Termination Orders(81)
“You didn’t just mess with me. You messed with my family, my friends, my dog. And trust me, Nickerson, I’m a son of a bitch who can hold a grudge. So tell me, what in the world do you think could convince me to work for you? What do you think you can offer me that would be more valuable to me than bashing your face in?”
“Simple. You want to do the right thing, in your own stubborn way. Don’t forget, I read your file, and the Agency knows everything there is to know about you. You can be a merciless killer, but you are a principled man, Mr. Cobra. You want to be a force for good in a dangerous world. I can offer you that power.”
“I gave that up when I left the CIA. Turns out it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.”
“You know as well as I do that the CIA has grown gutless and officious. The government is inept. They aren’t willing to do what it takes to protect this country. Hell, they were spineless even back when you worked for them. Remember Libya? We could have eliminated Gaddafi then and there. No bombing, no collateral damage, just one bullet from your rifle to the bastard’s head.”
Morgan looked at him with faint surprise.
“Oh, yes, I know about that,” he continued. “State secrets aren’t so secret when you know how to ask. Come work for me, Cobra, and you will live a life that matters again, and even more so than before. None of that congressional oversight nonsense, no weak-willed pencil pushers backing out at the last minute. With me, you can help shape the world in our image.”
“By moving opium and using the drug money to fund the enemy? By supplying the weapons that put American soldiers into danger?”
“Necessary evils, I’m afraid,” said Nickerson, with just a tinge of feigned remorse. “I believe it is something you are personally familiar with. It’s no simple matter to make enough money to change the world, and change the world I will. We will not allow bloodthirsty, America-hating dictators to live. We will hunt terrorists and criminals down wherever they may hide. We will be a force for good in the world again.”
“Bullshit,” said Morgan. “You don’t give a shit about the world.”
“Perhaps,” said Nickerson candidly, “but even so.” He picked up his briefcase, set it down on the table, and opened it. Morgan watched as he pulled out three large photographs and set them on the floor in front of him, where he could see them.
“Do you know this man?” Nickerson asked, pointing at the first photograph. It was a video still of an Arab with a long, scraggly beard and crazy-looking eyes. “Jawhar Essa. Propagandist for Al-Qaeda. Hiding in Yemen and untouchable by our government. Killed two months ago by one of my agents.”
Nickerson moved on to the next one, a long-range shot of a laughing Latino man wearing a Panama hat and large gold chains around his neck that hung down on his chest, visible through his open shirt. “Porfirio Aguilar. Head of the Juárez cartel—that is, until we got to him in January of this year.”
He moved on to the third picture, a middle-aged, Eastern European–looking man with graying temples and mustache. “Janek Kovar. Czech arms dealer and human trafficker. Killed not two weeks ago by—you guessed it—us.”
“What’s your angle, Nickerson?” said Morgan. “I know you’re not doing this shit out of the goodness of your heart.”
“What does it matter?” said Nickerson silkily. “Good work is being done. Thanks to me. To us.” He nodded to Natasha, who was leaning against the wall in a corner, watching him with contempt. “I can offer you that opportunity again, Cobra. To change things the only way they ever get changed. To shape the world according to your own ideals.”
“Maybe, Nickerson. But you forgot one thing.”
“Yes?”
“My ideal world doesn’t have you in it.”
Nickerson laughed, as if Morgan had told a very funny joke. “Is that your answer, then? You won’t reconsider?”
Morgan spit on the floor in front of him, spattering the pictures Nickerson had laid out.
“Very well. He’s all yours, Natasha. Enjoy yourself.”
“I’m going to kill you, Nickerson,” Morgan said, with a strange calm that surprised even himself. “I promise you. You will die. Soon.”
“I’m trembling in my shoes, Cobra,” said Nickerson, deadpan. He turned to Natasha, who was looking at him with anger. “You’re wasting your time with this nonsense. So what if he doesn’t talk? If he dies, the photographs are lost forever, and that’s that. Meanwhile, you have more important things to worry about. The big day is Saturday.”