The Payback Assignment (14 page)

           
“Wish I could tell you.
 
I worked blind for Stone.
 
That phone number I just called?
 
It’s in Denver, but from the time lapse and the clicks on the line, I think it’s transferred through to another city.
 
I really have no idea who I was actually doing the job for, or what kind of organization he might have at his base, or even where his base is for that matter.
 
Had no reason to want to know at the time.
 
I guess we’ll have to find out somehow.”

           
“Yeah, well, good luck,” Morgan said, getting to his feet.
 
“I figure either this guy couldn’t afford to pay you, or he’s so rich he don’t have to bother paying you.
 
If he’s small time, he’ll just drop out of sight, fade into the woodwork.
 
On the other hand, if he’s big time, he could have a dozen thugs on our necks in a couple of days.”

           
“So what do you suggest we do?”

           
“We?” Morgan said with a smile.
 
“I think you mean you.
 
You better get busy trying to trace that number.
 
I’m a mercenary, not a private eye.
 
I’ll hang around here for three days.
 
You’ve got seventy-two hours to get a line on this mystery man.
 
After that I’m splitting.
 
I’ve got my own snake to find.
 
Even though that job came through Stone too, I can probably find the client easier than the flunky.
 
I’ll get after him if your job falls through, and my trail starts south of the border.”

-13-

           
The beautiful blonde bent forward to help Adrian Seagrave out of his hot tub.
 
Ashleigh was completely naked, and bending that way put her most prominent features very close to Seagrave’s face.
 
She had no trouble concealing the distaste she felt when she was with him.
 
After all, she was a professional.
 
She had been with plenty of short, pear shaped men before, as pockmarked as this one, with the same dull lifeless eyes and brown straggly hair.

           
She had a more difficult time disguising her fear.
 
She had never been intimate with a known killer before.
 
It took a lot of money to attract her to so deadly a meal ticket, but for what this man paid for her company, she would have slept with Al Capone.
 
Besides, he had probably never killed anyone with his own hands.
 
The rich and powerful seldom do.

           
Smiling broadly, she rubbed Seagrave’s body dry with a thick terry cloth towel.
 
That done, she helped him into a black oriental silk robe and silk slippers.
 
Cool air chilled her as they left the room dedicated to the hot tub and walked across the wide contemporary study.
 
Against the far wall stood what looked like a gilt edged cage.
 
At the push of a button the cage doors opened like the petals of a golden blossom and folded into the wall.
 

           
“See you soon,” Seagrave said, pinching her hard on the rump before stepping into the cage.
 
Ashleigh watched the silent doors slide closed and the cage descend in slow motion.
 
After she heard the elevator car stop at its destination she turned to return to the bedroom.

           
Ashleigh gathered up her clothes, marveling anew at the rooms Seagrave lived in.
 
Clearly a professional decorator had furnished the place.
 
It wasn’t personalized much, at least, not in any way that showed a woman’s touch.
 
The few things that clearly were not a decorator’s work, like that awful velvet painting hanging over the crumpled bed, were definitely the man’s work.

           
Halfway through getting dressed, Ashleigh stopped to make the bed.
 
It wasn’t an impulse of neatness, but rather an act of respect.
 
When she thought about what she did to make money, she had to admit that her own life sucked.
 
Still, all things considered, she pitied the wife.

           
One floor below Seagrave’s apartment, the elevator opened.
 
When Seagrave stepped out, he faced a long conference table.
 
Beyond it, the oak paneled room widened out.
 
The room was laid out in a “T” shape, with the long table aligned with its base.
 
From Seagrave’s left, sunlight filtered in through two huge picture windows behind the head of the table.
 
Rich maroon velvet drapes muted the sun.
 

           
Seagrave turned to his right, and walked past the foot of the table into the reception area, which represented the top cross bar of the “T.”
 
A wet bar filled the side of the room to his left, and a desk and office setting took up the space on his right.
 
Seagrave focused on the two remarkable men sitting at the bar.
 
Right then, the thinner man held his gaze.

           
He was tall, perhaps six feet four or five inches, but as thin as a cattail reed.
 
His hair was stark white, yet no wrinkles showed on his face.
 
What really captured Seagrave’s attention were his eyes.
 
They were pale, almost entirely colorless, as if someone had streaked a thin blue wash across his irises.
 
Those cold orbs betrayed no emotion as he filled his companion’s glass.

           
By most measures, the other drinker was even more exceptional.
 
Not only was he an inch taller than his well dressed partner, but he seemed three times as wide.
 
He certainly tipped the scales at something over three hundred pounds, but there was hardly an ounce of fat on him.
 
His suit, although tailor made, still strained to contain his bulging muscles.
 
He had uncommonly long arms, with fingers hanging halfway to his knees.
 
His knuckles were rounded and hair ran rampant on the backs of his hands.
 
His head was the bullet shape of the pure Saxon, connected to his body by what looked like a set of braided steel cables running down his neck and out to his shoulders.
 
One glance at his simian form reminded Seagrave how he had acquired the nickname “Monk”.
 
He served his purposes, but Seagrave had more use for the thinner man right then.

           
“Give me a report, Stone,” Seagrave said, his hands in his bathrobe pockets.
 
“What’s the story on that Central American commodities deal?”

           
“It should be quite profitable,” the white haired man responded.
 
“The politician we supported in Belize will be successfully maneuvering to increase sugar prices now that he is in control of that key export in his country.
 
He is also quite influential with his opposites in other sugar producing nations.
 
He is presently instigating for an OPEC style sugar cartel across Latin America.
 
He is an excellent spokesman for the advantages of capitalist power politics, pointing to the Middle East as his example.
 
In some cases, the fate of our man’s late predecessor, this Carlos Abrigo, is being successfully used to intimidate reluctant officials.
 
Your accountants assure me that your sugar futures should more than double in value within the next eighteen months or so.”

Stone’s eyes rose to at the sight of Ashleigh stepping out of the elevator in tight, but otherwise conservative business attire.
 
She moved quietly across the floor and took her place in a seat beside the desk.
 
She drew a notebook out of a desk drawer and flipped to a blank page, ready to take notes.
 
Seagrave patted her head absently as he eased into his plush office chair.

“That’s very good,” Seagrave said, returning his attention to Stone.
 
“This is a strong first step.
 
You see, it’s all about placing the right people in the right political positions.
 
The profits from my commodities trading will finance future selective removals, and this operation will pay for itself.”

“So we will continue to influence the leadership in Belize?” Stone asked.

“Of course,” Seagrave said, smirking into Stone’s passive face.
 
“On the international stage no one is watching this peaceful little country.
 
At the end of my five-year plan I will be in complete political control of Belize.
 
Now, is there anything else I need to know regarding your side of the operation?”

“Your briefing book is on your desk,” Stone said, sipping from a brandy snifter.
 
“Although I do feel an obligation to tell you that, based upon my experience, not paying your agents in Belize was a false economy, a tactical error, sir.”

           
“Study history, Stone,” Seagrave said.
 
“More recent conquerors have been brought down by their own military than any other force.
 
I don’t want soldiers sitting around who know what I’ve done.
 
They might start thinking they deserve a piece of my success.”

“Understood,” Stone said.
 
“As your advisor it’s my job to point out anything that looks like a misjudgment.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?” Seagrave asked.
 
“They’re all dead, right?
 
When you came to work for me, at an inflated salary I might add, you gave up the option of doing things your own way.”

           
“Yes sir.”
 
Stone waited until his employer was finished scanning a business letter before speaking again.
 
“There is one other unrelated item.
 
Not really business.”

           
“Yes?”

           
“We’ve been contacted by the O’Brian girl.”
 
Stone paused, but Seagrave continued shuffling papers on his desk.
 
Considering this a good sign, Stone continued.
 
“She apparently intends to press her claim for her fee.
 
We do owe her for that little robbery she performed for us.”

           
“Robbery?” Seagrave said.
 
“Oh yes, that brooch that Marlene wanted so badly.”
 
He broke into an unexpected smile.
 
“She’s out right now, shopping for something special to wear it with when we go to that fancy ball on Saturday.”

           
“Quite,” Stone said.
 
“This woman could become, er, an inconvenience.
 
Ignoring her will not resolve this issue.
 
She will continue to make demands, perhaps drawing attention to areas of your activities that may not bear close scrutiny.
 
Will you authorize payment?
 
Or, shall I have the problem neutralized?”

           
“Yes, yes,” Seagrave muttered, waving the question off without looking up.
 
“Kill her.”

-14-

           
Morgan took a quick shower before stowing his gear in the guestroom.
 
Clothes and personal items went into the closet and dresser drawers.
 
He hated living out of a suitcase, even if he was only going to be in one place for a couple of days.
 
After refreshing the shine on his boots with a polish kit he picked up at the airport, he pulled on a blue tee shirt and black denims.
 
Out of habit his jeans were bloused, tucked into his combat boots.
 
Adding a lightweight black windbreaker, zipped up a couple of inches, he grabbed one of the gun cases and returned to the living room.
 
Felicity waited for him there, relaxed on the sofa.
 
The flat screen that had imitated a painting earlier now displayed CNBC.

           
“About time,” Felicity said with a smile.
 
“I need a long soak.”