An Act of Treason

him another languid kiss and a big smile. “Welcome back, Kyle. You were a wreck last night when you got in.”

“I was really tired.”

“Being fugitives from justice can be exhausting,” she agreed.

Kyle reluctantly moved away from her and went to the little kitchenette and put together a quick breakfast of apple slices and cheese on soft croissants, and strong coffee. “Not much longer, Lauren. Things should really be coming into play later today.”

She glanced over. He seemed unfazed about their problems. “Why are you so certain? I’m scared to death.”

Kyle swallowed a bit of breakfast and took a long hit of caffeine before responding. “How long have you been out here doing your girl stuff?”

Lauren dipped the little brush into the bottle and stroked the liquid onto her left index fingernail. “I had the concierge round up all of these things early this morning, and they were delivered about an hour ago. I’ve been hard at work ever since then.”

“The TV on the whole time, too? The BBC news readers?”

“Yes.” She waggled her toes. Wads of tissue were stuffed between them, part of the process. “Just background noise to keep me company while you snored away in the next room.”

“I don’t snore.” He poured a fresh cup of coffee, walked over, and sat on the table beside her feet. “Have you heard anything about us on the Beebs? Seen our pictures?” He slid his free hand onto an ankle and felt the smooth skin.

“Stop that! And no, we have not been on TV for the past hour.” Lauren stretched her legs and shifted her feet to his lap.

“We won’t be, either. Not only are we old news, but the authorities are not pushing anymore. Things have become static while Washington decides what to do next. Meanwhile, we increase the pressure on Jim Hall to force him out of his own hiding place.”

“Jim’s smart and dangerous,” she warned.

“So are we,” Kyle said, tracing a finger up her left leg to the edge of the robe, and then under it, loving the touch of her skin.

She used a foot to explore his lap further. “Not everything is static.”

“And to hell with your fingernails.”

ANTALYA

TURKEY

JIM HALL STARED OUT at the incredibly blue waters of the Turkish Riviera from the balcony of the suite in the small but exclusive beachfront hotel and wondered if the CIA was fucking with him. They had a deal! Were they going to need another lesson?

He fixed a drink at the little bar and took a swallow, getting over the shock as he paced the soft rugs. Somebody was going to die for this.

Hall had come into the comfortable lobby, as he had done in a thousand other hotels, and automatically ran his eyes over the few people sitting and standing around. There was nothing suspicious, so he walked to the front desk and smiled at the neat young man behind the computer screen. There was no need to ask if the man spoke English, for most Turks speak several languages fluently, a gift from the wandering ancient Seljuks whose business was conquering other nations from the ports along this Mediterranean Sea coast. The Turks were merchants to their souls. Hall said he had a reservation and gave the false name of Roger Petersen, showed the false passport, then placed his platinum American Express card on the slick stone desktop.

The clerk pulled up the reservation, printed it out, then swiped the Amex through the card reader. He paused, then did it again. And a third time. When he spoke, it was with a lower voice, so as not to embarrass the guest. “I am sorry, Mr. Petersen, but this card seems to be invalid.”

Jim Hall blinked in surprise. “Pardon me?”

“Sir, the card is not being accepted, for some reason. I’m sure it is nothing but an error at the bank, but would you care to put the room on another card?”

Hall recovered quickly. When he had last checked that account with the Banco Portugues de Negocios, it contained about twelve million dollars! He forced a smile, stayed calm. “Of course. These things happen. I will deal with it later.” He dug a MasterCard from his wallet. Same name, different bank. It was processed flawlessly.

Once he had dismissed the bellhop and settled into the room, he opened his computer and, using the hotel’s Wi-Fi network connection, went to a secure portal and called up a screen that automatically updated his accounts around the world. His palms were flat on the table on each side of the little laptop, sweating, as he scanned the accounts.

Portugal, Singapore, and Scotland all showed the same number in the balance column: a big fat zero. What the fuck? He clicked the screen to Transaction History and discovered that all three accounts had been closed. Twelve million from Portugal, eight from Singapore, and ten from Scotland had vanished. Somebody had stolen thirty million dollars from his retirement fund.

Hall’s throat was dry, and he grabbed a bottle of water as he burrowed deeper into what had happened. All of the transfers had been split, half going to Mrs. Glenda Swinton in Virginia. He had no idea who the hell Glenda Swinton was. Never heard of her. But he knew the other name all too well. Jack Pathurst was in the Security Office of the CIA.

Pathurst made the agreement not to chase me but never said anything about not taking the money, Hall thought. The little weasel knows the Agency has written off the funds, so he is doing some financial farming on the side. Probably figures that I will just write off the loss as the cost of doing business. Hall closed down the screen. Thirty million was a lot of money, part of his plan to live the rest of his life in comfort and ease.

Hall finished off the drink and stood at the big window, letting his pulse return to normal. He had a job to do on the northern side of Turkey and could not leave until it was done. The financial loss was staggering, but he could absorb it, if Jack Pathurst did not get greedy and snap up any more.

He decided to let it go for the moment. Maybe a few months from now, maybe a few years, he would drop by to see Pathurst and explain how it was not nice to steal from your buddies. But who the hell was Glenda Swinton?

Hall had been so absorbed with the financial loss that he did not get around to checking his e-mail until after a light lunch on the terrace, followed by a nap. With all of the numbers running around in his head, sleep was impossible, but he had a good hour of rest, then a shower, and felt refreshed.

He booted up the computer again and went to a Gmail account subfolder. Two messages, one of them an obvious spam sales message that had automatically been blocked. The second was from the estate management agency in Bangkok, where he maintained a profitable safe house for people in the dark trades, a beautiful home in which he had stored treasures that he had gathered during his years of journeying around Asia.

Jim Hall gasped aloud as he read it. The house was attacked, and two guests murdered by gunshots that police said appeared to be the work of a sniper. Then the building was set afire by a hand grenade and was completely engulfed in flames by the time the firefighters arrived. The live-in maid actually saw the gunman, who came into the house after the murders and gave her a message for delivery to Jim Hall. The police had opened it instead. It contained a slip of paper with only one word on it, “HOG.” The authorities, said the Gmail, would like to speak with the owner.

He lowered his head, closed his eyes, and buried his face in his hands. Hunters of Gunmen. Kyle again.

Swanson was trying to ruin him. It became clear that the Agency was not behind the financial losses. Swanson was working with Lauren to identify and shut down his secret accounts, and if Kyle did the Bangkok hit, then he also did the villa in Tuscany. Well, thought Jim Hall, that shit has got to stop.

He had five days before the scheduled job in Istanbul, and he would put them to good use. As he sat at the table, the assassination of the president of Pakistan became a lower priority for him than saving his wealth and getting rid of the bulldog tracker who was after him. If he had to choose, he would rather have the Taliban on his