by Austin S. Camacho
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Prologue
Jump to Chapter 1
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"This hardly seems like the time or place for this conversation," Marlene Seagrave said between sips of champagne. "I'm not sure I'm ready to ruin my figure that way."
Adrian Seagrave scanned the room, his eyes sliding over the other wealthy couples.
"You may have been a beauty contest winner when I married you..."
"I think maybe that's why you married me," she said.
"...but too much good living has already loosened your figure, my dear. Before you grow too far, I want an heir."
Marlene spun off under the grand chandelier. Her shorter husband had to sprint to keep up with her. Marlene inspected the other wives as she passed through the festive crowd. She was younger than most of the women in the Canfield Casino that evening, because Mrs. Whitney generally invited old money to her Saratoga Springs soirees. But many of these more mature women looked great. They watched their diets, went to a health club, and generally took very good care of themselves. Better than Marlene had lately, she had to admit to herself. Her legs were not what they once were, back when she was Miss North Carolina, and her abdomen had swelled just a bit with what women called a pooch. Still, her complexion was as clear as ever, her natural blonde hair retained just the right amount of curl, and she knew her face was still striking.
As a waiter walked by she captured another glass, exchanging it for her empty one, throwing words over her shoulder at her husband. "You want. You want! When we met it was always what I wanted. That's the man I fell in love with. Now it's always what you want."
He seized her arm at last, stopping her forward progress. Noticing the attention they had drawn, he forced a wan smile. "I think, my darling, that you've had enough champagne for one night."
"Think so?" she asked, taking a sip from her fresh glass. "Think about that one. You'd have a better chance at getting me pregnant if I was a little drunker."
"All right, I get it." Seagrave sidled up to her, his little pig eyes pressed almost closed by a bigger smile. "I'm being selfish. Is that the message? Okay, Marlene. What do you want?"
His voice, once so seductive when it got tight like this, now chilled her. This was not the way she imagined her marriage would turn out when she said those vows seven years ago. Everything came down to a negotiation with him. He assumed that her comfortable life justified the neglect. He expected her to tolerate the other women. Now he wanted an heir, a foal from his prize filly, just like the Saratoga horse owners around her. She knew that she could always leave, but the Seagrave fortune was as seductive as the power it gave him was chilling. She glanced around the room, and her eyes settled on a handsome couple holding hands beside the roulette wheel, which was only spun during fundraisers. They were so obviously in love she could spot it clear across the room.
At the woman's throat, pinned to her Halston original, was an antique diamond brooch of uncommon delicacy and beauty. Surely no woman would give up such a prize. Aside from its enormous monetary worth, it must have even greater sentimental value. It wouldn't be for sale at any price. Marlene caught her husband's eye and pointed subtly at the prize.
"I want that."
Adrian Seagrave flashed his teeth, much as a shark does when it spots its prey. "All right, my dear. As always, you will have what you want."
Even that casual promise chilled her.
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-1-
It was hot, sticky, muggy country even at night, thickly overgrown, infested with every kind of disgusting insect in creation. Bugs and birds competed to see which could create the most irritating sounds. The river they sloshed through carried the stink of sewage. Mud sucked at their boots. Leeches clung to anything that moved. A field of brilliant stars and a sliver of a moon did little to illuminate the potential animal and reptile dangers lurking in the darkness.
"You know, Mike, I've asked myself a million times," Morgan Stark whispered. "Why do we always get ourselves involved in other countries' petty political bullshit?"
"Well, because there are still times when the U.S. government just refuses to get involved," Mike answered with a grin. "Because the U.S. military can't be everywhere, fixing everything on the planet. And for the money, of course."
The men made little sound, despite the water flowing around their knees. The river they waded through was really little more than a stream in Belize. The tiny backwater nation southeast of Mexico was South America's version of a postage stamp country.
Up ahead, the point man flashed his light. It was okay to move on. The sun would rise in half an hour or so. They were right on schedule. Morgan signaled his seven followers to move out. All wore camouflage uniforms, black berets, combat boots, and a wide variety of personal weaponry.
Morgan Stark, team leader, was a couple of inches over six feet tall and a slim looking two hundred ten pounds, with heavily cabled forearms showing below rolled up sleeves. He was the only black man in this racial grab bag of professional mercenaries. However, if someone had asked his men to describe him, they would have first mentioned his long, quick fingers, the little mustache he still kept within Army regulations, or perhaps his sharp, clear, light brown eyes. In their business, you learned to judge a lot by the eyes. But in the world of professional mercenaries, color was almost an afterthought.
They moved along through the river, about two meters from shore, because it was faster and easier than travelling over land. Unfortunately, the map in Morgan's head indicated it was time to branch off into the tropical forest.
The tiny light flashed again, just as Morgan was about to crest a low hummock. This close to the target, silence was mandatory, making the light their only reasonable means of communication. That flash warned Morgan of nearby patrolling security personnel. Not that he needed such a warning.
He pressed himself up over the edge of the earthen mound, his fingers tangled in the thick undergrowth. In the near darkness, he found himself face to face with a uniformed guard. Neither Morgan nor the guard reached for a weapon. The guard's dog looked as startled as its master did. To Morgan's eyes it was more wolf than dog, huge and gray in the darkness. It was a Belgian shepherd, the type the Israelis used for border patrol. Slowly a growl began in its throat and it bared its teeth for war.
For the money, of course! Morgan repeated in his head. Those weeks ago, when he first accepted this mission, he had no doubt the money was worth it. Watching saliva drip from this beast's fangs, he was not so sure.
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-2-
A friend of a friend had made contact with Morgan, as usual. The go-between was a well-known sub-contractor named Stone. Morgan had arranged a meeting, but still he had circled the little bungalow on the outskirts of Brussels four times before going to the door. On the last and closest circle, he noticed a Renault parked across the street and three houses down. The man inside it puffed on a cigarette and read the paper as if he were merely waiting for someone. Maybe he was.
Morgan pulled a map out of his pocket, and walked to the car with a confused look on his face. In bomber jacket and aviator sunglasses, he hoped that he looked like a befuddled tourist. The driver, a small dark man with a thick Gallic nose, looked up as he approached. Morgan saw him start to reach under his seat, but he withdrew his hand as if reconsidering something.
Once beside the car, Morgan began to gesture and mutter at the map in silent mime. At first the driver stared straight ahead. When Morgan stared at him helplessly, the driver released an exaggerated sigh and rolled down his window. Morgan mumbled helplessly.
"Pardon moi, monsieur, ou est le palais? Je suis... oh hell, je ne parle pas Francais tres bien."
"My English is better," the driver said in an exasperated tone. "You are looking for the Royal Palace?"
"Not really." Morgan leaned close. "Just half wit lookouts."
His left hand shot inside the car, clamping onto the driver's throat. When both the driver's hands locked onto Morgan's arm, Morgan pulled his right hand back, then snapped it forward. The heel of his palm thumped against the driver's temple, and the man slumped over, unconscious.
Jogging across the street, Morgan leaned into the bungalow's door as he rang the bell. He waited a long ten seconds before locks began to turn inside. The door opened, and Morgan followed it in.
The parlor was empty except for four chairs around a small table. The house was cool, but it carried the musty smell of vacancy. Morgan assumed it was only used for meetings like this one. A coffeepot sat on the table, along with two cups and a creamer. Two sugar cubes and a wafer rested on the edge of each saucer. There was also a note pad at each place, with a ballpoint pen. A telephone rested on a scrambler near one end of the table. It was all very businesslike.
The man who had admitted Morgan sat at the opposite end of the table. He was a good two inches taller than Morgan but thin enough to imply frailty. A full shock of white hair made him appear older than he really was. His eyes did not quite match his hair, but Morgan had to strain to see the hint of blue there.
"Standard procedure." Stone's voice was so controlled, so bored sounding, it was almost a monotone. "I hope you didn't hurt him too badly."
"He's okay, but he'll have a hell of a headache when he wakes up. Now, why am I here?"
"Coffee?" Stone reached for the pot.
"No. You got work for me or what?"
Stone poured the thick, dark brew into his small cup as if he had nothing else to do that day. "Yes," he said, adding a sugar cube to his cup with no greater haste. "A brief job in Belize. You know the place?"
"An American ally on the Caribbean," Morgan said. "Good game preserves. Great scuba spots. Nothing going on down there right now."
"So it would appear. However, like many of the smaller countries in that hemisphere, the communist party there has not evaporated. Politically speaking, someone doesn't like the direction in which that little nation is going." Stone's voice was almost hypnotic, and Morgan made a serious effort to stay alert while listening to him.
"Uh-huh." He watched his host sip his coffee. "Someone. Your principal. Who shall remain nameless?"
"Of course, for your protection as well as his. There is a man named Carlos Abrigo. I won't bore you with the details, but he is a very influential man in the Belize national assembly, the head of their committee controlling exports. And he is leaning heavily to the left."
Morgan nodded, keeping silent for a moment. He reasoned that the mysterious customer really wanted more favorable trade arrangements or something of the sort, but what the hell. The target was a commie and that was all he needed to know. Cuba was sufficient proof that communism was not a dead philosophy, or a defeated enemy in the Western Hemisphere.
"So? You want this guy to disappear? Not my thing. I'm a soldier. Sounds like what you need's a hit man."
"What I need is a professional who can carry out a raid on a well defended compound," Stone replied, unruffled. "Abrigo lives in a rural area, some distance east of Belmopan, the capital city, in a veritable fortress of a forgotten mission. He maintains a staff that includes some thirty armed guards. They are labeled law enforcement, but are in fact military personnel."
"Politics as usual in South and Central America," Morgan said. So you want me to kill him?"
"We need his influence terminated permanently."
Morgan almost laughed at Stone's subtlety. "Fine. Sounds like a simple enough assignment. I won't know how simple until I've had a chance to do a thorough recon."
"I can provide you with maps and details of the target's defenses. You see, this assignment is time dependent. It must take place within the next thirty days. My research tells me you're the best professional available for the job. Will you take it?"
After his recent work in Sierra Leone and a messy bit of business in the Sudan, Morgan was looking for something quick and easy. This certainly looked like it. He figured he'd signal his interest by throwing out an opening price, just to start the haggling.
"I'd have to assemble a team. Equip and train them. Plan for identity concealment afterward. And of course I'd have to see the defenses before I gave you a firm estimate. But, based on what you've said, I figure I can handle what you require for a total cost of, say, two hundred fifty thousand American dollars. Plus expenses."
Stone listened impassively, then nodded and picked up the telephone. He pushed one button and waited for the speed dial to go through its motions. After a few seconds it was clear that a connection was made, but Stone didn't say hello or begin a conversation. He simply said Morgan's last name and the amount he had mentioned. He listened for a moment, his face impassive, and nodded once before resting the telephone in its cradle. Stone had an excellent poker face, and Morgan could not predict the answer.
"This amount is acceptable," Stone said, his words falling like ice crystals. "My client will supply advance intelligence and transportation to and from the site. You will of course deal only with me in this matter."
"Naturally."
Stone sipped from his cup, but kept his pale eyes on Morgan. "I will deposit one quarter of your total fee into the account you name, to cover set up and acquisition costs. The remainder will be transferred to you when the job has been completed to my principal's satisfaction. You have complete autonomy as far as training, equipping and paying your team, and for the actual planning of the event. These are the terms. Are we in business?"
Morgan suppressed a smile. "We are."