Termination Orders(34)

“I think I’d better hold on to this,” he said, slipping the chip into his pocket. “I’m going to need you to tell me everything you know later. Right now, I just need to know this: is there any possibility that you were followed on your way to meet me?”

“No, I do not think so,” said Zalmay. “I have been hiding in Kabul for days. If they knew where I was, I believe they would have come for me already.”

“That’s what I thought.” Morgan took his left hand off his wound, which promptly began to bleed freely. Taking the wheel with his bloodied hand, he used his right to remove his Glock from its shoulder holster. Zalmay recoiled. But Morgan held it out by the muzzle for the boy, keeping his eyes on the road. “I want you to take this and keep it pointed at our friend here.” He motioned to Baz. Zalmay took the gun gingerly and trained it on the driver.

“What is the meaning of this, Cobra?” said Baz with shocked indignation. He apparently had been straining to hear their conversation.

“Don’t play dumb,” Morgan answered, looking at him through the rearview mirror. “You sold us out.”

“What are you talking about?” he said, looking astonished.

“There were exactly three of us who knew the location of the meeting today, and two of us were nearly killed in there.”

“That is crazy, Cobra, my friend. I did not—”

“Save it,” Morgan interrupted. “Just sit tight, and do as I say.” He looked at Zalmay and spoke again so only he could hear. “We need a place to lay low for a while.”

“There is the place where I have been h-hiding out,” he stammered. “An abandoned house in the north city. I will tell you how to get there.”

“Good. When we get there, you and I are going to have a nice, long chat. And I’m going to get some answers.”

As he drove, Morgan’s thoughts were haunted by the mysterious figure in the burqa and that strangely familiar voice that stirred up something obscure in his unconscious mind.





CHAPTER 15


Zalmay’s hideout was a cramped adobe house with a half-collapsed wall and rubble on the floor. Among the few amenities were a couple of chairs, a blanket, and a small battery-operated radio, left there, he gathered, by Zalmay, himself. Morgan tore the blanket into strips and used them to tie Baz securely to some pipes under a cracked porcelain sink.

“This is crazy, Cobra!” he protested. “I have not betrayed you!”

“That’s not a chance I’m willing to take,” Morgan said, tightening the knot around Baz’s wrists.

“What are you going to do to me?”

“Just sit tight and be quiet, and you’ll be fine,” he said, gagging Baz’s mouth with another of the strips. Morgan knew he could be jeopardizing the mission by sparing the driver’s life. In the old days, he would have killed a man for less. Maybe he was going soft, but he was willing to give Baz the benefit of the doubt—or at least enough to keep him alive for now.

Morgan walked into the next room, bringing a chair and motioning for Zalmay to follow him. He took the small radio and turned it up as loud as it would go—the broadcast was scratchy, and the speakers weren’t exactly potent—to drown out their conversation. Then he sat, removed his fake beard, and cracked open his first-aid kit. He lifted his shirt to examine the slash. The bleeding had all but stopped, dried blood crusting on his skin. Although not too deep, it would need stitches. He poured ethyl alcohol onto a piece of gauze and began to dab at it, which allowed the blood to flow more freely. It stung like hell, but he had long ago learned to suppress the pain. He scrubbed it harder, to clean as deeply as possible. The alternative was risking a deadly infection.

“Zalmay,” he said to the young man, who was pale at the sight of the seeping blood. Morgan began to suture his wound as he spoke. “Sit down. I think it’s time you answered some of my questions. I want you to tell me what you and Cougar were doing in Kandahar.”

Zalmay pulled up another chair and sat facing Morgan. Having finished the sutures, Morgan took a good look at the boy for the first time. Zalmay was a skinny kid, no older than twenty-five and probably younger. He had dark olive skin, with large eyes and a wholesome-looking face marred by deep grooves of worry and anxiety.

“I will tell you what I can,” Zalmay began. “What Cougar and I learned, it is damaging to many people. He believed it was the work of many to keep it quiet, a . . . what is the word?”

“A conspiracy?” Morgan suggested, as he secured a wad of gauze over his wound with surgical tape.