office there. The whole place is now under our protective custody, and make sure you bring your laptop ... And a cell phone. Do you have a cell phone?”

  “Yes. Should I order a car from the Motor Pool? I have a cell but it needs a charge.”

  Annerson seriously wanted to return home and crawl back into his comfy bed. “I’ll meet you out front in five minutes, Ames.”

  * * *

  Morgan turned his head to observe Mureatha ushering in Senior CIA Agent Phillip Annerson and his protégé Arnold Ames.

  Eunice stood and introduced herself. Morgan remained seated in a mild show of arrogance and an outright disdain for authority.

  Agent Annerson announced, “The Institute is now under the protective custody of the White House under Presidential order.” He handed some formal looking, gold sealed, papers to Eunice. “No one is to enter or leave without my permission. I’ll have armed agents set up around the grounds within the hour.”

  Annerson spoke to Morgan, “You, Mister Morgan, will catch a plane to San Antonio, Texas at noon.” Morgan’s ears perked up with his change in itinerary. “You’ll fly there by an Air Force Lear jet. Can you be ready to leave by 11:30? That gives you almost three hours.”

  “I’ll be ready.” Morgan instantly took a liking to agent Annerson. He was no nonsense, in control, and obviously had the authority to make things happen.

  Annerson continued, “You’ll switch planes to another Lear and fly down to Panama.” Annerson paused, looked around the room, and continued, “By the way, this is a Black Op. There’ll be no records kept on your travel, you’re a ghost.”

  Morgan nodded a slow affirmative, he understood.

  “The flight out of Panama is still being arranged. When you get to Sao Paulo, a college professor named Jack Frost, which is a fake name, will meet you there. Jack will get you to your hotel. After that... You‘re on your own.” Annerson paused, thinking, and then continued, “Jack will stamp your passport.”

  Morgan stated, “I need a gun.”

  Eunice stood up from her chair and walked out of the room without so much as an excuse me. She was looki
ng a little pale.

  Ames opened a tumbler locked briefcase and pulled out a 9mm Beretta and set it on the table along with two clips that held fifteen rounds each. “It’s a weasel.” Ames was proud to handle the weapon exchange. “It’s untraceable.”

  Morgan picked it up off the table and studied it. “Do you have a holster for it?”

  “No holster, Mister Morgan. Keep it in your briefcase. And don’t try bringing it through customs when, ah, you return.” Ames looked at Annerson after choking on the words when you return, “Just dump it somewhere, safe.”

  Morgan asked, “Is there anything else I should know?”

  Ames looked up at Annerson with what one might consider, awe? “We need to update him on Margolova.”

  “Yes. I’ll let you do that, Arnold. I need to talk with Miss North. By the way, where’s Miss Harris? I need to talk with her, too.”

  “She’s asleep. I’ll get her for you.” Morgan stood and took the hand extended to him by agent Annerson. The two men didn’t say anything -- their business was ended. The handshake did say, “Good luck, I hope you make it back.” And Morgan’s said, “Thanks.” Ames never got up, and Morgan headed upstairs to wake Catherine.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  As Morgan passed the den, he heard a commotion going on at the bar. The three mind readers were in a heated discussion with Eunice. Lisa sounded adamant, “We aren’t going and that’s final.”

  He didn’t want to hear anymore and went up the stairs, yet wondered what visions they had foreseen since the Senator was so violently gunned down. He opened the door to the suite loudly hoping he’d awaken Catherine, un-intentionally. But she didn’t move and he went to her side and looked at her sleeping so carefree and comfortable.