C
HAPTER
39
T
he rain poured mercilessly as Morgan sloshed through the streets of Prague on a dark spring evening, a briefcase in his hand. It was an ancient city and looked older still after enduring decades of Soviet rule. That night, however, there was electricity in the air, and the city buzzed with an atmosphere of vibrant youth and new possibilities.
Revolution, however, was not Dan Morgan’s business in Prague that night. After one last quick look backward to check that he wasn’t being followed, he turned in to the Three Hunchbacks Hotel, in the Zizkov district. Soviet rule had not been kind to the once-beautiful façade, which was now stained and dilapidated. The inside, dusty and smelling of mildew, had not fared much better. Morgan walked up three flights of stairs, then down a dark, wood-paneled hallway to the third door on the right. He knocked, tapping out a prearranged code. He heard footsteps, and the heavy door swung open.
“Andrei,” Morgan said to the man at the door.
“What news do you bring, Cobra?” Andrei said, dripping with anxiety. “Tell me we have not been found out. Tell me my sister is alive and well.” He was impeccably dressed, as usual, in an elegant brown suit and slicked back sandy hair. But the bags under his eyes were more pronounced, and his cheeks were sallow and more sunken than usual. He held a small weapon loosely in his hand, a Makarov semiautomatic.
“Everything’s okay. Natasha’s fine, and everything’s still according to plan,” Morgan replied.
“Good, good,” Andrei said, relieved. “Please, come in.”
Morgan walked into the room. A stiff bed lay on warped floorboards. Everything that belonged to Andrei was arranged in an open suitcase on the dresser. He seemed to be ready to go at a moment’s notice.
“I have some documents for you,” said Morgan, motioning to his briefcase. “A passport and entry papers that will get you through the border. We take the morning train to Vienna.”
“Do you know how long I have been here, Cobra? Trapped, in this apartment? Two days!” he exclaimed, keeping his voice low. His eyes were wide, wild. “Do you know what my people are capable of? Do you know what they would do to me if they caught me?”
“I’m sure you know better than I do,” said Morgan.
“The penalty for defection is death. And not quick death, as you Americans do it. Americans, even coldhearted ones like you, are merciful. In Russia, we like our executions slow and painful.”
Morgan sighed. “I came as soon as I could.” He tossed Andrei’s suitcase onto the bed and placed the briefcase on the dresser.
“And left me nearly mad in the meantime!” he exclaimed. “But tell me, Cobra, where is my sister?”
“Natasha’s safe,” said Morgan. “She’s with Cougar.”
“We will not be going together, then?”
“Soon, Andrei. Once you’re both in Paris. Then you’ll come together to the United States.”
“I must see her now, Cobra,” Andrei said, and he walked to the window. “I must see her before I go. Is she here? Is she in Prague? I must know.”
Morgan opened the briefcase and shuffled through the papers inside. “You’ll see her in good time,” he said. He pulled out a manila envelope and tossed it onto the bed. “There’s your ticket out of here.”
Andrei walked over and bent down to pick up the envelope. As his back was turned, in one fluid move, Morgan slipped a length of wire from his coat pocket and looped it around Andrei’s neck, pulling it taut. Andrei, startled, reached up, but he couldn’t get his fingers under the wire. He tried to wriggle himself loose, then heaved back, trying to knock Morgan against the wall behind them. Morgan held firm, the garrote biting into his hand. Andrei thrashed, kicked, and elbowed him, his strength slowly withering, until finally, after two minutes, he went limp. Morgan held the garrote tight until he was sure the man was dead, then laid him on the bed, facing away from the door. Morgan packed up his briefcase and gave the room a quick sweep to make sure he had left nothing behind that could identify him, then left.
He made his way out of the hotel and walked down a few streets before hailing a cab to the Old Town Square, where Conley sat at a café, wearing an elegant European overcoat and sipping an espresso as if he’d been living in the city his whole life.
“It’s done,” Morgan said. “Clean and quiet. Nobody saw me leave. How’s T?”
“In the safe house, eager to get out of here. We’re driving out right away, headed for the Austrian border. Hopefully we’ll make it before they find Andrei.”
“Don’t count on it,” said Morgan. “The Russians will be expecting him to report back on her whereabouts. They’ll know he’s dead before the day is done. But don’t worry. I’ll make sure they’re busy until your trail is nice and cold.”
Conley laughed. “I’m sure you will. Give those bastards hell.” He took a few bills from his wallet and put them on the table. “Good luck, my friend. I’ll see you on the other side.”
“God willing,” said Morgan, shaking his hand. “Oh, and, Peter,” he added, as he got up. “T never finds out about this. Deal?”
“She’ll never hear it from me,” said Conley.
C
HAPTER
40
S
aturday was a bright, beautiful day, and although the senator’s speech wouldn’t start until seven that evening, which was more than three hours away, the people who had trickled in since noon were already waiting in line at the gate, wearing shirts or hats or carrying signs with McKay’s name on them. All in all, a casual observer might have mistaken it for a ball game. Natasha, who was most certainly not a casual observer, watched with unmitigated contempt, this audience in the circus world of political rallies. Well, there would be a spectacle tonight. She would make sure of that.
“Vera!” came a voice from behind her. She turned to see Dennis Poole, in a white button-down with the collar open and sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
“There you are!” said Natasha, her voice suddenly laden with enthusiasm, all traces of her accent gone from her voice.
“Hello, Vera,” he said. After a faltering greeting, he seemed to draw some courage and kissed her as passionately as he knew how. It was still pathetically clumsy and awkward, Natasha noted. “I’m glad you came, although I’m afraid you’ll be doing a lot of sitting around until it’s time for the speech.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said. “It’s all so exciting!” She, Natasha, would normally have regarded Poole with nothing but disdain. But she was not herself now. She was Vera, a superficially adventurous publicist from Brooklyn with big soft eyes and a tender smile. She appeared to be the kind of woman who might conceivably, even if improbably, fall in love with a bore like Dennis Poole, as well as a woman who might feel genuinely sorry for manipulating him.
“You’re dressed up,” he remarked. She was wearing a crisp gray pantsuit over a dark red shirt.
“Well, I don’t go to one of these events every day, you know!”
He led her toward the service entrance to the stadium, his hand in the small of her back. “She’s with me,” he said to the guard at the door, flashing the badge he was wearing on a lanyard around his neck.
Inside, the tunnel-like halls of the stadium were pulsing with their own energy. But unlike the festive mood outside, the atmosphere inside was tense, and everyone was working hectically, preparing for the big event.
“I’m really not supposed to bring you back here,” he said, with far more pride than remorse.
“Oh, what harm could there be?” she said.
He eyed her, raising an eyebrow in mock suspicion. “You’re not a spy, are you?”
“
Nyet, comrade
,” she said with a sly smile, in an American accent, and he laughed.
“Do you want to see the war room?”
He led her down the long, curved hallway, past a steady stream of event staff, and through a door into the home team locker room, which had been repurposed for the rally, furnished with a long table that was stacked with boxes and papers. In the far end of the room, a minifridge hummed, with a jar and a glass sitting on top of it on a circular platter.
“It’s not exactly what the space was designed for,” said Poole, “but the location couldn’t be more convenient in terms of proximity to the stage. Just hold on a sec. I need to take a look at something while I’m here.”
Natasha slowly made her way around the table, trailing her left hand on the outer surfaces of boxes and the papers that lay strewn about. She reached Poole, who was rummaging through a box, and snaked her hand around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. He offered only token resistance before leaning in.
They were interrupted by the ringing of his phone. He looked at the display and grimaced apologetically. “I’m sorry, but I need to take this.”
“I’ll hold the thought,” she said, giving him one more lingering kiss.
He took the call and wandered toward a corner of the room, while Natasha continued to make her way around the table, affecting flawless nonchalance, running her hands over the documents, her fingers slipping lightning-quick into a box and taking out an ID badge with a lanyard hanging from it, which she dropped into her purse.
Poole glanced at her as he talked, and she gave him a sweet grin as she continued to walk the length of the table. On reaching the end, she sauntered off at an angle as her fingers crept into her purse and found a small rectangular plastic case. She looked at Poole, smiling, but he was looking away. She clicked the case, and a small, clear strip stuck out like a tongue. It was adhesive, and with the exact refractory index of glass. Handling it took extreme care. Just one slip of her finger, and—
She was startled by Poole’s voice, coming from a mere few feet behind her. “Come,” he said. “I have a surprise for you.”
He ushered her out of the locker room, locking the door behind him, and then walked with her out to the field. Half of the verdant sports turf was covered with folding chairs sectioned off with rope, and an open stage had been erected in the middle of it. On the sidelines was a well-dressed woman surveying the scene, flanked by a couple of men in suits.
“Dennis!” exclaimed Natasha. “Is that . . .?”
“The one and only. She arrived a bit early, so I thought I might bring you around to meet her.” He called out to Senator McKay. “Lana! Lana, good to see you made it. How do you like the setup?”
“You’ve done a hell of a job here, Dennis.”
He beamed. “I’m glad you like it.” He pulled lightly on Natasha’s hand. “Lana, I’d like you to meet Vera Blackburn.”
The Senator extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure, Vera. I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said, smiling warmly.
“It would be a great understatement if I said the same about you,” said Natasha, ebulliently. “I am a great admirer of your work, Senator.”
McKay smiled graciously. “Thank you, Vera. I’ve tried to do my best to serve the people of this country. But I owe many of my accomplishments to Dennis.”
“Oh, please,” said Poole bashfully.
“He’ll deny it, but it’s true. You have a fine man here, Vera. This one’s a keeper.”
“Don’t worry, Senator. I’ll treat him right.”
Natasha looked at her watch. She had to extricate herself if the plan was to stay on schedule. She pretended to dig through her purse for something and made her phone ring.
“Oh!” she said. “I’m sorry, Senator, would you excuse me please? I need to take this.” She walked a few feet away, took the phone from her purse, stopped the ringing, and put it to her ear. “Hello?” she said. “Oh, you’re kidding. No, in DC. Yes. Yes. Listen, is there anyone else you can call? Howard? Ugh. Okay, fine.” She huffed and put the phone back into her purse.
“I am so sorry, but I need to go,” she said to Poole and the senator. “Work emergency, and apparently there’s no one who can deal with it except me. Please excuse me, Senator. It was such a pleasure to meet you, and I so wish I could stay.”
“It was nice to meet you too, Vera. Pity you have to go.”
She stepped aside, and Dennis walked with her.
“I am so sorry, Dennis,” Natasha reiterated.
“It’s the peril of being indispensable,” he said with a good-natured shrug.
“You are sweet.”
“Can you find your way out okay?” he asked, and he planted a kiss on her lips.
“I’ll manage, I’m sure.”
She walked into the bowels of the stadium, and whatever softness had been there before left her eyes. She was Natasha again, coldly alert, and the lightness in her step was replaced with steely determination.
This whole show was all Nickerson’s idea. If she had had her way, she could have already killed McKay a hundred times over. And now Cobra knew about it, and if she knew him, he would be here, trying to stop her. But Nickerson wanted to make a splash, a goddamn spectacle. She wished she could dispose of him and be done with it, wipe that grin off his face for good.
Patience
, she told herself. Even
he
would outlive his usefulness, sooner or later. She wished it could be sooner rather than later, but Nickerson played a long game. And so she would, too. She could wait.
Meanwhile, she had to get everything ready for the night’s show.
Morgan sat in the back of an unmarked white van in the RFK Stadium parking lot, dressed in a stiff black suit and tie. He looked into a small pocket mirror, checking his hair, now all black, and his matching fake mustache, which looked like the one he’d had when he had just started work as an operative.
“Damn it,” he said. “Where’s Cougar”
“In the parking lot,” said Grant Lowry, who was hunched over a keyboard in front of four computer screens, as he motioned distractedly toward one of the monitors. The van had been fitted with cutting-edge surveillance equipment and an impressive array of computers, all according to Lowry’s exacting specifications. “He’ll be here in a minute or two.”
Morgan had approached Lowry as the man had arrived home, walking from his car to his front door, on the day after he had failed to convince Boyle to help them. Lowry had fumbled ineffectively for the pepper spray until Morgan assured him that he wasn’t there to hurt him. Morgan briefly explained the situation and asked for help.
“No way,” he had told Morgan, outside the door to his apartment building. He was jiggling his keys nervously. “No chance in hell.”
“I can’t do this without you.”
“You’re going to have to.”
“She’s going to assassinate a senator, Lowry. And there is no one to stop her but us.”
“Look, Cobra, I’ll bring this to Kline for you. I don’t even have to tell him I saw you. We’ll look into it and take the necessary precautions.”
“I’ve already talked to Boyle, Lowry. He wasn’t exactly receptive.”
“So now you want me to go against the Director? Cobra, that wouldn’t just be career suicide. That would be real, honest-to-God suicide.”
“Then you’re just going to let the senator die?”
“I don’t even
like
her,” said Lowry.
“What about Nickerson? What about Natasha? You’re going to let them win?”
“You’re the action hero, Cobra. Look at me.” He motioned down at his dumpy figure. “What do you think the odds are that I would survive an encounter with an operative?”
Morgan threw up his hands. “I told him! I told him you wouldn’t do it.”
“Told who?”
“Cougar,” said Morgan. “I told him you’d side with the pencil pushers.”
“Did you say Cougar? Are you by any chance implying that Cougar’s
alive
?” said Lowry, astonished.
“Yeah,” said Morgan. “And he said you’d help us, that you’d do the right thing. I said you didn’t have the spine.”
“Do you really expect that reverse-psychology trick to work?” asked Lowry.
“No,” said Morgan. “That’s what I’m telling you. I said you wouldn’t help us.”
“Because it’s not working, Cobra.”
“I didn’t think it was,” he said. “That’s what I told Cougar. But he insisted that you would come through. I guess I was right, after all.”
Lowry turned around to leave, faltered, and then glanced back at Morgan with a look of annoyed frustration. “Okay, fine,” he said. “You win. I’ll listen to what you have to say.”
“I appreciate it, Lowry.”
“I’m not agreeing to anything yet!”
“I know,” said Morgan.
Three days later, they were in the back of the van in the RFK parking lot.
“He had better be treating my car right,” said Morgan, as he put his foot up on Lowry’s chair and strapped a holster to his ankle. Then he picked up the gun, the small and easily concealable Walther PPK, his gun of choice from his days in Black Ops. He inspected it one last time, clicked the safety catch, and slid it into the holster. He looked at Lowry impatiently. If there had been more room, he would have been pacing.
“When did you say Conley was getting here?” Morgan asked.
“Three . . . two . . . one . . .” said Lowry, and, right on cue, there was a knock on the back door of the van. Lowry opened it to let Conley in, dressed in a suit to match Morgan’s.
“That GTO steers like a dream,” he said, smiling broadly.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” grumbled Morgan. “You’re not the one who’s driving it out of here.”
“If things don’t go right, neither of us is,” said Conley.
“Shit,” muttered Lowry to himself. “Tell me, why am I helping you guys again?”
“Because you’re an honorable man working for a corrupt organization,” said Conley. “And you want to set things right.”
“Yeah, that must be it,” Lowry said wryly. “Now, look here. We’ll go over this one more time before you jokers go in. Natasha will be a needle in a haystack, but we’re not flying blind here.” He pointed to one of the screens. Morgan and Conley bent down to look at it.
“That number on the blueprint, 340. The section numbers don’t go that high, so our best guess is that this is a range. That’s the distance she will be shooting from. Here”—he gestured to a screen in front of him, which showed a seating diagram of the stadium with a circle superimposed on it—“is the perimeter drawn by that range, measured from the stage as marked on Natasha’s blueprint, plus or minus ten feet. It just happens to intersect with the newly built luxury boxes, and Natasha’s blueprint is recent enough to include them.”