Jack Coughlin - An Act of Treason

The doctor moved to him and put on a blood pressure cuff, timed it, then used a stethoscope to listen to his heart and lungs. As he ran his hands over Javon’s limbs, he said, “You are a strong and healthy young man, Mr. Anthony. A few bruises, but nothing else is wrong with you. I expected some broken bones.”

Javon gave a bitter laugh. “Except for being prisoners and expecting to be killed at any moment.”

“You must think us to be monsters.”

“Pretty close, Doc. Pretty damned close.”

The doctor stood and pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his white coat. “I understand. Really, I do. Just remember that in wars, monsters come in all shapes and sizes and wear all sorts of uniforms.”

Anthony let the comment slide. “So where are we? Can you at least tell us that?”

“For the time being, you are in my private clinic on the outskirts of Islamabad. My job was to judge your health and chances of recovery. As I have said, you are both fine. I will tell the people in charge of you that I recommend a full day of rest here. You will remain handcuffed to the beds. I have treated you with respect, so please do not cause a ruckus. Beyond that, I do not know. As God wills.”

He checked the handcuffs linked to the metal hospital bed frames, then left the room.

“He spoke good English, for a raghead,” said Henderson.

Anthony gave the chain a jerk. It rattled without giving any indication of looseness. “He probably attended medical school in England, Jake. Not everybody over here rides a camel.”

“So let’s escape!” Henderson swiveled upright and into a sitting position. “Get out of here, Javon. I feel good enough to make a run for it. You tell me what to do and we’ll do it.”

Anthony pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “Bet your soul that they have guards right outside the doors and windows, Jake. Compared to what happened to us in the first twenty-four hours after our capture, we have it pretty good right now. Best not to rock this particular boat too hard.”

“I don’t understand,” Henderson said, helping himself to a cup of water on a small bedside table.

“Makes two of us. Listen up: Islamabad is the capital city, which means there are plenty of Americans around town, and an American embassy in the diplomatic quarter. If things suddenly go bad, I want you to try to get there. Never mind me. Just go.”

“I won’t leave you, Sarge.”

“It might be our best hope. I might be able to create enough of a diversion to help you get away. You reach the embassy and they will know I’m still alive and come get me.”

“What kind of diversion?”

Sergeant Anthony rolled slightly to one side and raised his right hand. In it was a glittering sharp scalpel he had stolen from the doctor’s bag. Jake Henderson said, “Awwright.”

BAGRAM AIR BASE

K YLE S WANSON AND L AURENCarson ran at an easy pace, padding along side by side on a track that was part of the base exercise facilities. Hall declined the morning run to make some last-minute arrangements before they all headed over to Islamabad.

Lauren wore a lightweight Washington Redskins jersey, loose black nylon sweatpants, and dirty shoes that were coming apart at the seams from so much use. She did three miles every day. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail that swished as she ran. Kyle was in shorts and a Red Sox T-shirt. He doubted if anyone noticed him.

“CIA agents are supposed to be low-key and invisible. You don’t exactly blend in with the woodwork,” he joked. “Every guy on the track is going to trip over their own feet staring at you.”

She laughed and shook her head, making the ponytail bounce even more. “Can’t help that,” she said. “Jim taught me to do just the opposite. Since I can’t really hide my looks, I play it to my advantage. Being just a pretty dumb blonde is good cover. Nobody takes me seriously.”

“Until it’s too late.”

“Yeah. Men can be pretty dumb.” They finished the rest of the first quarter mile in silence, finding a rhythm in the run.

“Well, you are pretty.”

Lauren shot him a flinty sideways look, then changed the subject. “Jim says you’re rich. So why do you do this work if you have a lot of money?”

Kyle looked over at her with a flash of annoyance. “I live on my Marine salary, Lauren. I was lucky enough to fall in with some good folks, and we did some crucial and timely weapons development. Everything I did had Corps approval. The company has allotted me a small ownership stake and invested all of my shares in a trust. They never even let me see a statement. I don’t want to know.”

“That doesn’t answer the question of why continue with this killing people stuff if you can get out and live in comfort.” Their pace was comfortable, and neither was breathing hard.

“I like my job,” he said. This was not exactly the kind of conversation he’d had in mind when he asked if she wanted to come along for the jog.

They finished the first mile. “Tracks are boring,” she said. “Can we run on the streets?”

“Better not. You attract too much attention. Let’s stay in the Spec Ops area.”

“I’ve never killed anyone,” she said with a sudden honesty, a serious comment that surprised him. “Does it bother you afterward?”

“You have to deal with it mentally at some point,” Swanson replied. “If you ever have to pull a trigger, remember that your target was a danger and posed a threat, sometimes a major threat to others, even to your country. That is not some personal saddle to lug around for the rest of your life.”

“How many have you killed, Kyle? Jim says you’re the best.”

“It isn’t a numbers game, or some shooting competition with paper targets, Lauren.” His voice was edgy. “I never kept score.”

“Humh.” They ran around the track again without speaking. Then she said, “Know what I think? I think it is some kind of competition for you. Jim says that with Kyle Swanson, what you see is what you get, that you are Mr. Incorruptible because you don’t have to care about money, and you don’t have to care about right or wrong because you work for that weird Task Force Trident unit that answers only to the president. So what do you care about? You care about being the best, ol’ Numero Uno.”

Swanson picked up the pace, and so did she. “You are sounding like a psychiatrist with that kind of crap, Agent Carson. Don’t try to dissect me.”

She ignored his comment. “You’re like an NFL linebacker who cannot wait to get into the game. All your senses point you to the action, and only then, with some game-saving tackle at the goal line, only then is Kyle Swanson a happy man. How’d I do?”

“I’m not on your couch, shrink.”

She looked over with a teasing grin, reached out with the flat of her hand, and slapped his butt. “Wanna be?”

P RETTY ? T HAT ’ S ALL ? H E thinks I’m just pretty? Lauren, appropriately yucky and aching after the long run, stomped back to a tentlike VIP barracks for women.

On the plus side, there was a feeling that she might have eventually been able to outdistance Kyle today. Maybe he was still not up to his maximum workout because of that wound he had suffered in Saudi Arabia; he might be still recovering. Perhaps he wasn’t Superman after all. That did not mean she was not intrigued by him. That was about the only good thing she could think of at the moment.