Termination Orders (32 page)

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Authors: Leo J. Maloney

BOOK: Termination Orders
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C
HAPTER
48
E
dgar Nickerson looked out the plane’s window at the fields far below. They were over—what?—Alabama? Tennessee? In any case, it was flyover country. He looked for Vinson to ask him, but Vinson was up in the cockpit with the pilot.
For the past hour or so, Nickerson had been replaying the same scene in his head, again and again—Cobra, bloody and tied to a chair, right in front of him. Except now, in the vision in his head, there was no offer. This time, Nickerson didn’t leave, didn’t entrust Natasha with the task of killing him. Instead, Nickerson himself killed the agent, each time a different way—a bullet to the head, a knife to the gut, a length of pipe, a two-by-four.
He tried to suppress those thoughts and relax. Fine, Boyle was out, and the CIA had some dirt on him. So what? They wouldn’t go public with it, not the CIA, and in this business, it was the votes that counted. And fine, that goddamn McKay would get her law passed. After the assassination attempt, she had a Swiss bank’s worth of political capital. Yes, that would hamper his influence in Congress and probably necessitate that he sever all his dealings with Acevedo. And even if, in the worst-case scenario, this shit did go public, he’d be gone long before they could grab him, and he’d live out his days in a tropical paradise with more money than he could count. And as worst-case scenarios went, how bad was that, really?
His reverie was interrupted by a sinking feeling in his gut. The plane was losing altitude, fast enough for him to notice. He was about to shout for Vinson when the man emerged from the cockpit, calmly strapping himself into a parachute.
“What’s going on?” demanded Nickerson, gripped with fear. “Is the plane going to crash?”
“Yeah, ’fraid it is,” said Vinson, without looking up from adjusting the ties on the parachute.
“What did the pilot say?”
“Pilot’s dead,” said Vinson. “And the autopilot is a couple of seconds away from getting fried.”
“What? Then what are you waiting for? Give me a parachute!”
Nickerson got up from his seat, but before he could take a step, Vinson drew his gun.
“You want to stay in your seat.” He motioned with the firearm, and Nickerson sat back down.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Don’t take it personally, now, boss. It’s just business.”
“Who’s paying you? How much? I’ll double it!”
“Sorry, Ed, but you can’t pay me enough. You’re out. History. And I’m not hitching my wagon to a dead horse.” Vinson pulled down the lever to the cabin door, braced himself, and with a heave, opened it.
A buzzing alarm rang, and the emergency lights tinted everything red as air rushed out, sending loose sheets of paper and cups flying; then the roaring wind began, a hurricane inside the tiny jet’s cabin. Vinson, holding fast on to a hand strap, gave him a little wave, and then he was gone, out into the blue expanse.
The plane bucked wildly. Nickerson held on, white-knuckled, to his armrest, tying to remember the emergency positions on the card he never read. Then the plane pitched into a nosedive straight down, lifting him from his seat so that he was held down only by the seat belt, so hard that he wondered whether the force might be enough to break every bone in his body. Squinting his watering eyes, he glanced out the window just in time to see the ground, so close, he could make out individual branches on the trees, reaching up at him like a giant hand swatting him out of the sky. Nickerson closed his eyes and hoped that it would be quick.
C
HAPTER
49
M
organ and his daughter were brought back to CIA headquarters in handcuffs while a team stayed back to analyze the scene. They had to practically pull Alex away from him when they separated them for one-on-one questioning. Morgan went over the story in detail and produced Natasha’s chip along with the password to access it. Then they locked him up in a holding cell, only to return a short while later to get him for further interrogation. Finally, they locked him up and left him in holding overnight.
The next day, they let Conley talk to him under heavy supervision.
“Jenny and Alex are together, and they’re okay,” said Conley. “From what they told me, which, granted, was not a whole damn lot, they’ll let you out once they determine that the recordings on Natasha’s chip are legit. What I do know is that there’s a hell of a lot on it. More than we could have hoped—a heck of a lot more than the memory card we started with. I think we’re going to nail Acevedo good. Hang in there, Morgan. You’ll be out soon.”
It was another day before they called him out of confinement again, and this time he sat down at a table with Julia Carr, who looked both weary and hardened by the recent events.
“Cobra, we need to know that we can count on your help in this time of crisis,” she said. “There’s a lot of turmoil in the agency at the moment, and we are hoping to be able to deal with it . . . in-house.”
“I see,” said Morgan. “So you’re here to negotiate my silence—is that it?”
“We were hoping we could appeal to your loyalty and patriotism in the matter,” she said. Then, with a thin smile, she added, “Or, failing that, your self-interest.”
He didn’t smile back. “There are two things I’m going to need from you,” he said. “First, my file is purged. I walk out of here accused of no crime, and the CIA never bothers me or my family again. Is that clear?”
She nodded. “That can be arranged. And the other?”
“I need to know that Nickerson and Acevedo are going down. Keep secret what you have to keep secret, but they do not get away with what they did. Deal?”
“We have no interest in protecting Acevedo,” said Carr. “They will suffer a very thorough, very
public
investigation. We will do everything in our power to air out the extent of their crimes. You have my personal guarantee about that,” she said. On that point, Morgan remained doubtful. But there was one more important matter.
“And Nickerson?” he asked.
“They didn’t tell you?” she said, with a smile.
“Tell me what?”
“It seems,” she replied, “that someone has already taken care of that for us. His private jet crashed this morning, and he was confirmed dead just hours ago. Senator Nickerson will no longer be a problem.”
They made him sign about two dozen nondisclosure agreements and then let him go. He walked out to find Conley waiting for him.
“I brought your car,” he said, holding up the keys to the GTO.
As they drove away together, Morgan behind the wheel, Conley told him everything that he had gleaned from the CIA. “Apparently Nickerson was using the drug money to create a whole web of influence. It wasn’t just assassinations but also a wide campaign of bribery, blackmail, and intimidation. Boyle was feeding him information and also gave him access to some of the CIA’s operatives. Like Natasha.”
“What about Acevedo?” asked Morgan, looking forward as he drove.
“A marriage of convenience. Nickerson could offer protection, and they had money, lots of money. Enough to fund Nickerson’s wild power trips. Looking over this stuff, I’m just glad we stopped him before it got any worse.”
“And what are you going to do now?” asked Morgan.
Conley sighed. “I’m going to do what I’ve always done.”
“Back to work for the CIA? After all that’s happened?”
“It’s the life for me,” said Conley. “I’ve known it for a long time. I think you understand what I’m talking about. I think you feel it, too.”
“I quit, remember?”
“I know, Morgan. But part of you never did, the part of you that loved this job. It never really went away, did it? A part that loves danger and excitement and being a part of something great. It’s like Cobra still exists in there, inside you, and all this time was just waiting to come out. I know it’s not
all
you are. You’re also Dan Morgan, family man, who would do anything for his wife and daughter. Hey, maybe you can be just Dan Morgan for the rest of your life. But I’m not so sure that you can. Maybe you need this. Maybe you need to let Cobra out now and then.”
They arrived at the hotel, where Conley had left his Sebring.
Morgan embraced his old friend. “Take care of yourself, Cougar.”
Jenny and Alex were waiting for him in the lobby. As soon as he walked in through the revolving doors, they ran to him, Alex exclaiming, “Dad!” The three of them hugged, and Morgan couldn’t help the tears that streamed down his cheeks.
They returned to Massachusetts that very night to find Neika lying on the mat at their front door. Her fur was matted with dirt and blood, but she leapt up as soon as she saw them, prancing around them, if a little stiffly, in a state of pure joy. Morgan laughed as she jumped on them to lick their faces, leaving dirty brown paw prints everywhere. Jenny and Alex, dirt all over the front of their clothes, laughed along.
E
PILOGUE
I
t was Sunday. The Boston Common was alive with couples, families, and solitary people taking in the sun. The landscape was speckled with vibrant tulips and cherry blossoms, and the trees were as green as they ever get. Morgan took his time, enjoying the warm breeze. It was a beautiful day.
He walked onto the footbridge and spotted Senator Lana McKay with a hand on the railing, looking absentmindedly at the swan boats out in the water. He caught her eye as he approached her and smiled.
“Senator? Dan Morgan.” He extended a friendly hand.
“It’s such a pleasure to meet you,” she said. “Thanks for driving into Boston, Mr. Morgan.”
“I’m surprised you found me,” he said.
“Information about you is indeed hard to come by, even if you have a seat in the United States Senate.”
“But you have your ways?”
“Don’t we all?”
She looked out at the water and sighed. “I owe you a debt of gratitude, Mr. Morgan. What you did . . . well, I hesitate to use the word
heroism
in almost any context, but it certainly seems to apply here.”
“Honestly, Senator, I didn’t really see it as a choice.” he said. “I did what I had to do, and that’s about it.”
“The longer I live,” she said, squinting at the water, “the more clear it is to me that the virtue of doing what is right is a rare thing in this world.” She paused. “The bill failed, you know. The corporate oversight bill. 47–51. Even without Nickerson, the favors and the campaign donations spoke louder. I suppose the irony here is that, if only Nickerson had left me alone, I would have failed all the same.”
“You’ll get another chance,” said Morgan.
“I certainly hope so,” she said, in a disheartened tone. She sighed deeply and spoke again, looking away. “Do you ever wonder whether all your efforts are for nothing, Mr. Morgan? Do you ever lie awake at night asking yourself if what you do is ultimately right?”
“To tell you the truth, Senator, I don’t. I know that maybe I should. It’s a messy world, and right and wrong aren’t always clear. But long ago, I learned to trust my gut and to never stop fighting.”
“And how has that worked out for you?” she asked, with sincere curiosity.
“Better than the alternative.”
She sighed. “I hope you’re right, Mr. Morgan. This political game in Washington makes me question myself sometimes.”
“That’s the reason I never got into it in the first place.”
She thanked him again and wished him luck. He made his way along the path toward his car. As he walked into the entrance to the underground parking garage, he spotted a man on his tail, maybe forty to forty-five, in a dark suit and tie, wearing sunglasses.
Morgan walked quickly downstairs and waited around the corner at the landing for the man. He heard the dull knocking of the man’s shoes on the steps. When he turned the corner, Morgan wrapped his right arm around the man’s neck, pinning him in a choke hold.
“What the hell do you want?”
“Hello, Mr. Morgan,” said the man, unfazed. “My name is Smith. I’ve been sent to make you a proposition.”
Morgan frisked him with his free hand and then released him. “Whatever it is, I’m not interested.”
“I hope you will at least listen, Mr. Morgan.”
Morgan walked toward his car, and the man who called himself Smith walked alongside him.
“I work for a certain organization. Officially, we have no name. Officially, we don’t exist. But we are there, behind the scenes, deeper than the CIA. We are pulling the strings and making this world a safer, better place. Mr. Morgan, we are in the business of writing history.”
Morgan couldn’t help giving the man a quick glance that betrayed his intrigue.
“We would like you to join us, Morgan. We have much use for a man like you. There’s no need to answer now.” The man handed him a business card that contained nothing but a phone number printed on cream stock. “Just call us when you have made your decision.” He turned around and took two steps, then stopped, and said, “Ah, I nearly forgot. We have contacted your friend, as well. A man who goes by the name of Cougar. We made him the same proposition.”
“And?”
“He accepted. We hope to hear from you soon, Mr. Morgan.” He walked away down the long garage, his footsteps echoing in the vast parking facility. Morgan contemplated tossing the card. Instead, he tucked it into his shirt pocket and got into the GTO. He turned his head to catch a last glimpse of Smith, but the man had already vanished. Morgan smiled to himself as he started the car and headed home.

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