An Act of Treason

“Someone has given you faulty information, Mr. Swinton. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice was irritatingly precise and icily confident. Her calm, dark eyes betrayed no sign of nervousness.

Swinton, who had been a CIA attorney for three years, had dealt with difficult cases before. They always thought they could outsmart him, despite the knowledge that he had the resources of the entire Central Intelligence Agency to support him and build a case. He decided that an abrupt change of subject, a slightly veiled personal insult, might shake her confidence. “That is a designer suit you are wearing, Major. Very nice. Prada, if I am not mistaken. The shoes are Italian leather, and your purse is a small and stylish Gucci. Rather expensive attire for someone of your pay grade as a mere Marine major.”

Not a ripple. She shrugged. “My daddy’s rich and my mama’s good-looking.”

Jesus Christ. “Two weeks ago, you were in charge of a mission that inserted two snipers into Pakistan to take down separate Taliban targets simultaneously. But Swanson went on a rampage instead, and numerous Pakistani civilians are dead as a result.”

“Sir,” she replied, “on the dates in question, I was in Idaho, where the president was coming to make a campaign speech. Check the duty roster and the flight manifests. The Secret Service will vouch for me.”

“Major Summers.” The CIA lawyer, growing frustrated, spread his hand across a stack of folders filled with papers. “The Secret Service will not discuss presidential protection protocols.”

“A wise decision, don’t you think?” She smiled.

“I advise you to take this very seriously, Major Summers. We know all about you and Swanson and General Middleton and Task Force Trident.”

“Boise was pretty. A little chilly this time of year.”

“We know everything.”

“About Boise? I imagine you would. The visit was widely publicized, and the new president is pretty popular. He gets a lot of press coverage.”

“Why are you being so unhelpful, Major? We should be on the same side on this. We want to get Sergeant Swanson to safety in an American prison, and out of danger, as soon as possible.”

“It’s Gunnery Sergeant Swanson, not Sergeant. Please try to be accurate. Now. Is this meeting over? I need to get back to work. There’s a party in the East Wing this afternoon, and the first lady wants me to be there.”

The lawyer slapped his folders together in exasperation, turned off his little tape recorder, and stuffed it all into a leather briefcase. “Very well. I was hoping that you would be more cooperative in an informal setting. The next time we meet, it will be at CIA headquarters in Langley. I must advise you to bring your own lawyer. You will either answer my questions promptly and totally, or you may be charged as an accomplice, under UCMJ Article 107, for giving a false official statement. That could mean up to five years in prison.”

“Oooooh. That’s real scary.” Sybelle Summers stood, buttoned her jacket, and went to the door. She turned around. She already knew the small room was not bugged, which was one of the reasons she chose to meet here. “Off the record?”

The attorney nodded. He also was standing, his briefcase on the table before him, his shield from harm.

“You think you know everything? Well, you don’t. You know only what we choose to allow you to know. In other words, you don’t know shit, and it’s going to damned well stay that way. The Agency fucked this operation, not us, and now you have given your guy a pass. You don’t want this to go public.”

“Swanson is going down,” snapped the CIA man. “Why are you risking a jail term yourself for this renegade?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“Simple. Kyle would do the same for me. We take care of our own.”

“You are right. I don’t understand why you Marines always want to lie down in traffic for each other.”

“Of course you don’t. Stephen, you are a desk jockey with no field experience. You would just leave your friends behind rather than risk your own ass.”

“Anything else, Major?”

Sybelle’s eyes suddenly became like dark stones. “Kyle didn’t murder anybody. We already have sworn statements from Americans and Pakistanis who were on the scene, and they will destroy any case you try to bring. You people need to rethink this whole vendetta. Agent Carson also did nothing wrong, and we are thinking about giving the Washington Post an exclusive interview with her, pretty pictures and all. So you need to take care of this in a hurry, Stevie.”

“Why?” The change in the woman had been remarkable; from a stubborn and stylish lady to a tigress protecting her cubs in the blink of an eye. The file said she was the only woman ever to complete the elite Marine Force Recon training and that she was known in the Corps as the Queen of Darkness. He had dismissed that as just the usual military hyperbole. The abrupt change made him a believer.

“If you don’t, somebody might get hurt. That someone might be you. By bringing me in and threatening me, you have put yourself in the line of fire. Don’t think your desk will protect you now, nor that stupid chocolate Lab at your home in Arlington, nor your weight-lifting buddy at the hideaway on the Eastern Shore. You have become part of the problem, and we solve problems.”

The lawyer pulled protectively on the lapels of his suit and gave a nervous pat to his pale hair. “So you are trying to threaten me? Is that a threat?”

“A promise.” Sybelle Summers smiled and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

BERLIN

GERMANY

SELIM WALEED OF THE Taliban stood outside a small hotel on Potsdamer Street, a quiet and midrange place favored by business executives, not far from the Landwehr Kanal that wove through the heart of Berlin. It was early morning, but all around him industrious Germans were already hustling to work. Selim pushed up the collar of his overcoat to keep the cold wind from his neck. He was of average size in most countries, but in Germany he often felt like a pygmy; the whole nation was full of large people who loved eating great portions of the filthy animal that no Muslim would ever touch. The diner at a table next to him last night had ordered Eisbein and Salzkartoffeln, which was a huge pickled knuckle of a pig, with the meat falling onto a bed of boiled potatoes. When the heavy tray appeared before the man, Selim fled from his own table and resorted to room service.

At precisely eight o’clock in the morning, an elegant silver-white Mercedes E63 AMG whispered to a stop before him, and a smiling Jim Hall waved from behind the steering wheel. The door on the passenger side clicked, and Selim opened it. The leathery new car smell was overwhelming as he slid into the seat, which fit as if it had been handmade just for him. “Howdy, partner,” Hall sang out. “Let’s go for a ride.” The sedan accelerated rapidly into the traffic flowing toward the huge columns of the Brandenburg Tor.

“Like my new wheels?” asked Hall. “Zero to sixty miles per hour in four point five seconds. A 518-horsepower engine under the hood, and it flies like the wind. I thought about getting the Stirling Moss Roadster version, but that’s really too much of a race car.”

“Why are you doing this, Jim Hall? I thought you were to maintain a low profile until the job is done.”

“Why, Selim, this is a low profile for me. I have always had expensive tastes. Got a discount on this baby, seventy-five grand, because I paid cash. Now I don’t have to ride those damned trains anymore. I can take my time getting anywhere in Europe, and in comfort. Hand-stitched leather. Here, you’re cold. I’ll turn on the seat heater.” He clicked a switch, then dropped his hand back to the gear lever, changing to a lower ratio as he found a route marker and turned a corner. Then the car leaped onto the Bundesautobahn, and when he spied a round road sign with the diagonal stripes, the speed limit came off. He opened up the big engine.

“This will only draw attention to yourself. It is madness. My father will not be pleased.”

“He’s your father, not mine. How is the old snake, anyway?”

“He is well. A bit anxious because the political center in Pakistan is still holding together. We had hoped the Islamabad attack might finish off the government.”

The speedometer was pegging at 150 kilometers per hour. The car had been delivered with an electronic device