The Orion Assignment (11 page)

“What more could you ask for?” Felicity said. She smiled, but a quick look around told her there was a lot more a loyal employee could ask for. Max's room was about twelve by eighteen feet, furnished with the simplest appointments. The floor was bare boards. There was a basic wooden bed, a dresser, a tall wooden wardrobe, a desk and a coat rack by the door. She walked in, looked around, and faced Max with a big smile.

“Maxie, is there a place where a girl could, eh, freshen up?”

“By gosh, I didn't think,” Grogan said, blushing. “There's a W.C. two doors down on this side. You go on and I'll ring for tea.” He reached for the simple phone on his simple desk.

Max's description proved to be most inadequate. This was no “water closet.” It was bigger than the “slave's quarters” Grogan lived in. The toilet and bidet occupied
their own little alcove to one side. The marble counter held two large sinks. The mirror above them was at least three feet high and six feet long. She felt no need to explore the sunken tub at the far end.

The real reason for the trip, aside from “freshening up”, was for Felicity to unstrap the tiny camera from her inner thigh. The camera, no bigger than a pack of chewing gum, traveled in a black leather case about the size of a checkbook. Two Velcro bands held the case to her long leg, just below her crotch.

The case also held a tiny set of lock picks and a length of piano wire. With the picks she could enter any door. She would use the wire if she went upstairs. She always strung a wire across the stairs when she went up them during a burglary. If a residence guard surprised her, she could flee down the stairs, remembering her trip wire's location. She could count on her pursuer to fall, giving her time to escape.

She concealed the small case in a cabinet under the sink. Then she prepared herself to go back to the small room and enjoy the evening.

She opened Grogan's door ten minutes after she left. The lights were out, but three candles glowed on the desk. They surrounded a silver tea service and a small vase of wild flowers. Max, sitting on the bed, motioned her toward the chair. Her heart went out to him, seeing that he was trying his best, and she had no desire to make it difficult for him.

“Oh Max, it's so pretty,” she said, in a low, seductive tone. “And so formal. I'm flattered, I really am, but I'm a big girl. We both know I didn't come all the way out here for tea. You look as if you don't know what to do next. You big lug, don't try to tell me I'm the first lass you've had in here.”

Max looked down at his hands hanging between his knees. “Oh, I've had lasses here. Lasses. Women. Dollies. But never a lady before. I mean, you're not even drunk.”

She knew this was a time to stifle the laughter trying to burst out of her. She stepped forward, stood over him and said, “Maybe I can help.” When Max looked up, Felicity had finished unbuttoning her dress and slipped the sleeves off. She stood naked to the waist, her body offering clear evidence that a bra was indeed unnecessary equipment. He stood up, wrapping one arm around her waist, cupping one erect breast in his other hand. As that rough palm slid across her left nipple, Felicity felt herself melting. When Max lifted her to his bed with hardly an effort, she knew she would enjoy bringing this big country man pleasure in a way he had never known before.

“It's the world's greatest arms bazaar, and I can't think of a nicer pirate to be here with.”

The lady's name was Claudette Christophe and she wore Morgan on her arm like an expensive fur as they strolled along a short row of hedges. On their right was a row of Paris chateaus, set up like cafes, with multicolored umbrellas standing over the tables. On their left, more than two hundred and thirty working combat aircraft awaited inspection. The airplanes and helicopters were strewn across acres of runway like toys left behind by a haphazard giant. Visitors wandered about in this circus atmosphere, many in the uniforms of the world's armed forces. Bombs, missiles, and automatic weapons stood row on row within easy view of the “chalets” lining the main runway. This was the Paris Air Show. For ten days every other year it is the weaponry and war machine capital of the world.

Tall and willowy, Claudette Christophe had a dark chocolate complexion and eyes that shined like polished ebony. She was a little thinner than the American ideal but Morgan always favored tight hips and upturned breasts, voting for quality over quantity. Her hair was jet black, straight and full. Her teeth were perfect and almost too white to look at, but her smile forced you to pay attention. Her cheekbones were high, and if not for the accent, most people would have difficulty placing her. Nothing, however, sounds like the lilting melodic language that is the French the Haitians speak.

Morgan slowed his pace to watch her walk for a few steps. She wore tall white boots that flashed with each step, thanks to the slit that reached almost to the waistband of her long, sky blue skirt. Her hat and vest
were also the height of Paris fashion. Claudette was made for this kind of carnival atmosphere, but Morgan reflected that the outfit she chose for that day was quite different from the jeans, black leather boots and wool sweater she had on when she met him at the airport.

She had been waiting there, the day before when he had climbed off the jet at Orly Airport just before one o'clock. The crowd was thicker than Maureen's stew and everyone seemed to be talking at once, in a wide variety of languages. He had stepped into the waiting area, pushed his way through the forest of rudeness and fallen into her arms.

“So happy to see you, mon chere,” Claudette said. “But why are you looking so grim? Don't you like what you see?” She backed up to display her trim figure.

“Nothing wrong I can see,” Morgan said. “I guess after Dublin, the noise level here is kind of deafening.”

“I think I have the solution to that problem,” she whispered in his ear, “but it will cost you a kiss.”

Morgan was happy to pay the required toll in return for escape from the noise. Claudette's solution was to take him away from Paris' major airport as quickly as possible. They rode in her black BMW to a quiet cafe at the southern edge of Paris and enjoyed a light lunch while Morgan readjusted to the grime, the noise and the hustle of the “City of Lights.” At the same time, he was readjusting to the joy of this woman's company.

Morgan had known Claudette since his days as a corporate bodyguard. He was still wandering in those days, but she had already found her calling as an industrial spy. They met as respectful rivals. Later they became lovers. After that, they became close friends.

After lunch they walked the three blocks to Claudette's apartment to pull the shades for the afternoon and remind themselves what made them such perfect partners in the past. Years before Morgan had learned that Claudette gave of herself in a free and open way, more than any other woman he had ever
slept with. Her body told him that this was no one-sided exchange. At a quiet moment she had once told him out loud that no man she had met could keep her in the throes of ecstasy for as long as he did. He chose to believe her, not that this alone was enough to bring him back to Paris now and again. Even more important than their physical compatibility was the fact that she was not at all possessive. This was so important because Morgan was not yet ready to settle down. These two things, sexual compatibility and lack of possessiveness, constituted a sporadic match made in heaven.

Claudette had collapsed onto his chest for the final time, panting and glistening with sweat, when she got around to asking him, “What brings you to town, lover? Are you here for the air show?”

“Basically,” he answered, pulling a sheet up over them. “I'm working on a private project. Got to meet a man and get some information.”

“Is it confidential?”

“Not really,” he said. “How about you? You freelancing the air show? Now that we've got the preliminaries out of the way, I ought to know what ground rules we're playing under.”

“Don't you trust me?” Claudette asked, nibbling his shoulder. “Actually I've got a pretty sweet setup this trip. First, I'm working for General Dynamics as a consultant.”

“Meaning spy, right? You attend the trade shows to gather information. You keep the company up on what the competition is doing, and who's buying what from whom.”

“You'd be surprised what a stuffy old exec might tell a pretty girl,” she said. “You should know that I'm also being paid by the Chinese. I arrange sales between them and the U.S. Very tricky right now.”

“A glorified gunrunner,” Morgan said, stroking her back. “Just like the guy I'm here to see.”

“So why don't you tell me, darling?” She smiled into
his eyes, her body relaxing under his touch.

“No reason.” He pushed a pillow up against the headboard so he could sit up. “His name's Raoul Goulait. He might know when a certain shipment of weapons gets shipped.”

“You're meeting a man to find that out? A man? Have you forgotten that information is my business? I traffic in gossip for a living.” She pressed her face into his body, kissing his stomach. “And I know this man Goulait. He is a premiere smuggler with a lot of experience behind him. Whoever put you on to him is pretty deep in the underworld.”

“My new business partner.” He said, returning to rubbing Claudette's back.

“Mmmm, that feels good. Your partner, eh? What's his name?”

“Felicity.”

“A woman?” she rose up to stare up at him. “Well she can't be as much fun as I am. Should I be jealous?”

“No. We don't sleep together.”

“She must be an idiot.” Claudette nipped at his muscular stomach. “But I bet she's the reason you're here. Whose shipment are you trying to hijack?”

“Hijack? Did I say hijack?”

“Please,” Claudette said, her eyes rolling. “At least show me that much respect.” She bit a little harder into his chest.

“Ow! All right! Some guy named Ian O'Ryan if you must know.” His response was light and playful, but as he dropped the name, he felt his bed partner stiffen, as if an icy breeze had just blown through the room. “Oh, you know him.”

“Oh, Yes, I know him. The man's got Papa Doc's eyes and a black Irish heart. You should stay away from him.”

“On the contrary,” Morgan said with a grin. “I'd like to meet the man. Could you introduce us sometime?”

“You stay away from him.” Claudette's eyes were
pleading. “He goes right off the scale on my danger meter.”

“Don't worry. I can take care of myself. Let's forget all this for a while. Here, get dressed and we'll go check out the show.”

This is how Morgan came to be browsing about the great arms bazaar late in the afternoon with this beautiful industrial spy on his arm. Le Bourget airport is not a major attraction most of the time. Hanging onto the northern edge of Paris, it is often overlooked by sightseers and tourists. However, it is world famous in certain government circles for one biennial event.

At General Dynamics' plush chalet Claudette introduced him to her company contact. The corporate executive could spare them little time, as he was busy wining and dining potential customers. Representatives from more than thirty nations were browsing there and with more than a thousand exhibitors present at the show, competition was fierce. And General Dynamics had a lot of ground to make up.

Americans had shunned the previous Paris Air Show, in the wake of the 9/11 attack and the launch of the Global War on Terror. Two years ago, the Pentagon had sharply scaled back its fighter jet demonstrations and sent no officers of a higher rank than colonel. In deference to the Defense Department, American aerospace companies and military contractors cut back their presence as well. But this year Morgan had read that a hundred and twenty-five American generals and admirals were in attendance, and the civilian companies were also back in force, vying for the international defense dollars. As Morgan had learned during his mercenary career, war was a growth industry as reliable as real estate.