The last chapter detailed Ohmie’s father’s Minsk excursion.

Dad told me that he more-or-less reversed his route leaving Belarus. Finally getting to his fence crossing location, he saw what looked to be a trap. It was hard to tell considering it was only a quarter moon and his little, made for snooping in offices, pen light was so weak. He wasn’t taking any chances. That was how agents got killed. There was probably an enemy combatant, whether military, police, or SVR or all three, watching him that moment, or staking out his car, or both. There was no question that they would not shoot him from a distance. They would want to interrogate him.

They could have the car. It was rented under a false name, one that he would have to abandon. It was paid for with a fake debit card. Oh, it was real money, but there was no tie to himself, or the Company. Clandestine work was getting more expensive all the time.

He quietly walked back to the wooded area behind him, back into Belarus. He traveled south, staying in the woods nearly all the way. He had to wait for dark at one place, glad that he had as many power bars as he did. He finally got to a place where the fence had been cut, whether by locals, defectors, or other spies, he didn’t care. Hitching a ride to Vilnius was safer than hitching a ride in Belarus. And trains ran through Vilnius.

Dad didn’t have a bank in Vilnius. After buying a week-long pass for the train, regular coach seating, he had enough cash left for a tube of salami and a bottle of water. Since Vilnius was where he’d rented the car, and the car was only found the day before, possibly even only the night before, he tried his debit card, the same one he’d used to rent the car. If it was declined, he would get to the train as fast as he could. It worked. He bought a cheap flip phone, figuring to use up the minutes and toss it. The debit card he left at a pay phone with the pin number etched on it, hoping that someone would steal it and use it, sending searchers on a chase.

From the train station, Dad texted one of the few agents that he trusted. But then again, Dortch had been on that short list just a few days past.

Dad could tell without asking that he was not the subject of an all-out search. The man knew nothing, only that Dortch was taking personal time from work. That information was offered because Dad mentioned that Dortch was MIA. Dad told his friend that Dortch didn’t show at a pre-arranged meet. The guy then told Dad that it was probably connected to Dortch suddenly taking leave.

Dad figured that the car being spotted was more than likely a local affair – someone seeing it, or even seeing him drive in. They reported it to the border agents, who sent someone to check it out and to watch the next couple nights for the driver’s return.

The Company didn’t have a Code on him yet, at least not an all-hands Code. The SVR might not be on to him, yet. The assassins might have been SVR, but that was very unlikely. They might have been Middle Easterners from past operations. But that, too, was unlikely. What was more probable was that they worked for Dortch, or the people who Dortch worked for. The question was how much money did they have backing them up? Could he expect very many more?

Dad decided to go back to Berlin for the thumb drive. He would deal with Dortch if he had to but preferred to let the Company sort out the traitor matter. He would clandestinely get the drive to the Embassy. And a day or two later contact his immediate supervisor.

If he was still alive.

There was an espresso shop on the corner across the side street of Deutsche Bank. I would have called it caterwhompus, but no one ever knows what I’m talking about when I do. Catercorner isn’t right because that means diagonally across the street. Caterwhompus is across the street from cattercorner. But some people, those who do not own dictionaries, might call catercorner kittycorner. Dad went to the espresso shop an hour before the bank closed. It was a long shot one: because it had been days since his appearance there could have been predicted. And two: it was a bad place to observe the bank’s entry. There were too many other ways to enter and not be seen from this vantage point.

But guess what? Bingo, you win the booby prize. Dortch. Sometimes long shots pay off.

Dad was already in line to place his order before he recognized Dortch. It wasn’t such a great disguise, only that Dortch had just slightly let down his guard. My guess is that it is impossible to keep it up constantly, that there is a lot of dependency on luck. Dortch was looking at a newspaper and occasionally looking out the window toward the bank. He obviously hadn’t been looking at the entry door, or the direction Dad had come from. A big mistake.

Dad ordered a sixteen-ounce latte, no adds, just hot. Waiting for Dortch to resume his window surveillance, Dad sat down across from him, tapping him on the knee with his Glock. “Who you working for, Dortch?” Seeing hand movement, Dad again tapped his knee with the gun. “Keep your hands on the table, please. Who do you work for?” Dad repeated.

Dortch gave him the professional response – a blank smile.

Dad offered a few possibilities, beginning with the most unlikely: "The Israelis, the Taliban, the SVR?” Dad paused a second. “Surely not Company sanctioned?” Dortch let out a very modest guffaw. Dad named the two American political parties. He thought he saw something when he hit on one of them, but he wasn’t sure. He might have been reading something into nothing. Then Dad named the President. Bingo. Dortch’s smile failed him on his right side. It wasn’t much. Maybe no one else would have seen it, but my dad, the spy, did.

His latte still hot enough, Dad splashed most of it onto Dortch’s chest.

Half surprised and half in pain, Dortch let out a string of American curses, attempting to stand. Dad kicked his legs out from under him, bringing Dortch back down. Before his butt found the seat, Dad had the heel of his hand into Dortch’s nose, breaking it instantly, and sending excruciating pain into his frontal lobe. Done properly, it would kill the largest of men. Dad hoped he hadn’t struck that hard. Dortch was out, slumped down to the floor.

“The American wants to sue for too hot coffee!” In German, Dad announced to the crowd, “Call him an ambulance, please.” Dad casually got up and left, not crossing the street to the tourist visitor shop across the street from the bank until he was out of sight. There, he watched and waited. An ambulance appeared, but no one else. Dad waited for the bank to open, and promptly took care of his business.