“Okay.”
“What’s happening?”
“Jackie, if I knew, I would tell you. I mean that straight.”
“So you have no idea who tried to kill you today or how they found you?”
“None at all.” Once again, Scot was lying. He did have the beginnings of an idea, but nothing concrete.
“Scot, someone knows you’re here. This is serious. I am worried about you. It was one thing when you told me everything was going on back in the States, but whatever this trouble is, it’s followed you here. We should get you help.”
“No. No help, Jack. I can handle this.”
“Scot, I know someone I think can help you.”
“Jackie, I mean it. No help. I can get myself out of this.”
“Before or after you get shot at again?”
“What are you talking about? This?” he asked motioning to his bandaged arm. “It’s just a flesh wound. I’ll bite the legs off of anyone who tries anything else.”
“Monty Python, very funny. I mean it. You need help.”
“Actually, what I need is some soup and then a short nap. Everything will be fine. You’ll see.”
“I wish I could believe you.”
Jackie left the room and returned twenty minutes later carrying a tray with rolls, butter, soup, and a dish of ice cream.
“The car will be parked next to the bakery, two blocks down. I’ll leave the keys under the mat,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“Promise me you’ll be careful?”
“I promise.”
“I’m worried about you, Scot.”
“Me too, Jack. Me too.”
58
When Scot awoke several hours later, he was surprised that he had actually fallen asleep. He was also surprised at the depth of his exhaustion. Apparently, Jackie had come to collect his tray and he hadn’t even heard her. Sleeping that soundly was dangerous. Scot looked at his watch and realized he needed to get going. He had a long drive ahead of him.
There was no blood seeping through the bandage, but his arm was still in a lot of pain, as was his head. He pulled a couple of Tylenols from his shaving kit and chased them with the last of the mineral water. Next, he got out the glue and applied the bushy brown eyebrows and goatee. With a towel across his lap in case he dropped a lens, he sat on the edge of the bed and put the brown contacts in. Then, he slipped on the thin wire-frame glasses. Harvath looked in the mirror, staring at the contrast between the brown eyebrows and goatee and his stark blond, almost white hair. Thank goodness it was cold and he would be able to wear a hat.
With his good right arm he slowly slid into a pair of khakis, but putting on a button-down shirt was murder. The pain surged through his arm and into his shoulder. Slowly, he told himself. Take it slowly.
Thirty minutes later, disguised as Hans Brauner, Harvath left Balmer’s and made his way toward the bakery. The car was exactly where Jackie had said she would leave it. The keys were under the mat, and there was a Post-it note on the knob of the gearshift that read simply, “Be Careful.” Harvath chided himself again for ever letting her go.
Despite the cold, the car turned over immediately. Scot signaled and merged into the flow of Saturday evening Interlaken traffic.
The drive to Munich was long, yet thankfully uneventful. At the border, sleepy guards anxious to get off duty waved him on through when he held up his German passport.
Harvath followed the signs toward Munchen Flughafen. Driving in Europe was so much easier than in America. The routes were perfectly marked with easy to understand signs, and as long as you stayed out of Italy, the drivers were courteous and knew what they were doing.
He parked his car at the Munich Airport long-term lot and caught a train for the short ride to the Hauptbahnhof. Even though it was late, the city’s main train station was alive with activity. There were the requisite homeless people hitting up passersby for spare change, a heaping helping of drunk students, some with large packs, waiting for their trains, as well as a smattering of locals with the wide smiles and hearty laughter that the people of this city had been known for ever since Augustiner monks introduced Bier to the city over six hundred years ago. Not counting Oktoberfest, it was said that the average Munchener consumed at least two hundred twenty liters of beer a year, more than twice the average amount drunk in the rest of Germany. The Bavarians were a hearty bunch, there was no denying that.
Outside the station on Bayerstrasse, Harvath caught a cab and gave the driver the address he wanted on Pfisterstrasse, not far from the Max Joseph Platz.
When the cab pulled up, the wooden blinds of the establishment were shut tight. The driver made a comment about the cafe looking closed, but Harvath paid him and got out.
It was after 1:00 A.M. and the Kuntscafe was indeed closed, or at least that’s the message its proprietor wanted to send to anyone casually strolling by hoping to pop in for a quick bite or one last drink. Behind the blinds, the lights were still blazing, and Scot heard a mill of voices. Somewhere inside, a piano sprang to life and a beautiful tenor voice began to belt out a song.
The singing continued as Scot went around to the back of the small cafe. He peeled off his hat and the pieces of his disguise, then placed all of it in his jacket pocket. Garbage was piled high in the alley, and maneuvering around a stack of bright blue and yellow plastic beer crates filled with empty bottles, Harvath found the back door. He knew that if Herman was entertaining, he probably would still have staff on duty. As Harvath entered the kitchen, he surprised two rather stocky waiters. Before they could say anything, Herman’s cook, Fredrik, turned and saw Scot standing in the doorway. Instantly, his eyes lit up in recognition and a broad smile crept across his face.
Harvath put a finger to his lips to silence the cook, who in return gave him the thumbs-up and pointed toward the front of the cafe. After all, what good was surprising an old friend if you couldn’t really surprise him?
Herman was still singing and had his back to Scot as he emerged from behind a beaded curtain down the hall from the kitchen. Herman’s thick fingers crashed upon the last keys, and the small group collected in the front of the cafe clapped enthusiastically. When they stopped, one pair of hands was still clapping.
“Lovely. Simply lovely,” said Scot.
Herman looked up in the direction of the voice and then roared, “First, I am going to fire the cook, and then I am going to get the lock on that back door fixed!” His guests sat speechless. Who was this man standing at the end of the bar, and why was their host yelling at him in English?
It was amazing how quickly Herman moved his six-foot-four, 240-pound frame around the piano and over to Harvath. The limp from his injured leg didn’t slow him down at all. Herman’s huge hands reached out, and Scot almost flinched as he saw them close in on his face. The beefy German gave him a kiss on each cheek and then raised Harvath completely off the floor in an enormous bear hug. The pain in his shoulder was written across his face, and Herman noticed. Quickly, he set his friend back on the floor.
“What’s wrong with you? Are you hurt?” said Herman. “Did your hairdresser beat you up when you refused to pay for that awful hairstyle?’
“We need to talk. I’m sorry to interrupt your little party.”
“Party? This? Don’t worry, they’ll only stay as long as I keep the bar open, and the bar is now closed!” shouted Herman, who turned to the group and told them in German to settle up their tabs.
After the group left, Herman had the cook make them each up a plate of Wurstel with potatoes and sauerkraut, then sent the staff home.
