ISLAMABAD
KYLE SWANSON WORKED SLOWLY in his cell, doing what he had to do, whether or not he liked it. He was facing a stretch of unknown duration at the United States Disciplinary Barracks in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, a hard-time military prison. And he was not naive. A prisoner does not have to be officially sentenced to death in order to die when the immense forces of the intelligence world want him dead.
“It’s kind of funny, when you think about it,” Swanson told the rats as he took a seat on his mattress and prepared to get to work. “It wasn’t that long ago, back when I rescued General Middleton from his kidnappers, that they buried me with full honors at Arlington Cemetery because they wanted me to disappear and do even more work for them. Now it looks like I’m heading for an unmarked grave in the Leavenworth cemetery, branded as a traitor. Hell of a thing, boys.”
He picked at the end of the dental floss and measured out a string that encircled his waist, plus a few inches, then used the built-in metal tab to cut it. Swanson was sitting with his legs crossed and laid the strip carefully before him, memorizing it with his fingers. A skittering sound was heard nearby. “You damned rats stay over there,” he ordered. “Don’t fuck with my dental floss.”
The State Department guy said he would be picked up from this prison tomorrow at noon, which meant Americans would take him into custody. He did not want to kill any Americans to break free after he was pulled out of this cell, but he also did not want to reach Leavenworth in irons. He would only have one chance. He strung out another length of floss, cut it, laid it beside the first.
If he could pick the right moment and overpower one of them, then he could grab the pistol the man was certain to be carrying and take control of the situation. He could escape, but that would make him a white boy on the run in Pakistan, wanted for murder by his own government. Not good, but the options were few.
Strip after strip of dental floss was measured and cut, then laid out. He could not go to the helpful imam, because while the man might be honor-bound to help, he had also exposed himself enough for Kyle’s sake. Another visit might doom him, no matter what his rank in the government or religious establishment. “You know, rats, I 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.