Termination Orders(9)

Plante stiffened and adopted an affected, professional tone. “Regardless of what you think of him, Cobra, that’s what he is. And that means he has final say, unless you want to personally take it up with the Director himself.”

Morgan leaned forward in his chair as if he was about to lunge at Plante. “Well, you can tell that asshole. . .” He was too beside himself to finish the sentence.

“Look, I know you’ve had your disagreements in the past. But he’s running the show now. This kind of thing has to go through him.”

“I get it. I know him. I know what all this bullshit is about. He wants me to come down there so I can kiss his ring, doesn’t he?” Morgan fell back angrily in his chair. “Wants to gloat and lord his new position and his fancy new office over me, and Cougar be damned—isn’t that it?”

Plante softened. “Look, Cobra, I wish I could help you. I really do. But I’ve been working under Kline for a while now. I frankly don’t believe that he’s purposely stonewalling this. My impression is that he just happens to believe fervently in protocol.”

“Well, screw him,” Morgan said, with incredulous impatience. “You need to do what’s right by Cougar.”

“Nothing I can do.”

“Then screw you, too. Let’s see what Boyle has to say about this shit.”

Plante sighed. “NCS Director Boyle is aware of the situation, and he gave Kline the authority in this matter. Calling him is only going to delay this even more. Cobra, this is the only way it’s going to happen. If you want to see the letter, you need to come down with me to headquarters.”

Morgan exhaled, barely containing his anger. He could easily be as stubborn as Plante. He could play this game. He did brinksmanship as well as—hell, probably better than—any of those clowns. But how long would it be until Kline caved in? These missions tended to be time-critical, and he knew that Kline would always privilege his own authority over everything else, good intentions or no.

“There was a time when you wouldn’t have put up with this bureaucratic bullshit,” he told Plante, knowing that, by saying that, he had, in effect, caved.

“Maybe I’ve come to realize that there’s a reason why we follow the chain of command,” said Plante.

“To hell with the chain of command.” Morgan exhaled, closing his eyes, letting his anger subside. “I’ll come. But not for them. For Cougar.”

“You’re doing the right thing, Cobra.”

“Yeah. That’s always been my weak spot.”

Morgan escorted Plante out of the office and to the front door.

“Look, Cobra . . .” Plante seemed newly contrite, his face full of heartfelt pain. “This—Cougar . . . It was a blow. He was my friend, too. I can only imagine what it must be like for you. Why don’t you take a few minutes? I’ll be right outside when you’re ready to go.”

Morgan assented tacitly, then closed the door and walked back to his office. He took down a picture of Peter and himself that hung on the wall next to his gun cabinet. Sinking into his chair, he looked at the framed photo, in which he still had a full mustache on an unlined face. Peter Conley towered next to him, wiry, with a high forehead and a prominent chin. Both were smiling widely. The picture had been taken just a few years after they graduated from their year of CIA training and began work in Black Ops. They were showing off new arm tattoos, corresponding to their code names: Conley’s a cougar, and Morgan’s a coiling cobra, ready to strike—deadly animals for deadly men.

He glanced at the eggs and bacon, still untouched on the plate, undoubtedly cold by now. He thought of Alex and couldn’t help remembering the night he had told Jenny he didn’t really make his money—or most of it, anyway—dealing in antique cars.

He told her all he could say without breaking his oath of secrecy. All those business trips to car auctions, celebrity auto shows, private collector negotiations, and fleet deals—most were covers for dangerous forays into foreign countries, and often into enemy territory, to protect American interests. They were full of excitement, yes, as well as deception and violence—he had cheated death again and again. He did it by being stronger, faster, smarter, and better prepared than the enemy—but he knew that others had been, too, and had not survived. He was good and he knew it, but he also knew he owed Lady Fortune his survival on more than one occasion.

Jenny had been a mess of emotions when he told her. She had been proud, yes, of his bravery and service to his country, but she was also livid that he had deceived her into living, unwittingly, under the constant threat of being widowed by a foreign bullet, a car bomb, or a cyanide capsule. Even worse was that little Alex, almost nine years old at the time, could lose her father. They had made a decision together that night: