The windows on the first two floors were easily six feet tall. The third floor windows were about half that size. A stone fence ran along the edge of the flat roof. Four large chimneys sprang from the roof at even intervals.
She took two steps back to take in more. A square tower projected forward at each end of the main house. Beyond these, level with the main portion of the building, a wing projected out to each side. These had their own porches, running their full length, terminating in another semicircular landing. The porches were each supported by three pairs of columns about five feet apart. With the terminal landing, the wings were about thirty feet or so long. That would make the house a hundred and twenty feet across.
For the first time, she realized how conceited her enemy must be. How many hundreds of thousands of pounds must have gone into this gargantuan edifice in tribute to his enormous ego? Perhaps it wasn’t just for his public image. Maybe he believed he was Orion, the mythical hunter.
“Isn’t it the most amazing thing you’ve ever seen?” Grogan asked from behind her. “I feel like the luckiest man alive to live and work here.”
Despite the apparent traditional design of the house, a keypad hung above the bright bronze doorknob. Grogan stood close to it and punched five buttons in order. The huge oak door swung open without a sound. Reaching back, he took Felicity’s hand and guided her into the house. Victorian furniture decorated the large reception area. Max steered left and they started down the long hallway. They walked on parquet floors, between walls paneled with cedar.
“Know how I got this job?” Grogan asked when they stopped at the last door on the right.
“Do tell me.” She hung on his arm, beaming up at him.
“Well, I was coming in from plowing the fields on me pa’s farm,” Max said, unlocking the door. “There stands this redheaded bloke in fox hunting clothes. He says to me `you Max Grogan’ and I says `yessir’. He says `I hear tell how you’re the biggest man in the county’ and I says `’strewth, I’m the biggest I know of.” Max stepped into his room and hung his jacket and cap on a coat rack in the corner. “He says to me `my name’s Ian O’Ryan and now I’m the biggest man in the county. But as you’re the tallest and widest, I want you as me gamekeeper.’ How’s that for a wild piece of luck, eh?”
“What more could you ask for?” Felicity said. She smiled, but a quick look around told her there was a lot more a loyal employee could ask for. Max’s room was about twelve by eighteen feet, furnished with the simplest appointments. The floor was bare boards. There was a basic wooden bed, a dresser, a tall wooden wardrobe, a desk and a coat rack by the door. She walked in, looked around, and faced Max with a big smile.
“Maxie, is there a place where a girl could, eh, freshen up?”
“By gosh, I didn’t think,” Grogan said, blushing. “There’s a W.C. two doors down on this side. You go on and I’ll ring for tea.” He reached for the simple phone on his simple desk.
Max’s description proved to be most inadequate. This was no “water closet.” It was bigger than the “slave’s quarters” Grogan lived in. The toilet and bidet occupied their own little alcove to one side. The marble counter held two large sinks. The mirror above them was at least three feet high and six feet long. She felt no need to explore the sunken tub at the far end.
The real reason for the trip, aside from “freshening up”, was for Felicity to unstrap the tiny camera from her inner thigh. The camera, no bigger than a pack of chewing gum, traveled in a black leather case about the size of a checkbook. Two Velcro bands held the case to her long leg, just below her crotch.
The case also held a tiny set of lock picks and a length of piano wire. With the picks she could enter any door. She would use the wire if she went upstairs. She always strung a wire across the stairs when she went up them during a burglary. If a residence guard surprised her, she could flee down the stairs, remembering her trip wire’s location. She could count on her pursuer to fall, giving her time to escape.
She concealed the small case in a cabinet under the sink. Then she prepared herself to go back to the small room and enjoy the evening.
She opened Grogan’s door ten minutes after she left. The lights were out, but three candles glowed on the desk. They surrounded a silver tea service and a small vase of wild flowers. Max, sitting on the bed, motioned her toward the chair. Her heart went out to him, seeing that he was trying his best, and she had no desire to make it difficult for him.
“Oh Max, it’s so pretty,” she said, in a low, seductive tone. “And so formal. I’m flattered, I really am, but I’m a big girl. We both know I didn’t come all the way out here for tea. You look as if you don’t know what to do next. You big lug, don’t try to tell me I’m the first lass you’ve had in here.”
Max looked down at his hands hanging between his knees. “Oh, I’ve had lasses here. Lasses. Women. Dollies. But never a lady before. I mean, you’re not even drunk.”
She knew this was a time to stifle the laughter trying to burst out of her. She stepped forward, stood over him and said, “Maybe I can help.” When Max looked up, Felicity had finished unbuttoning her dress and slipped the sleeves off. She stood naked to the waist, her body offering clear evidence that a bra was indeed unnecessary equipment. He stood up, wrapping one arm around her waist, cupping one erect breast in his other hand. As that rough palm slid across her left nipple, Felicity felt herself melting. When Max lifted her to his bed with hardly an effort, she knew she would enjoy bringing this big country man pleasure in a way he had never known before.
- 10 -
“It’s the world’s greatest arms bazaar, and I can’t think of a nicer pirate to be here with.”
The lady’s name was Claudette Christophe and she wore Morgan on her arm like an expensive fur as they strolled along a short row of hedges. On their right was a row of Paris chateaus, set up like cafes, with multicolored umbrellas standing over the tables. On their left, more than two hundred and thirty working combat aircraft awaited inspection. The airplanes and helicopters were strewn across acres of runway like toys left behind by a haphazard giant. Visitors wandered about in this circus atmosphere, many in the uniforms of the world’s armed forces. Bombs, missiles, and automatic weapons stood row on row within easy view of the “chalets” lining the main runway. This was the Paris Air Show. For ten days every other year it is the weaponry and war machine capital of the world.
Tall and willowy, Claudette Christophe had a dark chocolate complexion and eyes that shined like polished ebony. She was a little thinner than the American ideal but Morgan always favored tight hips and upturned breasts, voting for quality over quantity. Her hair was jet black, straight and full. Her teeth were perfect and almost too white to look at, but her smile forced you to pay attention. Her cheekbones were high, and if not for the accent, most people would have difficulty placing her. Nothing, however, sounds like the lilting melodic language that is the French the Haitians speak.
Morgan slowed his pace to watch her walk for a few steps. She wore tall white boots that flashed with each step, thanks to the slit that reached almost to the waistband of her long, sky blue skirt. Her hat and vest were also the height of Paris fashion. Claudette was made for this kind of carnival atmosphere, but Morgan reflected that the outfit she chose for that day was quite different from the jeans, black leather boots and wool sweater she had on when she met him at the airport.
She had been waiting there, the day before when he had climbed off the jet at Orly Airport just before one o’clock. The crowd was thicker than Maureen’s stew and everyone seemed to be talking at once, in a wide variety of languages. He had stepped into the waiting area, pushed his way through the forest of rudeness and fallen into her arms.
“So happy to see you, mon chere,” Claudette said. “But why are you looking so grim? Don’t you like what you see?” She backed up to display her trim figure.
“Nothing wrong I can see,” Morgan said. “I guess after Dublin, the noise level here is kind of
deafening.”
“I think I have the solution to that problem,” she whispered in his ear, “but it will cost you a kiss.”
Morgan was happy to pay the required toll in return for escape from the noise. Claudette’s solution was to take him away from Paris’ major airport as quickly as possible. They rode in her black BMW to a quiet cafe at the southern edge of Paris and enjoyed a light lunch while Morgan readjusted to the grime, the noise and the hustle of the “City of Lights.” At the same time, he was readjusting to the joy of this woman’s company.
Morgan had known Claudette since his days as a corporate bodyguard. He was still wandering in those days, but she had already found her calling as an industrial spy. They met as respectful rivals. Later they became lovers. After that, they became close friends.
After lunch they walked the three blocks to Claudette’s apartment to pull the shades for the afternoon and remind themselves what made them such perfect partners in the past. Years before Morgan had learned that Claudette gave of herself in a free and open way, more than any other woman he had ever slept with. Her body told him that this was no one-sided exchange. At a quiet moment she had once told him out loud that no man she had met could keep her in the throes of ecstasy for as long as he did. He chose to believe her, not that this alone was enough to bring him back to Paris now and again. Even more important than their physical compatibility was the fact that she was not at all possessive. This was so important because Morgan was not yet ready to settle down. These two things, sexual compatibility and lack of possessiveness, constituted a sporadic match made in heaven.
Claudette had collapsed onto his chest for the final time, panting and glistening with sweat, when she got around to asking him, “What brings you to town, lover? Are you here for the air show?”
“Basically,” he answered, pulling a sheet up over them. “I’m working on a private project. Got to meet a man and get some information.”
“Is it confidential?”
“Not really,” he said. “How about you? You freelancing the air show? Now that we’ve got the preliminaries out of the way, I ought to know what ground rules we’re playing under.”
“Don’t you trust me?” Claudette asked, nibbling his shoulder. “Actually I’ve got a pretty sweet setup this trip. First, I’m working for General Dynamics as a consultant.”
“Meaning spy, right? You attend the trade shows to gather information. You keep the company up on what the competition is doing, and who’s buying what from whom.”
“You’d be surprised what a stuffy old exec might tell a pretty girl,” she said. “You should know that I’m also being paid by the Chinese. I arrange sales between them and the U.S. Very tricky right now.”
“A glorified gunrunner,” Morgan said, stroking her back. “Just like the guy I’m here to see.”
“So why don’t you tell me, darling?” She smiled into his eyes, her body relaxing under his touch.
“No reason.” He pushed a pillow up against the headboard so he could sit up. “His name’s Raoul Goulait. He might know when a certain shipment of weapons gets shipped.”
“You’re meeting a man to find that out? A man? Have you forgotten that information is my business? I traffic in gossip for a living.” She pressed her face into his body, kissing his stomach. “And I know this man Goulait. He is a premiere smuggler with a lot of experience behind him. Whoever put you on to him is pretty deep in the underworld.”
“My new business partner.” He said, returning to rubbing Claudette’s back.
“Mmmm, that feels good. Your partner, eh? What’s his name?”
“Felicity.”
“A woman?” she rose up to stare up at him. “Well she can’t be as much fun as I am. Should I be jealous?”
“No. We don’t sleep together.”
“She must be an idiot.” Claudette nipped at his muscular stomach. “But I bet she’s the reason you’re here. Whose shipment are you trying to hijack?”
“Hijack? Did I say hijack?”
“Please,” Claudette said, her eyes rolling. “At least show me that much respect.” She bit a little harder into his chest.
“Ow! All right! Some guy named Ian O’Ryan if you must know.” His response was light and playful, but as he dropped the name, he felt his bed partner stiffen, as if an icy breeze had just blown through the room. “Oh, you know him.”
“Oh, Yes, I know him. The man’s got Papa Doc’s eyes and a black Irish heart. You should stay away from him.”
“On the contrary,” Morgan said with a grin. “I’d like to meet the man. Could you introduce us sometime?”
“You stay away from him.” Claudette’s eyes were pleading. “He goes right off the scale on my danger meter.”
“Don’t worry. I can take care of myself. Let’s forget all this for a while. Here, get dressed and we’ll go check out the show.”
This is how Morgan came to be browsing about the great arms bazaar late in the afternoon with this beautiful industrial spy on his arm. Le Bourget airport is not a major attraction most of the time. Hanging onto the northern edge of Paris, it is often overlooked by sightseers and tourists. However, it is world famous in certain government circles for one biennial event.
At General Dynamics’ plush chalet Claudette introduced him to her company contact. The corporate executive could spare them little time, as he was busy wining and dining potential customers. Representatives from more than thirty nations were browsing there and with more than a thousand exhibitors present at the show, competition was fierce. And General Dynamics had a lot of ground to make up.
Americans had shunned the previous Paris Air Show, in the wake of the 9/11 attack and the launch of the Global War on Terror. Two years ago, the Pentagon had sharply scaled back its fighter jet demonstrations and sent no officers of a higher rank than colonel. In deference to the Defense Department, American aerospace companies and military contractors cut back their presence as well. But this year Morgan had read that a hundred and twenty-five American generals and admirals were in attendance, and the civilian companies were also back in force, vying for the international defense dollars. As Morgan had learned during his mercenary career, war was a growth industry as reliable as real estate.
Tracking Claudette at a distance, he decided to mingle with the crowd. He fit right in, in navy slacks and blazer. From the buffet he selected a light red wine, some pate, a small steak, various cheeses and some unrecognized pastry. Then he moved to a quiet corner to sit and watch the high tech hustlers in action.
Claudette flowed through the milling throng like a barracuda amongst a school of carp. Her smile dripped honey and the most self assured executives melted under her gaze. How easy it must be for her, he thought, to wrest the petty secrets of industry from these poor fish. After a few minutes, she wandered over to him, carrying a diagram of some sort.
“I thought you might enjoy the show on the roof,” she said, and led him to a flight of stairs. After the short climb they saw that the terrace area at the front edge of the roof was lined with chairs, all occupied by spectators. A crowd milled about with their faces turned skyward. Even with sunglasses on it was painful to stare up into the bright, cloudless sky.
“That dot approaching in the sky is Boeing’s latest F-15 Eagle,” Claudette said. This is the demonstration flight everyone’s been waiting for. For years they’ve been in competition with the French, you know. Now they’ve got Dassault Aviation SA Rafale, which is even better than the Rafale C of a few years back. They’re the main competition, although the RAF’s fielded the Jaguar. Plus, there’s the Eurojet EJ200 going after the NATO market. But we’re not worried. When Boeing lands that fat Singapore sale, we will get our share as a subcontractor.”
Morgan checked the diagram of the choreography of the flight. Even on paper, the pilot’s ability impressed him. He watched in honest awe as the F-15 roared into vertical climbs, thundered through screaming power dives, and, with glowing afterburners, carved loops into th
e clouds. He knew for a certainty that this was the most maneuverable and sophisticated jet aircraft in the world, and that the European pilots in their brand new machines would have to raise hell to beat this show.
“There he is,” Claudette hissed in his ear, and it took him a moment to realize the significance of that statement. He tore his eyes from the sky and began scanning the crowd. His gaze settled on one figure facing away from him. This man was about six feet tall, a full two inches shorter than Morgan, yet he would weigh about the same, two hundred and ten pounds. Curly red hair hung about the man’s head and neck like a mane. His broad shoulders strained against the confines of his safari jacket. He stood with his booted feet placed wide apart. Like everyone else, he held a program, but his left hand hung in a tight fist at his side. The fist seemed to be the natural shape for his hand.
The man radiated pure animal vitality like no one Morgan had ever encountered. This had to be Ian O’Ryan, and Morgan was elated. While Felicity was invading his home, Morgan had made first contact with the enemy.
The stranger tensed for just a second as if he felt he was being stared at. Then his entire body made a slow turn and he locked eyes with Morgan. After a slight pause, Morgan broke into a bright smile and raised his glass in a nominal toast.
“You’re not going over there?” Claudette said through clenched teeth.
“Are you kidding? I’ve got to get to know this guy. Any man who can scare you…”
“He’s a killer,” Claudette whispered.
“I’m not? Besides, there must be a couple of thousand police and heavily armed private security guards on the grounds. Nobody’d start anything here.” Giving Claudette a confident wink, he moved toward his target, traveling several feet before he realized that Claudette had stayed behind. When he reached his quarry he stretched a hand forward.
“Hello. I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Morgan Stark.”
“O’Ryan,” the man replied, shaking Morgan’s hand with a power that would have made a lesser man wince. During the handshake Morgan watched his eyes. O’Ryan’s florid face was handsome, despite teeth almost too big for his mouth. His great bushy red eyebrows arched. The eyes below them were light brown with flecks of red in them, as if so much power was roiling inside him it threatened to burst out through his eyes and sear whoever they focused on.
The Orion Assignment Page 8
