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 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
