Termination Orders(7)

Morgan figured that accepting the food would be the least bad choice, so he took the plate and walked to the foyer, where Plante was standing. He ushered the surprise visitor into his office, shutting the door behind them and setting the plate of eggs and bacon down on the desk.

Morgan sat down in his chair, behind his desk. Plante pulled up a green leather upholstered chair. He was a thin, balding man with a weak nose and chin. He looked aged, too, his hair getting prematurely white and perpetual worry carved into his face even more deeply than before. But some things hadn’t changed: he still wore a rumpled button-down with a loosened tie and sleeves pushed up to his elbows, just like he did eight years before and for as long as Morgan had known him before that. And he still had the same steady anxiety, which, if anything, as Morgan remembered, made him a more rather than less effective handler.

“I gotta tell you, Plante, you were the last person I expected to see show up at my front door.”

It was true. He hadn’t heard from Plante in years, not since Morgan’s bitter departure from the Agency. The moment Morgan saw his old associate, a million possibilities had flooded his mind, and he instinctively began to think of how he might take Alex and his wife, Jenny, and leave the country. A lot of these plans involved killing Plante right then and there.

Morgan checked himself. If he were in that kind of danger, he wouldn’t be sitting down with Plante for a chat. He’d be a corpse already. They needed him. And he would have slammed the door in Plante’s face if he hadn’t mentioned the one person who prevented him from doing that, the one person Morgan held dearest from his past life.

“It’s been a long time,” said Plante.

“Yeah. Plante, how did it happen?” Morgan wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

Plante didn’t need to ask what he was referring to. “We’re not sure, Cobra. Cougar was working undercover in Afghanistan. Someone shot him and set fire to his apartment with his body inside.”

Morgan shut his eyes in grief. Conley and he had been partners ever since they left The Farm, up until Morgan’s retirement. Being in life-and-death situations had been routine for them, and they had developed a deep and abiding trust and admiration for each other. He couldn’t count how many times they had saved each other’s asses. Morgan would have readily given his life for his friend. He could hardly hold back the shame and guilt at the thought that if only he had been there with him . . .

“Who?”

“Who what?”

Morgan’s eyes were set with grim determination. “Who did it, Plante? Who pulled the trigger?”

“We don’t know exactly.”

“You’re the goddamn Central Intelligence Agency. Where the hell is your intelligence?” His grief was turning into anger, and all the past bitterness he had felt for the organization welled up inside him.

“It caught us by surprise. And he had enough enemies—you know how it is. What do you want me to tell you?”

Morgan got up, slamming his hand down on the desk. “I want you to tell me who did this so they can get the slow, painful death that they deserve.”

Plante regarded Morgan as if he understood, with a look of pain that might have been guilt. Morgan bit his lip and sat down.

“That’s what we all hope for, Cobra. That’s why I’m here, asking for your help.”

“That’s not why you’re here,” said Morgan. “What’s going to happen to his body?”

Plante looked at him contritely. “We couldn’t bring him back and risk exposing what he was. I don’t think I have to explain to you why that is. Given that he had no immediate family and that his body was badly burned . . .”

“Plante,” Morgan insisted.

Plante sighed. “We let the locals handle it. He was buried in an unmarked grave in Kandahar. I’m sorry, Cobra. He deserved better, but he knew the risks. Just like you did, every time you went out on assignment. That’s just the nature of the mission.”

Morgan took a deep breath, trying to calm his rage at imagining his friend buried in some lost little mound of dirt, a mangled corpse mourned by no one. He tried to keep his mind on practical matters.

“What was he doing there?”

“You know I can’t tell you that,” said Plante.

“Fine,” said Morgan. “Then don’t. But I know you’re not here just to give me the bad news. What is it, then? Let’s hear what made the Agency suddenly remember that I exist.” Morgan scowled at him.

Plante returned a look that blended apology and commiseration. “We need your help.”

“I figured as much,” said Morgan acerbically. “I didn’t suppose this was a social call. I was looking for something a bit more specific.”