The Orion Assignment (22 page)

“You should let the girl sit in front,” Claudette said.

“That ain't no lady, that's my partner,” Morgan said. “You're the girl.” Perhaps to make a point, Morgan pulled the back door open and smiled at Felicity. She stood still, ignoring him. For a long moment the two women locked eyes, trying to evaluate each other's face. Sean was a keen observer of human ways. He knew that a man may need body language, posture, speech pattern, even a sample of someone's philosophy to make a judgment. But a woman, a good woman, could see all there was to any other woman in her face. The long tense stare ended with two smiles. Then Felicity nodded, gave an address on the south side of Paris and got into the back seat. Sean slid in beside her, Morgan settled into the front seat, and Claudette pulled her car into traffic.

Sean's eyes flicked to Morgan. If he noticed the
tension he gave no sign. He conversed with all the passengers during the drive to Felicity's apartment, riding with his hand on Claudette's knee. When they arrived, all four climbed out of the car. Morgan held Claudette close.

“Appreciate the lift, beautiful. Coming in for coffee, or a drink?”

“Please do come in for a while,” Felicity hastened to add.

“I regret I must decline,” Claudette said. “I'll need my rest for tomorrow's work, and Morgan is bad for my concentration. And he has trouble concentrating on more than one woman at a time.” Her eyes roved Felicity from her ankles up. Sean guessed she was comparing her own figure to Felicity's, and finding herself wanting.

“I'll show you who I'm concentrating on.” Morgan pressed a lingering kiss onto Claudette's mouth. She looked at the priest with embarrassment, and drove away at a tire-spinning speed.

As soon as they were inside the door, Felicity said, “Charming girl, obviously highly intelligent, and quite beautiful. How does she keep herself so nice and slender?”

Felicity continued on to her bedroom but Sean stopped just inside the door, stunned to see that this apartment was identical to the one he visited in California. It was beginning to sink in that Felicity was indeed quite wealthy. And with that understanding came another realization. She would never have been content in his world.

“Hey, The Sea Hawk's coming on, and it looks like it's in English,” Morgan called. “Want to watch it?” A half hour and three cups of tea after their arrival, the travelers were getting settled in.

“Sounds like a good way to relax myself into sleep mode.” Felicity was gathering snacks in the kitchen, wearing a blue silk robe that seemed a little big on her. Morgan sat bare-chested and barefoot on the couch. Sean was already snoring in the guest room,.

Felicity was carrying a tray into the living room when she heard the numbered buttons on her cipher lock being punched and saw the doorknob beginning to turn.

When Raoul Goulait pushed the door open, he found himself staring into a gun barrel held by a very grim looking black man.

“A do not disturb sign would have done, my good man,” Raoul said. “If I'm interrupting something…” Before he could finish his sentence, Felicity leaped to the front door.

“Darling, I wasn't expecting you until morning.”

“Your famous sense of time is slipping, sweet,” the Frenchman said with a dashing smile. “This far after midnight, it is morning. And Paris, like New York, never sleeps.” Felicity smiled, and apologized for Morgan's trigger nerves with a long deep kiss. Morgan turned his attention back to the television set.

“I have the papers you need,” Raoul said when he came up for air. “These should ensure you free passage throughout Europe, even with the special items your partner likes to carry. I thought, Cherie, that we could retire and enjoy the waning hours of the night in the way we both like best.”

“I can't tonight, silly.” Felicity watched his face drop, and followed his eyes over to the sofa. “No, you green-eyed dope. There's nothing but business between Morgan and me. I told you. But my uncle's here. I'm not sleeping with anyone with him under the same roof.”

“Ah. That explains why you're wearing my robe,” Raoul said. “I know you don't own one. Good thing I visit as often as I do.”

“You know anytime I'm on the continent you're welcome in my home, and my bed. But not this time. It's
kind of a special case.”

“I understand ma'amselle,” Raoul said with a feigned sigh. “There will be another time, yes?”

Morgan was almost always the first to rise, so it was a surprise to open his eyes to the sound of a gas stove lighting. He sat up and looked over the back of the sofa to see Felicity in the same silk robe, pulling things from the refrigerator. He stretched, swung his bare feet to the floor and padded into the kitchen. Felicity's unbrushed hair appeared to be clinging to her head in fear, and her lost expression made her look like a little girl standing in daddy's bathrobe.

“What you up to, Red?”

Felicity kept moving, sitting milk and a carton of eggs on the counter, and then reaching on tiptoe to pull a glass bowl from a cabinet. “I figured I'd make us some breakfast before we go. Do you think that pan is hot enough yet?”

Morgan turned down the heat under the pan filled with blackening butter, shook his head, and turned to grip her shoulders. “Slow down little princess. Those eggs will cook up fine if you relax a bit. And if you don't set yourself on fire.” Felicity tried to reach for an egg but Morgan refused to release her until he had rolled up one sleeve, then the other, past her elbows.

“Now how else can I help?” Morgan asked.

“Do you know how to make a hollandaise?”

“Nope. I don't care, and neither does Uncle Sean. He's a simple guy, and so am I. Make us something easy while I go get him up.”

So it was that the trio enjoyed a modest breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast. Then they climbed into Felicity's Paris car, a Mercedes Benz 450SL convertible, for the three hour drive to the race course. Morgan sat beside Felicity and opened a map. She
stared for a moment, memorizing her route, and pulled into the brisk Parisian traffic

“You know, I've never ridden in a Mercedes Benz,” Sean said from the back seat.

“Actually, it only looks like a normal Mercedes,” Felicity said. “It's really an AMG Hammer. Car's so responsive the company makes you go to a special seminar to learn how to handle it.”

“Things ain't always what they seem,” Morgan said. “That goes for people just as much as cars. So don't be surprised if the Belgians turn out to be a surprise. Where they live makes them weird people.”

“Why's that?” Sean asked.

“Oh, no.” Felicity muttered under her breath as she pulled the car up onto the autoroute. “More philosophy.”

“You might expect Belgians to be kind of like the Irish,” Morgan said, making a point of ignoring Felicity. “After all, Belgium's temperature norms are about the same as Ireland's, and both countries do border on the same ocean. The difference in latitude is nominal. But still, there's this basic difference in climate. I mean, they can't get that steady hanging mist in this country, like they've got over in Ireland. That romantic fog they've always got in the U.K.? It can't survive here. Know why?”

“All right, lad, I'll bite,” Sean said. “Tell us why.”

“It's because it never goes forty-eight hours in this place without raining. I'm convinced the weather has a real affect on the people here.”

“I see they're not shy about driving,” Sean said. “Do they have speed limits here?”

“It's a hundred ten kilometers on the autoroutes, Uncle Sean, but drivers here pretty much ignore it. Not to worry. This baby can do almost three times that.”

“Yeah, and she's not afraid to push it,” Morgan said.

The highway segment of the trip was smooth and uneventful. In the province of Liege, they branched off the main road, heading for the twin cities of Spa and
Francorchamps. In minutes they were navigating streets as narrow and twisted as a politician's man. Morgan picked up his narrative as if he had never left the subject.

“Look around Uncle Sean, and you'll see what I mean. The Irishman's full of life, you know. When he's had too much beer, he's as likely to burst into song as anything else. Belgians are hard and grim. They drink their beer in gloomy little places. And they get a lot of their emotional release from driving too fast on these twisted, narrow streets. You can see how all the buildings are brick here, and usually painted gray. Not like the colorfully painted homes and thatch cottages you've got in Ireland.”

A family on the street caught his attention. “Look at those guys. People don't dress colorfully here, or even speak colorfully. They're not bad people, or rude like the French. Just dull.” Morgan turned to face Sean to finalize his point. “It's got to be the rain.” He was stunned to see his adopted uncle riding with his eyes clamped shut. His hands were folded in an attitude of prayer. Morgan wondered if he had been that way the whole trip.

Following Morgan's directions they arrived at the race course without an accident or a ticket. After showing passes, the three travelers strolled down to the pit area. Morgan caught the familiar smells of grease, engine exhaust and spilled gasoline. He spotted four mechanics in white uniform overalls and another man sitting to the side. He was short and slight but wiry, like a jockey. His hair was jet black, his nose long and upturned. When he saw the visitors, he snapped to his feet and rushed forward, hand outstretched. Morgan took the hand and found the shake firm. Small fingers threatened to cut into Morgan's hands.

“Ah, you must be Mister Stark. And this would be Miss O'Brien and Mister Sullivan. I am Jacques Marten. You will call me Jacques. We have an excellent crew assembled and I am told by our employer that we are to extend to you every courtesy. I assure you…”

“Calm down, pal,” Morgan said. “And please, call me Morgan.” He was sure Martens considered him some eccentric friend of the wealthy Mrs. Seagrave. Some bored rich fellow fulfilling a fantasy of riding in a motorcycle grand prix. Or maybe he figured Morgan to be a journalist like that George Plimpton guy who would write about the experience. Well no harm there, but for a pit crew to work well they would need strong communication. That would require an informal atmosphere.

“My friends and I are new at this,” Morgan said. “We've got a lot to do, and I've got a lot to learn in a short time. The first thing we need to do is meet everybody. Then I'd like to meet the bike, and maybe take her for a tour of the track. Okay?”

“We will help all we can, but I am the only one here who speaks English. My team is French and Belgian.”

“Not a problem, Jacques,” Morgan said, smiling and shaking his shoulder. “I learned a certain amount of pidgin French in Vietnam, and Felicity here is fluent in the language.”

Introductions were made in short order. Felicity impressed the mechanics with her agility in their language. Sean became intrigued by the power tools and special equipment involved. The team seemed positive and pleasant enough, an easy group to work with. Amid the growing camaraderie, Morgan asked where he could change and walked into the back rest area to suit up.