An Act of Treason

think!

The car. It had saved him once, and maybe the little gray sedan had another miracle. Swanson staggered to his feet, coughing hard, and felt his way along the overturned vehicle until he found the line of the trunk. It was crumpled from the rollover and subsequent impacts. Kyle grabbed the edge and yanked down hard, but there was no movement. Still locked. He pulled his pistol and fired twice, knocking the latch apart, and a gap appeared along the trunk line. He holstered the weapon and pushed down on the lid again. Please be there!

Despite its size, the Nissan was a police vehicle, which meant that it would be equipped to have a support role in emergency situations such as accidents and riots. When the trunk lid popped open, a large black nylon emergency kit spilled out at his feet, and Kyle tore open the lid. He burrowed through the contents until he found a smaller soft-pack container; unzipping it, he pulled out an old-style hooded gas mask with built-in lenses and a large round air filter on the left side. Although it was probably meant to protect the wearer against tear gas used against mobs, it was the same familiar M-40 full-face type that Kyle had used during desert sandstorms.

Also in the emergency kit was a plastic six-pack of sealed water bottles, and he tore one free, unscrewed the top, and sloshed the liquid over his face and eyes, drank a mouthful, and spat out streams of mud. He did it again, then took a deep hydrating drink that still tasted like dirt. He used a fingertip to clean his nostrils, then opened the straps on the mask while huffing out a couple of breaths to clear his lungs as much as possible. With a swipe of his hand, he got rid of his helmet and goggles and slipped into the mask. The protective hood fell around his shoulders, and when the straps were pulled tight, the rubberized mask sealed to his face. He could breathe again. Kyle put the helmet back on, leaned back against the wreckage, and sat down hard, sucking the filtered air deep, letting life flood back into his body.

23

THE WHITE HOUSE

BARTLETT GENEEN WAS AMONG the most secretive of men and did not explain to White House Chief of Staff Bobby Patterson the dangers of an outsider becoming so closely involved with a covert operation. A moth drawn to a flame. In fact, Geneen was pleased that Patterson had wanted to be in on the blow-by-blow action as the dual hits took place in Pakistan.

It was important for the CIA director to have the eager Patterson witness an assassination as it happened, for it provided automatic White House cover. Task Force Trident, which provided the second shooter in this operation, possessed a signed Top Secret Presidential Directive for its authorization, which made Kyle Swanson immune from blowback. The CIA had no such protection, but Patterson could not dump blame on the Agency if he was in on the operation, and thereby giving it tacit presidential approval.

That was the true reason why he was in the Situation Room and not back at his office over in Langley. For any regular mission, Geneen would not have watched the event at all.

As the magic moment had approached, Geneen and Patterson were in comfortable gray swivel chairs on opposite sides of a rectangular table of polished wood in a small office adjacent to the main Situation Room conference area. The times in six different cities were shining in red numbers near the ceiling of one wall-7:20 P.M. in Pakistan. A pair of large plasma television screens dominated one of the whisper walls, and each man had a laptop computer and a multichannel telephone on the desk before him. Patterson was constantly working the phone, calling Trident headquarters over in the Pentagon and growing angrier each time his inquiries were rebuffed. Geneen could have warned him that spooks don’t tolerate last-minute meddling, which is why they shut down comms just before taking action. The director chose to let the chief of staff discover that unpleasant fact for himself. Rookie mistake.

Just outside the door was the large National Security Council watch center, which was always fully staffed by experts who kept their fingers and eyes on the pulse of the world. All the technology and talent that was immediately available created a comfortable and mistaken feeling that everything was always under control. Supervisors slaved to maximize the level of alertness.

When the sun went down in Islamabad and two snipers fired their weapons, the NSC watch shift had a satellite overhead with a fuzzy but live infrared view as the operation quickly fell apart. Bobby Patterson was stunned. The multiple views were being thrown onto the plasma screens, which seemed to put him right in the middle of things. The distant and indistinct satellite views soon gave way to an avalanche of news reports and cell phone transmissions. American diplomats and intelligence agents in Islamabad popped up on quadrants of the screens to be in direct contact with the NSC. It seemed the conference room was filled with giant, disembodied talking heads. They all reported the same thing: explosions and fires rocking Islamabad.

Patterson grimly picked up a handset to call the Residence and alert President Russell. Then he would contact that irritating general at Task Force Trident and get his two-star butt over here for a royal chewing.

* * *

GENEEN USED THE DISTRACTION to slip into one of the privacy telephone booths built into a whisper wall. The curved door slid smoothly closed behind him, and he pressed a button to immediately frost the transparent glass. He stood casually, leaning against the wall, and punched in a coded number.

A few silent moments passed as the encrypted connection was made to a cellular telephone carried in the shirt pocket of his counterpart in the Pakistani intelligence service. General Nawaz Zaman of the ISI looked at the caller identification on his screen, the one-word code “Football.” He pressed the telephone to his ear and answered, “Soccer.” The intelligence chiefs of the United States and Pakistan were speaking directly with each other, bypassing the labyrinth of subordinates. Such communications channels were never closed but seldom used. To prevent an overreaction and clear the field for Kyle Swanson and Jim Hall to operate, Geneen had deemed it prudent to inform the ISI chief in advance of the planned strike on the Taliban terrorists in Islamabad. Zaman had agreed that he had no reason to stop it. Now something had gone wrong.

“My friend,” said Geneen. “What is happening?”

General Zaman exhaled loudly enough for the sudden gust of breath to sound like a typhoon on the amplified connection. “You have blown up my city, Football! Your people have caused us more damage on this one evening than the Taliban has in a year.”

Geneen suddenly wanted a cigarette, although he had not smoked for twenty years. “Do not jump to conclusions, Soccer. Are you sure that our people were the cause?”

“No. It is too early to establish exactly what happened.” The sound of another explosion banged over the cell phone. “There goes another one. A lot of dead and injured civilians and military are out there tonight. Have you heard from your people?”

“No. Nothing yet, and that’s the truth,” Geneen said. “What are you going to do?”

Zaman was slow to answer, thinking it through. “My only choice is to report to our president now. This disaster may force him to declare martial law. We have few options. I also have to dispatch ISI agents to investigate.”

“I understand. Let’s stay in close touch, Soccer. And brace yourself. The FBI will want in on this investigation.”

“I shall do my best.”

Geneen hung up the telephone and walked back to the conference room in time to hear a red-faced Bobby Patterson on the telephone to the Pentagon, demanding that General Brad Middleton get to the White House. Right now.

* * *

MAJOR GENERAL