Orchids to Die For (Jim Morgan Adventure Series) (4 page)

“Who’s his publisher? I wonder why he isn’t attending the conference?” Mary Lynn yawned loudly.

Catherine took off her hat and hung it on a lampshade overhanging the bed. She too yawned aloud, and then mumbled out, “It’s going to be a long day tomorrow, Mary Lynn. I’ve got to get some sleep. Goodnight.”

“Just remember what they say about guys who drive those sport cars, okay?”

“Okay... I will. Goodnight.” And then Catherine lay there, quiet, wondering -- just what was it that they say?

Chapter Six

Eunice woke groggy and rang for her domestic, “Mureatha dear, please bring me some coffee. I’ll be out on the lanai.” She worked there on summer mornings, writing. She was working on a new manuscript that delineated, geographically, flora beds of rare herbs used in medicine.

She separated all the Brazilian plants of importance and then added the ESP orchid’s location. To her surprise, there was a pattern developing to the known herbal deposits and it was down right eerie. They formed a line in the shape of an arrow that went parallel along the Amazon River basin from west to east. At the tip of the arrow was the village where the ESP orchid was found.

Mureatha arrived with the tray of coffee and set it down on a side cart next to the large table of spread maps, “There’s a nice fresh Danish for you, Miss North. It’s still warm from da oven.”

“Thank you, Mureatha. I’ll be going to Chicago this afternoon. Will you pack me an over-night? The regular things, I’ll be back tomorrow, hopefully early.”

“Yes Miss North, I’ll do it rights now. Will there be anything else, miss?”

“No. Well... Yes. When you have time, check the guest suite and put out a couple of ashtrays. I hope to bring Mister Morgan back with me.”

“Oh, I likes that Mister Mogins. Should I set up his coffee pot, Miss North? Is he bringing his little car? His golf clubs are still in the storage room,” she laughed and started to run through a mental list of Morgan’s favorite foods.

“We’ll wait and see, Mureatha. I’m not sure if he’ll come or not. I haven’t talked to him yet... He was fun to have around, wasn’t he?”

“Yes ‘em, Miss North. He sure was. Hallelujah.”

* * *

Margolova sat at her kitchen table drinking Vodka shots with Joseffie, Abd-al-aziz, and As’ad. They were well into their second bottle... They had three days to kill in this sordid manner; the three days it would take for their illicit arms to ship into Sao Paulo.  Then, according to plan, one would fly to Egypt on Thursday morning, and one to Spain on Thursday night, and two would leave on Friday morning aboard direct flights. They would all meet up again on Friday night at an inner-city warehouse near their hotel, the Mesa Oro, known as one of the worst hotels in the largest city of the world and, from then on, they would all have to remain dead sober until their mission was complete.

 Abdul opened a third liter, fresh from a 12-bottle case. He opened it, turned it up, and chugged a full half before stopping. He wiped the excess drippings from his black facial hair and prodded, “Who can beat Abdul in chug-a-lug?” And he eyed the mere boy, and then Joseffie who eyed him back with a sick drunken grin.

Joseffie grabbed a new bottle and turned it sky-bottom until it was empty. He then threw the dead-soldier twelve feet across the room toward a trash bin. It missed and shattered against the tiled wall breaking a tile, “There! See if you can top that throw,” and they all laughed, shallow and ignorant, like a bunch of wild hyenas enjoying a summer impala kill.

Margolova took out a liter, stood, and set it in front of As’ad, the youngest of the three, at eighteen, “Show us As’ad! Beat that ugly old bastard. Do it!” And all eyes fixated on him and the room became silent.

As’ad opened the bottle and sniffed its contents, and then set it back on the table, “I cannot beat you, Joseffie.”

Margolova turned, reaching her 9mm Lugar from the counter-top. She aimed it between As’ad’s eyes, only four-foot away, “Beat him!” She yelled, with hatred oozing from her aging facial features. “Do it. Now!”

Joseffie started to say something to Margolova, but she yelled at him, “Shut up!” And he did.

As’ad reached for the yellow-labeled Zubrovka Vodka, a gift from mother Russia and the underground Recheeka; with a shaky hand he grabbed the bottle and began gulping it down, spilling more than he was drinking, his unblinking eyes stayed glued on the shaking Lugar. And he stopped, about a third of the way -- unable to continue...

Margolova pulled the trigger. The kitchen echoed the shot. As’ad’s head snapped back a couple of inches and then his whole body slumped forward, his forehead bounced off the table once, and then his sagging body pulled him down to the crumb infested floor.

Abdul looked under the table at his dying pal, or dead pal, saying, “Aw damn, he’s a fucking bleeder.” And he knew that it would be himself that would have to clean up Margolova’s mess.

* * *

Jim Morgan lit a Camel cigarette as he walked to his Austin. He glanced at his Rolex, it was after nine a.m., and the bank would be open when he got there. He unsnapped the vinyl tonneau cover and tossed it behind the seats. Then, in an after thought, decided to lock the cover in the trunk and wondered why the British called a trunk, a boot? 

Closing the boot, he recalled the bumper tap from the previous night, stood back and did a second look for damage. Bending down on one knee he looked behind the bumper and there he saw the two-inch long “Low Jack” transmitter. He pulled it loose and studied it. Then looked around for any strange vehicles on his street. He placed the device in his coat pocket and drove off, slow, apprehensive as to where he was now actually going, and he also began to watch his rearview mirror, vigilantly, for a tail, an Arab tail.

He pulled into a truck stop off I-80-94 and placed the transmitter on a tractor-trailer with California license plates. He then drove slowly down side streets to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Confident that he wasn’t, he parked and called Washington, D.C., “Miss North, Please.”

“I’m sorry sir, Miss North is out of town until tomorrow. Would you like to leave a message?”

“No. I’ll call back tomorrow. Thanks,” and he closed his cell and ran through his reasonable options. Something was going on and, intuitively he knew, Eunice had to be involved.

He lit another Camel and looked up and down the street. No cars were moving. He searched his cellular phone numbers; he paused at Senator Alberquist’s home number. He would know what was going on. But it was ten-o-clock and he’d be on Capitol Hill. He had two other D.C. numbers, actually Langley, Virginia numbers that he could call. CIA numbers... Numbers given to him after Margolova sent an assassin after him up in the Catskill Mountains. He hit the call button.

“We’re sorry, the number you dialed is no longer in service,” and he clicked on the second CIA number and heard the same message, “We’re sorry...” And he closed the phone lid.

And Morgan thought, Yeah, I’m sure you are. And then added another personal thought, Fuck! He went back to Alberquist’s home number and called.

“You have reached area code 202, blah, blah, blah, please leave a message.”

“Hello John, it’s Jim Morgan. I’d sure like to discuss something unusual that’s going on here. I’d appreciate it if you’d return my call as soon as possible. Thanks,” and he placed the cell back into his jacket pocket, right next to his bank deposit.

Morgan headed south out of the Chicago city limits. On Indiana Avenue, near Riverdale, he pulled up to a gun shop where he had personally met the owner some years back. Upon entering, he recognized -- no one.

With some expert help and advice, he purchased a 9mm Baby Glock, two 13 round clips, a pancake holster, and two boxes of ammunition. The eleven hundred dollar price tag included a lot of paperwork that would make it legal for him, “To carry,” according to the knowledgeable, ex-cop salesman.

It was two-o-clock when Morgan left his bank. His stock portfolio had blossomed past the four million dollar mark. His bonds – his, Treasury Bills, weren’t doing that great, but they made him feel patriotic and highly Democratic. It was a small indulgence, one that only he fully understood.

He had four hours before he’d pick up Catherine. He decided to go home and Google her, then he’d workout an hour. He looked hard into his rearview mirror and he had a moment, a moment of feeling hopeless of what was going on behind his back. And he tried to feel the Glock but it wore so comfortable that he had to reach and feel for it with his hand to make sure it was there. And then he wondered if he should cancel his date with Catherine -- for her sake...

He pulled to the side of the road and called information, “ABC International Limo Service in Chicago, please.” He was connected in thirty seconds and ordered a stretch limo to be at Quality Inn on Lake Shore Drive at six P.M., preferably a white one with Champagne and flowers. He read off his American Express card number and was given a confirmation code, all within four minutes.

He called information again and requested a number for a private eye. That list was extensive, and he opted for a downtown 312 area code for the Bradley Investigative Service located on Clark Street in the Loop, and was connected to a sweet female voice, “Bradley’s Security Service, How may I help you?”

“Hello, my name is Jim Morgan. I’d like to have myself followed. Is that possible?”

There was an unusually long pause before she replied, “Yes, ah, Jim. We do that type of work. Let me connect you with Mr. Bradley, can you hold a moment?”

“Yes, I’ll hold,” And he did for a solid five minutes.

“Oscar Bradley, How can we assist you, Mister Morgan?”

Morgan placed a third call to the Four Seasons Hotel, one of the finest hotels in Chicago. He reserved a table for two at seven P.M., “By the way, do you have a suite available, with a view, one facing the lake?” They did. And with his American Express plastic placed the suite on hold.

He arrived home at three-fifteen and told his mom about his dinner plans at the Four Seasons with his new friend, Catherine, “I may be out all night, mom.” He didn’t tell her about hiring a bodyguard. And he neglected to mention the limo.

Morgan went to his computer and Googled Catherine Harris. She was a published author with Evon books. From her web site Bio he divined that she was 32 years old; a graduate of Brown University, where she later taught English Literature, she was Ivy League all the way. From her photo page, he learned that she sailed and was a Yacht Club member on Greenwich Bay. She golfed and that her daddy had to be fairly wealthy. Tuition at Brown is 46,000 a year...

Morgan closed the lid on his laptop and went to the basement for a 30-minute workout on his Bow Flex. He reflected on what it had cost him to attend Purdue -- it was a lot. He then recalled Catherine’s face and her playful dimples, and with that thought dancing through his head and sweat soaking into his tank top, his timer rang. He reached his Zippo lighter and defiantly lit a Camel and began a pre-shower cool down.

Chapter Seven

Eunice watched the ground rise up from her first class window seat of the Boeing 737. Closing her laptop, she wondered what Morgan was doing at that exact moment. And she wondered if he’d be glad to see her when she knocked on his front door. It was two P.M. CST, and she figured to arrive at Morgan’s parents at exactly six. She took a cab to the Four Seasons Hotel, checked in, had the concierge arrange a car for five-thirty, and had her laptop setup and working, all by three-thirty.

She quit the Internet at five, showered and dressed. Looking in the mirror, she smiled at herself and briefly wondered if she were dressed too conservatively. And to herself she mused, He’ll probably want to go out for pizza and beer. She grabbed up her purse and hurried down to the lobby.

Margolova listened to the report on Catherine Harris with a deep intensity, her New York contact never said she was with the CIA, but referred to her as the American spy several times in his narration. It was four in the morning in Tehran when her agent gave her Morgan’s information.

 “Iowa? What is he doing in Iowa? Where is this Iowa? ...You don’t know? Why don’t you know this?”

A simple answer came back, “We don’t have relatives in Iowa.”

“Where is this...Harris woman?”

“I do not know this.” After a long pause, “You never said for us to watch her.”

Margolova rolled her old naked ass out of bed and began to pace the carpeted floor, “I want her followed. I want you to tell me every minute of her actions... I want a report on her -- every hour. I am sending someone after her immediately. Do you understand this?”

She looked out her opened window, the streets were dark and quiet, and she knew there was nothing else to do but to go back to bed. She slipped under the covers and maliciously woke her lover, “Have you ever been to Chicago, Joseffie?”

* * *

Morgan pulled into Catherine’s Hotel and parked, he covered the seats with the tonneau cover and snapped it down. He watched the white limo pull up to the door. It was 5:50 P.M.

Morgan wore a light brown jacket over a white Dior short-sleeved shirt -- no tie, and no gun. He was comfortable – in the way a man ought to feel when he feels good.

His cell rang; it was the limo driver confirming his presence. He walked over to the stretch’s door and talked to the young uniformed driver.

When he saw Catherine, he went around the car to greet her. Her roommate was with her, again. They were dressed similar; both wore eveningwear and could easily be mistaken for sisters. Lynn’s dress was a soft gray and Catherine’s was a thought-provoking cranberry.

The impressive stretch driver opened the car door and stood by it perfectly at the ready. Catherine’s excitement and evening expectations magnified at the sight of the car. She blushed in a moment of non-expectancy as Morgan went up to her friend Lynn and offered his hand to shake, saying, “Hello, Mary Lynn. Are you joining us tonight?”

“No. I have a meeting to attend.” And once again, Morgan was aware of her cool, moist hand.