Rogue Commander. Leo J. Maloney
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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.
“Thank you, Morgan,” said Bloch. “That will be all for now.”
“That’s it? What are we going to do about this?”
“You