The Orion Assignment (5 page)

The service differed a little from what you got on airlines in America. The hostesses' smiles seemed more sincere, and somehow warmer on Aer Lingus. Even the passengers seemed friendlier. There was nothing here to make him uncomfortable.

He didn't realize what was happening until he saw the big green island approaching out the window. He was getting a low level signal from his instincts. Normally he would get a sharp tingle whenever he was in immediate danger, like when someone pointed a gun at him. That danger sense had saved his life uncounted times in the past. But this felt like a slow dull ache compared to the brisk jolt he was accustomed to experiencing. And then he remembered the only other time he felt this way.

It was on that very first plane ride. The United States Army drove him from New York City to Fort Dix, New Jersey for basic training. At that time, those two states contained all of the world he had seen. Weeks later he lifted off for Vietnam on his very first airplane trip.

It was also the first time his danger sense alerted him this way. It was this very same low level disturbance. The eerie feeling that he was heading into a danger much greater than anything he had ever known. Since then he had become a mercenary soldier, and pursued several other dangerous occupations because after his
time in Southeast Asia, risk became a drug to him.

As the landing gear touched the runway he realized that there had to be much more to Sean's problem than he had told them about. This would somehow turn out to be his deadliest job. He glanced at Felicity, but her smile gave no hint she felt any such emotions.

It was late afternoon when they disembarked, and all took a deep breath of the crisp clean air. Morgan and Sean shared the luggage during a brisk walk to the parking lot. The priest opened the trunk of a ten year old green Volvo. While loading in the suitcases, Morgan could feel the light mist close in around him. It was not quite a fog, yet it dampened him, almost like sea spray. Felicity looked at him, grinning.

“I know,” she said. “It's that soft Irish weather. Isn't it glorious? I've missed it so.” The three travelers climbed into the big auto and Sean moved out at what seemed to Morgan to be a crawl. He was glad to be a passenger there, happy to avoid adjusting to driving on the wrong side of the road. Despite the cool of the evening, he rolled down his window to avoid the stuffiness of a car left standing for several days. Sean and Felicity followed suit.

“So now we ride into the sticks where Felicity grew up?” Morgan asked.

“Actually we're north of Dublin,” Felicity said, wearing what Morgan could only describe as a dreamy expression. “Uncle Sean's parish is about thirty miles south of the capital, so we get to drive right through the glorious big town.

Despite his broad travel experience, Morgan did find Dublin colorful, like the world's biggest small town. Even in Africa, he had never before seen a national capital without a single skyscraper. He enjoyed every minute of the hour's slow drive. Sights common to Sean and familiar to Felicity were beautiful and wondrous to him. They tooled south through Dublin with its glorious squares and greens. The Georgian buildings had a
Disneyland feel to them with their doors painted in wild colors under fan shaped transoms. The pace seemed so relaxed, and strangers waved and smiled as they cruised by. These had to be the friendliest people on earth, he thought.

The big car moved out of Dublin on the coast road through towns with names like Dun Laoghaire and Loughlinstown. They passed through a lovely little Victorian seaside resort called Bray. All the way, the rocky shoreline was right there on their left.

“To your right stand the Wicklow Mountains.” Felicity said in a tour guide voice. “The very garden of Ireland.”

Morgan smiled, but was unimpressed. After hiking in the shadow of Kilimanjaro, skiing one of the Alps and climbing another, these “mountains” looked more like rolling hills to him. At the town of Wicklow they turned west and drove into them. Deep green forests covered the hillsides. Between the hills they saw the golden gorse, the tall purple heather, and the occasional small field dotted with grazing sheep. Morgan knew they were nearing Felicity's old home when she started narrating again.

“Call this place Glendalough, they do. The name literally means ‘the valley between the lakes'. The only way into our little valley by car is right through Laragh. Over there, that's the remains of a sixth century monastery. Local folk have pretty much left it alone for hundreds of years.”

The fir trees on the slopes ran right down to the ruins of the cathedral and seven churches. A round tower, thirty-three meters high dominated the ruins. Beyond them, the car pulled in behind another house of worship which appeared slightly newer. Morgan had seen pictures of this type of barrel-vaulted church in books about “Old Ireland.” They always seemed to have this kind of high pitched roof too.

One wall of this building showed signs of recent construction. A good size cottage stood behind the
church. It was modest, but clean and well maintained. Sean shut off the engine, got out of the car and stretched. Morgan slid out of the passenger side, pulling Felicity after him.

“Is this it?”

“This is Uncle Sean's home.” Felicity said through a smile.

“Where's the town?”

Felicity chuckled. “Well, I guess there's hardly a village here. Uncle Sean's parish really amounts to a group of farms and a few isolated thatched cottages. I guess it's pretty rural.”

“Really?”

“Don't worry,” Felicity said. “We'll go back to Wicklow and take rooms at a boarding house.”

“Nonsense,” Sean said around the raised trunk lid. “I'll not hear of it. You'll be staying right here and no argument. You, lass, can have your old room. Morgan can have my room and I'll take the couch.”

“Don't give up your bed for me,” Morgan said, following Sean into the house with the luggage. The priest lowered his bags to the floor in a very deliberate manner and turned to make eye contact with Morgan.

“You'll not sleep in any other bed in this house, lad.”

Morgan missed a beat before he realized what Sean meant, but Felicity caught the implication right away.

“Uncle Sean I'm insulted. Morgan and I don't sleep together, at home or away. If that was the case, I certainly would not sleep here. I'd never sleep with a man in your home.”

“All I meant was that I'd be quite comfortable on the couch,” Morgan said. “And I can speak for myself, Red.”

“Well, it was a natural enough mistake,” Sean said. “You can still be taking the bed.”

“No!” Morgan said. “That's not negotiable. I get the sofa or we stay elsewhere.” He plopped down on the couch as if to confirm his hold on his territory.

“What a silly thing to argue about,” Felicity said,
ruffling the priest's hair, then rubbing her hand across Morgan's close cropped curls. “Why don't we all get a shower, then go down to the crossroads for a late supper?” Both men nodded and said “You first” at the same time.

As Felicity took over the bathroom, Morgan looked around at the basic bachelor furniture. The end table and coffee table looked handmade. The floor was wide planks with no carpet.

“Well, you may as well get comfortable,” Sean said. Morgan slid off his blazer, revealing the new custom made double shoulder holster he had slipped into in an airport restroom as soon as they landed. A nine millimeter Browning Hi-power automatic was nestled under his left arm. A sheath for his seven inch bladed Randall number one fighting knife hung under his right arm. The priest did not seem startled at the arrangement, just curious.

“I don't think I've ever seen a rig quite like that one.”

“It's new.” Morgan slid his arm out of the right side loop. “I used to carry the knife in a belt sheath at the small of my back. I figured I was tempting a back injury in the event of a fall so I had a company I've worked with before concoct this deal. It's comfortable and fast. But I figure I can leave it here this evening. I don't figure I'll need weapons to have supper with a priest.”

The place was called “Paddy's” although no sign hung above the door. With its few small windows, this public house was the kind of place that made you feel like you were inside, being held within something. It was warm, both in temperature and atmosphere. The bar spanned one long side of the building. The bartender, Paddy himself, wore a white apron and a white shirt with rolled up sleeves. Every stool held a patron. The cast of characters, perhaps eighty percent male, was loud but jovial. Most of them smoked homemade cigarettes rolled needle thin.

Sean walked over to his traditional booth at the end by the big stone fireplace. Paddy came out from behind the bar before the priest could sit down.

“Paddy, you might not recognize her,” Sean said, “but this is my long lost niece, Felicity, back home after too long a stay overseas. This gentleman is her business partner and friend Morgan. Now how about some supper for three weary travelers?”

Introducing them to Paddy was much like introducing them to the house. Many of the men present remembered Felicity and in the rush of loud conversations that followed, a few embarrassing comments flew about how well she had developed. A few of the patrons were hesitant about Morgan, but he found that it took little more than a big smile and a strong handshake to win them over. Morgan had changed into a natural color cotton pullover, canvas khaki pants and moccasins. He was pleased that he had guessed the local dress code pretty well and fit right in. Felicity wore a denim yarn cardigan and light blue mountain pants. A little over done, Morgan thought. Sean had also changed, but the basics were the same.

A plump but attractive woman soon carried a tray to their table. It held three large bowls of stew, biscuits, two quarts of stout, and a pint for Felicity. Morgan was surprised that she didn't react to inequality.

“This is Maureen,” Sean said, making it a grand announcement. “Paddy's wife of twelve years and the worst flirt in the county. She's got a gift for reading people. Once told me I was made of peat and clover. Can you imagine?”

“How about Morgan here?” Felicity asked. “What's he made of?”

Maureen put a hand on the back of Morgan's arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Muscle,” she said, smiling at Sean. Then she turned her smile on Morgan. “Muscle, and ice for all his smiling. And coiled springs. I'd want this one at me back in a fight. Or maybe at me front, eh?”

“Go on with you now,” the priest said. He pushed her off, but in a playful manner. Morgan grinned and, after casting a wink at Maureen, tasted his food. The stew was basic and good. It was more potato than meat, but it had cooked long and grown hearty.

Felicity glanced at her partner, envying his evident enjoyment of a home cooked meal. She had longed for the taste of home herself, but now that she had it, it tasted bland. Salt and pepper were the limits of spice there. She had cultivated her palate on fine French cuisine. This food was basic, strong and steady, like the people there. And boring. Perhaps Thomas Wolfe was right. You can't go home again.

The men ate with gusto and Sean was just lighting his after dinner pipe when a newcomer entered, to loud greetings from the bar.

“There walks Max Grogan,” Sean said. “Running dog to that devil-on-earth, Ian O'Ryan.”

“O'Ryan?” Morgan asked. “Not Ian O'Ryan the motorcycle racer?”

“The very same,” the priest answered. “Cycle racer and hate monger. This one's his gamekeeper. Gamekeeper to the scum who brings the evil from up north down to Wicklow county.”

When Grogan shambled over to the table, Felicity's eyes flared wide and she sucked air between her teeth. This guy was big. Big shoulders, big head, big hands. Barrel chest under a sweater it must have taken someone all winter to knit. Thin brown hair hung to his long eyebrows as he looked down at Sean. Across the table, she felt Morgan bracing for battle. She knew if it came to a fight, he would have to go all out and take this fellow out quick.

“Ye've no call to be bad mouthin' me boss,” Grogan said, in a brogue even thicker than Sean's.

“The man's no good and even you know it, you big dumb clod,” the priest said. Grogan's jaw clenched, his shoulder muscles rippled, and a fist like a ten pound ham closed and began to rise, ready to strike.

“Well, mighty peculiar company for a priest to be keeping. A girl young enough to be his daughter and a nigger.”

Morgan stood very slowly, resting a hand on Grogan's wrist. At his full height of six feet two inches, Morgan was still a couple of inches shorter than Grogan. He looked up into the big Irishman's dull eyes with a tired half smile.

“Let's not ruin a nice day,” Morgan said. “How about we go over to the bar and I stand you a quart of stout?”

“No man buys for Grogan except the man who can whip him. You figure that's you?”

Tension froze Felicity into silence. Of course, she knew Morgan did figure he was the man who could whip Grogan, but she hoped he understood that to say so now was a losing move. This was not about physical ability. It was about face: Morgan's, Grogan's, and her uncle's. Morgan could whip this man, perhaps even survive the reaction of a room full of his friends, but the
bad blood would last forever. He needed another option.

The corner of Felicity's mouth curled into a small smile when she saw Morgan sit down and slam his right elbow down on the table with his hand raised and open. “Let's find out, big man,” Morgan said. Grogan broke into a broad smile and stretched out his arms, then pulled up a chair. When his elbow hit the table, dishes rattled and glasses jumped. He slapped his hand into Morgan's, smothering it completely.

“Winner buys,” Morgan said.

“This won't take long,” Grogan said. The two men locked eyes and smiled.