Patterson realized that he was sweating, despite the air-conditioning. He had been in many negotiations in his life, but this was literally life-and-death material. Sending an attractive young woman to a prison cell for the rest of her life while letting a real killer go free was hard to swallow. “What about the other person that Hall claims to have set up for Pakistan? I assume that would be the Marine sniper?”
“Yes.” A few photos of Kyle Swanson came onto the screen, and he was never smiling. His eyes, in each picture, no matter how informal, carried a flash of predator. “That one is a done deal. We got the Paki government to agree to turn him over if we filed a pack of murder charges against him. We pick him up from prison tomorrow and fly him back to the States. Gunny Swanson will be secured in Fort Leavenworth. Once in, he won’t be coming out. He will suffer a fatal mishap before he ever faces a military tribunal.”
Bobby Patterson saw the symmetry as the noose was pulled tight on Kyle Swanson. President Russell had sided with the generals and come down hard on Patterson for overstepping his bounds in the flap about Task Force Trident. “So this renegade Marine sniper from Task Force Trident will become the face of this disaster in Pakistan, murdering innocent people and all?”
Mel Langdon brought the lights back up for a final time and found Patterson looking more comfortable than he did when he had first entered the room. Sold him. “Yes. An out-of-control covert operative goes nuts, takes the fall, and the little secret military group that runs him will be abolished. The White House and the CIA cannot be held responsible that he was not trained and handled properly.”
Patterson thought quietly as he mulled the situation. A photograph of Kyle Swanson lingered on the screen, as if staring at him with that icy and unrelenting glare. The man is afraid of nothing, thought Patterson. “How do we wrap it up?”
“Lauren Carson is as good as caught,” Langdon replied with confidence. “The sniper is already in custody. All we have to do is post a coded answer on a phony Facebook account that Jim Hall can access from any Wi-Fi computer or PDA, anywhere in the world, and he goes away.”
“What could go wrong?” Bobby Patterson asked. It was more hope than question. The end is in sight! Put a lid on this thing, the president had said. The White House chief of staff breathed a sigh of relief.
“Nothing,” said the CIA director of operations.
“Okay,” said Patterson. “Send the Facebook message and we’re done.”
33
ISLAMABAD
K YLE S WANSON WORKED SLOWLY in his cell, doing what he had to do, whether or not he liked it. He was facing a stretch of unknown duration at the United States Disciplinary Barracks in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, a hard-time military prison. And he was not naive. A prisoner does not have to be officially sentenced to death in order to die when the immense forces of the intelligence world want him dead.
“It’s kind of funny, when you think about it,” Swanson told the rats as he took a seat on his mattress and prepared to get to work. “It wasn’t that long ago, back when I rescued General Middleton from his kidnappers, that they buried me with full honors at Arlington Cemetery because they wanted me to disappear and do even more work for them. Now it looks like I’m heading for an unmarked grave in the Leavenworth cemetery, branded as a traitor. Hell of a thing, boys.”
He picked at the end of the dental floss and measured out a string that encircled his waist, plus a few inches, then used the built-in metal tab to cut it. Swanson was sitting with his legs crossed and laid the strip carefully before him, memorizing it with his fingers. A skittering sound was heard nearby. “You damned rats stay over there,” he ordered. “Don’t fuck with my dental floss.”
The State Department guy said he would be picked up from this prison tomorrow at noon, which meant Americans would take him into custody. He did not want to kill any Americans to break free after he was pulled out of this cell, but he also did not want to reach Leavenworth in irons. He would only have one chance. He strung out another length of floss, cut it, laid it beside the first.
If he could pick the right moment and overpower one of them, then he could grab the pistol the man was certain to be carrying and take control of the situation. He could escape, but that would make him a white boy on the run in Pakistan, wanted for murder by his own government. Not good, but the options were few.
Strip after strip of dental floss was measured and cut, then laid out. He could not go to the helpful imam, because while the man might be honor-bound to help, he had also exposed himself enough for Kyle’s sake. Another visit might doom him, no matter what his rank in the government or religious establishment. “You know, rats, I made a big choice back there during the explosions. I’ve seen women and kids die before, lots of them, and I could have walked on by without a second thought. But no, not this time. I essentially went against all of my training and experience and gave myself up for those kids.” He paused for a long moment. “I don’t even know why I did it. People die in wars all the time. It wasn’t my job. But here I am with you guys in a dark cell, and your futures are brighter than mine. Hell of a thing.”
When the roll of floss was emptied, Kyle flipped the plastic holder to a back corner of the cell. Leaning forward at the waist, he pressed his palms against the multiple strands and began to slowly roll them back and forth on the floor a few times to tangle the thread, then tied knots in one end to stabilize it, put it back on the floor, and rolled it some more. Satisfied at last, he tied off the other end. A single strand of dental floss was useless, but twenty strips woven together made a perfectly satisfactory garrote. Many little strings can tie down a giant, as Gulliver discovered among the tiny Lilliputians. Swanson stood and wrapped the gathered string around his waist like a belt, then secured it with a light tie, one end dipping lower than the other. His waist measured thirty inches, which allowed plenty of room for him to wrap the ends around each fist a couple of times and use the excess in the middle as a choking weapon.
To kill an American guard would really make him guilty of murder, though, just as he was charged. Beating them up was one thing, but not an outright death. If it could be avoided.
He was being treated like an HVT, a high-value target, so security was going to be tight. How many guys? Putting on new handcuffs would supply a moment of freedom, but would it be enough? A thousand questions surged through his mind.
Swanson used both hands to snap the twin-blade top off of the plastic razor. The molding was so close to the edge of the blades that they were useless as anything but a small tool, and it popped easily at the slim elbow where the handle bent toward the face. Now he had a piece of plastic about five inches long, not even as big around as his middle finger. Still. Possible.
Jesus, I don’t want to kill anybody tomorrow. I don’t want to have to kill anybody.
He made the decision on the spot, an internal choice. He could resist, fight, try to immobilize the guards, and push it right up to the edge. However, if it came to deadly force, Swanson decided that this time he would take that punishment himself rather than kill other Americans who had done him no harm. “Life is simpler behind a trigger in a sniper hide,” he told the rats. “This humanity stuff is complex. Actually, it kind of sucks.”
Holding the lower part of the handle firmly, he placed his index finger against the broken edge, positioned it at an angle on the rough concrete floor, and gently bore down on it, careful not to break the thick part. In slow, persistent strokes, Swanson began sanding away the plastic edge, stopping after every dozen strokes to feel the result. The concrete peeled away the plastic like rough sandpaper. Within a half hour, he had sharpened the lightweight handle into a jail-type shiv, a makeshift stabbing knife that could be deadly if he had to use it.
He then tied it on the longer string hanging from the garrote knot and hid it beneath his trousers. Since he had been in prison for days, it was doubtful that he would be searched.
Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. Sixty. His internal clock told him th
at another hour had passed. He made another rip in the shirt, then settled back against the wall and tried not to think too much because he was not happy with the conclusions that kept coming back like little nightmares, the same thing over and over. He would do what he had to do. Leavenworth was not an acceptable option. Maybe death was the more viable possibility.
34
ISLAMABAD
T HERE WAS MOVEMENT IN the corridor, and Kyle Swanson detected it, felt the certainty, before he heard any boots. A subtle shift in air pressure, the cessation of the rhythmic movement by the rats, or just an overall alertness, something. He snapped awake. It was too early. His fingers counted the recent tears. It was only about six o’clock, around dawn in the outside world. He checked his weapons, then stood, spread his arms, and yawned.
By the time the guard detail arrived at his door and he heard the rattle of the keys, Swanson was stretching his muscles and calming his mind. He had no real plan for escape, other than being determined never to set foot in Fort Leavenworth’s military prison. Stay in the moment, he reminded himself. Something had changed in the schedule, but he would not dwell on it. Thinking of too many possibilities could bog down the brain when it needed to be concentrating. Breathe easy. Stay loose. He did a few toe stands, lifting his heels as far as possible, rolled his shoulders and his head from side to side. The familiar pre-battle calmness settled on his nerves, and in the darkness Swanson’s world slowed down and his senses sharpened. Looking into a corner to protect his eyes, Kyle could actually see a few rats. They were crouched, fearful, mystified.
The door creaked open, and he closed his eyes tight, then slowly opened them again in a squint. The light from the hallway blazed in, creating silhouettes of the four-man guard detail. Kyle extended his wrists, and two turnkeys clapped on the cuffs and ankle restraints while the other two protected them with rifles. Since he was leaving, they really expected no trouble from him, and he did not plan to give them any… unless he had to. “ ’Bye, rats,” Swanson said and moved his left foot the length of the chain, then his right. A guard took each elbow, partially carrying him.
Working together, it took only a few minutes for Swanson and his caravan of prison guards to climb the stairs and get into the office of the warden. It was bathed in the muted golden glow of the new morning, allowing Swanson to confirm this transfer was about six hours ahead of schedule.
The dark-haired warden gave him a hateful look, rose from behind his desk, and silently herded his guards from the room through one of its two doors, leaving with them and closing the door behind him. He said not a word.
Two lithe men with fair skin and short haircuts were standing casually beside the other office door. Kyle recognized the military bearing immediately and his heart sank. They radiated confidence and ability and would not be easily surprised or overcome. The embassy had sent professionals. At a nod from the leader, his companion took three quick strides and stood in between the two closed doors, facing them at a forty-five-degree angle to each. He unbuttoned his coat to expose a large pistol, pulled the weapon free, and took up a combat stance.
The other man sauntered toward Kyle, smiling as he approached. “G’day, mate,” he said. “That big bloke over there is S’arnt Jimmy Todd, and I’m S’arnt Colin Moore of the Australian SAS. Sir Geoffrey Cornwell sends his compliments and requests the pleasure of your company.”
“Jeff? Sir Jeff sent you?”
“Yes, mate. He wanted me to tell you ‘Haggis.’ ”
“Haggis never sounded so good,” Kyle responded. “Haggis,” an odd concoction that passed for food in Scotland, was Jeff’s private code word for “All is well.” A wave of relief hit Swanson so hard that he staggered, but he was easily held up by Moore.
“You have some interesting friends. Now that’s enough words until we get you out of here. Be still while I get rid of the restraints. Got to put some of our own cuffs on you for a little while, just for show, in case anybody sneaks a peek.” Moore was already working with a set of keys, and the handcuffs fell free. In ten more seconds, the leg irons were off. Moore popped open a set of shiny cuffs and looped them softly around Kyle’s wrists but did not lock them. From an ankle holster, Moore removed a small.38 caliber revolver and handed it to Kyle.
“Cross your hands and hold those cuffs so they don’t slip off, and put that weapon where you can reach it,” he said. Swanson stuffed the little pistol into his waistband and covered it with the ragged shirt.
Moore then opened his sports coat wide enough to rest his right hand on the butt of his Walther 7.65 mm PPK in a belt holster at his hip. “We are ready to move here, Jimmy.”
“Very well.” The voice was soft, emotionless. “I’ll follow you two.”
The large room outside was empty when they left the warden’s office, although there were cups on some of the desks. A smoking cigarette balanced on the rim of an ashtray. No one barred their way. In a twenty-four-hour prison that never closes, not a guard was in sight.
Colin Moore walked in front, moving with the smoothness of a cat while his gaze swept every desk, chair, window, closet, and corner. After days of incarceration, Kyle’s muscles would not respond to the quick pace, and even the dim light was like staring into bright headlights. He could not see worth a damn with eyes long tuned to complete darkness. He heard the skip-slide footsteps of Jimmy Todd behind him, moving forward while facing the rear. The door of the elevator stood open at the end of the room, a chair blocking it from closing. Moore threw it aside and guided Swanson in, leaning him against a wall. Todd backed in, still with his gun pointed at the vacant space.
Moore punched a button, and the door hissed closed. He removed his own weapon as the descent began. “Down to the loading area, mate. Hang in there.”
“That place will be swarming with cops,” Kyle said, drawing air down deep into his lungs. “If they are going to jump us, this will be the perfect ambush spot.”
“No worries. I think they’re all on a tea break for a few minutes.”
With a jolt, the elevator stopped moving, and as the door began to open, both SAS commandos had their guns at the ready, with Kyle leaning against one wall. No one was there to stop them.
They went out, moving faster. Moore and Todd flanked the stumbling Swanson. A large white SUV was parked beside the loading dock, with its motor running. As they piled in, Kyle saw a small Uzi submachine gun waiting on the backseat. He grabbed it.
“Go!” Colin Moore barked when the doors were closed, his voice loud in the confined space. The SUV lurched into motion and headed away from the prison, soon to be lost in the morning traffic.
Kyle dropped the handcuffs. “Thanks, guys. I buy the next round,” he said and passed out, totally spent.
“No worries,” said Moore, taking away the Uzi.
* * *
A T A WINDOW ON the top floor of a nearby building, General Nawaz Zaman of the Pakistani intelligence service inhaled a long draft from his cigarette as he watched the white van merge into the growing traffic and fade from view around a corner. “He’s gone, without a shot being fired,” he said. “Good.”
“The Americans are going to be furious,” said the tall warden, sitting in a folding chair, legs and arms crossed.
Zaman shook his head, and his jowls moved with the motion of a broad smile. “It makes no difference. Somehow the prisoner, a very clever and highly trained assassin, escaped during the night. The breakfast tray was slid into his cell as usual and was discovered to be untouched when the guards went to fetch him at noon. I shall pretend outrage and invite the FBI to assist in the investigation.”
“You should have let my men beat the prisoner as punishment before we turned him loose.” The warden’s lean face was in a pout. His comment was directed to the third man in the room, the helpful imam whose family had been saved by Kyle Swanson.
The religious leader said, “Warden, this was a matter of my personal honor. I consider that man to have been a guest in my home, and the traditions of
Allah, his name be praised, demand that I protect him, with my own life if necessary. Were we still living in some village, everyone would be required to protect him. You know that. Anyway, you accepted the offered money, so why do you continue to challenge me?”
“He blew up half of our city!”
“No, he did not. You know nothing. All that man did was shoot a worthless Taliban and then get snared in a web of fate,” said General Nawaz Zaman, focusing on the warden, the geniality gone. “Why do you speak at all? These things are beyond your understanding. If you utter so much as a whisper about this matter, even in your sleep, you will take his place in the prison.”
The general then flicked his cigarette through the open window. Dawn was giving over to a beautifully bright day.
35
MONTE CARLO
MONACO
O NLY WHEN J IM H ALL received the anonymous Facebook message as he had demanded from the Central Intelligence Agency did he realize that his plan had actually worked! He had beaten the system. He had blackmailed the CIA and had gotten away with a forever get-out-of-jail-free card. He went down to the hotel bar and ordered a solitary, celebratory drink, feeling a long-sought sense of transformation, and without a second thought about selling out Kyle Swanson and Lauren Carson.
An Act of Treason Page 20