An Act of Treason Read online

  J IM H ALL WAS SPREAD out comfortably aboard a Citation Bravo executive jet, the modified Cessna 550 model, sliding through the night sky at four hundred knots and thirty-five thousand feet. He had dropped the facing seat to make a bed, changed into an old Adidas tracksuit for comfort, popped five milligrams of Ambien, lowered a silk mask over his eyes, and stuck the buds of an iPod into his ears. Classical music and the drug would ease him into sleep while they crossed the pond.

  The private plane was one of the ghost fleet, special aircraft owned by an Agency front company and used primarily for unique missions such as renditions and paramilitary support. The small, quick plane, with its pair of Pratt & Whitney turbofan engines mounted aft and high, had been to a lot of places, always off the record. It was still bouncing through some air pockets from a storm front that was closing across the East Coast but would rise through the clouds soon. Lauren Carson was across the aisle, wide-awake, to answer the phone if he needed to know anything.

  This was style, exactly the way Hall wanted to run the final assignment of his career with the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency. Word had spread that he was about to retire, and even before he left Langley to board the plane at Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland, he had detected the tattered threads of disrespect tangling around his ankles. Invisible shackles. After this, he would be nobody; another old man gone. Somebody else would become the special assistant to the deputy director of operations, and there would be a string of promotions on down the ladder. The CIA was a gigantic bureaucracy. No desk stayed empty very long.

  He changed position in the seat and increased the volume of the music to mask the whine of the engines. Like many workers with a lot of years in any industry or business, Hall had become disillusioned with his profession.

  The first major puncture in the balloon of faith came with the hard lesson that the shield of anonymity provided to CIA agents was neither impenetrable nor absolute. That idea was knocked for a loop when a political scandal ripped the name and face of one agent out of the shadows. The president of the United States himself had declassified the identity and thrown her to the political and media wolves. The affair actually had made Jim Hall feel a little better, because it proved that he was not the only person running a game in the dangerous jungle known as Washington, D.C. In fact, he figured that he was one of the littler fish. After he assessed how the impact of an agent being outed had spread like a virus through Langley and ruptured so much trust, he decided that it was only prudent for him to prepare for the unexpected; in other words, cover his ass.

  Hall was one of the old-timers who had been chosen to help put the trust train back on track and given the rank of special assistant to the DDO. Instead of being a plum assignment, a springboard to an even better position, he viewed it as a sign that he had gone as high as he was going in the Agency. His lack of formal education was given as the reason for the blockade. He had managed to earn an associate’s degree from a community college, but that could not compare with bright men and women from the Yales and the Harvards. A lifetime of experience spent in the weeds, learning about the world and risking his life to protect the nation, could not overcome the ivy-covered walls of academia. It grated on him and made him feel inadequate: Which of them could do what he had done? None!

  Nevertheless, he had set about the new job with gusto, coming out of the chill of being a spy to craft a very public persona. Jim Hall became the top CIA lobbyist on Capitol Hill, where he was a coveted source of news tidbits for the media hounds, and the go-to guy when deals needed to be struck in cloakrooms of the Capitol concerning the intelligence community and its secrets. He was amply rewarded with limos and unlimited credit cards and girls and fancy restaurants and embassy parties, seats at the Kennedy Center, status, and entrée into the corridors of power, including the White House. He even had the beautiful Lauren Carson around to carry his briefcase. Hiding in plain sight and being highly paid in many ways was a life that Hall enjoyed.

  Every once in a while, for a special job, he had to return to his roots for a mission and pick up a weapon or personally guide a black operation. Then the affable Jim Hall would disappear from Washington, and Ms. Carson would explain that he was skiing at his condo at Crested Butte, or fishing in Alaska, or visiting his mother down in Palm Beach. After a few weeks, Hall would reenter the Capitol hive, cheering up everyone with risqué jokes and making his rounds of secret briefings and dropping pro-Agency propaganda to journalists. It was perfect.

  Retirement would end that easy access to power and money. He could live out a full life within a protective bubble, mowing his suburban lawn and cooking bratwursts over his propane grill. That held no appeal whatsoever for Jim Hall. There was the option of becoming a real lobbyist for a defense company, but that meant that he would eventually end up as one of the old guys standing alone at the end of the bar at the National Press Club, soup stains on a wrinkled tie, hoping for a conversation about the good old days. Hall had decided to make other arrangements.

  * * *

  A CROSS THE NARROW AISLE , fully alert at a little desk, sat Lauren Carson. She watched Jim settle down and fall asleep so amazingly quickly, as if he had not a care in the world. An old warrior’s trait, he had explained; eat and sleep when you can because you don’t know how long it will be before the next meal or rest. His chest barely moved, and the slightly parted lips breathed in the cool cabin air.

  She had been with him for six years, straight out of the training farm, and admired the tough, quirky guy with the sharp sense of humor. She had no illusions: Jim always looked out for Jim. He always had a plan, was always a couple of steps ahead of everyone else. He was also a liar and some other unsavory things, like being a professional killer, but he was, after all, a veteran field agent of the Central Intelligence Agency. He was a spy, as was she. Another major difference was that Lauren had never killed anyone, not that she objected to the possibility of having to do so.

  She felt a tug of regret that it was going to all be over for him, for them, so soon. There was also a twang of guilt because his retirement also represented an opportunity for her. Finally, she would be able to leave the administrative side and take an assignment in a field office abroad to punch that necessary career ticket.

  Lauren knew she was ready for field work and would prove that once again in Pakistan. She picked up a phone built into a wall holder and spoke softly to the two pilots up in the flight deck. Nothing of interest. Stay focused.

  * * *

  T HE TWO T ALIBAN FIGHTERS who were spared at the wall of the execution yard, Makhdoom Ragiq and Mohammad Sial, understood that they were living on borrowed time. They could only trust their future to the will of Allah and the whims of the Leader of the Bright Path. So far, things had worked out well, although in a very strange manner, for while they were safe and being well treated, no one shared information with them.

  It was easily determined that they were being contained within a Class A prison near Peshawar, close to the Khyber Pass in the rugged northwest. In the morning light, they were pleased to be able to see the mountains from the windows of their rooms. The domed towers of the Islamia College were to the left. Most of the doors remained open at the prison, and there was plenty of tasty food served by attractive girls who also offered other pleasures.

  The open doors did not mean freedom of movement. The pair were told they would remain in the prison while Muhammed Waleed completed his thoughts about how best to employ them. Waleed’s representatives also assured the fighters that they were being kept out of sight for their own safety in case of further reprisal attacks by the Americans, and their incarcerations would be brief.

  They leaped to their feet when a young man in a tan Western suit, light blue shirt, and matching tie entered their rooms, wearing a small silver falcon, wings outspread, in his lapel. The hunting falcon was the symbol of the Bright Path Party. His beard barely covered his face, as if he shaved frequently.

  “Ah, thank you for being here today,
” the man said in a polite tone. “Please excuse my being late. You both are aware of the need for secrecy and deception in operational situations, so it would be better if you do not know my real name. I am here to represent the Wise Ones.” He dipped his head as if in modest apology, then brightened. “You may call me Selim. And please sit down and be comfortable. We have something to discuss.”

  The room became still as he looked them over-wiry tribal men with smoldering dark eyes, ashamed that their beards had been trimmed and their fingernails cleaned. They were both in Western-style clothing, clearly uncomfortable. “You look perfect,” Selim said.

  “I am a mountain fighter and would rather blow up a building than wear these clothes,” declared Makhdoom Ragiq. The taller, older man, with his mustache and beard cut back, displayed bad teeth within a narrow mouth when he spoke.

  Selim shrugged his shoulders. “You both will soon be transferred to lodgings in Islamabad, to a place in which rough mountain fighting clothes would be too different. You have to blend into your surroundings, just as on a battlefield.”

  “What do you want of us, Selim?” The second man, a short fellow with a moon face, a muscular body, and oily hair, asked the question directly and in a firm voice.

  Selim responded with a further helping of praise. “You are both very valuable fighters, and the Leader and the Wise Ones were correct in recommending that I be responsible for you while the Americans are hunting you. I have agreed to keep you safe, but you will have to endure the dreadful ways of the Western world for a little while longer. Then you can go back home, back to your mountains out there, if you so wish. Do you understand?”

  The two fighters looked at each other. They were true soldiers and followed orders. Someday, God willing, they would figure out how they had gone so quickly from being battlefield specialists to having to dress and act like infidel tourists. All they knew was that they were kept alive after the fiasco initiated by Fariq, that son of a whore dog. They would do the bidding of the Wise Ones without question, although it was something too complex for them to fathom.

  “You brought great honor to our cause by participating in the death mission of the American. It was a daring and courageous act that struck fear into the infidels, Allah be praised. All true Muslims cheer you.” He skipped over any mention of the kidnap and Fariq.

  “Thank you. But what do you want?”

  “We need your services again.”

  That brought a sense of swift ease to the pair of soldiers. The short man asked, “Where will we do this favor? Will we go back into Afghanistan again?”

  “No,” Selim answered. “This time it will be right here in Pakistan. You will be housed in an apartment in the best part of Islamabad until you are required to act.”

  “We need to train our bodies and our spirits, sir,” said Makhdoom Ragiq. “We will need details. Many details, to make our plans.”

  “There is little time. You can exercise in the privacy of the apartment suite. I am personally handling the planning. Once you are in Islamabad, I shall give you the details. Tell me at that time whatever other information you need and it will be provided.”

  The tall man spoke again. “And when do you want this, this operation done?”

  “Very soon. Perhaps just a few days. Everything is being arranged. Rest here until I call for you with a car. We will make the trip down to Islamabad together.” Selim smiled a final time and left the room as quietly as he had entered.

  9

  BAGRAM AIR BASE

  AFGHANISTAN

  TUESDAY

  T HE C ITATION SETTLED OUT of the predawn sky, blacked out even on the landing approach into Bagram Air Base. The mottled black-and-gray paint scheme blended seamlessly with the surrounding darkness. Cockpit avionics did most of the heavy work as the control tower cleared a path through all of the air and ground traffic. The plane whispered down onto a concrete runway that was almost ten thousand feet long, rolled to a stop, and scooted in behind a little tractor that guided the humming aircraft plane over to the Special Operations ramp, and then into a secure hangar. All interior lights had been turned off. Big doors rumbled closed, the lights came back on, and the engines shut down.

  The ground crews jumped to work, preparing the bird for a quick turnaround. It was not the kind of plane that kept a strict schedule, and this was not a normal airport. This particular Citation was to be ready to go at a moment’s notice, with never an official flight plan on record. Everybody who needed to know about it would be advised at the proper time, given what they needed, and no more. Cargo manifests and passenger lists did not exist.

  Two crewmen popped the hatch from the inside. They sauntered down the small staircase and walked a short distance from the plane, where they stopped and looked around while stretching their arms, twisting and bending to loosen the muscles that had cramped during the long trip. There were no salutes. The flight line workers gave the air crew no attention: just another couple of pilots.

  A man in a dark suit appeared at the top of the stairs, and he reeked of authority. He stood motionless and looked around the vast hangar, but the angular face registered no emotion. It was only a moment of passing interest for the technicians, who did not pause in their jobs of servicing the plane. He was just another of the many VIPs who had passed through this special hangar over the years. Maybe a congressman or somebody. Who cared? A clean SUV cruised to the tip of the wing and stopped.

  It was after he came down the stairs that things came to a momentary jarring halt, for a slender, beautiful blond woman lugging a small bag appeared in the doorway. Now here was a rare and agreeable sight for the grease monkeys, a real live white-skinned leggy American beauty wearing a dark blue pantsuit that emphasized her figure. The noise level fell perceptibly around the hangar. Every workman who had a chance to see her suddenly realized that he had been in Afghanistan too damned long. A dropped crescent wrench clanged against the concrete floor and brought them all back to life again.

  An Army officer who had gotten out of the passenger side of the waiting vehicle came to attention and saluted the man, struggling to keep his eyes away from the blonde, wondering if she was also a VIP or just arm candy for the guy in the dark suit. “Welcome to Bagram, sir… ma’am,” he said. “This vehicle and its driver are yours for the duration of your stay.”

  “Excellent, Captain,” the man growled. He immediately climbed into the backseat of the big black Ford Expedition SUV. He said nothing to the driver, who was expected to already have instructions.

  Lauren Carson smiled politely at the captain. She refused his offer of help with her bag, and at the vehicle she bent over slightly, snapped shut the handle and the little wheels, and used both hands to heave the bag into the backseat. The man pulled it in. She climbed in, and the captain closed the door, the darkened windows shutting off the view of her golden hair. The driver turned on the big 5.4L Triton V8 engine and dropped the automatic transmission into gear, and the SUV drove out through a smaller door in the hangar.

  While Lauren had diverted attention, the two fliers who had been the first off the plane split up. One headed for a pilots’ lounge at the end of the building. The taller man pulled at the rumpled seat of his olive green flight suit, put on a blue Air Force campaign cap bearing the silver eagle of a full colonel, and casually walked out into the breaking dawn. It was getting cold, and the temperature stung his cheeks. An old brown Army Humvee was waiting, and he got inside and shut the cloth door.

  The driver looked at him with open contempt. “You’re no more an Air Force bird colonel than I’m the Little Mermaid,” he said. “In fact, I think you’re a goddam spook.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” the new passenger replied. “That’s a pretty smart mouth for a shit-eating Marine to use when talking to his betters.” Jim Hall’s face split into a grin. “Hello, Kyle. Good to see you again.” He reached out a hand.

  Kyle Swanson shook hands with his friend, then cranked the Humvee. “Hello, Jimmy. We go
ing to cause some trouble?”

  “Oh, yeah, my boy. Bet the farm on that. Now drive.”

  * * *

  L AUREN C ARSON HAD MADE several trips with her boss to Iraq, but this was her first time in Afghanistan. The huge mountain range that reached into the brightening sky in the east like a huge wall took her breath away. Then she compared that ageless wonder with the military base. Remarkable. It was also huge, a place that was becoming a strange, small city with a first-class airport. The SUV driver had turned the heater on low to fight the chilly morning air. Bagram was five thousand feet above sea level, and snow would soon layer those huge Hindu Kush mountains overlooking the base. The arid peaks would be impassable within a couple of months.

  The senior commander at Bagram was a U.S. Army two-star, the top slot of a chain of command that looked like a spider’s web more than an efficient flow chart. Other branches of the American armed services were there, and U.S. Air Force planes of all sizes were the predominant feature. Fleets of construction vehicles were busy beneath the racks of bright lights, biting and shaping more land so Bagram could continue to expand. The American war that had started in Afghanistan after 9/11, then shifted to Iraq, then heated up again in Afghanistan was undergoing a new phase as tensions grew in Pakistan. The strategic location of Bagram made it essential to any and all of those efforts.

  Lauren felt that the huge base was coiled and tense with an alertness that seemed to her to be beyond the normal military sense of security. Off to her left, an F-15 Strike Eagle roared into the violet sky on tails of blue-white fire, with ribbons of white mist streaming back from the wings that fought for lift in the thin air. It was slung heavy with bombs. This was Afghanistan, not Arkansas, and war was just over the horizon.

  Her SUV turned a corner away from a neat street of tentlike buildings and pulled to a halt at a square fortified position from which a helmeted soldier behind a.50 caliber machine gun kept watch as another guard, in a full armored vest and camo battle gear, came forward. The driver rolled down his window, and the guard peered inside. “Identification, please,” he said.