In the last chapter, first Ohmie, and then his mother return to Switzerland.

As soon as I got some strength back. Well, that’s a bit strong, get it? Hah! Anyway, as soon as I could move around unassisted, we arranged with Mme Benoir to keep one of our rooms. Mom would wire some more money when we got to Venice. We were going to Paris, but in spy work, well … Turns out Dad wasn’t the only one with bank boxes scattered around the world. Mom had enough to keep us a month, or so, as long as we shared a room and acted more like tourists on vacation than spies on an expense account.

She wouldn’t have to tell me that there would be no command performance recital after the philharmonic. I was past that, health-wise. I really, really enjoyed the performance. I did. It’s just that I couldn’t stay as alert as I wanted to.

Back at the hotel, I read Mom’s mind. “No point in getting a set of tests, blood work and all,” I said. “It is what it is. The numbers would make you even sadder, harder to put up a cheery front.” I looked at her hard. I mean, not hard, hard, just more intently. “I love you. Mom.” She hugged me for a bit too long, but that was okay.

“Do you miss your friends?” she asked a little later, after she made me comfortable where I could look at the busy city street.

“Yeah, I guess, some. But they ‘bout gave up on me. They didn’t know what to say, or how to act. I really miss my own bed, and my room. Maybe we could get a wheelchair when we get back home. You know, to get to the bathroom easier.

“Don’t get me wrong, though. I wouldn’t want to do anything else than to help Dad. It’s like the symphony last night.” Mom looked at me funny. “Or was that two nights ago?” Yup. I saw it in her eyes. “They finished with that comedic rendition of Beethoven’s Fifth. I can still hear it.” Mom smiled. “They went out on a high note,” I didn’t say.

Mom rented a wheelchair for our visit to the Louvre. We didn’t take a tour. We… I… didn’t know if I would have time for the whole tour. We just used the brochure/map thing and raced from main exhibit to main exhibit looking at the masters. It was good.

“Mom,” I started out once nestled into the chair by the window. “You don’t have to spend all your money showing me Europe. No matter what you told Paul.”

“I know, honey. I want to do, or not do whatever you would like. Is there anything at all… you know, that you would like to do?” After a moment of my silence she lightened things up a little. “Besides go back to the Top of Europe to get that sixteen-year-old’s gift?”

We both laughed our butts off. It didn’t take much for me, though.

It was a while later that I asked if we had enough money to go to Rome, that I would like to see the Sistine Chapel.

“Yes, honey. But I’d rob the bank if I had to.”

I wondered if Mom thought that I was waxing religious, suggesting the chapel. We weren’t a religious family. Dad’s mother was Jewish, but Dad was raised Baptist. Mom’s parents were probably what you’d call nominal Catholic, not going to mass, or even having Rosary beads. Mom wasn’t anything as far as I knew.

I’d never been in a church in my life. I’ve read about all the major religions, though. The one thing that struck me about all that was why the disciples of Jesus would go all their lives, all the way to their deaths believing a lie, if it was a lie. Anyway, that’s not why I wanted to see the Sistine. It was one of Michelangelos major life’s work. A truly magnificent piece of art. That, and his fifteen-foot statue of David with normal size junk that some people wanted to cover up. Hah!

I still had that in my head when there came a loud whomping on the door. Not polite knuckle-knocking. Tap-tap-tap like maid service, but serious pounding. And not like hand-slapping like some desperate person trying to get away from bad guys. This was a fist. I looked at Mom. She’d frozen for a moment, too long out of the field, I figured. Then she sprang to action, grabbing the Berretta from her purse, slightly jacking the slide to check that a round was chambered, and then clicking off the safety.

It was flower delivery. Mom gave him a single Euro, signaling her displeasure at his service. The bouquet was pretty enough. The card was to both Mom and me from Paul. He’d tracked us down. We’d used our real names to get to Paris and register into the hotel, no reason not to. But it was time for a French lady and a Ukrainian boy to sneak off to Rome.

Mom studied the card that came with the flowers. It wasn’t a Hallmark, or anything like that, just a business card sized note that said who they were from. “Mme Paula Zürman,” Mom read.

I just looked at her funny.

“These are really for you,” Mom said. “For what you did to save that man’s life in Zurich. This is Paul’s way of saying that he and his wife are grateful.”

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t choke up a little. Mom did too. Some tough spies we were, hah!