Orchids to Die For (Jim Morgan Adventure Series)

by Catherine Burr

  ORCHIDS TO DIE FOR

  Copyright 2012 by James Halon and Catherine Burr

  All rights reserved

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2006938578

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or book reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by New Line Press

  First Edition 2007

  Second Edition 2012

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Books by James Halon

  Dedication

  To Sophie (D. Deadly Kidd) Alberquist

  May you now rest in peace

  Chapter One

  Jim Morgan raised the five hundred dollar bet by a cool thousand as the Flop had given him a third Jack. To his welcomed good fortune, more raises came and all five players called.

  As the pot increased, the dealer began working with a masterful sense of flair. With a loud snap, he flipped over the River card, the One-Eyed Jack of Diamonds – which now gave Morgan all four Jacks, and that, is a fantastic hand.

  At that exact moment, with Morgan trying to keep a straight poker face, his cell phone began to vibrate in his pant pocket.

  * * *

  Eunice May North, Resident Director of the “Institute of Intuitive Thought” cursed out loud, “Damn it! Morgan. Answer.” In her mind’s eye, she saw him driving his little white sports car down Michigan Avenue “The Magnificent Mile” of downtown Chicago. With his light brown hair tousled by the wind around the surrounding Windy City, and in the same thought, she visualized him flirting with anything in a skirt.

  Eunice was still in love with him. But, she had come to terms with this love. Their relationship was over. Jim Morgan had made that clear when he quit her gratis-employment and moved back to his parent’s home. They hadn’t talked now for over three months.

  She closed her cell and placed it back in her purse without leaving him a message. Picking up her office phone, she speed-dialed Senator Alberquist’s home. Her desk phone would make a tape of their conversation, a common practice in and around Washington. Come on John. Pick up. But he didn’t.

  * * *

  Three High Rollers called Morgan’s last fortuitous raise on the River Jack. The pot total had grown to over seventy thousand dollars. A thrilled Jim Morgan laid down his pair of hole Jacks and graciously pulled in his handsome win. He cashed out eighty-six thousand dollars ahead. It was the best round of poker he ever had, his entire life.

  He was also elated that he didn’t piss in his pants when that fourth Jack hit the felt and his cell began to vibrate.

  Placing the Horseshoe Casino check into his breast pocket, he did a playful jig over to the bar and ordered a J&B Scotch, on the rocks.

  Matt, the regular bartender, happily announced the drink to be, “On the house, Jimmy.” For which he was rewarded with a flourished, one hundred dollar bill.

  Retrieving his cell, Morgan checked his missed calls. There was only one, and that one was from Eunice. He closed the lid and pondered what she might have wanted. After all, he hadn’t talked to her in ages. He sipped his Scotch and tried to recall their last conversation. Or was it their last confrontation?

  His thoughts were interrupted by a very pleasant voice, one that immediately caught his full attention, “Hello.”

  Morgan turned to see a stunning, petite blonde. His eyes glanced up and down her body and he immediately liked what he saw. Her tan was deep and her eyes sparkled blue like the mists that surround the base of Niagara Falls, “Well. Hello.”

  “I watched you win that big poker pot a while ago. How much did you win, if I might ask? I’m a writer and I’m really curious. It looked very exciting.”

  “Can I buy you a drink?” Morgan caught himself on the “Can I?” And restated, “May I buy you a drink?”

  She smiled at his English propriety, “Sure. A Perrier, in a glass with a twist of lime.”

  “What do you write? Gambling books? Poker books?”

  “No. I write Romance,” she declared, and then climbed onto a padded barstool next to him placing her purse on the bar. She wore a low cut top that exposed a healthy cleavage; it announced that she was feminine and that she was comfortable with her charms in public. Her beige open-toed sandals enhanced her clear-coated toenails.

  “Are you a professional gambler?” She asked in a reporter like, journalistic question. She opened her purse and took out a Cross pen, then reached a bar napkin and poised herself to take notes.

  “No. I’m an Engineer. My name’s Morgan, Jim Morgan.”

  She extended a beautifully manicured hand, “Nice to meet you, Mister Morgan. I’m Catherine,” she announced with perkiness in her voice. “So. How much did you win?”

  “Are you a Romance writer — with the IRS?”

  “No. No affiliation with the IRS.” She was energetic and spoke with a smile that enlisted matching dimples.

  “Do you live around here?”

  “Nope. I’m from Miami. I’m here for a writer’s convention on Publisher’s Row, in Chicago. It starts tomorrow, nine sharp. I came here, to the casino, to meet some old friends. We had tea, and now they’ve left. I was just looking around before returning to my hotel. Now... How much did you win?”

  “Okay. But let me ask you one more question. Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

  “Can’t. I have too much to do before tomorrow.”

  Jim’s cell pulsed. He excused himself for the interruption and answered, “Hi mom... Yes... It looks like I’ll be home for dinner... Oh. Okay. I’ll grab something out... Yes. I’ll be in early... Okay, mom. You and dad have fun... Love you, too. Bye.”

  Hearing his conversation, and having sized him up as a nice enough guy, she interjected, “I will take you up on that dinner. Now, tell me, how much did you win?”

  “Ninety-thousand.”

  Catherine wrote this figure down on her napkin. Then took a peek at him from the corner of her eye. She scribbled down some more notes, then, without looking up, asked, “Where are we going to eat?”

  “Well, that may depend upon where you’re staying?”

  “The Quality Inn on Lake Shore Drive. Do you know it?”

  It was only two o-clock and too early for dinner. It was also Sunday. Catherine let him know that she was sharing a rental car with her roommate and needed to take it
back. She agreed to have Morgan pick her up at six and she emphatically suggested they go somewhere casual as, “I didn’t bring a lot of dressy clothes with me.”

  Catherine fluffed her golden hair, collected up her notes and placed them in her purse. She stood and, quite business like, offered her hand up, to shake, “I’ll be at the front door of my hotel, six sharp.”

  Morgan watched her saunter away as he finished off his J&B. He had a chilling recollection then of another petite blonde, Sophie, Senator Alberquist’s daughter. May she rest in peace.

  Chapter Two

  Earlier that Sunday morning, Senator John Alberquist, from Iowa, sat across from an etching in the wall of the old CIA Headquarters main lobby reflecting upon his daughter’s death. He had called in a few personal favors to get her employed with the CIA. It was something that she genuinely desired, to be an agent. She would have made it on her own, too, but he paved the way for her and it had given him great pleasure to do so. And now, she was gone. Her life cut short, for diligently serving her country.

  The Senator looked up from his deep contemplation with moisture forming in his eye. Composing him self as a lone tear ran down his cheek, he read the etching that stood out before him, “AND YE SHALL KNOW THE TRUTH AND THE TRUTH SHALL MAKE YOU FREE.”

  A moment later, a CIA employee named, Arnold Ames (Not to be confused with the notorious CIA traitor, Aldrich Ames) entered the lobby, briskly walked up to the senator, and apologized for being late. The two men had been meeting there, often, since Sophie’s death on the island of Madagascar. The quiet spot afforded them a sense of privacy for their, somewhat clandestine, meetings. Arnold kept the Senator posted on the known activities of Margolova the International master-spy and infamous world terrorist directly responsible for Sophie’s demise.

  “Have you spoken to Eunice, Senator?

  “Yes. She’s agreed to try. Morgan hasn’t responded, as yet. But she’s accepted the challenge. She still has feelings for him. I promised her he’d be safe, so do what you can on that. She’ll get Morgan down to Brazil. But she’s apprehensive about doing it, in a week.”

  Arnold looked the senator dead in the eyes, “We’ve already mobilized, John. Margolova will be there in seven days. We really believe she’ll go after him, if he’s there. Do what you have to do on this one. A lot of people are depending on you.”

  “I’ll step in personally if I need to, Ames. I’ve thought all along that Morgan would volunteer his service, if I were to just ask him.”

  The Senator didn’t like the pawn tactics being used with Jim Morgan. But he did understand the repercussions of not using them, and they were manifold. The two patriotic cohorts stood, shook hands and went their respective ways.

  It was seven o-clock Sunday night when Eunice reached the Senator. He told her how the machinations were already started and repeated his plea that Morgan had to be in Sao Paulo no later than next Sunday. “My office will pick up the expenses on this, Eunice. If you want help, I’ll pull some strings for you. I want that bitch.”

  “I’ll give it the old Stanford College try. He’ll be there, John. I’ll carry him down to Sao Paulo on my back if I have to, consider it a done deal.”

  “Have you completed your tests on the orchid?”

  “They’re going on right now. We’re getting positive results, but we haven’t isolated the actual ESP properties, yet. The sensory increases are phenomenal. This orchid is the real thing, John.”

  “Okay. Get Morgan down there by Sunday. Keep me posted, Eunice.”

  Eunice’s conversation with Senator Alberquist left her perplexed and holding serious doubts that she could re-hire Jim Morgan, and get him down to Brazil, all within a week. She punched in Morgan’s home number and listened to it ring five times with no answer. Patiently waiting for the leave a message prompt, she formed a statement and hoped her voice wouldn’t sound, too urgent, “Hello Jim. It’s Eunice. I have a sweet deal for you here. Call me as soon as you can. Love you.” As she cradled the phone, a warm smile crossed her face at the thought of seeing him again, soon.

  * * *

  Margolova, the expatriated Russian, International terrorist and free-lance world-spy moved her base of operations from Baghdad, Iraq to a more friendly, to her, Tehran, Iran. She rented a three bedroom furnished house from a Hezbollah Shiite only minutes from the capital’s airport.

  Her entourage includes three pals she hired as bodyguards. She calls these punks, her staff. The eldest, at 32 is believed to be her current lover. He goes by the name Joseffie and is wanted for murder in several countries, including Iran. He is considered to be extremely brutal and was a known enforcer for the female slave market in Tehran that boasts over 300,000 prostitutes. One rap sheet on him states, “Shoot on sight.”

  Joseffie enlisted Margolova’s other two henchmen from an Iraqi street gang. Not much is known about them, but they are considered to be armed and dangerous.

  This foursome of terror was spotted just two weeks earlier flying out of Sao Paulo, Brazil.

  * * *

  The day after their (Margolova’s) hasty departure from Brazil, Arnold Ames was handed a news report from a South American network service that read, “Iranian Holy-Men Massacre Village of Orchid Growers.”

  Ames reached a folder he had put together that very morning, one that he personally labeled, ”Confidential.” He scanned through its content and pulled out a letter from the Institute of Intuitive Thought. Subject, “Brazilian Orchids.” Physically running his finger down the sheet, he stopped on the acronym ESP, Extra Sensory Perception.

  Replacing the letter and inserting the Brazilian news article, he made a new label for the folder, “Orchids to Die For,” and re-stamped the folder, SECRET. He then took it to his Department Head. Three hours later, Ames walked out of the same office with the same folder, a lot fatter now, and it was re-stamped as, TOP SECRET.

  Ames placed the top-secret package into a leather attaché case, locked it and then handcuffed it to his left wrist. Two gray suited, armed, agents walked him out of the building and helped him into a waiting limo. The taller of his two escorts entered the passenger seat next to the driver and directed him out of the compound with two words, “White House.”

  * * *

  Jim Morgan walked out of the casino and settled in behind the wooden wheel of his vintage 1963 Austin 3000. He sat there a minute contemplating his morning; he peered at the check in his jacket pocket with a smile, and then wondered why he didn’t tell Catherine that he wrote a book? And then he pondered what Eunice wanted, briefly. He opened the door and went to the trunk and took out a copy of his novel, “The Malagasy Tortoise” and tossed it on his passenger’s seat. He started the engine and wondered what Catherine’s last name was and if she were a household word like Coulter, or something. As he pulled out of the casino’s garage, he lit a Camel cigarette and vowed, once again, that it would be his last one.

  Speeding west over the Chicago Skyway, Morgan passed everybody including the unmarked police car that now had him pulled over waiting for a uniformed back up. Morgan picked up his book and paged idly through it. As he did so, he recalled that Eunice had once told him, “...If you have to? Bribe them. Just get the job done.”

  He opened his wallet and withdrew two, one hundred dollar bills. He placed them in the book, with the 100 markings extending out of the pages, as a bookmark. He walked back to the unmarked patrol car and asked the detective if he had read his novel. The cop grabbed it and scanned the back cover, “Sounds interesting. I’ll read it.” And then he set the book down on his seat. He picked up the radio’s microphone and cancelled his request for uniformed assistance.

  The cop extended his hand through the window and they shook hands, “Drive safe, Mister Morgan.”

  “I will. I hope you enjoy my writing.” And thought, Dick Head... Yeah, there was a moral issue here, somewhere.

  The bribed officer, one of Chicago’s finest, didn’t even ask for an autograph. As the unmarked, maroon, F
ord squad car pulled out and entered into the traffic flow. Morgan waved him a smooth adios and returned to his Austin. It was his lucky day, and he sped off toward home for a quick nap, hot shower, and a fresh shirt, thinking, life is really beautiful.

  Chapter Three

  Morgan tossed the casino check on his bedroom dresser. Removing his fat wallet, he counted out the hundred-dollar bills. He put five of them back in, and laid the other thirty-seven on top of the check. He set his alarm for five, pulled the blinds shut, and went to sleep.

  Along the east bank of the Potomac River at INTUIT U., three resident super-psychics were proclaiming a new increased level to their already known, and documented, ESP capabilities. As Eunice entered their soundproof laboratory, the girls all focused their attention on her approach. The three women were floating high on the effect of the new, rare Brazilian orchid scent.

  Tonya, a tall brunette, informed Eunice, “I’m reading your mind, Miss North. I really can’t help myself. Who is Jimbo? And why do you think he’ll be hitting on us in Brazil?”

  Jackie, an ash blonde, in her mid-thirties, looked at Tonya and very seriously said, “Because she loves him, stupid. It’s a jealousy thing. She doesn’t trust him.” She then looked back at Eunice and with a blush, “I’m sorry, Miss North.”

  Lisa, the stoic of the three, all business-like, added, “Don’t worry. We can defend ourselves from him.” She then looked at Tonya, adding, “Well, maybe not Tonya.” The girls giggled a minute, and then became serious.

  The three women became studious and listened to Eunice verbally tell them what was going on and what would be expected of them. They were going orchid hunting for the CIA. The project was top secret and added that it could be dangerous. If anyone of them wanted out? They’d have to quit, there and then. Eunice waited for them to respond.

  Jackie said she was in, as did Lisa. Tonya looked at Lisa and asked, “Aren’t you afraid of Margolova?”

  “I have bad vibes on her, true.” Lisa looked to Eunice, as did Tonya and Jackie.