An Act of Treason

made a big choice back there during the explosions. I’ve seen women and kids die before, lots of them, and I could have walked on by without a second thought. But no, not this time. I essentially went against all of my training and experience and gave myself up for those kids.” He paused for a long moment. “I don’t even know why I did it. People die in wars all the time. It wasn’t my job. But here I am with you guys in a dark cell, and your futures are brighter than mine. Hell of a thing.”

When the roll of floss was emptied, Kyle flipped the plastic holder to a back corner of the cell. Leaning forward at the waist, he pressed his palms against the multiple strands and began to slowly roll them back and forth on the floor a few times to tangle the thread, then tied knots in one end to stabilize it, put it back on the floor, and rolled it some more. Satisfied at last, he tied off the other end. A single strand of dental floss was useless, but twenty strips woven together made a perfectly satisfactory garrote. Many little strings can tie down a giant, as Gulliver discovered among the tiny Lilliputians. Swanson stood and wrapped the gathered string around his waist like a belt, then secured it with a light tie, one end dipping lower than the other. His waist measured thirty inches, which allowed plenty of room for him to wrap the ends around each fist a couple of times and use the excess in the middle as a choking weapon.

To kill an American guard would really make him guilty of murder, though, just as he was charged. Beating them up was one thing, but not an outright death. If it could be avoided.

He was being treated like an HVT, a high-value target, so security was going to be tight. How many guys? Putting on new handcuffs would supply a moment of freedom, but would it be enough? A thousand questions surged through his mind.

Swanson used both hands to snap the twin-blade top off of the plastic razor. The molding was so close to the edge of the blades that they were useless as anything but a small tool, and it popped easily at the slim elbow where the handle bent toward the face. Now he had a piece of plastic about five inches long, not even as big around as his middle finger. Still. Possible.

Jesus, I don’t want to kill anybody tomorrow. I don’t want to have to kill anybody.

He made the decision on the spot, an internal choice. He could resist, fight, try to immobilize the guards, and push it right up to the edge. However, if it came to deadly force, Swanson decided that this time he would take that punishment himself rather than kill other Americans who had done him no harm. “Life is simpler behind a trigger in a sniper hide,” he told the rats. “This humanity stuff is complex. Actually, it kind of sucks.”

Holding the lower part of the handle firmly, he placed his index finger against the broken edge, positioned it at an angle on the rough concrete floor, and gently bore down on it, careful not to break the thick part. In slow, persistent strokes, Swanson began sanding away the plastic edge, stopping after every dozen strokes to feel the result. The concrete peeled away the plastic like rough sandpaper. Within a half hour, he had sharpened the lightweight handle into a jail-type shiv, a makeshift stabbing knife that could be deadly if he had to use it.

He then tied it on the longer string hanging from the garrote knot and hid it beneath his trousers. Since he had been in prison for days, it was doubtful that he would be searched.

Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. Sixty. His internal clock told him that another hour had passed. He made another rip in the shirt, then settled back against the wall and tried not to think too much because he was not happy with the conclusions that kept coming back like little nightmares, the same thing over and over. He would do what he had to do. Leavenworth was not an acceptable option. Maybe death was the more viable possibility.

34

ISLAMABAD

THERE WAS MOVEMENT IN the corridor, and Kyle Swanson detected it, felt the certainty, before he heard any boots. A subtle shift in air pressure, the cessation of the rhythmic movement by the rats, or just an overall alertness, something. He snapped awake. It was too early. His fingers counted the recent tears. It was only about six o’clock, around dawn in the outside world. He checked his weapons, then stood, spread his arms, and yawned.

By the time the guard detail arrived at his door and he heard the rattle of the keys, Swanson was stretching his muscles and calming his mind. He had no real plan for escape, other than being determined never to set foot in Fort Leavenworth’s military prison. Stay in the moment, he reminded himself. Something had changed in the schedule, but he would not dwell on it. Thinking of too many possibilities could bog down the brain when it needed to be concentrating. Breathe easy. Stay loose. He did a few toe stands, lifting his heels as far as possible, rolled his shoulders and his head from side to side. The familiar pre-battle calmness settled on his nerves, and in the darkness Swanson’s world slowed down and his senses sharpened. Looking into a corner to protect his eyes, Kyle could actually see a few rats. They were crouched, fearful, mystified.

The door creaked open, and he closed his eyes tight, then slowly opened them again in a squint. The light from the hallway blazed in, creating silhouettes of the four-man guard detail. Kyle extended his wrists, and two turnkeys clapped on the cuffs and ankle restraints while the other two protected them with rifles. Since he was leaving, they really expected no trouble from him, and he did not plan to give them any… unless he had to. “ ’Bye, rats,” Swanson said and moved his left foot the length of the chain, then his right. A guard took each elbow, partially carrying him.

Working together, it took only a few minutes for Swanson and his caravan of prison guards to climb the stairs and get into the office of the warden. It was bathed in the muted golden glow of the new morning, allowing Swanson to confirm this transfer was about six hours ahead of schedule.

The dark-haired warden gave him a hateful look, rose from behind his desk, and silently herded his guards from the room through one of its two doors, leaving with them and closing the door behind him. He said not a word.

Two lithe men with fair skin and short haircuts were standing casually beside the other office door. Kyle recognized the military bearing immediately and his heart sank. They radiated confidence and ability and would not be easily surprised or overcome. The embassy had sent professionals. At a nod from the leader, his companion took three quick strides and stood in between the two closed doors, facing them at a forty-five-degree angle to each. He unbuttoned his coat to expose a large pistol, pulled the weapon free, and took up a combat stance.

The other man sauntered toward Kyle, smiling as he approached. “G’day, mate,” he said. “That big bloke over there is S’arnt Jimmy Todd, and I’m S’arnt Colin Moore of the Australian SAS. Sir Geoffrey Cornwell sends his compliments and requests the pleasure of your company.”

“Jeff? Sir Jeff sent you?”

“Yes, mate. He wanted me to tell you ‘Haggis.’ ”

“Haggis never sounded so good,” Kyle responded. “Haggis,” an odd concoction that passed for food in Scotland, was Jeff’s private code word for “All is well.” A wave of relief hit Swanson so hard that he staggered, but he was easily held up by Moore.

“You have some interesting friends. Now that’s enough words until we get you out of here. Be still while I get rid of the restraints. Got to put some of our own cuffs on you for a little while, just for show, in case anybody sneaks a peek.” Moore was already working with a set of keys, and the handcuffs fell free. In ten more seconds, the leg irons were off. Moore popped open a set of shiny cuffs and looped them softly around Kyle’s wrists but did not lock them. From an ankle holster, Moore removed a small.38 caliber revolver and handed it to Kyle.

“Cross your hands and hold those cuffs so they don’t slip off, and put that weapon where you can reach it,” he said. Swanson stuffed the little pistol into his waistband and covered it with the ragged shirt.

Moore then opened his sports coat wide enough to rest his right hand on the butt of his Walther 7.65 mm PPK in a belt holster at his hip. “We are ready to move here, Jimmy.”

“Very well.” The voice was soft, emotionless. “I’ll follow you two.”

The large room outside was empty when they left the warden’s office, although there were cups on some of the desks. A smoking cigarette balanced on the rim of an ashtray. No one barred their way. In a twenty-four-hour prison that never closes, not a guard was in sight.

Colin Moore walked in front, moving with the smoothness of a cat while his gaze swept every desk, chair,