C
HAPTER
3
M
organ walked into the kitchen hunched in the posture of apology and found Alex with a plate of eggs and bacon in each hand, ready to walk them into the dining room.
“Who was that, Dad?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Morgan said. “It’s a business associate of mine. He has an urgent issue, and he needs to talk to me about it right away. I’m going to have to take a rain check on breakfast.”
“Oh,” she said, obviously disappointed. Then she asked, scrunching up her brow, “What exactly is an emergency for a classic car broker?”
He chuckled. “There’s a surprise entry at an auction that my client is interested in. Sometimes these things can be extremely time-sensitive.”
“I see,” she said blankly.
“I’m going to try to get rid of him as soon as I can, and then we can spend some time together.”
“Okay, Dad,” she said, with a pride and stoicism that he knew masked some hurt feelings. “You should take your breakfast in with you, at least. You need to eat, and I wouldn’t want it to go to waste.”
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.”
“It’s a sensitive matter that I’d rather not discuss here,” said Plante. Morgan shot him a look of incredulity, but he continued. “I’d like you to come with me down to Langley. There’s a helicopter about ten minutes away that can take us there, and if everything goes smoothly, I promise I’ll have you home in time for dinner.”
“I don’t have time for your bullshit, Plante.
You’re
here for
my
help, so as I see it, you’re not in any position to bargain.” Morgan leaned forward for emphasis. “Tell me what you need, or get out of my house.”
Plante was apologetic. “Come on, Cobra, be reasonable here. My hands are tied, and I need your help. I wish I could be straight with you, but the order came from above.”
“Then forget it.” Morgan got up and started for the door.
“Cobra . . .” said Plante, getting up as well.
Morgan stood face-to-face with the man and spoke in a low voice. “I mean it, Plante. I’m done with that life, done lying”—he looked around to make sure Alex wasn’t within earshot, and his voice sank to a rumbling whisper—“to my family. Done putting my life on the line for a bunch of spineless politicos and backstabbers.”
“If you won’t do it for me, do it for Cougar,” said Plante.
Morgan feinted a lunge at Plante, who flinched in response. “
Don’t you dare!
You have no right to use his memory to get me to do what you want.”
Plante seemed to make an effort to gloss over being intimidated and to assert himself, but his speech still had a slight tremble. “What about what
he
wanted, Cobra?” he asked. “Have you considered that?”
Morgan stepped back. “What are you talking about?”
Plante hesitated, looking down.
“Don’t pull this crap on me, Plante,” said Morgan. “You’re not getting anywhere with this cryptic bullshit.”
Plante considered that for a moment. “He sent us a last message before he died. I can tell you that much.”
“What did it say?”
Plante just stared back at him.
“That’s it, we’re done.”
“Stop!” Plante’s voice took on a new urgency. “Look, Cobra, truth is, we don’t know. It’s in some kind of code, a code that we’ve had little luck breaking. And we suspect we’re running out of time.”
“Why are you asking me about this? What makes you think I’ll do any better than the pros over at the Agency?”
“Because there is only one thing that’s perfectly clear.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”
“It’s addressed to you.”
Morgan faltered. “Come again?”
“‘For Cobra’s Eyes Only.’ That’s how it starts. In plain English. The rest of it seems to be in a kind of code, but the words don’t match up with any of ours. We can only conclude that it’s actually meant for you and that you’re the only one who can tell us what it means.”
Morgan frowned, deep in thought. He didn’t know what it could be about. There was a time in his life when coded messages from Cougar would have been business as usual. Just another day on the job. But that time was gone, long gone. Their interactions these days were limited to exchanging cards on Christmas and the occasional afternoon spent over beers, reminiscing about all the times they’d cheated death together. It was so implausible, all he could manage to say to Plante was an incredulous, “Why?”
“Your guess is as good as ours.”
He thought for a moment. Knowing Cougar, it had to be important. And in this line of work,
important
could mean
urgent
and
life threatening
. Suddenly, Morgan felt as if he had a mission again. He didn’t waste any time. “Do you have it?”
“Have what?”
“What do you think? The
message
. Do you have it?”
Plante seemed taken aback by Morgan’s sudden intensity. “Sorry, Cobra. I’m not authorized to take it out of headquarters.”
“You’re kidding me,” said Morgan. “What if it’s too late by the time we get there?”
“I’m sorry, I just don’t have the authority,” said Plante, shrugging.
“Then talk to someone who
does
have the damn authority!” Morgan exclaimed, exasperated.
“I already did. Kline said specifically—”
“Kline?” asked Morgan, his eyes narrowing. “You mean
Harold
Kline? What’s he got to do with it?”
Plante hesitated. “He’s Deputy Director of the Clandestine Service.”
“Boyle made
that
worthless, spineless little pencil pusher
Deputy Director of the NCS
?”
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.