Jack Coughlin - An Act of Treason

Sitting three feet away was a bearded man in clergy robes, about forty years old, with dark eyes and dark skin, and a second man stood nearby, older, dressed in a suit. The second man spoke in clipped English. “This man is a revered imam in our city,” he said. “His name will not be disclosed, but he has something to say to you.”

Kyle kept his hands in his lap and watched carefully.

The cleric spoke in a low and slow voice that was choked with emotion. “I do not know who you are, other than that you are a soldier. And it is best for everyone that you do not know my name.” The translation was brief, and Kyle nodded that he understood.

“Today, on this miserable day, Allah, praise be unto his name, held you in his palm, soldier. I do not know if you had anything to do with all of the destruction that has befallen us, but I suspect that you do, in some way. To determine that is the duty of others.” The translation was made. Kyle was baffled and remained silent.

The imam pulled on his robes and paused, studying Kyle’s face and torn wounds. “On this day on which so many people have died, you risked your own life to save my son, my daughter, and my wife. I came to this place to express my personal appreciation.” Another burst of translation.

This time Kyle managed a small, embarrassed smile. “Are they okay? Did the boy pull through?” The translator worked rapidly and the conversation came faster, almost as if he were not present.

“Yes,” replied the imam. “Once the obstruction was cleared from his throat and he started breathing, he recovered rapidly. My wife has a broken leg and two broken ribs. The girl needed some stitches to close her head wound, but she, too, is fine.”

“I’m glad about that, sir.”

“The other soldiers explained to me what you did. You are a very brave man. Your actions led directly to your capture.”

“It was the right thing to do,” Swanson said. “Given the same circumstances, I would do it again. Thank you for coming to see me.”

The imam rose swiftly, and the robes fell smoothly into place. His posture was firm, as if he were used to carrying authority. “May Allah bestow his blessings and protection upon you, soldier. We will not meet again. While you remain in our country, as a prisoner or whatever your status, you will be treated well. You need not fear for your life. But when you leave, do not return.”

Kyle also stood, somewhat unsteadily. Favor for a favor. “My thanks, sir.”

The imam turned and left the room without another glance.

The interpreter went behind him, closed the door, and returned to where Kyle was standing. With the quickness of a snake, he slapped Swanson hard across the left cheek and sent him reeling back against and then over the chair and onto the floor. The cuffs went back onto his wrists, and he was roughly shoved back into the chair.

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

L AUREN C ARSON AWOKE INthe upstairs bedroom of her small town house on the fringe of Old Town Alexandria, a tight redbrick building that she had spent money and time to decorate just for her. The rooms were small but colorful and comfortable, and everything in the place was precise and so exact that when her alarm clock buzzed, the Mr. Coffee turned on and a Bose CD player smoothed into a Chet Baker album. The morning was good. She got into her sweats, drank some orange juice straight from the bottle, and then went for a run.

She would do only three miles this morning, for although there was no real hurry to get to work, she could not stand the feeling of being so cut off from information. No word from either Kyle or from Jim, the disaster in Islamabad-so much she did not know.

Back at the condo, she showered and hurried through her makeup, then pulled a freshly laundered dark blue pantsuit and a snowy white blouse from her closet. Comfortable black shoes with low heels. Credentials and weapon in her purse. Ten minutes later, she was in her Honda, sipping a Starbucks mocha latte and driving to CIA headquarters in Langley. The first thing on her schedule today was the SODD meeting to again go over the role she had played in Pakistan. That would be easy, because she had played no real role at all. Everything had happened around her, as if she had been at the end of a whipping rope, snapped by events. She wanted them to bring her up to date when the meeting was over. The idea of becoming a field agent in her next Agency posting, getting close to the excitement and action, had an inexplicable and undeniable attraction after helping Kyle get the American soldiers to safety. Lauren planned to suggest that she be sent back over to Pakistan. At least she was friends with both of the major players in this drama, and both Jim and Kyle would accept her help before that of a CIA agent they did not know.

She walked into the small meeting room filled with confidence. Two men and one woman were already seated around a table, waiting for her, and another male agent had opened the door, then closed it behind her and took a seat beside it. Curious. None of the others rose, and their eyes were guarded.

“Have a seat, Ms. Carson,” the man on the right directed. “I am Mel Langdon from the Department of Operations, and with me are Jack Pathurst from the Office of Security and Mia Kim from the Financial Department.” When he stated “for the record” the date and time and place of the interview, Lauren had changed her mind about the nature of this meeting. It was being recorded. One thing she had learned from Jim Hall was that there are times to keep your mouth shut, and this seemed to fit that description.

“We are following up today on the previous statements you have made concerning your most recent trip to Pakistan,” Langdon opened.

“My only trip to Pakistan,” she corrected him.

There was a quick blink of his eyes and all friendliness was gone. “You reported that under the direction of Agent Hall, you transferred funds while you were in Islamabad, is that correct?”

“Yes. The account was set up for this specific purpose. We disbursed a total of five million dollars of the ten million authorized.”

“And you countersigned the creation of the account?”

“Yes. Agent Hall was primary and I was secondary. There was nothing out of the ordinary on establishing and operating it. A standard covert account.”

The agent from the Office of Security, Pathurst, spoke for the first time. “And how were the funds distributed? Personal check? Cash on the barrelhead?”

Lauren kept her temper, although they were playing with her. “I accessed and transferred the funds electronically.”

“Does that mean that you used a computer?”

“Yes. My laptop, a Mac Pro.”

“So you say that it was your laptop? That computer was your personal property, Agent Carson?” Pathurst was digging like a terrier for some subject she did not know.

“Agency issued in my name,” she said. “I have used it for two years, and no, I never surfed for porn or went on eBay with it. It was used only for Agency business.”

Pathurst’s grim mouth twitched. The internal affairs man was unamused. “Do you have it in your possession now?”

“We covered all of this in the earlier interview,” she said. “It hasn’t changed. When Gunny Swanson and I escorted the American prisoners out of the hotel room, Agent Hall asked me to leave the computer behind. He is my boss, so I let him keep it.”

“So the answer is no; you did not bring that Mac back with you.”

It was a statement. Lauren was trying to keep her wits together. “Are you people doing an inventory check? So I left behind a computer with my boss that cannot be used, or even accessed, by non-Agency personnel, at his request. That’s what this is all about? You want me to buy a replacement?”