An Act of Treason

by Jack Coughlin

  Using the key that she had provided, the Security operative opened the white front door. He held the crew behind him outside until he did a walkthrough on his own. He wanted to see it fresh, before his locusts moved in to graze and tear it apart. The first impression was not that the place was neat, which it was, which would be typical of her southern upbringing; it was that the condo was a perfect match for Carson’s rank and salary. There was nothing showy, nothing to indicate that she had been on the take. Most rogues spend large; why else steal?

  The place echoed as he walked through the living room. No animals, reptiles, or fish. Family pictures on a small mantelpiece above a miniature fireplace. He peered back through the fresh white curtains at his people who were waiting in the rain, then stepped into the kitchen. Tight quarters, small refrigerator, standard apartment over-and-under microwave and stove. The cabinets were of light pine. Everything was dusted and clean. Enough fruit was in a bowl to cover the bottom, and the fridge was almost bare, but for some bottled water and a container of fettucine mixed with Parmesan. Nothing to sour or go rotten, an indication that she did not eat here much. He reminded himself to look for restaurant receipts.

  Up the stairs, white railing and soft carpet, to a pale yellow bedroom and bath combination that occupied the entire narrow second floor. Two slender windows with white trim and matching shades pulled down an exact matching distance. There was gloom outside the glass, and rainwater trickling down it, but inside, an easy scent of potpourri and the colors created warmth. Bed made. Clothes in order, folded on shelves or hanging in a neat row. Even the damned shoes were lined up in matched pairs or in hanging plastic sheaths. Neutral colors for all furniture. The kind of place you would live comfortable and leave just as easily. Typical Agency anal-compulsive personality, he thought.

  A couple of books were on a bedside table-a thick biography of Thomas Jefferson and a paperback romance novel. A blank legal pad and a couple of pens lay atop her personal computer, the corners squared. The computer was not in sleep mode but had been turned off. How neat can you be?

  He opened the drawers of the dresser. Nothing out of the ordinary. No condoms or birth control devices, and no sign of a boyfriend. Oddly, he thought, there were few personal pictures of Carson. A beautiful woman usually has to be reminded that she is beautiful, if only by herself. Had she moved beyond that? Confidence as a professional.

  The apartment did not talk to him. It was bland, lower middle class, and totally average in every way. Pathurst trotted back downstairs and set free the search teams. Well, Ms. Carson, let the games begin. Things were too right here. Nobody lived with such perfection. There was gold in here. Pathurst could smell it.

  ISLAMABAD

  K YLE WAS WALKING UP to the back screen door at Flo’s Hot Dogs, a low building of weathered wood in Cape Neddick, Maine. He had been going there for so long that they knew him, and he never had to wait in the long line of tourists that wound out the front door. He peered inside. The counter was busy, and steam rose from the kettles. When he called out a greeting, a welcoming shout came back. “Hey, Kyle. How many today?”

  “Two guys with me, so make it seven dogs, sauce and mayo on all of them.”

  “You got ’em.”

  The first time he had gone to Flo’s had been with other kids from the orphanage, aboard a rattling old school bus from the summer camp. As Kyle grew up, the little out-of-the-way restaurant remained a summertime standard for him. As a surfer and as a Marine, he always brought his pals to eat there, usually just as an excuse for returning himself. He regarded those early visits as his only really good childhood memories.

  The food came out stacked in folded cardboard boxes, each hot dog wrapped in a napkin. The buns were large with square bottoms, and the steamed dogs had crisp outer skins and were coated with Flo’s relish, the recipe for which was a secret right up there with McDonald’s special sauce and the Coca-Cola formula. He washed them down with two small cartons of chocolate milk.

  He and his friends would sit at one of the few plank tables outside beneath the big trees, with their surfboards sticking out of their cars like wooden sails and the sharp wind blowing through the shade, the sure sign of a New England fall. Best hot dogs in the world. Some kinda good, as they said around Cape Neddick.

  The dream vanished in an instant when little feet ran halfway across his chest and stopped. Kyle jerked awake, angry that it had been ruined just as he was enjoying the exploding flavors. A rat was checking him out. He swatted it hard, and the furry body thunked against the concrete wall with a squeal of pain. The water in the cell drew the rats, and he heard them running around the space, alert to the foreign presence and sniffing to determine whether it was threat or food.

  He came to a sitting position on the mattress. At least his captors had let him keep the boots, which meant that his toes would not be bitten. He found the pajamas and stood to change into them, then sat down again, shifting slightly to be in the corner. Rats ran around.

  Time was passing, and he did not know how much because the catnap that he had wanted had turned into a deep slumber. While he awoke refreshed, he had lost track of the one thing he most desperately wanted to keep a hold on. Still, he had things to do.

  The smelly cell was completely blacked out, but he had already reconstructed it in his mind, so light was not an imperative need. He got up and walked clockwise all the way around the room, feeling the wall with his fingertips. Okay, back at the door again. Feel it. Give it a little shove. It was rusty but strong, and when he checked the hinges, he was able to confirm the initial memory. Because the corridor outside was so narrow, the cell door opened inward and to the right. If I scramble over there and get behind it when I hear them unlocking it, I can use it as a battering ram against whoever comes through first. Swanson measured it in handwidths and then stood against it and put his hand atop his head, slowly raising it to the top edge. He was five-nine, so the door was about six and a half feet high, and no more than three feet wide.

  Then he paced off the cell, side to side, corner to corner, and logged it all away on the checkerboard that he was assembling in his brain.

  29

  THE PENTAGON

  M AJOR G ENERAL B RAD M IDDLETON arrived back at his office with a full head of steam, as if he were looking for a wall to smash through, and muttering many unkind things about former congressman Bobby Patterson, the president’s chief of staff. He marched directly to the E-Ring and the office of General Hank Turner, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the former head of the Marine Special Operations Command. Turner was waiting in the big, sunlit office along with Admiral Ted Johnson, the chief of naval operations, and General Buck Manchester, the Marine chief, who was technically Middleton’s boss. A rainbow of flags on poles was displayed behind them. Middleton saluted.

  “The White House is throwing us under the bus,” the Task Force Trident commander declared after being told to be at ease and take a chair. “Bobby Patterson shredded the presidential directive that authorizes Trident and has put the CIA in charge of sorting out the Pakistan mess.”

  The other generals traded glances. “Does the president know about this?” asked Admiral Johnson.

  “I honestly don’t know. Patterson sets the agenda over there, and he would not answer that question.”

  Turner was pacing the room. “What do you think, Admiral?”

  “Sounds like Patterson is using the opportunity as another attempt to screw the military.”

  “Buck? You’ve got a PhD in international relations. How do you read it?”

  “It is moving much too fast for precipitate action of any sort, General,” replied the Marine chief. He had a question, too. “Brad, were there any witnesses to this exchange between the two of you?”

  “Yessir. CIA Director Geneen was right there. As usual, he was quiet as a tomb.”

  Hank Turner was a thoughtful man, and he walked around his office listening to his subordinates discuss the problem. He occasionally would
drop a question. He stopped pacing, and the others turned. “One thing, Brad. What’s this crap about you resigning?”

  “I offered to step aside rather than let Trident go down the tubes. Patterson refused. He wants to keep me in the military chain of command, and therefore silent on the situation. As if I would talk to the press.”

  “Well, at least he did one thing right. I’m not going to let you resign either.”

  Middleton scratched his crew-cut hair. “All right, sir.”

  General Turner resumed pacing, ticking off items on his fingers as he spoke. “We know that Jim Hall was killed. FBI confirmation on that. Kyle Swanson is a prisoner. Again, an FBI confirmation. Bobby Patterson has hit the panic button. The CIA is taking control of what started off as a covert military operation, thereby cutting us out of the loop. My final question to you, Brad, is: Did Swanson spark off those explosions?”

  “Absolutely not, sir.”

  Admiral Johnson stroked his chin as he considered the situation. “How can you say that with any certainty?”

  “Sir, we know exactly, repeat exactly, the time that Swanson pulled the trigger. He reported in just after he did it. His job after that was to escape and evade, which he would have done in utmost silence. The man moves like a shadow, Admiral. He may have set a booby trap to delay pursuit and misdirect attention, but nothing that would be guaranteed to bring the entire Pakistani army and police force down on his head. On top of that, the explosions did not begin until almost five minutes after he pulled the trigger on the tango. Our men on the scene said that dozens of uniforms were chasing Swanson by then. This is not the kind of thing he would do, particularly when it would cause so many civilian casualties.”

  General Manchester also had been soaking in the unfolding situation, mulling the possibilities. “I agree. Blowing up something that big is not what any Marine sniper would do on a mission.”

  “Nor a SEAL Team,” added the admiral. “Just because they can do it does not mean they would do it.”

  Hank Turner made up his mind. “We are kind of stuck between a rock and a hard place for right now, until we see what the Pakistanis do with Swanson. I intend to meet personally with the president about Patterson, an unelected bureaucrat, intervening in the chain of command. Meanwhile, General Middleton, you get back to work.”

  “Any instructions, sir?”

  “Yeah, Brad. Support our man in the field.”

  ISLAMABAD

  O NCE, OVER A PITCHER of beer at the Stumps, a little tavern outside of 29 Palms, California, Jim Hall had allowed that Albert Einstein had truly been a pretty smart old duck. “Albert was trying to explain his Theory of Relativity to some dumb-ass, probably some Air Force fighter jock,” Hall said, “so he dreams up a comparison. Sit with a nice girl for two hours, and it only seems like a minute. But if your ass hits a hot stove for a minute, you’re going to think it is two hours. Albert was talking relativity, but he nailed the way a sniper has to think about time. No highs, no lows. Just smooth it all out. Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast. Remember that, young Skywalker, and you will do well.”

  Kyle Swanson recalled the conversation as he pushed through a set of isometric exercises in his prison cell and tried to figure out the time. The hit on the tango happened just as the sun went down, then all of the other stuff happened, and that had soaked up more hours. He figured the entire night had passed, but with the unknown factor of how long he had slept, he could not be certain.

  Another rat ventured onto his thigh, and enough was enough. Games were a good way of passing idle time. Snipers and spotters even played games while on a mission. He picked up the adventuresome rat with his bare hands, wrung the neck, and tossed the worthless carcass to its friends on the far side of the cell.

  “Nothing happens eighty-five percent of the time on a mission,” he told the rats quietly. “So you have to amuse yourself to stay awake. That’s why we play games. Layin’ there, just keeping watch on the target for hour after hour, gets pretty damned boring. So I say to the other guy, ‘Let’s spot dogs,’ and then I find a dog and the spotter has to match me. Then we do the goats and the other animals. And women. Always checking out the women. But it’s more than just a game because it keeps you vigilant and tuned in, you understand?”

  While he explained what was happening, Kyle tied a sleeve of his discarded uniform shirt into a tight knot at the cuff and began using it occasionally to snap the curious rodents. Sometimes he hit them, sometimes he didn’t, but they sensed the danger and hugged the far wall and the trickling water. “Everybody stake out a place,” Kyle said, “and stay there. I’m the biggest and meanest alpha rat you guys have ever seen, so keep the hell out of my way.”

  He was thinking that if worse came to worst, they could be a food source. And there was the dripping water on the wall. He could last for a while in here. Smooth out the time.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  T HIS WAS NOT WHAT Lauren Carson had expected when she called the secret telephone number that Kyle had slipped to her while they were spiriting the captured soldiers away in Islamabad. When a gruff voice announced that she had reached the 179th MRE Research, Development, and Tasting Brigade, she thought she had the wrong number, but when she mentioned the name of Kyle Swanson, the tone of the voice changed immediately. “Hold while I get his boss.” The crisp voice of a woman came on the telephone next, carrying the slightest hint of urgency. Lauren identified herself as being the CIA agent who was with Swanson in Pakistan.

  “Do not say your name on this connection,” stated the strong voice. “Did anything change recently in your personnel file?”

  “Yes,” Lauren replied. “It was confidential, and I can’t talk about it.”

  “A letter of commendation for the extraction of the two captives.”

  Lauren paused. Whoever this was had access to her personal CIA file. “I’m in some trouble, and Kyle said I should call this number if I ever needed help. I need help, and I cannot very well come to any office at the Pentagon. I think someone may be following me.”

  “From your shop?”

  “Yes. Can we meet somewhere?”

  There was a pause. Then the woman said, “Drive out to Tysons Corner in McLean. I will meet you at Burgers and Burgers. Order something and grab a table. Soon as you can make it.”

  “Wait! How will I recognize you?”

  “You won’t. But I have your picture right in front of me, and the latest driver’s license photo. I think I can pick you out of a crowd. I will be there in about an hour.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Tysons Corner. One hour.” The call terminated.

  * * *

  L AUREN KEPT HER EYES moving to the mirrors as she drove around Washington on busy Route 495, the Capital Beltway. She saw a lot of cars, vans, and trucks of every description but nothing that lingered as possible followers. Since the Silver Line of the Metro was still under construction and did not reach the expansive shopping complex, some sort of car would be required to keep her under surveillance. Or, she thought, a truck, a motorcycle, helicopter, airplane, or satellite. Getting paranoid, girl?

  By the time she found a parking place, looked at guides to the many different stores and shops in the regional supermall, and hiked to the hamburger cookery, the hour was almost up. She went to the counter and ordered a cheeseburger, and was surprised at how all of the cooks and servers yelled at each other and even across the restaurant to call out orders. No microphones, just shouts. Combine that with the conversation of the customers, who also had to talk loudly in order to be heard over the bawling of the crew in the candy-striped shirts, and you had a place with the noise level of a small indoor football stadium. People who had put in orders and were waiting for the food stood around idly reading or just killing time. Lauren found a napkin and took a handful of peanuts from a bucket, then sat at a small table. She looked at her watch. An hour and five minutes had passed.

  Her number was shouted, and she went to pick up the
order. Another woman was sitting at the table, nibbling a peanut, when she returned. Jet black hair cut just below the collar, lithe, with piercing dark blue eyes. Tight black jeans and sneaks, and a dark, overlong Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt. “We spoke. Let’s go,” the woman said. “Dump the greaseburger on the way out or your hips will pay the price.”

  Lauren left with the stranger, who casually guided her to the nearest exit in silence. A midsized motor home was at the curb, with its diesel engine purring. The sandy brown and cream paint scheme was faded and unwashed, and the right rear had a big dent; altogether, it was the epitome of a worn old road warrior needing some serious restoration work and better care. The woman opened the door, and they both climbed in. The vehicle was moving before the door was shut.

  “Okay now, Agent Carson. Welcome aboard,” the stranger said. “I’m Major Sybelle Summers, the Trident ops officer. That big guy at the wheel is Master Gunny Dawkins, and this little geek with the Coke-bottle glasses is Lieutenant Commander Freedman, our intel chief. What’s going on?” Both of the men wore blue jeans, with loose shirts hanging over their beltlines.

  Lauren wasted no time. She took one of the comfortable swivel seats and faced Summers. “We have to help Kyle.”

  “We intend to,” replied Summers, with a smile that did not reach her eyes. “What do you have in mind?”

  Lauren looked around at the traffic and realized the RV was doing a slow loop of the perimeter roads around the supermall. “Do you think we’re being followed? Can anyone overhear our conversation?”

  “No, you’re not being followed, Agent Carson. Commander Freedman was in the burger joint when you arrived, I was watching from the security office, and our driver was roaming the area. Nothing suspicious. And no one is listening because we have jamming devices and shielding in this old buggy. Now talk to me, Lauren. Kyle Swanson is our buddy, part of our team. Tell us what we can do to help you.” Summers had decided to go the personal route, and it worked.