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 “No!” and Kyle saw the imam standing there, with his dark eyes freezing the warden in his tracks. “Disobey me again and it will mean your life.” The voice was cold and lifeless and certain.
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. Hell of a day, he thought and was instantly asleep.
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. Even the damned shoes were lined up in matched pairs or in hanging plastic sheaths. Neutral colors for all furniture. The kind of place you would live comfortable and leave just as easily. Typical Agency anal-compulsive personality, he thought.
A couple of books were on a bedside table-a thick biography of Thomas Jefferson and a paperback romance novel. A blank legal pad and a couple of pens lay atop her personal computer, the corners squared. The computer was not in sleep mode but had been turned off. How neat can you be?
He opened the drawers of the dresser. Nothing out of the ordinary. No condoms or birth control devices, and no sign of a boyfriend. Oddly, he thought, there were few personal pictures of Carson. A beautiful woman usually has to be reminded that she is beautiful, if only by herself. Had she moved beyond that? Confidence as a professional.
The apartment did not talk to him. It was bland, lower middle class, and totally average in every way. Pathurst trotted back downstairs and set free the search teams. Well, Ms. Carson, let the games begin. Things were too right here. Nobody lived with such perfection. There was gold in here. Pathurst could smell it.
ISLAMABAD
KYLE WAS WALKING UP to the back screen door at Flo’s Hot Dogs, a low building of weathered wood in Cape Neddick, Maine. He had been going there for so long that they knew him, and he never had to wait in the long line of tourists that wound out the front door. He peered inside. The counter was busy, and steam rose from the kettles. When he called out a greeting, a welcoming shout came back. “Hey, Kyle. How many today?”
“Two guys with me, so make it seven dogs, sauce and mayo on all of them.”
“You got ’em.”
The first time he had gone to Flo’s had been with other kids from the orphanage, aboard a rattling old school bus from the summer camp. As Kyle grew up, the little out-of-the-way restaurant remained a summertime standard for him. As a surfer and as a Marine, he always brought his pals to eat there, usually just as an excuse for returning himself. He regarded those early visits as his only really good childhood memories.
The food came out stacked in folded cardboard boxes, each hot dog wrapped in a napkin. The buns were large with square bottoms, and the steamed dogs had crisp outer skins and were coated with Flo’s relish, the recipe for which was a secret right up there with McDonald’s special sauce and the Coca-Cola formula. He washed them down with two small cartons of chocolate milk.
He and his friends would sit at one of the few plank tables outside beneath the big trees, with their surfboards sticking out of their cars like wooden sails and the sharp wind blowing through the shade, the sure sign of a New England fall. Best hot dogs in the world. Some kinda good, as they said around Cape Neddick.
The dream vanished in an instant when little feet ran halfway across his chest and stopped. Kyle jerked awake, angry that it had been ruined just as he was enjoying the exploding flavors. A rat was checking him out. He swatted it hard, and the furry body thunked against the concrete wall with a squeal of pain. The water in the cell drew the rats, and he heard them running around the space, alert to the foreign presence and sniffing to determine whether it was threat or food.
He came to a sitting position on the mattress. At least his captors had let him keep the boots, which meant that his toes would not be bitten. He found the pajamas and stood to change into them, then sat down again, shifting slightly to be in the corner. Rats ran around.
Time was passing, and he did not know how much because the catnap that he had wanted had turned into a deep slumber. While he awoke refreshed, he had lost track of the one thing he most desperately wanted to keep a hold on. Still, he had things to do.
The smelly cell was completely blacked out, but he had already reconstructed it in his mind, so light was not an imperative need. He got up and walked clockwise all the way around the room, feeling the wall with his fingertips. Okay, back at the door again. Feel it. Give it a little shove. It was rusty but strong, and when he checked the hinges, he was able to confirm the initial memory. Because the corridor outside was so narrow, the cell door opened inward and to the right. If I scramble over there and get behind it when I hear them unlocking it, I can use it as a battering ram against whoever comes through first. Swanson measured it in handwidths and then stood against it and put his hand atop his head, slowly raising it to the top edge. He was five-nine, so the door was about six and a half feet high, and no more than three feet wide.
Then he paced off the cell, side to side, corner to corner, and logged it all away on the checkerboard that he was assembling in his brain.