Jack Coughlin - An Act of Treason

Only a day earlier, Selim had been in the remote mountain hideaway of the legendary warlord Muhammed Waleed and had spoken the words that both men had wanted and had waited for so long to hear. “My father, it is time,” said the young man. “Allah, praise be unto him, has given us everything we have asked. You can now arise from the wildness of our mountains and move into the city to prepare for the final event.”

The older man paused, never one to act in haste. “You are certain of my safety?”

The son nodded and stroked his mustache lightly. “Absolutely. I would never put you at risk. I am in constant contact with our ally General Nawaz Zaman of the ISI, who assures me that all is ready. He has cast his lot with us in exchange for the promise that he will be appointed minister of defense in your new government, giving him control of the army. As the head of the secret police, he is even now starting to crack down on the political opposition. Our own men are assisting in the population centers throughout the country.”

A large white cloud that had drifted through the blue sky opened, as if in a heavenly sign, and sunshine flooded their home. Every window seemed to leap with the sudden illumination. Surely a sign from Allah! “The election is to be announced for next month?”

“Yes, Father. Not that it will matter. When the president is assassinated in Istanbul by Jim Hall, you will be the only candidate in position with a functioning and powerful political movement, and the backing of brokers such as General Zaman and the other tribal warlords. When the president falls, we- you, Father! -will step forward and assume the leadership. The public will demand that it be so because of the destruction in Islamabad by our bomb and the killing of the president. You will be the only one who can bring stability. The election will become a mere formality. Once in power, you will never surrender it.”

So they came out of the mountains, surrounded by a ragged convoy of media vehicles that shielded them from the Americans’ hungry Predator drones and missiles. The caravan grew ever larger as it drove through the villages, trucks and automobiles and tractors, and they arrived in Islamabad as if leading a parade. Crowds jostled along the streets for a view of the famous guerrilla leader who would bring Pakistan back to its rightful position in the community of nations. Then, with his hand on Pakistan’s nuclear missiles, silent but ominous for now, he would have a guarantee that other countries would listen to him.

In the meeting room, the bearded leader was greeted as if he had already taken office. In his humble robes, he moved with ease among the rich supporters, the experienced political teams, and the powerful men who recognized the wave of the future and were clambering aboard his golden train. The conference was called to order by none other than General Nazam, who pledged his loyalty and spoke in glowing terms of young Selim Waleed, hailing him as a patriotic young man who had almost single-handedly transformed the Taliban into a legitimate political organization, the Bright Path Party, with the respected Muhammed Waleed as its presidential candidate.

The general hugged the smiling, bearded warlord as the international film crews buzzed around them. The audience erupted in sustained applause that shook the squares of the soundproofed ceiling. As arranged by Selim, General Nawaz then quietly departed from the platform and left the room so as not to distract any further from the attention being lavished upon Muhammed Waleed. Also on Selim’s instructions, the general was handling a final task of weakening the president’s personal protective services for the Istanbul conference by infiltrating men loyal to him into the inner security ranks. There was much work to do.

General Nawaz was back behind his desk within fifteen minutes, and he immediately placed a scrambled, secure call overseas. When a voice answered, Nawaz asked, “Football?”

“Soccer! Good to hear from you.” CIA Director Geneen was in a sealed communication cubicle adjacent to his office. He had been expecting the call.

“And you. By any chance are you watching television?”

“Why, yes, I am. One of the news channels.”

“Hold on for a second, would you, Football? I have to make another call. Will only take a moment.” General Nazam pulled open the right-hand drawer of his polished desk and picked up a cell phone. He dialed. The signal was received by a little phone, and the battery sparked a detonator embedded in blocks of plastic explosives that were hidden in the false ceiling directly above the speaker’s platform at the headquarters of the Bright Path Party just as Muhammed Waleed was making his acceptance address.

The general strolled to his large window and looked out over the city and saw a mushrooming cloud of smoke and debris rising into the afternoon sky. He went back to the phone. “Football? I fear that something terrible has happened that will be requiring my attention. It seems to be a car bomb or some such thing.”

“Yes, Soccer. I understand that you must tend to your duties.”

“Oh, before we go, I also mentioned our friend Jim Hall to the Turkish police handling the security for our president’s appearance tomorrow. They will deal with it. No trace of your company’s involvement.”

“Best of luck, my friend.”

Both men hung up at the same time. Waleed went back to his window to watch and heard the first sirens of the emergency responders heading toward the scene. In the United States, Bart Geneen made no notes about the brief conversation. He just smiled.

ISTANBUL

TURKEY

J IM H ALL ALSO HADbeen watching an all-news channel on television while building a bomb of his own. Wires, battery, detonator, and four powerful blocks of C-4 imbedded with hundreds of marbles were being fashioned into a makeshift claymore mine that he would place at the head of the president’s bed. A pressure switch would be stuffed into the mattress, and when the man lay down to sleep, the circuit would snap shut and the explosion would result. One of Selim’s henchmen on the security team was to allow him entrance to the room. He worked slowly and carefully.

The irritating little news banner crawling along the bottom of the CNN broadcast caught his attention.

NEW EXPLOSION ROCKS PAKISTAN… ISTANBUL POLITICAL MEETING TARGET… POLICE CLAIM TALIBAN LEADERSHIP KILLED… NEW EXPLOSION ROCKS PAKISTAN

Ten minutes later, a Turkish tactical police antiterrorist team rushed into the Four Seasons Hotel in Istanbul, sealed off an entire floor, and breached the door to a small suite. The bed was covered with the makings of a bomb, and explosives experts moved in to secure it.

Jim Hall was gone.

BERN

SWITZERLAND

K YLE AND L AUREN HADspent much of the afternoon resting and making love in their hotel room and now lay beneath the light duvet. They had fallen asleep with her head on his arm and her free hand resting on his chest, registering his strong heartbeat. It was a struggle to come awake again and hit the shower, but Lauren’s appointment was at seven o’clock for dinner with the CIA assistant station chief who was driving in from Zurich to reinstate her to duty and return her credentials. Basically, the man was apologizing for the CIA’s hurried investigation, which had leaped to an incorrect conclusion about Agent Carson. Those words would never be spoken.

“What are you going to do while I’m at dinner?” she asked, clipping on a new set of earrings that she had bought earlier that day. Little silver bears.

“I’m going to do some more walking around, try to get a better feel for the area around the bank and check out how things look when it gets dark.”