“Who was that spook?” Claudette asked.
Marlene stepped close to answer. “Paul used to work for my husband. He was a loyal employee who did, er, odd jobs.”
“Now he works for Stark and O’Brien,” Felicity said. “Morgan uses him for courier work, mostly. He’s totally professional and can be trusted with anything. He just saved our lives. But there will be no mention of him to these gentlemen.” Felicity pointed at the police cars pulling up and smiled as the irony hit her. “You know, all my life I’ve been grateful for this universal truth, until today.”
“And just what truth would that be?” Sean asked.
“The fact that the police, without exception, arrive on the scene too late.”
- 30 -
Despite the pounding at the back of his skull, Morgan kept his eyes closed after he regained consciousness. He wanted to get a feel for his situation before he faced it.
He was seated, naked but for his underwear. He could feel a bandage around his left thigh. The front of his body was dripping with sweat. The wetness did not give him any hope of sliding out of the wire holding his wrists to the wooden chair’s arms. In fact, the moisture caused his wrists to chafe painfully. The wires holding his ankles to the heavy chair’s front legs cut into him in the same way.
As perspiration dripped from his bowed head to his legs, he realized the heat was coming from in front of him. The smell of a wood fire told him that he was facing a fireplace. It accentuated the acrid taste in his mouth. He fought to keep his dinner in its place. Nausea, he knew, was not unusual after being knocked unconscious.
His ears brought him three messages. First, the crackling in front of him confirmed the fireplace. From his left came the sound of sea gulls, and waves crashing, but no voices. That put him on a deserted area of coastline. The only other sound in the room was the rhythmic click of boot heels. Someone was pacing in the room. It was not hard to guess who that impatient person was.
Morgan let his eyes slide open and looked up. Staring into Ian O’Ryan’s red flecked, hate filled eyes, Morgan found that not all the perspiration on his brow was due to the heat.
“At last,” O’Ryan said. “The hunter has captured his elusive quarry. It’s about time you were awake. The sun’s well up.” He stood framed by the glow of the fire behind him in riding pants and boots, bare-chested. The same matted hair that stood on his shoulders rose up again on his forearms. His body also glistened with sweat and for the first time Morgan could sense the aura of power Felicity had felt before. His florid face gleamed with rage. Morgan forced calm into his voice.
“So?” Morgan asked. “You haven’t killed me yet?”
“Killed you?” O’Ryan screeched the words, his brogue so thick Morgan could barely understand him. “You haven’t suffered yet. Not half. You cost me the race, me fortune, and me position with the people I work with, bucko. Now me backers, they’re going to think I embezzled their money. They’ll think I misused me funds. Me career’s over and me life’s in jeopardy to boot. You’re going to hurt for that, you bastard, you’re going to hurt bad. But before I hurt you, I want to know, I got to know. Why?”
“Well, it’s like this,” Morgan said, looking into those fevered eyes. “You tried to hurt a man who couldn’t really defend himself against a guy like you. And he happened to be my adopted uncle. See, that little Irish village matters to him. We never moved against you until you tried to blow him up. By the way, where are we now? There’s nothing like this in Glendalough.”
“You like me little chateau?” O’Ryan’s pacing took him near a window. “We’re on a wee island off the French coast. Rather isolated. Nice beaches. Spectacular view. And plenty of privacy. A suitable final resting place. Perhaps I’ll feed you to the lobsters.”
“I still don’t get it,” Morgan said. “You plan to talk my ears off, or torture me just for fun, or what?”
“Oh, no, this is business, lad,” O’Ryan said through a too-big grin, “and it’ll be you who’s doing the talking soon. You’re going to give me something to barter for me life with, lad. A bit of information.”
“What do I know that’s worth anything to you?”
“Did you expect me to be buying that malarkey about adopted kith and kin?” O’Ryan spat out the window. “Nobody takes a risk like that as a favor, boy. You’re working for somebody, and I mean to know who. MI-5? The American CIA? Interpol, maybe? No matter. All such outfits got secrets. You know some of them, and I’ll know them too soon.”
“Look, this is stupid,” Morgan said. “I don’t know shit that could be of use to you. Why don’t you just give me a shot of pentathol or something and satisfy yourself of the truth?”
“Why?” O’Ryan said, stepping close. “Cause the old fashioned way is so much more bloody fun.” The right cross came out of nowhere and lifted Morgan an inch off the chair. Blue spots danced in front of his eyes. O’Ryan was as strong as a draft horse. If this was today’s menu, Morgan had already had enough. He heaved himself forward with everything he had and tipped the chair maybe an inch forward. A fist like a five pound ham rocked him back. O’Ryan laughed, a big booming guffaw.
“Now that chair, that’s an antique, it is. Solid oak and must weigh as much as you do. You can’t shake it, lad. Just sit tight and take your lumps.” This time Morgan saw it coming and tensed for it. Still, that piston-like right arm pumped a blow into his stomach that forced the breath out of him.
“Anytime you’d like to talk about your bosses,” O’Ryan said, “we can quit this.”
“S’matter, ugly?” Morgan slurred through thick lips. “You tired already?” O’Ryan’s bellow of rage shook the house, and three more hammering punches sent Morgan spinning into oblivion.
- 31 -
A hot breeze whipped into the alley, flipping Felicity’s hair. She knelt to survey the damage. The inventory included a crushed larynx. One temple caved in. The big man with a broken neck. Yep, she had no doubt.
“It’s Morgan’s work all right,” she said, looking up. “It must have been one hell of a war.”
It had taken nearly five hours and three telephone calls to straighten things out with the gendarmes. She and her friends had endured a frustrating round of questioning before breaking free from the local investigators. On their way back to her car Marlene pulled her aside.
“I can get us back to where they jumped Morgan. Maybe it’s not too late.”
“It’s temping Marlene, it really is, but the locals would follow us, and if there was anything there they’d block us from seeing any evidence that might help us find him.”
“Then what do we do?” Claudette asked, joining the other two girls. “We can’t just abandon him. He could be in terrible danger. Every minute counts.”
Frustrated, Felicity turned to Claudette with a palm raised to quiet Sean on one side and Marlene on the other. “Look, I know what you’re all thinking but here’s the facts. Either he’s dead or he isn’t. And we all know that Morgan’s a damned hard fellow to kill. If I can get at the last place where Marlene saw him I might be able to trace his movements. But going there now won’t help us. I need a minute to think and we need a base of operations where we know trouble isn’t waiting for us.”
Without a second’s hesitation, Claudette said, “Father Sullivan and Mrs. Seagrave, please follow me to my car. Miss O’Brien, you bring your car around behind mine and follow me to my flat. Now, what else?”
“I think that does it right now.”
“Good,” Claudette said, raising one index finger so her nail hung in the spot exactly between her eyes and Felicity’s. “I have money, information and connections. We use what is needed and we do whatever we must. We find my man and we bring him back whole. Comprendez-vous?”
“Je comprend,” Felicity said. Then she sprinted to her car and fired it up. She new Claudette didn’t quite trust her but very much wanted to. And her mention of their resources had jogged a useful memory. She had connections, but perhaps not the r
ight ones. Felicity might. As she drove she picked up her car phone and pushed buttons for a number she shouldn’t have. The voice on the other end claimed to be the night operator for an export company.
“Are you recording?” Felicity asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Just tape it and trace it, kid. My name is Felicity O’Brien. You’ve got a field agent who was in Ireland recently who uses Mr. Grey as his cover name. He contacted me, and he could have a security problem if I don’t hear from him in the next hour or so. Pass the message.”
Grey had called her back before they reached Claudette’s apartment. He was surprised that she had known how to reach him, and more surprised that she chose to. She laid out the situation as well as she dared on an unsecured line. She asked if he could influence the Paris police to grant her even limited access to what she knew would be a crime scene soon. Grey turned out to be more influential than she expected. He called the Deuxieme Bureau, French Intelligence. When that organization reached the Parisian Gendarmerie, problems seemed to vanish. She received a phone call from a very polite inspector who made it clear that she could have anything she wanted and apologized for the trouble. Felicity asked that the scene of the kidnapping, once discovered, remain untouched until thirty minutes after dawn.
She had come on the scene at first light with Marlene, Claudette and her Uncle in tow. When she parked, Paul appeared in his signature light blue suit and opened the door. She had refused to look surprised. He stood guard at the alley’s entrance while she examined the bodies there. She wore a white linen skirt, but beneath it, a black leotard and tights showed off the perfect symmetry of her legs while she knelt by a body. She wore black, crepe soled shoes and a wide green ribbon held her hair in place. For her, this was not casual attire but rather, her working clothes.
“If Morgan was dead he’d be here,” she said, while she walked back to the sidewalk. “If he escaped, we’d have heard from him. So they must have hauled him away.”
“Yes,” Paul said, “but to where?”
Felicity did not have the answer. In the past, her psychic link with him allowed her to home in on Morgan but she was getting nothing now. He must be too far away. She would have to rely on her wits. She had nothing to go on, except maybe these corpses.
“These two are from Eire,” she said to herself.
“How can you know?” Paul asked.
“It’s obvious,” she said. “Just from their faces, the shape of their heads, their clothes. And look at this one’s shoes.” She was crouching on her haunches again. “That’s not street dirt. This is rocky soil. In fact, it looks like beach sand. It even has a salty smell. He must have been on the coast recently. A beach. Or an island. A nice, lonely island to hold his captive. Hold him, or…”
Felicity shook her head to clear it, spun and ran past Paul out of the alley. She stopped at the curb and stared into the gutter. She had to stay in control. Shadows were long and deep in the first light. But the black smear she saw on the street was not a shadow. It was tire tracks. Someone had left in such a hurry, they literally burned rubber. The marks pointed due west. A deception? No, they were in too much of a hurry to take off on an evasive course.
“So we know which way they went,” she said, again to the air.
“That’s some help,” Claudette said.
“Still with us?” Felicity asked
“I won’t leave without knowing what happened to Morgan.” Claudette’s voice was strained, almost choked off. Felicity looked at her and saw that her eyes were brimming with moisture. She was not conscious of chewing her lower lip. Felicity had to reach out to her. She stepped close.
“You do care about him, don’t you?” she said in a voice low enough that no one else could hear. Claudette’s head rolled forward, so their foreheads touched. She shivered, but refused to sniffle.
“We may not be your idea of a couple, but…” Claudette seemed lost for words for a second, then said “I guess we have an unusual relationship.”
“Yeah.” Felicity’s smile was soft. “Us too. But it’s not like yours. In a way I envy you.” During a moment of stillness, the two women stood in their own private world. Then Felicity said, “Claudette, you’re the only one here who knows France. How far is the coast from here, going west?”
“You’d go northwest to get to the ocean from here, maybe a hundred and fifty kilometers,” Claudette replied, stepping back. “Due west, it’s more like two hundred fifty kilometers to la cote D’emeraude.”
“The what?” The shock in Felicity’s voice made everyone turn to her.
“La cote D’emeraude. That’s what the locals call it,” Claudette said. “In English, the Emerald Coast.” Right then Felicity knew, with a sudden leap of intuition, that that was it. Ian O’Ryan, with his immense ego, would find the one place in this country that sounded Irish and settle in there. He would think it appropriate to kill Morgan there.
“This emerald coast, is it quiet?” Felicity asked.
“It’s fairly well populated,” Claudette answered, “but there are several small islands in the gulf of Saint Malo. They can be pretty isolated.”
“It has to be,” Felicity said. Then she looked around. Claudette, Sean, and even Marlene looked anxious for some action. They looked like a posse in an old Western movie, eager to get on the trail. Things were getting too crowded. She knew that, as O’Ryan said weeks ago, she needed to get the non-players off the green. She pulled her uncle aside. “Uncle Sean,” she said, “I need to ask a favor. I know you want to help, but I can’t do what I have to do with all these amateurs hanging about. It was a mistake bringing everyone here. Would you please get a taxi and take the girls back to Claudette’s place? I still don’t think my flat is safe.”
“Can’t the police handle this?” Sean asked. “He could kill you too.”
“Me too?” Felicity said. “Morgan’s not dead, Uncle. Oh, that’s not what you meant, is it? I can see it in your eyes.”
“No, child,” Sean looked close to tears himself, and she knew it wasn’t for Morgan. “He begged me not to tell you, but now, well, he might not be able to.”
“Uncle Sean, talk sense”
“It was when the boy and me went through O’Ryan’s newspaper clippings.” Sean looked at the street between his shoes. “We saw…them.” Felicity’s brows knit together in confusion for a second. Then it flashed into her mind as if she could read her uncle’s thoughts.
“Momma and Papa. It’s them, isn’t it?”
“They were the victims of his first bomb,” Sean said, hanging his head. Her mind rushed back into the past, then hurtled forward, back to the present danger. Her eyes bulged and she forgot to breathe until her ribs ached. Of course. Morgan must have seen the clipping. He saw it and hid it from her. He wanted to kill O’Ryan, to give her that, O’Ryan’s death, as payment for her parents’ death. Now he might be added to O’Ryan’s score instead.
She pulled her keys from her small purse and handed them to Sean. She whispered her button lock’s number combination, gave him a peck on the cheek and a fierce hug. Then she slapped Paul on the arm and sprinted for the car. He jumped in after her, but had not quite closed the door before the car squealed away from the curb.
“Where to, Miss O’Brien?” Paul asked, watching the others recede in the side mirror.
“That-a-way,” she replied. “The coast. An island maybe. I’ll know when I get there.” Paul nodded, maintaining his deadpan expression. They rode in silence, while Felicity got her bearings. She found herself on an autoroute pointed at Cherbourg. She slid into the fast lane and opened the throttle. When she tore into a long straightaway, Paul glanced at the speedometer.
“Almost three hundred kilometers per hour,” he said. “That will give us the coast in not much over an hour.”
“Surprised to see a Mercedes moving this fast?”
“A little,” Paul said. “But I’ve learned not to take things at face value. You are obviously a compet
ent driver.” He settled back and relaxed, which Felicity found oddly gratifying.
Felicity drove with grim determination and total concentration. Her knuckles were white on the wheel, her teeth bared. She was glad she was driving away from the sun, so she could keep the hammer down without fear of being blinded. At these speeds she chose not to turn on any music so they traveled in silence, which began to eat at her after a while. Instead of words coming from the passenger side she heard metal clicking and glanced over at her seat mate. Paul had his gun apart on a handkerchief on his lap, apparently cleaning it.
“You are the quietest man I’ve ever seen,” she said.
“Yes ma’am.”
“That looks a little like Morgan’s gun,” she said.
“At a quick glance I suppose,” Paul said in a neutral tone that made her observation neither a good one or a mistake. “Mister Stark carries a Browning Hi-power. I use a Sig-Sauer Model P-226. A shade lighter. Two more rounds in the magazine.”
“Uh-huh,” she nodded. “I recognize it. You know when I met you, you were pointing that thing in my face. Of course, you kept your friends from doing nasty things to me, and you dumped me out of the vehicle when you could have killed me. I appreciate all that, I guess. But still…”
“Still, no one likes having a gun pointed in their face. I understand.”
“How do you feel about working for Morgan and me?” Felicity asked.
“I respect Mister Stark. You need to work for someone you respect. And you saved my life. I owe you loyalty. It is good to work for someone you can be loyal to.”
“Do you have any family Paul?” Felicity asked, going into a racing turn and downshifting.
“None.” Paul reassembled his gun and holstered it. There was a pause, where normally Felicity would expect the other person to pick up the conversation. Then she sighed.
The Orion Assignment Page 20
