The Orion Assignment (21 page)

“Could you interfere with the race while it's going on, maybe?” Sean asked, opening a bottle for himself.

“That'd likely get us in Dutch with the police,” Felicity said, finishing her stout. “It won't help anything for us to end up in the hoosegow. They'd just start the race over anyway. No, he's got to be beaten without disrupting the whole event. What else is there?”

“I enter the race,” Morgan said with grim finality, and tipped his bottle up.

“Have you raced motorcycles before, lad?”

“Once or twice.”

“Well, you could sign up I imagine, but where'll you get a motorbike?” Sean asked, reaching for a second bottle. “Those thingies are kind of specialized, it seems to me.”

“True,” Morgan said. “It's the best plan I think, but
we'd never find a 500 CC racing class bike on such short notice.” He drained his bottle and let the last drops linger on his tongue. The stout was dark and thick, much like the problem they were wading through.

“Wait!” Felicity spun toward Morgan, her face alight with inspiration. “I bet I know where we can get a racing class motorcycle in short order.” She was in the door before the men realized a decision had been made.

The Empire State Building was the first great skyscraper. Erected in nineteen thirty-one, it remained the world's tallest building for nearly forty years, until the World Trade Center rose up at the southern tip of Manhattan Island and outreached it by a hundred feet. Soon the Sears Tower in Chicago overtook it, but still the most prestigious businesses on the East Coast flocked to the Trade Center's Twin Towers until they disappeared in 2001.

Not long ago the Seagrave Corporation occupied five floors of a building that stood in the shadow of the World Trade Center “ground zero” and predated even the Empire State, but was considered a skyscraper when it was erected. The closely held corporation was recently forced to relocate to a pair of suites in a gleaming steel tower farther uptown. Under new management, the Seagrave Corporation earned its profits through commodities trading, international real estate development and operating an import-export business.

The chairwoman of the board and the company's matriarch was Marlene Seagrave. Blonde and blue eyed, she was a beauty queen a dozen or so years ago. Then she married a cruel, manipulative man named Adrian Seagrave. He used money as a tool, and often as a blunt instrument. It gave him the power to use people, and she let him use her. She never recognized
the strength of her own will until after her husband's death. He died trying to kill Morgan Stark and Felicity O'Brien. And they came close to death saving her life in the fire that destroyed the entire building the company occupied then.

The sudden change in her life did not crush her as she first expected it. Finding herself with an incredible amount of wealth and power, Marlene flowered after Adrian's passing. She took control of the corporation and kept it moving to new levels of growth. And her husband's final enemies became for her, two new friends. While she helped them establish their new business, they helped her establish her new identity and self confidence. So, when her secretary buzzed her in her private office with an international telephone call from a woman who identified herself as “the redhead,” she took it right away, even though she had just gotten in.

“Felicity, it's been too long. How are you? Where are you? Is this call business or pleasure?”

“I'm fine. I'm in Ireland. And I'm afraid it's business, Marlene.” Felicity never liked to soft pedal a favor.

“Well kid, I figure you don't call trans-Atlantic for nothing. And you don't owe me any explanations, never do. Just tell me what you need.”

“Well, okay. A racing quality motorcycle.”

“I beg your pardon?” Marlene said, as if she was not sure she had heard Felicity correctly.

“Morgan needs to be in a race. You run a major corporation and I figured you'd sponsor a racer or two.”

Marlene slid off her heels and rested one leg on her low desk. “You know, we do sponsor a NASCAR racer,” she said. “There's a racing yacht too. Don't know if there's a motorcycle flying our banner. Is this a rush type thing?”

“I'm afraid so. The race is in three weeks.”

“Sure glad you guys don't make impulsive decisions,” Marlene said. “I was thinking of taking some vacation
time in a couple of weeks. Listen, I'll check on this motorcycle thing. Can I call you back?”

“Marlene, you're the best. Let me give you this number. Call anytime. I'll be here. And…thanks, pal.”

“Anytime, kid.”

The sun had broken through while Felicity was inside, so she was squinting when she stepped out. Morgan was nowhere in sight. Her uncle waved her in the direction of the ruins. She smiled and wandered off.

Felicity walked without any real direction at first. Relaxing her own mind, she let the sensation creep into her head in gradual increments. Soon she could feel the subtle tug of another mind. She drifted off to one side, toward her partner. Since her childhood wandering those very hills, Felicity could always sense danger approaching. She was accustomed to it. But this psychic link with Morgan was still new to her.

She was not reading his mind, of course, she just seemed to know where he was. She could follow some unknown signal like a homing beacon right to him. If his emotions were intense, she could feel them too. Sometimes, she even experienced his sensory input, felt what he felt, heard or smelled what he did. It was that discovery that both cemented their friendship and barred a sexual relationship.

She walked up behind him, but she knew he was aware of her presence. In fact, he must have known she was coming for five minutes. He stood with his hands on his hips, staring out over a slight rise in the ground.

“What are you up to?” Felicity asked.

“Just scouting the perimeter. Trying to see where an attack would come from.”

“No alarms, no trip wires?” Felicity asked.

“For what? I always know when they're coming. I just want to see from where.”

“I called Marlene,” Felicity said after a moment. “She's calling back but I think she can get us a bike.”

“Great,” Morgan said. “I want to stay by the house today anyway. Noticed a pretty nice chess set in the living room. Let's go back and find out what kind of a chess player your old uncle is.”

As they strolled back across the meadow, an unaccustomed chill crawled up Felicity's back and she felt the urge to take Morgan's arm.

“Hey, pal.”

“Yeah?” Morgan slowed his tread to match her usual walking pace. She could tell from his voice that he could feel her apprehension.

“If we can get a bike, and if we get you signed up, and if we can get there in time…”

“Yes?”

“Do you think you can beat him?”

“No,” he said.

“No?”

Morgan grinned and shook his head. “Red, he's an experienced professional racer. I can't beat him. Then again, I don't have to.”

“Huh? But I thought we agreed…”

“Red, I don't need to win. I just need to make sure he loses.”

“Oh.”

Felicity awoke five seconds before the telephone rang. She knew her location and the time without conscious thought. Location: her uncle's living room couch. The time: midnight plus ten minutes. Memories of the day rushed back on her. She shopped at the local market with Morgan, after which they spent half the day collaborating on dinner. She taught him the right way to make Irish stew, with layers of potato, onion and mutton boiled in a big iron pot.

Then she settled down to watch an extended chess tournament, still surprised at Morgan's talent for the tactical strategy involved. He compared it to warfare. She dozed off on the sofa and the men must have left her there when they went to bed. The bell rang, and Felicity answered it on the first ring.

“You're not anxious or anything?” Marlene Seagrave said. “Sorry about the hour, but I just got home and I had dialed before I realized the time difference.”

“Not a problem,” Felicity said, swinging her feet to the floor and sitting up straight. “We crime stoppers never sleep. So, what's the scoop?”

“Good news all around, dearie,” Marlene said. “First, the Seagrave Corporation does indeed sponsor a motorcycle team. The rider's name is Jacques Martens. I understand that he has an excellent motorcycle, state of the art, and he's already entered in the Grand Prix at Spa-Francorchamps.”

“That's great, Marlene. Is he any good?”

“Hasn't won a race in three years,” Marlene said. Her laugh floated across the phone lines, delayed for a second, and Felicity missed a couple of words. Marlene repeated. “I told you it was all good news. I've arranged to have the bike in the race representing my company, but the rider's name is changed.”

“You're a living doll.”

“I owe you my life,” Marlene said. “This is nothing…”

“I told you never to say that again. We agreed…”

“You're right, I'm sorry,” Marlene said, then paused for a moment. “I'll be there too.”

“In Belgium?”

“Sure,” Marlene said. “I told you I was due for a little vacation. I'll do a couple of days in Paris, then hop over to the race. I wouldn't miss Morgan representing us. By the way, is he asleep?”

“Afraid so. Want me to wake him?”

“No, no. Just tell him to be prepared to win when I get there.”

After settling all the details of where, when and how, Felicity hung up and sat in the dark for a while. She stared at the chess set across the room. Things were going according to plan. In fact, they had no right to expect things to be this smooth. Yet, she had a bad feeling about this scenario. Bad for Morgan. She felt a sudden urge to go to her partner and cuddle him.

She had been close to Morgan in that way before, deriving comfort from his massive arms, but in a platonic way, despite his being the sexiest man she knew. If she went to the bedroom now, he would understand and welcome her in. When she fell asleep, he would move to the couch. It was a comforting thought, but she knew she wouldn't move from the sofa. If she went to Morgan the way she had imagined, he would know she did not have her usual level of confidence. She would rather keep that to herself as long as possible.

Besides, her uncle would never understand.

The trio flew into Paris by way of London in the middle of the night. The population in the Airport at that hour didn't qualify as a crowd. They moved through them and outside with unexpected ease. At the curb, Sean was surprised to find a black BMW fighting with the taxis for space at the exit. Morgan smiled, showing how pleased he was with the driver. The young woman at the wheel popped the trunk and opened her door enough to set one foot on the pavement and stand.

“Felicity, Uncle Sean, this is Claudette Christophe, the pearl of the quarter,” Morgan said. “Claudette, Felicity O'Brien and her uncle Sean Sullivan. Now that we're all old friends, let's get moving.” Morgan and Sean loaded the luggage and Morgan reached for the passenger side door.”