In the last chapter Ohmie and his mother have a moving experience in the Sistine Chapel. They then took a train back to Switzerland.

It was tough not hearing from Dad. Not knowing. Dortch was every bit as professional as Dad was. He had all the training and experience Dad had. Plus, to a certain extent anyway, Dortch had the blessings and backing of the Company at his disposal. And he had the official contacts within the various nations of the European Union. Not that Dortch could put out an APB, all points bulletin, on Dad, but he had access to all those cameras that spied on the public. And he could ask a variety of officials whether Dad crossed borders, where and when. He, Dortch, could himself make official inquiries at hotels using the names of law enforcement people. And the United States would not stop him from doing any of these things. After all, Dad had killed outside his license. And he had provided phony data in an official operation. The fact that he hadn’t come in to give his side made him guilty of espionage against the United States of America.

And now Dad had assaulted and injured an American employee of the Central Intelligence Agency, the Company.

Dad was in trouble, and aside from me and Mom, he didn’t know who he could trust. Other agents, one in particular that I knew about from talks with Mom, Dad was particularly chummy with. They had worked together on a lot of jobs. Both trusted one another with their lives. But that guy, I don’t know his name, I’m sure Mom does, though, would give Dad up if he was convinced Dad had gone over to the dark side.

We never turned on the TV, Mom and I. While I rested (a pleasant way of saying lay there dying), Mom talked to me about their practices. I guess she thought I would like to know the rest of the story, which I did. Also, Dad filled a lot of this in later. And double also, I can fill in a lot of the holes myself. Not that hard.

Dad would never put that guy in a tough spot, having to decide between himself and his career, or his and Dad’s career. Dad wouldn’t do that. Well, unless a thousand other things complicated it.

Dad and his buddy used a variation of the secret code. Almost exclusively, they used it for coordinates, dates, and times. Mom told me that she learned that the Company intercepted one of their messages. It was a jumble of nonsense words, but if you took away all the vowels and all the silent letters, and counted double letters as a single letter, then it reduced to a twenty-six-digit code. The Company code people figured that much. Yay bang for them. Score one for the good guys. Except this one worked against Dad.

Dad and his buddy knew that the first nine was the coordinate for the latitude in decimals, and the next nine were the longitude, again in decimals. The next two were the date. The month and year were understood. And the last four would be the time. They trusted one another to figure out any ambiguities, such as the fact that sometimes latitude or longitude numbers in front of the decimal could be one, two, or three digits. But there was one other catch. Whoever sent the message subtracted one digit from each digit. And whoever received the message, added a number. If Dad sent the word mistake, that would decipher to 3017. But his buddy would do the adding and get 4128.

Dad sent his friend coordinates for the middle of a park in London for 6:35 PM on the eighteenth. Those are the coordinates and time his friend would have worked out if he’d decoded the message according to their routine. The message read: soursmakenogcafeceaselame-funkcuffsageducksevenoar. It decoded to 04037277800538277806170824. And that, after his friend added back all the ones to each digit, translated to the middle of Kennington Park on London at 7:35 on July 18.

Had anyone intercepted the signal, and then managed to translate the words to the proper numeric code, and then accurately figured that it was coordinates, it would have put them in the Atlantic Ocean. And on an unknown time and date. With no way to get it right. Ordinary decoders would be stuck trying to understand what café served sour eggnog.

The location was heavy with trees, going on dusk, and had many avenues of escape. Dad would be there very early in a disguise and would leave at 7:40. Dad bought a one-time-use phone as soon as he’d broken Dortch’s nose and texted the guy, giving him plenty of time to get there, or code something back to Dad’s phone. Dad would never activate his phone unless he was in the process of leaving that place immediately.

Spy work ain’t all fun and games, taking pictures and shooting people.

Like I said, Mom told me they had people trying to break the code. She thinks that after some more time, when they give up, they might buy the code off us and use it Company-wide.

Dad was at Kennington Park an hour and a half early picking up cigarette butts with a stick thing and wearing coveralls. He had a bald head, a goatee and mustache, and funky horned rim glasses. He showed me when he got to the chateau to try to cheer me up. I was having a real bad day.

Dad saw his friend, Dale Fremington, already on a park bench near the center of the park. Dad noted that it was the one most obscured by lilac bushes. After scanning the immediate area, Dad approached. He was sure that if it was a trap, Dale would wave him off. He didn’t.

“Dale,”

“Sam,”

“You wired?” Dale lifted his left hand holding the electronic device. Of course, it was operating. With his right hand, Dale withdrew a photo of his twin sons, briefly showing it to Dad before returning it to his pocket. Dad studied his friend’s sad eyes for a moment. “How’s the family?” Dad asked.

“Ah, Beth’s fine. And the boys start their sophomore years next month. Both made State last year. It’ll be the first time M. U. will have brothers on their varsity team.”

“I’d like to see them play,” Dad said. Dad knew that someone in the Company was holding Dale’s family over his head somehow.

“I’ll get you their schedule. How’s Ohmie?”

Aside from Ohmie’s friends and his school principal, Dale was the only person in the world who called him by his nickname. Dale’s eyes conveyed his sincere concern.

Dad shrugged. “Guess you know we stopped treatment.”

Dale pinched his lips, nodding once.

“The boy is truly gifted.” Dad’s voice uplifted emotionally, nearly a cry at the end. He cleared his throat and strained his chin from side to side.

“He saved Zürman’s life,” Dale said matter-of-factly. “And the Company knows it.”

Dad nodded. Obviously changing the subject, Dad pointed to his eyes.

“My boys can hit a baseball, but what Ohmie did…” Dale shook his head.

Dad knew another code they’d used. When asked a question that they didn’t want listeners to understand the response, they coded. The first sound out of the responder’s mouth was all that mattered. Using only the cardinals of analog clock, three, six, nine, and twelve, the first phonetic sound Dale made was an m, three. Dale could have said Gee, my boys… or simply my boys. Gee would have told Dad to beware of his six o’clock position, and simply boys would tell him nine o’clock. Dad knew that there was someone at his three o’clock, to his right, that had binoculars trained on him. Or maybe a rifle scope.

“Might as well have sent you an RSVP,” Dad quipped, joking about sending the code in the first place.

Dale laughed. “Remember Slobodan Praljak?”

“Croatia.”

Dale nodded. Slobodan was the general that he and Dad captured and had sent to The Hague for his war crimes trial.

“It’s possible someone made a connection with his inner circle, his guard.”

“Ah, the two in London and the two who hit Zürman.”

“And your train,” Dale added. “There was another on that train, more than likely.”

Dad nodded. Getting down to business, Dad handed Dale the thumb drive that Poitr had hidden in the fake packet of Euros. “Pete said that Viktar was on to him.”

Dale didn’t know who Viktar was, but he didn’t need to know. The Company was listening. “Thing is, they didn’t know. For sure, that is.”

Dad knew what Dale was saying, that the Company had Dortch over Dad on points.

Dale continued. “But when they finally nailed down the stiffs…”

Dad just nodded.

“Here’s the thing,” Dale began, raising himself up on his seat, leaning in with his elbows on his knees. “They don’t know Dortch’s game, the who and the why.” Dale then nodded toward the wire still in his left hand.

Dad knew that Dale was playing to the people listening in.

“They need the whole package. Bringing you in won’t get ‘em that.” Dale settled back an inch, telling Dad that it was his turn to talk.

“I’m to put Dortch in a box.”

“And tie a ribbon on it,” Dale finished for him.

Dad hmmmed.

“Your bank box here in London has ten thousand in Euros.” Seeing Dad’s eyes perk, Dale added, “Yeah, I was surprised, too. Officially, you’re the goat, but no one’s assigned to rope you.”

“Just Dortch,” Dad said.

“Just Dortch. But he’s between assignments. Well, sort of. His assignment is Belarus. To get another asset in that computer company.”

“Which gives him complete liberty to travel Europe unbridled.”

Dale nodded. “The Company wants to put somebody on your family. I volunteered.”

“No,” Dad said, no ambiguity in it. “With politics involved, loyalties are fluid. You know that. Too many would be able to locate you. They’re safer alone. And right now, Ohmie is Virgie’s best protection.”

Dale smiled, showing most of his dentures, his real teeth having been knocked out by certain of the Taliban before Dad rescued him. “My friend, this is an ugly business we’re in.”

“And getting worse,” Dad agreed.

“Call me,” Dale said. “You know I’ll come runnin’”

“Unless one of the twins is at bat,” Dad laughed, joined by Dale.

Dad left first, unimpeded.