The Orion Assignment (15 page)

“Street of the cat who fishes?” he wondered out loud. His French was rudimentary, but he was pretty sure that was it. Or maybe it was the cat that was a fish. It hardly mattered. He walked on, knowing a street this narrow would be crossed by an even narrower alley, where he hoped to find some privacy.

Morgan could almost feel his followers' arrogant overconfidence as he stepped into the dead end passageway. Near the alley's end wall, he turned to
face them. Two large lineman types in cheap sweat shirts and slacks stepped forward. Clearly one was East European. His facial structure and hair were unmistakable. The other brute was pure Irish. They moved in unison, with smooth coordination that gave silent evidence that they were not amateurs at this part. He smiled at them, looking forward to a nice, quiet fight to release his tension.

“You boys don't know what you're getting into,” he said with a grin, slipping into a relaxed ready stance.

“We know who you are,” a voice said from behind the two bruisers. The third man stepped forward between them, pointing a small automatic pistol at Morgan's midsection. “We know who you are and what you're capable of. Nonetheless, we're quite capable of teaching you some manners. You should be more careful who you mess around with. Our boss is not the forgiving type. Now you hold still, and these gentlemen will administer the lesson.”

No mention of O'Ryan's name was necessary for Morgan to know who sent these men. He was a little surprised, though. He didn't think the Irishman would be this vindictive.

It seemed unlikely that he could draw his own gun before this shooter blasted him. He doubted he could beat the two punchers very badly before number three ended it with a bullet. Any way you looked at it, it looked like a bad time. Still, he braced for a battle. Maybe he could flip one of the punchers into the gunman and give himself time to get a weapon into play.

While Morgan was formulating a battle plan, he saw a well-dressed man step from the shadows and slide a four inch steel blade into the gunman's kidney. Before the dropped gun clattered to the ground, Morgan leaped right and stamped out with his left heel. Puncher number one yelped and dropped to the asphalt, clutching at his dislocated knee. Number two leaned into a hard right cross but Morgan blocked it cross body,
grabbing the puncher's wrist with his own left hand. Morgan pulled the arm forward and the rest of the bulky attacker followed. The big Irishman found himself spun into the wall face first. Then Morgan snapped the arm back, and swept his enemy's feet out from under him. His skull hit the ground with a sickening crunch.

Number one was up on his one good knee just in time for Morgan to deliver a swinging back fist, followed by a straight jab that put the fighter to sleep.

Morgan wasn't even breathing hard. The action had lasted no more than seven seconds.

“Very impressive,” the newcomer said. “On the evidence, I'd say you must indeed be Morgan Stark. You are everything she said you were.”

He was a tall man but reed thin. He had a long aquiline nose and thin ascetic lips. His easy smile added to an overall impression of classic handsomeness. The knife he wiped on the dead man's shirt was a classic Laguiole, with leg shaped handle and Turkish clip blade. It is the knife of France, subtle and feminine, just as the Bowie is the classic American knife. Only a Frenchman would carry this knife, although this man's accent was almost unnoticeable when he spoke English.

“You have to be Raoul Goulait,” Morgan said. “I'd like to know how long you've been following me, but first, shouldn't we be moving on. That is a corpse in front of you.”

“So? This is Paris. Who will say anything? I only caught sight of you a few minutes ago. I didn't find you at the air show tonight, but I did meet the young woman, Claudette.”

“Ahh, Felicity must have described both of us to you.”

“Yes,” Raoul said. “I was to meet you at Claudette's flat, but I arrived too late. She thought if you hadn't waited for her to come home, you might be wandering in this neighborhood. I probably spotted you soon after these cretins did. I don't imagine you needed help with
this crew, but it seemed the gracious thing to do.”

“I appreciate it.” Morgan extended his hand.

“Is there anything else I can do to help?” Raoul reached to share a firm handshake with his new ally.

“Well, you could steer me to a place that serves a good cup of coffee at this hour. Then we can talk about friends we have in common and illegal gun shipments you might know about. I'll even pay.”

“For the coffee perhaps,” Raoul said, leading the way out of the alley. “The information is a courtesy for the lovely friend we have in common.”

Chastity Brady had been head teller of this branch of the Bank of Ireland for only two years, but she had spent five years working her way up through the ranks. Her instinct for customers moved her to the window the distinguished gentleman was approaching. To her eye it was obvious that he had spent a pretty penny on that gray suit. He was clean-shaven but for a large bushy mustache. This was a successful man, that was obvious to her, so she knew that he may be there to take care of a major transaction.

Sean didn't feel like a particular success at that moment. He was most uncomfortable with his part in this scheme, but none of his nervousness showed. Felicity had spent the week convincing him to do it and all weekend coaching him on how. He had to appear confident, even a little arrogant. Her whole plan depended on his not being questioned. It was to be a bank robbery without firing a shot.

“I have a deposit to make,” Sean said. “A deposit into a Mister Ian O'Ryan's account.” Don't smile, he told himself
. Remember the timing. Felicity said timing was important.

The teller accepted the preprinted deposit slip. Sean gave her time to read the deposit. Fifteen thousand Irish pounds. She must be expecting an important business transaction. Then he slid the check across the counter.

Chastity gave the customer a warm smile before
looking down at the check. First she saw that Mister O'Ryan was dealing with an American company. Then she noticed that the check was drawn on a local branch of the Allied Irish Bank. Only then did she notice the amount of the check, forty-five thousand pounds. She patted the bun on the back of her head, pushed her bifocals to the top of the bridge of her nose and craned her head upward to again face her customer.

“Sir, this deposit would require a substantial refund.”

“Mister O'Ryan assured my office that this was a substantial institution,” Sean said. “Don't you have the funds available?”

“Of course, sir. But, well, was Mister O'Ryan aware of this?”

“Of course,” Sean said. He didn't sound angry, just annoyed and a little disappointed. “When he gave me the deposit slip to avoid any confusion, I was skeptical. He had advised us to move our U.K. business to your bank because you are larger than our present bank.”

“Well naturally, sir. We do much more commercial business than…”

“But we don't have every normal transaction questioned at our current institution.” Sean leaned into the teller's cage and adopted the frown he wore when a parishioner confessed to a mortal sin. “No one questions my business associates' checks when I make previous arrangements with them. I was considering following Mister O'Ryan's advice. I must also consider advising him to move his accounts to my smaller but more personal bank.” He held her eyes and did not move
.

To fill time, Chastity checked her cash drawer. As head teller, she was as responsible as any bank officer for the institution's success. She knew this was a common enough transaction in every way except the
amounts involved. And it was still before noon on Monday, the busiest day for most businessmen. Mister O'Ryan may have intended to call the bank, but instead got involved in some other business. He was an important customer. It would not go well for her if she cost the bank his business. And if she failed to take this deposit he might indeed move his accounts.

Her mind on her career, she looked down at the check again.

“There's no problem, sir,” she said. While Sean watched, she did the necessary stamping and initialing of documents. She was too important to need anyone's approval.

Sean controlled his breathing while he placed his small valise on the counter. The teller counted his change into it. Felicity had rehearsed him well that morning. Trembling inside, he replayed her words in his mind.
Don't let your eyes bulge or your jaw drop
, she had said.
Remember, you are accustomed to handling large sums of money. Give the woman a small scale thank you when it's over. Leave at a slow, even pace. Remember, you are not running away.

As Sean stepped out into the sunlight his car pulled up in front of him. He got in next to his niece who hit the gas as soon as he was seated. Then he heaved a monstrous, shuddering sigh.

“I knew you could do it, Uncle Sean,” Felicity said as she pulled the bulky beast of a car out into the light traffic.

“Aye, lass, and I hope the good Lord can forgive me. Lying and stealing in the same day.”

“I think the good Lord understands the concept of the greater good,” Morgan said from the back seat. “We know O'Ryan was paid most of that money to commit murder and arson, or worse, to corrupt other young men
to do it. How can anything you do to prevent that be a sin?”

“That's something I'll have to pray on long and hard,” Sean replied. He looked to his right, offering Felicity a grim, troubled expression.

But Felicity was unimpressed. She realized he had already reconciled himself to it. She knew every man on this little island of chronic poverty had developed a pretty pragmatic form of religion.

“You've had a busy day already, haven't you lad?” Sean asked, pointing Felicity to head south on the coast road.

“Yeah, but fun,” Morgan said, accepting Sean's valise. While they talked he consolidated Sean's take with his own from earlier that morning. “I met Felicity at Heathrow in London at eight this morning, so she could give me the deposit slips I needed and the bank names and addresses. You know how fast we hustled back here when I was through.”