The Orion Assignment (4 page)

This would be Felicity's business partner, of course, the expert in crisis management. Sean was not quite sure what he expected but this certainly wasn't it. Not this big, broad shouldered black man in jeans and leather boots. He wore a black tee shirt with a gold map of Vietnam overlaid with red letters reading “Next time let us win.” It wasn't prejudice but lack of familiarity that caused his slight hesitation when the long fingered brown hand thrust toward him. When he took it, the handshake proved firm, warm and dry.

“So…Father? Sullivan? Sean?”

“Father will be fine,” Sean said. “And you must be Mister Stark, Felicity's partner.”

“Morgan will be fine.”

“So you're partners as I understand it, but just what do you do in this business?” Sean asked. “Felicity provides security for people?”

“Yeah, Felicity handles most of the domestic stuff. I've got a small team doing security work in Iraq right now, and another one training Pakistanis in night flying and airborne assault tactics to combat foreign and local fighters in the tribal areas of Pakistan near the Afghan border.”

They drove in silence for a time, with Sean's attention moving from the road to the driver and back again. Just as the priest was getting comfortable, Morgan spoke without turning his head. “You know, Father, Felicity's real glad to see you, but it's funny. She's more nervous than I've ever seen her. She's concerned about your
approval. I don't know. She says you're her uncle, but she acts more like you were her father…Father.”

“Well, you certainly get right down to the point, don't you lad?” Sean said as Morgan down shifted and pushed the Jeep into a smooth slide around a corner. “Well Felicity's real father was my brother-in-law. But he and my sister were killed when Felicity was still a wee child, and that left me her only living relative. They lived up in Ulster, you know. I went up and brought Felicity down to Glendalough.”

“Correct me if I'm wrong, but they don't usually let priests raise kids, do they?” He seemed to drive with total disregard for speed limits, yet he had total control of the Jeep.

“Course not,” Sean said, refilling his pipe from a pouch in his pocket. “I placed her with the Daly's, a fine couple. Married four years at the time and still childless. They so wanted a little girl, and they lived right by the church. The child was in shock for a while but I figured she'd adjust with God's help.

“Then poor Paddy Daly lost his job and he started drinking. I tried to…I did my best with him, but he wandered away from The Church. Then one day he just…wandered away.”

Morgan sat through the following silence without prodding for more. Sean wondered if the other man could guess at the guilt he felt. He was a priest who could not stop one of his flock from sliding away from the Church. And that one was his niece's chosen guardian.

Smoke filled the Jeep like stale memories. Morgan unzipped his window to let some slip out. Sean cleared his throat and continued.

“I was Felicity's father figure mostly. Mrs. Daly, bless her heart, she tried to be a good mother to her, to steer her little fire haired vixen in the right direction. The girl was a constant reader and good in school. Her mind was incredibly quick, yet there was something odd
about her. Like there was something inside her no one could touch.”

Morgan interrupted with a curse as a light turned red in front of them. He stopped just in time. The jolt made Sean realize how much he had dominated the conversation, and wonder what it was about this hard driving black man that made it so easy for him to babble on like this.

“By gosh, I never meant to fill your ears with so much mush, lad.”

“Why not?” Morgan asked with an easy grin. “I care about her and I want to know. Not just about my partner's childhood, but her relationship with you, too.” He popped the clutch as the light turned green and Sean literally held onto his hat.

“My relationship with Felicity doesn't go very far. She was on the heavy side as a child, and yet she seemed to always be with a boy. Much too young, I'd say. Just couldn't control her in that regard. I never stopped trying though, and the constant arguing just drove us apart. Then, when she was seventeen, she just up and left. She took a change of clothes and ten pounds and the gold crucifix I'd given her. There was a rumor she'd gone off to live with the wanderers out west.”

“Wanderers?” Morgan asked.

“Tribes of, well, Irish Gypsies I guess you'd call them. Drunkards. Beggars. Some people say they're just a bunch of thieves and con artists.”

“Funny what you hear,” Morgan said, with a knowing smile. He turned the Jeep down the ramp into a parking garage. He screeched to a halt in a designated slot, yanked the emergency brake, and turned to his passenger for the rest of the story.

“Well, no one heard from the girl for nigh on three years after that,” Sean said, opening his door. “Three long, tough years. The town had some bad times. The mill shut down. Do these go inside?”

“Yeah,” Morgan replied. He hefted a grocery bag and
did not stop Sean from taking the other.

By the time they reached the elevator, Sean's face reflected Morgan's easy smile. Sean figured that this young fellow had to be the easiest man to like that he had ever met. Irishmen aside, of course.

“So, three years passed…” Morgan prodded as the elevator rose.

“Yes, they did. Then the checks started coming in. Every month. Sometimes, quite substantial. Actually, cashier's checks, made out to the church. Never any kind of address. A lot of times, they were in different languages and I wouldn't know how much it was until I got them to the bank.”

“But you knew where it was from,” Morgan said, more a statement than a question.

“I figured she didn't want me to know what she was doing, or where she was. But I used the money to help the poor and such. I only found her here by luck. Wonder what she was doing before this.”

“Guess we'll let her tell you herself,” Morgan replied. They went to the door of one of the two penthouse apartments. Morgan pushed the doorbell. Sean looked around at the multicolored flowers behind them. The rainbow petals looked like hawks' beaks opened for an attack. They held his attention, even as he heard the door open.

“They're called bird of paradise plants, Uncle Sean.”

Sean spun to see his niece in the doorway, and it all came rushing back. The plump little girl was trim and tall now, but she bound her hair in the same emerald ribbon she used as a seven year old. She wore her wool knit pullover as she had worn them in her youth, sleeves pushed up, almost to her elbows. Her maroon corduroy slacks were much too tight, just like back then. And like the old days, she was barefoot.

“Well, come in and put those bags down. Have a seat, for goodness sake.”

“I'll take the groceries,” Morgan said. “Why don't you
get us some coffee?”

Sean Sullivan had never been in a place like this. The sunken living room, surrounded by a broad marble platform, appeared to be as wide as his entire cottage, and almost as long. Across the room, an oak table with three chairs sat up on this platform.

Three steps down he sank into deep pile carpet, rose colored like the walls. Then he sank into the end seat of the light tan velour sofa, scorning the matching easy chairs at either side of the couch.

“Here we are,” Felicity said, sitting two large mugs of coffee on the oak cube which served as a coffee table. “Like the view?”

“I'm impressed, girl. The ocean is lovely at night.” Sean turned to stare out the back wall, made up of three foot wide, floor to ceiling glass panels.

“So, dear uncle, how ever did you find me?”

“No magic lass, just luck. You remember Mick Murphy at the paper? He's still putting out his little local news, you know. Well, he's got this service now. Some computer thingie that types out the news from UPI. They put all kinds of stuff on there, filler he calls it, so they can keep it running all day. Mmmm! You make a good cup of coffee, girl.

“Anyway, one day he sees your name on the paper and he wonders if this Felicity O'Brien in New York City could be our own long lost Felicity. He writes a letter and he gets a picture from some big New York paper. The story's about two people who saved a couple of others in a big fire. The pictures are you and your partner here, eh..”

“Morgan, Uncle Sean. My partner and best friend.”

“Yeah. By the way,” Sean twisted around, raised his voice, “what are ye doing up there, lad?”

“I was putting these sandwiches together. Here.” Morgan came out of the kitchen, sat on the floor in front of the cube table and set three huge sandwiches and a plate of fries on it. The sandwiches were thick Italian
loaves split lengthwise, heaped with roast beef and a little lettuce. Course ground mustard coated the meat on one side.

“Felicity wanted to take you to some four star restaurant for some French sounding stuff, but I figured you'd rather have something less formal. Me, I don't eat anything I can't pronounce.”

“Thank you, lad,” Sean said through a mouthful. “This feels like coming home.”

“So anyway, how'd you trace us from New York to here?”

Sean chuckled. “Felicity did that herself. Old Mick corresponded with the New York paper. A reporter wrote and told him how the girl had talked a blue streak. She had an apartment in New York he said, but her main home was in Los Angeles. From there, we just called up information. We didn't find a home number, but her name is on the business.”

“Well, I'm impressed,” Morgan said, laughing through a hunk of sandwich. He pulled mustard from the corner of his mouth as he pulled his thoughts together. “But you didn't go through all those changes just to say ‘hi' to your long lost niece. She mentioned some kind of…a problem?”

“Aye lad,” Sean replied, emptying his coffee mug. “When I found out you did security work, I figured you could help me protect the church from the toughs who've been threatening it.”

Felicity shifted on the couch, frowning toward Sean. “Uncle Sean, I'll be glad to come and do all I can, but we've got to be realistic. You don't live in a security compound, you know. No alarm can stop a thrown pipe bomb, for instance. Besides, that kind of personal security is really Morgan's specialty, but he's booked to go to Paris for an arms convention of some type.”

“It's not that important, Red. We ought to just go to your old home town as a sort of vacation. I've never seen Southern Ireland.”

“The Irish Republic, lad,” Sean said, correcting him.

“Whatever. And we don't even have to charge for our services as security advisors. It's a church, right? We can call it a charitable donation of services. Then we can write the whole trip off our taxes. It's perfect. Now how about bringing us a couple of bottles of brew from the bar, Red?”

“Sure, and I'll be glad to,” Felicity said, rising. Her accent was back, full force. Sean imagined that once back in country she would sound like she had never left. He waited until he was sure she was out of earshot before turning back to Morgan.

“She's changed a lot,” he said. “So sure of herself, and so proud. And she lets people call her Red now, does she?”

“Not people,” Morgan said in low, conspiratorial tones. “Just me.”

“Really?”

“It's not so odd. You're the only person who calls me lad. And yes, Felicity is all grown up. She's really quite a respectable business woman, you know.”

“Yes,” Sean said. “Now. But what of the time in between?”

Felicity's return cut that conversation short. Sean was delighted to find a Guinness stout pressed into his hand. For the next hour and forty-five minutes, conversation bounced around the three of them. Morgan talked about odd jobs he held in the past. Sean went on about how different Ireland was from what he consistently described as “this crazy country”. Felicity laughed a lot, and spoke about her childhood, most of which sounded pleasant enough.

At length, Morgan stood up to make his apologies. The empty bottle score stood at two for Felicity, three for Morgan and four for Sean. Felicity's eyes widened when Morgan said his good-byes and made an abrupt move for the door. She bounced up to follow him out.

“You don't have to leave, you know.”

“I figure you'd like…you needed some time alone.” Morgan said, opening the door.

“What do I do? I mean…”

“Look, have you told him anything about your life before? I mean, before there was a Stark and O'Brien.” Morgan asked.

Felicity blanched. “Of course not!”

“Is that fair?” Morgan asked. “I know. You think he'll disapprove. But think it through. All he knows right now is that you made some big bucks and you're not proud of it. The man's a priest but he's not stupid. What do you suppose he thinks?” He paused to watch Felicity bite her lip, and then shrug her shoulders. “For all he knows, you could've been a hired killer, or a drug dealer. More likely he thinks you've been whoring.” Felicity's mouth dropped open. “Well, how do pretty girls usually make big money fast? Look, you've got to tell him the truth. I've done all I could but now…now it's up to you.”

Morgan headed for the elevator. Felicity stood with her back to her door until he stepped in. Then as the doors started closing she called out.

“Morgan.” He stopped the hissing doors with his hand.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks,” she said. “Just…thanks.” Then she turned, took a deep breath, and went back into her apartment.

How many plane trips had Morgan taken in his life? No way could he count them. He guessed he had visited maybe twenty-five different countries in his lifetime. But he could not remember when a flight had made him feel this way.

The airplane was nothing special. He sat in a window seat on the wide-bodied Boeing 747. Felicity sat beside him, with Sean in the aisle seat.