“I shall do my best.”
Geneen hung up the telephone and walked back to the conference room in time to hear a red-faced Bobby Patterson on the telephone to the Pentagon, demanding that General Brad Middleton get to the White House. Right now.
* * *
M AJOR G ENERAL B RADLEY M IDDLETON was in no mood to be bawled out by a politician. Bobby Patterson, who had returned to his magnificent office from the National Security Council side room, was not expecting to be chastised himself. “How dare you summon me away from my command post in the middle of an ongoing crisis!” The general’s voice had the sound of tumbling boulders, and his eyes were of stone. His driver had brought him over with siren and lights, and Middleton had bounded up the familiar steps of the White House after the usual entry checks by the uniformed Secret Service.
Patterson was standing behind his desk but hesitated in the face of Middleton’s obvious fury. He glanced nervously over to CIA Director Bart Geneen, who was standing with his hands behind his back. Geneen and Middleton did not exchange greetings, but the director chuckled to himself. He was on the general’s side on this one.
“I want an immediate personal report from you to give to the president.” Patterson’s voice, rising slightly in tone. Tentative.
“Okay.” Middleton crossed his arms over his broad chest. “We took down a pair of tangos in Islamabad, as ordered. Anything else?”
“What about the explosions?”
“What about them?”
The chief of staff blinked. “General Middleton, the collateral damage accompanying this mission was supposed to be minimal. That was the purpose of the entire operation.”
“No. The purpose was to kill the terrorists who had butchered an American soldier. We did that.”
“Then the capital city of Pakistan is rocked by explosions! The president is not happy with this.”
The general finally looked to Geneen, who shrugged, then back to Patterson. “And you think that the CIA-Trident shooters were responsible? Have you the slightest shred of evidence to back up that idiotic claim?”
Patterson sat in the big, soft office chair and pulled it up to his desk. He picked up an envelope. “Not yet. But your boy Swanson has a reputation for doing this kind of damage.”
Geneen coughed quietly into his fist to interrupt. “We have not heard from Jim Hall, General. You have anything from Swanson?”
“No. Last we heard, Kyle was being chased by a lot of cops.” The general did not mention the message from the exfil team of Rawls and Stone that the mission was apparently compromised. Never answer questions that have not been asked.
Patterson tapped the envelope on his neat, polished desk, his mood shifting. “You have to admit, however, General Middleton, that Swanson is capable of igniting this holocaust.”
“Well, he could not have caused it with a single bullet, that’s for sure. It takes time to organize something of the magnitude we are seeing over there, a massive set of explosions. Anyway, that isn’t Swanson’s style. Bart?”
“I agree. Same with Hall. No one shot could have caused something like that to erupt.” Geneen sat down carefully and crossed his ankles. He had been through many such meetings in his career. Patterson was injecting politics into the mix. Cover your ass. “What’s in that envelope that you are so nervously tapping?”
Patterson started, almost as if having forgotten that he even had the envelope in his hand. Then he held it up by one end and gave it a slight wave. “Mr. Director, General Middleton, before coming in for this meeting, I removed this from the Oval Office private safe. It is the presidential finding that authorizes the clandestine unit known as Task Force Trident. As of today, Trident ceases to exist.”
Bending slightly to his left, Patterson fed the envelope and the document it contained into a government cross-pattern paper shredder. The quiet buzz sounded like a drill. “You’re out of business, General.”
“That is the act of a goddam coward, Patterson. Kyle Swanson and Jim Hall went into enemy territory with valid orders to fight this country’s enemies. They may have paid the price with their lives. Now you are abandoning them? I demand to speak personally to the president.”
“That is impossible. The decision has been made.”
“By who? You?”
Bartlett Geneen was appraising the deteriorating situation. He did not like what he was seeing. “This is uncalled for, Bobby. The general is right. We do not abandon our agents.”
“We are not abandoning anyone, Bart. We are disbanding a rogue covert operation within the American military establishment. It was an idea that once had merit but has devolved into being a dangerous tumor. Trident is gone. The CIA is now in total charge of getting those men out.”
Middleton reached into the breast pocket of his uniform jacket and pulled out an envelope of his own. He tossed it onto the desk. “I always thought you were just another political snake, Patterson, and not the brightest one in the woodpile. Now I know why you were only a one-term congressman. You’ve got no balls. Here’s my resignation. Leave my people alone.”
Bobby Patterson picked up the envelope and shoved that one also into the shredder. “Negative, General. Your resignation is not accepted. You remain in the military chain of command, and the president remains your commander in chief. I suggest that you return to the Pentagon now and close up shop. You and your Trident people are on indefinite leave, pending reassignment.”
“Bullshit. I work for the president. Not you. I have my own copy of that finding you just shredded, so don’t start trying to rearrange history. I and the members of my team will follow the signed or verbal orders of my commander in chief. Until I hear directly from him, then, fuck you.” Middleton stalked from the room.
Bart Geneen said, “Bobby, you are playing a very dangerous game.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic, Director.”
“And what happens to Middleton and Trident?”
“He got off easy. I just want him on the sidelines for a while. I considered having him arrested as a national security risk. Remember the Patriot Act? We could have them all held without charges, without lawyers, without trial, and at an undisclosed location for as long as we wish. You, of all people, should remember the good old days of rendition, secret prisons, and enhanced interrogation techniques. You guys created this whole apparatus yourselves, and it is still on the books. Reasons don’t matter when national security is involved.”
“You consider Brad Middleton to be a national security risk?” Geneen reined himself in from making a more intemperate remark. “Really. That is absurd.”
Patterson kept his face a blank mask. “I do, Mr. Director. You do not need to know anything more than that.” He paused and made himself hold the stare of the older man, although it was like looking into the cold eyes of a cobra. “Your job is to unravel this mess, so I guess you had better get back over to Langley and get busy.”
“Does President Russell know what you’re up to?”
“Good day, Mr. Director.”
24
ISLAMABAD
T HE EARLY REPORTS SHOWED a butcher’s bill that was moderate, in the opinion of Selim Waleed. He had anticipated more, although the sixty-eight dead and two hundred and twelve wounded, many of them seriously, was certainly a satisfactory early outcome. That toll would undoubtedly rise substantially as hospitals reported throughout the day and emergency crews arrived to sift through the wreckage. The capital city still sizzled from the explosions and fire and vibrated with the pitiful cries of the victims.
Waleed had created a whirlwind of uncertainty and violence. Now he had to steer it. The Taliban Wise Ones were swearing they were not responsible. Fundamentalist Muslim fanatics announced that the disaster was not caused by a suicide attack. The elected government condemned it as a terrorist attack by political opponents. The thinly stretched Pakistani army went to a higher state of alert, considering it to be an attack on one of their installations. The Pakistani secret police,
the ISI, were in full crackdown mode.
Then Waleed’s agents spread the news that the explosions came immediately after two famous Taliban fighters had been assassinated while at prayers. That further insulated the Bright Path Party from suspicion of any involvement. Beyond that announcement, Selim Waleed remained silent while the country fell into what he hoped would be a final fracture.
Antigovernment demonstrators surged into the streets of other cities, unsure of whom to blame. They blamed everyone, even each other. Fighting broke out between rival mobs, and police responded with more violence as the foreign news media covered it all.
The only thing that was out of balance was the escape of the American Marine. Somehow, Swanson had evaded the trap.
“You were supposed to capture him, Selim, but you wanted the cops to grab him. Amateurs don’t beat professionals in this game.” Jim Hall was sprawled on a sofa, a large ball of ice wrapped in a soft blue towel resting on his swollen left eye.
Waleed pulled a bottle of Scotch from a cabinet and poured each of them a drink. It was a taste he had acquired while serving at the embassy in London. Drinking spirits was against his religion, but he was a pragmatic man and needed a drink. “He won’t get far.” There was a significant pause. “You knew nothing about what he was going to do?”
Hall sat up, took the offered glass, and removed the ice pack so he could drink. The entire left side of his face was purple and black, with a few stitches from a doctor holding together a ragged cut below the eye. He had already taken a shower and put on clean clothes. Even with the doc’s painkillers, Hall had a raging headache. “When I left him, the plan was still on track. He must have changed it at the last minute and didn’t tell me.”
“So he did not trust you after all?”
“Swanson was my friend. He saw something he didn’t like, maybe some of your boys made some noise, and he changed the plan. He did not have to wait around for me because the plan was always for us to make separate escapes.”
Selim finished his drink, put the bottle down, and sat across from Hall. “Things have changed, then.”
“Not really. You get your revolution started, and will be able to blame Washington for the assassinations and explosions. I get out of your fair country, to become a gentleman of leisure.”
The eyes of Selim Waleed hardened. “True, you have done as you promised. Perhaps a new deal is required at this point, Jim Hall. You have many secrets of your government, and you are willing to sell them. What is to stop me from just taking you captive and wringing that information out of you, one bit at a time? Don’t forget where you are.”
“Jesus Christ,” Hall said as he lifted the ice roll onto his face again and leaned back. “Don’t you think I covered that possibility before I ever left home to come over here?” He laughed aloud and poured himself another drink. “Don’t be stupid, boy. You and your father are some of those secrets! I have arranged a specific time at which I must do a certain thing, in a certain way, at a certain time and in a certain place. If I fail to show up and perform exactly as planned, then information about every meeting you and your father have ever had with me, your meddling in the affairs of other countries, and your plotting here at home will be given to your enemies. Pictures, recordings, documents. You cannot afford to risk that.”
Selim’s face remained placid, but some muscles in his jaw were pulling his mouth into a frown. “Extortion.”
“Insurance,” countered Hall. “Anyway, you did not tell me that you were going to blow up half of Islamabad while I was still in the area. You almost killed me with that damned play. So let’s just call it even. I’ll take off first thing tomorrow morning.”
“I think not,” Waleed said.
Hall paused for a moment. His head hurt. Time to change gears. “I can change your mind. Is that big guy that pulled me out of the car still around? Let me ask him a couple of questions about the team that was supposed to pick up Swanson.”
“He is already being questioned in another room.”
“Mine are a different kind of questions. Would you please bring him in here? At any rate, I want to thank him for saving my life.”
Waleed was curious. He called for the agent, who came in, still shaken from the earlier action. His face also was bruised, but he managed a small smile when he saw Jim Hall rise and approach, holding out his left hand in a friendly greeting. The right hand held the ice.
Hall had rolled the ice tightly in the towel and twisted it into a solid ball. In a quick move, he uncoiled like a spring out of his relaxed position and smashed the unsuspecting Taliban agent in the face. It was nothing sophisticated, just an old-school straight-on unexpected beating. The force of the hurtling mass of cold cubes had the effect of a large hammer, and the first blow broke both the nose and the jawbone. As the muscular agent staggered, Hall hit him twice more, grabbed his collar, and flung him facedown on the floor. He flipped the towel out once, and the ice flew away in a spray of chunks. Hall wrapped the cold, thick, wet cloth around the stunned man’s face, shoved a knee in his back, and yanked hard on the towel. The spine snapped with a loud, grating noise, and the body sprawled limp on the carpet.
Hall stripped out the.38 caliber snub-nosed revolver from a soft holster on the agent’s belt, leaped from the corpse, and smashed the heel of his open hand into the chest of Selim Waleed. He rammed the short barrel into Waleed’s ear, grabbed him by the throat, and pushed the young man hard, choking him even more.
“This is the other reason that you cannot and should not keep me here, Selim. Never forget how I cut my teeth in this game. I kill people, and I fucking own you and your daddy in more ways than you could possibly know. Show me that you understand that right now or I blow your Talib brains all over this pretty carpet.”
Selim was terrified as he looked into the amazingly lifeless eyes of his co-conspirator. He would do it! Waleed shook his head rapidly to agree because he could barely breathe, much less speak.
Hall eased his grip, and an instant smile replaced the rocklike immobility of the bruised face. He tossed the pistol aside. “You okay?”
Waleed was aflame with anger but buried it inside. “I am fine,” he said. He poured himself a final drink to gain some time gathering his wits. “Are you prepared to proceed?”
“Let’s do it. Bring in the doctor.”
25
G O ! G ET OUT ! W HERE ’ S Jim? Escape and evade. No way Hall could have survived that explosion. Up, Swanson. Quit dogging it! Move your ass out of here. Where did I get this AK-47?
Kyle’s mind buzzed as the shock slowly wore off. He was grinding his teeth. The destruction spread before him like an enormous smoldering blanket. He shut his eyes, then reopened them, and things had not changed. The hood and mask had become a shield, and he was looking through his private window out onto a circle of hell.
A shadow ran by him. A man, running for his life… or toward something. Other movement. From the images taking form around him, Swanson began to piece together a logical pattern. He had made the kill shot, then he got out of the apartment and was chased cross the roof, then the car, then boom, and he didn’t remember anything after that until now. Waking after a dream, a period during which his body had accomplished things his mind could not recall.
Leaning against the overturned car, he did a personal inventory and was convinced that somehow he had just come through this thing without any broken bones. He could breathe. He was wearing body armor. The AK-47 with its folding stock had fallen out of the trunk of the car. Yes. The emergency kit. The memory was coming back, and with it, the knowledge that he was still in great danger.
He forced himself to his feet and grabbed the black nylon emergency bag that lay beside him. It would contain medical supplies and saline solutions and water, maybe even some dried food, and it could all help him escape. The AK looked ready to go, if need be.
Putting his priorities in order took a few more moments as he stood, wobbling. What about Jim? Swanson oriented himself
until he was facing down the boulevard, directly across the crater. Loose ammo was still cooking off, zipping randomly around and ricocheting off obstacles. The building where Jim Hall had been perched was nothing but an empty shell, with the entire front wall collapsed. Fire raked the remains. It was a Marine thing, to never leave a buddy on the battlefield. This time a rescue, even of a body, was impossible. Jim Hall had to be dead in that mess. Bodies were strewn everywhere. Ashes to ashes.
The wail of approaching sirens registered as his hearing returned, and he could hear people yelling. Screams. Cries. It was time to move. His first few steps were halting and zombie-like, but then the well-trained muscles reacted. Kyle Swanson began to walk away.
* * *
T HE PIRATED OUTFIT HE wore provided cover for hiding in plain sight. Swanson looked no different than any of the other cops, soldiers, and emergency personnel in the area. Many were stunned, just like him, and hobbled around aimlessly. Help was coming from all points, though, and the beams of flashing bright lights slashed through the hanging curtain of smoke and debris. The new arrivals were geared up for the emergency, and their hoods and hazmat suits lent even more credence to Kyle’s disguise.
He was on the opposite side of the city from the only allies he could count on, the Marine Guard at the U.S. Embassy in the diplomatic quarter. They were on the eastern edge of Islamabad, but if he could get some more wheels, maybe he could reach the Kashmir Highway or Fourth Avenue or the big Rawal Lake and vector in from there. Remaining exposed in this critical situation would not work. Kyle decided to reach the embassy compound first and worry about the questions later.
Swanson stepped out of the street as a fire engine howled past; then he turned a corner to start a long loop around the stricken area. He had tunnel vision now, his entire sphere of existence beneath the protective hood, and a severely limited view through the goggles. He could hear his breath as the air was sucked through the filter. With every step, he felt stronger, more energetic, more aware. Uniformed men were hurrying everywhere, and no one gave him a second glance, the boxy emergency kit strapped over his shoulder adding to his appearance as a first responder.
An Act of Treason Page 14