Jack Coughlin - An Act of Treason

She found a private shower stall, shucked off her sweaty clothes, and turned on the hot water. Liberal handfuls of shampoo and conditioner were needed to slosh the clinging dust from her hair. This was one dirty place. She switched the water to a blast of cold.

As Lauren dried off with a thick towel, she found that she was not only miffed at Kyle Swanson, but she was also peeved with Jim Hall. Not long after she went to work at the CIA, they had almost inevitably become lovers, although it did not last a very long time. Neither wanted an office romance to derail a career. They ended it by mutual agreement but over the years had remained close, and they still occasionally slipped between the sheets, comfortable with each other. It wasn’t really a thing, but now Jim seemed to be pushing her away, making no effort to fight for her, to keep Kyle from making any moves. It was as if Jim were clearing her from his life. If he did not want her around anymore, why didn’t he just say so?

She brushed and flossed her teeth, sat on a bench, and slowly rubbed skin lotion on her hands and body. Why wasn’t Kyle being more aggressive? Didn’t he find her attractive? In the few hours they had known each other, she had already done everything but plead for some sex. He thinks I’m just pretty! I was in the Miss America Pageant, for God’s sake! She had an emergency need to go check herself in the long bathroom mirror and was relieved to see that she had not turned into a troll with big zits on her nose.

She slid into a blue bra and panties and a little robe, then spent some time giving her hair some serious brushing, followed by a bit of makeup, staring at her reflection all the while. Why doesn’t anybody want me? The clean dark suit and gray blouse were waiting in the garment bag, with her low heels, and when she put it all on, she immediately perked up. It was her CIA all-business costume. A little more lip gloss, spinning around to look at the back view, and she declared herself ready to return to the Spec Ops office.

Both of the bastards were there, standing beside a wall map, talking to the two crewmen of the ghost plane. None of them gave her a second glance. She growled a soft order to herself to stop pouting. Men can be such assholes. At least someone had loaded the Mr. Coffee with a fresh packet of Dunkin’ Donuts brew, so she poured a mug and walked over to the group. She could pretend to look at maps, too.

Jim Hall finally noticed she was alive. “Wheels up for Islamabad in an hour, Lauren,” he said.

“You look nice,” said Kyle.

Nice!? That’s all?

ISLAMABAD

K YLE S WANSON , J IM H ALL ,and Lauren Carson rolled through the wide avenues of the capital city in the comfort of a black SUV, with a CIA driver up front. The air-conditioning flowed with a cool insistence that pleased Lauren, who was handling the logistics for the trip. The laptop in her briefcase was a one-mission personal computer that contained the access codes for a ten-million-dollar blind bank account that had been set up for expenses, probably including bribes, before they left Langley. With details on her mind, she was in full business mode and paid little attention to the men around her, but having come out of the blandness of Bagram, she was surprised at the showcase buildings sliding past them on Ataturk Avenue.

The capital of Pakistan was a metropolis that had been carefully designed to show important foreigners that the country was more than just a collection of dun-colored buildings and tin-shack slums. No doubt there were slums on the outskirts and narrow back roads stacked with filth, but there were few signs of open rebellion or reminders of war. This was a city of diplomacy, of business, of deals.

Jim Hall had been here many times and knew exactly where they were going and what they were going to do, so he just drummed his fingers in time with a tune running through his head.

Swanson had taken the front passenger seat and stayed silent for the entire trip, watchful and wary as he began preparing himself mentally for the job ahead. He would be fighting somewhere in these beautiful streets soon, kill or be killed, and there was no such thing as too much information. Where others saw bright, clean buildings, Kyle Swanson saw the shaded alleys between them and the dark windows that stared back at him like blank eyes.

He and the driver were the only ones carrying weapons. Hall decreed, as a matter of spook protocol, that he and Lauren could not walk into an expensive hotel room to meet a valuable contact with weapons on them.

“Screw that,” Swanson said and checked out the.45 ACP pistol that he had requested before leaving Afghanistan. Since they had arrived in the ghost plane, customs officers had given them a quick wave through; then the heavy CIA SUV took them away. Swanson wore jeans, a black T-shirt, and a lightweight tan sports coat. He stuck the pistol into the back of his belt, which forced him to change position in his seat. “What else do we have in this wagon?”

“My personal handgun, a street-sweeper shotgun clamped beneath the front seat, and an Uzi under a panel in the rear. Smoke grenade and extra ammo in the glove box.” The driver turned smoothly off Ataturk and onto Aga Khan Road. “Plus, this buggy is pretty much bulletproof. Safe, but lousy on mileage.”

He maneuvered slowly through the double blast barrier and came to an easy stop in the broad driveway of the Islamabad Marriott. Nice address, Kyle thought. Not far away was the office of Pakistan’s president.

Lauren adjusted a sheer black scarf to cover her head in respect for the Muslim tradition, although it did little to conceal her beauty. They entered through tall glass doors and were into the spacious ground-floor lobby, a quiet hive of activity. Diplomats, businessmen, political figures, and hangers-on of various stripes were gathered in clumps around the chairs and sofas on the rich carpets. The faces were all friendly. A plump banker was in a large chair, speaking with a general from some African nation, who was in full gilt dress regalia. On another sofa, a British journalist interviewed a Japanese builder of computers. There was just enough noise in the lobby, with enough occasional laughter coming from the nearby restaurant, to cover the appearance of the three Americans. They were sized up as just another business team in from the States, and although the woman was gorgeous, the men were forgettable. With aimless chatter, they worked their way through the islands of conversation.

Their shoes made no sound as they moved across the thick carpets and knotted rugs, reached the bank of elevators, and went up to a floor of private suites. The hotel staff had made certain that for this one hour, all other rooms along this hallway would be empty of other guests. Hall stopped before the door of Suite One, opened it, and stepped inside.

“M Y GOOD FRIEND !” S ELIMstepped forward and extended his hand. “It is good to see you again, Jim Hall. My father sends his best wishes and regrets that he cannot be here today.”

Hall shook the hand and gave the younger man a pat on the shoulder. “Selim. You are the very image of your honorable father when he was a young firebrand. It is good to see you, too.” He introduced Lauren and Kyle in turn, and the dark-haired Selim was as stylish as a European in acknowledging them.

Swanson broke the mood, sensing trouble. “This is your contact, Jim?”

Hall grinned sheepishly. “Not quite. He represents his father, whom I have known and worked with for years. We cannot be seen together in public, so Selim is our go-between. Good at the job, too.”