The Orion Assignment (26 page)

Morgan had lost ground when O'Ryan cut him off, but he would not stay back. In that last deep turn he was forced to lay the fairing on the deck in order to stay on, and he took the corner at one hundred thirty miles per hour, but he passed another rider in the process. Now he rode on the Irishman's tail again, waiting for an opening. He would haunt O'Ryan, keeping his mind off the finish line because he knew Morgan was in his slipstream.

On the straightaway, O'Ryan shook a slim squib out of his glove. Only a superhuman rider or a fool would take his hand off the clutch at this velocity. O'Ryan did it, just for a second, long enough to squeeze hard on the pellet in his hand. He slowed, and for an instant Morgan was passing him on the inside. Then a thin jet of oil squirted from O'Ryan's glove. It splattered Morgan's face shield. O'Ryan roared away from his now blinded nemesis.

The greasy smear on Morgan's helmet was just enough to cloud his vision. He had fractions of a second to make a decision. Wiping his visor would only smear it
worse. If he pulled over to clean it, he lost. If he slowed to a safe speed, he lost. If he tried to continue the race blinded as he was, he lost. But there had to be a winning alternative. There always is.

And Morgan found it. He would have to do what O'Ryan had done. He would have to do something only a fool or a superhuman rider would even attempt.

In the grandstand, Claudette jumped to her feet with her hands over her mouth. Marlene gasped and her gasp was taken up by the entire crowd. The crazy black rider had flipped his visor up. He was riding with his face exposed.

On his bike, Morgan knew that O'Ryan would assume he had dropped off, but he could not turn to see him. Morgan crouched low, trying to use the tiny windshield for protection. For racing purposes he liked it low and out of the way, but now he could not get behind it. He glanced up and down, seeing just enough to continue. His eyes watered from the wind blast and he could not escape it. He had to fly by instinct.

Morgan chose a course that seemed almost impossible, even to him. He would rely on his senses to tell him when he got too close to another rider or too close to falling. It was a radical use of his mysterious danger sense. He had no idea if it would work, but he knew this bike like a brother and was one with it. He could feel the road as if his feet were touching it, instead of wheels. He had a hundred and fifty horsepower between his knees and he milked it all at once.

“Come on,” Morgan said, talking aloud to his mechanical steed. “You're the quirkiest motorcycle ever to circle a track and you've got something to prove too. Are you going to let an Irishman on a Japanese bike beat you? Come on. Give me the power and I'll take you out in style
.
”

Morgan's stunt had given him an unanticipated edge. Other riders were giving him a wide berth, since it was
obvious that only an idiot would stay on the track with his visor up. Morgan dived into the straightaway two lengths behind the “widow maker” and moved to the outside. His tires whined under him and he realized a slight sprinkle had started.

Fine
, Morgan thought.
Let's just make this as impossible as it can be.
He was almost even with O'Ryan's bike as they approached the far end hairpin curve, La Source, just before the pits. Morgan wondered if anyone could see him coming or could guess what he planned to do. If so, he suspected that they were praying he would not try it.

He was wrong. Two hundred yards away, Felicity O'Brien stood up in front of the hay bales and shouted, “Take him out. Now!”

At the apex of the curve, the track was banked almost sixty degrees. Morgan leaned into it and let the Elf's radical steering setup take over. The motorcycle dived into the center, spearheading toward O'Ryan's front fork. Halfway there he realized the Irishman was accelerating out of the turn. His knee was on the deck and he was pulling away. Morgan yanked the handlebars and smoothed his path. He would pass behind the hunter's bike.

No!

The Elf fell into the inside lane for just an instant. Its front tire made the slightest contact with O'Ryan's rear wheel, nicking it, tread to tread. Leaning as he was, it was just enough. O'Ryan spun out, and rolled across the grass on the inside. Morgan's world went crazy and he was spun high into the air.

Tuck and roll, like they taught you in jump school. Pull in your arms, idiot! Pull up your knees.

His back hit the ground first, the leather taking the friction. Then his head smacked down, the helmet jarring his brain. Now everything was spinning. Then the
world was still, but he was spinning. He wanted to throw up, but refused to. Then someone was shaking him.

“Where does it hurt?” the medic asked.

“Nowhere. Everywhere. Got to sit up. Where's O'Ryan?” The medic pushed him down, but he popped back up. There, only fifty yards away, sat O'Ryan. The medic by him was slapping his own ankle, signaling the area of O'Ryan's injury. That ankle was the least of his worries, Morgan knew. His chance of winning the race was over. There was no recovering the money he needed now. With two good legs he could not have run far enough or fast enough to escape this failure.

O'Ryan flipped his visor up and glared at Morgan. Wondering if he understood American hand signals, Morgan leaned over on his left arm, raised his right, and pointed his middle finger into the air in Ian O'Ryan's direction.

When Sean traveled to Paris on a rare vacation years ago, he had stood on that very spot, staring up at the magnificence of the cathedral known as Notre Dame. He was overwhelmed by the majesty of the historic structure. He viewed it with reverence. It never occurred to him back then that there might be a restaurant across from it.

“My compliments, my dear,” Marlene Seagrave said, holding Sean's arm as the small group entered. “Tour D'Argent is one of the finest restaurants in the world. The height of French haute cuisine. When did you make these reservations?”

“The day we arrived on the continent,” Felicity replied, easing Morgan between herself and Claudette using only smooth body language. The Maitres D' ushered them into the elevator, which looked to Morgan like an eighteenth century sedan chair.

Upstairs they were directed to their table. Even there, at the height of continental fashion, they attracted attention. Felicity, stately and aloof, strode through the room in a knee length dress. The skirt was black with a slit in the back that drew every man's attention to her long legs. The top half was white and sleeveless. Her hair hung long and flowing.

Two steps away, Claudette Christophe swept across the floor, a black pearl, icicle cool in a skin tight, mini length, sleeveless, backless, gold lame sheath.

Morgan beamed like the kid escorting the home coming queen to the prom. He seated both ladies, before sitting between them. He was pouring wine for all before he realized what he was doing.

“Felicity, dear, why is there already wine on our
table?” he asked. “Not just here, but open.”

“I called ahead and ordered for everyone,” she smiled. Claudette gave her a brief icy stare that everyone saw but Morgan ignored. “I wanted to save the men the hassle of trying to order from the French menu and I do know the cuisine here. At the same time I had them open the Beaujolais to let it breathe before we drank it.”

“You've thought of everything, dear,” Marlene said. Her hair was up in a chignon and her black coat dress looked more expensive than it needed to be. Her makeup was applied with an artist's touch. One would have to look hard to see any age difference between her and the other two women.

“So, lad, how does it feel to have the race behind you?” Sean asked. “You come out of it all with nothing but cuts and bruises.”

“I credit that to protective clothing and a good helmet,” Morgan answered. “The bad news is, our boy O'Ryan ended up with nothing but a sprained ankle.”

“Haven't we grilled Morgan enough?” Felicity asked. “I thought the setting here would be enough to hold your attention.”

“Actually, I've hardly noticed the restaurant, child,” Sean said. “The view of the Seine's got me. At this height, it's just magical to look down at the barges drifting along. Indeed, the beauty of God is in even the simplest things.”

Morgan was not as comfortable as Sean. He stuck a finger in his collar and twisted, trying to loosen it a little. He reflected that he was paying a price for this fine company. He had let Felicity dress him in a three piece suit, a glen plaid suit at that. The shirt was a kind of windowpane plaid in some pastel color. Worst of all, he was wearing a tie. A red tie. In fact, kind of a pinkish color. He resented Sean getting away with wearing his priest's black suit. That collar meant never having to wear a tie.

“Relax, darling,” Claudette whispered, leaning close and rubbing his thigh under the table. “You'll feel better after you eat something. And I promise I'll get you out of those clothes just as soon as possible.”

A waiter appeared and set a variety of containers on their table. The women reached for silverware but the men moved with reluctance.

“Eat,” Felicity said. “It's cold lobster.”

“Sorry,” Morgan said, reaching into the appetizer. “Didn't recognize it without the shell.” Morgan munched a piece, but didn't go near the strange goo that came with it. Sean, it seemed, was numb to embarrassment after a week traveling with Felicity, so he didn't hesitate to speak up.

“All right. Just what is that sauce?”

“It's called lagardere,” Marlene said. “It's delicious. This lovely place has spent four hundred years, perfecting its sauces.”

“Taste it, Uncle,” Felicity said, leaning toward him. “All it is, is mayonnaise with some herbs and stuff mixed in.”

“You have a way of making the finest things sound so common,” Claudette said, but after Felicity's remark, Morgan tried it. She was right. It was good.

“I must say, this is the way to spend a vacation,” Marlene said when the entree arrived, duckling bourdaloue with lemon. “I haven't had such a time in quite a while. An exciting race, and a landmark meal with the best of friends.”

“Yes, too bad it has to come to an end,” Morgan said. “We're taking Uncle Sean to the States with us right away. Can't hang around here too long. Until our boy Ian's taken care of by his old friends, we'll have to be real careful.”

“So you're taking off with her, are you?” Claudette asked. “Another hit and run visit.” Her voice was low, but her tone was not soft.

“Once we get things straight,” Morgan said, “I'll be back to set things right here with the race team. And I'll
need a place to stay.”

“What if I am busy when you get back?”

“Then you'll un-busy,” Morgan said.

“Ain't love grand?” Marlene asked, and everyone laughed.

Before dessert, the ladies excused themselves to powder their noses. When they were out of sight Morgan leaned over to Sean.

“Well, how'd you enjoy the duck dinner. Excuse me. Duckling.”

“To tell the truth, it seemed a bit greasy to me lad. All in all, I prefer your turkey. One of the best things about America, I'm thinking.”

“I'm with you there, Uncle Sean,” Morgan said. “But, the place is nice and quiet, and the girls are loving it.” The women returned just in time for the flambéed peaches. At last Morgan was about to really enjoy something when the Maitres D' stepped up to their table. He stood close to Felicity and addressed her in a soft tone.

“Mademoiselle, there seems to be a small problem. Somehow, your automobile alarm has begun to sound. May we ask you to come downstairs and deactivate it?”

“We'd better both go,” Morgan said, standing. He didn't think anyone could have arranged any trouble this soon, but it was better to be safe.

Morgan and Felicity rode the elevator to the ground floor and walked to the outdoor parking area. It was a beautiful night, the sky filled with stars and a gentle cool breeze rustling the tree tops. Paris had a background noise all its own that said people had places to go and were in a hurry to get there. Morgan stood near the car
with arms folded while Felicity got in and turned off the alarm.