Rogue Commander

by Leo J. Maloney

  “I don’t know what I could do for you.”

  “Please,” Collins scoffed. “Yeah, I know we haven’t seen each other in years, and I have no call to demand anything of you. But while they’re putting the screws on me, the people who are really behind this are out there. And whatever they mean to do with those missiles, it’s bad.”

  “How do I know you’re not the one who means to do something bad with those missiles?” Morgan asked pointedly.

  Collins looked at the operative as if he had lost his mind. He leaned back on the sofa and spread his arms. “Because I’m right goddamn here in front of you, man, with some big-time badass special-ops wonk doing a dance with my next-door neighbor’s Doberman before breaking and entering into my goddamn house, that’s how!”

  Morgan couldn’t argue the point. And to be truthful, he didn’t want to. “Can’t you go to the Department of Defense? You must know people.”

  “Yeah, and Margolis knows those people too,” Collins said. “He’s isolated me from my allies.” Collins frowned. “They might be in on it; they might not be in on it with him. But they wouldn’t have to be. His word would be enough. Even if the truth got out, by the time things are sorted, it’ll be too late...for me and whoever those missiles are launched at.”

  Morgan formed his hand into a fist. “Okay,” he said. “I’m going to be some help. Tell me what I can do.”

  “You can’t trust the government. You can’t trust your people. You can’t trust anyone. Except...”

  “Except who?”

  “There is one person. Navy Commander Alicia Schmitt. An old friend, the only one I trust. A good, patriotic American who’d never put herself ahead of her country. I’d put my life in her hands any day. She knows what’s going on. She’ll be able to tell you what to do.”

  “Morgan.” It was Shepard, through the comm. That surprised him. Until then Morgan was unaware that the comm link could be restarted from HQ. Shepard’s voice was tinny and distant, like his conscience, but the message was important. “The police are coming. Time to go.”

  “What is it?” Collins asked, his older ears unable to pick up the reedy words.

  “It’s my people. They say the cops are coming.”

  “I was expecting this. Morgan, find Alicia. She’ll know what to do. If she doesn’t believe you, ask her about Virginia. Tell her I told you to say that.”

  “I will,” Morgan promised, standing. “Trust me. I’ll make this right. I’ll find the missiles and clear your name. And we’ll put Margolis in prison where he belongs.”

  Collins stood opposite him. “Well,” he said, “put him someplace he belongs—that’s for sure.”

  Police lights flashed against the curtains, lighting the dark rooms of the house. Morgan was going to have to go out the back, through the neighbor’s house, and get past the dog.

  “Jim,” he said, “you wouldn’t happen to have a steak I could borrow, would you?”

  Chapter Eight

  The night was still pitch black when Morgan turned his Shelby Cobra into the property that housed the Zeta Division’s new headquarters. It was in an old warehouse a couple of miles south of Boston. The property was registered under a front corporation, and it was always packed with boxes that were changed from time to time, although Morgan never knew what was in them—if anything.

  It had been five months since they’d officially moved, and after strings of technical issues, things were only now falling into place.

  Morgan scanned his keycard, and the automatic gate opened. He knew that hidden sensors had also scanned his car for weapons and explosives.

  He pulled his Shelby into an indoor garage via a ramp that led underground. He parked and walked to a reinforced steel door, where his fingerprints and retinas were scanned. Only then did he input his personal password on a keypad. He had also passed at least two dozen hidden cameras to get this far. This sort of security was annoying but absolutely necessary. Zeta had made a lot of enemies since its inception and had endured its share of attacks.

  An elevator took him even deeper underground. After another set of heavy security doors, which opened electronically from the inside, he emerged into what they called the foyer—which was a small concrete room with a blast door.

  The first person he saw was weasel-faced Paul Kirby, who held out a stiff hand in greeting. “We’re in the War Room, Morgan. Please join us.”

  Kirby led the way down a short corridor that was laid out radially from the nerve center of the operation.

  The War Room was the largest area in the place, where they gathered for group mission debriefs. The layout was circular, with a large, round wooden table in the middle. A screen followed the curvature of the wall for half of the circle. Far above, a skylight opened onto a bright blue sky—fake, of course, as it was night outside. But it was the best fake sky money could buy, and it seemed surprisingly close to the real thing.

  They’d adopted it based on research by Karen O’Neal that said it made people more alert and productive. For a short time, they’d put pictures of eyes on the walls under the theory that it made people more honest, but Morgan had torn them down—to everyone else’s gratitude.

  Diana Bloch emerged from her office right on cue. Her skirt and dress shirt were still wrinkle-free, as was her makeup, even though she had been at work for at least eighteen hours. But Morgan knew how to look and saw the signs of fatigue—slightly sagging posture, a bit of swelling under her eyes, and movements just a little slower than usual.

  Bloch turned on the recorder and spoke. “This is a debrief for operation number 1198M-9. Subject is Daniel Morgan, code name Cobra, internal designation AZ27-F. Speaking is Diana Bloch, AZ04-D, with Paul Kirby, AZ43-I. Gentlemen, please confirm your presence.”

  “Paul Kirby. Confirmed.”

  “Dan Morgan. Confirmed.”

  “Thank you. Agent Morgan, please relate your interaction with General James Collins on the night of October ninth.”

  Morgan rattled off the details with little emotion. “When I arrived at his bedroom, he was already alert to my presence and trained a handgun on me. He did not know it was me until I identified myself. He was paranoid. Jumpy. He was being watched.”

  “By whom?” Kirby asked.

  “Unknown. He, and I, assumed the government. Nothing more specific than that.”

  “It was at this point that you removed your communicator. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “He asked me to,” Morgan said.

  “But you told him about it.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why did you do that?” Kirby demanded. “If you’d left it in and on, he’d never have been the wiser.”

  “It’s called trust,” Morgan said simply before turning his head to look directly into Kirby’s intent gaze. “It’s the reason I was sent to talk to him and not you.”

  “Maintain focus,” Bloch said in warning. “Morgan, what exactly did Collins say when the communicator was off?”

  “He maintained his innocence and that he was being framed by another army general: Sheldon Margolis.”

  They tried to hide it, but Morgan caught their twitching reflex to look at one another. That name meant something to them.

  “Did he say anything else about General Margolis?” Bloch asked flatly.

  “That he’s powerful and getting rid of his rivals in order to consolidate power. And Collins is the last obstacle in his path.”

  “That all?” Kirby asked. “No details?”

  “Nothing,” Morgan said about as flatly as Bloch had spoken. “He asked for help.”

  “Did he say how you might help?” Bloch asked.

  “He asked me to investigate Margolis and clear his name. That was it.” Morgan didn’t mention Alicia Schmitt.

  “Th
ank you, Morgan,” said Bloch. “That will be all for now.”

  “That’s it? What are we going to do about this?”

  “You are not going to do anything,” Kirby said.

  “But I know him. I’m the one who’s best positioned to help him.

  “Our mission is not to help General Collins.”

  “What the hell do you mean? That is the goddamn mission.”

  “Your mission,” she stressed, “was to contact Collins and find out whatever possible. You did that, and you’re done. We will call you as soon as we have a new assignment.”

  “This isn’t right, Diana. You know it isn’t.”

  “Finding those missing missiles are not our prerogative. We do what we are told. Nothing more.”

  Morgan’s next words were quick but strong. He wanted to get them on the record. “The feds aren’t going to do jackshit about finding them. Not while they have the wrong damn guy, especially not if someone in the government is in on it. They’re wasting their time on him while—”

  “Your trust in Collins is misplaced and misguided,” Paul Kirby interjected. “We used your familiarity with Collins to attempt extracting useful information from him. We have exhausted that approach. You’re too close to this. We cannot rely on you to keep your objectivity.”

  Before Morgan could retort, Bloch cut in. “I have to agree with Kirby on this,” she said evenly. “You have strong personal feelings invested in this. You are dismissed.” With a short stab of her finger, she switched off the recorder.

  Chapter Nine

  Lincoln Shepard was not a field operative, so when someone grabbed his T-shirt and yanked him into a maintenance closet as he was hurrying to the War Room, he expected the worst. To his shame, his hands went up, and he opened his mouth to shriek, only to have fingers clamp his lips shut—fingers that were firm but also soft and smooth.

  He stared into the blue eyes of Karen O’Neal, gleaming in the small enclosure’s darkness.

  “Shhh, shh, shh,” she urged with a conspiratorial grin.

  To his credit, Shepard got over his surprise almost immediately. “Well, hello there.”

  But O’Neal had no time for niceties. Her hands were already on his pants’ zipper. “We have ten minutes until Bloch gets out of her meeting, and I intend to make them count!”

  At first Shepard thought the beeping he heard was his heart, but when Karen’s fingers stopped dancing he realized it was someone hailing him on his vid-trans—a car-key-sized device in his pocket. He grinned apologetically. “I gotta get that.” He dug into his pocket as O’Neal stepped back, folding her arms grumpily.

  “It better be important.”

  It was Lily. “This better be important,” he said to her.

  “It is,” the redhead announced. “Scott has it. He found the origin of the card!”

  Shepard alerted Bloch, joined her and Karen in the War Room, and threw Lily’s image up on the big screen as if by digital magic.

  “The card comes from an exclusive nightclub and casino in Seoul, South Korea,” Lily reported. “Probably VIP access. It’s for a specific date, too—tomorrow night.”

  “Lukacs isn’t exactly the club type,” Shepard surmised. “He’s probably going for a meet.”

  “And this kind of access is expensive,” Lily added. “Whoever it is, if this is worth the cost, he’s meeting a big fish—a very big fish.”

  “But wouldn’t he change the date and place of the meet if he suspects we have the card?” Shepard wondered.

  “Maybe not,” Lily answered. “Scott...Mr. Renard says that no one would have been able to decipher the card except him.”

  “Not even Zeta?” Shepard retorted doubtfully.

  “Not even Zeta,” Lily maintained. “Sorry, Linc.”

  “If there’s a prize bigger than Lukacs,” Bloch interrupted, “it’s worth the risk. Lily, you take this one.”

  Lily’s words caught in her throat, just before she said, “I was afraid you’d say that.” She had been truly enjoying her vacation.

  “We’ll have a flight arranged by morning,” Bloch briskly continued. “We’ll send details shortly.”

  She cut off the call and stood up, mind already on the next piece of business. “O’Neal, I want to go over your models of world arms sales in my office.”

  Shepard grimaced, but Karen just shrugged and made the I’ll-call-you gesture behind Bloch’s back

  Lincoln Shepard collected his things and sulked his way out of Zeta headquarters—driving home along the empty night streets. He arrived at his apartment and turned on the lights to find someone sitting in his living room.

  “Sweet mother of Sam, Morgan, don’t do that!”

  “Sorry. I need your help.”

  “Those are, literally, my least favorite words.” Shepard threw his coat on the couch. “You couldn’t have called?”

  “I didn’t want anyone to know I was here.”

  “Oh, that makes me feel better.” He pulled a bowl from a cupboard. “Lucky Charms?”

  “No thanks,” Morgan said. “Shepard, listen—”

  “Should I bother to tell you to find me during office hours? That whatever I can do for you should be done through official Zeta channels rather than—”

  “This can’t go through Zeta,” he said.

  Shepard poured the milk into the cereal. “Of course it can’t.”

  “I’m serious, Shepard. Can you keep this quiet?”

  “I can’t promise without knowing what it is.”

  “I can’t tell you what it is until you promise.”

  “Well, that’s a real conundrum, isn’t it?” He spoke through a mouthful of sickly sweet cereal.

  “It’s not a big deal. I promise. It won’t take long.”

  Shepard looked at his associate with an expression that said “Does it look like I was born yesterday?” “Yes,” he clucked. “I’m sure that any favor that’s no big deal requires breaking and entering.”

  Shepard put down his spoon. He couldn’t say no to Morgan. He had never been able to in all the time they worked together. He felt sure that if it was important enough for Morgan to ambush him this way, it was important enough for him to try accomplishing. It wasn’t as fun as Karen’s ambush, but still...

  “What’s the nature of this favor?” he asked.

  “I need to find someone,” Morgan said.

  “Who?”

  “I’ll tell you when you promise.”

  “Damn it, Morgan, I don’t know. This is going to get me in deep shit with Bloch.”

  “Nobody should know. Least of all Bloch.”

  “Would she agree with that assessment, you think?”

  “No, because she wouldn’t find out about it.”

  The computer whiz couldn’t argue with that, and his quizzical expression encouraged Morgan to press his advantage.

  “Shepard. This is important. You know I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of.” Shepard put the now-empty bowl in the sink. He wouldn’t even consider the request were it coming from anyone else. But Morgan was not just anyone. Shepard didn’t know anyone whose loyalties had been tested more harshly and had maintained his principles throughout. “Fine. I promise I won’t tell anyone, and if I can help you, I will.” He crossed the small living room to pick up one of his many laptops. “So who is it that I am looking for?”

  “Alicia Schmitt. She’s a navy commander. Number and address are unlisted. I need to find her.”

  “Is this about Collins?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Good point.”

  “I promise, this will all be explained eventually. Even to Bloch. And you’ll understand why I had to keep it a secret. But right now, I just need you to trust me.”

 
“Already do,” Shepard reported absently since his fingers were already flying over the keyboard and track pad. The search was a little more difficult than Shepard had anticipated, which is to say that it took longer than a minute. “Here. Is this her?”

  “You got it?”

  Shepard scoffed. “Do I got it? Who do you think you’re talking to here?” Shepard had something to prove. Lily’s comment that her boy toy was better than him still smarted. He sent the document to the printer. “This is her home address in D.C. Family connections, known friends and associates, stats, and details on her training.” He picked up the packet from the tray and held it out for Morgan. “Will that do?” he inquired innocently.

  “That will be just fine.” Morgan stuffed the documents into his messenger bag. “And remember—”

  “Not a word. Don’t worry. It’s my ass as much as yours now.”

  Chapter Ten

  Alex pulled her black Kawasaki Ninja motorcycle into her parents’ driveway. It was little wonder she had been so good on the Honda back in Prague. She had taken to motorcycles ever since the seat of her jeans had touched the leather of motorbikes’ seats years ago. It was early morning, so birds were singing, and the suburban cul-de-sac was all but deserted. Everyone was either at work or indoors, hiding away from the slowly intensifying cold.

  She was hoping to catch her father still at home. Something was up. She could tell from his voice when she’d talked to him the day before. They grew up with great love, but now that they were in the fire of espionage together as well, he let his guard down with her. But, for whatever reason, she had a kind of sixth sense when it came to him.

  She opened the front door and did catch him—red-handed at that—with a travel bag in his hand. It was the one he kept packed, in his office, ready to go at any time. The one he took when he was going on a mission, which he wasn’t, or she’d know. At least not an official one.