Free Termination Orders by Leo J. Maloney Page B

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