Morgan nodded. “He sent me a letter through the Agency. Coded in a way only I could decipher. He was working an asset in Kandahar, and he wanted that asset extracted. I’m guessing it was insurance, in case something happened to him. I’m supposed to meet this guy in Kabul in three days.” The.re is no such happiness to be f.ound here, the letter had said. The number of characters before each of the two strangely placed periods had told him the date: 3/24.
“I take it that the Agency does not know about this.”
“They’re in the dark, and I’m going to keep it that way.”
“Are you sure that this is the wisest course of action?” Kadir said, with typical understatement.
Morgan answered the question by ignoring it. “I’m also going to need some support on the ground, a local who knows his way around, who can drive me and can set me up with certain supplies. Now, Kadir, pay attention: if there’s any part of this that you can’t deliver, you need to tell me now.”
Fastia leaned back in his chair and rested his chin on his hand. He took a puff from his cigar and closed his eyes.
Morgan had first met Fastia on the dunes of the Libyan Sahara when they crossed over on their way to Tripoli for their most important mission yet: to kill Colonel Muammar Gaddafi.
It was one of his and Cougar’s first Ops together. They were young men, fresh off The Farm and full of piss and vinegar, their corresponding tattoos still smarting from the needles that had made them. He and Conley had flown into Alexandria and were driven westward in a rickety jeep by a man named Azibo. Conley, who had a way with strangers and an endless curiosity about foreign cultures, sat up front, prattling away with the driver in Arabic. Morgan sat in the back, restless in the suffocating heat. He tried to focus on the mission ahead, but it was nearly impossible to concentrate on anything. Their initial enthusiasm was flagging from the dull strain of transportation. It would be different once they arrived at their destination, but for now, Morgan closed his eyes. He tried fruitlessly to sleep as he bobbed along with the vehicle until he noticed that the engine had cut off, and the jeep was coming to a halt.
“What’s going on?” he asked Conley, who in turn said something in Arabic to Azibo.
“He said the engine died on him,” Conley told Morgan.
Azibo turned the key, but the engine didn’t respond. Conley had another brief exchange with him.
“He doesn’t know what’s wrong. It looks like I’m going to have to go out and take a look.”
Morgan got out, too, and stood a few feet from the jeep, keeping his eye on Azibo as Conley opened the hood.
“We’d better hope we haven’t been leaking oil since Alexandria,” said Conley, “or this jeep might have just become a three-ton paperweight.”
Morgan looked up and down the desert road. There wasn’t a car in sight. He took a drink from his canteen. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” he said sarcastically.
Conley rooted around in the engine. “This thing is a nightmare,” he said. “It’s basically held together by string and duct tape. I’m shocked we even made it out of the city.”
“That’s just great,” said Morgan, shielding his eyes from the scorching sun. “How the hell are we going to make our rendezvous?”
“I said it was a nightmare. I didn’t say I couldn’t fix it.”
Morgan went to sit on the jeep’s backseat with his legs out the rear door as Conley struggled with the engine, a shirt wrapped around his head like a turban to protect him from the punishing rays of the sun. Azibo reclined in the driver’s seat with the door open, looking on with heavy-lidded eyes.
Squinting at the bright sands and with sweat dripping into his eyes, Morgan thought about what would happen if Conley wasn’t able to get the motor running again, about failing this mission. This was about more than just removing one piece of human scum from the face of the earth. Without Gaddafi, the Libyans had a chance for freedom. This could alter the course of history for millions of people. And who knew what sort of repercussions there could be after that? Who knew what other people, living under the yoke of oppression, would be emboldened if freedom happened in a place like Libya? It seemed ridiculous that everything should hinge on this rickety old hunk of junk. But if there was one thing he had learned so far, it was that everything depended on the smallest details. A penny on the tracks could derail an entire freight train.
Those thoughts had been running in Morgan’s mind for nearly two hours when Conley announced, “That ought to do it.”
“So it works?” asked Morgan. Conley exchanged a few words with Azibo, who turned the key again. The engine rumbled to life, and the three men cheered.