Jack Coughlin - Kill Zone

Swanson spun and kicked in the second door. A man wearing only boxer shorts lay handcuffed to a filthy bunk. He was unshaven, and the room stank. The man blinked in disbelief. All he saw was a silhouette until Kyle flipped a switch that turned on the bulb hanging from the ceiling.

“Hello, General,” Swanson said, moving around the room, searching for unseen dangers, the pistol out, ready to shoot.

“What?” The voice was firm but raspy. Only moments ago, Bradley Middleton was thinking about having his head chopped off by lunatics, and now an escape was possible? “Who are you?”

“Take it easy, sir. It’s Gunny Swanson.”

“Swanson? Two hundred thousand Marines on active duty, and you are the first asshole through the door? They sent you to rescue me?”

The silenced pistol waved loosely between them. “Well, that’s not exactly accurate, General,” replied Kyle. “Actually, they sent me to kill you. Orders are orders, and a good Marine always follows orders.”

FOREIGN GOVERNMENTS THROWparties, receptions, or formal dinners every night in Washington to promote goodwill and develop Beltway contacts. Tonight the Embassy of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan was honoring a young filmmaker who was creating a stir in Hollywood with his latest effort, The Arab Street. Some of the invited guests arrived at the embassy’s ornate gates at 3504 International Drive NW in limousines, while others, mostly staff members from Capitol Hill, came by subway or walked, intending to let the Jordanians feed them. Invitations to such parties saved on their food bills.

Shari Towne found a guard at the front gate and asked him to page the head of the public relations department. Within five minutes, a slim and elegant woman walked down a sculpted path toward the guard post. A snowy-soft Chanel blouse contrasted perfectly with the black pantsuit and the full dark hair that was cut to frame her face. A loose scarf of white Belgian lace wrapped her shoulders, and her long legs were accentuated by sharp Roger Vivier heels.

“Shari? Darling!” the woman exclaimed in a burst of surprise, opening her arms and wrapping her in a hug. “I didn’t expect you come to our vapid little event tonight. Why didn’t you call?”

“Hi, Mom,” Shari responded, and tightly hugged her mother.

Layla Mahfouz Towne whispered, “This little movie director is simply awful, but he’s signed a deal with Paramount, which gives us an excuse to throw another ‘We’re Not All Terrorists!’ party.” She detected the strain coursing through Shari. Her daughter seemed to be a brittle piece of glass that was about to shatter. “What?”

“I’m in trouble,” Shari whispered back. “Can we go inside?”

Layla lifted an eyebrow, then told the guard, “She’s with me.” He nodded, looked at Shari’s U.S. Navy uniform and identification card, and wrote out a pass. He thought they almost looked like twins. Very attractive twins.

Her mother led the way through the swirl of people who were washing down tiny pieces of food with liquor from an open bar, as a Jordanian-American oud player easily plucked the stringed instrument to provide classical Arabic music in the background. Layla said hello here and patted a shoulder there as she smiled a path through the crowd. Shari, although in a crisp white uniform, felt positively early Banana Republic beside her. Women usually felt frumpy in Layla’s manicured presence. They went into her private office on the second floor.

As soon as the door was closed, Shari collapsed onto a big, soft sofa and stared at her mother and tears welled in her eyes. She began to cry, angry at herself for doing so. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m really sorry for barging in like this.”

Her mother kicked off her high heels and put an arm around Shari, rocking her back and forth, smoothing her hair and dabbing at the tears with a tissue. In Arabic, she said, “What’s going on, Little One?”

The gestures were as comforting to Shari as they had been years ago when her father died in a plane crash. “Something big and complex and dangerous is going on and Kyle and I somehow got dragged into the middle of it,” Shari sobbed. “I have to hide for a while, which is why I rushed over still dressed like this. The embassy, thank God, is foreign soil. This is Jordan. They can’t touch me here.”

“Who can’t?”

“The United States government.”

Layla gave her another little squeeze, and then put on her high heels again. “My, oh my, Little One. Just like your father, bless him. You never do things by half-measures, do you? I’d better go get the ambassador,” she said. “He’s an old Rolling Stones fan, and will welcome the chance to avoid having to listen to any more oud music. You, my dear, don’t leave this room until I get back.”

HOW FRESH IS THIS MATERIAL?”National Security Advisor Gerald Buchanan asked as he scanned the computer-generated transcript of the conversation between Shari Towne and Master Sergeant Dawkins.

“Almost real-time,” said Sam Shafer. “Thirty minutes max.”

“Fast,” said Buchanan with a nod of approval. He loved, and love was not too strong a word, to see the giant security apparatus of the United States bend to his will like a whipped puppy. The sheets of paper before him proved his reach and his power. He held a big whip.

“It’s a pretty easy catch on the intercepts when the NSA has exact names and numbers, like her cell phones. She was near the White House when her call pinged the system. The computers automatically translated the audio into printed text.”

Buchanan read the conversation again. Kyle Swanson was alive. The man he had sent to make sure Middleton died had almost been picked out of a damned hat, and not only had he turned on them, he had also had a link into this office! “So now we know what she saw, and the sniper is alive out there. What is this relationship between Towne and Swanson? Why should we care?”

“According to the gals in the secretarial pool, Commander Towne has kept it under wraps because she is an officer and he is an enlisted man. That kind of fraternization is against military regulations, although it is violated all the time.”

“Ahhhhh!” Buchanan gave a grim smile. “One and one finally equal two. She had thought him to be dead, but the photos proved that he is not. She calls a mutual friend and realizes she has stepped in shit. Right?” He smiled with tight lips. “You have a chat with the secretaries?”

“Yes, sir. The ones whom we identified as her friends, or worked with her. Took them all to the safe house in Falls Church in a darkened van, had agents perform cavity searches to break their spirit, then put them one by one under the kleig lights, just like in the movies. They were most cooperative once I explained that it was a matter of national security and they would be held incommunicado under the Anti-Terrorism Provisos until we cleared this thing up. I pointed out that Section C states that if a White House employee is found to be an accomplice, that employee would face a secret military tribunal. They gave up everything. We also searched their desks, and the whole thing took less than an hour.”

“There’s no such Anti-Terrorism Provisos,” said Buchanan.

“They didn’t know that.” Shafer wore a look of satisfaction.

Buchanan grunted a small laugh. “Where are they now? I noticed some new faces out there.”

“Still up in Falls Church. Can’t let them go until it’s done. You know women can’t keep secrets, and one of them would most likely confide in their husband, boyfriend, or particularly with a close girlfriend. Actually, I believe they feel kind of important right now, helping catch a possible terrorist. They were already whispering together about Commander Towne when I left. Probably guessing who will play who in the movie.”