by Brad Thor
“And a gentle bonsoir to you as well, fair lady. Hey, I’m not auditioning for the Chippendales here. I’m hurt. Did you bring the things I asked for?”
“Yes, but I don’t have any experience in this stuff.”
“Didn’t you take that wilderness medicine course in Utah when we all used to go backcountry skiing?”
“Yeah, but that was years ago.”
“I’ll guide you through it step by step.”
“Scot, I don’t think I—”
“Jackie, if I could go to a doctor, I would, but the doctor would ask questions and would probably want to invite the police to take a look. I can’t afford that. You have to do this for me.”
He closed his eyes, and they drove the rest of the way in silence.
In Scot’s room, Jackie produced a small bag that contained everything he had asked for. The guys who ran Jackie’s adventure-sports desk with canyoning, bungee, and rafting trips in the summer had left behind what they joked was their Rambo first aid kit. One of them, an American named Tony, was a certified EMT, and his partner, Paul, had been a registered nurse. There wasn’t much these two couldn’t handle out in the field, and the kit reflected that. Inside Jackie’s bag, which she had dumped onto the bed, was the first aid kit, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, gauze, and clean bandages.
Scot groaned as he took off the stolen jacket. Jackie gasped when she saw his entire left side caked with blood.
“What the hell happened to you? And don’t tell me you cut yourself shaving.”
“I cut myself shaving.”
“Do you want my help or not?”
“I was shot.”
“Shot? I thought no one knew you were here.”
“Either that or it’s open season on anyone with a bad dye job.”
“But who in Switzerland would want to shoot you?”
“Jackie, I’m a little bit under the weather at the moment. Can we play fifty questions later?”
“Of course. I’m sorry. What do you want me to do?”
“First, let’s get this windbreaker off.”
As Jackie helped him, Scot continued talking. “Now, take the scissors out of the first aid kit, and starting at my cuff, I need you to cut the sweater all the way up to where the tourniquet is and then do the same with the shirt underneath.”
Jackie did as she was told.
“Do me a favor and hand me that towel over there so I can use it as a compress…Thanks. Now, when we release the tourniquet, there might be some more blood, so I want you to be ready. Are you going to be okay? You’re not going to go south on me, are you?”
She shook her head, a few stray wisps of auburn falling into her eyes, which she quickly brushed away.
“All right. Take the needle that looks like a curved half-moon and the coil of black silk out of the kit.”
“I got it. I suppose I thread it the same way I would a regular needle and thread?”
“It should already be threaded.”
“It’s not.”
“Great. Just thread it like a regular needle and go to town. We don’t have time to learn how to do surgical knots.”
Jackie threaded the needle while Scot continued his directions.
“Now, when I release the tourniquet, I want you to tear my sweater and shirt the rest of the way up to my shoulder. I’ll hold the compress on the wound to stop any bleeding. As soon as you have my sleeve out of the way, I’ll pull back the compress and you dump the hydrogen peroxide straight into the wound.”
“How much should I use?”
“Pour a little on the needle right now, and then pour about half the bottle onto my arm.”
“That’s going to hurt.”
“Naw, you think? Listen, Jack, I don’t really have any choice. Are you ready?”
When Jackie nodded, Scot released the tourniquet and let the belt fall to the bed. He placed the clean towel against his arm as Jackie used both hands to tear his sleeves up to the collar. When he saw the peroxide in her hand, he pulled back the compress. The blood flow was not as bad as he’d thought it might be. With a quick look at Jackie to signal he was ready, Scot steeled himself for the pain.
When she poured the peroxide into the gash in his arm, the stew of blood and ripped flesh began to bubble and turn a mucus-looking white. Jackie felt queasy, but didn’t stop until half the bottle had been emptied. The peroxide ran down Scot’s arm and stomach, covering his pants and dripping onto the bed. It felt like hot acid, and he clenched his jaw with a force that was one foot pound of pressure short of cracking his teeth and sending his fillings flying across the room.
When Jackie set the bottle on the nightstand, Scot relaxed his bite and gave her his next instructions. “Now you need to stitch me up.”
“Oh, Scot. I don’t know if I can do that.”
“You’ve got to, Jackie. Just grab the needle and start from the top.”
“But what if I don’t do it right?”
He didn’t have the strength or the patience to argue with her. He did his best to stay calm. “You’ll do fine. C’mon. Start here and work your way down. We’ll make sure you draw the folds together as evenly as possible.”
“It’s going to hurt.”
“You’re such a kidder. That’s what you said about the peroxide, and I was fine,” he lied. “Let’s go.”
Fifteen minutes later it was done. The stitches were clean, and although there would probably be a scar, it could have been much worse.
“I think you missed your calling,” said Scot.
“What do you mean?”
“You should have been a surgeon. These are very clean. I thought you were gonna leave me looking like Frankenstein.”
“Very funny. Now, hold still while I put this bandage on.”
This time it was Scot who accepted the orders and did as he was told.
“There, that should do it. I’m sorry I don’t have any antibiotic ointment.”
“That’s okay,” said Scot. “The peroxide should kill just about anything that might have gotten in there.”
“Is there a high risk of infection?”
“With a bullet wound there always is, but I think we cleaned it out pretty well.”
“Good. Are you hungry? Can I get you some soup or something?”
“I would love some soup, but we need to talk first.”
She gathered up the equipment and set it on the table. “I’m all ears.”
“Jackie, you have been a real sweetheart. You’ve really helped me out—”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“Yes, I do. Not just for sewing me up, but for everything else.”
“Don’t worry. I told you I would put it all on your bill. By the way, critical care is very expensive in Switzerland.”
Scot smiled. “I’m sure it is. Listen, I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I’m starting to get a better picture. I need to ask you another favor.”
“Another favor? Sure, why not? What can I do for you…take your appendix out?”
“No,” said Scot, laughing, “nothing that serious. I need to borrow your car.”
“Okay, but the smoke screen and oil slick have been on the fritz. Every time I take it in to be fixed, the mechanic says he’s got it working, and then as soon as I get it home and need to wipe out some bad guys, it doesn’t work again. It’s also not bulletproof, you know.”
“That’s okay; I don’t intend to get it or myself near any more bullets.”
Jackie gave him a stern glance, knowing he was lying. “Why don’t I believe you?”
“I just need it for tonight, and—”
“Not a chance.”
“Why?”
“Scot, I don’t care how much of a macho guy you think you are, you could barely make it up the stairs a short while ago. I practically had to carry you the whole way. You are in no condition to drive.”
“I was exhausted. Being shot at has a funny way of doing that to you. It’s kinda been a bad day
.”
“All the more reason you shouldn’t be behind the wheel.”
“Okay, you’re right. I’ll make you a deal. Bring up some soup, I’ll eat, get a little sleep, and then I’ll go.”
She sat on the edge of the bed not saying anything. She just gave him the same disbelieving look.
“C’mon, Jack. Scout’s honor. I promise. I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important.”
“Okay, I’ll do it, but on one condition.”
“What is it?”
“I want a straight answer.”
“Okay.”
“What’s happening?”
“Jackie, if I knew, I would tell you. I mean that straight.”
“So you have no idea who tried to kill you today or how they found you?”
“None at all.” Once again, Scot was lying. He did have the beginnings of an idea, but nothing concrete.
“Scot, someone knows you’re here. This is serious. I am worried about you. It was one thing when you told me everything was going on back in the States, but whatever this trouble is, it’s followed you here. We should get you help.”
“No. No help, Jack. I can handle this.”
“Scot, I know someone I think can help you.”
“Jackie, I mean it. No help. I can get myself out of this.”
“Before or after you get shot at again?”
“What are you talking about? This?” he asked motioning to his bandaged arm. “It’s just a flesh wound. I’ll bite the legs off of anyone who tries anything else.”
“Monty Python, very funny. I mean it. You need help.”
“Actually, what I need is some soup and then a short nap. Everything will be fine. You’ll see.”
“I wish I could believe you.”
Jackie left the room and returned twenty minutes later carrying a tray with rolls, butter, soup, and a dish of ice cream.
“The car will be parked next to the bakery, two blocks down. I’ll leave the keys under the mat,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“Promise me you’ll be careful?”
“I promise.”
“I’m worried about you, Scot.”
“Me too, Jack. Me too.”
58
When Scot awoke several hours later, he was surprised that he had actually fallen asleep. He was also surprised at the depth of his exhaustion. Apparently, Jackie had come to collect his tray and he hadn’t even heard her. Sleeping that soundly was dangerous. Scot looked at his watch and realized he needed to get going. He had a long drive ahead of him.
There was no blood seeping through the bandage, but his arm was still in a lot of pain, as was his head. He pulled a couple of Tylenols from his shaving kit and chased them with the last of the mineral water. Next, he got out the glue and applied the bushy brown eyebrows and goatee. With a towel across his lap in case he dropped a lens, he sat on the edge of the bed and put the brown contacts in. Then, he slipped on the thin wire-frame glasses. Harvath looked in the mirror, staring at the contrast between the brown eyebrows and goatee and his stark blond, almost white hair. Thank goodness it was cold and he would be able to wear a hat.
With his good right arm he slowly slid into a pair of khakis, but putting on a button-down shirt was murder. The pain surged through his arm and into his shoulder. Slowly, he told himself. Take it slowly.
Thirty minutes later, disguised as Hans Brauner, Harvath left Balmer’s and made his way toward the bakery. The car was exactly where Jackie had said she would leave it. The keys were under the mat, and there was a Post-it note on the knob of the gearshift that read simply, “Be Careful.” Harvath chided himself again for ever letting her go.
Despite the cold, the car turned over immediately. Scot signaled and merged into the flow of Saturday evening Interlaken traffic.
The drive to Munich was long, yet thankfully uneventful. At the border, sleepy guards anxious to get off duty waved him on through when he held up his German passport.
Harvath followed the signs toward München Flughafen. Driving in Europe was so much easier than in America. The routes were perfectly marked with easy to understand signs, and as long as you stayed out of Italy, the drivers were courteous and knew what they were doing.
He parked his car at the Munich Airport long-term lot and caught a train for the short ride to the Hauptbahnhof. Even though it was late, the city’s main train station was alive with activity. There were the requisite homeless people hitting up passersby for spare change, a heaping helping of drunk students, some with large packs, waiting for their trains, as well as a smattering of locals with the wide smiles and hearty laughter that the people of this city had been known for ever since Augustiner monks introduced Bier to the city over six hundred years ago. Not counting Oktoberfest, it was said that the average Münchener consumed at least two hundred twenty liters of beer a year, more than twice the average amount drunk in the rest of Germany. The Bavarians were a hearty bunch, there was no denying that.
Outside the station on Bayerstrasse, Harvath caught a cab and gave the driver the address he wanted on Pfisterstrasse, not far from the Max Joseph Platz.
When the cab pulled up, the wooden blinds of the establishment were shut tight. The driver made a comment about the café looking closed, but Harvath paid him and got out.
It was after 1:00 A.M. and the Kuntscafé was indeed closed, or at least that’s the message its proprietor wanted to send to anyone casually strolling by hoping to pop in for a quick bite or one last drink. Behind the blinds, the lights were still blazing, and Scot heard a mill of voices. Somewhere inside, a piano sprang to life and a beautiful tenor voice began to belt out a song.
The singing continued as Scot went around to the back of the small café. He peeled off his hat and the pieces of his disguise, then placed all of it in his jacket pocket. Garbage was piled high in the alley, and maneuvering around a stack of bright blue and yellow plastic beer crates filled with empty bottles, Harvath found the back door. He knew that if Herman was entertaining, he probably would still have staff on duty. As Harvath entered the kitchen, he surprised two rather stocky waiters. Before they could say anything, Herman’s cook, Fredrik, turned and saw Scot standing in the doorway. Instantly, his eyes lit up in recognition and a broad smile crept across his face.
Harvath put a finger to his lips to silence the cook, who in return gave him the thumbs-up and pointed toward the front of the café. After all, what good was surprising an old friend if you couldn’t really surprise him?
Herman was still singing and had his back to Scot as he emerged from behind a beaded curtain down the hall from the kitchen. Herman’s thick fingers crashed upon the last keys, and the small group collected in the front of the café clapped enthusiastically. When they stopped, one pair of hands was still clapping.
“Lovely. Simply lovely,” said Scot.
Herman looked up in the direction of the voice and then roared, “First, I am going to fire the cook, and then I am going to get the lock on that back door fixed!” His guests sat speechless. Who was this man standing at the end of the bar, and why was their host yelling at him in English?
It was amazing how quickly Herman moved his six-foot-four, 240-pound frame around the piano and over to Harvath. The limp from his injured leg didn’t slow him down at all. Herman’s huge hands reached out, and Scot almost flinched as he saw them close in on his face. The beefy German gave him a kiss on each cheek and then raised Harvath completely off the floor in an enormous bear hug. The pain in his shoulder was written across his face, and Herman noticed. Quickly, he set his friend back on the floor.
“What’s wrong with you? Are you hurt?” said Herman. “Did your hairdresser beat you up when you refused to pay for that awful hairstyle?’
“We need to talk. I’m sorry to interrupt your little party.”
“Party? This? Don’t worry, they’ll only stay as long as I keep the bar open, and the bar is now closed!” shouted Herman, who turned to the group and told them in German
to settle up their tabs.
After the group left, Herman had the cook make them each up a plate of Würstel with potatoes and sauerkraut, then sent the staff home.
Herman set two large bottles of beer on the table and said, “It’s great to see you. Why don’t I call Diana? She’s probably asleep by now, but it doesn’t matter. She would love to see you, even with your hair like that.”
Scot responded as Herman drew a small cellular telephone from his breast pocket. “You know what? For now, let’s not tell Diana I’m here. I need to talk to you alone.”
Herman replaced the phone in his pocket. “Does this have anything to do with the face you made when I gave you the hug?”
“Kind of.”
“You’re getting soft! Look at me,” said Herman, flexing his right biceps and then slamming his hands upon his midsection. “I am still in better shape than most men my age, and I run a café now for a living. All this food, all this beer, and I haven’t put on more than two kilos…three max!”
Scot smiled. “You look great, Herman, and I am sure Diana does too. You will have to tell her that I asked about her.”
“What do you mean? You can tell her yourself. After we eat, we’ll go back to my place. You can have the guest room.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t stay that long. I just came because I need some information and a favor.”
Herman’s jovial expression turned quietly serious. “Are you in some sort of trouble?”
“Actually, my friend, I’m in many sorts of trouble.” Harvath brought Herman up to speed on everything that had happened to him. Herman listened intently, only picking at the plate of food in front of him. When Scot finished, Herman took a long swallow from his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before responding. “So, what is it you need from me?”
“Like I said, information. I thought all of the shooters yesterday were working together until I heard the American voices and realized that there were probably two groups. The first, with the woman, must have been gunning for me because of the note I sent to the post office box in Interlaken, and the second was the hit team from D.C., who somehow managed to pick up my trail.”