Jack Coughlin - An Act of Treason

“Are you refusing the assignment?” Selim’s voice was chilly.

“No. It is suicidal, but that is unimportant. We will never even get close.”

“Circular protection,” agreed the other fighter. “Rings upon rings. If the government of this country has learned anything from its history, it is that the president and leading political figures must always be considered a target of assassins.” Mohammed Sial had once been a schoolteacher and knew of such things. The list of the slain leaders was long. “It is a difficult tactical problem, to say the least.”

Selim let a smile slide back onto his face. “As I have said before, we are taking care of that. There will be an opportunity, an opening, at a critical moment, and then we shall strike. All you will have to do is put a pistol in his ribs and fire.”

Sial said, “There is no plan for us to escape the scene, I assume.”

“Of course there is. A mob will be jostling around specifically to provide shelter for you. Within a minute after you kill the president, you will be wearing different clothes and have new identities. Within five minutes, you will be safe and headed back here. From here, back to the mountains within an hour.”

“Then anyone could do this job?” Sial asked.

“No. It takes experience and dedication and skill. As fighters, you have all of those assets.” Selim unknotted his silk tie. “It will happen in two days, but tomorrow I have a pleasant surprise. An early reward.” He knew that they were both skeptical of the mission, but his next words would let them think of something else.

“The Taliban and the Bright Path Party have a great deal of influence with the local mosques, and the clerics have given permission for both of you to address the students at the local madrasah. The emotional impact of those young men meeting true frontline fighters will be of great help in inspiring new recruits.”

Fond memories of his own schoolteaching days came flooding back to Sial. “Yes!” he said, clapping his hands. “Wonderful idea. I remember when fighters came to our own classroom when I was a boy. I have never forgotten them.”

For once, Makhdoom Ragiq did not automatically disagree. At least it would get them out of this apartment for a while. Then there was the possibility of imminent action. His muscles began to feel loose. “When do we do this meeting?”

“Tomorrow evening,” Selim replied. “The students have dinner at seven o’clock, then evening prayers. Immediately afterward, when all is ready, someone from the madrasah will come over here to escort you. You will have two hours among them, with tight security to keep you safe. We have bigger things in mind for you, my friends, but I promise that this will be an evening the boys will never forget.”

ISLAMABAD

TUESDAY NIGHT 1830

“G OT CARRIED AWAY Alittle while ago, in my opinion,” said Jim Hall. “I had it under control.”

“The mission changed up in that room, Jim. The terrorists became a secondary issue as soon as those boys were paraded into the room.”

“No doubt. No doubt. I wanted a clean sweep, both the prisoners and the terrorists. Selim was the key. I know him and have worked with his father for years. I knew it was not a double-cross.”

“You can trust the Taliban if you want to. Not me.”

“We have to make deals in this world, Kyle. That’s the way geopolitics operates. Diplomats in the salon, people like me in the shadows. Anyway, what’s done is done. I’m glad they are in the air and out of here, too.”

They were walking in a park, a strangely green and grassy section that had been grown and cultivated just for the purpose of looking pretty. Tall palms threw long and skinny shadows as the sun settled in the west. During the cooler night, a sprinkler system fed the manicured scenery from pumps in an underground man-made reservoir of some of the city’s recycled water.

“Selim showed me around the area while you were gone. Look up there.” He pointed to a tall apartment building. “Third floor, corner apartment nearest to us. That’s where the tangos will be.”

Kyle saw a spacious terrace lined with ornamental iron rails. It was about waist high, and beyond it was an open set of French doors.

Jim Hall pulled out a small notebook and flipped to a folded page. “Sun goes down tomorrow, September 30, at nineteen twenty hours. The Muslims use dusk as the marker, not the exact minute on the clock, but the loudspeakers will be calling everyone to prayer. That’s when we take them.”

Kyle remained silent as he studied the position. “If the targets come out like your Taliban buddy promises.”

His friend laughed and gave a big smile. “Guaranteed. These assholes will be out here on their knees, facing away from us, and touching their heads to their rugs to offer their maghrib prayers as the sun goes down.”

Swanson began to walk toward the building, and Hall fell in beside him. “Where will our hides be?”

Hall put away the notebook and put his hands in his pockets to avoid pointing. Lights were coming on in almost every apartment, and men and women of many nationalities were emerging from the buildings and into the park to enjoy the cooling evening air.

“Right behind us is another apartment building. You will be on the fourth floor, firing from the corner window with the blue curtains. There is an open view of the terrace from there, looking down, and the railing should not be a factor. Selim has made certain the place will be vacant for this entire week, so you will be alone. He offered to furnish a spotter, but I decided that probably would not work out very well after your attitude attack this afternoon.”

Swanson made a quick check, mentally measuring the angle while they stepped off the distance. “Working with the Talibs again?”

“Don’t start with me, Kyle. It is what it is, and you’re in for the whole ride. Now, I will be two blocks straight ahead, on the top floor of that office building. Also a slight downward shot.”

Swanson remained quiet for a while. Pausing at the building where the targets were staying, they both stopped and visually checked the shooting hide locations again. The sightlines were unobstructed. He noticed the tiled front of a madrasah across the street and heard what sounded like construction going on nearby. “What’s all the noise?” Would herds of trucks and laborers be wandering about tomorrow and perhaps interfere with the assignment?

“There’s a small army camp on the far side of the wall. They’ve been busy stockpiling weapons and materiel in case the political problems worsen and the fighting reaches Islamabad. Could very well happen. They stay pretty much in the compound and should not be a problem for us. I think that all their noise will probably even cover our shots.”

Swanson thought about that. Once again, Hall was correct and was moving the mission along exactly the way Swanson himself probably would have laid it out. He had not been in on this planning, however. On a usual mission, he would have been the man in charge-the cool and confident special operator who could count split seconds in his head and stay a minute ahead of reality, dealing with any crisis with a cold and unflappable demeanor because he knew everything about the mission, and what was going on around him at all times. He had surrendered that. Swanson could hardly remember a time when his world had not been framed in a sniper scope, and Jim Hall was his mentor, almost a brother, one of the few men on whom Kyle could depend either in a bar fight or on the battlefield. Sometimes, you just had to let go.

“Everything sounds good. Let’s get some dinner, then come back and check those positions after dark. If everything is still cool, we can move in with our gear.”