“Yes, that is right,” said Fastia, looking ahead, his expression cool and blank.
Morgan continued. “That has to be some kind of big achievement, yeah? Years of strict training, following orders, giving your complete loyalty to your superiors. Isn’t that right? Or is there something special about how we do things in the US?”
“No, it is the same.”
“Do you know what they call it in the US when someone does what you’re doing right now to your country?”
“I believe you call it treason,” said Fastia bitterly.
“That’s what they call it. They’d give you the chair for it there. Fry your brains and put you in the ground. Tell me, is it the same here?” Morgan glanced at Conley, who gave him a look that said, You’d better know what the hell you’re doing.
“No,” Fastia said, his grip on the steering wheel making his knuckles white. “Here, it is done by firing squad.”
“And it’s not only the dying, either, is it?” continued Morgan, as if he had not asked Fastia a question before. “Dying a traitor—that’s a shameful death. Maybe the worst death for a military man.”
Fastia was trying his best to offer no reaction, Morgan could tell. But his line of questioning was getting to the guy, as he had hoped. He wanted to make sure of this man. And, one way or the other, he would get a response.
“So my question here, I guess, is—why do it, Kadir? Why are you willing to be a traitor to your country?”
“It is Gaddafi who is the traitor,” Fastia spat back, rage finally breaking through his stoicism. Then, composing himself, but still in anger, he added, “He has betrayed this country. It is for love of Libya and its people that I help you.”
Morgan shot him a glance. “As I understand, it’s about more than just love of your country, isn’t it?”
Fastia’s faced tensed, and his back straightened. “They have told you more, then, than I wished,” he said, with renewed but strained courtesy. “Yes, Cobra, I do this for vengeance, as well. Gaddafi is a murderer. He killed my family—my mother and father and my sister—in one of his purges.” Bitter tears streamed down his face despite himself. “The love I had for them has turned to hatred for the butcher who killed them. I want nothing more than to see him dead.”
Morgan saw a passion and resolve in Fastia that couldn’t be faked. “You’re a more patient man than I am, Kadir. If it had happened to me, I would have taken matters into my own hands a long, long time ago.”
Fastia regained his composure and was once more stiff and impassive. “It is as they say, Cobra, that revenge is a dish best served cold.”
“Do you believe that?”
“No, I do not. But it will do.”
They hardly spoke for the next several hours as they made their way along twisting country roads toward Tripoli. Finally, they arrived at an isolated, two-story, adobe house.
“The people who live here,” said Fastia, “will give you lodging for the night. Here, you may rest and eat without worry.” He then introduced the two of them to a wizened little man and woman who welcomed them inside by candlelight, to a room with two ratty mattresses on the floor. Fastia stood at the door. “I must go, but I will be back in the morning for you,” he said. “Rest well. You will be safe here. Get some sleep, if you are able. Tomorrow will be a historic day.”
Fastia arrived early the next morning dressed in his Air Force uniform, with two more uniforms for Morgan and Conley. “I believe that these will fit you both. I don’t think I need to remind you that if you are caught, you will be tortured and executed as spies.”
“If they take us, they won’t take us alive,” said Morgan, running his tongue over a molar crown that concealed the standard-issue cyanide capsule. On a mission, the possibility of death was always an immediate reality.
“Good,” said Fastia, and he waited for them to get dressed. Once they were in uniform, Fastia stepped forward and made minor adjustments to their clothes, starting with Morgan. “With your mustache and dark complexion, you will have no trouble passing for Libyan,” Fastia told him. He then moved on to Conley. “Cougar, you look more Western. Many will not question your appearance if you are in uniform, but it would be best if you would hide your face whenever possible.” He stepped back to examine both of them. “This should be enough to fool any guards along the way, as long as you keep your mouths shut. Now come. It is time. I will give you the details of the mission en route.”
Fastia had arranged for an official-looking town car, black and polished. Conley took the wheel, with Morgan and Fastia in the backseat, and they arrived in the city in about an hour. Tripoli was abuzz with its annual International Fair, which attracted thousands of people. The heavy traffic was exacerbated by military checkpoints, and security forces patrolled along every major street. They would have been stuck for hours if they hadn’t been in a military car. Instead, they passed the barricades unchallenged as the checkpoint guards snapped to attention and saluted. Still, Morgan held his breath every time, and Conley tried to hide his face as much as possible.
“This, all this security, is for him. Colonel Gaddafi.” The name sounded like a swearword coming from Fastia’s mouth. “It will not save his life today.”
The traffic grew heavier and the barricades more frequent as they approached the square where Gaddafi was going to address the throng of businessmen and tourists who were in town for the fair. When they were within view of their destination, Fastia had Conley turn into a side street and park the car.
“This is it,” he told them. They were parked in front of a tan five-story office building. The glass front door, built into an arch, led to a modest lobby. There was a guard posted on the sidewalk, a mere ten feet from it. “The building has a clear view of the plaza, and it has been emptied out for the event. There will be another guard inside.”
Conley got out and opened the door for Morgan and Fastia. The guard approached them, motioning for them to leave, but when he caught sight of Fastia’s uniform, he snapped to attention and saluted them. Fastia spoke to him authoritatively in Arabic, and, with a final salute, the guard returned to his post. Conley took the duffel bag from the trunk. He sagged slightly from the weight.
Fastia led Morgan and Conley to the entrance and tapped on the glass door with his ring to get the attention of the guard inside. The guard looked up, surprised, and Fastia motioned for him to open the door. He walked over, fumbled with the keys at the lock, and then swung the door open to admit them.
Once inside, Fastia exchanged a few words with the guard, walking slowly farther into the building’s lobby until they were no longer visible from the street. Morgan, meanwhile, walked a little ahead of them, pretending to head toward the elevator door. Fastia pointed to something in a corner, and at his signal, Morgan pulled out a knife concealed in his boot and, in a flash, pulled the guard’s head back and slit his throat. The guard dropped to his knees and fell to the floor gurgling, blood pooling around his head in a macabre halo. Fastia walked to the door and, knocking against the glass again, motioned for the other guard to come in. This time, Morgan was waiting by the door, and he pounced just as the guard walked through, dispatching him in the same way. They dragged the bodies into the elevator with them. There would be no witnesses to their presence.
They got off on the third floor, and Morgan checked his watch: 11:09. According to Fastia’s intel, Gaddafi’s motorcade would arrive in twenty-one minutes. There were three windows on the floor that faced the stage where Gaddafi would make his appearance. Morgan chose the best vantage point, took the duffel from Conley, and dropped it next to the window. He took the leather shooter’s gloves from the bag and slipped them on. Then he removed the dismantled weapon and assembled it, slowly and deliberately.
The Dragunov semiautomatic sniper rifle, also known as an SVD, was ideal for the job. Named for the Soviet weapons designer who’d created it, the SVD was built for extreme accuracy and power, with an effective range of over 2,500 feet. The magazine hel
d ten 7N1 special precision loads. The rifle was fitted with a muzzle flash suppressor and a custom silencer, so that no one could figure out where the shot had come from until they made a sweep of the buildings. When they did locate the source, all they would find would be two dead guards and an abandoned Soviet weapon, with nothing to tie the operation back to two American assassins.
Morgan attached the telescopic sight to the barrel of the rifle and secured it onto the tripod, then placed the gun at the window ledge. Conley took his position next to him, scanning the area through high-powered binoculars, while Morgan looked through the scope, sweeping the crowd for guards who might spot them. Conley checked the billowing flags for wind speed and direction.
“Looks like you have a steady wind, about five miles per, coming across your path on the right.”
Morgan acknowledged this and cracked open the window just enough so that he had an unobstructed view of the podium where Gaddafi would be standing. The noise of the crowd filtered into the room, a cacophony competing with a rousing military march that was being played by a brass band.
“Five minutes,” Conley said.
Fastia, who had been sitting in an office chair behind them, watching eagerly, got up and stood by the window, nervously. Meanwhile, Conley removed a radio transceiver from the pack and said into the mouthpiece, “This is Cougar. Come in, Eagle’s Nest.”
“This is Eagle’s Nest,” crackled a voice from the radio.
“We are in position; repeat, we are in position.”
Onstage, the band stopped, and a local dignitary began delivering an introduction that went mostly ignored. Morgan put an invisible bead on him, rehearsing the countdown in his mind.
“Two minutes,” said Conley. “Careful. Wind’s picking up.” Morgan shifted the crosshairs just to the right of the speaker’s heart. Sweat began to run down his face.
“One minute . . .”
The band struck up a patriotic march. After a few measures, the music was overtaken by sirens, and they saw the flashing lights of the motorcade approaching between the long lines of parallel barricades. A wild cheer erupted as Gaddafi’s black Mercedes and five security vehicles pulled up to the stand. The dictator’s private guard, officially called the Revolutionary Nuns, comprised exclusively of highly trained and beautiful young women, spread out and stood at attention.
Conley focused his binoculars on the darkened windows of Gaddafi’s Mercedes. “I wonder if he’s really in there. Might be a decoy or a look-alike.”
Morgan didn’t respond. It couldn’t be. Not today. At last, one of the security guards opened the car’s rear door. Two men wearing military uniforms, each with a chestful of medals, emerged from the vehicle.
“Come on. Come on.” Morgan placed his gloved finger on the trigger with just the lightest touch.
Finally, he emerged: Colonel Muammar Gaddafi, wearing a red and black patterned ceremonial Bedouin robe that reached the ground. His long, greasy dark hair spilled out from under a matching cap.
“That’s him,” said Conley, looking through his binoculars. “Positive ID. That’s the target.”
Gaddafi beamed and waved to the crowd, who cheered on cue as he made his way to the podium.
“Target acquired,” Cobra spoke into the radio. “Cobra requesting go-ahead.”
“Mission is go, Cobra.”
“Everything looks good,” Conley said to Morgan. “It’s up to you now.”
“Do not fail,” said Fastia, in a whisper.
Morgan released the safety as Gaddafi adjusted the microphone to his height. The bastard was right in his crosshairs. There was no escape for him now. Even at this range, Morgan would not miss. He never missed. Taking a deep breath, Morgan touched his finger to the trigger and began his countdown, out loud. “Five. Four.” He added pressure to his trigger finger. “Three. Two.”
“Abort mission!” came the voice on the radio. “Abort, Cobra! Abort! Do you copy?”
Morgan stopped the countdown but kept his finger on the trigger, the target in his scope.
“Do it,” demanded Fastia. “It is our only chance.”
All he had to do was squeeze the trigger.
“Confirm abort order, Cobra!”
Why should he abort? What reason could there be to let this mass murderer live? Morgan wondered. He could allege radio failure. A tragic miscommunication. They would throw the book at him, but what could they do? The bastard would be dead. He looked through his sight at Gaddafi, still talking at the podium.
“Cobra!” said Conley sharply. “They gave the order to abort. Let it go.”
Fastia crouched and snarled, “Shoot! Take the shot, Cobra! Do it now, before it is too late!”
Morgan tensed his trigger finger. The crosshairs remained on Gaddafi, who was talking boisterously to the crowd.
“Confirm abort order, Cobra!“
Conley put a heavy hand on his shoulder, and Morgan, exhaling, let go of the trigger.
“Abort order confirmed,” he said.
“No!” said Fastia, falling to his knees, his voice breaking. Morgan jumped to his feet.
“Let’s go, Kadir,” said Morgan. “It’s over.”
“No! It’s not over yet! Pick up your gun and shoot!”
“Let’s say I do that. What then? Do you think they’re just going to give you and your wife and daughter safe passage to the US if you disobey orders? Trust me, Kadir, we’re your only friends right now, and we’re telling you, it’s over.”
“Why would they stop us? Why?”
“We might never know,” said Morgan. “The suits always have their reasons. All we can do is hope that they made the right call.”
Conley was at the door. “Cobra, we gotta go.”
Fastia gave a last bitter look through the window, where the crowd cheered wildly for Gaddafi. Resigned, he said, “He lives, then.”
“And so do we, Kadir,” said Morgan. “Come on. The clock is ticking.”
Slipping out of the building and back into their sedan, Morgan, Conley, and Fastia drove to an air base where Fastia had arranged for a military aircraft with a flight plan to Egypt; once in the air, they would divert their course to London. Fastia’s family had already boarded and sat waiting for them. They would eventually fly to America, to start a new life. With two guards killed and the Russian weapon left behind, Gaddafi would discover there had been an assassination attempt on his life. There would be repercussions. Lives would be lost. But nothing would ever be tied back to the CIA. The dictator himself would rule for years more before being toppled by a Western-backed popular uprising.
“Well, Kadir?” asked Morgan.
Fastia took a puff from his cigar and let the smoke flow slowly out of his mouth. A child’s exuberant laughter came from outside his office.
“Tell me something,” he asked Morgan. “You have a family, like me. A home, a child. You are a different man now, with a different life. Does the past call you so strongly that you would leave it all behind on the spur of the moment?”
“I thought you, of all people, would understand,” said Morgan.
“It has been a long time since I left Libya,” said Fastia. “I have changed much since then. And history, as it seems, does catch up eventually.”
“Did they ever tell you why they aborted the Libya mission? Why they chose to let Gaddafi remain in power when we could have eliminated him back then?”
A sudden intensity came into Fastia’s eyes, and then he sighed deeply, as if trying to soothe a profound pain. “The geopolitical circumstances changed abruptly. That, or OPEC interceded on the butcher’s behalf. What does it matter?” Changing the subject, he asked, “Do you still call yourself Cobra?”
“If I have to,” Morgan said simply.
Fastia put out his cigarette in an ashtray on his desk. “I will need money,” said Fastia. “I will not charge you my normal fees, but the airplane and the asset in Afghanistan will not come cheap.”
“I have the money, Kadir. I need
to know if you can deliver.”
Fastia took a deep breath. “Yes, Cobra. I will help you. For Cougar’s sake, and for yours.”
CHAPTER 10
Leo Guzman’s fingers flew across the keyboard. It was daytime, but his little nook was a dark burrow. The daylight, he found, would set his biological clock to a day-and-night cycle, which interfered with the alternative sleep cycle he was training himself to follow. At the moment, he was interspersing bouts of furious typing with sips of an energy drink. He was hitting the sweet spot, his wired mind racing, and feeling in a very real sense, as he often did at this job, that he had the world at his fingertips. He was concentrating so deeply and intensely that he didn’t even notice the knock on the door; he only saw the light streaming in from the hallway outside when someone opened it.
“Guzman?” he heard coming from behind him.
He swiveled around in his chair, mildly irritated at the interruption. “Oh, hey, Plante, can I help you?”
“I need you to run a trace on a phone.”
“Got the number?”
Plante told him. “Think I can get a real-time feed of the trace at my desk?”
“What, did you think I’d make you look over my shoulder?” said Guzman, grinning.
“Oh, and one more thing. Think you can keep this one quiet, too?”
“Be careful, Plante. Someone might think we’re running some kind of covert intelligence-gathering operation or something.”
Plante grinned at the joke.
“Anyway, it’ll be ready by the time you’re back at your workstation.”
“Appreciated, Guzman.”
“You got it.”
Plante closed the door, and the room was plunged back into its previous denlike darkness. With a few strokes of the keyboard, Guzman began to run the trace. The program connected surprisingly fast, immediately placing the cell phone in a residential neighborhood in Bethesda. He noted the speed only long enough to deduce that someone else must be tracing that same number. But having done what Plante asked, he only cursed the disruption and began to work himself back into sublime hyperconcentration.
Termination Orders Page 7