An Act of Treason

by Jack Coughlin

  “Your father did me a great service today. When those Americans get back to Washington, everyone at Langley will be singing my praises. Then will come the news of my sad death in a very public way, and I will become a CIA legend-the agent who sacrificed himself on a final mission to rescue American prisoners and kill terrorists. Now I will repay your favor with one of my own.”

  “What?” Selim was fascinated at the man’s audacity. It might work! He was offering the Taliban access to some of the innermost secrets of America’s best intelligence-gathering apparatus. The Bright Path Party could come to power if it knew what the CIA possessed concerning the opposition party members. That was why he had been sent here. His father wanted him to secure that situation.

  “You remember what Swanson said just before he left us a little while ago? About how I might be just trading two prisoners for one? Well, he was right. In addition to the extra two million dollars I signed over, I’m going to give you Kyle Swanson, America’s best covert killer. All I want is a little help for a clean escape.”

  Selim just stared silently for a full minute, his dark eyes searching for any sign of hesitancy or a trap. He decided to act. “Then we have a deal, Jim Hall.”

  “Outstanding. Now, let’s go look at the apartment where you have set up our new targets. After I see that, I will be able to give final instructions.”

  * * *

  “L ISTEN TO THE CHILDREN .” Mohammed Sial sighed contentedly from the apartment balcony as the voices of hundreds of boys and young men in the madrasah across the street chanted the soothing words of the Koran. His round face beamed with pride.

  Makhdoom Ragiq, his tall and taciturn partner, came out and leaned on the low balustrade. The madrasah was a two-story building with an ornate front intricately laced with green, blue, and white tiles and crowned with small towers and minarets. A pair of large doors stood open. Both men had been schooled in the stern madrasahs that dominated all education in the Northwest Frontier. “I think the government has too much influence in these schools in Islamabad. They are too liberal.”

  Sial ignored him. Ragiq could find fault in anything. “Just let your soul feel the words,” he coaxed.

  Ragiq snorted and let his gaze roam away from the school. “They are learning the alphabet and reading the same verse over and over. Nothing more.” He pointed to the walled compound adjacent to the madrasah. “What do you think is going on over there?”

  There was a grinding of truck gears in the broad courtyard, and the shouts of workmen intermingled with the students reading next door. The laborers shoved and stacked boxes against the fence that bordered the school. A forklift balancing three large crates on its twin steel tongues wiggled into a narrow place and raised its load, settled it, then backed away. Racks of lights had been wheeled into place so the work could continue at night. Uniformed soldiers were on the walls, working on the defenses. Stacking the crates against the walls left the center of the camp open for normal operations.

  “I don’t know. It’s just a small army camp,” answered Sial. “They probably are stockpiling weapons and materiel, getting ready for when the political problems worsen and the fighting comes here.”

  “Then let us hope we can speed that time along. I hate this place.” His dark eyes took in the entire area. It bespoke wealth and prosperity and Western influences that challenged basic Muslim beliefs. European women walked on the sidewalks with their heads uncovered. Islamabad was a cesspool.

  Makhdoom Ragiq tapped a Gauloise cigarette from a blue pack and took his time lighting it. Smoke rolled from his mouth and out into the open air, and he inhaled deeply, sucking the flavor into his lungs, then blew it all out again. It was a vice, but no man is perfect, particularly someone like himself. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and the ugly puckered indentation of a bullet wound on his left forearm was a reminder of how often he had cheated death, the last time only a few days ago in the execution yard. The rest of his life was probably going to be short, and he did not intend to worry about having a cigarette. Tobacco would not kill him.

  They turned at the sound of someone entering the room behind them. The young Taliban envoy, Selim, called a friendly greeting and motioned them back inside as he removed his suit jacket and handed it to a servant. “The time is close, my friends. Our informants have penetrated the last major obstacle, and I can now tell you more of your mission.”

  Sial and Ragiq sat side by side on a long sofa. Finally. “Who?” asked Sial.

  “The president of Pakistan,” he said. “The death of the president at this moment will throw Pakistan into chaos.”

  Ragiq inhaled his cigarette again, ignoring the displeasure of his host. “Impossible. He has the army on his side, and the security police are everywhere. I am surprised you would even mention this.”

  “Are you refusing the assignment?” Selim’s voice was chilly.

  “No. It is suicidal, but that is unimportant. We will never even get close.”

  “Circular protection,” agreed the other fighter. “Rings upon rings. If the government of this country has learned anything from its history, it is that the president and leading political figures must always be considered a target of assassins.” Mohammed Sial had once been a schoolteacher and knew of such things. The list of the slain leaders was long. “It is a difficult tactical problem, to say the least.”

  Selim let a smile slide back onto his face. “As I have said before, we are taking care of that. There will be an opportunity, an opening, at a critical moment, and then we shall strike. All you will have to do is put a pistol in his ribs and fire.”

  Sial said, “There is no plan for us to escape the scene, I assume.”

  “Of course there is. A mob will be jostling around specifically to provide shelter for you. Within a minute after you kill the president, you will be wearing different clothes and have new identities. Within five minutes, you will be safe and headed back here. From here, back to the mountains within an hour.”

  “Then anyone could do this job?” Sial asked.

  “No. It takes experience and dedication and skill. As fighters, you have all of those assets.” Selim unknotted his silk tie. “It will happen in two days, but tomorrow I have a pleasant surprise. An early reward.” He knew that they were both skeptical of the mission, but his next words would let them think of something else.

  “The Taliban and the Bright Path Party have a great deal of influence with the local mosques, and the clerics have given permission for both of you to address the students at the local madrasah. The emotional impact of those young men meeting true frontline fighters will be of great help in inspiring new recruits.”

  Fond memories of his own schoolteaching days came flooding back to Sial. “Yes!” he said, clapping his hands. “Wonderful idea. I remember when fighters came to our own classroom when I was a boy. I have never forgotten them.”

  For once, Makhdoom Ragiq did not automatically disagree. At least it would get them out of this apartment for a while. Then there was the possibility of imminent action. His muscles began to feel loose. “When do we do this meeting?”

  “Tomorrow evening,” Selim replied. “The students have dinner at seven o’clock, then evening prayers. Immediately afterward, when all is ready, someone from the madrasah will come over here to escort you. You will have two hours among them, with tight security to keep you safe. We have bigger things in mind for you, my friends, but I promise that this will be an evening the boys will never forget.”

  16

  ISLAMABAD

  TUESDAY NIGHT 1830

  “G OT CARRIED AWAY A little while ago, in my opinion,” said Jim Hall. “I had it under control.”

  “The mission changed up in that room, Jim. The terrorists became a secondary issue as soon as those boys were paraded into the room.”

  “No doubt. No doubt. I wanted a clean sweep, both the prisoners and the terrorists. Selim was the key. I know him and have worked with his father for
years. I knew it was not a double-cross.”

  “You can trust the Taliban if you want to. Not me.”

  “We have to make deals in this world, Kyle. That’s the way geopolitics operates. Diplomats in the salon, people like me in the shadows. Anyway, what’s done is done. I’m glad they are in the air and out of here, too.”

  They were walking in a park, a strangely green and grassy section that had been grown and cultivated just for the purpose of looking pretty. Tall palms threw long and skinny shadows as the sun settled in the west. During the cooler night, a sprinkler system fed the manicured scenery from pumps in an underground man-made reservoir of some of the city’s recycled water.

  “Selim showed me around the area while you were gone. Look up there.” He pointed to a tall apartment building. “Third floor, corner apartment nearest to us. That’s where the tangos will be.”

  Kyle saw a spacious terrace lined with ornamental iron rails. It was about waist high, and beyond it was an open set of French doors.

  Jim Hall pulled out a small notebook and flipped to a folded page. “Sun goes down tomorrow, September 30, at nineteen twenty hours. The Muslims use dusk as the marker, not the exact minute on the clock, but the loudspeakers will be calling everyone to prayer. That’s when we take them.”

  Kyle remained silent as he studied the position. “If the targets come out like your Taliban buddy promises.”

  His friend laughed and gave a big smile. “Guaranteed. These assholes will be out here on their knees, facing away from us, and touching their heads to their rugs to offer their maghrib prayers as the sun goes down.”

  Swanson began to walk toward the building, and Hall fell in beside him. “Where will our hides be?”

  Hall put away the notebook and put his hands in his pockets to avoid pointing. Lights were coming on in almost every apartment, and men and women of many nationalities were emerging from the buildings and into the park to enjoy the cooling evening air.

  “Right behind us is another apartment building. You will be on the fourth floor, firing from the corner window with the blue curtains. There is an open view of the terrace from there, looking down, and the railing should not be a factor. Selim has made certain the place will be vacant for this entire week, so you will be alone. He offered to furnish a spotter, but I decided that probably would not work out very well after your attitude attack this afternoon.”

  Swanson made a quick check, mentally measuring the angle while they stepped off the distance. “Working with the Talibs again?”

  “Don’t start with me, Kyle. It is what it is, and you’re in for the whole ride. Now, I will be two blocks straight ahead, on the top floor of that office building. Also a slight downward shot.”

  Swanson remained quiet for a while. Pausing at the building where the targets were staying, they both stopped and visually checked the shooting hide locations again. The sightlines were unobstructed. He noticed the tiled front of a madrasah across the street and heard what sounded like construction going on nearby. “What’s all the noise?” Would herds of trucks and laborers be wandering about tomorrow and perhaps interfere with the assignment?

  “There’s a small army camp on the far side of the wall. They’ve been busy stockpiling weapons and materiel in case the political problems worsen and the fighting reaches Islamabad. Could very well happen. They stay pretty much in the compound and should not be a problem for us. I think that all their noise will probably even cover our shots.”

  Swanson thought about that. Once again, Hall was correct and was moving the mission along exactly the way Swanson himself probably would have laid it out. He had not been in on this planning, however. On a usual mission, he would have been the man in charge-the cool and confident special operator who could count split seconds in his head and stay a minute ahead of reality, dealing with any crisis with a cold and unflappable demeanor because he knew everything about the mission, and what was going on around him at all times. He had surrendered that. Swanson could hardly remember a time when his world had not been framed in a sniper scope, and Jim Hall was his mentor, almost a brother, one of the few men on whom Kyle could depend either in a bar fight or on the battlefield. Sometimes, you just had to let go.

  “Everything sounds good. Let’s get some dinner, then come back and check those positions after dark. If everything is still cool, we can move in with our gear.”

  The two snipers turned and walked back toward the hotel. “What about afterward?”

  “The egress plan is pretty sweet. Selim will have a vehicle standing by for each of us, with a driver and a cop in each one to get us through any blockades or protest groups that may be in the streets. Yours will have a blue pennant on the front fender, and mine will have a gold one. We drive straight out to a C-130 cargo bird that is kindly being provided through the courtesy of the Pakistani air force. The plane will be warmed up and ready to go.” Hall snapped his fingers and grinned. “Shoot and scoot, pal. Bad guys dead and we’re back at Bagram in time for a late dinner.”

  “If your Taliban buddy comes through, which is a pretty big if. Nothing ever goes according to plan,” said Swanson.

  “Oh, be quiet. You’re boring me. It will work,” said Jim Hall. “Trust me.”

  That was the issue that was chewing at Swanson, and it continued to gnaw on him after night fell, like a dog with a bone. After dinner, he collected the dark blue North Face backpack and a black airline suitcase from the hotel luggage room, popped out the wheels and pulled up the handle, and trundled lazily over to the apartment building. A doorman in a plain brown uniform greeted him, having been alerted that he would be a guest for a single night in the apartment of an Australian couple, Mr. and Mrs. Derek Williams, who were on vacation. Mr. Williams had made the arrangements by telephone earlier in the day.

  Kyle unlocked the door and turned on the lights room by room as he walked through the spacious apartment to be sure that he was alone. In the kitchen, he laid the suitcase on a polished round kitchen table made of maple and opened it. Inside the padded compartments was a disassembled Accuracy International AW covert sniper rifle, complete with a folding stock, a flash suppressor, a bipod, a pair of ten-shot magazines, and a box of twenty rounds of 7.62 × 51 mm cartridges. He loaded the magazines, put the weapon together, and spent time cleaning it, still mulling the questions that would have no final answers until tomorrow. As Jim Hall had said, he was in for the full ride.

  He emptied the contents of his backpack on the table and got ready to take a shower, then lights out. Beside his toothbrush was his satellite phone, a secure link back to the Special Ops headquarters at Bagram. He made a call and identified himself by code, then asked to be connected to the Task Force Trident hut and soon heard the twangy voice of Staff Sergeant Travis Stone.

  “Hey, boss,” Stone said.

  “Is Rawls there with you?” Swanson asked.

  “Yeah. You want him?”

  “No. You can pass the word. This is a quick job. I need both of you on it ASAP.”

  “Doin’ what?”

  “Guarding an embassy,” Swanson said and then laid out what he wanted them to do.

  17

  ISLAMABAD

  WEDNESDAY, 1000 HOURS

  M ASTER S ERGEANT M ALCOLM K. Turnbridge looked like a Marine. The dress blue trousers had a red stripe down each leg, and the starched khaki shirt held sharp creases, several rows of ribbons, and six stripes on each sleeve. The tie was perfectly knotted, and his shined shoes gleamed in the fluorescent lighting, as did the polished black bill of his white cover, which lay on a nearby file cabinet in his office. The overall effect reflected the old Corps recruiting pitch of wanting a few good men: The two jokers standing before him were not them.

  “Staff Sergeants Rawls and Stone reporting, Master Sergeant,” said the tall African American, who had the build of a basketball player and wore a faded red Texas Tech T-shirt. “I’m Rawls,” he said. The smaller guy looked like a rat with a flare of long red hair. “I’m Ston
e,” he said. His T-shirt was black with pink lettering that read I AM VICTORIA’S SECRET. They both wore old blue jeans and tired sneakers.

  “Welcome aboard, boys,” said Turnbridge, taking the oversized manila folders from them. “Botha you will get your hairs cut immediately and be totally squared away before setting foot in the public areas of my embassy. That clear? Lookin’ like that, how are you even in the Marines, much less staff sergeants?”

  Rawls gave a big smile. “Sorry about the sloppy look, Master Sergeant. We just received the orders last night over at Bagram, and they put us on the first plane to Islamabad this morning.”

  Stone also grinned. “Six weeks temporary embassy security with you guys instead of sweating in Afghanistan? Real chow instead of MREs? Clean sheets? American women to look at? Sweet!”

  Turnbridge grunted with approval and immediately cut the boys some slack. He once had been an infantry sergeant himself before being ordered into what was then called the Marine Security Guard Battalion, and he showed all of the correct badges and ribbons to prove it. “Awright. I didn’t ask for help, but things are getting kind of tense around here, and I don’t mind plussing up with a couple of experienced men. Have a seat and let’s see what we got here.” He thumbed open the flaps and pulled out the paperwork.

  The orders were computer printouts and were routine and straightforward, with all of the appropriate squares filled in, and signed by the colonel who headed the Marine Corps Embassy Security Group based back in Quantico, Virginia. The colonel oversaw the postings of Marine guards at U.S. embassies around the globe. Master Sergeant Turnbridge, in charge of the Islamabad detachment, went through the papers fast and found no irregularities. “Okay. I’ll take you over to the Marine House and introduce you. You’ll like the duty here because the embassy civilians treat us like pets. The other guys will probably make you newbies do the grocery run downtown today as part of the usual initiation.” He put the orders in a desk drawer and reached for his cover.