An Act of Treason

by Jack Coughlin

  The escort officer had collected the military ID cards for himself, the driver, and the man in the dark suit. Lauren handed over the leather wallet containing her CIA creds. The soldier checked them, let his eyes linger for a moment on her face, then returned her badge and the IDs. “Welcome to Bagram, Ms. Carson. They’re expecting you inside,” he said, then to the driver, “Neil, park over there behind the Hummer.”

  Lauren put on her game face. “No need for anyone to get out,” she told the driver and the escort officer. “I can open a door by myself.” The mystery man in the dark suit would stay in the vehicle and be driven to another safe building to complete the deception. He actually was the second member of the Citation’s flight crew and just wanted to dump the monkey suit and get a shower, some chow, and some sleep before having to fly again.

  * * *

  K YLE S WANSON HAD DRIVEN faster than the SUV, and he and Jim Hall were already standing with coffee mugs in hand and talking when Lauren Carson came through the door. Swanson was seldom surprised by anything, but the moment that his blue-gray eyes met her blues was like the flash of a camera, a frozen moment of unexpected emotion. He sucked in every detail, from her stylish shoes to the small silver necklace and lack of makeup. She doesn’t need makeup, he thought. If I was God, I wouldn’t change a thing. Lauren hesitated for only a fraction of a second, caught off balance by her own feelings. Although there was only one other person in the room, it was as if a large crowd had parted to open a path between them, and they both instantly knew in that first glance that their lives were going to be different.

  “Kyle, meet Lauren Carson, who runs me and my entire shop like we were a bunch of slaves pulling oars. Lauren, this is Kyle Swanson, the guy I’ve told you so much about.” Jim Hall could almost see the electricity buzzing between these two. It’s only been three seconds and they already should go get a motel room.

  “Good morning, Ms. Carson. Welcome to Afghanistan.” Kyle took a step forward and reached out his hand, and she took it in her own. Her skin was soft, but her grip was firm.

  Ordinarily, Lauren could just turn on her blazing Miss Arkansas smile and dazzle a new man with her beauty. This time, she had to fight to keep from blushing. His strength was understated, but obviously he could have broken her hand with anything more than a gentle squeeze. “Thank you, Gunny Swanson. I look forward to working with you.” There was a slight southern accent. She intentionally broke the moment and went to the big coffee urn on a table and filled a mug. Black, no sugar. Now what? She looked over at Jim, who seemed to be enjoying their discomfort as the initial sizzle came under control.

  They all sat down, and Kyle was glad that there was an entire table between himself and this new girl. Woman. Damn, fool, think of something to say.

  “Well, I finally win,” said Jim Hall, breaking the ice for them. “I never lose. Sometimes it just takes longer.”

  “Win what?” Lauren asked, blowing on the scalding coffee. The pout of her lips was totally sensual to Swanson.

  “Yeah,” he echoed dumbly. “Win what?”

  “Fifteen years ago, mate. Rocket Mountain, when we tried to recruit you.”

  Lauren reacted with mock surprise and touched her heart with her hand. She turned to face Kyle, and he saw the first glimmer of a smile. “You mean my legendary boss Jim Hall failed an assignment? Amazing. Tell me. Tell me, so I can spread some gossip back at the shop.”

  “I didn’t fail anything. I never lose. You know that.”

  “Tell me the story and let me be the judge.”

  Kyle shook his head. He remembered the incident well.

  10

  BRIDGEPORT, CALIFORNIA

  R OCKET M OUNTAIN, A BIG bump of dirt in the Sierra Nevadas, was part of the Mountain Warfare Training Center outside of Bridgeport, California, and a place with little supervision. Corporal Kyle Swanson had driven up with a dozen other Marines as part of a sniper package to practice high-angle shooting, above-to-below, and cross-compartment shooting from one ridgeline to another. No supervision meant that the rules were loose, and it was more fun to shoot hand grenades than proper targets. About twice a week, that kind of goofing off would start a fire among the fake buildings, and everybody would yell and run down to throw water and dirt on the flames to stop the whole place from burning up. Then the mud fights would start. Things were usually pretty loose up on Rocket Mountain.

  Master Sergeant Jim Hall was pulling instructor duty for the course that week because the regular staff guy was on leave. Hall and Swanson had been friends for a long time, and Kyle had gone through Scout Sniper School with Hall riding him like a balky horse, pushing to make him better than everyone else. They had gone nose-to-nose a couple of times, because neither one would back down. That only made them better friends.

  Hall was forty-two years old at the time, and Kyle Swanson represented to him the continuation of a tradition, a worthy successor. The boy was an incredible sharpshooter who did everything asked of him on a range and in the classroom and in the field, but also was bright enough to think beyond the moment, with an uncanny sixth sense that could turn a disadvantage into a win. Hall would reluctantly admit, but only to himself, that the young Marine was a prodigy with a sniper rifle.

  One Wednesday afternoon, everybody shaped up, cleaned their weapons, policed the area, and dumped trash into the pair of big Dumpsters that squatted beside a storage shed. A truck was grinding up the hill trailing a plume of dust, a visit by the colonel and his sergeant major, coming to check on the training and show the men that the battalion brass cared about them. In the back of the truck were sealed containers of hot chow, straight from the base mess hall, a choice of chop suey or meat loaf and lots of things like broccoli and potatoes, along with cookies and brownies. The colonel knew his men had been roughing it, sleeping outside, choking down MREs for three meals a day, and drinking gallons of water, so the fresh food would be a nice reward.

  They set it up on picnic tables and had a good-natured lunch. Then the colonel and the sergeant major watched the snipers blow off a bunch of rounds at steel plates, wrecked cars, and the weather-worn plywood buildings. Finally, the visitors got back into their truck and made the long drive back to the base.

  The snipers washed up, changed into civvies, and also drove down the hill. Bridgeport was only twenty minutes away, and every fast-food restaurant had a franchise there, so the Marines seldom ate their MREs. That evening, most of them went to McDonald’s, but Hall pulled Swanson away and took him to a quiet Mexican place identified by a neat sign as Alphonso’s Restaurant. Most of the customers were seated outside, drinking cold beer on the open patio beneath a sprinkling of little white lights. Kyle liked the fact that many of them were Hispanic, always a signal that a Mexican restaurant served authentic food. Hall went inside. Kyle followed.

  A row of high-backed booths lined the far wall, each with long, cushioned seats that were separated by a plastic-topped table. Windows at each booth faced the parking lot, but at the last one, a customer had adjusted the blinds so no one could see in. Overhead lights in the middle of the room did little to brighten that corner. Hall slid into the booth, motioning Kyle to follow.

  “This is Morgan,” said Hall. The man was slender, with thick dark hair that did not show a sign of gray. No emotion showed in the dark brown eyes as he slowly dipped a fried chip into a cup of red sauce and put it into his mouth and chewed. A dark linen blazer covered a pearl gray golf shirt that had a little sheep figure sewn in gold on the left chest: Brooks Brothers.

  No one said anything until the waitress came over, already with three cold Coronas on her tray. She was a beautiful young Hispanic woman, no more than twenty years old, with challenging eyes and a catlike walk, dressed in a denim miniskirt and a loose white blouse worn off her right shoulder. The name Mary was imprinted in black on a white plastic name tag.

  “Ah, Maria, we meet again. You are sooo pretty today.” Hall gave her a big smile.

  “You always say that,” she
said, serving the chilled bottles. “All talk, no action. I think you have a wife and many children somewhere and just like to flirt.”

  “No. You’re the only girl for me in the whole world.” Hall laughed. Mary laughed. “Someday we will run off to Las Vegas and get married.”

  “I have a boyfriend,” she said.

  “But do you have a telephone number?”

  “I will tell your wife if you are unfaithful.” She giggled, flipped a hand at him, and walked away.

  Kyle sipped his beer. “I didn’t know we were joining your friend.”

  “Business,” replied Hall, who instantly turned serious. He took a deep swallow and put his elbows on the table.

  “What kind of business are you in, Mr. Morgan?” Kyle asked.

  “Just call me Morgan, Corporal Swanson. No mister.” The voice was smooth and as easy as the cold cerveza. His posture was a little odd. “What kind of business do you think I’m in?”

  Hall stifled a small laugh. Drank his beer.

  Swanson took a chip, dipped it, and ate for a moment, studying the man. Then he said, “You don’t have the skin color to be from around here, so you don’t get much exposure to the sun. No intentional identifying marks, but that scar by your ear shows maybe you once got your scalp peeled back by a bullet or some shrapnel. You carry yourself well, with confidence, so you’re probably ex-military, since Jim Hall would not be doing business with someone who wasn’t at least a veteran. Your jacket is cut a little full at the left arm, so you have a weapon in a shoulder holster. Something small, but with stopping power. Then there is your choice of this place, the last booth with your back against the wall and the shade drawn. Up there over the window where the blinking sign is advertising Budweiser, you might as well have one pointing directly at you and saying CIA.”

  “Maybe I’m just on a fishing trip over at the Virginia Lakes.” The man’s eyes remained steady.

  “Your kind buys fish. You don’t catch them. No calluses or blisters on your fingers from a running nylon line. The cowboy boots give you a little more height, but they are clean, and your jeans are pressed. Desk man.”

  Jim Hall finished his beer and held up the empty and waved it at Mary, signaling for another round. “Told you this kid was good.”

  “I’m a headhunter, Corporal Swanson, a talent scout. Master Sergeant Hall suggested that I come take a look at you, so I went through your records. You are now twenty-one years old with three good years in the Corps, and fast-tracked for sergeant. We wonder if you might be interested in a new career, a better one.”

  Kyle turned to look at Hall, who shrugged. His bright blue eyes showed he was amused. “Everybody’s gotta work somewhere, Kyle. Might as well do some good for your country while you’re at it.”

  “Wait a minute, Jim. Are you saying you’re with them?”

  “Have been for a while, buddy. The Corps gives me legitimate cover. I really am a master sergeant, but I do other things, too.”

  “Jim is a very talented man. He thinks that you are,” Morgan said.

  An uncomfortable silence settled on them as the waitress brought another round. There was another brief round of flirting between Mary and Jim Hall, and she asked if they were ready to order. “Not yet, honey. Give us a few more minutes,” he said. Mary slid him a folded matchbook, red and yellow with the restaurant’s logo imprinted on it. He flipped it open, laughed softly, and showed it to the other two men. Mary had written her telephone number on the inside.

  Kyle resumed. “What would you want from me, Mr. Morgan?”

  “Just Morgan.”

  “Not until I know you better.”

  “Jim Hall is coming to the end of his Marine Corps career soon, after twenty-four years. He will shift over and join us full-time then. So we need to replace him. Have somebody on standby for special jobs.”

  “I’m already qualified for that kind of assignment. In fact, I’ve already done some temporary duty with you guys. That’s in the folder, right, Mr. Morgan?”

  Morgan glanced around to be sure there were no eavesdroppers. “Not the same thing at all. Those were all military related, Swanson, strictly up and down the chain of command, which always leaves an inevitable paper trail. Your new work with us would be way off the books.”

  “An assassin.” Kyle tightened his lips.

  Morgan’s eyes did not flinch. “Look, Corporal Swanson. Not everybody has the balls for this. You can get up and walk out of here at any time, and we will just let it all go. This meeting never happened. We will find someone else. Make no mistake, the job will be filled by somebody just as good. You are not the only shooter out there.”

  Jim Hall spoke again. “The money and side benefits are terrific, too, Kyle. You would be doing almost exactly the same thing that you are doing now. No one in the Marines would ever know the difference.”

  Morgan continued the sales pitch. “Hall would be your contact. As a friend, you could meet with him in public and people would just see a couple of jarheads having a two-man reunion.”

  “What about you, Mr. Morgan? Where do you fit into this?”

  “Like I said, I’m only a recruiter. You will probably never see me again. What do you think?”

  “I think that I’m going over to McDonald’s and catch up with the guys.” Kyle slid out of the booth.

  “You are passing up a good thing here.”

  “I can get a good burrito somewhere else. See you tomorrow, Jim.”

  Morgan watched him leave. “You’re right, Jim. I want him.”

  Hall picked up a plastic-covered menu and slid one to Morgan. “Long as he stays in the Marines, we have him on call anyway for regular work. Problem with Kyle is he sees things as right or wrong.”

  “Naive way of looking at a complex world,” said Morgan.

  “It ain’t all that complex for Swanson. Let’s eat.”

  * * *

  A FTER S WANSON AND H ALL finished the story, arguing about specific points as they relived the old days, Jim Hall asked Lauren, “Okay, Your Honor. I have won, haven’t I? The mature Kyle has surrendered his youthful scruples and is now working for the CIA. He has killed men on missions that the Agency has run, and by doing so has become one of the best assassins in the world. I win on all points.”

  Kyle’s look was sharp and steady. “Bullshit. Even when I do work for you guys, I remain in the military chain of command and act within my orders. I am a professional Marine sniper, not an assassin, so I shoot specific targets, and not innocent people to satisfy some murky political point. Therefore, I still have a scruple, your case sucks, and you lose.”

  Lauren had eased back in her chair while they spoke, catching the byplay between the veteran warriors. Her arms were folded across her chest, a move that emphasized her breasts. “Sorry, Jim. The way I see it, not much has changed from fifteen years ago. We are running this particular show, so technically Kyle is working for us. When the job is done, though, we remain spooks, while he goes back to being a Marine.”

  Jim Hall huffed in mock disappointment and pushed away from the table. “Judge Carson, you are a traitor to your class, and I don’t like you anymore.”

  11

  PAKISTAN

  M UHAMMED W ALEED SQUEEZED SOME lemon juice on the aaloo keema but could only nibble at the spicy dish of tender beef and soft potato. The tastes of ginger and green peppers tingled, but he was eating for sustenance rather than enjoyment at this meal. Too much was on his mind to really enjoy the dishes that came from the women in the kitchen.

  He had spent years working to move Pakistan toward a tipping point, to a precipice at which he could give it a single mighty shove. There had been no real timetable, only the firm conviction that he would reach his goal before he died. Now, without warning, it was spread before him, a gift from Allah, praise be unto his name.

  “Is everything ready for your meeting with Jim Hall?” Waleed directed his dark eyes into those of his confident younger son, Selim, who returned the look without he
sitation. The interior of the small home with the thick mud walls was cool, despite the heat outside. A few fans churned the still air.

  “Yes, Father. The two fighters are safely tucked into the apartment, and the two American soldiers are secluded in a place near the hotel.” Selim was not worried about incurring the famous wrath of his father, for he had spent a lifetime obeying every command. The young man’s education, war-fighting experience, and religious and political studies were part of his father’s careful plan. Over the years, Selim had come to respect the old lion, whose bravery was tempered with wisdom and cunning.

  Waleed swatted at a fly that buzzed around the food, then drank from a tall, chilled glass of crushed mango pulp and yogurt. The taste pacified the tanginess of the food. “At first, I did not understand the plan of the Prophet in all of this. It was truly a puzzle. I asked why these people had fallen into my hands.”

  “I can understand your concern, Father,” said the son. “There was no doubt the fighters had carried out the assigned mission to slay and behead the infidel soldier in Afghanistan. Once the awful images found their way to the Internet, the outrage was as expected. It should have stopped there.”

  “My intent was only to show that our fighting forces remain strong enough in Afghanistan to strike when we see fit.” He fell silent again, letting his son continue the line of reasoning.

  “Then that irrational Fariq decided on his own to capture the two Americans and bring them back to his village as trophies, a vain and stupid act. The Americans had almost forgotten about the fighting in Afghanistan and Iraq, and now that huge, rich, and powerful country was galvanized to action and was once again united, at least temporarily.”