An Act of Treason

by Jack Coughlin

  * * *

  J UST BEFORE DAWN. A LWAYS the best time for an attack. Kyle threaded the little rental car through the curving mountain roads, little more than farming trails, outside of the mountain village of Pienza.

  “Just ahead on the right, there’s a small road leading to the north,” Lauren said, using a small flashlight to illuminate the map. “If I remember right, that’s the corner of the vineyard, and there is a water-pumping apparatus sticking out of the ground.”

  “Got it,” replied Kyle, turning into the narrow driveway that unspooled down the hillside. The metal tanks in the backseat clanked together with dull thumps. In about a half mile they rolled onto the flat plateau, and he shut off the lights.

  The old stone building had been around since the sixteenth century, beginning as a serf’s cottage and growing, layer by layer, into a sturdy home with accompanying outbuildings to shelter farming equipment. Jim Hall owned the place through a false business name and leased the surrounding land, which was thick with neat rows of a vineyard that yielded fat purple grapes that were turned into a delicious wine. The entire place was dark.

  They got out of the car, and Lauren walked purposefully up the steps, moved aside a pot of flowers on a ledge, and found the key to the front door. Without knocking, she opened the lock and went inside. “Nobody stays here but Jim, and a housekeeper comes in twice a week. Bastard likes to play lord of the feudal manor.” She went from room to room, switching on lights, and the darkness gave way to light gold colors and white walls. A shudder ran through her as she remembered the time she had spent here as his lover. He had completely fooled and used her.

  Kyle moved through the place to give it a quick search and clear. It was spacious and comfortable, with thick rugs on the floors and heavy European furniture. When he reached the rear bedroom, he saw Lauren furiously stripping black silk sheets from the king-sized bed, and then he silently followed her out into the backyard.

  Without speaking, she flung the sheets over a clothesline and anchored them with a row of wooden pins. She stalked back to the house and snatched a large, sharp butcher’s knife from the kitchen. Swanson stood aside and let her work, seeing her cheeks wet with tears of fury. Moonlight glinted on the knife blade as she plunged and stabbed and sliced through the soft cloth, ripping it to shreds until she ran out of breath and stood facing the tattered sheets, exhausted, breathing in big gulps. She dropped the knife, and ribbons of silk sheets flapped in a gentle predawn breeze.

  By the time she turned around, Swanson was already lugging the heavy dark blue tanks of propane gas into the house. They had purchased the five ButanGas canisters over the past few days from different stores while still in Umbria, explaining that they were about to christen their new Spiedino stainless steel grill with some outdoor cooking at a picnic for friends.

  Kyle found an expensive tie, a muted diamond design on lilac, on a closet rack, and a bottle of 80 proof brandy among the cluster of bottles on the marble-topped bar in the living room. He opened the bottle and stuffed the necktie deep inside, letting the rich alcoholic drink wick into the material. “Ready?” he asked.

  She picked up a bottle of olive oil and threw it against the wall of the living room, then sailed a second one into the bathroom, where it shattered in the large multiple-head shower. Her face was red with anger. “You bet.”

  Swanson went to the bedroom of the villa and twisted the valve of the propane gas cylinder fully open, sniffing the air for the telltale odor. Lauren was doing the same thing in the second bedroom, and he leapfrogged into the hallway and opened the third of the bottles, each of which carried the emblem of a rearing white dragon on a blue shield. Lauren hurried past him to the kitchen and opened the fourth one. They met in the living room, and she opened the final tank.

  “Go start the car,” he said, and she dashed into the growing light of day, a smile coming to her face as she slid behind the wheel. Kyle was on the veranda, holding the bottle of brandy high and setting fire to the liquid-soaked tie with his lighter. The flame caught, tiny for only a flickering instant, then began to speed up as it ate into the accelerant. Kyle left the bottle sitting just inside the partially open door, with more of the expensive fuse disappearing every second.

  Lauren already had the car turned around and rolling away when he dove inside. She stamped onto the accelerator. The little vehicle seemed to crawl, then gave a lurch, and the tires dug into the gravel.

  Behind them, the propane gas had filled the entire house by the time the flaming Piero Tucci tie met the 40 percent alcohol brandy and the house erupted, its heavy stone walls funneling the blast upward in a rolling tower of flame and thunder.

  39

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  “G UNNERY S ERGEANT K YLE S WANSON of the United States Marine Corps is charged with mass murder.” The lawyer, a civilian representing the Central Intelligence Agency, was making a bland statement of fact, reading from a sheet of paper. “Specifically, the accused is to be court-martialed for violating Article 118 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, by committing the unpremeditated murder of at least nineteen specific persons in Pakistan. The punishment will be something other than death, as directed by a court-martial, but may include dishonorable discharge, forfeiture of all pay and allowances, and confinement for life.”

  “Who?” Major Sybelle Summers gave away nothing. She adjusted the sleeves of her comfortable dark brown suit. The buttons of the jacket were undone to make it roomier for the pistol on her belt while she was seated. A beige blouse and flats and minimal accessories completed the understated outfit. Her black hair was styled short and swept back. Around her slender neck was a chain with various plastic cards that granted her entrance to quiet, private rooms in the Pentagon and other important places, such as this one. She had the highest security clearance possible.

  The lawyer, Stephen Swinton, darted his eyes from the papers spread before him to the attractive woman seated across the table. It was difficult not to be impressed. “You are the operations officer of a special unit known as Task Force Trident, are you not, Major?”

  “I know of no such organization. I work with the White House Military Office and sometimes carry the football, the briefcase containing nuclear codes the president may need in case of an emergency. I also help with the military side of advance work for presidential trips.”

  Swinton was smug, anxious to pierce the screens this woman was throwing up, and he continued his delivery. “And in your capacity as the Trident operations officer, you also were the commanding officer of Gunnery Sergeant Swanson at the time of the action in question, is that not so?”

  “Someone has given you faulty information, Mr. Swinton. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice was irritatingly precise and icily confident. Her calm, dark eyes betrayed no sign of nervousness.

  Swinton, who had been a CIA attorney for three years, had dealt with difficult cases before. They always thought they could outsmart him, despite the knowledge that he had the resources of the entire Central Intelligence Agency to support him and build a case. He decided that an abrupt change of subject, a slightly veiled personal insult, might shake her confidence. “That is a designer suit you are wearing, Major. Very nice. Prada, if I am not mistaken. The shoes are Italian leather, and your purse is a small and stylish Gucci. Rather expensive attire for someone of your pay grade as a mere Marine major.”

  Not a ripple. She shrugged. “My daddy’s rich and my mama’s good-looking.”

  Jesus Christ. “Two weeks ago, you were in charge of a mission that inserted two snipers into Pakistan to take down separate Taliban targets simultaneously. But Swanson went on a rampage instead, and numerous Pakistani civilians are dead as a result.”

  “Sir,” she replied, “on the dates in question, I was in Idaho, where the president was coming to make a campaign speech. Check the duty roster and the flight manifests. The Secret Service will vouch for me.”

  “Major Summers.” The CIA lawyer, growin
g frustrated, spread his hand across a stack of folders filled with papers. “The Secret Service will not discuss presidential protection protocols.”

  “A wise decision, don’t you think?” She smiled.

  “I advise you to take this very seriously, Major Summers. We know all about you and Swanson and General Middleton and Task Force Trident.”

  “Boise was pretty. A little chilly this time of year.”

  “We know everything.”

  “About Boise? I imagine you would. The visit was widely publicized, and the new president is pretty popular. He gets a lot of press coverage.”

  “Why are you being so unhelpful, Major? We should be on the same side on this. We want to get Sergeant Swanson to safety in an American prison, and out of danger, as soon as possible.”

  “It’s Gunnery Sergeant Swanson, not Sergeant. Please try to be accurate. Now. Is this meeting over? I need to get back to work. There’s a party in the East Wing this afternoon, and the first lady wants me to be there.”

  The lawyer slapped his folders together in exasperation, turned off his little tape recorder, and stuffed it all into a leather briefcase. “Very well. I was hoping that you would be more cooperative in an informal setting. The next time we meet, it will be at CIA headquarters in Langley. I must advise you to bring your own lawyer. You will either answer my questions promptly and totally, or you may be charged as an accomplice, under UCMJ Article 107, for giving a false official statement. That could mean up to five years in prison.”

  “Oooooh. That’s real scary.” Sybelle Summers stood, buttoned her jacket, and went to the door. She turned around. She already knew the small room was not bugged, which was one of the reasons she chose to meet here. “Off the record?”

  The attorney nodded. He also was standing, his briefcase on the table before him, his shield from harm.

  “You think you know everything? Well, you don’t. You know only what we choose to allow you to know. In other words, you don’t know shit, and it’s going to damned well stay that way. The Agency fucked this operation, not us, and now you have given your guy a pass. You don’t want this to go public.”

  “Swanson is going down,” snapped the CIA man. “Why are you risking a jail term yourself for this renegade?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “Simple. Kyle would do the same for me. We take care of our own.”

  “You are right. I don’t understand why you Marines always want to lie down in traffic for each other.”

  “Of course you don’t. Stephen, you are a desk jockey with no field experience. You would just leave your friends behind rather than risk your own ass.”

  “Anything else, Major?”

  Sybelle’s eyes suddenly became like dark stones. “Kyle didn’t murder anybody. We already have sworn statements from Americans and Pakistanis who were on the scene, and they will destroy any case you try to bring. You people need to rethink this whole vendetta. Agent Carson also did nothing wrong, and we are thinking about giving the Washington Post an exclusive interview with her, pretty pictures and all. So you need to take care of this in a hurry, Stevie.”

  “Why?” The change in the woman had been remarkable; from a stubborn and stylish lady to a tigress protecting her cubs in the blink of an eye. The file said she was the only woman ever to complete the elite Marine Force Recon training and that she was known in the Corps as the Queen of Darkness. He had dismissed that as just the usual military hyperbole. The abrupt change made him a believer.

  “If you don’t, somebody might get hurt. That someone might be you. By bringing me in and threatening me, you have put yourself in the line of fire. Don’t think your desk will protect you now, nor that stupid chocolate Lab at your home in Arlington, nor your weight-lifting buddy at the hideaway on the Eastern Shore. You have become part of the problem, and we solve problems.”

  The lawyer pulled protectively on the lapels of his suit and gave a nervous pat to his pale hair. “So you are trying to threaten me? Is that a threat?”

  “A promise.” Sybelle Summers smiled and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

  BERLIN

  GERMANY

  S ELIM W ALEED OF THE Taliban stood outside a small hotel on Potsdamer Street, a quiet and midrange place favored by business executives, not far from the Landwehr Kanal that wove through the heart of Berlin. It was early morning, but all around him industrious Germans were already hustling to work. Selim pushed up the collar of his overcoat to keep the cold wind from his neck. He was of average size in most countries, but in Germany he often felt like a pygmy; the whole nation was full of large people who loved eating great portions of the filthy animal that no Muslim would ever touch. The diner at a table next to him last night had ordered Eisbein and Salzkartoffeln, which was a huge pickled knuckle of a pig, with the meat falling onto a bed of boiled potatoes. When the heavy tray appeared before the man, Selim fled from his own table and resorted to room service.

  At precisely eight o’clock in the morning, an elegant silver-white Mercedes E63 AMG whispered to a stop before him, and a smiling Jim Hall waved from behind the steering wheel. The door on the passenger side clicked, and Selim opened it. The leathery new car smell was overwhelming as he slid into the seat, which fit as if it had been handmade just for him. “Howdy, partner,” Hall sang out. “Let’s go for a ride.” The sedan accelerated rapidly into the traffic flowing toward the huge columns of the Brandenburg Tor.

  “Like my new wheels?” asked Hall. “Zero to sixty miles per hour in four point five seconds. A 518-horsepower engine under the hood, and it flies like the wind. I thought about getting the Stirling Moss Roadster version, but that’s really too much of a race car.”

  “Why are you doing this, Jim Hall? I thought you were to maintain a low profile until the job is done.”

  “Why, Selim, this is a low profile for me. I have always had expensive tastes. Got a discount on this baby, seventy-five grand, because I paid cash. Now I don’t have to ride those damned trains anymore. I can take my time getting anywhere in Europe, and in comfort. Hand-stitched leather. Here, you’re cold. I’ll turn on the seat heater.” He clicked a switch, then dropped his hand back to the gear lever, changing to a lower ratio as he found a route marker and turned a corner. Then the car leaped onto the Bundesautobahn, and when he spied a round road sign with the diagonal stripes, the speed limit came off. He opened up the big engine.

  “This will only draw attention to yourself. It is madness. My father will not be pleased.”

  “He’s your father, not mine. How is the old snake, anyway?”

  “He is well. A bit anxious because the political center in Pakistan is still holding together. We had hoped the Islamabad attack might finish off the government.”

  The speedometer was pegging at 150 kilometers per hour. The car had been delivered with an electronic device that limited the top speed to that velocity, but Hall had a specialist remove the governor because he had not bought a hot car to only go 90 miles per hour. He pressed the pedal, and the sleek Mercedes leaped at the command. “Yeah, I hear you. Islamabad was a mess. I thought it would finish off the government, too.”

  “So now you have to complete the remaining task, the other option. Which is one reason you should still be under cover.”

  Hall kept a light grip on the wheel, letting the sensors in the driving avionics keep the car under control as he said without a care, “The assassination. Right. When and where?”

  “The president is to meet with other regional leaders in a special conference in Istanbul next week. You take him out while he is there.”

  A vision of the Turkish city swam into Hall’s mind. “I can do that. Then our deal is complete, right?” He was well over 100 miles per hour now and coming up fast on the bumper of an Alfa Romeo. Hall flashed his lights, and the Alfa moved over. He zipped past with a rush of air that rocked the smaller car.

  “That is correct.” Selim was holding on t
ight. “You must go back into your old ways, Jim Hall. This will not be an easy task for you. Get rid of this flashy car and those fancy clothes and the high-flying lifestyle until you finish.”

  There was a grump of a laugh. “I know how to go about my business, Selim. And the image doesn’t matter because the CIA and I have a special arrangement. They won’t bother me.”

  “You do not know everything, my friend.”

  “So I’m too busy these days to watch TV news. So what? You will get me the advance information I need to make the plan.”

  “So you are unaware that your friend Kyle Swanson not only has lived through the situation in Islamabad, but he also has escaped from prison. The CIA woman, Carson, also has disappeared.”

  Jim Hall froze for a second, then lifted his foot from the accelerator, tapped the brakes, and swerved out of the fast lane, all the way across the highway and onto the safety of the broad shoulder. By the time the car had stopped, his face was chalky. “Swanson is on the loose?”

  “Yes. Nobody knows where he is,” Selim told him, turning in the seat to face the assassin.

  Hall sucked in some deep breaths. “He is coming after me.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “No fucking ‘perhaps’ about it.” Already Hall’s eyes were nervously surveying the countryside around him and the various mirrors. He pounded a fist on the cushioned steering wheel. “Shit. Double shit.”

  “It does not change our agreement. You still must go to Istanbul and kill the president next week.”

  Hall put the Mercedes back into gear and regained the highway, this time at an almost sedate pace, watching his mirrors and the passing vehicles. “Yeah. I’ll do it. If Kyle lets me live that long.”

  They made the trip back into Berlin in silence. Hall dropped off Selim and drove back to the underground parking lot in the luxury hotel where he had booked a suite. Upstairs, with the door locked, he logged in to the laptop and began reviewing his private e-mail accounts. A little red exclamation point flashed by one from Italy, an urgent note from his property manager. Authorities were investigating an explosion and a fire that had destroyed Hall’s little villa by the vineyards in Tuscany. Some bedsheets that had been sliced to pieces were still hanging outside on a clothesline. Arson was suspected; the agent had been questioned and was asking for instructions.