Piranha Assignment (2 page)

Sandy Fox's head snapped around as Morgan pushed into the outer office. Her eyes gathered him in without betraying her feelings, but she licked her lips without thinking.

“Did I miss anything, Ms. Fox?” he asked.

“Not much, Mister Stark,” the young blond receptionist
replied. “You have a visitor, a Mark Roberts. Says he knows you from Africa.”

That brought a warm smile to Morgan's face. “Yeah. We met in Angola, late seventies. I was just a kid.”

Morgan's chest was still rising and falling from running up the stairs, and the girl pushed her glasses back up her nose for a better view. He was everything she wanted in a man: intelligent, at least two inches over six feet, and muscular. Not massive like a body builder, but with the smooth, supple muscles of a gymnast. On top of it all, he was one of the handsomest black men she had ever seen. She had heard he was a soldier of fortune before cofounding Stark & O'Brian, which only added to the mystique.

She knew he saw her as a piece of office furniture, and she hoped her boss never suspected how attractive she found him. Her eyes followed him as he left the reception area, walking past his office toward the lounge.

Morgan smiled as he stepped into the room. The man waiting on the main sofa still had an air of alertness about him and this pleased Morgan. His visitor held a cup of coffee, but sprang to his feet when Morgan entered. He was six feet tall and well built, with very black, shiny skin. His hair was conservatively cut, as was his gray suit.

“Mark,” Morgan said, reaching forward to shake hands. “Or should I say ‘Marcus Roberto'? As I recall, you were a Swahili warrior when we met.”

“Angola was a long time ago, my friend,” Roberts replied. “The jungles have moved around, but the game is the same.”

“Yeah, I understand you're doing your snoopin' and
poopin' south of the border now,” Morgan said.

“How secure is your office?”

“Didn't you notice the door?” Morgan asked, perching on a corner of the table. “It says Stark & O'Brian, Security Consultants and Crisis Management. We don't just do bodyguard work. My partner knows more about security systems than anybody I've ever met. Hell, my office is probably more secure than yours.”

“Forgive me. Agency service makes you paranoid after a while. So, can we talk? It's been a long time.”

“That it has,” Morgan said. “And I know you want something from me. But, look, I've got some things to check out. Come take a drive with me. After that, we can stop somewhere for a drink.”

“Great. We've got some catching up to do.”

The sun was dipping on their left an hour later, when the two men drove in from Los Angeles International Airport by a somewhat indirect route. Roberts watched Morgan easing his Jeep CJ gently through traffic.

“Why are we driving so slowly, if I may ask.”

“Just double checking the route,” Morgan said. “I've been contracted by the city to provide extra security for a group of Colombian politicians coming here for a conference on drug control. The city and state are in on it of course, but we're driving them in from the airport. And I picked the hotel, since we've got to cover night security. But right now I just want to verify the travel time from the plane.” Morgan glanced at his wrist as he said it.

“Nice watch. Don't remember you wearing flashy stuff like that in the old days.”

“That, my friend, is a Breitling Old Navitimer II,” Morgan said with obvious pride. “Eighteen carat gold and as accurate as anything you can wear. This little dial tallies seconds, that one minutes and the other one hours. The
scales on the outer dial and the bezel make a circular slide rule. I've figured how to convert currency with it, and change miles to kilometers. A gift from my partner for my last birthday.”

“That's what I call a partner. She the reason you gave up the mercenary business?”

“No, just wanted to settle down a little,” Morgan said. “And I'm pretty well qualified for this business. I train guards, drivers and such, and provide them to those that need them. And when I get bored I've still got a lot of independence. For instance, I've been in a couple of movies, doing some stunt work. Really, this life's not all that different from being a merc. Except I don't get shot at. Well, not as much anyway.”

“Yeah, I heard about the action this morning. Hope my heads up helped.”

“You might have saved one of my men's life,” Morgan said. “Let's grab a beer and talk about how I pay you back for that.”

Morgan was proud of himself when they walked into Patrick's. Proud that he had managed to find such a place, not far from his office. It wasn't a gay bar, or a glitter bar, or a cocktail lounge, but a real bar with quiet corners and a dart board and three televisions only the bartender could reach. The whole place carried the faint odor of stale beer, as if it had seeped into the floor and the furniture. The jukebox was rocking, but not that heavy metal stuff, and none of that alternative or underground or whatever they called it this week. Kicked back behind a pair of frothy brews, he and Roberts could relax and talk about forbidden subjects.

“I'm bureau chief down there now,” Roberts said. “When I arrived I thought Panama was a hot spot, but it wouldn't last after the turn of the century when we turned the canal over to them. But it's still a major drug trafficking hub, and with a healthy American population we have enough interests to protect.”

“Of course,” Morgan said, sipping his beer. “And if it ever did calm down, they'd find another trouble spot for you to watch over. You're too good at that stuff to be left out.”

“Thanks for nothing,” Roberts said. “This is a lifetime's worth of trouble. But I don't want to talk about me. Tell me about this partner of yours. How'd you get hooked up with her?”

Morgan took a deep breath, grinning as he shook his head. “That's a long story, pal. I never thought I could work with a woman. Business, I mean. But, she's so damned capable. And the best with locks and alarms. Unbelievable. Nothing can keep her out, or keep her locked up. Know how she got so good? Used to be a jewel thief.”

“I know,” Roberts said, lifting his glass. “I did a little checking before I called you. I was hoping to meet her.”

“She was working out of the office today,” Morgan replied, watching the Chargers on one of the screens out the corner of his eye. “She had to do a site survey. A computer warehouse in Silicon Valley. How do you keep people from walking out with computer chips? Well, she'll figure it out.”

“Yeah, I'd sure like to get a chance to talk to her.”

Morgan stop short of responding, realizing how much he had been talking. Across the table from him, Mark Roberts stared at the wall for a second, then out the window. Something was making him uncomfortable, that was for sure. Morgan got quiet, replaying their conversation in his
mind. Mark's remark about a little checking stood out.

“You mean, about something professional.” Morgan said.

“Well…yes.”

“Why don't you tell me what it's about?” Morgan asked, leaning forward and putting his glass down. Now he was all business.

“We only found her through you, old friend, but I'm reluctant to…”

“Look, let's put our cards on the table, all right?” ,” Morgan said in a low tone. “I know you don't usually deal with the European bureau. You sought out information I'd need, so you'd have something to trade with. Well, it turned out to be something useful to me, and I'm willing to play. But I assumed you wanted me for some kind of merc work. If it's Felicity you want, you'll have to ask her and she'll make her own decision. But she won't talk to you unless I give you the green light.”

“It's not merc work I need done,” Roberts said. “I'm in a funny spot and I thought she might be able to help, only…well, you know how it is.”

“No, Mark, I don't know how it is. I've never worked for the Company. At least, not on purpose.” Roberts nodded understanding, and Morgan maintained eye contact. No matter how much you might trust an individual, CIA was CIA. He knew too many mercs who the Company had used. Used in the worst sense. Even so, he recognized his debt to Roberts. He was prepared to let himself be used, but not his partner.

“Look old friend..! hope I can call you that.” Roberts tried to be ingratiating. “I've got a rather delicate problem. It's a high security situation. I've got nobody who can handle it on my team. I was stuck for an idea until your file happened to wander across my desk.”

“My file?”

“When you were in the Army, in the ‘Nam, you were assigned to the Military Assistance Command, the so called Third SOG.”

“Yeah, but I wasn't a spook, just a teenage tunnel rat.”

“Whatever. It was the seed that grew into Delta Force,” Roberts said, leaning in close.

“Oh, you mean that anti-terrorist organization the Army swears doesn't exist? They get more press than Paris Hilton.”

“Come on, Morgan,” Roberts whispered. “As the years rolled on, Delta grew stronger and stronger ties to the Company. We track everyone who's ever been in.”

“And you noticed I was working with a jewel thief these days. Is that it? So what? She's straight now. We both are.”

“We know that,” Roberts said, wiping a handkerchief across his face. “We know what happened in France last year with a certain Irish terrorist. I was hoping…” a woman was walking toward them. Both men stopped talking until she was well past. Then Roberts continued. “I was hoping to get your partner to do some work for us. Something she is uniquely skilled to handle. Of course officially we would contract with your agency and pay your usual fee for consultant work. I just had to move carefully because…”

“Because she used to be a thief?”

“No,” Roberts chuckled. “Because she's not a player. It is a security situation. I need to set a thief to catch a thief, but it's real hush-hush.”

“Well, you know I want to square accounts with you, Mark, but I'm only half of the team,” Morgan said, sitting back. “If you need Felicity you'll have to convince her she wants the job. That means none of this cryptic bullshit. She won't work blind.”

“Fair enough,” Roberts said. “When can I meet her?”

“Well, I know where she'll be in about half an hour. Let's grab a burger or something, then the three of us can get together and you can put your cards on the table.”

As they stepped into the huge underground room, Mark Roberts was about to call out to woman but Morgan shushed him and gripped his biceps to hold him back. Felicity O'Brian glanced at them to acknowledge their presence, but then appeared to tune them out. She chalked her hands, took three quick steps, and leaped to grasp the higher of the uneven parallel bars. Swinging forward, she arched her back over the lower bar, snapped up, and swung to a handstand on the top bar.

Roberts was impressed. This woman was no typical gymnast. First, she was too tall, around five feet ten, with long, shapely legs. Her bright red hair was nearly waist length, held back in a wide green band but still whipping like a cape with her fluid movements from one bar to the other. Then there was her figure. He had never seen a gymnast with a bust line worth mentioning. This one would justify an extensive discussion.

The room's contents were sufficiently impressive that they drew his attention from her gymnastic routine for a moment. Much of what he saw seemed to belie Morgan's claims that he was out of the mercenary business. A long pistol range dominated one end of the room. The other end held a mat that had to be about forty feet square, he guessed for floor exercises. Several cases on one wall contained a bewildering variety of pistols, rifles, knives, swords, and some weapons Roberts did not recognize.

“Quite an arsenal,” Roberts said.

“Collection,” Morgan said, correcting him.