In the last chapter Ohmie’s father returned to Berlin from Minsk and promptly sent Dortch to the hospital.

I got off the tourist bus from the Jungfraujoch excursion first. It was a train to the top, but we bussed from Lauterbrunnen to Zurich, where our chateau was. Someone separated me and Mom by using the zipper system of taking turns getting in line – left, right, left, right. The bus driver was standing just outside the door. So he could get tipped, probably. He helped me navigate the steps since they were pretty awkward for me. I guess my frailty was pretty obvious at that point. I thought that the people who were wanting to get on the bus were pretty rude, jamming themselves up to the door. Then I took a better look and saw that it was only two dark-complected men that were pushy. The bus driver said something to them that I didn’t get. Probably telling them to back away. I was too concerned with not falling down, working my way to a lamppost to hang on to. That’s when I looked back for Mom.

The two rude men had her by her elbows. I imagined that they had her up on her tiptoes. There were quite a few people milling about, but she caught my eyes. I didn’t catch what she mimed, her mouth moving, but not her voice. “Call Paul.” I’m sure that’s what she’d tried to communicate. Her head also dipped downward as if pointing with her forehead. Within a second, maybe two, they were gone.

Protecting me, she never once called out to me. Never calling out, “My son!” She wanted me to get away. I remembered the hammer to the fingers talk Dad and I had. I would talk, she would talk. Everybody talked. Then you died anyway.

Once people cleared out and the bus drove off, I saw that Mom had managed to drop the room key to the gutter. It must’ve been in her jacket pocket. It was then that I realized Mom really was a spy. She’d stuck a few Euros in one of my pockets before we left our room. “You never know,” she’d said. I took a cab to our chateau. Once in the room, noting that it did not seem to’ve been disturbed, I put the battery into my phone and called Mom’s work number. No one answered. When it went to voice mail, in a loud voice, just short of a shout, I called Paul Santos’ name until someone picked up asking who I was and what could they do for me. They finally transferred me to Paul.

I talked like my fingers had been hammered. I was able to describe the two men pretty well – “they looked like Romanians, Turks, Bosnians.” There, that ought to narrow down your search.

One thing sure, I had to git. Paul would have someone at the chateau within the hour, most likely. Maybe within minutes if he used local authorities to just pick me up.

I grabbed what few things I thought I might need, which of course included the gun, jammed ‘em into my backpack and kicked into my version of running out the back way. A small chateau south of Lucerne. One that had a nice view of the mountains. Probably where I was conceived.

I’d removed the battery from my phone. And I also noted that I only had one magazine for the Baretta – thirteen rounds. Fortunately, Mom only had my U. S. passport with her. I would travel as Tymofiy. But just in case, the wig and bra went into my backpack, too.

I forgot I had cancer; I was so sick with worry about Mom.

The chateau restaurant was too far from the main entry. So, with the wig on and me looking my prettiest, I buried my face in my novel and tried my best to look casual as I glanced through my eyebrows over the top of the book. I was on a couch in the lobby where I could see the front door. I couldn’t see the check-in counter very well, though. I didn’t like that, not being able to see whether any of the clerks took a phone call and quickly looked to me. That would have been helpful. But I guess spy work always had its risks.

I was going to watch for two hours. I didn’t expect to see Mom. But I wanted to know if whoever came were Americans, or more like Romanians, Turks, Bosnians.

Could I trust Paul? I was one hundred percent certain that he would have me first taken to the American Embassy. And then probably back to the states, probably to whoever Mom had listed as who to notify in case of whatever, after Dad. But had Paul been apprised of Dad’s operation? Probably by now. Was Paul a Dortcher? Would Paul believe the story that I’d babbled like a baby? That Dad was trying to find out who killed Viktar and why he had bad data, and who was trying to kill him? No way for me to know.

At the end of two hours, I would have to make a choice: to go to the little chateau south of Lucerne, if I could find it, or go to Berlin and find Dad. Like that would be a snap. Hah!

The first to show was a single person, walking not in what I’d call a rush, but with all deliberate urgency. He was tanned, but white, fair-haired, about six feet tall. Prob’ly American. Okay so far. I could follow him up to the room, or wait to see if he was followed. I waited. Good thing.

Romania followed about a minute later. I was feeling pretty full of myself so I got into the elevator with them. “Go ahead, Bosnia, just even look at my boobs and I’ll plug ya both." My thoughts were very close to being actual speech. Oh, I forgot to say that I had the Baretta in the small of my back. Well, tucked into my belt in back. My back is all small nowadays.

I followed them out of the elevator, but turned the opposite direction. Looking back through the eyes in the back of my head that every good spy has… Hah! Actually, I stooped down to tie my shoe (that was Velcro fastened), I saw that they were drawing out guns from shoulder holsters as they reached for mine and Mom’s room door. I drew mine. I got down there as fast as I could.

Man, these Swiss chateau doors are for crap. It hadn’t closed behind them.