In the last chapter Ohmie and his mother attempted to go home to the states when a Covid outbreak shut down air travel. They then learned that terrorists attacked the Paris symphony building that they’d attended.

Dad got his money’s worth out of a week-long ride pass for the train. He spent more time in Brussels than anywhere else. Brussels, of course, is where the headquarters of the European Union lives. There were a couple guys that Dad knew that worked there. They were only mid-level, but… It was two things Dad needed. One, was to let the EU know what he was up to, and that he was not there to cause trouble. The other was to let someone know that Dortch had ties to General Slobodan’s followers and that they were running amuck through Europe. And to look at them for the Paris bombing. Dad didn’t say that as soon as he, himself, was dead, they would go back home.

Another place that Dad visited early on was Lyon, France. That was the headquarters of Interpol, International Criminal Police Organization. Using his credentials, Dad got as high up as he could, telling them the same story. Dad had a picture of Dortch. Dad’s hope that they would enter it into the facial recognition program was dashed. He hinted, but did not ask. They didn’t offer. They did promise to check with the C.I.A. and keep Dad’s own name and face from any apprehension, or warrants list provided the C.I.A. confirmed Dad’s story. Dad did not hold a great deal of confidence in that whole thing playing out favorably. He figured that the Company would stick with a no comment position.

At least Dortch hadn’t committed them to a shoot him on sight stance.

Dad was in Paris a few days before we got there to go to the symphony, and several days before the bomb. He checked out the airport as best a one-man team could. Dad also spent as much time as he could looking at the files on the jump drive (a copy of it, anyway). He wanted to let the really gifted boys at Langley get after it, but he would never see it again, and they would more than likely, share nothing with him.

Another thing about the political stuff in the files. America was not merely polarized among the general population, many within law enforcement held very strong beliefs on both sides. Some of them were in positions of power. And Dad still did not know who to trust. Would an honest, impartial boss have left him out there to perform the nearly impossible with nothing but a pocketful of money, money that could be gone in a week if used for bribes, or hiring help? Or had his bosses cut him bigtime slack, offering him the opportunity to claw himself out of a hole the size of the Grand Canyon, placing their own positions and reputations at risk. Someone this very moment might be wearing thumbscrews, maybe, over the ten thousand Euros.

Brussells, Lyon, Paris, and then Berlin, the last known place for Dortch. Surely a hospital would have a record of his visit. Maybe something could be learned there. Worth a try. He wanted to make a deposit into his Deutsche Bank box anyway.

Dad came to see me (and Mom) before he left Berlin. I was pretty non-responsive while he talked about his travels. Better than saying he loved me and was sorry I was dying 500 times.

After leaving us, Dad made it to the Franziskus-Krankenhaus administrator. It was the nearest hospital to the coffee shop where Dad had smashed Dortch’s nose. Dad’s C.I.A. credentials got him to the administrator. Dad wanted to make sure that the hospital bill was paid (ha-ha, funny Dad), and to make sure that the doctor’s recommendations were followed up. “You know us spies,” Dad chuckled. “Just like teenaged boys, ten feet tall and bullet-proof.” (hardy-har-har). “Kevin Dortch is one of our best, and he’ll want to report back for duty as soon as he can stand up.” The administrator was accommodating. Dortch required reconstructive surgery. And against the advice of the doctors, checked himself out to have the procedure done elsewhere. Dortch’s records had been sent to Capio Saint Göran Hospital – in a non-NATO country. Interesting. Did Dortch not want to risk the Company finding out about his injury?

Dad wished he had access to Company resources. This was something Virginia could have researched in two minutes: border crossings and flight manifests for one Kevin Dortch. Unless he used a false passport, which he most likely had done. But he checked into Saint Göran under his own name, probably as an outpatient, and into a hotel under an assumed name, probably a different one than he had flown in under.

Dad could go to Stockholm and find out when Dortch’s follow-up visit would be. Surely Dortch would have the surgical doctor do the follow up, the unpacking of his sinus cavity of all the swabbing material? Maybe, maybe not. Functionality and pain relief. Anything more could be dealt with later, when the mission was accomplished and he was home in the states. That’s what Dad would do, he said to me.

But where would Dortch go after surgery, was the question. Would he travel with such a glaring, attention-drawing feature in the middle of his face? Getting out of Germany and to immediate surgery was one thing. That was urgent. He probably flew at night, zipping through the treetops. Besides the bandaged nose, he more than likely sported two terribly discolored eyes, black and blue and purple. Dad chuckled to himself at the thought. Yes, Dortch would stay in Sweden at least until he could remove the bandaging and cover the worst discoloring with make-up. It would be worth a trip to hang out at the Stockholm airport, the Arlanda.

But how was he contacting his Croation troop? Who was his contact? Dad had no answers. The Company probably did, though. But who could he trust?

Zürman. I had to get that name to Dad. It came to me in a moment of delirium. I took a turn for the worse early in the morning after Mom and my evening out. Dad could trust Zürman to tell him straight.