An Act of Treason Read online

  “We want to keep this under our control. Swanson would report to the CIA field agent in charge of the operation.”

  “So your second sniper choice is one of ours?”

  “Me.” Hall looked at the director with a steady gaze. “I want to go in for this one.”

  Geneen scoffed. “No, Jim. You run the op from here.”

  “Bart, I will be retiring in three months. I want to go out at the top of my game, not sitting behind a desk half a world away from the action. I may be a step slower, but there is nothing wrong with my shooting skill, and I have the personal contacts over there. Besides, I helped train Kyle Swanson. We can work together almost without words. There would be no learning curve for a new partnership.”

  Geneen mulled it over in silence. Hall wanted a last job that was a big task worthy of his skills and would carry the stamp of finality for a veteran agent. He deserved the chance. “Then go do it,” Geneen said, extending his hand across the table to shake with his prized operator. “Good luck, Jim. Remember. The president does not want any more collateral damage. Nor do I.”

  “That will not be a problem. I’ll have a brief for you in a couple of days. It may get expensive.”

  “For this one, money is no problem. If I have to blow a hole in the federal budget, so be it. I will give you the authorization.”

  Hall walked away from the director’s office with his usual confident stride. Before reaching his own door, he stuck his head into the office of his deputy, Lauren Carson. “Find a Marine sniper named Kyle Swanson and get him assigned to us for temporary duty.”

  She jotted the name on a pad. “All right. Where is he?”

  Jim Hall was on the move again and called back over his shoulder, “Could be anywhere. Let me know when you get him.”

  5

  WAZIRISTAN

  P AKISTAN SELDOM HELD A stable government for very long. Its politics held great rewards but even greater risks. Once again its people stood at the precipice of chaos. Muhammed Waleed believed it was his turn to seize power.

  In the Arabian Sea port city of Karachi, street bonfires painted the sky in orange and yellow. Farther up the Indus River, the mayor of hilly Hyderabad was assassinated. Students were marching in Rawalpindi and Quetta. Public workers were striking in various cities throughout the Punjab. Order was slipping away, and the democratically elected government in Islamabad was unable to bring stability.

  Muhammed Waleed had created a masterpiece of simmering chaos. He had spent years slowly weaning the competing elements of the Taliban away from their love of senseless violence in hopes of forming a permanent political movement. He decided to name his fledgling party the Bright Path, words that meant almost anything a follower wanted to believe, always viewing it as a better future. Fighting without obtaining political gain was both costly and pointless. Their extremist founders had come from the Afghans who defeated the Russians, but their days in power lasted only five years, from 1996 to 2001. During that time they accomplished little beyond having the rest of the world regard them as savages. Their downfall was inevitable, sped along by backing terror groups, mistreating their own citizens, and being unable to form a popular government.

  Muhammed Waleed was determined not to make similar mistakes in Pakistan, and his support was growing almost by the day. The Muslim clerics were siding with him because of his pious religious beliefs. Al-Qaeda, far from being an ally, fell into line; Pakistan offered them benign shelter at a time when they would otherwise have no home. The warlords gave him support because he was one of them, and easily the smartest and most powerful. Young people were drawn to his magnetic speeches and sermons about how tomorrow would belong to them. The media was cultivated to present him as an exciting new face in pragmatic Islamic politics, and the Bright Path as the party of the future. Power brokers knew the dire results of openly opposing him, such as having one’s family slaughtered, and were taking a neutral position. The president of Pakistan had become almost a prisoner in his own office, and his government was weak.

  The overall result was that Waleed’s Bright Path had seeped out of the traditional mountain redoubts of the tribal warlords and Taliban hideouts and was extending its control the way a rude and uninvited guest might take over a man’s home.

  As much as he would like to believe that the Pakistani military was a tired machine with a skipping heart, Waleed knew that it was stronger and better equipped than ever. It was ready to defend the government, up to the unknown point at which one of the generals or colonels changed his mind and staged a coup of his own.

  The vaunted secret police known as the ISI was waiting to see how it all turned out, for they would work with whoever held power.

  Even for a man like Waleed, a warrior with a vision, it was difficult to imagine the power he might soon wield. A combined force of the Taliban, the Pakistani military, and the secret police, allied with al-Qaeda and other terrorism organizations, everyone fired with the zeal of Muslim fundamentalism, would present an incredible front. It would not be merely a new regional regime. A truly united Pakistan and its arsenal of Islamic bombs would be a nuclear superpower.

  Waleed forced himself back to reality. It was not done yet, and many matters called for his personal attention, for the Taliban was still developing the chain of command and even a routine bureaucracy that would allow him to delegate authority. The American prisoners had fallen into his hands like apples from a tree, a gift from Allah, praise be unto his name. There must be a purpose, one that he just did not yet fully understand, although an idea was forming.

  He was satisfied that he had gotten the best of the deal with Mustafa Kahn, the impudent warlord who had not immediately grasped Waleed’s wish that he surrender the prisoners without incident. So there was a bit of revenge to be had, a message to warlords less powerful than Waleed. He sighed with exasperation, for he was juggling a lot of balls and could not afford to drop a single one. He did not need this problem.

  * * *

  “T AKE ME TO THEM ,” Waleed said, walking from his living quarters. A pair of guards led him a quarter mile down a dusty street and into a dirt yard bordered by a mud fence. Six men were kneeling on the ground in a row, facing to the east, toward Mecca and Medina. A guard holding an AK-47 stood at each end of the row. Waleed walked down the line and patted each man’s head, giving them a fatherly touch and muttering words of comfort.

  His voice was gentle and rhythmic. Waleed had long ago learned to speak just above a whisper so people had to strain to hear his words. “Which two of you slew the American soldier in Afghanistan?” he asked.

  “I did, Leader,” said one in the middle, and the man kneeling next to him echoed the answer. “And I, Leader.”

  “Please, stand,” Waleed said, and the guards helped the men to their feet. “Free them.” The blindfolds and wrist restraints were removed. “You did well and followed your instructions perfectly. Your obedience shines as an example to other fighters. Thank you.” He rested a hand on their shoulders, each in turn, then motioned for them to leave.

  “Now, which of you is the brave Fariq, whose uncle is my friend, Mustafa Kahn of Gilgot?”

  “I am Fariq, my Leader.” The man on the left end raised his head, proud that Waleed knew his family.

  Muhammed Waleed tapped Fariq and a man on the other end. “Take those two and put them against the wall.” The guards jerked the men upright and forced them out of line, then shoved them to the wall until their faces were ground against hard rocks embedded in the tall fence. Waleed took the AK-47 from one of the guards and racked the bolt to be certain it was loaded. The safety was off; the firing selector was on automatic.

  “All four of you disobeyed your instructions. Nobody told you to bring back prisoners.” Waleed’s voice began to rise from the normal quietness, and the change was frightening. “You should have killed them on the spot. Instead, you dragged them back to our home ground, caused the destruction of one of our villages, and have left me to clean up your me
ss. I will not tolerate such disobedience.”

  He pointed the weapon and pulled the trigger, holding down firmly on the stock to keep the aim true. Fariq and the man beside him pitched forward, their bodies flopping into the thirsty dirt that soaked up the blood as Waleed kept pounding them, ripping through an entire magazine of bullets. He gave the automatic rifle back to its owner, walked to the final two fighters at the wall, and personally removed their blindfolds. “You men were misled by that incompetent Fariq, and Allah has granted you a second chance at life. This time you will do better. I will have a new task for you that will earn you the right to honorably rejoin the Bright Path. Do you understand this?”

  “Yes, Leader.”

  “Yes, Leader.”

  Waleed patted each on the shoulder again and said, “Good boys.” He went back to his office. Fariq was buried that night in barren ground far away.

  WESTERN PAKISTAN

  “W HERE ARE WE, J AVON? Where they taking us? What are they going to do to us now?” Jake Henderson was bewildered.

  “Be still, Jake. Still and quiet.” Sergeant Anthony was trying to figure out those same questions.

  Henderson was too nervous to listen. So much had happened during the past twenty-four hours that his nerves were stretched tight and his pulse raced. One minute they were getting ready to flay him alive, then there was the big explosion, then they were beaten some more, then they were out of the village, driven away in a comfortable SUV under minimal guard. “Why did they untie us? How come those Talibans that grabbed us are gone? Who are these new guys?”

  “Jake, if I could answer any of those questions for you, I would. All I know for certain is that we are both still alive and unharmed.”

  “I was harmed. Bitch cut off my tattoo.” Jake’s fingers touched the clean bandage around his bicep. The arm was still sore, and the vision of the sharp knives played over and over in his mind like a sports highlight reel.

  Javon decided to ignore him. The boy would talk until his tongue fell out if he thought anybody would listen. Maybe some silence would chill him a bit. Anthony assessed the moment. No doubt things had changed dramatically for the two of them, but why? He rubbed his wrists. Loose handcuffs bound their hands in front of them, and all other restraints had been removed. They were in the back of a cargo truck, having changed vehicles twice during the night, and were now on a paved road with the sounds of other traffic. A single guard wearing local clothing sat opposite them with a rifle across his knees. He was an old guy with a belly and a big mustache and smoked a cigarette, hardly looking at the Americans after having given them some water and some spicy meat wrapped in what looked like tortillas. No use trying to jump him and escape, for there was nowhere to go. The threatening demeanor of their captors had entirely changed.

  “Javon?”

  “What is it, Jake?”

  “We gonna be all right?”

  “Dunno. We’re better off now than we were yesterday. Can’t tell you about tomorrow.” Anthony motioned to the guard, pointing to his own eyes and to the front of the truck. The guard nodded approval, and Javon crawled on his knees to a position just behind the cab and peered through a small window that let him look over the shoulders of the driver and another guard. Far ahead was a sparkle of light, a fat dome of man-made illumination. He got back into his seat.

  “What’s out there, Sarge? Where we at?”

  “God damn, Jake, give it a rest, will you? I think they’re taking us into a city. Now shut up and try to sleep.”

  6

  ABOARD THE VAGABOND

  “I HAVE TO LEAVE .”

  “You’re not ready.”

  “A message came in from Washington an hour ago. Jim Hall of the CIA. I’ve been ordered to report to Bagram.”

  “I repeat. You’re not ready for operational status.” Sir Jeff slid his reading glasses down his nose and peered over the steel rims. “Not in Afghanistan or anywhere else.”

  Kyle drank some coffee. “Running and stamina are the only things that are below par for me right now. I’ve been exercising for hours every day for weeks but still don’t quite have my wind back. Can’t do a real five-mile run on a tub like this.”

  “This tub, as you call it, is a one-hundred-million-dollar yacht. Show some respect. And I know you use the treadmill in the gym.”

  “Not the same.”

  “I agree.” He smacked the arms of his wheelchair in mock frustration. “I’ll be glad to get rid of this damned thing and at least do a mile. Even so, the treadmill is no substitute for a military course.”

  “No heavy pack, no curves, no rocks underfoot, no obstacles. I jog along, listening to music.”

  “You’re not ready, Kyle. Tell them that.”

  “I’m ready enough. Get on shore, work out some kinks, get my endurance back up. I’ll be ready to kick ass.”

  Sir Jeff smiled. “Who are you lying to, Kyle-me or yourself? Our friend Jim Hall is putting together a package, and you think there will be time to do some conditioning? No, the CIA, particularly Jim, does not work that way. He will expect everyone, including you, to arrive ready to roll. He will throw you right into the cauldron. My guess is that it will be in Pakistan.”

  Swanson pushed back the chair and walked to the rectangular window, rubbing a hand along the wainscoting of polished African mahogany. “Ahhh. I’m bored, Jeff.”

  “I know that. I’m bored, too, but I’m in this wheelchair, you see? Reality is involved, Kyle. Boredom sometimes must be endured. Then there’s the quality of your shooting to consider.”

  “I’ve been banging skeet on the boat and running bullets through Excalibur at floating targets.”

  Sir Jeff laughed derisively. “Neither of those is the same as real shooting under battlefield conditions. Another reason that you’re not ready. So there is your wind to consider, and also your shooting eye. Tell me truthfully, lad, could you take out a terrorist at four hundred meters today? Five hundred?”

  “Yeah. Sure I could. I could have taken down those pirates on that speedboat, except you wanted to play with them instead.”

  “That was more important. It was a field test of a new weapons system that you helped design and, I shall remind you, will bring you a lot of money in your declining years.”

  “Still, I could have picked them all off. Sniping ain’t exactly rocket science.”

  “Actually, it is. Maybe even more difficult, because space rockets are not living beings and do not shoot back.” Cornwell rolled his chair forward and peered at Swanson with eagle eyes. “You obviously are not sure you’re ready at all, and that uncertainty is hardly the correct frame of mind for some world-class combat shooting. By the way, Hall did not ask my opinion, or I would have advised him to find someone else and let you finish your rehabilitation in peace.”

  “Oh, bullshit, Jeff. How many missions did you refuse just because you had a couple of bumps or bruises? Hell, I know that story of how you had a broken arm and lied and bullied your way aboard a plane for a jump.”

  “Don’t change the subject. That was just a training exercise. Kyle, it is not proper for you to take on a special ops mission just to salve your ego. Not just for a lark. Muck it up and there could be hell to pay.”

  “I can do this, Jeff.”

  “Now you’re just whining.” Sir Jeff stopped talking and unfolded a newspaper with great ceremony, snapping the pages open. “I have said my piece. I shall not allow some common American Marine to turn me into a grumpy old man. Will you still be aboard for breakfast tomorrow?”

  Swanson did not look away from the window, just shook his head negatively and continued to watch the passing small, frothy waves. In the fading sun the water was like gold. “The Ike is in the area and will send a helo to pick me up about oh nine hundred. From there I take a plane to Bagram.”

  “Very well, then. I think that I shall wheel off to bed now. Sleep well tonight, son. It has been my experience that you might need the rest. I shall see you tomorrow morning.�
�

  * * *

  K YLE S WANSON WALKED AFT along the central corridor of the huge yacht, then up the circular staircase to the main deck, and back again to the broad rear deck. He dropped into a chair and propped his feet up on the lower railing. The Vagabond was driving hard to the southwest, churning a good wake that pointed toward the dimming horizon. The place he was sitting was sheltered from the wind. He popped open a small green bottle of cold Perrier water and drank half of it in two long gulps. “Well, fuck me,” he muttered.

  After the quick, intense fighting in Saudi Arabia, everyone involved was determined to force U.S. Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson to take a long, long break. He needed to recover from some wounds, but also to recover from the mental stress of having had so much work fall on him.

  Jim Hall had provided no details about the new package, other than that he looked forward to working with Kyle again. It had to be something unique and special. Knowing Jim, that hint that they would be working together meant they would probably have to kill somebody, sometime, somewhere, in secret. It had to be in Pakistan, Swanson figured. The CIA had made a direct request for him by name, but Kyle knew that he could either accept or pass. He was assigned to Task Force Trident, a covert operations force that operated on a Presidential Finding from the White House. Although hidden inside the Marine Corps, he was occasionally loaned out to other agencies when the task was approved by the Oval Office. Hall would not have even sent the message if he did not have that authorization, or thought Kyle was not up to it. Of all people, he knew that Kyle Swanson lived for these jobs. It was a chance to get back into the game, if Kyle wanted to do so. He did.

  For the first time in two weeks, Kyle suddenly wanted a cold beer. He looked at the green bottle; the bubble water tasted pretty good. A small price to pay for staying in shape. Swanson had realized during this recovery period that he had been leaning for a while against the shaky wall of becoming an alcoholic. Then he found that he was also relying on narcotics to ease his pain and help him rest, too easily reaching for the pill bottles for relief. By the sheer force of his willpower, he had entered a rehab program of his own design and turned off those switches in his brain. He had not had a beer or even a glass of wine for three months. Alcohol also packed on the weight. He missed cold beer the most, but his body was thanking him for kicking the habit. No booze. No smoking. No pills except the required antibiotics. Hard exercise. Excellent diet. He figured that for such sacrifice, a healthier body had better be worth the effort.