Jack Coughlin - An Act of Treason

Langdon pushed away from the table and stood, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It doesn’t pass the smell test, Jack. You’re wrong to think of Lauren Carson as just a pretty face. She’s tenacious and very smart. She has already proven that, because you do not have her in custody already. Carson saw an opportunity to get away yesterday after that first meeting, and she snapped it up.”

Pathurst remained silent. It was true. He had been concentrating on the search rather than being ready to take Carson off the street. She should have been considered guilty until proven innocent, not the other way around, but she had walked out on authorized leave, with no one following her. Now she was gone.

“No matter what the situation, Carson has answers or at least information that we need. We cannot ignore the facts,” Kim said. “We need her to talk. I don’t like it, but Jack is right.”

“I know. I know.” Langdon picked up the papers. This was turning into a serious situation, and Carson was right in the middle of it all. “Very well, Jack. Go find her. Use whatever you need, but keep it quiet. Word gets out, and there will be sexy pictures of her wearing a tiara all over the TV, and she will be identified as a rogue CIA agent forever.”

ISLAMABAD

K YLE S WANSON WAS STARTLEDby new noises outside his prison door. Not the normal pattern that preceded the usual feeding and waste disposal, but the scuffle of multiple boots and voices made dull and distant by the concrete and steel. He rose from the mattress, straightened his outfit, turned to the wall, and shielded his eyes as a key was inserted in the lock and turned. The burst of light still hit him like a thrown rock.

Then came some yelling, and strong hands grabbed his biceps and legs. He did not resist. Handcuffs and leg irons were put in place. He kept his eyes tightly shut against the harsh light when they spun him around and someone shined a bright beam directly into his face. An order was snapped, and the unseen hands pulled him forward, his stumbling steps measured exactly by the length of the ankle chain. Swanson went with the motion. The air in the tunnel hallway was fetid, but almost fresh in comparison with the stale odor of his cell, where there was no circulation. Hot and stuffy in the day and cold at night. He heard the metallic racking of a guard cocking a pistol. They were taking no chances with him.

At the staircase, the guards on each side lifted him up so his toes could catch the next higher step, then repeated the process sixteen times until they reached the landing that led into the main floor of the prison. Kyle opened his eyes during the climb and allowed the dungeon shadows to help adjust his sight for the onslaught of light he knew was coming. His breath was slow and measured, and his pulse was normal.

Through one door, across a room, then another door, and he recognized being back in the warden’s suite of offices. The warden stood beside a window, taking obvious pleasure in observing the filthy condition of his prisoner.

Another man rose from a chair when Swanson was brought in. He was tall and fit, with neat gray hair and a lightweight blue suit with a striped tie. Every inch a diplomat, Kyle thought, realizing his own garments were ragged and his body stank. He had not had a bath since being captured.

When the man spoke, it was with a flat Ohio accent. “Please leave us alone for a while, Warden. And please remove the restraints.”

“You may have all of the time you need, Mr. Riles, but the restraints remain in place. This man is very dangerous.”

“Not to me.”

“To everyone,” the warden insisted, leading his men from the room. “Do not be too long.”

Alone with Kyle in the room, the American spoke. “Let me help you to a chair, Gunny Swanson. Get you a glass of water? My God, man, you look terrible.”

“Thanks,” Kyle said, drinking the clean, clear water in a couple of gulps and holding out the glass for a refill, which he also drained. “Who are you? State?”

“Yes.” He fished out a wallet with his State Department identification. “Dean Riles, deputy chief of mission. We have been battling to get to see you since the capture, but the Pakistani government has been dragging its heels because of the damage in Islamabad.”

“I had nothing to do with those explosions,” Kyle said. “I promise that it came as as much of a surprise to me as anyone.”

Riles sucked in a breath. “Still, it has been awful. The government is still reeling, but somehow it is holding on despite the unrest throughout the country. Now, how have they been treating you? Your shirt is in rags.”

“Three hots and a cot, sir. Not really, but I’ve been through worse. Solitary confinement in a basement cell with no light or heat. There have been no beatings because I apparently have an influential friend.” Swanson let his gaze wander around the room and to the warden’s desk. A digital clock told him it was a little before noon, just about what he had guessed. He could start counting again when he went back downstairs.

“Your friend has worked hard in your behalf. That brings me to the second reason for my visit today.” Riles opened his leather briefcase and took out a file. “Good news and bad news, really bad news, I fear, Gunny, but the only deal that is open to us.”

Swanson liked this quiet and studious man. Obviously Ivy League by education, probably a good lawyer who decided to embark on a course of public service while he was still a young man. Most likely an old-school diplomat who had seen many a tight negotiation in his time. If he said the deal was the best, it probably was.

“There has been a hard bargain made, with the upside being that the Pakistani government doesn’t want you around. Therefore, a team from the Diplomatic Security Service will come over here at noon tomorrow, remove you from this prison, and take you to the embassy. Another twenty-four hours, Gunny. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir. I can do that.”

Riles used his hand to flatten a typed document on the desk. “Now for the bad news. You are being charged with violating Article 118 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, specifically with unpremeditated murder. There are twelve specific charges, but that number probably will grow.” Riles looked at Swanson straight. “The maximum punishment will be directed by a military tribunal, and such punishment may include dishonorable discharge, forfeiture of all pay and allowances, and confinement for life.”

Swanson thought hard. “Not a death penalty?”

“That was part of the bargaining, son. No death penalty. You will be held in Fort Leavenworth, but the court-martial will be held at Camp Pendleton. At least we get you out of here and back in the USA, and you will have a fair trial, with a good lawyer. It’s the best I could do under the circumstances.”

Swanson slumped in the chair, mentally swinging between despair and happiness. He looked at Riles and gave a grim smile. “Okay, sir. Better than a piano wire around the neck some night over here. Thanks.”

Riles was on his feet. “I look forward to seeing you at the embassy tomorrow, Gunny. Get you cleaned up and some decent food and we can talk about this in more detail, with a temporary defense attorney present. Is there anything else I can do for you before I leave today?”

Swanson actually let out a little laugh. “Actually, there is. Downstairs I have to pee and crap in a bucket. I sure would like a trip to the warden’s bathroom before you call them back. I can waddle over there and will leave the door open. Won’t take but a minute, and I’d like to wash out my eyes, too.”

Riles started putting away the papers and strapping up his briefcase while Swanson made his slow way to the bathroom, closing the door slightly with his elbow. Moving to the toilet, he quickly scanned the small room, and when he finished urinating, he flushed and moved to the sink and turned on the water. A mirrored medicine cabinet was above it, and Kyle pulled it open and discovered a treasure chest of possibilities. He quickly grabbed a small roll of dental floss that he could keep in the palm of his hand and tucked a blue-handled plastic safety razor into the waistband of his trousers.