Without Honor by David Hagberg Page A

while Trotter remained behind to close down the house. She knew nothing of the real reason for the Swiss trip or McGarvey’s part in it, and he was of no mind to enlighten her. Instead he sank down within his own dark thoughts, quite oblivious to the lovely scenery, unaware that the day had become nice.
    He could run. Paris. London, perhaps. Maybe the coast of Spain, or the Greek isles. But then, in the end, he would just be running away from himself. And that was impossible, wasn’t it?
    Like an old football injury, his sudden call to arms had come to him with a hurtful intensity. He became aware of his old wounds, both mental and physical; the cold fear that clutched at his gut whenever he was in the field rising strong.
    Once a spy always a spy? But God in heaven he couldn’t think of himself as a murderer. Not that. When they were married Kathleen used to tell him: “Plunge forward, it’s the only direction.” But she never had an inkling of exactly what it was that bothered him.
    He had a very sharp vision of the man he killed in Chile. He had been close enough to see the look of fear in the general’s face. The abject terror in the man’s eyes. It was a vision that haunted him and would continue to haunt him for the rest of his life.
    There had been others, too. Not many. Not in the numbers a combat soldier would experience, but
for him they were a dark, dreadful legion.
    â€œIt is war,” Alvin Stewart had told him in the old days. “Our survival or theirs. Simple.”
    War, yes. But it wasn’t simple.
    There are a million crossroads in our lives. At each intersection we have a choice that will forever determine the rest of our existence. How many wrong paths had he taken? Kathleen hadn’t understood, neither had his sister, yet they both instinctively understood fear and how it worked its changes. They were experts at it, while it was his master.
    Trotter had given him a Washington telephone number. Nothing else. It was the beginning.

9
    The nondescript gray Mercedes 240D clattered up the switchback above the lake and finally pulled over just before the long flight of stairs that connected the terraced roadways. Marta Fredricks, wearing a white sweater, dark slacks, and a gray raincoat, sat on the passenger side. She felt as if she had been kicked in the gut by a friend; the pain was there but it was hard to believe.
    Swiss Federal Police Supervisor Johann Mueller switched off the engine and turned to her. He was like a father to Marta. She had worked for him even before this assignment.
    â€œHe is a dangerous man, Mati,” Mueller said.
    Marta looked up sharply, almost resentful that he was using that name … now. “If he leaves Switzerland?”
    â€œThen that would be the end of it as far as concerns us. But there are no guarantees. You knew that from the beginning. From the very beginning.”
    She turned away.
    Mueller reached across her and, with his fingertips at her chin, gently turned her face back to him. “Listen to me now, young lady. If your father were alive, he would be proud of you.”

    â€œBut it hurts,” she cried.
    â€œYes, oh yes, I am sure it does. But do you think you are the only one who has ever made a sacrifice for Switzerland? I could tell you …”
    She tossed her head and turned away from him again. The day had turned lovely, though the wind off the lake was still very cold. Oh, Kirk, she cried inside. She’d always known it would come. Eventually. But, God, she had not counted on the pain. Nothing at the school in Worb, outside of Bern, had prepared her for this. Not the confidence course. Not the tradecraft lectures, certainly nothing to do with the law, Swiss or international, had forewarned of this.
    The surveillance had been spotted two days ago. Then this morning Kirk had been run down off the square. They had followed him to a house about an hour south.
    He had taken his gun. It was the