An Act of Treason

by Jack Coughlin

  To Lauren Carson, Major Summers was both very competent and believable. Once she decided to trust them, the words came out in a rush: the Islamabad experience with Jim Hall and the Taliban politician, Kyle’s stern behavior in changing the entire mission on the spot to get the soldiers out, the unexpected catastrophic explosions, and then the start of the CIA inquisition and her two weeks of mandatory leave.

  “A serious discrepancy has already turned up in their internal investigation. A covert bank account was cleaned out yesterday, five million dollars, based upon codes and commands known only to myself and Jim Hall. I didn’t do it, so that means that Jim did! The problem is it happened after Jim supposedly was killed. They have to blame somebody, and pointing the finger at a corpse doesn’t work. So they are leaving me to be the scapegoat.”

  “The withdrawal came after the fact,” said Freedman, just to be sure of the point.

  “Yes.” Lauren opened her purse. “Here’s the zinger. That was hardly the only covert account to which my old boss Jim Hall had access. He had worked for the Agency for many years, and I know of at least twenty others because he had my name on those, too. Jim never actually returned money to the general funds, and the Agency watchdogs knew it. It was already authorized and approved through proper channels, so if a couple of million was needed for some really off-the-books operation, Jim could supply it. Untraceable, with no questions asked.”

  The RV continued its journey to nowhere. The parking lot at Tysons Corner could handle 165,000 vehicles, and traffic was always coming and going. Perfect civilian cover. Sybelle looked at Freedman. This CIA agent’s story, wrapped with their own timeline about how Swanson could not have been responsible for the explosions, seemed to jell. “We also think it was a setup. Your superior, Jim Hall, is feeding both you and Kyle to the wolves.”

  A stricken look came across Lauren Carson’s face. “I’m going to be friggin’ executed,” she said. “I’m a loose end. Kyle is the only one I can really trust, because he knows Jim Hall even better than I do.” She unfolded a sheet of paper that listed the series of financial institutions and account numbers that she had culled from another computer workstation before leaving Langley. “I’ve got this information, but getting into those systems for confirmation and status reports is beyond my technical ability. The Agency has people who do just that kind of thing all the time.”

  “So do we,” Summers told her. “Lizard, do your thing.”

  Lieutenant Commander Freedman spread his fingers, like a concert pianist warming up, and ran both hands through his thick black hair. He opened the wooden cabinets along the left side of the RV and tossed out several bags of dry cereal. With the touch of what looked like a light switch, the plywood backing and single shelf folded forward to reveal a multiscreen computer center. Green dots of light indicated the power source was on. “Let me give it a try,” he said, adjusting a rolling chair into position.

  ISLAMABAD

  T HIS WAS AS BORING as sketching. Kyle hated drawing-going into a target zone prior to a main assault and sketching everything around in complete detail in a little notebook. The observations would be molded into the other intel gathered by other means, and the attack would proceed. Drone airplanes and their sharp cameras had taken over a chunk of that overall task, but airplanes, by definition, stay in the air. Men on the ground bring a much different perspective. A pilot twiddling a joystick hundreds of miles away to guide a drone would never have the same outlook. It just took so much time, being completely hidden and still except for drawing and measuring things with lasers before you could go kill somebody. Some of the same techniques of waiting could be applied to enduring the passing time in a prison.

  He popped the shirt knot twice, but without enthusiasm, just to keep the rats on their toes and awake and alert and fearful. He spoke to them. “There was this one time, guys, talk about being bored, I crawled into an abandoned building about six hundred yards from the actual home of this dude who was the big leader of a rebel force in an African country. Can’t tell you which one. Sorry about that, but it’s classified. Stayed there forty-eight hours, clicking away pictures with my Nikonos and narrating on the radio about who came, who left, their tendencies, how much security they had, when they slept, you guys know, the usual stuff. The guy thought he was safe, but I was living in his front yard…”

  There was a sound outside the door, and Swanson stopped his conversation with the rodents. He had been expecting it, sooner or later, so his heart did not go into overdrive. With a squeal of metal, the grate at the bottom of the door slid open, and a plastic plate with some food and tea was passed through. The bluish green light in that brief moment was from the fluorescent lights in the long hall, which told him nothing. The grate was left open, so he was expected to eat and return the plate, two beverage containers, and plastic fork.

  None of the rats had a watch. He had asked them. Now his jailers had provided the start of a feeding pattern, allowing his internal time to click to zero. Swanson began counting seconds, adjusting his thoughts to let the silent little metronome in his brain begin twitching back and forth on such a regular basis that he could do two things at once. When he picked up the plate to determine which meal of the day it was, he gave a soft laugh. No problem; it was breakfast, of a sort. The imam had been at work again, determined that Swanson would have familiar food, and Kyle thought that might have been a mistake. Instead of a regular large Pakistani breakfast, the cook had tried to prepare an American meal. Swanson had been given runny scrambled eggs, a couple of slices of charred toast slathered with honey, and a cup of sweet black tea and milk. No matter. This was survival, and he ate it all, while at the same time using a prong of the plastic fork to punch a little hole in his shirt. Then he pushed the plastic and paper back through the hole. Someone picked it up and closed the grate.

  Darkness again, only this time with a difference. He worked on his timeline, his boring, tedious, glorious timeline. More than just a count, it gave him something to do, something to think about to keep his psyche engaged. The count was already up to almost ten minutes, piling higher second by second. The strike had been at evening prayers on Tuesday, so this was Wednesday morning, breakfast time. Sixty seconds to a minute. Three thousand six hundred seconds to an hour.

  Swanson’s fingers had already widened the hole he had punctured in the tunic, and when the hour mark passed, he made a small rip along one edge. The shirt was now a physical clock. He could keep time, counting down to the next feeding time. It was a routine that he could do for days if necessary.

  He leaned back against the wall with a sigh, gently touching the rip. One hour. There was no such thing as an indefinite mission. Each operation had an end time, and a purpose. This didn’t.

  30

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  C RISP MORNING LIGHT SLANTED through the blinds covering the bullet- and soundproof windows in the private interview room on the second floor of the CIA headquarters. Despite the glare, the faces of the three investigators on the Agent Lauren Carson case were dark, betraying their emotions. Jack Pathurst, the internal investigator from the Office of Security, had a muscle twitching in his jaw. Mia Kim from Finance had a pursed mouth, as if she had eaten something sour. Team leader Mel Langdon of the Department of Operations adjusted his rimless glasses and looked over the report one more time.

  “She has not returned to her home since our meeting yesterday?” Langdon asked Pathurst.

  “No.” He did not say that there was nothing for her to return to. His searchers had torn the place apart-stripped out the insulation in the attic and pulled up the floorboards, sliced apart the stuffed furniture, tore down cabinets, and took out drains. In the wall of the bedroom, behind the headboard of the bed, they had found a half million dollars in cash, along with a gun and a fake passport. Pathurst edged close to the table and propped his elbows on it, resting his chin on his fists and just staring at the others for a few moments. “She has to know that we found her hidden stash, s
o she won’t be going back.” Jack Pathurst enjoyed his job. “I am afraid we fucked this up.”

  Langdon exhaled heavily. “And all you found was a plastic trash bag filled with money, a gun, and fake ID? That was a little convenient, don’t you think? Carson was trained as a CIA agent, and you believe she would leave her getaway pack where you could find it so easily?”

  “The point is, Mel, that we did find it. And we’re still looking through her personal records. If she has more out there, we will get that, too.”

  Mia Kim cleared her throat before speaking. “We also discovered that bank account in Argentina that we traced directly back to Agent Carson. There is no question about the identity of the person who has sole access to it. It belongs to her.”

  Pathurst asked, “How much is in it?”

  “Another half million, plus or minus,” Kim said.

  “That’s another fact, Mel. Not a guess.”

  “And also pretty easy to find. Sloppy work, and Agent Carson is not a sloppy person.”

  Langdon was gliding through the motions, certain that this was going to be off of his desk soon and over to the lawyers for prosecution. He wanted to be right before passing it along. No blowback. “Nevertheless, just what you have uncovered thus far gives us enough to throw the book at her. Her career here is over, and she probably is facing a prison term. She has to know that.”

  “Agreed,” said Pathurst. “The sooner we arrest her, the better.”

  Langdon did not want to take the final step. “Jack, I have been conducting internal investigations for many years, and we have to be careful. I’m not ready to file charges.”

  “Mel, dammit, we are CIA and we don’t have to file anything! I say we should pick her up right away. Carson knows what can happen, just how deep we can make someone disappear. Faced with a grind of enhanced interrogation at some third world hellhole, she’ll fold in a minute.”

  Mia Kim broke in. One hand rested on the arm of her chair, and she was gently tapping the table with her other fingers. Nervous energy. “Jack, I also don’t like sudden gifts from the angels when doing an investigation: sacks of money and phony bank accounts. We should have had to unravel a lot more fronts and dodges before getting to that point. No doubt that she is involved in something, but we don’t know what, or whether she knows anything about it.”

  Jack Pathurst examined them both with curiosity rather than alarm. The normal reaction should have at least been some outrage, but Langdon and Kim were dithering. “All the more reason to get her in here. I have agents checking area hotels and motels because she had to spend the night somewhere. I need your permission before asking for police help. We can have every cop on the streets looking for her within an hour.”

  “That risks going public,” Langdon said. “Not a good idea.”

  “Mel, I can get this girl. She’s just a beauty queen, not a real field agent. She is out there on her own and without resources. I will get her and throw her down a well until she tells us what we need to know. There is no downside to snapping up one of our own agents. I don’t understand why you are hesitating.”

  Langdon pushed away from the table and stood, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It doesn’t pass the smell test, Jack. You’re wrong to think of Lauren Carson as just a pretty face. She’s tenacious and very smart. She has already proven that, because you do not have her in custody already. Carson saw an opportunity to get away yesterday after that first meeting, and she snapped it up.”

  Pathurst remained silent. It was true. He had been concentrating on the search rather than being ready to take Carson off the street. She should have been considered guilty until proven innocent, not the other way around, but she had walked out on authorized leave, with no one following her. Now she was gone.

  “No matter what the situation, Carson has answers or at least information that we need. We cannot ignore the facts,” Kim said. “We need her to talk. I don’t like it, but Jack is right.”

  “I know. I know.” Langdon picked up the papers. This was turning into a serious situation, and Carson was right in the middle of it all. “Very well, Jack. Go find her. Use whatever you need, but keep it quiet. Word gets out, and there will be sexy pictures of her wearing a tiara all over the TV, and she will be identified as a rogue CIA agent forever.”

  ISLAMABAD

  K YLE S WANSON WAS STARTLED by new noises outside his prison door. Not the normal pattern that preceded the usual feeding and waste disposal, but the scuffle of multiple boots and voices made dull and distant by the concrete and steel. He rose from the mattress, straightened his outfit, turned to the wall, and shielded his eyes as a key was inserted in the lock and turned. The burst of light still hit him like a thrown rock.

  Then came some yelling, and strong hands grabbed his biceps and legs. He did not resist. Handcuffs and leg irons were put in place. He kept his eyes tightly shut against the harsh light when they spun him around and someone shined a bright beam directly into his face. An order was snapped, and the unseen hands pulled him forward, his stumbling steps measured exactly by the length of the ankle chain. Swanson went with the motion. The air in the tunnel hallway was fetid, but almost fresh in comparison with the stale odor of his cell, where there was no circulation. Hot and stuffy in the day and cold at night. He heard the metallic racking of a guard cocking a pistol. They were taking no chances with him.

  At the staircase, the guards on each side lifted him up so his toes could catch the next higher step, then repeated the process sixteen times until they reached the landing that led into the main floor of the prison. Kyle opened his eyes during the climb and allowed the dungeon shadows to help adjust his sight for the onslaught of light he knew was coming. His breath was slow and measured, and his pulse was normal.

  Through one door, across a room, then another door, and he recognized being back in the warden’s suite of offices. The warden stood beside a window, taking obvious pleasure in observing the filthy condition of his prisoner.

  Another man rose from a chair when Swanson was brought in. He was tall and fit, with neat gray hair and a lightweight blue suit with a striped tie. Every inch a diplomat, Kyle thought, realizing his own garments were ragged and his body stank. He had not had a bath since being captured.

  When the man spoke, it was with a flat Ohio accent. “Please leave us alone for a while, Warden. And please remove the restraints.”

  “You may have all of the time you need, Mr. Riles, but the restraints remain in place. This man is very dangerous.”

  “Not to me.”

  “To everyone,” the warden insisted, leading his men from the room. “Do not be too long.”

  Alone with Kyle in the room, the American spoke. “Let me help you to a chair, Gunny Swanson. Get you a glass of water? My God, man, you look terrible.”

  “Thanks,” Kyle said, drinking the clean, clear water in a couple of gulps and holding out the glass for a refill, which he also drained. “Who are you? State?”

  “Yes.” He fished out a wallet with his State Department identification. “Dean Riles, deputy chief of mission. We have been battling to get to see you since the capture, but the Pakistani government has been dragging its heels because of the damage in Islamabad.”

  “I had nothing to do with those explosions,” Kyle said. “I promise that it came as as much of a surprise to me as anyone.”

  Riles sucked in a breath. “Still, it has been awful. The government is still reeling, but somehow it is holding on despite the unrest throughout the country. Now, how have they been treating you? Your shirt is in rags.”

  “Three hots and a cot, sir. Not really, but I’ve been through worse. Solitary confinement in a basement cell with no light or heat. There have been no beatings because I apparently have an influential friend.” Swanson let his gaze wander around the room and to the warden’s desk. A digital clock told him it was a little before noon, just about what he had guessed. He could start counting again when he went back downstairs.

 
; “Your friend has worked hard in your behalf. That brings me to the second reason for my visit today.” Riles opened his leather briefcase and took out a file. “Good news and bad news, really bad news, I fear, Gunny, but the only deal that is open to us.”

  Swanson liked this quiet and studious man. Obviously Ivy League by education, probably a good lawyer who decided to embark on a course of public service while he was still a young man. Most likely an old-school diplomat who had seen many a tight negotiation in his time. If he said the deal was the best, it probably was.

  “There has been a hard bargain made, with the upside being that the Pakistani government doesn’t want you around. Therefore, a team from the Diplomatic Security Service will come over here at noon tomorrow, remove you from this prison, and take you to the embassy. Another twenty-four hours, Gunny. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, sir. I can do that.”

  Riles used his hand to flatten a typed document on the desk. “Now for the bad news. You are being charged with violating Article 118 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, specifically with unpremeditated murder. There are twelve specific charges, but that number probably will grow.” Riles looked at Swanson straight. “The maximum punishment will be directed by a military tribunal, and such punishment may include dishonorable discharge, forfeiture of all pay and allowances, and confinement for life.”

  Swanson thought hard. “Not a death penalty?”

  “That was part of the bargaining, son. No death penalty. You will be held in Fort Leavenworth, but the court-martial will be held at Camp Pendleton. At least we get you out of here and back in the USA, and you will have a fair trial, with a good lawyer. It’s the best I could do under the circumstances.”