“Yeah,” he said. “This’ll do.” He strapped on the holster under his khameez and tucked the gun away.
Baz also produced a tactical knife, used but well-honed, which Morgan strapped to his ankle; a disposable cell phone, from which Morgan extracted Baz’s number before removing the battery; a first-aid kit; a roll of Afghan money in mostly small bills; and a blank EU passport to get this Zalmay person out of the country. This mission was of the quick-and-dirty variety, with little time for planning and, of course, with no real-time support.
“So where are we going, baby?” Baz asked, after they drove away in the cab. Morgan gave him a sidelong glance.
“Kabul Zoo. Can you get us there by noon?”
“You got it, boss.”
This was the location of the rendezvous, according to Conley’s letter. The clue had been in the phrase the daily ritual. The reference was from their early days as partners, when they often went to the Stone Zoo in Massachusetts—the mention of Stoney confirmed it, and also put the time of the rendezvous at noon: because at noon, without fail, a couple of orangutans put on an elaborate mating ceremony and went at it on the cage floor, to the consternation of parents and the delight of teenage boys. It had become a running gag between them over the years.
Baz steered them along a busy thoroughfare, where pedestrians and jingle trucks vied for space with cabs—the city’s cab fleet, for some reason, seemed to be made up almost entirely of old-model Toyota Corollas. Baz negotiated this anarchy with the effortless ease that only a professional could pull off.
“The Kabul Zoo,” Baz said, pensively, his eyes on the road. “You know, it is too bad you did not come some years ago, when Marjan the lion was still alive. Do you know of Marjan, the world-famous lion of the Kabul zoo?”
Morgan grunted noncommittally. He had to focus on the mission now, to mull over every possible scenario. He struggled to keep his mind in the game and ignore his latent uneasiness about the whole affair—the sketchiness of the information on his end, the lack of preparation and support, and, of course, more than anything, the possibility of a traitor working in the CIA—the only reason he could think of why Conley would want to keep that information from the Agency
He looked askance at Baz, who was still prattling away. Morgan had remained on his guard around him. Running missions halfway around the world forced him to rely on local assets as guides, but Morgan made a habit of distrusting them—a practice that had saved his life on more than one occasion.
Instead of dwelling on his apprehension, he continued to ignore Baz’s story about the lion and tried to focus on practical issues, mentally rehearsing the call-and-response that was indicated in Conley’s letter. His own line, which he would say when he met Zalmay, was the opening of the letter: “A fruit vendor in Kabul once said to me, Afghanistan is always the same; it is only the invaders who change.” The next line of the letter read, Well, you know what they say: variety is the spice of life. This was a decoy, a plausible response that was meant to throw off anyone who might have intercepted the communication. The correct response was, according to their code, the final line in the letter: “Let it never be said that the Afghans are not a resilient people.” He repeated his and Zalmay’s lines under his breath until he was satisfied that he knew them through and through.
“. . . and then his brother comes back the next day with a hand grenade! Do you believe it?” The cab was lazily weaving through traffic down an arterial road, which seemed to be leading out of the city. Morgan checked his watch: a sliver past 11:45.
“Yeah, that’s nice. How are we doing, Baz?”
“Not far. Here, you see? Mountains on both sides. We are passing into Deh Mazang. We are close. The zoo will be on this road, on the left.”
They drove for another few minutes, and Baz said, “Here,” pointing to a gated area on the far side of the road. “That is it right there.” He circled back around a rotary a few blocks down and pulled over to an unofficial drop-off area. There, a collection of taxis and cars sat parked, their owners in the driver’s seat or leaning against the driver’s door.
“I will wait here,” said Baz.
Morgan nodded. “Keep the motor running.” He got out of the car, feeling the reassuring weight of the gun against his chest, and walked purposefully to the entrance of the zoo. There, a concrete lion stood perpetual watch, and a sign announced that the admission price was ten Afghanis for locals—about twenty cents—and ten times that for foreigners.
Here was the first test of his disguise. It would hold up to a cursory glance, but anyone who examined him too closely might notice that his skin tone, his facial features, and his mannerisms were a bit off. Although he was hardly inconspicuous, with his wide shoulders and relative height, he knew the secret to passing unnoticed was in his bearing: avoiding eye contact, not speaking, and adopting a timid gait. All of which were entirely unnatural for him, but after years of practice, he was able to switch into the mode effortlessly. He joined the short line at the entrance and, when he reached the booth, laid two coins on the counter. The attendant waved him in without a second look.