“I assume that you’ll have no trouble finding something you like, Uncle Sean,” she said in a serious, schoolteacher tone. “A priest’s background in Latin should make these French phrases quite simple.”
“Young miss, you can laugh at this poor old man all you want. I’ll be happy to order if you don’t mind us eating roast beef with chocolate sauce or the like.”
Felicity ordered in smooth, casual French, and as the waitress walked away she said, “You know, this country is known for some rather unique cuisine. For example, horse meat is quite popular here.”
“I’m sure,” Sean said, squirming in his seat.
“Of course, I’m sure you’d prefer some of their richer delicacies, such as rabbit in plum sauce.”
She stopped as the waitress returned with two glasses of local beer. She had ordered Morgan’s recommendation, Stella Artois, not the more popular Jupiler, which Morgan told her was less flavorful. The beer was followed by a pair of sandwiches.
“Here you are, Uncle Sean. Coq Monsieur.”
Sean seemed delighted by the choice. “What is this you’ve ordered? It looks to be a grilled ham and cheese sandwich.”
After lunch he left the restaurant chanting “Coq Monsieur, Coq Monsieur” as if he thought if he could just remember it, he would never run the risk of getting one of those other horrible things Felicity had mentioned.
Days flew past as niece and uncle toured the countryside. Morgan commented that Felicity’s new fascination with souvenir shops and theme parks seemed out of character, but her nightly reports as she administered his massage seemed to be the outlet they both needed as the race grew near.
The final outing was to the caves at Remouchamps. Said to hold the world’s largest underground lake, the caves descend to a natural walkway that follows the water’s edge. The walls are so high, no end can be seen. Once inside, they knew the ground was above them, but the darkness gave the illusion of a starless sky.
The pair wandered alone, isolated in their private universe. The huge cave seemed to demand silence. Each turn opened to a new vista of rock shelves, all lighted to enhance their vivid colors. The air seemed alive, but not with the sharp odor of stagnant water. Instead this was the brisk smell one catches beside a rushing stream. It was comfortable and cool like all caves, a little over sixty degrees.
All this raw beauty entranced her, and from all appearances her uncle as well. They stopped on one of the ledges, staring at the vast expanse facing them.
Felicity looked up, at the beads of stone cascading from the highest edge. It’s called flowrock, but she saw it as a falling blanket of pearls. Threads of amber twined the beads like fine gold chains woven with magical delicacy. Every few feet a small cluster of quartz burst from this pearl blanket. To Felicity’s eyes they were the perfect diamond accents. She couldn’t guess what her uncle was seeing in the majesty of their surroundings until he broke the silence.
“This is why I am a priest.” His words were barely a whisper, yet they seemed to come from every corner of the cavern. Felicity studied her uncle. He was taking in every inch, absorbing every shape and color. When Felicity placed her hand over his it was a tentative yet loving gesture.
“Why’d you run off and leave me, lass?” Sean had not moved his eyes. He continued staring at the rock walls. Felicity looked out over the water lapping at the stones and breathed a long, deep sigh.
“I never left you, Uncle Sean. When I left Glendalough, you were all I took with me. I carried your laugh and your brogue and the smell of your pipe tobacco everywhere. When I did something you didn’t like, you scolded me. When I was alone and scared, you held me. Until Morgan came along, you were all I had.”
Sean looked at her now, his face showing his lack of understanding.
“I had to leave what you represented to me. Ireland, your beloved Ireland, that kills people because of their religion, made no sense to me. I watched my parents die on our way to church. Then they sent me to you. I grew up saying my prayers and doing catechisms. And I’d sit at mass on Sunday and look at the altar boys. I knew half of them were involved in the killing, one way or another, running errands for the Provos or fouling wells or something to cause trouble, and still they stood there in their white robes, looking all innocent.”
A thick anger began to well up in Felicity. The pressure of her hand increased on Sean’s. He must have felt it but still he did not speak. Instead he turned his hand to grasp hers.
“Every time you stood at the altar, you were one of them,” Felicity said. “One of the reasons my parents died. But, at one o’clock on Sunday, you were Uncle Sean again. It was just too much for me.”
Sean watched his niece’s green eyes flare, then a veil dropped and all her pain and anger went back to their safe place, deep in her mind. Sean cleared his throat.
“Felicity, I cannot change the past with a few words. If I tell you that you should have come to me, we both know those to be wasted words. Children never see that as an answer. What you’re saying makes a great deal of sense to me. I hurt you by not seeing your pain.” He turned her to him and rested his hands on her elbows. “The ignorance of the radicals killed your parents, not the Catholic Church. I’ll not apologize for my calling, or my church. I am a servant of God. I cannot condone your running away or the life you’ve led…”
He paused, staring into those eyes he remembered so well. This was the tear stained face of the little girl they brought him all those years ago. His voice caught in his throat.
“You’ve become a beautiful woman who is everything I could hope for. I admit that your relationship with Morgan confused me, but I think he’s given you an inner peace you could never have found if you’d stayed with me. I’m praying that now that we’re together again we can build a new family and bury those old ghosts. Both our ghosts.”
- 24 -
Morgan could feel the ghosts around him in the darkness. He was communing with the spirits of his predecessors, the creators of the object before him. The object of his meditations.
He sat cross-legged on the garage’s cement floor, bare-chested and barefoot. His hands rested on his knees and his eyes were closed. His breathing was slow and even.
It would have embarrassed him if anyone saw him like this. The lotus posture, like meditation itself, just never seemed a very masculine activity to him. Yet, he could not deny what he learned those long years ago in the east. That a man could unite with a weapon or an inanimate object and it made a difference. So, the night before the race, he sat meditating on the Elf motorcycle. In a sense he was feeling every inch of the machine, opening his mind, letting the spirits of the bike’s creators teach him all he should know about it. Many Westerners might think it was nonsense, but he knew it would maximize his chances for success tomorrow.
The door behind him opened without disturbing his danger instincts. He let his mind float down from the world of the ghosts to the more solid plane of reality. When he turned his head, the movement in the dark startled the newcomer.
“Pardon, monsieur,” Jacques said. “I did not know anyone was here so late. I only came by to…to say good-bye to her.” It took Morgan a moment to realize who “she” was. He stood up, and rested a hand on Jacques’ shoulder.
“I’m only going to do this once,” Morgan said, smiling. “I told you, I’m not here to take your place. After tomorrow it’s your bike again. And with my blessings. She’s a beauty and like nothing I’ve ever seen, but I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t kill me tomorrow.”
“You are an unusual American,” Jacques said, walking around to the other side of the motorcycle. “I’ve watched you during the rides and after. You realize, as few of your countrymen do, that a machine like this has a soul. A soul breathed into it by its designers, and its builders, and the mechanics who have worked on her. You should see that once you ride her in a race, she won’t be mine anymore.” He ran his hand over the gas tank with touching sensitivity.
“You needn’t worry, m
y friend.” Morgan stepped over to him as he talked. “Once you’ve had her on the track again, she’ll be all yours. And I can make sure Madame Seagrave keeps backing you until you turn your beauty into a winner. Eh?”
Morgan’s head whipped around as if he heard something. But no sound had gotten his attention. Instead he had gotten a warning signal of imminent danger. He didn’t know why, but his peculiar instincts were never to be denied or ignored. He signaled Jacques to kneel in the dark and wait.
Two long minutes later, the door edged open a few inches. A man, clad all in black including a ski mask, slid into the room. He held a small pistol in his right hand. He slid to the side, unaware of the men already in the room as far as Morgan could tell. Behind him, another intruder in identical gear entered in a crouch. He carried a tool box which he set down in front of the motorcycle. He maintained silence as he opened it and picked out a wrench.
A saboteur, Morgan thought. Did this mean O’Ryan knew who his opposition was? Or was he just putting the fix in on a few of the other riders? Maybe he was just going after the new guys, the ones he didn’t know. Either way, Morgan was sure this midnight mechanic must have been sent by O’Ryan. And if he was good enough to alter the brake pressure, the transmission or the steering damper, a rider could die finding out his bike had been readjusted.
As the wrench moved toward the machine, Jacques popped up from behind it. He had murder in his eyes but, Morgan thought he also saw a smile in the gloom.
“Ne touche pas, monsieur,” the Frenchman said, planting a solid left on the ski masked jaw. The man at the door pointed his weapon, but Morgan’s hand clamped on his wrist and jerked up. There was an ear splitting blast in the small enclosed garage and the flash blinded Morgan for a moment. The gunman got in a couple of punches to his midsection. Then the two of them tumbled to the floor, wrestling over the gun.
Morgan could hear Jacques locked in a fist fight, and the sound of running feet. At least four more men came in. These guys had brought heavy backup. Jacques was being overpowered and Morgan could not shake his enemy’s grip on his gun. He heard Jacques take a couple of hard blows. A quick look up showed two men holding the French rider, working him over.
Then the door flew open, lights came on, and a bellow like the roar of a wounded bear filled the room. Sean rushed in and smashed one of the black suited invaders in the face with a crushing right. He went down and stayed down. Two of the others released Jacques to trade punches with Sean, but the trading was not even. Sean still moved like a boxer, and each punch had telling effect. It was now four against two on that side of the room. From the look of things, just the kind of brawl Sean loved.
Just as Morgan managed to get his feet up between himself and his personal foe, Felicity appeared. She smacked a spanner against the gunman’s wrist and the pistol hit the floor. Morgan’s body snapped straight like a band of spring steel, sending the man on top of him flying the length of the room. He hit the wall like a broken doll. Before his body could even slide to the floor, Morgan was amidst the pack surrounding Sean.
Now it was three against four, and the battle wasn’t close to even. Jacques turned out to be a decent scrapper, but either Sean or Morgan would probably have been too much for the remaining four attackers. Together they had no trouble sending them scurrying, like roaches when the lights come on. The home team came to an unspoken agreement not to give chase, but stood in the doorway, breaking into uncontrolled laughter.
“Come on back when you want some more,” Sean shouted. “And bring your cowardly boss with you. We’ll be teaching him the same lesson.” Then they locked up the garage and headed back to their hotel. On their way, Sean put an arm around Morgan’s shoulders and asked again, “Are you sure you’re not just a wee bit Irish, lad?”
In Morgan’s room, Felicity got to play Florence Nightingale. There were bruised knuckles all around, plus a split French lip, a cut over an Irish eye and a powder burned black cheek. No one in the room minded these minor injuries because they knew they had sent the other men home looking a lot worse. Morgan looked up at Felicity as she pressed an icepack against his face.
“Well, we know he’s desperate and playing for keeps,” he said. “I’m a little worried about this now.”
“You need to rest for tomorrow’s race,” Felicity said. “I’ll go down and set up an alarm system around the garage. I can wire it to ring here and give any uninvited visitors a good solid electrical charge.”
“I doubt they’ll be back tonight,” Morgan said. “But I can expect some trouble during the race. And more important, I’m worried about after the race. Win or lose it won’t be over for O’Ryan.”
“We can take care of ourselves, lad,” Sean said through a grin. “Sure and they know it now.”
“Yeah, but it’s getting crowded here,” Morgan said. “You’re a hell of a scrapper, Uncle, but you’re not a professional at this. Ian O’Ryan is. There’s also Jacques now. Claudette’ll be here for the race tomorrow and Marlene Seagrave too. Too many targets. As soon as you guys are gone I’m calling in some backup from the States.”
“We’ve got somebody good on the payroll,” Felicity said.
“I’m sure we’re thinking alike. Now finish wrapping these guys up so I can get some rest. I’ve got a race to ride tomorrow and I’ll need everything I’ve got to take out that Irish assassin.”
- 25 -
From the grandstand, the motorcycles looked like toys laid out on a driveway to Felicity. They were lined up like checkers on the asphalt, so no one was right in front of or beside anyone else. The collective engine sounds formed a wave of guttural white noise. The crowd, in a gay mood, generated its own blur of sound. The colorful outfits of the audience were a disordered reflection of the riders’ leather suits in bright reds and greens and whites.
Except for the one rider in black. It was the only way to identify Morgan. All the helmets had smoked glass, making every rider a faceless ornament worn by a motorcycle. Felicity looked around at her uncle and her friends, old and new. Marlene had made it to the race, and Claudette sat beside her. They were all smiles. They sensed the tension, the anticipation in the air. But did they sense the danger?
It was a perfect day for a race. There was almost no breeze. As usual in Belgium, cloud cover prevented any glare, and there was a threat of rain later in the day. It was sixty degrees with low humidity.
Down on the track, the motorcycle between Morgan’s knees purred like a contented kitten. He inhaled the slightest smell of oil from the invisible exhaust of the field. They were ten bikes across, and six rows deep. Each rider was part of this intricate design, yet each was in his own world with his bike.
Morgan looked around, taking in the entire field of competitors. There, to his right and just behind him, stood a black Ducati. Gregorio Lavilla took the British Superbike Championship on a very similar machine in 2005. The rider would have been unmistakable even without “Widow Maker” lettered on the back of his bike, and “Orion the Hunter” gracing the side. Morgan was again impressed by the man’s stature. He was a solid mass of brute power.
If last night’s attack was random, Morgan still had the advantage of surprise. It would be foolish to give it away. But then, he considered, it’s not a duel if only one person knows about it. He waved to the other rider behind his opaque face shield and pointed at the front of his own bike.
“Look Ma, no forks,” he said, and laughed. He saw realization dawn in his target’s body language. Now he was sure that O’Ryan knew he was there. Now it was a duel.
Then the flag came down, motors snarled into life and Morgan found himself fighting to be part of a race. Running this course alone was one thing. Sharing it with sixty daredevil world class competitors was a very different experience. He remembered that the Belgian Grand Prix was where records got set.
The mass of steel settled into a line at the track’s inside edge coming into the second lap and Morgan was unaware of anyone else’s position. Only about nine
ty laps to go, he thought. He was still somewhere near the middle of the pack, which seemed almost like a miracle to him, doing one hundred eighty miles per hour on the long straightaway. He heard the crowd cheer as he passed the grandstand. He dropped it down to one hundred ten as he went into the first deep turn, laying his knee pad on the ground. He heaved the bike over and it told him right away that it was the wrong move. The handlebars tried to jump out of his hands and he almost didn’t recover control.
Less input on the handlebars, Morgan told himself, and settled back into the line of riders. Two bikes passed him on that turn. One of them had to be O’Ryan on his way to the finish line. Morgan set his sights on staying with the “widow maker” or two slots behind him at most. O’Ryan had forgotten him, he hoped, and would focus on the race. He had to believe every man on the track wanted to win.
After watching the motorcycles circle the track for fifteen minutes, Felicity was exhausted, dripping with perspiration in the cool air. She felt much of what Morgan felt. Her limbs were tense, her pulse thudding as if she were running a marathon. Did Morgan know? Probably not. His attention would have to be focused well beyond any awareness of her. He would see nothing but the track, his gauges, and the other motorcycles.
Felicity was, in fact, impressed. Everyone down there understood defensive driving, and there was not even a hint of an accident. The machines moved around one another in smooth, predictable patterns. Deep and fast was the only way to take a curve. Morgan was holding his own. She managed to track him and O’Ryan. She knew her partner’s objective. If he could, Morgan would get in front of O’Ryan and just slow down, appearing to lose control. But that knowledge did little to ease the tension. After just one hour she wondered how a man could complete, let alone win, such a race. Already time was losing all meaning.
When it hit, it hit with concussive force. She knew her partner was in great danger, and that danger was not coming from the track. Her uncle screamed, and that was when she knew her nails were digging into his hand. She tipped back her black fedora, raised Morgan’s binoculars and scanned, not the track, but the street and the field beyond. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she would know it when she saw it.
The Orion Assignment Page 17
