“Yeah, but why bother?” Morgan asked, crinkling his nose at the smell.
“Because smoking can be a useful distraction. You’ll see. But the real hassle was the frantic search through her old contacts for a source of the props we need. I was more than a little frazzled until I finally got my hands on the duplicate coin yesterday. Now, practicing the dip, that part was fun, and really just like old time.”
Morgan remembered the three days she spent picking coins out of trousers, jackets and shirts hung about her apartment. When he told her it was clear she hadn’t lost her touch, she had replied that she could feel a hint of rust on her fingers and needed to eliminate it. The fourth day they went into the streets of Los Angeles and he watched her back while spent the afternoon handing people change and wallets they had somehow dropped. No one caught her picking their pockets once that day, and that reassured her that she was ready.
Now they sat on Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles, in one of the finest hotels on earth, awaiting their target’s return from his evening outing. Morgan sipped twenty year old Corton Pouget and patiently waited for his noisette d’agneau. Felicity appeared lost in thought, looking around the room as if reacquainting herself with an old friend.
“You have history with this place,” Morgan said.
“Oh yes. Interesting memories of my first visit here.”
“Really? Well, share. Tell me the story.”
“Tell you a story,” Felicity repeated in a pensive voice, then turned to wink at him. “All right. Once upon a time, some years ago, a young and charming jewel thief checked into the Beverly Wilshire. She had managed an invitation to a party taking place there three days later. The hostess of this party was spending a hundred thousand dollars to entertain three hundred of her closest friends. Said jewel thief intended to collect a healthy contribution from the guests, but something happened while she was researching the hotel.” She looked him in the eye. “She fell in love.”
“Do tell.”
“It was this wonderful place,” Felicity said, nodding to the waiter as he replaced their wine bottle with a new one. “After one day in residence, the entire staff seemed to know my name and room number. From them I learned that the Beverly Wilshire has stood in this place since nineteen twenty-eight. The twelve story Beverly Wing was opened in nineteen seventy-two.
“I learned that the owner, Hernando Courtwright, and his wife designed the new wing themselves, and pretty much redesigned the entire structure with personal loving care. They decorated each floor in a different authentic style, you know. Mexican, or French, or Spanish or Italian. They thought up the two story town house suites on top of the building, and named each suite after a great champagne.”
Morgan smiled as he refilled their glasses. “You really do research the territory, don’t you?”
“Yes, but a mark is rarely so seductive. For three days I strolled the grand ballroom with its imported Italian marble floor, installed by imported Italian craftsmen. I lounged at the hotel pool, modeled after Sophia Loren’s. I stared complacently at the Beverly Wing’s bow windows, because they put me in mind of Parisian balconies.”
Morgan closed his eyes for a second, enjoying the mild flavor of the tender lamb. “Yeah, luxury digs can do it to you. Even you.”
“You might think the environment would seduce me, but it was the personal attention that really made her fall for the hotel. Like, when I first arrived, an assistant manager escorted me to my room. When I got there I found fresh fruit, champagne and flowers. Irish flowers! I can still call up the scent of clover all over the room. When I called for my reservations I had described myself as a European jewel dealer and cutter. And there on the coffee table was the latest copy of the Lapidary Journal.”
“Okay, so the place wowed you,” Morgan said. “But how’d you do? Big score?”
Felicity shook her head. “After a three day vacation I got to attend the grandest of grand balls. The Grand Ballroom, done up in Louis XV style with crystal chandeliers and marble statues, can seat a thousand for dinner and is a fine place for dancing to a fifty piece orchestra. I enjoyed myself immensely, and checked out the next morning with nothing I didn’t bring with me.” When Morgan raised an eyebrow, she said, “I was out staring at the Spanish tiles around the swimming pool when it hit me that robbing a guest of the Beverly Wilshire would be sacrilegious.”
“So that’s it? You just left?”
Felicity giggled. “Okay, picture this. I’m waiting on El Camino Real for my car to be brought up from the garage.”
“El Camino Real?” Morgan asked. “Sounds like the title of a John Wayne flick.”
She gently slapped his shoulder. “You are such a boor. You couldn’t have missed that elegant gravel drive with the canopy of mission arches that divides the older hotel from the new Beverly Wing. Anyway, I’m standing there under an old street lamp that looked like was brought over from Edinburgh. There’s a fellow standing there and after a minute I realize it’s Mister Courtwright himself. And he’s like, “Leaving so soon? We had rather expected some added excitement during your stay. We very much appreciate that there was none.” And he’s got this twinkle in his eye.”
“So he knew who you were,” Morgan said. “And what you were. So what did you say?”
“Well,” Felicity said, “I just said the most complementary thing I could come up with. I told him that six months before I stayed at the George the Fifth in Paris. It’s certainly one of the finest establishments in the world. They did have some added excitement there during my stay.”
“That must have made him feel good,” Morgan said, picking up his glass again. “And now, here you are back again, to do what you couldn’t do when you were a guest.”
Felicity nodded as the lamb noisette arrived, covered with pâté de foie gras. She lifted her glass, looking over the edge of the red liquid toward the door. At that instant two men walked through the door, looked around the room and settled their eyes on her. One was common, obviously a bodyguard.
The other was electric.
Everything about him was loud. His suit was white, over a ruffled shirt. He wore a white cape, riding boots and a walking cane. Yet he was no more than five feet seven, and medium build.
“Damn,” Morgan said under his breath. “That outfit just, I don’t know, overwhelms the little guy.”
“Yep, and that’s probably its purpose. If you look too close, the man himself could send a chill up your back.”
While Morgan sat quiet, Felicity evaluated the man in white as she would always evaluate a mark when she made her living as a thief. Like many Panamanians, the newcomer’s his skin tone was neutral. Not really dark or light, or red or yellow. His hair was very long and straight, touching his shoulders in back. Only someone looking closely would notice that he had no ears. Burn scars on either side of his face gave the appearance of sunken cheeks. His eyes were bright and a little wild, as if they were afraid to settle on any one thing for too long.
With all that, the chilling part of his face was the smile. The teeth were wide, too wide for the mouth. He had a slight overbite, and the lower teeth were tilted at random angles. They were impossibly white, glinting like polished scrimshaw. It gave the man the look of madness.
So this was Francisco Bastidas, savior of America’s national defense. As he turned and headed for his suite, she felt the old tension, the old fear, the old excitement of the game return. This was what her life was missing now. Her face lit up as she got to her feet, breathing deeply to contain the emotional rush washing over her. She turned to Morgan and winked.
“Okay partner,” she whispered. “It’s show time.”
-6-
Morgan’s big fist thumped twice on the door to Bastidas’ suite. The response was the single word “enter” in a shrill voice. Morgan opened the door wide and stepped into the scent of orchids that dominated the room. He carried a black attaché case. Bastidas’ bodyguard, dressed much like Morgan, stood in the center of the roo
m. Beyond him, Bastidas sat at a table, holding a drink.
Morgan looked around for extra occupants, then stepped to one side. Felicity entered, statuesque in three inch heels and a skirt that hung three inches above her knees. She pulled the long cigarette from her lips and blew a jet of smoke toward her host.
“Mister Bastidas, my name is Sciarra,” she said in a convincing Sicilian accent. I understand you have an investment available.”
“Please, we have not even met,” Bastidas said in a squeaky tenor. “Come have a drink and we will relax for a moment.”
“My people don’t pay me to socialize,” Felicity said, but she sat at the table with him and selected a glass. In the middle of the big room, Morgan and the other black suit had locked eyes.
“What is wrong, Varilla?” Bastidas asked.
“This man has the look of a killer,” the bodyguard replied in a strong Spanish accent. His teeth seemed short, as if they were ground down. “I think he should show his weapons.”
“Care to take them?” Morgan asked. The other man tensed. His hands hung loose at his sides, but he was sending a hundred subconscious signals. Across the room, Felicity knew he was going to go for it.
Like a darting snake, Varilla’s right hand moved under his jacket. It was a blur whipping out, with a .357 magnum revolver at the end like the ball of a morning star flail. That weight thudded to a jarring halt on Morgan’s right palm. As fast as Varilla was, Morgan was a little bit faster. With a small twist, he locked Varilla’s arm out straight. The two stood frozen in that pose for a moment, until Bastidas’ high giggle broke the tension.
“Gentlemen, we are not enemies,” Bastidas said. “Please, let us all keep our own weapons and do business as friends. There are drinks for all.”
Morgan held a passive expression, but Varilla’s face was a mask of hatred when Morgan released him. He glared at Morgan, then stared at Bastidas and Felicity, then holstered his gun. Felicity sipped her drink and raised her glass toward Morgan, indicating her approval.
“That is Rhum Barbancourt Reserve Speciale 8 Year, some of the finest rum you will ever taste,” Bastidas said. “It is made in Haiti and aged eight years in barrel. You can indeed get whatever you want in this place. Is this not the most beautiful room you have ever been in?”
“Nice,” Felicity said, wondering if this pompous fool could appreciate a tenth of the quality of the softest rum she could remember with its touch of caramel and subtle hint of honey. Bastidas was staying on the Spanish floor. The lamps were imported, hand made ceramic vases. The pale gold mohair curtains and bedspreads were hand loomed. The furniture was all hand carved sixteenth century reproductions. It chilled her that Bastidas plunked his glass down on it without a coaster.
“So. Word reached me that you were interested in what I have to offer,” Bastidas said through his crowded smile.
“My people understand you have access to certain very rare coins,” Felicity said, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray. “In that case, my associate is carrying one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars. When I see one of the coins in question, I’m authorized to turn the money over to you. Then, we would like to establish a long term arrangement, perhaps emptying your reserve of these items. It would simplify your business to deal with one buyer, wouldn’t it, instead of the several collectors you’ve dealt with in the past?”
While she spoke, Felicity pulled a solid silver cigarette case from her small clutch purse, opened it, and selected another cigarette.
“I am reluctant to commit myself in this manner, my dear,” Bastidas said, giving her a light with his gold lighter. “However, I rule out nothing.” He stared into her eyes in a way she may have found disconcerting if she was paying more attention.
Felicity had a highly developed sense of time, and she was ticking off seconds in her head. On this caper, timing was critical. She could only hold her cigarette case open casually for a moment.
“First things first,” she said. “I’m here because I have a certain expertise in this area. I need to see the merchandise.”
Bastidas stood with a flourish and walked to the side of the bed. He opened a small leather case and drew the gold coin from it. He handed it to Felicity with a theatrical bow. She knew in a second that it was the same coin Roberts had shown her, but she made a great production of examining it, reverse and obverse, milling marks and engraving. As she placed it on the table between their drinks, someone knocked at the door.
“Mister Bastidas? It’s me. Mark Roberts.” All eyes turned to the voice. Morgan drew his automatic to cover the door. Just as quickly, Varilla’s gun was on Morgan.
It happens now, just like so many times before, Felicity thought. A subtle pressure on the cigarette case opened a narrow compartment under the single row of cigarettes. Her right hand covered the gold coin. Without a sound she dropped the duplicate she had already palmed and slid the real coin into the silver case. She snapped the case shut with a loud click. The entire switch took two tenths of a second, and then she jumped to her feet.
“I know that name. He’s a fed. Our people in Central America have come up against him. What is this, a set-up?”
“Please relax, my dear,” Bastidas said, also standing. “He belongs to me.”
“Sure,” she said, her voice dripping sarcasm. “If that’s the truth, get rid of him now.”
“Mister Bastidas?” Roberts called again.
“I am indisposed Mister Roberts,” Bastidas called, putting a smile in his voice. “I have company. A young lady. You understand. Please return in half an hour.” They heard footsteps moving off down the hall. Felicity stepped toward the center of the room. The two men in black holstered their weapons. All four faces in the room wore confused expressions. Felicity waited until she was within reach of the door to break the silence.
“I think our business is concluded, Mister Bastidas,” she said. “If this was a setup, your friend Roberts could have a short life span. And that coin of yours, if it’s supposed to be a Brasher’s doubloon, don’t look too genuine to me anyway.”
“What?” Bastidas reacted as if she had just accused him of bestiality. “Are you calling me a liar?”
“Hey, if the shoe fits…” Felicity was not destined to complete her sentence. Varilla reached for her with clawed fingers. He was inches from contact when Morgan’s right cross twisted his head around. Varilla dropped like a stone. While Morgan watched the guard go down, Felicity’s eyes were on Bastidas.
The man in white stood rigid, hands tensed like claws. His eyes bulged, his face reddened, and his wide flat teeth showed in a death’s head sneer.
“No one may call Francisco Bastidas a liar,” he roared in a high pitched squeal. He reminded Felicity of a spoiled child having a tantrum. His anger’s intensity startled, even frightened her in a way. Still, she could not resist a parting shot.
“Always a first time, ugly.” She slipped out the door with Morgan right behind her. There was a thump on the other side of the door before it was quite closed. They were downstairs and in her black Corvette ZR-1 before her tension released itself in an explosive laugh.
“Did he actually kick the door when we left?”
“Hope I don’t spoil your mood, Red,” Morgan said in a darker tone, “but I know that sound. That was a knife thrown into the door behind us.”
-7-
The pencil point snapped, causing a straight line to crumble at the end. Felicity cursed under her breath. Morgan had drawn the microchip plant precisely to scale, and she was in her office drawing her security plan on a transparent overlay. Whenever you need something to be perfect, she thought, your pencil breaks.
Felicity’s anger at herself was fleeting. In truth, her mind had wandered. Three weeks after meeting him, she still couldn’t forget about Francisco Bastidas. Beyond his grotesque appearance, a lot about him stuck in her mind.
Leaning back in her chair, Felicity began combing her fingers through her hair. Bastidas’ anger, really rage,
had been as intense as any she had seen. The power of his personality overwhelmed his looks, and he became a frightening sight. His hateful glare seemed more menacing because it shot through eyes stretched out by the burns on his face.
Their CIA contact had told them the next prospective buyer spotted the doubloon as a copy, albeit a good one. That confrontation had led to physical violence, followed by a call to hotel security. After some heated discussion the incident was responsible for Bastidas being asked to leave his luxurious second home.
Yet Roberts had called Bastidas one of the greatest geniuses alive. Genius and madness did seem to travel together often, she reflected. If that intense energy she saw behind his eyes was channeled into a positive cause, perhaps he was capable of doing great things.
But what explained the confidence game? If he had been born disfigured he might be trying to prove he could beat his betters. Why would this man who had known success all his life, even to overcoming such terrible torture, need to steal? The government supplied his every financial need. Perhaps he was not trying to prove anything. Maybe he was exacting revenge on society for some past crime, real or imagined.
A buzz from the intercom caused her reverie to vanish like wisps of Dublin mist.
“Ms. O’Brian, Mark Roberts is here to see you.”
“Send him in right away,” Felicity said. “And would you mind bringing us some coffee?” Sandy Fox was a modern liberated woman, but Felicity had made it clear that at her inflated salary, carrying coffee was not beneath her.
When Roberts walked into Felicity’s office for the first time he froze for a moment. Felicity sat behind an amoebashaped desk crafted of polished steel and topped with white Italian marble. Thick white carpet gave the illusion they were standing on a cloud.
“You look surprised,” Felicity said.
“Well, it’s not the Spartan setting you find in Morgan’s office,” Roberts replied. “And, if you’ll forgive me, I had forgotten how attractive you are. And the beads are perfect.”
Piranha Assignment Page 4