Brad Thor - The Lions Of Lucerne

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.”

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.