Termination Orders(37)

CHAPTER 16


Morgan sat in the stretch limo, dressed to kill in a tailored tux. Even though he was still a fresh-faced youth—this was barely two years after Libya—he had the broad-shouldered frame of a man, with a look of grizzled determination to match. But their destination that night was rather more pleasant than the Libyan Sahara. They were headed to a charity ball at the DC Mandarin Oriental Hotel. It was a swanky event, full of diplomats, politicos, businessmen, and other assorted Washington bigwigs. Champagne, caviar, and expensive women—a playground of the rich and powerful. But Morgan would be going in on business.

The suit sitting across from him, an unnamed Agency case officer with droopy, dead eyes and a deep, rasping voice who was balancing a glass of expensive Scotch on the rocks on his knee, proffered a folder taken out of his briefcase.

“Natasha Vasiliyevna. She’s here as a member of the Ambassador’s security detail, but the word is she’s intelligence. We’ve had reports that she’s looking to defect.”

Morgan opened the folder, in which there was a letter-sized photograph of a woman. Blonde, with high cheekbones and intense, piercing blue eyes looking at something off to the side. A deadly beauty.

“She’s a looker,” Morgan said.

“Say what you want about the Russkies,” said the suit. “One thing the commie bastards have is taste.”

“She doesn’t look Russian,” said Morgan. “Looks more Swedish to me.”

“On her mother’s side,” said the Agency man. “An Olympic gymnast.”

“Good genes. How’d she end up in Russia?”

“Her mother was one of those few people who defected into the USSR,” he said, with a sneer.

“And now her daughter wants out,” said Morgan blankly, his eyes transfixed by the photograph. “Ironic. Why doesn’t she just walk out the door?”

“She’s concerned that the Foreign Intelligence Service won’t take too kindly to it. She wants assurances of safety and protection.”

“Can’t say I blame her.” In spite of himself, Morgan was stirred by the thought of meeting her in person, to see her beauty and intensity up close. He could immediately see himself being lured in by her, however, and that frightened him. “How do we know this isn’t a ploy?” If there was one thing he had learned from his work, it was that there could be multiple levels of deception going on with any given interaction.

“That’s how she’ll play it, of course. Her bosses will believe it is she who wants to turn you. They will expect her to extract information from you—which we will provide, just enough for them to get a taste.”

“And what if it turns out we are the ones she’s playing?”

“We have, of course, foreseen the possibility. It is part of your task to determine her true intentions.”

“And how do you want me to accomplish that?” asked Morgan, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s my understanding that you have a particular . . . talent in dealing with women. Exploit it.”

Morgan looked at him wordlessly as the limousine pulled in to the red carpet at the Mandarin Oriental.

“We’re counting on you, Cobra. Break a leg,” said the Agency man.

“Anyone gets in my way, and I’ll break two,” Morgan said, and he walked out onto the red carpet.





Morgan quietly scoped the schmoozing crowd of sharply dressed and well-coiffed jet-setters. This Natasha was gorgeous, if her picture was any indication, but he felt that even she wouldn’t stand out too much in this milieu. Everything was perfect, as one would expect. The waiters made the rounds in a precise dance, and the stiff-necked private bodyguards were so numerous that men in black suits practically lined the walls. And the people spoke with a canned wit so smooth, it seemed thoroughly rehearsed.

Then he saw her, and he realized how wrong he had been. She did stand out, even among the surgically enhanced escorts and trophy wives who populated the ballroom. She was wearing a plain black dress, with her light-blond hair done up. Seeing her like that, Morgan noticed that Natasha Vasiliyevna was not only a beauty among beauties; there was something that seemed far more alive in her, something almost animal-like, which was so different from the glossy sheen of all the polished personas in attendance.

Natasha had been cornered by some young heir type, and though they were out of earshot, she was visibly ignoring him and surveying the room instead. Still, the boy nattered on with the obliviousness that overconfident, underexperienced, privileged youths always seemed to display when talking to a member of the opposite sex who was not completely fascinated by them.