An Act of Treason

by Jack Coughlin

  27

  ISLAMABAD

  K YLE S WANSON SAT WITH his back propped against a stone wall, blindfolded and with his hands cuffed behind him. His ankles were bound together. Spots of wetness told him where he had been bleeding, but the cuts were insignificant. The boys out in the street had taken their own sweet time bringing him to a headquarters area. Once inside, the rifle butts and kicks had given way to slaps and being jerked around and dragged across a smooth linoleum floor. There was still an odor of smoke in the air. It had taken them long enough to catch him, Kyle thought with satisfaction. If he had just kept going and not helped that woman and her kids, who knows? He might be back at Bagram by now, having a cold soda. Didn’t work out that way, but he was glad that he had stopped to save those lives. It was rare in his line of work to actually have an opportunity to do something good for someone else.

  Now that they had grabbed him, Kyle knew he would be moved up the chain of command and out of the reach of the maddened soldiers on the street. He presented his captors with a problem, and killing him would not really solve anything. Swanson rotated his neck to get some relief from the tight muscles. A thin band of light showed beneath the blindfold, but he could not see anything. That, plus the smooth floor, indicated that he was probably secluded in an office somewhere, or an interrogation room, and not in some prison cell. Questioning would follow. Worrying would do no good, and wondering what might happen next would only lead to nightmare speculations. Shakespeare had written long ago that “present fears are less than horrible imaginings.” Stay calm. Wait. Give the Pakis time to figure out who he is and what to do with him.

  * * *

  I T DID NOT TAKE long. He heard the door open and boots stepping across the linoleum. Two sets of hands stood him up and removed the handcuffs and the blindfold, leaving the ankles hobbled. The room was small and rectangular, with an enclosed toilet area at one end. Kyle blinked in the sudden light, but it wasn’t really bright, certainly not interrogation room bright. “Bathroom?” he asked. The two guards helped him move to the toilet and stood outside the open door while he urinated. He washed his hands and glanced into the mirror covering a small medicine cabinet. Filthy. Without asking, he left the water running and washed his face, too, sluicing the water into his aching eyes. Then he hobbled back out, and they put him in an ordinary folding metal chair.

  Sitting three feet away was a bearded man in clergy robes, about forty years old, with dark eyes and dark skin, and a second man stood nearby, older, dressed in a suit. The second man spoke in clipped English. “This man is a revered imam in our city,” he said. “His name will not be disclosed, but he has something to say to you.”

  Kyle kept his hands in his lap and watched carefully.

  The cleric spoke in a low and slow voice that was choked with emotion. “I do not know who you are, other than that you are a soldier. And it is best for everyone that you do not know my name.” The translation was brief, and Kyle nodded that he understood.

  “Today, on this miserable day, Allah, praise be unto his name, held you in his palm, soldier. I do not know if you had anything to do with all of the destruction that has befallen us, but I suspect that you do, in some way. To determine that is the duty of others.” The translation was made. Kyle was baffled and remained silent.

  The imam pulled on his robes and paused, studying Kyle’s face and torn wounds. “On this day on which so many people have died, you risked your own life to save my son, my daughter, and my wife. I came to this place to express my personal appreciation.” Another burst of translation.

  This time Kyle managed a small, embarrassed smile. “Are they okay? Did the boy pull through?” The translator worked rapidly and the conversation came faster, almost as if he were not present.

  “Yes,” replied the imam. “Once the obstruction was cleared from his throat and he started breathing, he recovered rapidly. My wife has a broken leg and two broken ribs. The girl needed some stitches to close her head wound, but she, too, is fine.”

  “I’m glad about that, sir.”

  “The other soldiers explained to me what you did. You are a very brave man. Your actions led directly to your capture.”

  “It was the right thing to do,” Swanson said. “Given the same circumstances, I would do it again. Thank you for coming to see me.”

  The imam rose swiftly, and the robes fell smoothly into place. His posture was firm, as if he were used to carrying authority. “May Allah bestow his blessings and protection upon you, soldier. We will not meet again. While you remain in our country, as a prisoner or whatever your status, you will be treated well. You need not fear for your life. But when you leave, do not return.”

  Kyle also stood, somewhat unsteadily. Favor for a favor. “My thanks, sir.”

  The imam turned and left the room without another glance.

  The interpreter went behind him, closed the door, and returned to where Kyle was standing. With the quickness of a snake, he slapped Swanson hard across the left cheek and sent him reeling back against and then over the chair and onto the floor. The cuffs went back onto his wrists, and he was roughly shoved back into the chair.

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  L AUREN C ARSON AWOKE IN the upstairs bedroom of her small town house on the fringe of Old Town Alexandria, a tight redbrick building that she had spent money and time to decorate just for her. The rooms were small but colorful and comfortable, and everything in the place was precise and so exact that when her alarm clock buzzed, the Mr. Coffee turned on and a Bose CD player smoothed into a Chet Baker album. The morning was good. She got into her sweats, drank some orange juice straight from the bottle, and then went for a run.

  She would do only three miles this morning, for although there was no real hurry to get to work, she could not stand the feeling of being so cut off from information. No word from either Kyle or from Jim, the disaster in Islamabad-so much she did not know.

  Back at the condo, she showered and hurried through her makeup, then pulled a freshly laundered dark blue pantsuit and a snowy white blouse from her closet. Comfortable black shoes with low heels. Credentials and weapon in her purse. Ten minutes later, she was in her Honda, sipping a Starbucks mocha latte and driving to CIA headquarters in Langley. The first thing on her schedule today was the SODD meeting to again go over the role she had played in Pakistan. That would be easy, because she had played no real role at all. Everything had happened around her, as if she had been at the end of a whipping rope, snapped by events. She wanted them to bring her up to date when the meeting was over. The idea of becoming a field agent in her next Agency posting, getting close to the excitement and action, had an inexplicable and undeniable attraction after helping Kyle get the American soldiers to safety. Lauren planned to suggest that she be sent back over to Pakistan. At least she was friends with both of the major players in this drama, and both Jim and Kyle would accept her help before that of a CIA agent they did not know.

  She walked into the small meeting room filled with confidence. Two men and one woman were already seated around a table, waiting for her, and another male agent had opened the door, then closed it behind her and took a seat beside it. Curious. None of the others rose, and their eyes were guarded.

  “Have a seat, Ms. Carson,” the man on the right directed. “I am Mel Langdon from the Department of Operations, and with me are Jack Pathurst from the Office of Security and Mia Kim from the Financial Department.” When he stated “for the record” the date and time and place of the interview, Lauren had changed her mind about the nature of this meeting. It was being recorded. One thing she had learned from Jim Hall was that there are times to keep your mouth shut, and this seemed to fit that description.

  “We are following up today on the previous statements you have made concerning your most recent trip to Pakistan,” Langdon opened.

  “My only trip to Pakistan,” she corrected him.

  There was a quick blink of his eyes and all friendliness was gone. “You reported
that under the direction of Agent Hall, you transferred funds while you were in Islamabad, is that correct?”

  “Yes. The account was set up for this specific purpose. We disbursed a total of five million dollars of the ten million authorized.”

  “And you countersigned the creation of the account?”

  “Yes. Agent Hall was primary and I was secondary. There was nothing out of the ordinary on establishing and operating it. A standard covert account.”

  The agent from the Office of Security, Pathurst, spoke for the first time. “And how were the funds distributed? Personal check? Cash on the barrelhead?”

  Lauren kept her temper, although they were playing with her. “I accessed and transferred the funds electronically.”

  “Does that mean that you used a computer?”

  “Yes. My laptop, a Mac Pro.”

  “So you say that it was your laptop? That computer was your personal property, Agent Carson?” Pathurst was digging like a terrier for some subject she did not know.

  “Agency issued in my name,” she said. “I have used it for two years, and no, I never surfed for porn or went on eBay with it. It was used only for Agency business.”

  Pathurst’s grim mouth twitched. The internal affairs man was unamused. “Do you have it in your possession now?”

  “We covered all of this in the earlier interview,” she said. “It hasn’t changed. When Gunny Swanson and I escorted the American prisoners out of the hotel room, Agent Hall asked me to leave the computer behind. He is my boss, so I let him keep it.”

  “So the answer is no; you did not bring that Mac back with you.”

  It was a statement. Lauren was trying to keep her wits together. “Are you people doing an inventory check? So I left behind a computer with my boss that cannot be used, or even accessed, by non-Agency personnel, at his request. That’s what this is all about? You want me to buy a replacement?”

  Ms. Kim, who had been silent from the start, glanced at a yellow legal pad. “No. We don’t care about the computer itself. But we are curious about the funds. Ten million dollars was authorized. You confirm that you personally transferred five million of that amount while on the mission. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then where is the remaining five million dollars, Agent Carson? That account now shows a zero balance, and was closed yesterday.”

  Lauren was startled by the announcement. “That would be unusual, but not impossible. Agent Hall would finish the accounting process personally after a mission was completed. Normally, he would wait until he was back at his desk here so he could put together a complete report. Ask him.”

  Mel Langdon shook his head. “We would love to, Ms. Carson, but Jim Hall is dead. He was killed in the explosions in Islamabad. The FBI gave us DNA and fingerprint confirmation overnight. Hall won’t be confirming your story.”

  “Jim’s dead?” The news was like a punch. “How? When?”

  “Later,” said Pathurst. “Stay with telling us about your computer.”

  “Ask Kyle Swanson, then.”

  “Swanson has been captured and is being held prisoner in Pakistan, and the two rescued soldiers have no recollection of seeing any computer at all.”

  Kim spoke. “You had the computer in Islamabad. You had all of the access and account codes. You claim that Jim Hall took it from you, but have no proof, not even a receipt of property transfer. And the account was cleaned out after your only alibi was killed.”

  “A receipt of property transfer?” Lauren’s voice rose. “We were pulling a couple of American captives to safety from the Taliban in a hotel room and you think I should have taken time to jot out a transfer receipt and have Jim Hall sign it?”

  “We think you should have followed established procedure,” Ms. Kim said. “Now five million dollars has gone missing. It was last in your possession, you cannot explain what has happened, and your computer is conveniently missing.”

  “Yesterday I get a letter of commendation in my file and today you think I’m a thief, selling out my country to make a few bucks?”

  Pathurst made a tent of his fingers and touched them to his chin. “We make no accusations whatsoever, Agent Carson. We wanted to alert you that an investigation is under way of all aspects of the mission to Pakistan. We have one agent dead, another American shooter in a Pakistani prison, an encrypted company computer missing, and five million dollars gone. Deserves an investigation, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Of course.” Lauren reined herself in. She wanted to shout and tell them how stupid they all were, but her training made her shut up. “My earlier statements stand, and I will cooperate in any way.”

  The man from the Security Office leaned forward on his elbows. “Good. That’s what we wanted to hear from you. But pending completion of the investigation, you will be taking two weeks of authorized leave time, starting immediately. You will give our teams access to all of your personal data, computers, and accounts, as well as permission to search your home, vehicle, and personal possessions. Believe me, Agent Carson, full cooperation is the only way to go on this. Clear it up and get you back to work as soon as possible.”

  “The leave begins immediately?”

  “Yes. Don’t go back to your office. It has been sealed.” Pathurst closed his folder. “Good day, Agent Carson. We’ll be in touch.”

  28

  ISLAMABAD

  T HE MAN WHO HAD been translating came close and spat in Kyle’s face. Swanson flinched as the drool hit his right cheek and dripped down. Then came another slap, rocking him to the side. There was a chuff of quiet laughter from one of the guards. “You worthless dog. I would like to cut off your head and put it on a skewer! I am the warden here, but in my own prison, I am being given orders by outsiders. I am as handcuffed as you.”

  Kyle bent his head down to his chest and whispered, “Tough shit, asshole.”

  “What did you say? What did you just say?” the warden shouted. His facial muscles working with anger, he grabbed Kyle by the hair and yanked his head straight. Swanson lobbed a gob of spit right into his face.

  “I called you an asshole.”

  The warden jumped back in disgust, and one of the guards popped Kyle on the ear. This time Swanson rolled to the floor and pulled his legs to his chest as if curling into a fetal position. The guard advanced, and when he transferred his weight to his left foot, Kyle kicked out hard with both feet and caught him just below the left knee. The bone snapped, and as the guard fell, Swanson whipped up and drove a shoulder into the second guard, who bounced off the wall with the wind knocked out of him.

  In doing so, he had turned his back on the warden, giving the man time to hit an alarm button. The door flew open, and more guards poured inside and quickly pinned Swanson to the floor. The warden grabbed a riot baton from one of them and moved toward the immobile American, his whole body shaking with fury.

  Kyle closed his eyes and prepared to take the strike, but it never came.

  From the doorway, someone uttered the quiet order of “No!” and Kyle saw the imam standing there, with his dark eyes freezing the warden in his tracks. “Disobey me again and it will mean your life.” The voice was cold and lifeless and certain.

  The warden dropped the baton on the floor, wiped the phlegm from his face with a sleeve, and panted as if he had just run a mile. He fell back into his chair. “Very well. So be it,” he said to the imam. “There will be no problem, Excellency.” He spoke to the guards. “Put that piece of filth in the cell. At least his partner was killed. We can let the politicians deal with this one.”

  * * *

  K YLE WAS HAULED DOWN an interior stairwell to a corridor of dank concrete. A row of four metal doors was on each side of the central access hallway. He was pushed into the little cell at the right rear by a quartet of guards. They wasted a lot of time uncuffing his wrists and untying his feet before backing out carefully while keeping him at gunpoint, ready for another attack.

  In the dim light, Swan
son had ignored them in order to take a good look at his new home and take some mental snapshots. Everything that had happened in the room upstairs was now irrelevant; that was history. What he could do in the next few moments was critical to survival. There was no exterior window, so he set the door as the root of a mental map-clock that he instantly created in his head. If his back was to the door, then he was at the six o’clock position, facing the rest of the clock. Directly across at twelve, rivulets of water seeped down the rear wall and fed into a puddle along the edge. To the right of the door, along the three o’clock wall, a dirty and thin mattress lay on the floor, with a set of thin tie-up trousers and a pullover tunic folded on it. A bucket was in the most distant corner, to be used for his waste. The nine o’clock wall was blank concrete, scribbled and scratched by earlier prisoners.

  The door slammed shut and a lock fell into place, followed by a sliding sound of metal across metal as a narrow gap was closed just above the floor-the food slot. Darkness enveloped everything, and the place reeked of death; men who had been imprisoned in this place before him had died here.

  Swanson found the mattress, lay down, and closed his eyes. He had things to do but was totally exhausted after the long hours of planning, action, and capture. If they weren’t planning on beating him anymore, at least he could get some rest. Just a catnap. Hell of a day, he thought and was instantly asleep.

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  J ACK P ATHURST FROM THE CIA Office of Security turned up the collar of his dark blue windbreaker and pulled down the blue baseball cap against a drizzle of rain that was giving the entire D.C. area a good soaking. The trees were not in their autumn colors yet, and the water emphasized the healthy green of the landscaping around the redbrick town house complex in which Lauren Carson lived alone. He would direct the search today, and if he turned up anything suspicious, anything at all, he would burn Agent Carson to the ground. Pathurst had neither tolerance nor sympathy for renegade agents.