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, window, closet, and corner. After days of incarceration, Kyle’s muscles would not respond to the quick pace, and even the dim light was like staring into bright headlights. He could not see worth a damn with eyes long tuned to complete darkness. He heard the skip-slide footsteps of Jimmy Todd behind him, moving forward while facing the rear. The door of the elevator stood open at the end of the room, a chair blocking it from closing. Moore threw it aside and guided Swanson in, leaning him against a wall. Todd backed in, still with his gun pointed at the vacant space.
Moore punched a button, and the door hissed closed. He removed his own weapon as the descent began. “Down to the loading area, mate. Hang in there.”
“That place will be swarming with cops,” Kyle said, drawing air down deep into his lungs. “If they are going to jump us, this will be the perfect ambush spot.”
“No worries. I think they’re all on a tea break for a few minutes.”
With a jolt, the elevator stopped moving, and as the door began to open, both SAS commandos had their guns at the ready, with Kyle leaning against one wall. No one was there to stop them.
They went out, moving faster. Moore and Todd flanked the stumbling Swanson. A large white SUV was parked beside the loading dock, with its motor running. As they piled in, Kyle saw a small Uzi submachine gun waiting on the backseat. He grabbed it.
“Go!” Colin Moore barked when the doors were closed, his voice loud in the confined space. The SUV lurched into motion and headed away from the prison, soon to be lost in the morning traffic.
Kyle dropped the handcuffs. “Thanks, guys. I buy the next round,” he said and passed out, totally spent.
“No worries,” said Moore, taking away the Uzi.
AT A WINDOW ON the top floor of a nearby building, General Nawaz Zaman of the Pakistani intelligence service inhaled a long draft from his cigarette as he watched the white van merge into the growing traffic and fade from view around a corner. “He’s gone, without a shot being fired,” he said. “Good.”
“The Americans are going to be furious,” said the tall warden, sitting in a folding chair, legs and arms crossed.
Zaman shook his head, and his jowls moved with the motion of a broad smile. “It makes no difference. Somehow the prisoner, a very clever and highly trained assassin, escaped during the night. The breakfast tray was slid into his cell as usual and was discovered to be untouched when the guards went to fetch him at noon. I shall pretend outrage and invite the FBI to assist in the investigation.”
“You should have let my men beat the prisoner as punishment before we turned him loose.” The warden’s lean face was in a pout. His comment was directed to the third man in the room, the helpful imam whose family had been saved by Kyle Swanson.
The religious leader said, “Warden, this was a matter of my personal honor. I consider that man to have been a guest in my home, and the traditions of Allah, his name be praised, demand that I protect him, with my own life if necessary. Were we still living in some village, everyone would be required to protect him. You know that. Anyway, you accepted the offered money, so why do you continue to challenge me?”
“He blew up half of our city!”
“No, he did not. You know nothing. All that man did was shoot a worthless Taliban and then get snared in a web of fate,” said General Nawaz Zaman, focusing on the warden, the geniality gone. “Why do you speak at all? These things are beyond your understanding. If you utter so much as a whisper about this matter, even in your sleep, you will take his place in the prison.”
The general then flicked his cigarette through the open window. Dawn was giving over to a beautifully bright day.