“Impressive,” Roberts said, smiling.
The trumpet driven rhythm was smooth and bold. Morgan thought it both soothing and somehow appropriate to the moment. “Miles Davis,” he said. “The disc is ‘Aura.”
“Morgan’s turning me on to jazz,” Felicity said. “Trying some of the newer stuff, I am, but nothing really cutting edge. So aside from Miles, I’ve got Wayne Shorter, Vanessa Rubin and John Scofield in the CD player. But don’t be surprised when Van Morrison and Sinead O’Connor pop up.”
“Born in Ireland, you know, and the girl can’t escape her roots,” Morgan said with a chuckle. “Actually, that folky stuff can get to you after a while. If you listen close, you begin to hear the same complexity and depth that’s in good jazz. But, anyway, let’s get back to business. I’m anxious to hear how wonder boy got tied up with The Club.”
“Well, that is the crux of the matter, isn’t it?” Roberts said. “The Army doesn’t take this type of thing lightly. That area was combed pretty heavily. About a week after Bastidas was captured, he was found. The rebels were poorly organized at that time and pretty easy to route. Bastidas was rescued and given immediate medical care.
“By all indications, he was a different man when he returned from his ordeal. For weeks he wouldn’t speak to anyone. Avoided his best friends like the plague. The doctors called it a form of ambulatory catatonia. The man was barely functional. They pinned a purple heart on him and gave him extensive therapy. There seemed to be some memory loss, but it returned in time. Then, he left the Army, and things turned around quickly. He developed some engineering and physics processes whose patents left him in good financial condition. He went into business, quite successfully, in Silicon Valley. He was a shrewd and aggressive businessman, and became quite wealthy. He managed to secure a few defense contracts, and kept in touch with the military higher ups. He seemed to still be attracted to the Army.”
“So far, it’s a pretty positive story,” Morgan said. “But what’s this all got to do with you?”
Roberts stood and began to pace, as if he were at the front of a lecture hall. “Five years ago, Bastidas walked into the Pentagon with the design for a new weapons system that happened to fit in with the president’s strategic objectives. Because of the proprietary technology involved he’s been supervising the project personally. He’s indispensable to it. And because of the size and sensitive nature of the project, he feared that security could not be maintained in any American facility.”
“Right.” Morgan stood also, to stretch his legs. “Whatever he’s doing couldn’t be done at the Skunk Works where they cooked up the U2 and the Blackbird. So he figures a remote site in the South American jungles would be better, and somehow he got the Pentagon to go along.”
“I’ve been waiting for the tie in,” Felicity said. “Panama’s your province. That’s how you get into the story. So I’m taking it the D.C. boys see this Bastidas as a hero.”
“He is a hero,” Roberts said. “Believe me, this one man could be pivotal in maintaining the world balance of power.”
“So he’s got to be handled with kid gloves.” Felicity said. She fell silent for a few seconds. Morgan interrupted her introspection with one word: “coffee.” She smiled, stood, and headed for the galley kitchen on the upper level.
“There’s five more beers here, buddy,” Roberts said.
“Help yourself,” Morgan said, sitting back down. “I stop at two at a sitting.”
“Two beers? That’s not the Morgan Stark I used to know.”
“The Morgan Stark you used to know was a hell of a lot younger. To stay in the shape I was in then, to stay as sharp as I was, I had to make some, well let’s say some lifestyle modifications.”
“You know, you keep giving me reasons to question your retirement from the merc business.”
Before Morgan could respond, Felicity returned with three cups, coffee, cream, sugar and a liquor bottle on another tray. Conversation lapsed while everyone fixed their own cups. Morgan drank coffee with no assistance. Roberts took cream with one sugar. The aroma from Felicity’s cup was just intriguing enough to catch Roberts’ attention.
“You’ve already doctored yours?”
“Well, I like a wee drop of vanilla, and half a cinnamon stick,” she said while adding a couple of spoons of sugar and some cream to her cup. Then she added a splash of the liquor, and reaching over, did the same to Roberts’ cup. She took a sip from her cup and, seeing her contented smile, Roberts followed suit.
“Hey that’s good,” Roberts said, checking the bottle’s label. “Amaretto, eh? I’ll remember that.”
“The man has a serious ego problem,” Felicity said out of nowhere. “This Bastidas, I mean. He doesn’t need money, and it isn’t the challenge that keeps his scam alive. He just needs to keep proving to himself that he can win every time. I’ve got an idea. It won’t expose Bastidas as a con man, or expose him to any legal action, but I think it could embarrass him enough to make him close up shop.”
“Then you’ll take the job?”
“She was hooked when you walked in here with the flowers,” Morgan said, laughing.
“I’ll take it, if Morgan really trusts you,” Felicity said.
“You know I don’t make friends too easy, Red,” Morgan said. “This guy and I go back a long ways. I guess I trust him as much as any man alive.”
“Excellent.” Felicity’s face lit up with a smile that filled the room. “Tomorrow morning we’ll have Fox draw up a contract, just to cover us. Some innocuous security review or some such. And Morgan, remember that experiment we’ve been talking about? The one we’ve been putting off because we agreed we needed an outside observer?”
“Yes,” Morgan said, dragging the word out. He realized he had stepped into a trap with no good way out.
“Well now, here we have someone you trust. Since he’s trusting us with national security secrets, I’m thinking we can trust him with our little secret.”
“What have I gotten myself into?” Roberts asked.
“You’ll have to see it to believe it, pal,” Morgan said, and drained his coffee cup.
-4-
“So, you were going to tell me how you and Red got together.” Mark Roberts leaned against a work table in the secret basement under Stark and O’Brian’s office building. Morgan sat beside him, doing some tune up work on a new acquisition. His attention was divided between listening to Roberts, lightening the trigger pull on his new CZ-75, and avoiding thoughts of what he would be doing next.
“Well I was on a job south of the border,” Morgan said, looking up and grabbing his coffee cup. “I got double-crossed by the contractor. It cost me a few good men and almost got me killed in an ambush. On my way back to the States I ran into Felicity. By the way, I wouldn’t call her Red if I was you. Nobody does but me.”
“Okay.” Roberts was watching as he was trying to follow the complex reassembly steps for the Czech automatic, but it was obvious that he had other things on his mind. “So what was our Irish beauty doing down south?”
“Pulling off a robbery,” Morgan said in a matter of fact tone. From a wall rack he pulled down a custom made double shoulder rig. “Oddly enough, she was hired by the same guy. She got ditched in the jungle. I pulled her out. In the process of getting together to get our money from the mutual contractor, we became fast friends. I was about ready to take a break from the constant wandering anyway, always looking for the next war. So, we decided to use our hard earned talents and go into business.”
“Well, that pretty much explains it,” Roberts grinned, watching Morgan slip his Browning Hi-power into the shoulder holster under his left arm. “Except, how did you find her in the jungle, is your business relationship strictly business, and what the hell is that under your right arm?”
“My right shoulder holster holds my main fighting knife,” Morgan replied, sliding the blade out of its scabbard. “The Randall Model One. I think it’s still the finest custom made knife
you can get for its use. Which is killing.”
“The answer to your other questions is forthcoming.” It was Felicity, closing the door at the top of the stairs. She floated down those steps to join the two men. Her jeans were identical to Morgan’s but tighter, outlining those hips she would forever think too full, but which every man knew were perfect. Like Morgan, she wore crepe soled boots and a tee shirt. While his shirt was black and lettered with Kill ‘Em All, And Let God Sort ‘Em Out, she wore a green one that said I Like Caviar, Cadillacs And Cash.
“I’ll let you explain while I get ready,” Felicity said, looking relaxed as she walked toward the far end of the pistol range.
“Coward,” Morgan said. Then he laughed at himself in a way that seemed to annoy his guest.
“Okay, I’m hooked,” Roberts said, walking with Morgan to the firing line. “What’s the big secret?”
“I can’t keep it to myself any longer,” Morgan said, handing a pair of ear plugs. “I gave her that shirt.”
“No, seriously, what’s up?”
Morgan’s face took on a grim demeanor as he drew his pistol. “Look, pal, I’ve never told this to anyone. The reason I’m still standing here instead of lying dead in a jungle somewhere is that I can feel when danger’s approaching.” He looked into Roberts’ eyes, checking for skepticism. Feeling no challenge, Morgan continued. “When I finally got used to that I met Felicity and found out that she and I have some kind of psychic link. We get feelings of where the other is and how they are. Don’t even think about laughing. That’s how I found her in the jungle that day, and she’s saved my life the same way. At moments of emotional intensity, I can actually feel her physical sensations sometimes, and vice versa.”
Roberts fell silent for a moment, and then began to mumble to himself. “Well, it’s not all that crazy. I know about some CIA experiments with extra sensory perception, and I know a good handful of firm believers. The Agency has even hired psychics to hunt for terrorists like the Unabomber. But over all, we’ve had poor experience with ESP. I’m not saying it doesn’t exist, but if it does, people don’t seem to be able to control it.”
“Well, that’s the thing,” Morgan said.
Roberts stared at the woman at the far end of the range, gathering an armful of clay pigeons. Morgan guessed he was trying to imagine what it might be like for them. He knew that in a few seconds those thoughts would lead his friend to the still unanswered question.
“You said you could feel each other’s physical sensations?”
“Sometimes,” Morgan said, cocking the automatic.
“Then if your relationship turned…intimate…”
“Imagine feeling what you were doing to a woman just like it was happening to you,” Morgan responded. Old fear flashed across his face.
“Whoa. I guess your business relationship really must be strictly business.” He stared at his shoes, shaking his head. When he looked up, His eyes widened. Morgan was drawing a bead on Felicity at the end of the range.
“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” Roberts’ voice echoed off the cement walls. “You’re not going to shoot with her down there.”
“Not yet,” Morgan said. “First, bring me that blindfold from the table.” When Roberts hesitated, he said, “That’s what you’re here for. The safety factor. Now bring it here.”
Roberts looked dazed as he picked up the heavy black piece of cloth and returned to Morgan’s side. His eyes stayed focused on the slim form of the young woman at the end of the long tunnel while Morgan was talking to him.
“She…we wanted to run a test, to see if we could get direction from one another, other than our own location. Put that blindfold around my head. That’s it. Tighter. Now, you’re going to give the signal to Felicity. Put my hearing protection on me and put those earplugs in.”
“Is she holding those clay pigeons for the reason I think?” Roberts asked.
“Probably. I’ll just point in the right direction like this, two handed. You just say ‘pull’, okay? She’ll toss a clay, and I’ll shoot by instinct.”
Roberts swallowed hard. “What if you hit something other than a clay pigeon?”
Morgan’s face creased, and there were six long seconds of hesitation. “Well, then I guess we’ll know it didn’t work.”
Morgan stood with feet shoulder-width apart, his pistol held in front of him as if he could see down its sights. He was as still as a cigar store Indian, and felt just as grim. His senses were extended, as if he were tracking a guerrilla through the jungle at night, yet his mind worked toward complete relaxation. There was tension in the air, but not in the man. He was open, receptive, praying Felicity was right and her visual perceptions would float into his head.
Twenty-five yards away, Felicity prayed too. Not in the conventional manner of Morgan’s Pentecostal background, but the rigid, memorized chants of her Catholic upbringing. The words rang in her ears, blotting out her elevated breathing. She had prodded her partner into this experiment, but it didn’t seem like such a great idea at this end of the range. She knew that, even at this distance, Morgan could light a match with one of his specially modified pin guns. Yet, now he had to rely on her perceptions alone to hit the target.
In the past she had seen what a nine millimeter hollowpoint bullet did to human flesh and bone when fired in her defense. She had no desire to experience it first hand. But she had a clear reason for accepting the risk that evening. She knew that she and Morgan were the type of people who would go on putting themselves in harm’s way. Danger was a drug to them both, and they would always find a way to get that fix. Knowing the limits of their psychic link seemed an important way to improve their survival chances.
Narrowing her mind to pinpoint focus, Felicity zeroed in on Roberts. He looked at her, gave a sigh she could just hear at that distance, and shouted “Pull!” The rough surface of the clay disc scratched the fingertips of her left hand as she flipped it into the air. It hung suspended for an instant, and then crashed to the floor.
“You’ve got to shoot for us to find out anything,” Felicity shouted. “Do it again, Mark.”
“Pull!”
This time she tossed to the right, and Morgan’s arm swung with hers. He fired high, but in the right direction. She grinned. That was no chance act.
“Pull!”
Again, she tossed to the right, and again Morgan swung with the clay pigeon. His bullet passed below and to the right of the target. Even with a blindfold on, it seemed odd to her to see Morgan miss. That feeling prompted an interesting thought. She realized he was probably shooting about as well as she would.
“Pull!”
This time she launched the tiny Frisbee-shaped target to her left. It exploded five feet from her hand. At the other end of the tunnel, she could see Morgan smile. She had turned her head to follow the target that time, and that seemed to do it.
Felicity tossed the next six clay pigeons at random. For the last two, she did not wait for Roberts’ signal. One she tossed straight to her right. The last she flung directly up over her head. Morgan hit each one in flight, as if he could see them clearly. Maybe he could.
With a joyous whoop, Felicity sprinted toward her partner. Still blindfolded, Morgan stepped around the firing point table and headed down range. When the two bodies collided, Morgan lifted Felicity and spun her around several times. Both were shouting and laughing, reveling in their success. It was the embrace of team members after a tough game won, or siblings when one of them graduates college. Or maybe, a special closeness beyond what family members can feel.
-5-
For the first time, Morgan found himself in an atmosphere perhaps more elegant than the woman he was with. He wasn’t sure he could pronounce the entree Felicity had ordered for him, but she had assured him it would be on a level with the service.
They were dining in El Padrino, the Beverly Wilshire Hotel’s grill room. It was after ten thirty at night, yet more than twenty people sat in the dining room. Morgan
recognized half of them from movies, television, or the evening news. He wished he was not playing a part, so he could openly ogle the stars.
“I can’t believe Bastidas would set himself up as a con artist here.”
“It’s the perfect setting,” Felicity said, biting into her fish mousse. “The Beverly Wilshire is the grand lady of hotels on the West Coast. And the rich are the easiest marks. They think they know it all, they have money to risk, and they always want more.”
Morgan and Felicity wore appropriate attire for the formal dining room, even if it wasn’t what they would choose for their own tastes. Morgan wore a black suit, with white shirt, black tie and a pair of very dark glasses. He wore his hair even shorter than usual with a part cut in the right side, and he had shaved his thin mustache off. A false gold cap covered one of his front teeth.
Felicity’s gray business suit, off the rack rather than tailored, was too tight in some places and too loose in others. Her hair, dyed a dark brown, was coifed into a chignon in the back like a huge bun. Contact lenses turned her green eyes brown. Makeup gave her an olive complexion, accented her eyebrows and thinned her lips. Morgan found the difference startling. Suddenly, she was Italian.
“Hard to believe you’ve set it all up in just a week,” Morgan said, finishing his salad.
“One week, but a busy one,” Felicity said with a distant smile. “Prepping for the job, just like the old days.”
Morgan smiled, and not just at the perfect tang of the vinaigrette. “You stopped short of saying you missed it.”
“Well, it was mostly annoying, but you know, even annoyances can be habit forming. Like this,” she said, picking her cigarette out of its ash tray. “It took a while to remind my body how to accept smoke without coughing.”
Piranha Assignment Page 3