Jack Coughlin - An Act of Treason

Selim flinched in surprise. He grasped for a response. Nothing worthy of the situation came to his lips. Jim Hall turning traitor? Selim’s father had said nothing of this, but Hall and the old man had been communicating in secret ways for many years, and Selim was just one channel. They had already made some kind of deal.

“You have been with the Central Intelligence Agency for a very long time.” Selim said it as a statement, no more than conversation between two friends. “In your capitalist system, such a lifetime of excellent service should guarantee you a good pension. Enough to see you through your old age, correct?” In the distance, there was the sudden rapid burp of submachine gun fire, followed by the pops of pistols. “Somebody apparently tried to run a roadblock out at the edge of the city,” Selim observed.

Hall laughed. “Probably Kyle causing trouble. Hope nobody was hurt. Anyway, a government pension would never be enough for me. I have to give up more than money-my access, too. No more White House dinners, no more invitations from rich guys for salmon fishing trips in Alaska, no more pretty young girls furnished with my suites in Las Vegas. No more excitement. And actually retiring from the CIA is impossible. They always keep track of you and your finances and your friends. For the rest of my life, some agent will be showing up at my front door to snoop. Telephones bugged, e-mails read. The secret life does not let you just quit. I need money and lots of it to pay for the kind of golden years I have in mind.”

Selim steepled his fingers in thought. “Just to be sure that I have heard you correctly, Jim Hall. Again, please. You are telling me that you are going to be a traitor to your country?”

“Yes.”

“And what is it that you are selling?”

“Everything in the store. Twenty years, off and on, with the CIA, and another twenty-four in the Marines. You guys want secrets? I’ve got them.”

Selim involuntarily sucked in his breath. The size of this betrayal was beyond measure. “The Americans will surely come after you with everything they’ve got.”

“Not if they believe I am dead.”

“So our, hmm, this situation tomorrow will mark your exit from the American government service.”

Hall poured refills from the flask again and had a long drink, letting the bourbon sooth his nerves. He was not uncomfortable, because he had carefully thought out his position and now had everyone in the government fooled. His entire life was about to change, and there would be no going back. Of course he was nervous. Once the feeling was identified, he dealt with the emotion and cast it away. Hall steadied himself and began the pitch to close the deal.

“Your father did me a great service today. When those Americans get back to Washington, everyone at Langley will be singing my praises. Then will come the news of my sad death in a very public way, and I will become a CIA legend-the agent who sacrificed himself on a final mission to rescue American prisoners and kill terrorists. Now I will repay your favor with one of my own.”

“What?” Selim was fascinated at the man’s audacity. It might work! He was offering the Taliban access to some of the innermost secrets of America’s best intelligence-gathering apparatus. The Bright Path Party could come to power if it knew what the CIA possessed concerning the opposition party members. That was why he had been sent here. His father wanted him to secure that situation.

“You remember what Swanson said just before he left us a little while ago? About how I might be just trading two prisoners for one? Well, he was right. In addition to the extra two million dollars I signed over, I’m going to give you Kyle Swanson, America’s best covert killer. All I want is a little help for a clean escape.”

Selim just stared silently for a full minute, his dark eyes searching for any sign of hesitancy or a trap. He decided to act. “Then we have a deal, Jim Hall.”

“Outstanding. Now, let’s go look at the apartment where you have set up our new targets. After I see that, I will be able to give final instructions.”

“L ISTEN TO THE CHILDREN .”Mohammed Sial sighed contentedly from the apartment balcony as the voices of hundreds of boys and young men in the madrasah across the street chanted the soothing words of the Koran. His round face beamed with pride.

Makhdoom Ragiq, his tall and taciturn partner, came out and leaned on the low balustrade. The madrasah was a two-story building with an ornate front intricately laced with green, blue, and white tiles and crowned with small towers and minarets. A pair of large doors stood open. Both men had been schooled in the stern madrasahs that dominated all education in the Northwest Frontier. “I think the government has too much influence in these schools in Islamabad. They are too liberal.”

Sial ignored him. Ragiq could find fault in anything. “Just let your soul feel the words,” he coaxed.

Ragiq snorted and let his gaze roam away from the school. “They are learning the alphabet and reading the same verse over and over. Nothing more.” He pointed to the walled compound adjacent to the madrasah. “What do you think is going on over there?”

There was a grinding of truck gears in the broad courtyard, and the shouts of workmen intermingled with the students reading next door. The laborers shoved and stacked boxes against the fence that bordered the school. A forklift balancing three large crates on its twin steel tongues wiggled into a narrow place and raised its load, settled it, then backed away. Racks of lights had been wheeled into place so the work could continue at night. Uniformed soldiers were on the walls, working on the defenses. Stacking the crates against the walls left the center of the camp open for normal operations.

“I don’t know. It’s just a small army camp,” answered Sial. “They probably are stockpiling weapons and materiel, getting ready for when the political problems worsen and the fighting comes here.”

“Then let us hope we can speed that time along. I hate this place.” His dark eyes took in the entire area. It bespoke wealth and prosperity and Western influences that challenged basic Muslim beliefs. European women walked on the sidewalks with their heads uncovered. Islamabad was a cesspool.

Makhdoom Ragiq tapped a Gauloise cigarette from a blue pack and took his time lighting it. Smoke rolled from his mouth and out into the open air, and he inhaled deeply, sucking the flavor into his lungs, then blew it all out again. It was a vice, but no man is perfect, particularly someone like himself. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and the ugly puckered indentation of a bullet wound on his left forearm was a reminder of how often he had cheated death, the last time only a few days ago in the execution yard. The rest of his life was probably going to be short, and he did not intend to worry about having a cigarette. Tobacco would not kill him.

They turned at the sound of someone entering the room behind them. The young Taliban envoy, Selim, called a friendly greeting and motioned them back inside as he removed his suit jacket and handed it to a servant. “The time is close, my friends. Our informants have penetrated the last major obstacle, and I can now tell you more of your mission.”

Sial and Ragiq sat side by side on a long sofa. Finally. “Who?” asked Sial.

“The president of Pakistan,” he said. “The death of the president at this moment will throw Pakistan into chaos.”

Ragiq inhaled his cigarette again, ignoring the displeasure of his host. “Impossible. He has the army on his side, and the security police are everywhere. I am surprised you would even mention this.”