THIRTY-ONE
An Extension
The following morning a different doctor entered after a perfunctory knock and approached Jeffrey’s bedside, a vocational look of concern on his face.
“Good morning, Mr. Rutherford. Und how are you feeling today?” he asked, his accent thicker than the other physician, but still understandable, his English serviceable if rough around the edges.
“Better. But my head still hurts.”
“Yes, I’m sure it does. That will probably last for several days, but it’s all part of the healing process. Nothing to worry about. I’m Dr. Ostenberg, and I’m going to do a little examination on you, make sure you’re coming along, yes?”
Jeffrey nodded and immediately regretted it, the stab of pain causing him to wince. The doctor eyed him, and then began a neurological exam that lasted five minutes and involved tapping, prodding, and squeezing. When he was done, he stepped back from the bed and regarded Jeffrey, making notes on his clipboard between glances.
“Vell, there is no nerve damage I can detect, so it is just a matter of time. I can keep you in for observation for another day, but honestly at this point you would be just as well served at your hotel, provided you stay in bed. I would caution you not to engage in any strenuous activity for a week, at least, and to avoid flying, alcohol, aspirin, or doing anything that would put strain on your system. Beyond that, there’s nothing we can do that time won’t do by itself.”
“I feel much better.”
“Good. You still need to give the police a statement, but that shouldn’t take too long. They can be here within an hour of when I alert them. Do you think you’ll be up for it a little later? Maybe after breakfast?”
“Fine. I’d just like to get this over with so I can be discharged.”
“I’ll give them the word, and file the necessary documents so you can be released by noon.”
The doctor droned on for a while longer, but Jeffrey was already thinking through his next move and hardly listening. He’d already heard the important part — he would be free of the hospital by lunchtime and could begin taking the steps that would move him out of harm’s way.
The police were polite and largely uninterested in his limited recollection, which amounted to seeing and hearing nothing before waking up in the hospital, and obligingly returned his things to him in exchange for his signature in triplicate. Once they left, a hospital bureaucrat stopped in and had him sign a stack of releases and insurance forms, clucking and nodding with each chicken scratch, everything orderly and accounted for, his episode just another income-producing event for the healthcare machine.
By the time he was free to go, he actually felt as though he would be able to make it to the hotel before throwing up. His unsteadiness proved to him that he would definitely need more rest, but he intended to use the downtime to chart out a plan, so when he made his clandestine moves, he could do so efficiently and with complete deniability. That would be the hardest part — he’d need to appear to be taking time to convalesce while in fact traveling to his targets and unraveling the puzzle he’d been stuck with.
The only positives he could see were that his pursuers couldn’t possibly know whom he was going to try to see, nor what he had in his head. His miraculous memory wasn’t an open secret — he’d only shared his gift with a few people, his brother among them, and anyone who knew or cared was now dead.
That didn’t seem like a big edge from where he stood, but it was the way the cards had been dealt, so he had to make the most of whatever he could get.
At noon on the dot his doctor made a final appearance and wished him well. A sternly efficient nurse escorted him to the emergency room entrance in a wheelchair, where a taxi was waiting. He gave the driver the name of his hotel and climbed into the back seat, already feeling stronger than just a few hours earlier. As the car pulled away, Jeffrey watched in the side mirror for any other vehicles moving into traffic behind them, but then gave up when his head protested the strain. He’d have to balance his desire to learn tradecraft with the physical limitations resulting from having his brain batted around like a tennis ball.
Once back in the hotel room he pulled the drapes closed and opened the safe, verifying his gold and cash were still there. Jakes had given him a good idea about how to deal with the watch, and he planned to follow through with it tomorrow, once he was feeling better. Even though he had the sense of a clock relentlessly ticking down on an unknown deadline, there was no point in pushing himself and winding up back in the hospital — or worse yet, further damaging his gray matter, now the sole repository of the information his brother had died to safeguard.
Part of him wanted to go down to the business center and start researching the best way to get out of Switzerland and into the EU; once in, if he picked his crossing points with care, he would be able to travel without any restrictions or having to have his passport logged. He wasn’t sure how the scanning system worked, but his guess was that the information was collected in some sort of central archival system, which he intuited could be breached and his whereabouts tracked, pinpointing his location. But much as he yearned to begin fact-checking, he forced himself to climb into bed and close his eyes. There would be plenty of time tomorrow, and he’d be making several difficult calls that evening he wanted to be sharp for.
Monica’s betrayal was still fresh, but he couldn’t confront her. She was undoubtedly working for the same group that had arranged for his new job — likely told to get as close to him as possible and earn his trust, so that if he knew anything or became alarmed he would confide in her. It was a good strategy. On more than one occasion he’d been sorely tempted to talk to her, but his natural instincts bred from being an attorney had stopped him — as had the recurring vision of his brother plummeting to his death.
But now he knew of Monica’s attempted infiltration, and he could use that to his advantage. He’d already begun to concoct a story that would explain his forthcoming travel into France: He wanted a second opinion and had heard that the Parisian hospitals were cutting edge for head injuries. Given that his records would show that he had been both barred from flying for a week and released while still experiencing discomfort and nausea, it would make sense that he would want to ensure that he’d gotten a complete diagnosis. And he would even take it as far as getting a referral for a French neurologist and seeing him while in Paris.
As to the rest — getting into Germany and Italy, figuring how to convince the Nazi to answer his questions, and gaining an audience with the Italian professor — he still hadn’t completely fine-tuned a plan. But he would. And it would have to be airtight, with no room for error.
Because if he’d had any doubt that the conflict he was involved in was real, the attack outside the bank had resolved the matter. He was in a deadly game, and the first wrong move would be his last.
Of that, he was convinced.
Jeffrey shut his eyes with a sigh, and after a few seconds drifted into uneasy sleep, his dreams troubling: He was being chased down a dark cobblestone street by several armed figures, and they were gaining on him.
He awoke after what seemed like seconds, his shirt soaked with sweat in spite of the cool room temperature. He struggled to identify where he was, and then remembered — Zurich, the hotel, the assault. His headache returned as if to remind him, and he squinted in the dim light at the luminescent hands of his watch. He’d been out for six hours.
The bedside lamp illuminated with a click, and he waited while his eyes adjusted and then sat up, taking his time, wanting to avoid jarring his head any more than necessary. He slowly stood and shuffled to the bathroom, and after debating the wisdom of doing so and seeing no reason not to, removed his clothes and took a quick shower, avoiding getting his head wet. His stomach protested his having skipped lunch, and as he dried off he considered going downstairs to the restaurant, but opted for room service.