The Orion Assignment (12 page)

Tracking Claudette at a distance, he decided to
mingle with the crowd. He fit right in, in navy slacks and blazer. From the buffet he selected a light red wine, some pate, a small steak, various cheeses and some unrecognized pastry. Then he moved to a quiet corner to sit and watch the high tech hustlers in action.

Claudette flowed through the milling throng like a barracuda amongst a school of carp. Her smile dripped honey and the most self assured executives melted under her gaze. How easy it must be for her, he thought, to wrest the petty secrets of industry from these poor fish. After a few minutes, she wandered over to him, carrying a diagram of some sort.

“I thought you might enjoy the show on the roof,” she said, and led him to a flight of stairs. After the short climb they saw that the terrace area at the front edge of the roof was lined with chairs, all occupied by spectators. A crowd milled about with their faces turned skyward. Even with sunglasses on it was painful to stare up into the bright, cloudless sky.

“That dot approaching in the sky is Boeing's latest F-15 Eagle,” Claudette said. This is the demonstration flight everyone's been waiting for. For years they've been in competition with the French, you know. Now they've got Dassault Aviation SA Rafale, which is even better than the Rafale C of a few years back. They're the main competition, although the RAF's fielded the Jaguar. Plus, there's the Eurojet EJ200 going after the NATO market. But we're not worried. When Boeing lands that fat Singapore sale, we will get our share as a subcontractor.”

Morgan checked the diagram of the choreography of the flight. Even on paper, the pilot's ability impressed him. He watched in honest awe as the F-15 roared into vertical climbs, thundered through screaming power dives, and, with glowing afterburners, carved loops into the clouds. He knew for a certainty that this was the most maneuverable and sophisticated jet aircraft in the world, and that the European pilots in their brand new
machines would have to raise hell to beat this show.

“There he is,” Claudette hissed in his ear, and it took him a moment to realize the significance of that statement. He tore his eyes from the sky and began scanning the crowd. His gaze settled on one figure facing away from him. This man was about six feet tall, a full two inches shorter than Morgan, yet he would weigh about the same, two hundred and ten pounds. Curly red hair hung about the man's head and neck like a mane. His broad shoulders strained against the confines of his safari jacket. He stood with his booted feet placed wide apart. Like everyone else, he held a program, but his left hand hung in a tight fist at his side. The fist seemed to be the natural shape for his hand.

The man radiated pure animal vitality like no one Morgan had ever encountered. This had to be Ian O'Ryan, and Morgan was elated. While Felicity was invading his home, Morgan had made first contact with the enemy.

The stranger tensed for just a second as if he felt he was being stared at. Then his entire body made a slow turn and he locked eyes with Morgan. After a slight pause, Morgan broke into a bright smile and raised his glass in a nominal toast.

“You're not going over there?” Claudette said through clenched teeth.

“Are you kidding? I've got to get to know this guy. Any man who can scare you…”

“He's a killer,” Claudette whispered.

“I'm not? Besides, there must be a couple of thousand police and heavily armed private security guards on the grounds. Nobody'd start anything here.” Giving Claudette a confident wink, he moved toward his target, traveling several feet before he realized that Claudette had stayed behind. When he reached his quarry he stretched a hand forward.

“Hello. I don't believe we've met. I'm Morgan Stark.”

“O'Ryan,” the man replied, shaking Morgan's hand
with a power that would have made a lesser man wince. During the handshake Morgan watched his eyes. O'Ryan's florid face was handsome, despite teeth almost too big for his mouth. His great bushy red eyebrows arched. The eyes below them were light brown with flecks of red in them, as if so much power was roiling inside him it threatened to burst out through his eyes and sear whoever they focused on.

“You seem to be able to appreciate these jets,” Morgan said, keeping his voice casual as he freed his hand. “Who do you represent?”

“Just here as a tourist, I am,” O'Ryan replied in a thick lazy brogue. “And although the big planes and missiles are fascinating, I find hand to hand weapons more interesting.”

“Really? I was here looking for some personal things myself. Maybe you could help me.” O'Ryan looked as if he was about to ask why, then reconsidered. Morgan hoped the man's curiosity was peaked. With luck he would play along long enough to find out what this crazy black man was up to.

“Why don't we head over to the pavilions?” O'Ryan said. “Some of the small arms companies have booths set up. You might see something there that interests you.”

From the corner of his eye, Morgan saw the horror on Claudette's face as he and Ian O'Ryan walked out of the chalet like old friends. They entered the nearest pavilion, a huge hangar converted into a showroom, holding three or four dozen exhibitors. O'Ryan steered him to the noisiest spot he could find. One small American company advertised its machine guns using a bank of a dozen television screens. Each video monitor extoled this one submachine gun's virtues. It was a loud, blasting assault on the senses and in the middle of this, O'Ryan turned to poke Morgan's chest.

“I'll bet you're licensed to carry weapons, even here,” O'Ryan said. Denial seemed pointless to Morgan,
considering the trouble he had gone through to get authorization through his security business. He replied with a nod.

“Let me take a look at what you're carrying now,” O'Ryan said. Still smiling, Morgan moved close and handed over his nine millimeter Browning Hi-power and the Randall Number One fighting knife with its seven inch blade. O'Ryan looked at the pistol's walnut grip and checked its weight and balance. He rubbed the knife's black micarta handle, admired the brass guard and tested its shaving-sharp edge. Then he handed them back with appropriate respect.

“These are very personal weapons indeed,” O'Ryan said. “They say a great deal about you. I would assume you've used them both for their ultimate purpose.”

“I'm a soldier by profession,” Morgan said. “An independent operative. I had the feeling you might be, too.”

“Me?” O'Ryan chuckled. He was the only man Morgan had ever met who had a sinister laugh. He heard them on television and in movies all the time, but this was his first sinister laugh in real life. “I'm just a hunter,” O'Ryan said. “And a racer. In fact, I'll be competing in the Belgian Grand Prix in a couple of weeks.”

“Race cars?”

“Oh no, my friend,” O'Ryan said. “Motorcycles. Nothing between me and the wind. Or the other riders, eh?”

“I see you're the type who likes to handle things up close and personal. Did you come to the show looking for new weapons? I'm after a sniper rifle myself.”

“As I said, I'm a hunter,” O'Ryan reminded him. “I'm looking for hunting arms. Such as…ah, here we are.” O'Ryan had led them to the Mossberg exhibit and was reaching for one of the demonstrator models. The representative seemed to recognize him and smiled as the Irishman picked up the sleek weapon at hand.

“This one is a beauty. Mossberg's model 712 Auto. Four shot, twelve gage, twenty-eight inch barrel, seven and a half pounds weight.”

“You've done your homework,” Morgan said, picking up another display model. “Light, fast, easy handling. What about the elevator?”

Sighting down the barrel, O'Ryan looked up, apparently surprised by the question. “Stainless steel. I see you know something of shotguns. Why did you attach yourself to me, Mister Stark?”

“You stood out in the crowd and I liked your style. Two extractors?”

“Yes,” O'Ryan answered, keeping his eyes on the gun. “I don't believe you. I think maybe you're connected with the British police.”

“Right. I bet I sure look British. And sound like it. Can you hit anything with that thing?”

“I'm the best there is with this type of long arm,” O'Ryan said, swinging the gun as if he were tracking a flock of geese.

“Well, maybe second best.” Morgan turned to aim a conspiratorial wink toward the demonstrator.

“Really?” O'Ryan lowered his weapon to lock eyes with Morgan. “And who's to be my better, eh? You?”

Morgan's answer was a nod and a smile.

“You're an arrogant man, my friend. You claim to be American? Well than I have one thousand American dollars in my pocket that says I cannot be defeated.”

“Yeah?” Morgan asked. “And how we going to prove it? A showdown at twenty paces?”

“Well, there's the rapid fire demonstration this evening,” the Mossberg representative said, speaking for the first time. “The Scots have set up a Starshot competition out on the center field. Should be great fun to watch, and you can sign up for it right here, if you wish.”

“That sounds to me like a lovely way to spend the evening,” O'Ryan said. A smile split his face, flashing
big, even teeth.

“Wouldn't miss it.” Morgan maintained his jovial tone, but he was not pleased that it proved so easy and convenient for O'Ryan to call his bluff.

“I'll need two of these,” O'Ryan told the company representative. “One for my friend here and one for me. On my bill, please. We must be equally equipped if I am to teach this arrogant cobber how to shoot.”

At two a.m., Felicity O'Brien's eyes popped open. Her internal alarm clock never failed her, so even without Max Grogan's heavy snoring she would have been awake.

Lifting her head from the thatch of hair on his chest, she turned a smile on her bed partner. He had been passionate, there was no doubting that. Or perhaps earnest was a better word. He had tried his best. She had not reached her ultimate release in her first rough encounter with Max, but she made all the appropriate noises and gave him all she could. A couple of hours later they tried again and this time she found the satisfaction she had missed before. Max showed genuine delight at having brought her real pleasure.

Overall, however, she had to admit to herself that, like the local food, she now found the attentions of the local men rather bland. Not enough spice. Her sexual palate had been cultivated on more continental cuisine. She just had to face the unfortunate fact that Irish lovers resembled their diet, mainly meat and potatoes. In contrast, French lovers seemed like pastry men to her. They were light, and sweet, and a little flaky. And Germans she found to be like their chocolate cakes, heavy, thick, and dense. Ireland, perhaps significantly, did not have its own hallmark dessert. Men like Max were potato men, solid, filling, but somehow lacking in flavor.

But, hell, his intentions were good. She had come to really like the big lug. Still, she had a job to do.

She slid out of bed and dressed in seconds. Her first stop would be the bathroom for her camera. Then she would search the palatial building, room by room if necessary, for O'Ryan's private office.

The wing she was in appeared to be the servants' sleeping quarters. She started searching on the ground floor in the center of the house and got luckier than she expected. Right there, off the main dining hall, she found her objective.

Even in the dark she realized she was stepping from one world into another. The dining room was done in baroque decor, all white and gold, with a harpsichord in one corner. Stucco work imitating the Georgian period decorated the upper part of the walls. In harsh contrast, the office beside it was cold and contemporary in steel and black enamel.

The lock on the door was a joke to someone with her ability. The lack of security might have meant that O'Ryan had complete trust in all his employees. More likely it implied that no cash or negotiable securities were kept here. All the better, in her mind. What she wanted would interest few local thieves.

As further evidence of his confidence, a small combination safe stood in plain sight against the wall behind the desk. Opening it required no more than for her to put her ear to the lock while turning the knob. It was child's play for a woman of her skills. Inside she found a large photo album, bank records and a small stack of pound notes which she assumed was his petty cash fund. After taking a second to memorize the position of the contents, she removed everything but the cash. It would not do to take anything O'Ryan would miss. Such a discovery might not go well for Max.

What she was after would be in the bank records. Not the book of personal checks, which would be missed, but some deposit slips. Almost no one keeps track of them. Like in the States, these were preprinted but not numbered. Two from each account would do. O'Ryan kept his money in three different banks. One was local, one in Northern Ireland, and the other in London.

Notes lay scattered across his desk. Felicity thought some of them could prove important. She closed the
door and turned on the desk lamp. Yes, these notes mentioned an important shipment. Maybe useless, but it would be better to be safe. She took the camera from its pack and clicked over every piece of paper on the desk. Each sheet she moved she replaced in its exact original position.

The bank records and check books went back into the safe with equal care. Felicity lifted the photo album to replace it also but, as an afterthought, she took a look inside. The only pictures inside were on thin yellowed paper. O'Ryan was using the album as a newspaper clippings scrapbook. If they were what she suspected, they might be good incriminating leverage if things got sticky later. She photographed the first few pages, and then replaced the album in the safe. She slipped her camera back into the portfolio with the deposit slips. Once her carrying pack was on her thigh, she slipped out of the room, locking the door behind her.