Termination Orders

by Leo J. Maloney

  She did her best to slink over, stumbling as she did.

  “What is your name, sugar?” asked Lubarsky.

  “My name is anything you want, baby.” She spoke in a lewd tone, rendered especially cartoonish by her heavy accent. Her eyes, red and heavy-lidded, were void of all emotion.

  Lubarsky snickered and said, “You see? I have them well trained.”

  “I’ll pass,” said Morgan.

  “Are you sure?”

  Morgan scowled at him.

  “Fine, fine. You are a modest man. I cannot say I understand, but I respect it.” He waved absently at the woman, and she stumbled away. “Have a drink, then. I have a single malt from the highlands—”

  “I don’t drink.”

  Lubarsky laughed his hideous laugh again, and it made Morgan want to break his nose. “That’s the trouble with you ex-intelligence types. Always with the discipline. You make obscene amounts of money, but you never do anything obscene with it!”

  “I hear Novokoff can really put away the vodka.”

  “Yes, true,” he said, laughing. “But that is like the milk of his mother to Novokoff. He has the resistance of an ox. It doesn’t count as debauchery if he does not become drunk.”

  “Speaking of the devil—”

  “Yes, yes, I have not forgotten the business, Cobra. Your end first.”

  Morgan set down the briefcase on the table in front of Lubarsky. “It’s all in there,” he said.

  Lubarsky opened it and looked through the stacks of bills inside, a smile widening on his face.

  “You are a man of your word, Cobra.”

  Morgan wasn’t interested in compliments. “Novokoff?”

  “It is set up for today, like we discussed.”

  “Where?”

  Lubarsky snorted. “He will not say until we are on the road. He is a paranoid bastard.”

  “I’m guessing he learned it the hard way,” said Morgan. “Twenty years in the KGB will do that to a man.”

  “And your side of the bargain?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got it. All loaded up in a freezer truck and ready to take it wherever he is,” said Morgan.

  “I tell you, Cobra, you are in the wrong business. This high-tech junk—biological weapons and nerve gas and smart bombs—they are crap business. All the special transportation, the lack of supply. And it’s all middlemen, middlemen, middlemen. Never a direct sale. The percentage is shit. The good business is in selling Kalashnikovs and grenades to African warlords. Get paid in diamonds, and no middlemen to pay.”

  “But you’re still gracing us with your presence today, Roman?” said Morgan.

  Lubarsky laughed. “I am making an introduction. Whole other animal. Little exposure, cash up front. Plus,” he added, “for Novokoff, I do this.”

  “How sweet of you.”

  “It is good for business. Not to mention, I’m scared shitless of the bastard.” He seemed serious all of a sudden. “You do not mess this up, you hear me, Cobra?”

  “You’re telling me? Screw you, Lubarsky. Are you even planning on putting on some clothes?”

  Lubarsky laughed. “You know, I like you, Cobra. I believe this is—how do you say?—the start of a wonderful friendship.”

  Morgan looked at him disdainfully and hoped that he might have the opportunity to kill the man before this was over.

  Dr. Eugenia Barrett opened the metal crate slowly and deliberately, and a thin mist poured out from inside, slowly dispersing to reveal four rows of cylinders.

  “This is the real thing. A tiny whiff of this stuff will kill a grown man in forty seconds,” she said. “Same if you get any on your skin. Violent convulsions, projectile vomiting. The good news is, you probably won’t be conscious for most of it.”

  “Yeah, I got the CliffsNotes stateside,” said Morgan. He looked down at the sixteen canisters, the mist from the refrigeration still playing around them. Morgan shivered, but not from the cold.

  “I’d say in this case you could use the refresher.” She unbuttoned her lab coat to climb down from the back of the truck. Morgan followed her, being careful as he touched his right foot to the ground, and was slightly relieved not to feel any pain in his knee.

  They were in an otherwise empty loading dock on the edge of Budapest, and Lubarsky was waiting in a car outside with the two hulks from the hotel. Barrett was a slight woman with close-cropped hair, no older than thirty, a fast-talking prodigy without an ear for social graces. Her directness had made Morgan like her right away.

  “The one upside,” she continued, “is that the half-life for this baby is only about a minute in the atmosphere. If there’s any kind of leak, hold your breath, and get the hell out of there.” She reached into a bag and brought out a syringe in a hermetic plastic sheath. “You’ll still absorb it through your skin, but you just might make it if you inject yourself with this.”

  Morgan eyed the size of the needle warily. “This is what, an antidote?”

  “Atropine. It’ll counteract the effects of the gas. Plunge that son of a bitch right into your heart, and it could save your life.”

  “My heart?” He took it into his hands and stared at the three-inch-long needle. “Remind me, Genie,” he said, “why we’re not giving this bastard a goddamn decoy?”

  “If he’s half as competent as he’s supposed to be, he’ll make damn sure he gets what he’s paying for. And if he finds out we’ve filled these canisters with weapons-grade air, the whole operation is blown.”

  “That fail-safe had better work.”

  “Don’t worry. We tested the hell out of those incinerators. They’re on timer and remote control, and there’s enough thermite in each canister to melt an Eskimo’s ass.”

  “Just take care that it doesn’t melt mine.”

  Barrett laughed. “Don’t worry, Cobes. If everything goes according to plan, you’ll be gone and he’ll be captured before long before that timer goes off.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  “How about we choose to keep a positive attitude about this?” she said. “It goes well, we take a couple of nasty arms dealers out of commission, and maybe get their suppliers to boot.”

  “We can do that by killing them,” said Morgan.

  “Hey, I’m not the one you need to talk to here. I don’t make orders; I take them, say thank you, and ask for another. And if the brass wants Novokoff captured alive, then that’s what they’re gonna get.”

  “And why the hell do they want him alive?”

  “You’re asking the wrong girl here,” said Barrett.

  He heard a long beep of a horn coming from Lubarsky’s car outside.

  “Your date is getting impatient,” she said.

  “Tough. Where’s Ferenc?”

  “Just inside. Ferenc!” she yelled out to him. “Come on out here—we’re ready for you.”

  The tall, blond Hungarian with a youthful, rectangular face appeared, sauntering toward them and the truck, his footsteps echoing in the hollows of the loading dock.

  “Hello, Cobra,” he said. “Are you ready to bag a weapons dealer?”

  “I’m glad you’re so chipper about this,” said Morgan. “Is the team ready?”

  “They’re in position at a safe house a few blocks away,” said Ferenc. “They’ll be tracking us to our destination.”

  Morgan climbed into the passenger side of the truck while Ferenc got into the driver’s seat. Ferenc turned the key, and, after whining, the engine rumbled awake. Morgan opened his window.

  “You’re all set, Cobes,” said Barrett, who then walked to the garage door control. “Try not to get killed.”

  “Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “All right, then, here we go.” She pulled the switch, and the garage door started rolling up. She winced as the cold air rushed in, carrying with it flurries of snow.

  “I’m trying to avoid bodily injury, thank you very much.“

  Ferenc pulled the truck outside, where Lu
barsky was waiting, huddled and leaning against his black town car.

  “We’re here,” said Morgan through the truck’s window.

  “About time,” said the Georgian. “I am freezing my nuts off out here.” He typed into his burner phone.

  “I thought you Russian assholes were supposed to be used to the cold,” said Morgan. “Or at least not to whine like a little girl about it.”

  Lubarsky’s phone beeped, and he looked at the screen.

  “Okay, I know where we are meeting. It is a long drive. I take it you want to ride with the merchandise?”

  “You take it right,” said Morgan.

  “Okay,” said Lubarsky. “Follow me.”

  Lubarsky set off, and Ferenc followed.

  “So how do we do this?” asked Ferenc.

  “You hang back,” said Morgan. “Near the truck—remember, you’re just the driver. Keep a close eye on the situation and your weapon ready.”

  They drove in silence behind Lubarsky for a few minutes, until Ferenc spoke.

  “So this Novokoff—he’s ex-KGB, right? Cold War dinosaur type? Still active in intelligence?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you knew him from back in the day?”

  “I knew of him,” said Morgan. “Killed at least three Agency men, one of them a good friend of mine. Likes murder and tortures in cold blood. Made a fortune cashing in on weapon stockpiles after the fall of the Soviet Union.”

  “Sounds like a nasty piece of work,” said Ferenc.

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  Lubarsky pulled into an abandoned factory complex and was waved in through a truck-size door by a man in combat armor holding a semiautomatic. Ferenc followed Lubarsky’s lead.

  “Oh, boy,” said Morgan.

  Morgan counted three more men similarly armed, and at each of their belts he could make out the bulbous shapes of three grenades. Ferenc parked the truck behind Lubarsky’s car, and the men converged on them, forming a perimeter.

  Morgan stepped out. He saw Novokoff standing in the middle of the abandoned factory floor next to a single, featureless, surgical-aluminum table, wearing a black turtleneck sweater with suspenders, a pistol at his hip. Morgan had known him from pictures, but there was something unnerving about his personal presence, even at a distance. He was aloof, his carefully coiffed gray hair and beard giving him the aspect of a well-groomed wolf. His eyes had the quiet calm of a fearless killer. There was also one new feature—a scar, bright red and not fully healed, streaked across his face.

  “Bringing a gun to an introduction is no way to make friends,” said Novokoff.

  “You’re one to talk,” said Morgan. “Why the army? Expecting an invasion?”

  “I am not a trusting man, Cobra. Let’s just say I had some relevant prior experience. And after all, we were de facto enemies for the better part of a decade, were we not? Oh, you did not expect me to come to this meeting without finding out everything that I could about you, did you, Mr. Morgan? You don’t mind that I use your real name, do you? All this code name business is so passé.”

  Morgan did not react. “There aren’t many who know that name and survive.”

  “Ah, but therein lies the beauty of commerce, Mr. Morgan. It brings even enemies together in the bonds of trade. It creates a connection of trust and mutual need.”

  “I think even you understand the irony of those words coming out of your mouth.”

  “Ah, that is true only if you believe that the game at the KGB was really about the Revolution, Mr. Morgan. Ah, it was for some, those hopeless young fanatics who readily gave their lives for this . . . cause. It is alien to me and most of the men of my time. We understood that it was not about Socialism. It was not about Mother Russia. It was always, really, only about power.”

  “So this should be right up your alley,” said Morgan.

  “Very much so. And apparently yours, too,” Novokoff said, shifting gears, “or you could not offer me such a rare item.”

  “Exactly. So how about we get to it?”

  “Very well. I have money for you, Mr. Morgan, and I trust you have product for me.”

  “In the truck,” said Morgan.

  Novokoff motioned to his men. Two of them opened the back of the truck, took down the crate, and with some effort placed it down next to the table.

  “Be careful with that. I do not want to die here,” said Lubarsky.

  Another of Novokoff’s men brought out a seamless Plexiglas cage that held five large lab rats and set it down on the table. He placed next to it a short mesh hose with complicated attachments at the ends. One of the men who had taken the metal crate from the truck opened it and removed a canister, spreading billows of smoke from the dry ice. He held it carefully, walking slowly to the table and setting it down as gently as he could.

  He took the hose and connected one end into the air nozzle on the rat cage, and the other to the canister. There was a faint hiss as colorless, odorless gas seeped into the cage. The rats were at first paralyzed, then began to seize madly, foaming at the mouths, scratching at one another involuntarily until their white fur was stained red. Slowly, the seizing tapered to stillness but for an odd twitching leg.

  “It appears you are a man of your word, Mr. Morgan,” said Novokoff. He motioned toward the hose, and the nearest man moved to disconnect it. He undid the lock on the nozzle and pulled, but it seemed stuck. He pulled harder. It gave, but the man lost his balance, knocking back against the canister. Morgan’s heart skipped a beat as the canister teetered uncertainly. He prepared to bolt, certain that it would fall. He exhaled, relieved, as it fell back upright. Then he looked at Novokoff.

  His face was changed entirely, contorted with anger. He growled something in Russian to the man. The man started talking apologetically, holding his hands at chest level. He noticed the other guards looking on uncomfortably. And then, faster than anyone could react, Novokoff drew his pistol and cold-cocked the man on his temple. The guard sprawled onto the ground, and Novokoff was immediately on him, swinging his pistol again, this time against the man’s face.

  Two other guards rushed to him as he hit the man in wild fury. They managed to wrench him off the man and hold him back. Novokoff growled, struggling for a few seconds; but as suddenly as it had come on, his fury seemed to die down. His face changed back to an eerie calm, and he looked at Morgan as if nothing had happened.

  “Your product is good, Cobra,” he said. “And your asking price is fair.”

  The man on the floor groaned, and it seemed to flip a switch in Novokoff. He wheeled around, and the two guards ran to hold him back again.

  What happened next seemed to move in slow motion. Novokoff struggled and pushed one of the men back. He staggered against the table. The canister tipped again, and for a split second it seemed like it might teeter back to its standing position. But it moved an inch too far, and it dropped to the ground. The struggle ceased, and everyone froze as the canister rolled a few feet and came to a halt. Then, there was a bright flash, and a wave of hot air blew into Morgan’s face. The fail-safe had gone off.

  Novokoff turned to him with snake’s eyes, and Morgan knew that he understood exactly what had happened. Novokoff drew his gun and shot, but Morgan had already anticipated this and dodged the first salvo of bullets. Novokoff’s men, however, took the cue and fired bursts at Morgan and Lubarsky’s goons. These two drew their own guns and shot back.

  “Stop that!” yelled Lubarsky.

  Novokoff shouted in Russian, and it was obvious why: the crate with the canisters was dangerously close to the line of fire. One of Lubarsky’s men was hit. Morgan saw another of Novokoff’s men fall, near him, and saw that the bullet had come from Ferenc, who had joined the fray. Novokoff retreated behind a pillar, and Morgan kicked over a table and hid behind it. He listened for the gunfire, waiting for a lull. He pictured the position of one of the shooters. His eyes met Ferenc’s—the other man was crouching behind the truck. He made the sign for co
vering fire. Ferenc nodded.

  Ferenc emerged, shooting. A split second later, Morgan stood, and with another split second to aim, fired. He hit the man squarely in the forehead. He crouched and looked at Ferenc but saw him sprawled on the floor, inert, blood pooling underneath him.

  Shit.

  He heard moans. Lubarsky was several yards away, shot in the gut.

  “Damn you . . . Cobra . . .” he said, with labored breathing.

  “You are alone, Mr. Morgan!” Novokoff yelled out to him. “Come out now, you double-crossing son of a bitch, and I promise you a quick death!”

  The bastard. Morgan was half-tempted to make his an ending befitting Butch Cassidy, but instead he took a deep breath. There was a burst of gunfire in his direction, hitting the table deafeningly. But the table held the bullets. He was safe until they realized he was out of ammunition.

  He looked around. A few feet away from him was the crate, and next to him was the body of one of Novokoff ’s men, the first to fall. His gun, however, was several feet out of reach, in the path of enemy bullets.

  What wasn’t out of reach were the man’s grenades.

  He took them. There were only two; he would have to make them count. He couldn’t rely on killing both his enemies with grenades—they were too mobile, the space too open. But there was one possibility.

  He took one grenade in each hand and held them to his chest. One chance, and he would probably die. But if he did, he would go out fighting. With his mouth, he pulled the pin on one grenade and sent it sailing in the direction of Novokoff. He removed the pin from the other and, in the cover of the first explosion, tossed it into the crate with the canisters. And then he ran.

  The burst came along with a heat wave from the thermite, which was what he had hoped for. Almost immediately he heard Lubarsky gag and cough, and he turned to see him start convulsing. He had released the gas.

  And then the tingling hit him. At his extremities, at first. He had to run, had to get out of there. He stumbled out the door the truck had come in.

  He panted, his nose running. He stumbled and fell into the soft snow. Consciousness was fading; he knew he didn’t have long. He reached into his pocket and brought out the syringe Dr. Barrett had given him. He fumbled to open it. His hands were already losing their grip. With all his effort, he ripped the package and removed the needle’s cover with his mouth. He looked at it: it was one big mother of a needle. This had a slightly sobering effect. He tried to concentrate on the target on his chest. His hands were about to give out. He had one chance to do this, or he was dead.