Termination Orders(28)

“In a private jet piloted by Kadir Fastia?” Plante asked, with a knowing smile.

“I thought I’d catch up with an old friend on the way,” Morgan said.

“Right. Of course you did.”

Morgan sighed. “How’d you find me?”

“Cell phone.”

Morgan took his phone out of his pocket and stared at it. He’d turned it off but had left the battery in. He cursed himself. Rookie mistake.

“These things make it almost too easy, don’t they?” said Plante. “Listen, Cobra. I can’t say much, but since you’re determined to go through with it, I’ll tell you this much. You might not have gotten the whole story back at headquarters.”

“What are you saying? Did Kline make you hold back?” asked Morgan.

“Kline doesn’t know everything, either.”

“What are you telling me?”

“Just be careful out there,” said Plante. “Marwat isn’t the only enemy you should watch out for.”

“Plante, if you know something, I need you to tell me now,” he said impatiently.

“All I know is this: Marwat isn’t getting the opium out of Afghanistan by himself.”

“Then who is involved?” pressed Morgan.

“That’s something Conley was hoping to find out. Maybe he did, and maybe that’s what got him killed. Just watch your ass, Cobra. Things might not be what they seem.”

“Thanks for the warning,” said Morgan. He threw his phone to the ground and stomped on it. “I’ll be sure to send you a postcard when I get there.” He turned around and headed for the plane.





The beeping of the satellite phone woke her at 4:30 A.M. She stretched, catlike, out of her cot and switched on the display. The message, coming from halfway around the world, glowed on the screen: Cobra going to Kabul to extract target. Intercept them there. More information to come.

Cobra. What the hell was his part in all this, she asked herself. Did he know? And if so, how much?

But ultimately, it didn’t matter. The thought of her Ops team’s failure to capture the boy stung her, like failure always did. But this time, it would be different. This time, they were coming to her. And this time, she would personally pull the trigger on both the kid and Cobra.

Cobra. What a lovely new development. She couldn’t suppress the smile that played on her lips. It would be a reunion   that had been a long time coming.





CHAPTER 13


Morgan had not been to Kabul since shortly after the rise of the Taliban. It had been a dreary city then, worn down by constant war and terrified of recent repression. The city now seemed to be bursting with new life; people and cars moved chaotically through streets of market stalls, which seemed to have popped up like mushrooms after a rain. There were construction sites rising all around the city, and the mood among the citizens was one of guarded optimism. But many of the buildings were at least as old as the Taliban and still bore bullet holes to prove it.

“How do you like our beautiful city?” asked the man driving the taxi.

“Always thought there’d be more sand,” Morgan said, looking out the window through his sunglasses. The man smiled, showing a mouthful of white teeth. His name was Baz. He was clean-shaven and wore a white, Western-style, button-down shirt and mirrored Ray-Bans. He chain-smoked Marlboro knockoffs and drove one of those boxy Russian-made cars, colored powder blue.

They had just left Baz’s safe house, which was really just a room in the back of a tea shop. Morgan had changed into traditional local clothes and applied a fake beard. He had never felt at home in foreign dress, and while the loose, pajama-like pants and tunic shirt Baz gave him might have been a comfortable cut, this set was made from a rough and scratchy material. At least the flowing khameez shirt was perfect for concealing his shoulder holster.

“You got everything else that I asked for?” Morgan had asked back at the safe house, as he applied the gray and scraggly beard in front of a wall-mounted, stained mirror shard.

“With Baz, there are no problems. You remember to tell your friend that. Never problems.”

“The gun?”

“I could not find the Walther, but I got you one just as good.” Baz handed him the pistol.

Morgan examined it: a Glock 17. He pulled back the slide, feeling its weight in his hand. It had the characteristic sleek, square muzzle, not quite as short as the PPK, and, of course, the most obvious feature: the plastic casing, which Morgan knew had been met with skepticism when the gun was first introduced. But the Glock had long since proved its worth. It was tough, reliable, and packed a nice punch with little recoil. He deftly took it apart on the table and checked each piece before putting it back together.