Jack Coughlin - An Act of Treason

Ms. Kim, who had been silent from the start, glanced at a yellow legal pad. “No. We don’t care about the computer itself. But we are curious about the funds. Ten million dollars was authorized. You confirm that you personally transferred five million of that amount while on the mission. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then where is the remaining five million dollars, Agent Carson? That account now shows a zero balance, and was closed yesterday.”

Lauren was startled by the announcement. “That would be unusual, but not impossible. Agent Hall would finish the accounting process personally after a mission was completed. Normally, he would wait until he was back at his desk here so he could put together a complete report. Ask him.”

Mel Langdon shook his head. “We would love to, Ms. Carson, but Jim Hall is dead. He was killed in the explosions in Islamabad. The FBI gave us DNA and fingerprint confirmation overnight. Hall won’t be confirming your story.”

“Jim’s dead?” The news was like a punch. “How? When?”

“Later,” said Pathurst. “Stay with telling us about your computer.”

“Ask Kyle Swanson, then.”

“Swanson has been captured and is being held prisoner in Pakistan, and the two rescued soldiers have no recollection of seeing any computer at all.”

Kim spoke. “You had the computer in Islamabad. You had all of the access and account codes. You claim that Jim Hall took it from you, but have no proof, not even a receipt of property transfer. And the account was cleaned out after your only alibi was killed.”

“A receipt of property transfer?” Lauren’s voice rose. “We were pulling a couple of American captives to safety from the Taliban in a hotel room and you think I should have taken time to jot out a transfer receipt and have Jim Hall sign it?”

“We think you should have followed established procedure,” Ms. Kim said. “Now five million dollars has gone missing. It was last in your possession, you cannot explain what has happened, and your computer is conveniently missing.”

“Yesterday I get a letter of commendation in my file and today you think I’m a thief, selling out my country to make a few bucks?”

Pathurst made a tent of his fingers and touched them to his chin. “We make no accusations whatsoever, Agent Carson. We wanted to alert you that an investigation is under way of all aspects of the mission to Pakistan. We have one agent dead, another American shooter in a Pakistani prison, an encrypted company computer missing, and five million dollars gone. Deserves an investigation, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Of course.” Lauren reined herself in. She wanted to shout and tell them how stupid they all were, but her training made her shut up. “My earlier statements stand, and I will cooperate in any way.”

The man from the Security Office leaned forward on his elbows. “Good. That’s what we wanted to hear from you. But pending completion of the investigation, you will be taking two weeks of authorized leave time, starting immediately. You will give our teams access to all of your personal data, computers, and accounts, as well as permission to search your home, vehicle, and personal possessions. Believe me, Agent Carson, full cooperation is the only way to go on this. Clear it up and get you back to work as soon as possible.”

“The leave begins immediately?”

“Yes. Don’t go back to your office. It has been sealed.” Pathurst closed his folder. “Good day, Agent Carson. We’ll be in touch.”

ISLAMABAD

T HE MAN WHO HADbeen translating came close and spat in Kyle’s face. Swanson flinched as the drool hit his right cheek and dripped down. Then came another slap, rocking him to the side. There was a chuff of quiet laughter from one of the guards. “You worthless dog. I would like to cut off your head and put it on a skewer! I am the warden here, but in my own prison, I am being given orders by outsiders. I am as handcuffed as you.”

Kyle bent his head down to his chest and whispered, “Tough shit, asshole.”

“What did you say? What did you just say?” the warden shouted. His facial muscles working with anger, he grabbed Kyle by the hair and yanked his head straight. Swanson lobbed a gob of spit right into his face.

“I called you an asshole.”

The warden jumped back in disgust, and one of the guards popped Kyle on the ear. This time Swanson rolled to the floor and pulled his legs to his chest as if curling into a fetal position. The guard advanced, and when he transferred his weight to his left foot, Kyle kicked out hard with both feet and caught him just below the left knee. The bone snapped, and as the guard fell, Swanson whipped up and drove a shoulder into the second guard, who bounced off the wall with the wind knocked out of him.

In doing so, he had turned his back on the warden, giving the man time to hit an alarm button. The door flew open, and more guards poured inside and quickly pinned Swanson to the floor. The warden grabbed a riot baton from one of them and moved toward the immobile American, his whole body shaking with fury.

Kyle closed his eyes and prepared to take the strike, but it never came.

From the doorway, someone uttered the quiet order of “No!” and Kyle saw the imam standing there, with his dark eyes freezing the warden in his tracks. “Disobey me again and it will mean your life.” The voice was cold and lifeless and certain.

The warden dropped the baton on the floor, wiped the phlegm from his face with a sleeve, and panted as if he had just run a mile. He fell back into his chair. “Very well. So be it,” he said to the imam. “There will be no problem, Excellency.” He spoke to the guards. “Put that piece of filth in the cell. At least his partner was killed. We can let the politicians deal with this one.”

K YLE WAS HAULED DOWNan interior stairwell to a corridor of dank concrete. A row of four metal doors was on each side of the central access hallway. He was pushed into the little cell at the right rear by a quartet of guards. They wasted a lot of time uncuffing his wrists and untying his feet before backing out carefully while keeping him at gunpoint, ready for another attack.

In the dim light, Swanson had ignored them in order to take a good look at his new home and take some mental snapshots. Everything that had happened in the room upstairs was now irrelevant; that was history. What he could do in the next few moments was critical to survival. There was no exterior window, so he set the door as the root of a mental map-clock that he instantly created in his head. If his back was to the door, then he was at the six o’clock position, facing the rest of the clock. Directly across at twelve, rivulets of water seeped down the rear wall and fed into a puddle along the edge. To the right of the door, along the three o’clock wall, a dirty and thin mattress lay on the floor, with a set of thin tie-up trousers and a pullover tunic folded on it. A bucket was in the most distant corner, to be used for his waste. The nine o’clock wall was blank concrete, scribbled and scratched by earlier prisoners.

The door slammed shut and a lock fell into place, followed by a sliding sound of metal across metal as a narrow gap was closed just above the floor-the food slot. Darkness enveloped everything, and the place reeked of death; men who had been imprisoned in this place before him had died here.

Swanson found the mattress, lay down, and closed his eyes. He had things to do but was totally exhausted after the long hours of planning, action, and capture. If they weren’t planning on beating him anymore, at least he could get some rest. Just a catnap. Hell of a day, he thought and was instantly asleep.