Termination Orders(18)

“Well,” said Morgan, feeling a twinge of guilt, “there’s nothing I can say. I can’t tell you what it means unless I know what I’m looking for. And if Kline wants to deny me that in order to prove his own superiority, then there’s nothing I can do.”

They walked into the elevator in silence. Plante’s phone rang, and he flipped it open. Morgan heard the voice on the other end but too faintly for him to understand the words. Plante responded, “Still in the building, sir. Yes, sir. Right now? Understood.” He flipped his phone shut and said to Morgan, “Looks like Kline had a change of heart.”

“Is he going to give me what I want?”

“No. Not himself, at least. He wants me to send you up to see Boyle.”





CHAPTER 8


The office of the Director of the National Clandestine Service was decorated with the austerity of a military man. It was not large, and it was sparsely furnished. There was a desk, sturdy and plain, which had Boyle sit with his back to a wall rather than the windows—an arrangement born, Morgan knew, of the die-hard instinct never to turn your back on anything. The wood-paneled walls were unadorned except for one dominating artifact: an American flag, frayed and singed, whose thirty-four stars, set in a circle, revealed that it had been flown in the Civil War.

Jeffrey Boyle himself had started his career as a Marine, and Morgan liked to joke that he had never really gotten over it. Boyle’s discipline was legendary. He was known to be up every day at 4:00 A.M. for a five-mile run. He worked tirelessly, pausing only for a single, sparse daily meal. On the days that he left the office at all, it was usually after midnight.

His character showed through in his figure, and age, Morgan noticed as the man rose to greet him, had done little to diminish him in any way. Even though he was nearing sixty, he was still a remarkably powerful man. He wore a crisp black suit, matching his stern, focused expression, that did nothing to hide his broad shoulders and the muscles underneath.

“Dan Morgan,” he said, with practiced levity. “Or should I say, Cobra? I had to see it to believe it.” He was a serious man, and even though he had none of Kline’s stiff fussiness, joking still seemed unnatural on him.

“I could say the same about you, sitting behind that desk,” Morgan said, as he shook Boyle’s hand. “Who did you have to sleep with to get this job?”

Boyle laughed heartily. “I like to think that it’s a different set of talents that brought me here.”

They sat.

“And you’ve definitely come a long way, haven’t you?” said Morgan. “I’m surprised you ever got out of the field. They used to say that you’d still be nailing bad guys even if you had to do it from a wheelchair, hooked to a respirator.”

Boyle smiled. “I did love the work. But I’ve discovered that there’s a lot of good to be done from behind a desk. If you stick with this work long enough, you start to realize that leading and managing isn’t a privilege. It’s a duty. Because if you don’t, somebody else will. And what I also realized is that you can’t trust anyone else to do the right thing.”

Morgan had to agree. At the same time, he saw a grim ruthlessness in the man that put him off. But it was gone as suddenly as it had come.

“Can I offer you a drink?” Boyle said. “I have some whiskey in the cabinet.”

“I don’t drink,” he replied.

“Of course, how could I forget? I don’t, either, of course. Sound body, sound mind, and all that. But the politicians who frequent this office don’t usually share my philosophy about alcohol.”

“Not much else, either, I would think,” said Morgan.

Boyle thought for a moment, then said, “Yes, that’s true, much of the time.”

“It makes me wonder how you manage to put up with it, Boyle. Politicians. That whole world of backstabbing and double-crossing, all done with a perfect smile plastered across their faces. At least spies are up front about being liars.”

“You have to play the game,” said Boyle, matter-of-factly. “That’s the price you pay for influence, Morgan.”

“You mean power.”

“Someone needs to have it. Who would you rather it be?”

Morgan didn’t respond. The two men stared at each other for a few interminable seconds.

“In any case,” said Boyle, breaking the silence, “we should discuss the reason you’re here in the first place. Kline tells me you’ve been making trouble for him.”

“If you’d asked me, I would have said it’s the other way around.”

“You would, of course, say that,” said Boyle. “Well, he wants me to lock you up until you cooperate.”