“Yes. When is that weapons expo you were talking about?”
“The Paris Air Show you mean? Let’s see…is it Thursday today?” Morgan shook his head. “I still have a small touch of jet lag. Yes, the show starts a week from tomorrow.”
“Good. I want you to go.”
“What?” Morgan’s eyes widened. “Why?”
“Taking O’Ryan’s money is only half the battle. If he’s shipping guns in he can sell them to raise more cash. I want you to meet with Raoul Goulait. He’ll be there for his own business reasons. He’s a professional smuggler and a very close friend of mine.”
“Lord have mercy,” Sean muttered, walking away. Felicity ignored him.
“I think Raoul can find out when any illegal shipment might be headed this way. We can stop that shipment and cut off his last chance of squaring things with his bosses.”
“Since you know him, wouldn’t it be better if you went?”
“It won’t work,” Felicity said. “I’ll be making my move Friday night. It’ll take me a week to get myself invited in for the evening.”
“A week? Losing your touch?”
“No. It’s just that the Irish sexual appetite is, eh…”Felicity fished for words, “shall we say, a bit low key?”
A cry of “Lord forgive us” came from the kitchen.
“I’ll need your help too, Uncle Sean,” Felicity called.
“And just who must I cheat, rob or kill?” Sean asked, walking back into the front room.
“Don’t be silly.” Felicity gave him her charmer’s smile and threw her arms around his neck. “What I do need you to do is to take some of my money and open bank accounts in four different banks. The accounts will be in my business’ name and I’ll set it up so you can sign. We’ll need them for the money. Don’t worry, we’ll give you a chance to rob and cheat later. Now, will you please take me to town so I can be pretty for my date?” She pecked his cheek, and Morgan laughed seeing him melt just as he himself had under similar conditions in the past.
- 9 -
The spot Felicity pointed out for their late afternoon picnic was covered with a bed of clover, but lay just a few feet from the line where the green surrendered to the purple heather.
“It’s perfect!” Max said, putting down their picnic basket. In the past week, he had declared everything she said or did to be perfect.
That first day they rode for hours. She astonished him by showing how well she sat a horse. With subtle questions and keen observations she easily learned his tastes and preferences in women and set about becoming his perfect match. She wore her hair down, and never wore pants except while riding. She shied away from makeup, except a touch of lipstick. She did start wearing nail polish, a color he thought very feminine. She figured it was probably his mother’s shade.
They took long walks, dined together at Paddy’s and drank a lot of stout. As promised, Max attended mass with her, sitting right up front to make sure Sean knew he was there. That was the only time all week Max saw Morgan. They spoke briefly after mass, while Sean was greeting other parishioners.
“I wanted to say I appreciate the fact that you trust me with the girl,” Max had said. “I wouldn’t have been surprised if you came along on our dates.”
“You guys need your space,” Morgan had answered. “And I have other business.”
“I figured. I’ve heard that Father O’Brien doesn’t appear in public these days without you being in plain sight. I hear you wear a jacket or blazer every day, and everyone you meet suspects they know what’s hanging under it.”
“Really?” Morgan kept his smile light. “Well, they’re right, you know. You got a lot of friends around here, right? You can help them stay out of trouble.”
“How’s that?”
Just make it clear to everybody that Sean is now my adopted uncle. And make it just as clear that if anyone were to try to hurt Sean, well, I would not wait for the Lord’s vengeance. I would personally consign that individual to the lowest pits of hell. Can you carry that message for me?”
But that conversation on Sunday was overshadowed by far more pleasant chats. Wednesday, Max took Felicity fishing and Thursday they went up to Bray so she could play tourist. All week he made tentative passes at her, stealing an occasional kiss or even trying to touch her. She parried his approaches but by keeping her rejections gentle she made it clear that she was interested. Still she was a lady and he would have to show some patience.
Thursday night he took her to a movie show in Wicklow, and there in the dark he got up the courage to put his arm around her. When he bent to her face she accepted his attentions, returning a most passionate kiss. In their embrace she could feel his boyish heart pounding.
Friday morning she drove with her uncle to Dublin to put Morgan on a plane for the continent. When she left for her picnic that afternoon, she told her uncle this was the day she would be in late. He grunted and nodded his head. He accepted, but she knew that was not the same as saying he approved.
So Friday afternoon Max spread a checked tablecloth on the clover for them to sit on. Felicity opened the large woven basket she had stuffed that morning with sandwiches and slices of a cake she had baked. She wore a sky blue shirtdress with the top two buttons open. A breeze fluttered the long skirt when she stretched out on her side to pour iced tea for them. Grogan sat quite close to her. She could see he was trying to be romantic.
“You have the loveliest big green eyes,” Max said, staring at her cleavage.
“Why, thank you, kind sir.”
“And the most beautiful smile,” Grogan continued. Following his gaze, she wondered if indeed her legs were smiling when the wind flipped her dress, exposing her long thighs.
“Look at that blue sky,” Max said, daring to place his rough hand on her knee. “The heather blowing. What a day. Where will it end?”
“Well,” Felicity replied, moving his hand to the tablecloth between them with a firm but gentle grip, “I’d like it to end with a long drive around the lake. Then, maybe,” she stroked the back of his hand, “maybe with a late snack at your place.”
As Felicity pulled away from Dublin Airport, Morgan experienced a wave of déjà vu. It wasn’t a hot LZ. No one was shooting around this landing zone and yet, he felt very alone. Walking through the crowd he was very aware that all of his hardware was secured in his carryon bag and that people sometimes die in Dublin for no good reason.
More than twelve million travelers passed through Dublin’s single terminal every year, and Morgan thought that most of them were there that day. In this environment the Irish behaved much like other Europeans, jostling and bumping one another without comment or apology. The density of the crowd also reinforced Morgan’s notion that the Irish were halfway between the British and their other European cousins. That was because the stench of body odor in close quarters was only about half what it would have been in Paris or Frankfort or any other airport on the continent.
Morgan spent nearly thirty minutes displaying his passport, identification and various licenses before surrendering his checked luggage. Even the Irish girls at the counters couldn’t make that process pleasant. But once it was over Morgan had plenty of time to kill so he decided to settle in one of the airport’s many taverns for a pint.
He sat at a small, two-person table trying to relax, just listening to the mix of accents and occasional alternate language. Dublin was a fairly busy crossroads and its three runways handled just about every airline on earth, except British Airways of course. But a certain amount of tension would remain, despite the effects of the dark, rich stout. He judged airport security as excellent, but there were an awful lot of people crammed into a confined space and they came from everywhere. This made it a target rich environment for terrorists and it was just good sense to maintain your awareness in such circumstances.
So when Morgan’s senses alerted him to a possible threat from behind he did not react, at least not in any way an observer would notice. But hi
s feet slid under his chair so that he was on the balls of his feet, and he leaned toward his mug raising part of his weight from his seat.
Through hearing and instinct Morgan tracked the figure walking up behind him. The stranger stepped around to his side, eyed him with raw hostility, and lowered himself into the other seat. Morgan had kept his eyes low, staring into his dark brew, but how he raised them to the face of his new seatmate.
“Do I know you?”
“I don’t think so,” the stranger said. “But I know who you are. You’re the boy what’s been following around after Father Sullivan these past few days.”
The stranger bore the ruddy, freckled face of a native. His hair was home cut and unruly. His crooked teeth, flannel shirt and Brogan shoes spoke of a man bred in the countryside who only entered the city when he had to. This was no chance meeting of travelers.
“Yeah, I been following Sean,” Morgan said. “To keep him safe. Got a feeling you been following around too, but maybe with a different objective.”
The stranger rested a fist on the table and raised an eyebrow. “You don’t understand our struggle, boy. The priest keeps a lot of people from seeing the truth. He keeps people from assisting their brothers in the struggle against the murdering Anglicans.”
“Your struggle?” Morgan snorted and emptied his mug before continuing. “First of all, as a merc I seen the same tribal bullshit all over Africa, then in Eastern Europe and it’s been going on for centuries in the Middle East. All the hate don’t solve nothing, it’s just there, part of the environment. So you can talk all the shit you want to about your idiotic struggle. But if you call me boy one more time, I’m gonna have to kick your big Irish ass.”
The crowd around him seemed awfully quiet and Morgan realized that he had gotten a lot louder than he intended. Passersby had stopped to stare at him. Their faces were not kind. They may not mean him harm, but they certainly wouldn’t help him if trouble started. After a deep breath, he got to his feet.
“Nice talking to you, buddy, but I got a plane to catch.”
Morgan strode away from the bar hoping to disappear into the crowded concourse. He walked the airport at random, but the feeling of danger followed him. As he strolled past the duty free shops that feeling spread. He stopped at a newsstand and picked up a copy of the Irish Times. The stranger walked past him just as Morgan was leaving the newsstand. Morgan moved down two doors and stopped. Staring into the broad shop windows he was able to scan the crowd flowing past. One fellow to his right was paying too much attention to Morgan. Another watcher, pretending to consider a liquor purchase, was a bit more subtle. A fourth man entered the shop and turned to stare openly at Morgan through the plate glass. He was a broad, tall bruiser of a farm boy. But then, they all were.
Morgan considered his options to be limited. He had no weapons with which to threaten his followers, but he doubted they would allow him to board his flight. A brawl in the airport would probably result in his being held for questioning at the very least, which would keep him from taking off on time. He might be able to avoid the troublemakers altogether if he moved straight for the boarding area, but their frustration could send them straight to Sean Sullivan while Morgan was away. He needed to engage them, but without drawing public attention.
The men’s room was not quite as busy as the concourse, but Morgan knew this was a temporary situation that would change when the next wave of planes landed. There was no door to insure privacy, just a passage that wound left, then hard right to the long column of stalls. Beyond that was a separate long tiled space holding urinals on one side and a row of sinks on the other.
Morgan knew he would have a moment inside. They would want to be sure he wasn’t laying a trap, and they’d post a man at the entrance to turn other men away. That was okay. He took the opportunity to make use of the facilities.
By the time the stranger entered the men’s room Morgan was drying his hands under the hot air machine. All the other patrons had left, leaving him alone with the humidity and the smell of urine.
“About time you showed up,” Morgan said. “And you brought two of your friends I see.”
“You didn’t think I’d come alone, did you?” the stranger asked, smirking as he sauntered forward. His two friends entered behind him, fists already curled.
“Of course not,” Morgan said while rolling his newspaper up. “I’m kind of glad, because I need to send a message to all your happy little terrorist pals, and I want you in one piece to deliver it. So. Who’s first?”
The tallest of the three men stepped forward, his fists raised, his steps echoing in the tile hall.
“You are a big one,” Morgan said, moving his feet a bit apart but not advancing. “You’re taller than me, and you got a longer reach. How could I ever…”
Morgan stopped talking when he sensed that his opponent was about to swing. Less than a second before the big fist moved toward him, Morgan leaned forward, snapping his right arm forward, holding the newspaper like a spear. Its edge struck the big man’s face and Morgan gave it a slight twist before his arm snapped back. The big man’s hands flew to his face. Morgan stabbed again, this time into the man’s solar plexus. The stunned fighter staggered back, his body sagging as he dropped to his knees. As his hands dropped to his stomach he revealed a neat circle of blood inscribed around his left eye. Morgan tossed the newspaper aside and focused his attention on the second fighter.
“Those paper cuts are the worst, ain’t they? Okay, now you.”
After only a moment’s hesitation, the second man lunged forward, arms spread as if he would wrestle Morgan to the ground. Morgan maintained a bored expression as he sidestepped the clumsy lunge. One foot stayed out to trip his attacker and he grabbed the front of the man’s shirt. A sharp yank down smacked the man’s forehead into the edge of the sink. The sound of the impact bounced around the room, followed by the slap of his body hitting the floor. Morgan stepped over him toward the stranger who had first sat with him, who was backing away.
“Now you’re ready to understand the message I want to send back with you,” Morgan said. The stranger started to turn but Morgan quickly captured his right arm and twisted it up behind his back. Ignoring the howl of pain, Morgan steered the man back into the room and slammed his face into the wall between two urinals.
“Now you can lose the arm, or you can hold still and promise to do as I say.”
Through gasps of pain the stranger managed to say, “Whatever you want.”
“Good,” Morgan said, pressing the man hard into the tile wall. “Now you don’t need to report any of this to your boss. I imagine that would be pretty embarrassing. But you do need to tell all your friends and neighbors who might have liked the bombing of the church or who might have been involved with the grenade tossed into a certain public house not long ago. You need to tell them everything that happened here today. Right?”
“Yeah. Yeah. I’ll tell them.”
Morgan twisted the arm up another inch. “Good. And you make sure they all understand that I don’t need a gun or a knife to kill any of you bastards. They need to know that if anything bad happens to Sean Sullivan while I’m gone the police won’t mean shit to me, the IRA won’t me shit to me. I’ll just find the son of a bitch who did it and destroy him in place. No discussion. No mercy. Just an ugly death. Are we clear?”
The stranger nodded his head with such vigor that Morgan had to let him go and watch him sink to the floor, clutching his arm. Nodding, he stepped toward the hall. He wasn’t even breathing hard as he walked up behind the muscular man standing at the entrance with his arms folded. An older man was approaching the men’s room but the guardian shook his head. Morgan slapped the man lightly on the shoulder and jerked a thumb toward the inside.
“Hey, we’re done inside. You can let people in now. And your friends in there could use some help. They don’t look so good.”
Morgan smiled as he headed toward his gate. He was more confident that Sean would not
be bothered in his absence, he had not worked up a sweat, and most importantly, he would board his plane on time.
“Wait till you see this place,” Max said as he drove his aging Citroen down the long gravel driveway. They had indeed taken a long lakeside drive, with Felicity cuddled into Grogan’s massive side all the way. They found a remote place to park, high school style, facing the sunset.
She found herself enjoying the part she was playing. She was coming to like this big, simple country boy quite a bit. In his innocence she found a sincerity that seemed to be missing in the cosmopolitan circles in which she usually traveled. She felt a little guilty about using him, which she would nonetheless do without hesitation. She was glad she would at least be able to give him something in return that night.
As the car turned the final curve on the drive, the mansion took Felicity’s attention. It was an authentic reproduction of an old style Georgian mansion. In front of the house, the driveway split to circle a flagstone-edged pond and came together to flow on through the ten-foot wide gap in the hedge wall. A life size female nude statue stood atop a marble column rising out of the pond. The hedge she figured for a good six feet in height.
She got out of the car next to a large swinging sign while Grogan went off to park. The sign read “ORION HOUSE” in large Gothic letters. Between the two words was a painting of a Herculean figure in ancient Greek attire, holding a huge club over his head. His left hand held a short sword. The mythological hunter had red curly hair. She figured she was looking at the owner’s self image.
The house itself was breathtaking. She tried to take the entire rambling structure in by mentally cataloging it. It was all brick and three stories tall, at least the central portion. There were nine windows across the top two levels. On the ground floor, the center was dominated by a semicircular landing, which surrounded the door and one window on each side of it. The landing had its own semicircular roof supported by a half dozen Doric columns.
The Orion Assignment Page 7