Piranha Assignment (7 page)

“I don't know,” Roberts said, staring into the glowing bed of coals. “I'm trying to eat healthy these days.” Morgan had filleted the rainbow trout like and expert and seasoned them with a subtle touch. However, he had also pan fried them in quite a lot of real butter.

“Come on, Mark,” Felicity said. “Can't you just forget your cholesterol count this one time and enjoy a meal? Besides, fish is better than red meat, isn't it?”

The sun was just thinking about going down on the other side of the tall pines. Roberts sat on a canvas sheet with his back against the rough bark of a mature fir. Felicity thought it must be quite a change from Central America's dense rain forests.

Sitting on the ground beside Morgan, she examined his black rifle. Aside from the barrel, all the visible parts were
made of some kind of plastic. The forearm slid back and forth like the pump of a shotgun.

“It's an air gun, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Morgan said, putting down his now empty plate. “It fires these.” He tossed a handful of shotgun shell sized cartridges to her. Within the plastic shells, she saw a short needle, riding in front of a clear liquid.

“These aren't meant to kill,” Felicity said, brushing her hair back.

“Nope. That's a long distance inoculation I designed to help the Forestry Service.”

“So you're not out here hunting wolves,” Roberts said. “You're trying to save them.”

“Oh, but it's still a hunt,” Morgan said, grinning. “I get all the fun of stalking, sighting in and making the shot. But, you're right, I'm trying to keep them alive.”

“Just what the world needs,” Felicity said. “More wolves.”

“I know you're being funny, but that's exactly right.” The snap in Morgan's voice surprised her. “Do you know that ten years from now, twenty percent of the earth's species could disappear? In the last week, I've covered just about all of this park. Two hundred ten square miles of island. In that time I've only spotted three females. Did you hear me? Three to keep the pack alive.

“The biologists told me they're dying of canine parvovirus, probably brought over here by somebody's pet dog. The park managers had this vaccine, and they were trying to capture the wolves each year to inoculate them.”

“You're kidding,” Roberts said. “Catch and release with wolves?”

“Damned dangerous, and a pretty much impossible job,” Morgan said. “Wolves are incredible hunters. They can see and smell a deer more than a mile away. Imagine trying to
catch them.” His admiration for the animals filled his voice.

“So you volunteered to save them.” Felicity got very serious, and a look of admiration appeared on her face as well.

Morgan lifted his rifle. “I designed this setup to give them the shots from a distance. The syringe falls out right after I shoot it in. I'm having a great time hunting them, and the patent for the design of the delivery system will pay the company back well for the trip.” Morgan interrupted himself to set a large coffee pot on the fire and begin adding the necessary contents. “So, what brings you guys out to the great outdoors?”

“Uncle Sam needs you again,” Felicity said. Morgan looked at Roberts, very much as he would look at a creditor dunning him for money.

“What'll it be now, Mark?” Morgan asked, getting out a set of tin cups. “Want us to rob a bank? Maybe you've got a troublesome country in mind, and you'd like me to overthrow the government.”

“Can we cut the humor?” Roberts asked. “I've lost a man on this Bastidas project, nothing looks right, and I need a civilian inside.” His eyes strayed into the fire, and Morgan quieted down. Felicity knew Morgan could understand. He had lost men himself.

Roberts didn't look up until Felicity she pushed a hot cup of coffee into his hand. Darkness, it seemed to her, had fallen quite suddenly. Roberts fidgeted into a better seated position and sipped his coffee. Morgan and Felicity got comfortable, sitting cross legged on the canvas. Morgan tossed more wood on the fire and it rose a bit. When he spoke it was in hushed tones.

“Okay, Mark, now you'll have to tell us the whole story.”

“All right,” Roberts said at last. “I guess I should have
before. Anyway, if you take the job, you'll see it up close. My head of security's been killed under pretty questionable circumstances, and Bastidas wants a private company brought in. It's got to be someone with an established reputation for maintaining security on large and unusual projects. You're the only people I can trust.”

“If we even wanted to accept the job, what would we be guarding?” Felicity asked.

“That, Felicity, is the sixty-four thousand dollar question,” Roberts said. His face was almost lost in the sharp shadows cast by the fire. “Bastidas has designed an entirely new type of nuclear submarine. We've been constructing the thing in Panama under maximum security.”

“And what makes this new sub so superior to what we have now?” Morgan asked.

“Two things,” Roberts said, leaning closer to the glowing coals. “For one thing, he's found a way to make it almost completely invisible to sonar. It's truly a stealth submarine, as good as the bombers that came out of the Skunk Works. The other difference is the power source. His new submarine is propelled by the first practical fusion reactor.”

“Say again all after?”

“You heard me, Morgan,” Roberts said. “A true, fusion-powered nuclear submarine. Remember that big controversy about nuclear fusion in a test tube back in eighty-nine? Causing a reaction at room temperature?”

“Cold fusion,” Felicity said. “I remember, but it didn't work. I mean, nobody could duplicate the results.”

“Actually, we squashed it because it struck too close to the truth. Bastidas has got it to work. His sub can travel for a lifetime on the fuel it leaves the dock with. It's the cleanest, most space conservative, most energy efficient
power source on earth, and we've got it. So when Bastidas asked us to commission this new submarine it offered us the perfect third leg for our nuclear deterrent. The present administration sees it as a way to justify eliminating land based and bomber carried nukes. Think of it. A mobile launch platform with almost unlimited range and undetectable by any presently known means. The project is code named Operation Piranha.”

“Piranha?”

“Bastidas picked it, Morgan,” Roberts said. “Named after the most dangerous things in their waters, despite their small size, and native to Panama. That's just what he's building for the U.S. Navy. You see why we were authorized to give the man anything he wants?”

“What I don't understand is why the U.S. Navy isn't handling security for such an important project,” Felicity said.

“Bastidas is a little paranoid about U.S. military security,” Roberts said. “He has his own ideas. Figures if the military has a high profile around his project it'll tell the opposition something important's going on. He might have a point there. Now that the U.S. has left Panama it might throw up some serious red flags. Anyway, he's hired his own people. Literally. About sixty Panamanians between scientists, laborers and guards. There's a bizarre grab bag of mercenaries added to the mix to watch the watchers. Man, it gets dark quick around here.”

“True,” Morgan said. “But don't change the subject. Why would he accept us as security personnel, and what's this about losing a man?”

The north wind ruffled the tops of the tall pines, and Roberts seemed to pull the darkness around his shoulders for warmth. “Chris Matthews was their security chief, officially. He was under cover, working for me. Been in on
it from the beginning. Now things are getting close to completion and the crew's pretty happy. Well, apparently Chris and some of the boys went over to Panama City for some relaxation.

“Now Chris isn't…wasn't much of a drinker, but the story I get is he was pretty much three sheets to the wind. So, they find themselves in this little native bar. You know the kind of place, Morgan. Dark and atmospheric, with a little guy in the corner in a sombrero who plays guitar all night and all day. Well anyway, Chris gets to dancing with this native girl. An Indian. I understand she had long straight black hair and a slim body. Maybe she's just a free spirit. Maybe she's there to make money.” Roberts lowered his voice, but Felicity didn't think it was intentional. She leaned forward, her long hair swinging in out of the shadows.

“The dancing got wilder and wilder,” Roberts continued. “Kind of a native frenzy. I can picture those sweaty bodies spinning on the wooden floor while the guitar player gets faster and faster. All of a sudden, there's a shot.”

A distant wolf chose this moment to howl. Felicity looked up, and realized that the world had shrunk to a tiny circle of light, with their three bodies at its borders. Just that tiny circle existed. That, and a pale full moon.

“One of the Panamanian workers, I think his name was Juan Carlos, fired a shot into the ceiling,” Roberts said. “He started carrying on about how Chris had stolen his woman. He was irrational. Well, Chris wasn't bad in a rumble, and I guess he figured out pretty quickly that this was serious business. I'm told by witnesses that he tossed a bar stool and disarmed his attacker. They wrestled around a bit. There was no help for either of them, but that's the culture down there. At one point, they parted briefly. Juan Carlos got his hands on a bottle and broke it on the edge of the
bar.” Roberts swallowed hard. “And Chris slipped on some tequila spilled on the floor.”

In the brief silence, each listener drew his or her own mental picture of the next scene. An owl above them asked, but everyone else already knew who. Roberts shifted around in his discomfort, while his two listeners sat quite still. Felicity looked toward Morgan, but the sparse firelight revealed only his legs. His deep voice slid out of the darkness, rough but low.

“Was it quick, at least?” Morgan asked.

“It was messy,” Roberts said. He leaned in for warmth, and Felicity thought she saw a tear welling up in the hardened CIA agent's eye. “Juan Carlos erased his face and tore out his Adam's apple,” Roberts went on. “They tell me Chris thrashed around for five minutes. His attacker ran out the door into the night after that. When they caught up with him, he was lying among the ferns and bushes with his neck broken.”

Felicity felt a chill stab through her sweater, and she wished someone could cuddle her right then. She leaned forward to look closely at Morgan, but his face was carved from stone. Was he remembering a similar event he witnessed. Or perhaps took part in?

“Was your man Matthews prone to womanizing?” It was a serious question, and Morgan asking it helped her come to grips with the reality of the situation.

“Chris had no history of this type of thing.”

“What do you think, Red?” He's asking me to think? Felicity thought. How can I be logical about this? I've just been told about a man being ripped apart. But almost against her will she began to examine the story in the context of profiling the players the way she would if they were marks.

“Bastidas' men must have busted his cover,” Felicity
said. “It just doesn't work as a random act of violence. He was murdered, and then they sacrificed the killer to cover the truth.” She stared at Morgan, hoping he could feel her saying thanks. The question had shaken her out of her campfire ghost story mentality and brought her back to adulthood.

“We've got no evidence to prove that,” Roberts said. “I can't officially act on that assumption. But if I can bring you people into the picture as security advisors to replace Chris, I can have reliable eyes and ears inside that Bastidas will trust.”

“That doesn't track,” Morgan said, reaching behind himself for his sleeping bag. “Bastidas might miss Felicity, but he'd have to recognize me. Those disguises we wore when we scammed him were designed to screw up a verbal description, not to make us unrecognizable.”

“My point exactly,” Roberts said. “He already thinks you're on the wrong side of the law. He'd never believe you were working with the CIA. And after you put one over on him, he'd get a kick out of ordering you around. Besides, this close to completion, he won't be too picky anyway.”

“Why don't we talk more about this tomorrow?” Morgan said. “We've got a lot to think about. By the way, where are you two staying? The only way you could have come in by boat, but I sure wouldn't try to navigate one out of here in the dark.”

“We brought sleeping bags,” Felicity answered, refilling her coffee cup. “I figured we could squeeze into your tent. By the way, where is…”

Morgan let out a raucous guffaw, then a burst of giggles which even another wolf's howl couldn't drown out. He held his ribs, shaking with laughter. “Red, When I'm out, I sleep under the stars. If you wanted a roof, you should have called for reservations.”

“I think it's time for the final briefing,” Roberts said. He had an aisle seat near the rear of the airliner. The rays of a bright morning sun stabbed through the left side windows. A stewardess had just distributed drinks, handed out with phony smiles. both were free, as was the dry air that united the first class cabin with the rest of the plane. Felicity, in the window seat, looked past Morgan to tease Roberts.

“You know, I don't know if we're being paid enough to put up with another of your briefings,” she said.

“I think the special variance to the California code you received is worth a lot more than few more minutes of boredom.”

Morgan smiled at Roberts' reply. He had extorted a lot from his old buddy to accept this job. For one thing, this luxury flight to Panama City was not coming out of their expenses. He made a point of enjoying it, sipping at his scotch.

More importantly, Roberts had solved a major problem plaguing their business. A month ago, Morgan and Felicity had toyed with the idea of moving their headquarters to Miami or New York. California's gun laws were very restrictive, concerning semiautomatic weapons in particular. Neither single shot, nor bolt action firearms are very useful in the security business. Morgan was also worried that thousands of dollars he had spent on special licenses for fully automatic weapons, his submachine gun
collection, would be wasted.