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.”
28
ISLAMABAD
THE MAN WHO HAD been 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
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.”
KYLE WAS HAULED DOWN an 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.
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
JACK PATHURST FROM THE CIA Office of Security turned up the collar of his dark blue windbreaker and pulled down the blue baseball cap against a drizzle of rain that was giving the entire D.C. area a good soaking. The trees were not in their autumn colors yet, and the water emphasized the healthy green of the landscaping around the redbrick town house complex in which Lauren Carson lived alone. He would direct the search today, and if he turned up anything suspicious, anything at all, he would burn Agent Carson to the ground. Pathurst had neither tolerance nor sympathy for renegade agents.
Using the key that she had provided, the Security operative opened the white front door. He held the crew behind him outside until he did a walkthrough on his own. He wanted to see it fresh, before his locusts moved in to graze and tear it apart. The first impression was not that the place was neat, which it was, which would be typical of her southern upbringing; it was that the condo was a perfect match for Carson’s rank and salary. There was nothing showy, nothing to indicate that she had been on the take. Most rogues spend large; why else steal?
The place echoed as he walked through the living room. No animals, reptiles, or fish. Family pictures on a small mantelpiece above a miniature fireplace. He peered back through the fresh white curtains at his people who were waiting in the rain, then stepped into the kitchen. Tight quarters, small refrigerator, standard apartment over-and- under microwave and stove. The cabinets were of light pine. Everything was dusted and clean. Enough fruit was in a bowl to cover the bottom, and the fridge was almost bare, but for some bottled water and a container of fettucine mixed with Parmesan. Nothing to sour or go rotten, an indication that she did not eat here much. He reminded himself to look for restaurant receipts.
Up the stairs, white railing and soft carpet, to a pale yellow bedroom and bath combination that occupied the entire narrow second floor. Two slender windows with white trim and matching shades pulled down an exact matching distance. There was gloom outside the glass, and rainwater trickling down it, but inside, an easy scent of potpourri and the colors created warmth. Bed made. Clothes in order, folded on shelves or hanging in a neat row.
