An Act of Treason

by Jack Coughlin

  When the confirmation was made that the Singapore account had been eliminated, and the money gone, Lieutenant Commander Benton Freedman took his time bleaching the entire file. Not a scrap of electronic data would trace the source of the original order back to him.

  Jack Pathurst of the CIA and Glenda Swinton, the owner of a small fashion boutique in Georgetown and wife of CIA attorney Stephen Swinton, were each richer by still another four million dollars.

  Freedman then began stacking up the information he needed for later in the day, when he would do a similar morning blitz on Randall MacDavies, a senior vice president at the Royal Bank of Scotland in Edinburgh, where the Lizard would raid still another hidden account belonging to Jim Hall. He could do even more of the accounts, probably all of them, in a single work shift, but that was not the plan. Two was quite enough for one day, plus the one that Agent Carson had done in Portugal. Kyle had been very specific about the schedule.

  42

  VENICE

  ITALY

  K YLE S WANSON CAME UP smoothly from the depths of his slumber, rising from the busy REM state in which the brain fires up convoluted dreams through the vague fog just below the surface of sleep and then, pop, awake. He sensed peace and safety rather than any danger. His eyes took in the red numbers of the bedside alarm clock, and he allowed himself the luxury of a long, muscle-stretching yawn. Morning. Naked beneath smooth, clean sheets in a large bed. Totally recovered from the long round-trip flight from Italy to Thailand. Feeling good. Cell phone and pistol within reaching distance.

  The hotel room was dark in the bedroom, with the heavy drapes closed, but beyond the door, daylight illuminated the adjacent sitting room. He could see a pair of bare feet, and he heard the buzz of a television set. Swanson threw aside the sheets and a lightweight duvet, pulled on his shorts, and padded silently toward the portal and leaned against it.

  The room smelled like Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory. Lauren was on the sofa, wearing a white hotel robe loosely knotted at the waist. Her hair was wet. Her feet rested on a cushion, and she was slowly painting her nails while watching an English-language news program on the BBC. The nails were a pale pink; she was curling her fingers to get a getter look. Bottles and jars of cosmetics were strewn on a dressing table with a big mirror. He walked up behind her, leaned over, and kissed her wet hair, looking straight down into her cleavage. She stretched her head back for a full kiss, and he obliged, then slid his hands down her front, into the folds of the robe, and cupped her warm breasts.

  “Mmmmm. You pick the strangest times to get amorous,” she said. “At least let me finish my nails.” She gave him another languid kiss and a big smile. “Welcome back, Kyle. You were a wreck last night when you got in.”

  “I was really tired.”

  “Being fugitives from justice can be exhausting,” she agreed.

  Kyle reluctantly moved away from her and went to the little kitchenette and put together a quick breakfast of apple slices and cheese on soft croissants, and strong coffee. “Not much longer, Lauren. Things should really be coming into play later today.”

  She glanced over. He seemed unfazed about their problems. “Why are you so certain? I’m scared to death.”

  Kyle swallowed a bit of breakfast and took a long hit of caffeine before responding. “How long have you been out here doing your girl stuff?”

  Lauren dipped the little brush into the bottle and stroked the liquid onto her left index fingernail. “I had the concierge round up all of these things early this morning, and they were delivered about an hour ago. I’ve been hard at work ever since then.”

  “The TV on the whole time, too? The BBC news readers?”

  “Yes.” She waggled her toes. Wads of tissue were stuffed between them, part of the process. “Just background noise to keep me company while you snored away in the next room.”

  “I don’t snore.” He poured a fresh cup of coffee, walked over, and sat on the table beside her feet. “Have you heard anything about us on the Beebs? Seen our pictures?” He slid his free hand onto an ankle and felt the smooth skin.

  “Stop that! And no, we have not been on TV for the past hour.” Lauren stretched her legs and shifted her feet to his lap.

  “We won’t be, either. Not only are we old news, but the authorities are not pushing anymore. Things have become static while Washington decides what to do next. Meanwhile, we increase the pressure on Jim Hall to force him out of his own hiding place.”

  “Jim’s smart and dangerous,” she warned.

  “So are we,” Kyle said, tracing a finger up her left leg to the edge of the robe, and then under it, loving the touch of her skin.

  She used a foot to explore his lap further. “Not everything is static.”

  “And to hell with your fingernails.”

  ANTALYA

  TURKEY

  J IM H ALL STARED OUT at the incredibly blue waters of the Turkish Riviera from the balcony of the suite in the small but exclusive beachfront hotel and wondered if the CIA was fucking with him. They had a deal! Were they going to need another lesson?

  He fixed a drink at the little bar and took a swallow, getting over the shock as he paced the soft rugs. Somebody was going to die for this.

  Hall had come into the comfortable lobby, as he had done in a thousand other hotels, and automatically ran his eyes over the few people sitting and standing around. There was nothing suspicious, so he walked to the front desk and smiled at the neat young man behind the computer screen. There was no need to ask if the man spoke English, for most Turks speak several languages fluently, a gift from the wandering ancient Seljuks whose business was conquering other nations from the ports along this Mediterranean Sea coast. The Turks were merchants to their souls. Hall said he had a reservation and gave the false name of Roger Petersen, showed the false passport, then placed his platinum American Express card on the slick stone desktop.

  The clerk pulled up the reservation, printed it out, then swiped the Amex through the card reader. He paused, then did it again. And a third time. When he spoke, it was with a lower voice, so as not to embarrass the guest. “I am sorry, Mr. Petersen, but this card seems to be invalid.”

  Jim Hall blinked in surprise. “Pardon me?”

  “Sir, the card is not being accepted, for some reason. I’m sure it is nothing but an error at the bank, but would you care to put the room on another card?”

  Hall recovered quickly. When he had last checked that account with the Banco Português de Negócios, it contained about twelve million dollars! He forced a smile, stayed calm. “Of course. These things happen. I will deal with it later.” He dug a MasterCard from his wallet. Same name, different bank. It was processed flawlessly.

  Once he had dismissed the bellhop and settled into the room, he opened his computer and, using the hotel’s Wi-Fi network connection, went to a secure portal and called up a screen that automatically updated his accounts around the world. His palms were flat on the table on each side of the little laptop, sweating, as he scanned the accounts.

  Portugal, Singapore, and Scotland all showed the same number in the balance column: a big fat zero. What the fuck? He clicked the screen to Transaction History and discovered that all three accounts had been closed. Twelve million from Portugal, eight from Singapore, and ten from Scotland had vanished. Somebody had stolen thirty million dollars from his retirement fund.

  Hall’s throat was dry, and he grabbed a bottle of water as he burrowed deeper into what had happened. All of the transfers had been split, half going to Mrs. Glenda Swinton in Virginia. He had no idea who the hell Glenda Swinton was. Never heard of her. But he knew the other name all too well. Jack Pathurst was in the Security Office of the CIA.

  Pathurst made the agreement not to chase me but never said anything about not taking the money, Hall thought. The little weasel knows the Agency has written off the funds, so he is doing some financial farming on the side. Probably figures that I will just write off the loss as the cost of doing
business. Hall closed down the screen. Thirty million was a lot of money, part of his plan to live the rest of his life in comfort and ease.

  Hall finished off the drink and stood at the big window, letting his pulse return to normal. He had a job to do on the northern side of Turkey and could not leave until it was done. The financial loss was staggering, but he could absorb it, if Jack Pathurst did not get greedy and snap up any more.

  He decided to let it go for the moment. Maybe a few months from now, maybe a few years, he would drop by to see Pathurst and explain how it was not nice to steal from your buddies. But who the hell was Glenda Swinton?

  Hall had been so absorbed with the financial loss that he did not get around to checking his e-mail until after a light lunch on the terrace, followed by a nap. With all of the numbers running around in his head, sleep was impossible, but he had a good hour of rest, then a shower, and felt refreshed.

  He booted up the computer again and went to a Gmail account subfolder. Two messages, one of them an obvious spam sales message that had automatically been blocked. The second was from the estate management agency in Bangkok, where he maintained a profitable safe house for people in the dark trades, a beautiful home in which he had stored treasures that he had gathered during his years of journeying around Asia.

  Jim Hall gasped aloud as he read it. The house was attacked, and two guests murdered by gunshots that police said appeared to be the work of a sniper. Then the building was set afire by a hand grenade and was completely engulfed in flames by the time the firefighters arrived. The live-in maid actually saw the gunman, who came into the house after the murders and gave her a message for delivery to Jim Hall. The police had opened it instead. It contained a slip of paper with only one word on it, “HOG.” The authorities, said the Gmail, would like to speak with the owner.

  He lowered his head, closed his eyes, and buried his face in his hands. Hunters of Gunmen. Kyle again.

  Swanson was trying to ruin him. It became clear that the Agency was not behind the financial losses. Swanson was working with Lauren to identify and shut down his secret accounts, and if Kyle did the Bangkok hit, then he also did the villa in Tuscany. Well, thought Jim Hall, that shit has got to stop.

  He had five days before the scheduled job in Istanbul, and he would put them to good use. As he sat at the table, the assassination of the president of Pakistan became a lower priority for him than saving his wealth and getting rid of the bulldog tracker who was after him. If he had to choose, he would rather have the Taliban on his tail than Swanson. The Talibs moved like a herd of elephants, whereas Swanson ghosted about unseen unless he wanted to become visible, and then it was usually too late to stop him.

  Yet Hall also felt a burst of confidence, and thought to himself, I was your teacher, Kyle. I know everything you know. You want a hunt? I’ll give you a goddam hunt, except I will be the one hunting you.

  The decision made, and some of the steam of anger gone from his thinking, Jim Hall used the hotel telephone to place a call to a number in the nearby city of Adana, the fifth-largest in Turkey and the home of the massive Incirlik Air Base. Incirlik was home to a wing of the Turkish air force but still had a population of some five thousand American military personnel. He knew people there.

  43

  ANTALYA

  TURKEY

  N ICKY S HAW VIGOROUSLY PUMPED the hand of Jim Hall when they met at Pinky’s, a gaudy little restaurant that was a painted cube of concrete blocks near the beach. “I almost had a bad case of the sads when I heard you got yourself killed,” Shaw said, with a broad smile that flashed perfect teeth. “Thought, Dang, should have had a life insurance policy on ol’ Jim.”

  “Death is sometimes overrated.” Hall took in the big man. “You still look like an NFL linebacker.”

  “Image, my man. Gots to sell the image. Big, bad muthas.” Shaw was clean shaven, including his domed head, and had a jaw like a granite square. Muscles bulged at his neck, and his biceps pushed at his shirtsleeves. He wore all black except for a large chunk of turquoise and silver that had been made into a belt buckle. Nicky had grown up on the dangerous back streets of Washington, D.C., and become an Army Ranger and then a mercenary in Iraq. When he saw the money available for that sort of work, he started his own company.

  “How’s business?” asked Hall.

  “Same shit, different day,” replied Shaw. “I don’t go out in the sandbox anymore unless I have to. Incirlik turned out to be a good location for my headquarters. I can run teams anywhere they are needed, and the gummint provides the air transport for free. Pay’s awful good.”

  “I got a job for you. A hundred-thousand-dollar job.”

  Shaw did not lose his smile, and his eyes flicked over to a pair of pale girls walking by in skimpy bikinis. European tourists. “You still with the Company?”

  “Nope. Retired. That’s why I have to reach out when I need help. The Langley boys are no longer my best friends.”

  Nicky Shaw laughed. “Mine neither. Whatcha got?”

  “Need some goons to take out a nerd back home. You don’t need to know why. Interested?”

  “A terminal kinda situation, then? That sorta thing?”

  “Absolutely. But I want him banged up and hurt some first. At his home.”

  “Sounds like Jimmy-boy wants to send a message to somebody. This nerd got a wife and kids we need to worry about?”

  “Yes. Wife and a daughter and a son. Collateral damage is fine by me.”

  Nicky Shaw watched two girls walk slowly down the beach, hips almost touching. “You know, Jim, the U.S. dollar ain’t as strong as it used to be. You want me to broker a hit, well, okay, I can do that, but that hunnerd thousand needs to be in euros, not greenbacks.” Shaw took a PDA from his pocket and found the information. “As of today, one euro goes for one-point-five-oh-eight-seven. Round it down to a buck and a half, so I can give a deal to an old friend.”

  “For that price, you guarantee the work. I want your personal confirmation when it’s done. And you throw in a piece of equipment, a sniper rifle and fifty rounds.”

  “I always guarantee on a contract. Gimme a number I can call you at. On the second thing, the big gun, fine. Not a fifty-cal, though. You going to tell me what kind of mischief you up to, needin’ that bit of gear? Need any help, a spotter?”

  Jim Hall said, “Everything you need to know about the propeller-head is in an envelope under your place mat. I’ll transfer half the money now to an account of your choice. Other half when you are done. Sniper rifle is for a friend.”

  “Fine,” said Nicky. “Anything particular I need to tell my people?”

  Jim Hall would not explain that the target, Lieutenant Commander Benton Freedman, was the resident computer genius for the dark black hunter-killer group known as Task Force Trident. Hall had studied dossiers on all of them in the past, and there wasn’t a weak link in the bunch. Kyle Swanson would have made sure that Freedman would be leading the electronic attack on Hall’s assets. The man was no physical commando, but he was a protected component of the Trident brotherhood. It was better if Nicky did not know that. “No. This guy is just a Navy computer geek who is nosing around places where he should not be involved. Works at the Pentagon and lives in the ’burbs. Piece of cake. Just do it fast, like day before yesterday.”

  “Know what I think? Sounds like an Agency black job reaching through you to me, sittin’ here minding my own bidness in Turkey, to run a hit back in the States.” He wrote a bank number on the back of a cream-colored business card and handed it across the table.

  “I told you, Nicky. The Agency’s not involved. This is personal.”

  “That’s what you always say,” Nicky Shaw said, standing up and sliding on a narrow pair of dark sunglasses. He put away the PDA, folded the envelope, and stuffed it in a pocket. “I’ll get right on it.”

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  N IGHT BROUGHT THE COMFORTABLE cover that the hit team needed for their home invasion, and the fantasy
that nothing could stop three large armed and dangerous predators who viewed the coming attack as little more than an evening of fun and a nice paycheck. They had to stay alert, so limited themselves to one beer apiece and a shared marijuana joint as they waited for Lieutenant Commander Benton Freedman to come home.

  “Glad it’s finally dark,” said the leader, Samuel Achmed Fox, his big frame slouched in the passenger seat of the little Nissan. “Get this over with. Little Jap cars ain’t made for comfort. You shoulda stole an American, like a big Ford SUV.” His hand rested on the butt of a pistol stuffed into the front of his pants.

  “You tol’ me to get something that wouldn’t be noticed. There are more Jap cars in this neighborhood than in downtown Tokyo.” Vincent Parma caught a strand of his long black hair and hooked it behind an ear as he sucked on the joint, catching the smoke in his lungs and holding it as long as possible.

  He passed it up to the driver, LeGarret Shields, a nervous kid with shifty eyes, youngest of the three. All had served time together for various crimes, their bodies were painted with raw jailhouse tattoos, and they enjoyed inflicting violence on others. “Why not pay us the rest of the money now, Achmed?” LeGarret already had five thousand dollars in his pocket and was mentally counting the five thousand yet to come.

  “After it’s done, bro. After it’s done. Don’t worry. I’ll hand it to you right when we get back in the car. Meanwhile, think about what might be worthwhile in the house that we can take. Could be some good shit.” Parma and Shields each got ten thousand for the hit, and Fox would pocket the lion’s share, twenty-five thousand. After all, he was the one who got the call from Nicky Shaw a few hours ago. He had made it to the bank in time to cash the wire transfer.

  The car drove in loops and figure eights through the area, all three men low in their seats. Two black men and a dark-skinned Italian, all dressed in black, would draw the immediate attention of any passing police cruiser in this suburban neighborhood, so they roamed, centering their pattern on a corner house two blocks in from the nearest large street. A single porch light had automatically come on at dusk. The driveway remained empty. They circled. Had another joint. Stayed cool. Took time for a hamburger and bathroom break at McDonald’s.