Orchids to Die For (Jim Morgan Adventure Series) (2 page)

Replacing the letter and inserting the Brazilian news article, he made a new label for the folder, “Orchids to Die For,” and re-stamped the folder, SECRET. He then took it to his Department Head. Three hours later, Ames walked out of the same office with the same folder, a lot fatter now, and it was re-stamped as, TOP SECRET.

Ames placed the top-secret package into a leather attaché case, locked it and then handcuffed it to his left wrist. Two gray suited, armed, agents walked him out of the building and helped him into a waiting limo. The taller of his two escorts entered the passenger seat next to the driver and directed him out of the compound with two words, “White House.”

* * *

Jim Morgan walked out of the casino and settled in behind the wooden wheel of his vintage 1963 Austin 3000. He sat there a minute contemplating his morning; he peered at the check in his jacket pocket with a smile, and then wondered why he didn’t tell Catherine that he wrote a book? And then he pondered what Eunice wanted, briefly. He opened the door and went to the trunk and took out a copy of his novel, “The Malagasy Tortoise” and tossed it on his passenger’s seat. He started the engine and wondered what Catherine’s last name was and if she were a household word like Coulter, or something. As he pulled out of the casino’s garage, he lit a Camel cigarette and vowed, once again, that it would be his last one.

Speeding west over the Chicago Skyway, Morgan passed everybody including the unmarked police car that now had him pulled over waiting for a uniformed back up. Morgan picked up his book and paged idly through it. As he did so, he recalled that Eunice had once told him, “...If you have to? Bribe them. Just get the job done.”

He opened his wallet and withdrew two, one hundred dollar bills. He placed them in the book, with the 100 markings extending out of the pages, as a bookmark. He walked back to the unmarked patrol car and asked the detective if he had read his novel. The cop grabbed it and scanned the back cover, “Sounds interesting. I’ll read it.” And then he set the book down on his seat. He picked up the radio’s microphone and cancelled his request for uniformed assistance.

 The cop extended his hand through the window and they shook hands, “Drive safe, Mister Morgan.”

“I will. I hope you enjoy my writing.” And thought, Dick Head... Yeah, there was a moral issue here, somewhere.

The bribed officer, one of Chicago’s finest, didn’t even ask for an autograph. As the unmarked, maroon, Ford squad car pulled out and entered into the traffic flow. Morgan waved him a smooth adios and returned to his Austin. It was his lucky day, and he sped off toward home for a quick nap, hot shower, and a fresh shirt, thinking, life is really beautiful.

Chapter Three

Morgan tossed the casino check on his bedroom dresser. Removing his fat wallet, he counted out the hundred-dollar bills. He put five of them back in, and laid the other thirty-seven on top of the check. He set his alarm for five, pulled the blinds shut, and went to sleep.

Along the east bank of the Potomac River at INTUIT U., three resident super-psychics were proclaiming a new increased level to their already known, and documented, ESP capabilities. As Eunice entered their soundproof laboratory, the girls all focused their attention on her approach. The three women were floating high on the effect of the new, rare Brazilian orchid scent.

Tonya, a tall brunette, informed Eunice, “I’m reading your mind, Miss North. I really can’t help myself. Who is Jimbo? And why do you think he’ll be hitting on us in Brazil?”

Jackie, an ash blonde, in her mid-thirties, looked at Tonya and very seriously said, “Because she loves him, stupid. It’s a jealousy thing. She doesn’t trust him.” She then looked back at Eunice and with a blush, “I’m sorry, Miss North.”

Lisa, the stoic of the three, all business-like, added, “Don’t worry.  We can defend ourselves from him.” She then looked at Tonya, adding, “Well, maybe not Tonya.” The girls giggled a minute, and then became serious.

The three women became studious and listened to Eunice verbally tell them what was going on and what would be expected of them. They were going orchid hunting for the CIA. The project was top secret and added that it could be dangerous. If anyone of them wanted out? They’d have to quit, there and then. Eunice waited for them to respond.

Jackie said she was in, as did Lisa. Tonya looked at Lisa and asked, “Aren’t you afraid of Margolova?”

“I have bad vibes on her, true.” Lisa looked to Eunice, as did Tonya and Jackie.

Eunice considered their stare, knowing that her thoughts were wide open to these three exceptional women and verbalized, “It’s a dangerous assignment. There’s a terrorist group located in Iran going after the same orchid. They’ve already annihilated an entire village of peasants down there, only to find out that they were in the wrong village.”

Lisa interjected, “One of them, a woman, is going back there this week. She will fly down and meet some angry men in a warehouse in Sao Paulo.” Her eyes fluttered, and she added, “The hotel is a Spanish name, “El Oro Mesa. That’s all I’m getting.”

Eunice asked if they could be ready to leave on Friday.

Tonya raised her hand like a student asking to be called on. “Yes Tonya?”

“I see airline tickets for Saturday morning at nine. I see five tickets. Ours and a Jim Morgan’s, but the fifth one is a blank.”

“Thanks Tonya.” Eunice had chills running down her spine, “If you, or any of you, have a fifth name? Let me know. As of right now, I’m only sending down the three of you, and Morgan. And -- he hasn’t been asked, as yet.”

The three psychics looked at one another for some answer. None came. They didn’t know. The girls knew this was odd. One of them should have known something.

Eunice excused herself and moved to leave. Jackie called out to her, “Have a nice trip tomorrow, Miss North.”

Turning back to her, Eunice responded, “I’m not going anywhere tomorrow, Jackie.”

Jackie grimaced, then spoke, “Sorry. Just goes to show you, psychics don’t know everything. Do they?”

* * *

Morgan bolted awake, disoriented. His clock read five P.M. It took a few seconds for him to recall where he was, and his dinner date. While taking a quick shower he thought about Catherine and how much she resembled Sophie. He also made a mental note to call Eunice, one day. And then recalled that his last adventure, to Madagascar, had begun with a small note, too, “Call Eunice.”

After a quick shave, he splashed on his favorite scent, Cool Water. He pulled on a pair of tan slacks and a white golf shirt and then stepped into a pair of light-brown loafers. He went to the kitchen and threw down a glass of cold tap water. He read a scraggly note on the fridge, “We’ll be back by ten.” On his way out the door, he saw the message light flashing on the house phone, but ignored it. He was behind the power curve and didn’t want to be late. Inevitably, the call would turn out to have been from Uncle Bill or some inane message for his parents.

The Austin roared out of the drive, and headed for the Quality Inn on Lake Shore Drive. In an afterthought, Morgan pulled the 3000 over to the curb and retrieved another copy of his book from the trunk and slipped it under the driver’s seat.  He’d wait to see how she dressed before deciding where he’d take her. She did say, “Casual.” And he thought, Tommy Guns. One, it’s fun. And two, he was hungry and loved their Lasagna. The mobster ambiance might just be the ticket for a girl out of Miami, the retirement Mecca of Al Capone and a lot of the other old-time baddies. Or was that, Boca Raton? 

Catherine, as promised, was standing at the front door. Another woman was with her, and Morgan correctly, intuitively, guessed that it was her roommate. Leaving the Austin run, he got out and went around to the passenger door and stood as they approached him, “You look absolutely stunning, Catherine.”

She was wearing a white sleeveless dress, which did look casual, yet stated, “We can go anywhere you want.” She carried the same little handbag that she had toted earlier – she looked gorgeous.

“What a cute car.” She turned and introduced her girlfriend, Mary Lynn; also a pretty, petite blonde.

 Morgan shook Mary Lynn’s hand and was surprised at how cold it felt, he also discerned that it was also quite moist. Mary Lynn was obviously an overseer, and didn’t approve of Catherine going off with a stranger. He opened the door for Catherine, while stating, “I’d invite you along, Mary Lynn; but you’d have to sit on my lap.”

In a matronly tone, came an adamant reply, “Oh, I’m not going anywhere -- I have work to do.”

As they pulled from the circle drive, Catherine shouted, “Don’t wait up!”

* * *

Margolova was heated up near rage as she yelled into her cell phone, “I need to know where Morgan is.  Not just that he isn’t at the Institute. Can’t I get anything from your bloody network that’s worth a shit?” And then severed her International call to New York City with a nasty snap of her cell phone lid.

Joseffie, cleaning an AK-47 on the kitchen table, yelled at her to relax! That his people were on top of every flight out of America, “They will tell me if Morgan leaves his country.” This was an open boast on the extent of his covert ties.

“I should have you go find him and slit open his throat. Or better yet, I will go do this myself. I should have done it back in Madagascar.” And she contemplated a brief moment, as to just why she hadn’t, and she shook off a sexual desire that began to form in her twisted thinking.

Her cell rang, and she answered, vehemently, “Yes!”

“We found him. He’s in Chicago. What do you want us to do?”

“Watch him! I want to know where he is, minute by minute. If he leaves Chicago, I want to be called – Immediately!”

Chapter Four

Pulling onto Lake Shore Drive, Jim asked Catherine, “Would you like a quick tour of the lakefront on our way to the restaurant?”

“Sure, sounds nice. I’m amazed at how beautiful Lake Michigan is. And I would love to see more of the city. Have you already made reservations somewhere?”

“No. It’s Sunday. We can go anywhere, casual opens a lot of doors, but I do have an idea as to where we’re going.”

Catherine smoothed down her dress, and knew she was dressed beyond casual, at least, by Miami standards.

 Morgan took the scenic route north past Soldiers Field, home of the Bears football team; and then past John G. Shedd Aquarium, the largest indoor aquarium in the world. Exiting off Lake Shore Drive on the Randolph Street exit, he growled the Austin down and cruised by the front entryway of Navy Pier. Then shot west, into the center of the Loop for an upward view of Sears Tower. Morgan played the role of tour guide exceptionally well, he even told her how the city dyes the Chicago River green on St. Patrick’s Day. Then made her laugh with political stories on how often a dead person is allowed to vote Democratic on Election Day. 

Catherine felt an immediate comfortableness with him and found his mental playfulness -- downright enjoyable. Maybe it was the awesome vibrations of Austin 3000, or the architectural beauty of Chicago itself, or some Cupid trick at work, but after twenty minutes with this High Rolling -- Engineer, she recognized that something very significant was missing in her life. She was totally sensing the essence of what she dearly wrote about, Romance.

She inquisitively asked, “Why are you living with your parents, Jim?”

“Oh, that’s a long story, kiddo. I’ll tell you over dinner. If you like?” To which she nodded out in the affirmative. She tried to guess his age, and tried to catch a glimpse of his ring finger for a hint of a ring, or ring-indentation. She decided to hold these questions until they sat down to dine. 

 They drove down Michigan Avenue in an observational silence as they headed south along Grant Park and the flowing Buckingham Fountain, toward China Town and “Tommy Guns” dinner theater. It was a fun ride, and dinner was right around the corner, just ... Two minutes ahead.

While waiting for a red light to change, a green and white taxi bumped, gently, into the rear end of the Austin. Morgan grimaced, turned to Catherine and asked if she were okay, then pulled on the emergency brake, got out, and walked back to check for damage. The Arab-looking driver had already exited his cab and was feeling around the bumper for damage. The cabbie stood and was openly apologetic, insistent that no harm had come to either vehicle.

Morgan didn’t see any damage. Not a scratch, “Okay, pal. Be a little more careful with that bomb of yours.”

Ahmed, the cabbie, wanted to shoot Morgan his middle finger for calling his car a bomb, but held back. He couldn’t jeopardize the magnetic tracking device he had just attached to the Austin’s undercarriage, “May Allah ride with you tonight,” he said convincingly, and gave Morgan a Middle-East bow with his fingertips pressed together in a loosely apologetic gesture.

With a lot of horns honking behind him, Morgan returned to the wheel, pausing briefly to retract the book he had placed under his seat earlier, “Here Catherine, a little gift for you.”

“You wrote a book?” Catherine looked at him with a deep intensity as he pulled the Austin through the green light running through the gears as if he were playing a sophisticated musical instrument. His face expressed a love of life, an intensity of simply, being. And she thought, God I want to write this moment down – I feel so, alive.

With her hair blowing freely in the setting sunlight, she opened his novel to a random page, and read, “...your bed or mine?” To which he confidently answered, “Yours first. Mine later.” She closed the book and looked at him with a blushing grin. Then read the back of the book as he pulled into the Tommy Guns parking lot, “Sounds interesting, Mister Morgan.”

“Jim. Call me Jim. Do you prefer Catherine?” He came around and opened her door, “What’s your last name, Catherine?” He grasped her hand and guided her up. He liked the way she felt, soft and – she exhumed an aura of self-confidence, something he personally appreciated.

“I use Catherine.” She looked up at him, “My last name is, Harris.”