Jack Coughlin - An Act of Treason

“Yep. You still owe me for that stuff. See that key on the floor mat between your feet? It opens up that storage shed over there, 18-A printed on it. Your stuff is in there. Plenty of other toys, too. Help yourself. Ten thousand for my going-out-of-business sale.”

“Let me reach for my wallet?”

“Careful, Jim Hall. Just give me the money and go on about your business. We both walk away. Never see each other again.”

Hall slowly removed a long, flat wallet of brown leather from his inside jacket pocket, and handed it over, using his left. “Here, just take it all. Eleven thousand, close enough.”

“You a good man, Jim.” Nicky Shaw flashed his Grade A smile and reached for the soft leather wallet with his right hand, having to briefly remove his fingers from the shoulder gun.

Jim Hall had known all along that he would have to be quick, because Nicky was a big guy, a warrior. There would be no second chance, and he could not win in a brawl. The narrow knife with the four-inch blade fell into his palm from the rear, hidden side of the wallet, unseen in the dim light. When Shaw reached for the money, Hall grabbed his right wrist to hold it still, counted on the steering wheel to delay the left coming over, and plunged the knife upward into Nicky’s throat.

Hall threw himself atop the bigger man, the weight of his whole body pinning the muscle-pumped right arm and shoving Nicky tight into the driver’s seat. Nicky cursed in surprise, and his left arm broke free and a big fist thundered down on Hall’s right shoulder. Hall took the pain and dug into the throat again and again, ripping and tearing at the larynx and arteries. Jets of crimson blood flooded from the thrashing man’s throat. Nicky Shaw was extraordinarily strong, and Hall panted with exertion to keep him from breaking free. Thank God the man was wearing a seat belt that helped hold him in place. The legs were useless, trapped in the space beneath the dashboard.

The fist lost some of its power, and the right arm softened. Hall pulled away just enough to remove the knife from the neck and go to work on the stomach, slicing more veins and wrecking internal organs. Nicky’s cursing turned to grunts of pain, and finally to sighs of surrender and a gurgle of life puffing from him.

Jim Hall did not stop cutting until he was sure the huge mercenary, once a friend, was nothing more than a piece of dead meat.

BERN

SWITZERLAND

T HE NOON SUNLIGHT REFLECTEDmirror-bright off the snow-covered sharp peaks of the Bernese Alps that marched off into the distance outside the city. It was crisp but not too cold, and Kyle wore a lightweight bomber jacket, while Lauren was in a belted tan trench coat, with apples and carrots in her deep pockets and the collar turned up. She held his arm as they strolled beside the River Aare; gentle swells pushed the dark, swift-flowing waters to within inches of the wide walkway.

“I can’t believe that we are somewhere that you have never been before.” Lauren playfully pushed against him.

“The Swiss have been neutral for seven hundred years.” He pushed her back. “Not much call for my specialized services. Anyway, they have some pretty tough guys in their armed services to meet their needs. Do a lot more than guard the pope.”

Near the Nydegg Bridge, Kyle saw the spire of the cathedral, and they slowly climbed a long set of sharply angling stone steps that took them upward toward the center of the ancient city. At the top, he checked his tourist map, orienting himself, then they moved on.

The attractive couple seemed to be something they were not. Instead of being a pair of love-struck tourists, Kyle and Lauren were making an in-depth reconnaissance of Bern, readying for the time, coming soon, when Jim Hall would have to break cover.

It was a meandering stroll, and Kyle constantly was on the lookout for places in which death might hide, might even be hiding at the moment. He would not discount the possibility that Hall had hired a countersurveillance team of his own. Moves and countermoves, the eternal survival game of life and death. Where are you, Jim? What are you thinking?

“It looks like a fairy tale,” Lauren said as they moved through the winding streets, with brightly colored statues on every corner. A small crowd had gathered before the fifteenth-century clock tower, and exactly at one o’clock a parade of carved animals, jesters, knights, and bears made their noisy journey about the clock face. She watched the clock. Swanson watched the crowd. Tourists of every shape and size, many with phone cameras and video recorders, making pictures of this Aesop’s Fables wonderland to show their friends. That worried him, but nothing could be done.

In a few minutes more, they were waiting at the Bear Pit. Lauren started tossing carrots to the three large and shaggy beasts, who ignored her treats. Two were sound asleep, and the third just sat there, digesting. The pit was littered with the uneaten food from earlier tourists.

A small, compact man in a gray business suit leaned his arms on the railing beside Kyle. His longish hair was swept back, and he had eyes like steel marbles. “They are treated like animal royalty. It is a long and boring story. My name is Commander Stefan Glamer, and today, I represent the Federal Criminal Police.” He let them glimpse the badge on his belt, then extended his hand, and both Lauren and Kyle shook it. It was a strong, firm grip. “The cantonment police asked for our help in this matter that you have brought to their attention. Fortunately, our base is at Worblaufen, which is not far from here.”

“We’re more than happy to have your guys handle it,” Kyle said. “We will just be along to assist the identification.”

As the plan had come together, General Middleton of Task Force Trident in Washington had put in a call to his counterpart with Einsatzgruppe (Task Force) TIGRIS in Switzerland. The existence of the special covert unit had been totally unknown to even the Swiss for many years. The press called them Supercops.

“Then let us go get some coffee and have a look at the bank plaza,” said Glamer, and they headed toward the bank. Glamer was one of the rare men who seemed unfazed by Lauren’s looks. Like Kyle, he looked like nothing was going on, but he was already hard at work, visually checking the dark shadows beneath the covered walkways. He led them to a little restaurant and, speaking German to the waitress, ordered some pastries and coffee.

“We have heard of you, Gunny Swanson. When this is over, I hope you will come out to the camp and talk to our sniper teams.”

Swanson raised his eyebrows. “I thought you guys might be hunting us.”

Glamer laughed softly. “That is old news. You and Agent Carson are no longer wanted by anyone for anything. You have not gone to the CIA with this?”

Lauren lifted the dainty cup of coffee and sipped. Strong, with a bite of liquor and an aroma that dazzled the senses. “I have an appointment to go meet with them at the American Legation and reestablish contact this evening. When I am satisfied about my reinstatement, I will advise them what is going on but insist that they stay out of your way. It will remain your operation, Commander Glamer.”

Kyle added a lump of sugar and stirred it in with a little spoon. “General Middleton thought it best to keep things unofficial to avoid any perception of a breach of neutrality. We consider this to be strictly an internal criminal matter for the Swiss to handle as they see fit. There are no American national interests involved, although the terrorist himself is an American.”

Glamer said, “I read his file. Former Marine and ex-CIA. And once a friend to you both.”