The Orion Assignment (29 page)

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 right 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 competent 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.

“Has anyone ever told you, you talk too much?” she asked. There was another pause while Paul appeared to consider her question before giving his answer.

“No.”

Felicity chuckled, and Paul even gave a small smile.

Morgan's eyes fluttered open. An incredibly loud, cheap alarm clock seemed to be going off in the back of his head. As he looked up, O'Ryan strode across the room and whipped his knuckles around in a back hand slap that twisted Morgan's neck around to the breaking point. He held his head down and watched tiny red drops hitting his bare legs. Blood was dripping from his nose and mouth. He looked up again, to see his torturer drinking from a carafe of water. When he spoke, Morgan's voice held a raspy croaking sound.

“You'd better kill me,” Morgan said, “or sure as hell I'll kill you.”

“Now, now, lad,” O'Ryan said, smiling with those oversized teeth. “You're in no position to threaten. Once you tell me who it is you work for and some of their secrets, I'll end this quick and painless.”

Morgan looked at the stairs to his right at the far end of the house. Was anyone else here? Someone he could appeal to?

“You're as stupid as you look,” Morgan said. “You and your people should be running, hiding, saving your own necks from whoever you got your money from. You can bet they're not too happy with you right now.”

“No need to be so loud, my stubborn friend.” O'Ryan stepped in and with a casual movement smashed a left hook into Morgan's ribs. “There's no one else about. Just you and me.”

Morgan glanced out the open windows on his left, and this time, O'Ryan guessed his thoughts.

“The island's small, lad, and all mine. There's no one about for miles. You might just as well talk to me and let us end this.”

“I'm talking, but you ain't listening,” Morgan said through his teeth. “I work for me.” This brought a hard right to the jaw, which Morgan rolled with as best he could.

“Haven't you learned anything you fool?” O'Ryan screamed so close to Morgan that he felt drops of spittle against his face. Morgan mouthed words. O'Ryan picked up the carafe and poured water on Morgan's upturned face. Opening his mouth, he managed to swallow enough to make his voice function again. His face burned from several small cuts. Moving his mouth hurt, but his fighting heart would not let him stay quiet.

“Sure. I've learned a lot from this, you ignorant Mick, but you don't have the guts to hear it.” That remark halted a punch in mid-swing.

“Like what, nigger?”

Morgan took a deep breath. It always came to that, didn't it?

“I'll tell you what,” Morgan said. “I learned what the difference really is between a terrorist and a mercenary.”

“Well that's obvious,” O'Ryan said. “Your kind works for money. Me and mine work for a cause.”

“Bullshit,” Morgan said. “You're only in trouble now because the money stopped. And when the money stopped, the terrorist activity stopped. The only real difference is, your kind doesn't play by any kind of rules.”

O'Ryan rocked with laughter. “Rules? What kind of rules can killers follow? We're hunters boy, the both of us. Just the same.”