“He was blond.”
“We don’t have a good image of his face.”
Marcus blinked in thought. “They were wearing masks in the hospital.”
“You suffered a bad concussion. You’re in the intensive care ward. But I think it’s a good sign that you’re remembering these things.”
Marcus looked around at the machines beeping and humming at his bedside.
“How long have I been here?”
“Since yesterday evening.”
A neurologist came in and asked Lumaga to leave, but the policeman told him he wasn’t going anywhere. The doctor dropped his insistence and did an examination.
“You don’t have a fractured skull,” the neurologist said, “but you sustained a significant concussion. There is a very small amount of bleeding over the visual centers of the brain—back here where you were hit—but it should resorb without any specific therapy.”
“The light hurts my eyes,” Marcus said.
“It will for a day or two. You’ll have headaches for longer than that. Perhaps some flashes and dots in front of your eyes for a time. Expect some dizziness as well. When we discharge you, I don’t want you to do anything strenuous for two weeks. Don’t lift anything heavier than a small stack of books.”
“How about lifting a bottle of Scotch?”
The doctor didn’t seem to have a refined sense of humor, but Lumaga chuckled.
“Restrict your alcohol intake, please,” the doctor said.
“When can I get out of here?”
“Let’s aim for tomorrow. We’ll need to get clearance from the surgeon who took care of your shoulder wound.”
“Oh yeah, my shoulder’s killing me.”
“You were stabbed. There was no nerve damage and I’m told the knife didn’t cut any tendons or ligaments. In any event, I’ll see you again in the morning and we’ll make a final decision,” he said, sweeping out.
“The girls,” Marcus said. “Are they all right?”
Lumaga nodded. “Thanks to you, they are. It was extremely upsetting for them, of course, to see the terrible violence. They were moved to another floor and they’re receiving psychological therapy. Of course, we’ve dramatically increased the level of security surrounding them.”
“Who were they?”
“The two dead men were Slovakians,” Lumaga consulted his notebook. “The ambulance driver was named Jakub Duris, age thirty-seven. The one in the girls’ room was Matej Beno, age forty-two. They both had passports on their persons. We know they flew to Rome the day before yesterday from Bratislava, where they live. We don’t know where they were staying here. The Slovakian authorities are cooperating and we should get more information about them. I think we can hypothesize that the blond man who gave you your headache is also part of this Slovakian gang, but we can’t know for sure.”
“What did they want?”
“We presume this was a kidnapping attempt and these men are part of some sort of criminal enterprise. The girls are internationally known. It is a matter of public knowledge that Mikkel Andreason is a very wealthy man. Hospitals—even with police guards—are not completely secure.”
Marcus rubbed his eyes and asked how Mickey was taking it.
“He’s like a crazed animal,” Lumaga said. “He’s been furiously working to overturn my directive that the girls must stay in Italy during the investigation. So far, the relevant ministers are continuing to support me. For them, it’s a matter of Italian sovereignty. They don’t like getting pushed around by Americans.”
“Who can blame them?” Marcus quipped.
“However, I have had to accept one of his demands.”
“Which is?”
“He’s hired a private security group to augment the vigilance of the Carabinieri. They are already in place. It’s bound to create difficult situations, but I had to make the concession for the sake of peace. You’ll be pleased to know that he didn’t impose his private guards on you.”
“Me? Why would I need protection?”
“Well, my friend, all you did was kill two members of a well-organized, international kidnap gang. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility that they will wish to exact a measure of revenge. But don’t worry. I’ve had a Carabinieri detail assigned to you. There’s a man outside your door right now.”
“I don’t need anyone, Roberto,” he insisted.
“You’ll need police just to get through the cordon of journalists. You can’t believe what’s going on outside both hospitals. Your heroics added to the mystery surrounding the girls and has caused a frenzy unlike any other.”
Marcus was adamant. “Still, no thank you.”
“Humor me. At least for a little while. I’m busy enough right now. I don’t need the distraction of investigating your murder.”
“I thought you were going to say something different.”
He smiled brightly. “Well, maybe I’d be a little upset if that happened.”
*
Mickey stopped by Marcus’s hospital room that evening and did something remarkable, at least to Marcus. He cried.
When he composed himself, he said, “You saved them, Marcus, and I am eternally grateful.”
“I’m glad I was in the right place at the right time.”
“Major Lumaga told me exactly what you did. It was fierce. It was effective. It was extraordinary.”
“It’s only extraordinary because I’m not a spring chicken.”
“To this truly old man, you’re a young buck in his prime. I know you don’t and won’t talk about your operational work at the Agency, but—”
“No, Mickey, I never killed anyone before. It’s not—it’s not a good feeling.”
“Sons of bitches deserved what they got. Lumaga says they’re part of a kidnap gang from Slovakia.”
“So he says.”
“You don’t buy that?”
“I’m sure he’s right. There’s just so much weirdness. It’s hard to piece it all together.”
“You on the mend?”
“Getting there. I should be ready to get out of here tomorrow.”
“Good, good. I tried to think of something to bring you. I don’t figure you for a flower and chocolates guy, so I got you this.”
He took a silver hipflask from his jacket pocket.
Marcus brightened considerably. “Is that empty or full?”
“What do you think? Johnnie Walker Blue. The rest of the bottle’s in your hotel room. It’s probably not strictly allowed after concussions, but I figure it’s medicinal.”
Marcus closed his eyes and took a hit. “You have no idea.” He didn’t want to admit it to himself or his doctors, but he’d been getting jittery. What better way
