An Act of Treason

by Jack Coughlin

  He played with the ice cubes and picked his teeth with the little plastic sword that speared two olives in the martini. New clothes were a must. He could buy whatever he wanted in the exclusive shops in Dubai, but why bother? It would be more fun, a better experience, to go to the source for his threads. Hand-sewn shoes from a British craftsman, custom-made suits from the best tailors of Europe, fitted shirts in Italy, with money no object. Jim Hall liked that idea.

  The message had arrived during the night, and Hall left Dubai the following day, bound for Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris with a first-class seat aboard Qatar Airways. He used a backup passport that allowed him to use another name for customs and legal paperwork, but he did not worry about fingerprints or facial recognition software or retina scans. It did not matter if the authorities tracked him, because there would always be an asterisk on his file that would guarantee that he would not be molested. They would do nothing, and eventually give up.

  In Paris, he rested, had a nice lunch, and then purchased a tuxedo from a designer’s studio shop, along with matching black dress shoes, polished to a bright sheen. A stylish haircut at a salon set him back two hundred and fifty dollars. The following day, a high-speed train whisked him south to the Principality of Monaco, the money-soaked independent state snuggled between the mountains and the Mediterranean on the French Riviera. A memory of the beautiful Princess Grace and her fairy-tale romance flitted through his thoughts. Like Grace, he was going to be living the dream.

  That evening, the dream would feature Jim Hall as James Bond, and he believed he fit the part better than some of the movie stars who had played the role. Not as good as Sean Connery, but better than most of the others. After all, he was a real spy. He strolled that night along the Golden Square that led to Le Grand Casino de Monte-Carlo, where master craftsmen had created an ornate castle on the outside and a perfection of polished stonework within. He caught a glimpse of himself in his tux and thought he looked good. He moved with ease through the corridors, ignoring the Salle des Amériques, where rich rubes from the States came to play familiar Las Vegas games such as craps. Smiling at the genteel segregation of the Americans from the more cosmopolitan European casino atmosphere, Hall decided to speak only French that night. At a gilded private room for serious gamblers, he paid an additional entry fee and stepped inside.

  A waiter in a short white jacket and dark trousers appeared at Hall’s shoulder as he sat down at the roulette table, and Jim ordered a double martini on the rocks, with olives. A thick slab of one-hundred-dollar bills from his new wallet was exchanged for chips.

  He let play continue while he tasted his drink and made himself comfortable. The women were gorgeous in colorful gowns, with diamonds at their ears and throats, and the men wore upscale suits, dinner jackets, or tuxedoes. A slender brunette with long hair over her bare shoulders and a low-necked gown the rich purple color of ripe plums was checking him out from the far end of the table. Hall smiled at her.

  Hall placed his bet, ten thousand dollars, on red, for a single spin of the wheel. He did so because he had always wanted to do that once in his life. He did so because he could. It did not matter whether he won or lost, it was just fulfilling a whim, and automatically earned him the respect of everyone at the table. He was a player. Hall watched the little ball clatter around the spinning wheel until it slowed and finally caught in a slot. Red! The goddess of gambling was showing him respect. He had won. The ten thousand became twenty thousand, and he let it ride for another spin, when he won again and the money became forty thousand dollars.

  That was enough showing off. He stacked the beautiful chips into small towers of colorful plastic and settled down to play for only a thousand per spin for a while. Win some, lose some, and the brunette had taken the seat next to him and placed warm fingertips along his thigh.

  Jim Hall knew it was going to go on being this way. He would enjoy his new life in Europe, travel the high roads in Asia and South America, and never have to return to those sandy and hot wastes in the Middle East. A final favor had to be repaid, but that would not happen in Pakistan. Then, out.

  PAKISTAN

  T HE FATHER AND THE son were sharing a small meal, eating quietly until they were done, and the women left them alone. It was not very hot outside, and there was already fresh snow on the highest ridges. For mountain dwellers, it was time to be certain they had acquired everything they needed before the passes were clogged by snow and ice so thick that even a mule could not traverse a path.

  Muhammed Waleed, the strongest warlord in the Taliban badlands, was proud of Selim. The attack in Islamabad had brought a horrendous toll of death and destruction, and it was all being blamed on an American Marine assassin, who had now escaped from custody.

  “You have accomplished an important task, my son, and you did so brilliantly.”

  “Thank you, Father. I felt the hand of the Prophet upon me during the entire operation. All praise be unto him.”

  The older man adjusted his robes. The weather had been hot only a few days before, but now there was a faint chill in the early afternoon air. “How do you read the government’s situation at this point?”

  Selim gave his father a frank look. “I admit that I was surprised that they did not crumble after the Islamabad incident. The president did not impose martial law, which I had anticipated.”

  “Perhaps he held back because of all of the foreign presence in the city. The diplomats would have reported back to their capitals that he had panicked. He would not want that.”

  “Yes,” agreed Selim. “Well, no matter. Confidence in his administration was already being shaken by the riots elsewhere, and now, as I read it, the president is hanging on by no more than a slender thread. The generals may not follow his call for any harsh crackdown on the people, and the secret police continue to play their own game.”

  The Taliban leader laughed. “Ah, our old friend General Nawaz Zaman. That fox even keeps secrets from himself. He will not intervene in our plans if the price is correct and he is left in power when we take over.”

  “He has been useful,” Selim replied. “When the bribe offer was made by the British billionaire for the escape of the Marine, Zaman arranged everything and kept me informed. As a prisoner, the Marine represented nothing but diplomatic and media problems in the future. It is best that he is gone. We have all washed our hands of him. Let Kyle Swanson be a problem elsewhere. Here, he was a distraction that we did not need at this important time.”

  “And the condition of our political arm, the Bright Path Party?”

  Selim’s dark eyes almost glowed. “Strong and ready. That is why I have come. It is almost time, Father. You must leave this place very soon and prepare to step into public view.”

  “I think it is still too early, my son.” There was a hint of warning in the statement.

  “Please allow me to explain my thinking, Father. I would never presume to know as much as you, nor to instruct you in the proper thing to do.”

  “Speak.”

  “The leaders of the Western countries are showing great concern about the situation in Pakistan. I have learned that the president of Pakistan will be invited to meet the leaders of major European countries and reassure them.”

  “Where?”

  “That has not yet been decided. The United Nations, The Hague, Washington, London, Paris. All are possible, and it makes little difference for our next steps. He will not return from the trip, and his government will collapse.”

  Waleed got to his feet and walked to the main window. People in the village below were content and working. Soon he would be ruling the entire nation, out in the open. The other Taliban warlords would fall in line or face his wrath. The West would be forced to accept him.

  Selim continued, “The president will be killed while he is away, and you will step forth as the candidate of the Bright Path Party to be elected and bring stability and peace to Pakistan. There will be a token opposition candidate, but anyone else see
king the office would find that life will be very, very difficult.”

  “And Jim Hall does the job, wherever it may be?”

  “Yes, Father. I have already set him in motion.”

  36

  ABOARD THE VAGABOND

  MEDITERRANEAN SEA

  C OMMANDER S TACEY T HOMAS , CAPTAIN of HMS Iron Duke, led the boarding party himself, somewhat chagrined at having been ordered to stop and search the sparkling yacht of Sir Geoffrey Cornwell. The Type 23 frigate of the Royal Navy rode easily in the deep waters, parallel to and only 150 yards off the port side of the white pleasure vessel Vagabond, which had been ordered over the radio to heave to.

  Awaiting him on deck was Cornwell, the legendary former SAS colonel, now an international businessman. Cornwell was casually dressed, and, although he was still confined to a wheelchair from his injuries in a terrorist attack, his welcome was warm and friendly. No sign of animosity for being confronted by the military. That came as a relief for Commander Thomas, who did not want to make an enemy of this influential man.

  “Welcome aboard, Commander Thomas,” Sir Jeff said, extending his hand. “Allow me to introduce my wife, Lady Patricia.” An elegant woman in a casual blue and white deck outfit, with a white scarf around her neck, gave a cheerful smile.

  The naval officer saluted, then accepted the offered handshakes. “Thank you, Sir Geoffrey. Lady Patricia. I am terribly sorry for this intrusion.”

  Cornwell waved away the apology. “You have your orders, sir, so why get all bothered with legalities when what you seek is not here? Come and join me at that table beneath the deck awning while your lads conduct a thorough search. They may have the run of the ship. My crew will help if asked. It is important to clear this up as soon as possible.”

  Stacey Thomas issued the command, and the five armed commandos spread fore and aft, scaling ladders and descending belowdecks. The entire crew of the Vagabond stayed together on the bridge for ease of identification. There was more polite chitchat; then Commander Thomas said, “May I get to the point, sir?”

  “Certainly. Some tea first?”

  “Not at the moment, sir. Perhaps some other time, when things are not as tense.”

  “Then let me answer your question before you ask: No, we have neither seen nor heard from Kyle Swanson. I was delighted to learn that he had escaped from custody in Pakistan, for we-Pat and I-will never believe Kyle is guilty, or even capable, of mass murder.”

  “That would be simply impossible, Commander,” said Lady Pat in a pleasant voice. “Kyle is always very particular about whom he shoots.” She removed a small gold case that snapped brightly in the sun, took out a slender cigar, and lit it. She blew the smoke away from them.

  “Kyle is also a very bright and resourceful boy, Commander Thomas. He knows that Pat and I would automatically be viewed as having a hand in protecting him. And that would be true… if he had asked, which he has not. He will not turn to us for help.”

  “May I ask, then, why the Vagabond is out here? I do not doubt your word, but this yacht would provide a valuable refuge for a fugitive.”

  Sir Jeff slid a notebook filled with diagrams and photos in plastic sleeves across the table to the commander. “This is one of the latest projects. We call it the Bird and Snake, and it is designed to be a low-cost and pinpoint weapon against pirates. So we are conducting some sea tests. It is a Top Secret project, sir, so I must trust you to keep it confidential, other than for need-to-know personnel.”

  The sailors were emerging from belowdecks and reporting nothing unusual. The cabins and workspaces were all clear; the engine room, galley, and communications shack were in order. All personnel on the bridge had proper identification and valid passports, and there was no evidence that Kyle Swanson had been aboard.

  “I can have my captain show you the Bird and Snake setup we have below, if you wish. Our computer hard drives contain proprietary data that I should not release to you without a proper court order. Nevertheless, we would welcome an electronics technician with proper security clearances to come aboard and review the contents, should you so desire. He would have to sign a separate and stringent government nondisclosure form, of course.”

  Commander Thomas checked his men. All five were ready to return to the Iron Duke. “No, Sir Geoffrey, that will not be necessary,” he said. “The Americans are running this manhunt, not us. I imagine we were tasked to this irksome duty just as a warning that they are covering all angles.”

  “Naturally,” said Sir Jeff. “Well, then, sir, it was nice to meet you and watch your team work. I always enjoy seeing the operations of a well-trained unit.” He smiled. “Have a pleasant voyage, and do not hesitate to notify us if you need us again. We remain at the queen’s service.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Thomas said, giving another salute. “Good day, Lady Patricia.” The boarding team returned down the side staircase to the inflatable speedboat and shoved off as soon as Thomas was seated.

  “Nice enough chap,” observed Jeff as the boat sped away. He stayed at the table with Pat, drinking tea and nibbling an apple pastry as they watched the big frigate haul the inflatable boat back aboard, then slowly pull away, gaining speed as it went. He turned to the Vagabond’s captain, William Styles, and said, “Bring them up.”

  * * *

  T WO FIGURES WITH UNDERWATER breathing gear treaded water in the silent twilight world about twenty feet directly below the hull of the Vagabond, their rising air bubbles unnoticeable at the bow, where the water was rippled by gentle swells moving against the boat. For Kyle and Lauren, swimming together, the grumpy loud noise of the British frigate getting under way meant their watery exile was about over, unless some Royal Navy sailors had been left on board, which was very unlikely.

  Treading water for thirty minutes, with weight belts and big flippers, was easy for both of them. Lauren Carson had been diving for years on vacations and had been on a swim team as a kid, and she held her position with no trouble. She looked through her face mask at Kyle, about ten feet away. His military training in underwater warfare and his passion for surfing had left him with an effortless stroke, and he appeared as a virtually stationary silhouette in the water, breathing easily. She thought about how normal people paid good money for scuba diving trips in the sunny Med.

  As the noisy engines of the frigate faded, Kyle held up two fingers, estimating they would remain down for only about two more minutes. For security, they had not carried radios when they had changed quickly and gone into the water at the approach of the naval vessel. All signals were made by hand.

  She could see the plain, bright surface above, and the dark sleek shadow of the yacht that had been her home for the past two days. Kyle had arrived yesterday. Two international fugitives from justice, hunted by every intelligence service in the world, and they were catching tans and eating well. It was not like she had imagined.

  Another sound reached her, a sudden dull thunk, as a set of doors in the bottom of the Vagabond opened. Kyle immediately kicked toward the new rectangle of light, Lauren followed, and they broke the surface in the oblong launching well of a weapon she had never before seen, something called a Snake. Crewmen helped them up and took off the vests, tanks, and other gear and handed them big towels. “Sir Geoffrey asks that you join him in the main salon as soon as you have changed,” said a young woman, trying not to stare at their bodies. Miss Carson was perfectly shaped and toned, while Mr. Swanson bore numerous scars. She had heard tales about this American, a familiar figure aboard the vessel who was a business associate and close friend of Sir Jeff and a deadly sniper for the United States Marines. As he stood nearly naked in his baggy shorts, the jagged marks on his flesh bore out the truth of those stories.

  Lauren, in a T-shirt and blue shorts, was already with Pat and Jeff in the spacious cabin when Kyle joined them. He flopped into a chair and popped open a chilled bottle of water. “Man, it’s good to be here. Even dodging the Royal Navy is a lot more fun than being locked in that damne
d cell.”

  “I dare say,” agreed Jeff. “Keeping you out of another prison is going to be difficult.” Reading glasses were balanced precariously on his nose. “The visit by that frigate was a close-run thing. Next time, we might not have the advantage of seeing them coming twenty miles off.”

  “They won’t give up, will they?” Lauren’s voice was low. Her legs were crossed, and a sandal dangled from her toes.

  “No, they won’t,” said Kyle.

  “So, what do we do? Just keep running?” Her eyes were bright and watery as she considered the enormity of the opposing forces. Navy ships? Satellites? Paratroopers?

  Lady Pat went to the bar, poured a stiff dose of whisky, and handed her the glass. “Drink up, Lauren. It will steady you a bit. It is understandable for you to be nervous.”

  Lauren tasted the amber liquid and then drank deeply. “I’m a wreck, and the rest of you don’t even look very concerned.”

  “Well, dear, we’ve been through much worse,” Pat said, getting a drink for herself.

  “Lauren, there is a big difference,” Kyle said, “between running away from something and running toward something. There is absolutely no way that we can evade capture for any extended length of time. Sooner or later, the odds will catch up with us. So we cannot just remain static. We have to be aggressive, and careful.”

  “True.” Jeff rolled his wheelchair closer to her and leaned forward, resting on his elbows. “Never you fear, young lady. We will get you out of this jam.”

  Kyle locked his hands behind his head and worked his neck muscles around.