Piranha Assignment (6 page)

“That is Rhum Barbancourt Reserve Speciale 8 Year, some of the finest rum you will ever taste,” Bastidas said. “It is made in Haiti and aged eight years in barrel. You can indeed get whatever you want in this place. Is this not the most beautiful room you have ever been in?”

“Nice,” Felicity said, wondering if this pompous fool could appreciate a tenth of the quality of the softest rum she could remember with its touch of caramel and subtle hint of honey. Bastidas was staying on the Spanish floor. The lamps were imported, hand made ceramic vases. The pale gold mohair curtains and bedspreads were hand loomed. The furniture was all hand carved sixteenth century reproductions. It chilled her that Bastidas plunked his glass
down on it without a coaster.

“So. Word reached me that you were interested in what I have to offer,” Bastidas said through his crowded smile.

“My people understand you have access to certain very rare coins,” Felicity said, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray. “In that case, my associate is carrying one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars. When I see one of the coins in question, I'm authorized to turn the money over to you. Then, we would like to establish a long term arrangement, perhaps emptying your reserve of these items. It would simplify your business to deal with one buyer, wouldn't it, instead of the several collectors you've dealt with in the past?”

While she spoke, Felicity pulled a solid silver cigarette case from her small clutch purse, opened it, and selected another cigarette.

“I am reluctant to commit myself in this manner, my dear,” Bastidas said, giving her a light with his gold lighter. “However, I rule out nothing.” He stared into her eyes in a way she may have found disconcerting if she was paying more attention.

Felicity had a highly developed sense of time, and she was ticking off seconds in her head. On this caper, timing was critical. She could only hold her cigarette case open casually for a moment.

“First things first,” she said. “I'm here because I have a certain expertise in this area. I need to see the merchandise.”

Bastidas stood with a flourish and walked to the side of the bed. He opened a small leather case and drew the gold coin from it. He handed it to Felicity with a theatrical bow. She knew in a second that it was the same coin Roberts had shown her, but she made a great production of examining it, reverse and obverse, milling marks and engraving. As
she placed it on the table between their drinks, someone knocked at the door.

“Mister Bastidas? It's me. Mark Roberts.” All eyes turned to the voice. Morgan drew his automatic to cover the door. Just as quickly, Varilla's gun was on Morgan.

It happens now, just like so many times before, Felicity thought. A subtle pressure on the cigarette case opened a narrow compartment under the single row of cigarettes. Her right hand covered the gold coin. Without a sound she dropped the duplicate she had already palmed and slid the real coin into the silver case. She snapped the case shut with a loud click. The entire switch took two tenths of a second, and then she jumped to her feet.

“I know that name. He's a fed. Our people in Central America have come up against him. What is this, a set-up?”

“Please relax, my dear,” Bastidas said, also standing. “He belongs to me.”

“Sure,” she said, her voice dripping sarcasm. “If that's the truth, get rid of him now.”

“Mister Bastidas?” Roberts called again.

“I am indisposed Mister Roberts,” Bastidas called, putting a smile in his voice. “I have company. A young lady. You understand. Please return in half an hour.” They heard footsteps moving off down the hall. Felicity stepped toward the center of the room. The two men in black holstered their weapons. All four faces in the room wore confused expressions. Felicity waited until she was within reach of the door to break the silence.

“I think our business is concluded, Mister Bastidas,” she said. “If this was a setup, your friend Roberts could have a short life span. And that coin of yours, if it's supposed to be a Brasher's doubloon, don't look too genuine to me anyway.”

“What?” Bastidas reacted as if she had just accused him
of bestiality. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“Hey, if the shoe fits…” Felicity was not destined to complete her sentence. Varilla reached for her with clawed fingers. He was inches from contact when Morgan's right cross twisted his head around. Varilla dropped like a stone. While Morgan watched the guard go down, Felicity's eyes were on Bastidas.

The man in white stood rigid, hands tensed like claws. His eyes bulged, his face reddened, and his wide flat teeth showed in a death's head sneer.

“No one may call Francisco Bastidas a liar,” he roared in a high pitched squeal. He reminded Felicity of a spoiled child having a tantrum. His anger's intensity startled, even frightened her in a way. Still, she could not resist a parting shot.

“Always a first time, ugly.” She slipped out the door with Morgan right behind her. There was a thump on the other side of the door before it was quite closed. They were downstairs and in her black Corvette ZR-1 before her tension released itself in an explosive laugh.

“Did he actually kick the door when we left?”

“Hope I don't spoil your mood, Red,” Morgan said in a darker tone, “but I know that sound. That was a knife thrown into the door behind us.”

The pencil point snapped, causing a straight line to crumble at the end. Felicity cursed under her breath. Morgan had drawn the microchip plant precisely to scale, and she was in her office drawing her security plan on a transparent overlay. Whenever you need something to be perfect, she thought, your pencil breaks.

Felicity's anger at herself was fleeting. In truth, her mind had wandered. Three weeks after meeting him, she still couldn't forget about Francisco Bastidas. Beyond his grotesque appearance, a lot about him stuck in her mind.

Leaning back in her chair, Felicity began combing her fingers through her hair. Bastidas' anger, really rage, had been as intense as any she had seen. The power of his personality overwhelmed his looks, and he became a frightening sight. His hateful glare seemed more menacing because it shot through eyes stretched out by the burns on his face.

Their CIA contact had told them the next prospective buyer spotted the doubloon as a copy, albeit a good one. That confrontation had led to physical violence, followed by a call to hotel security. After some heated discussion the incident was responsible for Bastidas being asked to leave his luxurious second home.

Yet Roberts had called Bastidas one of the greatest geniuses alive. Genius and madness did seem to travel together often, she reflected. If that intense energy she saw
behind his eyes was channeled into a positive cause, perhaps he was capable of doing great things.

But what explained the confidence game? If he had been born disfigured he might be trying to prove he could beat his betters. Why would this man who had known success all his life, even to overcoming such terrible torture, need to steal? The government supplied his every financial need. Perhaps he was not trying to prove anything. Maybe he was exacting revenge on society for some past crime, real or imagined.

A buzz from the intercom caused her reverie to vanish like wisps of Dublin mist.

“Ms. O'Brian, Mark Roberts is here to see you.”

“Send him in right away,” Felicity said. “And would you mind bringing us some coffee?” Sandy Fox was a modern liberated woman, but Felicity had made it clear that at her inflated salary, carrying coffee was not beneath her.

When Roberts walked into Felicity's office for the first time he froze for a moment. Felicity sat behind an amoebashaped desk crafted of polished steel and topped with white Italian marble. Thick white carpet gave the illusion they were standing on a cloud.

“You look surprised,” Felicity said.

“Well, it's not the Spartan setting you find in Morgan's office,” Roberts replied. “And, if you'll forgive me, I had forgotten how attractive you are. And the beads are perfect.”

Felicity smiled at his flattery. She wore a basic wool business suit in hunter green, with a string of simple wooden beads hanging around the neck of her white blouse. Simple, that is, unless you know woods. Perhaps Roberts happened to be familiar with pakkawood, she thought. Among the alternating layers of earth tone colors, each bead carried a line of green that picked up her jacket's hue. This
kind of expensive simple touch was typical of her attention to detail.

“Well don't just stand there staring,” she said. “Grab a seat and tell me what brings you here. I was just thinking about you, in an indirect way.”

“Actually, I was looking for Morgan,” Roberts said, settling into her guest chair.

“Really?” Felicity accepted the cup Fox brought in with a nod of thanks. “Business or pleasure?”

“Business I'm afraid.” Roberts sipped his coffee. Felicity thought it was an excuse to take time to think. When he looked up, it was clear he remembered the lesson of his first contact with her. The only way to deal with her was to be direct. “We have a problem that I believe Morgan can help us with. A matter of security. More in his line than yours.”

Felicity sprang to her feet with a speed that made Roberts lean back in surprise. “Now that sounds like a fine excuse to get out of this office. Morgan's on an island in Lake Superior shooting at wolves right now. I'm due for a vacation and I'd like to see him. Want to come?”

The trees surrounding them were tall evergreens, set thick and irregular, on an expanse of brown pine needles. The air was cool and crisp and good to the taste. There was a sweetness to it. All sound came in from the ocean sized lake. In those woods, silence was the rule. The ground was soft, like carpet in a luxury hotel.

“Unlike your partner, I'm not really an outdoor kind of guy,” Mark Roberts said, following Felicity down a narrow trail. She surged forward without a backward glance.

“I'm well aware that you're not wanting to be here,
Mark. But I'm telling you this is the only way we can make contact with Morgan.”

Isle Royale National Park lay only about fifteen miles from Ontario's shore, yet it was part of the state of Michigan. What appeared on a map to be an island fifty miles long, was in fact an archipelago, a series of islands so close to each other they appeared from the air to be touching. Roberts and Felicity were trekking across one of these islands looking for Morgan. They both wore hiking boots, corduroys and red chambray shirt. Even in midsummer, it was none too warm on this island at the north end of Lake Superior.

“Don't have them like this back home,” Felicity said. “Lakes I mean. It's so huge, you half expect to smell the salt spray.”

Felicity moved like a seasoned hiker, and it was all Roberts could do to keep up. Unlike him, she knew exactly where she was going. They were close enough now that she could home in on Morgan's location, one of the more pleasant side effects of their peculiar psychic link. He was not far ahead and by now he would probably know she was coming.

Felicity froze when a stone dropped at her feet. Waving Roberts to stop, she scanned the ground up ahead. She spotted Morgan stretched in a prone position about a hundred yards ahead. He was hard to pick out in camouflage fatigues, holding a rifle of a type she did not recognize. Her eyes followed the line of his aim up a slight rise. There at the top stood a lone target.

She knew from her reading that it was called a gray wolf, but it looked like a dark tawny brown to Felicity. The black fur on his back made him look very much like a big German Shepherd. His long bushy tail moved slowly from side to side. He looked straight at her and she could feel the
animal assessing her. Roberts reached out and touched her shoulder.

“Shouldn't we get out of here?”

“Don't worry. That wolf won't get any closer.” Even as Felicity spoke, they heard a sound like a woman coughing and politely covering it with her hand. The wolf jumped and ran off. Roberts sighed with relief. Felicity was puzzled.

“Welcome to paradise,” Morgan said as he walked toward the two newcomers. “You guys hungry? I'm heading for my camp. Pulled some pretty trout out of the lake this morning. Something wrong, Red? You're looking at me kind of funny.”

“Just not used to seeing you miss.”

“Oh, don't worry,” Morgan said, handing her his rifle. “I hit him, all right.”