Seagrave turned to his right, and walked past the foot of the table into the reception area, which represented the top cross bar of the “T.” A wet bar filled the side of the room to his left, and a desk and office setting took up the space on his right.
Seagrave focused on the two remarkable men sitting at the bar. Right then, the thinner man held his gaze.
He was tall, perhaps six feet four or five inches, but as thin as a cattail reed. His hair was stark white, yet no wrinkles showed on his face. What really captured Seagrave’s attention were his eyes. They were pale, almost entirely colorless, as if someone had streaked a thin blue wash across his irises. Those cold orbs betrayed no emotion as he filled his companion’s glass.
By most measures, the other drinker was even more exceptional. Not only was he an inch taller than his well dressed partner, but he seemed three times as wide. He certainly tipped the scales at something over three hundred pounds, but there was hardly an ounce of fat on him. His suit, although tailor made, still strained to contain his bulging muscles. He had uncommonly long arms, with fingers hanging halfway to his knees. His knuckles were rounded and hair ran rampant on the backs of his hands. His head was the bullet shape of the pure Saxon, connected to his body by what looked like a set of braided steel cables running down his neck and out to his shoulders. One glance at his simian form reminded Seagrave how he had acquired the nickname “Monk”. He served his purposes, but Seagrave had more use for the thinner man right then.
“Give me a report, Stone,” Seagrave said, his hands in his bathrobe pockets. “What’s the story on that Central American commodities deal?”
“It should be quite profitable,” the white haired man responded. “The politician we supported in Belize will be successfully maneuvering to increase sugar prices now that he is in control of that key export in his country. He is also quite influential with his opposites in other sugar producing nations. He is presently instigating for an OPEC style sugar cartel across Latin America. He is an excellent spokesman for the advantages of capitalist power politics, pointing to the Middle East as his example. In some cases, the fate of our man’s late predecessor, this Carlos Abrigo, is being successfully used to intimidate reluctant officials. Your accountants assure me that your sugar futures should more than double in value within the next eighteen months or so.”
Stone’s eyes rose to at the sight of Ashleigh stepping out of the elevator in tight, but otherwise conservative business attire. She moved quietly across the floor and took her place in a seat beside the desk. She drew a notebook out of a desk drawer and flipped to a blank page, ready to take notes. Seagrave patted her head absently as he eased into his plush office chair.
“That’s very good,” Seagrave said, returning his attention to Stone. “This is a strong first step. You see, it’s all about placing the right people in the right political positions. The profits from my commodities trading will finance future selective removals, and this operation will pay for itself.”
“So we will continue to influence the leadership in Belize?” Stone asked.
“Of course,” Seagrave said, smirking into Stone’s passive face. “On the international stage no one is watching this peaceful little country. At the end of my five-year plan I will be in complete political control of Belize. Now, is there anything else I need to know regarding your side of the operation?”
“Your briefing book is on your desk,” Stone said, sipping from a brandy snifter. “Although I do feel an obligation to tell you that, based upon my experience, not paying your agents in Belize was a false economy, a tactical error, sir.”
“Study history, Stone,” Seagrave said. “More recent conquerors have been brought down by their own military than any other force. I don’t want soldiers sitting around who know what I’ve done. They might start thinking they deserve a piece of my success.”
“Understood,” Stone said. “As your advisor it’s my job to point out anything that looks like a misjudgment.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?” Seagrave asked. “They’re all dead, right? When you came to work for me, at an inflated salary I might add, you gave up the option of doing things your own way.”
“Yes sir.” Stone waited until his employer was finished scanning a business letter before speaking again. “There is one other unrelated item. Not really business.”
“Yes?”
“We’ve been contacted by the O’Brian girl.” Stone paused, but Seagrave continued shuffling papers on his desk. Considering this a good sign, Stone continued. “She apparently intends to press her claim for her fee. We do owe her for that little robbery she performed for us.”
“Robbery?” Seagrave said. “Oh yes, that brooch that Marlene wanted so badly.” He broke into an unexpected smile. “She’s out right now, shopping for something special to wear it with when we go to that fancy ball on Saturday.”
“Quite,” Stone said. “This woman could become, er, an inconvenience. Ignoring her will not resolve this issue. She will continue to make demands, perhaps drawing attention to areas of your activities that may not bear close scrutiny. Will you authorize payment? Or, shall I have the problem neutralized?”
“Yes, yes,” Seagrave muttered, waving the question off without looking up. “Kill her.”
14
Morgan took a quick shower before stowing his gear in the guestroom. Clothes and personal items went into the closet and dresser drawers. He hated living out of a suitcase, even if he was only going to be in one place for a couple of days. After refreshing the shine on his boots with a polish kit he picked up at the airport, he pulled on a blue tee shirt and black denims. Out of habit his jeans were bloused, tucked into his combat boots. Adding a lightweight black windbreaker, zipped up a couple of inches, he grabbed one of the gun cases and returned to the living room. Felicity waited for him there, relaxed on the sofa. The flat screen that had imitated a painting earlier now displayed CNBC.
“About time,” Felicity said with a smile. “I need a long soak.”
Morgan fought shaking his head. “Got some business,” he muttered. “Need some expense money.”
“Where to?” Felicity asked. After the briefest hesitation, she drew a handful of bills from her purse and handed them to him.
“Just want to get ready for the trouble I know is going to come looking for me,” Morgan said, stuffing the money into a pocket. “How about you? After your bath, that is.”
“Well, I know I might have some nasty enemies out there,” Felicity said, “and I ought to do something about it. But then I think about the fact that I haven’t been in town for weeks, I’ve got a houseguest, and my refrigerator’s empty. Guess I’ll just follow my own motto. When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.”
Morgan wanted to shout at her to take their situation more seriously. Instead he just mumbled, “Okay, see you,” and headed out. After another high-speed elevator ride he asked the security man to call a cab for him. He stepped out into the late morning sun and took a moment to settle his mind. Returning to the States was always a joy, even after a short trip away. He enjoyed watching the young girls wandering, seemingly aimlessly, and appreciated the current style in shorts. That sport lasted only a couple of minutes, until his taxi arrived. He gave an address he had found in the yellow pages and settled back for the ride.
Morgan had been away from the West Coast for a couple of years and was surprised at how much had changed. There was little he saw on the ride that distinguished Los Angeles from the rest of the vast country he labeled “Generica” in his own mind. The whole concept of the neighborhood seemed to be dying, and he found the loss of local identity depressing.