For some reason I can’t explain

“I guess I woke up.”
Everything happened so quickly. I didn’t have time to react.
I hate these ways of talking. They just mean that you’re not prepared for something; that you’re not good enough; that you’re not cut out for the fucking job.
I hate even more having to admit that I wasn’t prepared enough. Not for Ethan shoving me into that fridge. And certainly not for being at the mercy of the nerve agent itself.
Although the cluster breaks under my feet as if in slow motion, I can’t do anything fast enough. It’s as if I can feel the liquid burning into the soles of my shoes and the gas slowly eating through my clothes, corroding my skin. In my mind’s eye, I can see the blood flowing out of my ears, nose and mouth. How it runs out of my eyes. I can feel it gurgling in my lungs. And yet I know that this is nonsense. Novichok remains one of the most toxic man-made substances designed to kill. And it does, and maybe there’s a variant out there that destroys your insides within seconds. But this is not it. Neither the internal decomposition nor the effect within seconds.
The first symptoms will appear within the next 20 minutes. Maybe just nausea and vomiting. Perhaps visual disturbances, seizures and cardiac arrhythmia. Regardless, in the end it leads to paralysis of the entire muscular system. Including the lungs and heart.
Nevertheless, I have the feeling that I'm too slow, too sluggish. My arms are lame and my fingers are too coarse. My pushes against the door are too weak. My breathing far too fast.
And then there's Ethan. Ethan, who holds the door shut, who has his back to me and whose name keeps passing my lips without me being able to do anything about it. My voice doesn't even sound particularly desperate.
But part of me still can't believe it either. The whole thing here. How did that happen again?
Then I don't have time to react again. Everything happens even faster. The glass door opens, a hand grabs me by the collar and I stumble over the scattered pieces of luggage. I land on the ground and feel the plane start to descend again. Nevertheless, I'm quickly back on my feet and ready for round two.
Or so I thought.
Something hits the side of my head and everything goes dark.

Everything is bright. The light is glaring. The walls are white. So white.
I blink and want to rub my eyes, but I can't. Something is holding my hand. I keep blinking and eventually recognize the handcuff on my wrist and the bed frame.
It beeps steadily next to me. It's a heart monitor with electrodes taped to my chest. The clearer I can see, the faster the beeping becomes.
Faster. Faster. Stop.
I hold my breath, close my eyes and inhale deeply, listening to the beeping. Listen as it slows down.
My other hand is attached to the drip. A transparent liquid runs through the tube directly into my body. Is that why I feel so light? As if wrapped in absorbent cotton, far away from everything.
The door opens and a woman in a doctor’s coat comes in. My eyes are slow to find her figure. I see her mouth moving. How her lips form sounds, words that don't reach me. It takes me so long to realize that she is talking to me. She says a name. My name. One of my names. One that I chose for myself at some point.
She repeats it.
Once.
Twice.
I hear it, but I don't understand.
“You've suffered mild poisoning and a head injury,” she explains with a furrowed brow. And finally, finally it gets through to me. It takes a moment, but the words penetrate the veil and stir something in my memory.
“Poi-”, I begin, but my throat is so dry that I cough immediately. The tingling only stops with a few sips of water, which the doctor hands me in a glass with a straw.
“Poisoning?”
I had to hear myself say it, because as soon as the word passes my lips, I remember the cargo hold, the congresswoman and the Novichok.
And Ethan.
But my memory can't be real. It simply can't be. He'd pushed me into the fridge and deliberately thrown the poison gas canister after me.
I shake my head slowly. Then why would he get me out again?
“Your head injury is much worse.”
“How can a head injury be worse than contact with one of the world's deadliest warfare agents?” I only realize that I've said the words out loud when it's already too late.
The doctor's face visibly darkens, her lips pursed and her eyes suddenly cold, her attitude dismissive. It's written all over her face that she knows exactly who I am. What I have done. What I wanted to do.
“You must have known exactly how your nice bomb works,” she sneers, obviously disgusted, before her voice takes on a more professional tone again: „You were poisoned with one of the components of the Novichok. The second cluster was recovered undamaged. You were carrying a so-called binary weapon. The components are certainly not healthy, but individually they don't kill nearly as quickly as a chemical reaction between the two substances.”
This is by no means news to me, but I am speechless in the face of my mindless reaction in the hold. How could I have forgotten that? Anyone opening the suitcase would have recognized that the contents of the two clusters were different. They had even been different colors.
Had Ethan noticed too? Had he realized it when he locked me up?
“You spent five days in an induced coma. It was necessary to protect your brain from major damage. So far we haven't been able to detect any permanent damage, but you will certainly have one or two memory gaps. The poisoning won't have any health consequences for you either, but it will be necessary to treat you with an oxime for a few more days to be on the safe side.”
I can only nod in response.
All well and good, but I just don't understand how I got to this point.
Why did Ethan get me out again?
Why?
The question doesn't leave me, not even when the doctor leaves or a police officer comes in to tell me I'm under arrest and tell me my rights. And certainly not when it's so quiet in the empty hospital room afterwards. Only the steady beeping of the heart monitor keeps this one question company.
Hour after hour, my mind becomes clearer and my body feels more real again. Mainly because of all the pain. Bruises, strains, my skull. Everything hurts. I'm tempted to ring for a nurse and ask for painkillers, but I let it go.
Who wouldn't want to see a terrorist suffer?
It's not until the next day that I realize I'm under arrest. I think about summoning the officer in front of my door so I can make my call, but when the uniformed man is back in the room, I ask something else instead.
“Can I have a pen and paper?”
“No,” is his simple reply, before he walks straight away.
This goes on a few times. At some point, I wonder when his shift will finally be over and I'll at least get to hear this answer in a different tone of voice.
The second day is drawing to a close when a woman finally comes into the room. She's not a doctor, but she's not wearing a police uniform either. However, the badge on her waistband speaks volumes. She looks familiar, as if I've seen a picture of her before.
“You were stopped by a simple TSA employee,” she says after looking at me in silence for a few minutes. She has a few scratches on her face and unobtrusively shifts her weight more on one leg.
Detective Elena Cole.
I sigh and hint a smile. “I'd rather say I proved it was a mistake not to put Ethan on active police duty. You're welcome.”
She doesn't like the answer. I know it, but she doesn't let on, instead remaining silent again.
“Who instructed you to carry out this attack on Congresswoman Turner's flight?”
This time I remain silent.
“If you cooperate and help us get your client-”
“Don't say it,” I interrupt her and have to laugh. “Please, Detective Cole, don't make a fool of yourself. You'll bring me to court as a terrorist. Even if I were to serve you men and women many times more dangerous than me on a silver platter, I won't spend another day of my life as a free man after my conviction.”
Again this silence follows. But it is not weakness on her part. It is pure calculation. Slowly, she sits down at the small visitors' table in front of the hospital bed and crosses her legs. She leisurely takes a pen and paper from the inside pocket of her gray coat.
“There are things that make a prison sentence more pleasant,” she says and waits a moment for a reaction, which doesn't come, before continuing: ”But maybe you need something now that you would like to exchange?”
She demonstratively places a pen and paper in the middle of the table. The corners of my mouth twitch. I can't help but like the woman. She is good. Not good enough, but good.
“You think I'd upset my business partners just to write a letter to a pitiful 30-year-old?”
Her eyebrows shoot up immediately. “You want to write Kopek a letter? Only over my dead body. I will personally see to it that the boy never has to hear or see another word from you.”
That's sweet. I almost say it out loud, but I don't and smile again instead. “Why don't you let me write something first? Maybe I want to tell him something I don't want to tell you. Read it and then decide whether he gets it or not.”
The cogs in her head turn and turn. She doesn't want to play with me and certainly not by my rules, but she knows that this is the only way she has a chance of finding out anything. It takes a moment, but when she leaves, she throws the pen and paper into my lap.

It's January 4th when Elena Cole comes back to my hospital room. No officer has questioned me since then. I have contacted my lawyer in the meantime, but a real conversation is not possible until I arrive at the detention center. That's where I'm going today. Both the head injury and the poisoning have subsided enough for the doctors to release me.
Cole inconspicuously tries to search the room for a piece of paper, but I've hidden it under my pillow. I laboriously pull it out and wave it around a little.
“I'm really impressed that you didn't come here sooner with so much curiosity.”
She just shakes her head and literally tears the paper from my fingers. Her gaze glides over Ethan's address, which I've written on the folded front, and one eyebrow rises again as she looks at me briefly. Then she unfolds the letter and immediately makes a horrified and annoyed sound, looks at me angrily and turns on her heel.
“Take him away!” she yells at the uniformed men outside the door.
But she took the note with her. I only wrote one word on it. I don't quite understand it myself. The situation is and remains a mystery to me, but I feel like I have to say something. And what do you say when someone has saved your life?
Thank you.
That's right.
My first name is still written underneath. The one they think is the right one, the one that will be on the news one day. The one on the ID and the ticket.
And the addition from New Jersey.

A few days later is the preliminary hearing. It's just a small, typical courtroom and other prisoners are presented to the court both before and after me. But the public area is packed because of me. Dozens of reporters have come to be the first to find out who the man really is who tried to kill hundreds of people - including a congresswoman and her baby - with a nerve agent that is banned by the Chemical Weapons Convention.
I'd like to say they'll get an even bigger scandal and the judge will dismiss the charges. I walk out of here a free man. Because I still have everything under control.
But it's not like that.
Not at all.
Monica - my lawyer - is doing everything she can. Within the legal framework. And there's still no loophole. Nobody has committed a stupid procedural error that could set me free again. And bail is also out of the question. There is too much evidence that I not only wanted to kill more than 200 people, but also killed several. Apart from that, there is no one who would pay bail for me. Teddy and Ryan are dead and my friend with the parachute is probably in hiding if she hasn't been arrested. Then there's my son. My son, who really exists and to whom I actually pretend that I am selling insurance. Over the last few days, I've often wondered whether he knows by now. Whether they've already shown my name and face on the news. He's 25 and lives with his mother while he studies. Who knows if he still believes the insurance story.
I don't hear what the judge says and I'm sure she doesn't like it. I don't hear what Monica says either. She's good. One of the best someone like me can have, and she'll work to negotiate the lowest sentence possible under the evidence. But let's be honest. I'm lucky California doesn't have the death penalty anymore.
“You should confess and name your clients,” Monica advised me first.
“You know I can't do that.”
How do you deliver a defense contractor and members of a government in whose prison you are sitting without being killed?
And how do you convince these people that you are not a threat to them?
The truth is, I don't know. I always assumed I would never get to that point. It was always all or nothing. Either I do the job or I die doing it.
There it is again, the question.
The question that keeps me awake at night and seems to be slowly costing me my sanity.
Why did Ethan spare my life? A little longer in the fridge. Just a few minutes with that still highly toxic Novichok component and no doctor could have saved my life.
He wanted to shoot me in the public restroom and I believed him. He would have pulled the trigger. It probably wouldn't have made him happy either, but he would have done it. He may have been the loser and asleep and he was wasting his life and the time of those who dealt with him, but he tried to stop me from the beginning with everything he had. Not letting me die in that fridge had been a risk. Not that I would have been able to finish my mission, but some of the poison could have spread around the plane anyway.
Why had Ethan taken that risk?
Ethan hadn't killed me, and although my client certainly could have while I was in a coma, they hadn't done it either. I could only hope that meant they weren't planning to do it ever.
It probably should scare me. This uncertainty that I usually hate so much. But it doesn't. Not yet. Because I just can't get over this question. Every moment feels like I'm still on this plane. Like Ethan has still grabbed me by the collar and hasn't pulled me out of the fridge yet. And I just can't do anything, no matter how urgently I need to do something to get to do anything with the rest of my life.

Four months and a few days pass, with almost four more months to go before the main trial. My days are monotonous and I try to stay under the radar. So far I've succeeded. The guards aren't nice, but I don't give them or my fellow inmates any reason to hate me.
I play cards with the Russians and basketball in the yard with the members of some cartel whose name has slipped my mind again.
Everyone in here knows my name. Not the one from the news and not the one my parents once gave me. No, it's the one that someone once gave me at one of my jobs. The one I never got rid of. They call me the traveler. And some of them really believe that my name says it all and that I'm just passing through. That I'll soon be walking out the door again with some crazy plan that I once came up with.
But that's not going to happen. There really is no such plan. Because there shouldn't have been this scenario. So I wait.
And I hate waiting, but what else can I do? I can only wait and ponder and hope and come up with three thousand different answers to this one question. Nothing will change.
But after these four months and a few days, something new happens. I get a visit.
From Ethan fucking Kopek.
So far, my communication with the outside world has been limited to my lawyer. No one has contacted me. Not my son or my ex-wife. None of my business partners.
Contrary to the normal procedure for visits, I am not taken to the large room with the many tables, but to an interrogation room. I don't sit there alone for long. The second door soon opens and Ethan actually comes in.
He looks good. Healthy, fit. No dark circles under his eyes, his posture is upright and he doesn't hesitate for a second as he sits down at the table opposite me. Nevertheless, there is a bit of uncertainty on his open face. Or maybe I'm just wishing there was.
As he eyes me too, he sees the cropped hair, the monochrome jumpsuit and probably an unhealthy skin tone on my face. My handcuffed hands on the table.
With a furrowed brow, I try to figure out what I feel at the sight of him and fail miserably. I'm just confused, and I hate being confused.
“Hello Ethan,” I finally say, as the silence slowly stretches to the point where the guards wouldn't tolerate it much longer. But Ethan doesn't answer, so I continue, “What brings you to me?”
He lets his gaze wander over my figure once more, then he looks me in the eye and leans way back in his chair. A deep calm seems to have come over him. Then he says: “I just had to see it with my own eyes.”
A shiver runs down my spine. Not because of his words, just because of that look. The calm and serenity on his face triggers a disturbing unease in me. And there's just that one question echoing through my head that I desperately need an answer to.
“My new hairstyle? It wouldn't have been necessary to come all this way. I'd be happy to send you a photo.”
“Your post won't arrive anymore.” He says it without rancor or mockery. As if it were simply a fact.
“It almost sounds like we're pen pals and I've written you more than one word,” I sneer and then add: ”So you're moving. I hope it's not because of me. I liked your apartment. But with a baby, it might actually be a bit too small. I bet Nora loves being pregnant.”
Ethan is silent again. I search his eyes for anger. The anger that made him push me into the fridge, but there's nothing there.
When he stands up and pushes the chair over, I think I've gone too far, but he puts his hands on the back of the chair and looks at me openly again.
Ask! a voice yells in my head. It sounds a lot like Ethan's. Ask already!
“I really thought your voice would scare me and I'd never forget the sound of it. But no. I seem to have already forgotten the sound. You sound much more pathetic than I remembered. You're just a loser in prison who the state is wasting its resources on.” Then he goes to the door and knocks on it twice.
Last chance, ask!
As it opens, I remind him, “I told you, you can forget about this day if you do everything right.”
He doesn't respond and a moment later I'm alone in the room again. They leave me here for almost an hour until I'm taken back to my cell. But I don't even notice. I'm just annoyed with myself. That his words have hit something. About that voice in my head and about the cowardice of not obeying it. About the fear. Because I am afraid. Afraid of the answer. An answer that could be worse than my ignorance.

The almost four months creep by. Not a day goes by without me thinking about Ethan's visit. And the closer the trial gets, the more often I wonder whether I'll see him there again. Whether he will make a statement or not. I don't think it would be necessary to arrest me for the rest of my life.
I keep imagining him taking the stand and telling our story. But he won't tell me why he didn't let me die. In my imagination, Ethan stays in the courtroom afterwards, which is why I decide to testify against my lawyer's advice. The prosecutor then takes me apart, but the moment comes when I have the chance to ask my question. The whole courtroom falls silent and even the judge looks at Ethan questioningly.
But my imagination can't give me an answer.
It's pathetic, but that's what drives me to come up with a plan after all. I tell myself that I simply can't sit behind bars forever, but in truth I know that without that answer I would go crazy and commit some truly deplorable acts.
Four months is nothing if you're not even able to google something yourself. It's exhausting having to deal with things via Monica and a constantly busy yard phone. Especially when not only are the guards not allowed to notice, but you also have to keep an eye on the Russians, one cartel or another and everyone else.
Bribing someone with frozen accounts isn't easy either, but luckily my line of work brings plenty of opportunities where special people owe you a special favor. Or even several.
Although Monica has to deliver a lot of messages, she's not really in the loop. That's always been our deal. She knows something is coming, but she doesn't know what, she doesn't know when, she doesn't know where. And that's why she looks so horrified when she sees the outfit I take out of the garment bag on the first day of the trial.
“That's not appropriate for a trial like this,” she sneers at me in the small room I've been sent to so that I can change in civilian clothes. A law enforcement officer stands next to the door and looks demonstratively to the side since he has released one of the handcuffs.
“Besides, it's 84 degrees outside!” she continues, still upset.
Meanwhile, I put on the dark jeans, hoodie and the same jacket I wore at the airport.
When I put on my baseball cap, she is beside herself: “You're undermining my entire work!”
“I'm sure you're doing a wonderful job,” I say and hold my hands out to the officer so that he can put my handcuffs back on. His look also speaks volumes about my choice of clothes.
A murmur goes through the rows of spectators in the hall as I am led in. A flurry of flashbulbs follows me to my seat. I hear words like “monster” and “freak” as well as phrases like “reintroduce the death penalty!”. I would like to say that I don't mind. But that would be a lie. Not that I regret taking this job, but for me it was just that: a job. Nothing personal, but these words are very personal.
Nevertheless, I take my seat with a composure that would make most of those present want to vomit.
“Take off your hat in my courtroom!” the judge reprimands me, even before she has allowed everyone to sit down again.
“Of course. Excuse me, your honor.” With the smile of an innocent slob, I take it off and place it on the table while everyone sits down. Next to me, Monica is still quite irritated.
Shortly afterwards, the judge begins the trial. The public prosecutor presents the charges. A long indictment. Very long. Apparently they've found a few more things that I may or may not have done at some point. The indictment takes so long, in fact, that there's only time for Monica's opening statement before the first day of the trial is over. By then she has regained her composure and presents a speech that almost makes me believe I'm innocent. Some members of the jury look like they have the same thought, but the prosecutor doesn't seem to mind that the first day ends in a positive light for me.
The two officers lead me out of the room followed by Monica and take us back to the small room where I am to change back into the inmate jumpsuit. One of the officers is back in the room in front of the door. He hasn't turned his back to me like Monica, but he's not looking directly at me either, but to the side. He has already unlocked my handcuffs on one side so that I can take my jacket off again. I take leisurely steps to the only window in the room and look outside.
“Hey!”, the officer intervenes immediately. “Get away from the window!” he barks, already putting a hand on his gun.
“Take it easy”, I reply calmly. “I won't be seeing anything of this city for a very long time, if at all, will I? Let me look outside one last time.” Instead of stepping away from the window, however, I lean sideways against the windowsill, but raise my hands in surrender.
Monica says my name in warning, but the officer lets go of his gun however steps towards me. As soon as he is close enough, there is a brief clinking sound, then a fumb and his shirt starts to turn dark red just below his collarbone. He looks down at himself in disbelief, while Monica lets out a strangled cry of horror and presses her hand over her mouth. His fingers don't even touch the blood as he sinks to his knees and topples to the side. The sound isn't loud enough to alert the officer from outside the door, so I don't panic as I grab the gun, teaser and bunch of keys from the gunshot victim's belt.
“Here,” I say to Monica and press the jacket into her hands, dragging she onto the floor next to the officers. “Keep pressure on the wound.”
Then there's a knock at the door and the other guard shouts: “What's taking so long?”
Keys in my trouser pocket, teaser in the front of my hoodie and gun in my hand, I kick the door open with such force that the other officer is thrown against the opposite wall of the corridor. I turn to the right and ignore the shouting of the few visitors in the corridor. A relaxed posture or the stressed step of a traveler won't help me here, so I sprint towards the escape stairwell. Another officer gets in my way, but he fumbles with his gun holster for far too long, so he has no chance of escaping my grip. I grab him by the head and drive my knee into his face a few times before shoving him behind me into my pursuers.
In the stairwell, I run up instead of down. There would be no escape downstairs. The closer you get to the exit, the more officers you might encounter. Police patrols will arrive in a few minutes and there are also too many passers-by who can see you and tell where you're going. Escaping in a car in downtown Los Angeles is too risky an endeavor. There are so many vehicles on the streets that the probability of having an accident is far too high. So there is only one other way.
I always take two steps at a time, while behind me one, two, three shots hit the steps.
I have about five minutes, and then the LAPD has at least one helicopter in the air. There are still seven floors ahead of me; behind me I can already hear several officers. Everyone is shouting in confusion. Every now and then a shot is fired, but if they carry on like this, a ricochet is more likely to hit them than me.
After three floors, two women in uniform come storming into the stairwell. They are there before I reach the doors. They look down at me from above, their guns already at the ready. One shot misses me; the second grazes my upper arm. I don't even really notice. My shot hits one of them in the leg, causing her to stumble backwards and fall into her colleague. With two more big steps, I'm on top. Instead of pushing them back into the corridor, I clumsily grab them by the collars of their uniforms and pull them in my direction. They lose their balance all by themselves and tumble headlong down the stairs towards their colleagues while I'm on my way back up.
When I'm only two floors away from the roof, I pull the keys out of my pocket and try to find one for the door to the outside. But they all look the same, so I don't hesitate for long as I finally stand in front of the door and just shoot. It shatters the lock with a loud bang and after a kick, the door to the outside opens.
It's even warmer on the roof than in the building and I mentally curse myself for this defiant act of putting on something so warm in summer. On the other hand, a tailored suit wouldn't have helped either.
I hear the sound of rotor blades and my heart sinks for a moment, but then I realize that it's my ride. The black helicopter has just taken off from the roof of the City Hall diagonally opposite and is heading towards me. Behind me, the footsteps and shouts get louder and when the first bullet flies again, I simply run towards the edge of the roof. The rope ladder is already hanging out of the helicopter, but it's actually still quite far away. The plan had been for it to hover over the courthouse for a moment so that I could climb the ladder safely. I can only hope that the pilot realizes that's not possible and just jump over the edge of the roof.
It seems to be the two longest seconds of my life as I fly through the air, arms outstretched, ready to hold on to anything I can get my hands on. For a brief moment, I make peace with the thought that I have jumped to my death, but then I actually get hold of the rungs of the ladder. A jolt goes through my whole body. It tears at my wrists and shoulders. The gun slips from my fingers, the teaser falls out of my pocket and the cap flies off my head, but I cling to that damn rope ladder with everything I've got.
I can still hear the shots under the loud roar of the rotors, but no one comes near me and as soon as it's no longer just swinging, I start to climb up. Only upwards, no looking down. I laboriously pull myself over the edge and then lie on my back, breathing heavily. Only when I'm a little calmer again do I notice the blue strands of my pilot's hair peeking out from under her headset. She winks at me and I'm really glad to see a familiar face.
Although the adrenaline has not yet disappeared and my body is not yet shaking uncontrollably, everything hurts. Nevertheless, I pull myself up the ladder into the helicopter, my muscles burning, before climbing into the vacant seat in the cockpit and putting on a headset.
“Welcome aboard,” she says, grinning wryly. “Don't get too comfortable. You have to get off in about 20 minutes.” She glances over her shoulder and I follow her eyes.
There's this rucksack. The same one as at the airport and I assume it contains the same equipment she brought me back then.
“Where do I land?” I ask, because even though I designed a lot of this plan myself, I had to leave some things to others.
“Just outside the 12 mile zone, there's a freighter on its way from San Francisco to China, waiting to pull you out of the water.”
Exhausted, I lean back against the headrest of the seat and sigh. A year ago, I would probably have been strolling through a supermarket and stocking up for some game. Football, baseball, basketball, it doesn't matter. On the side, I would have gone through the job offers from my dealer or called my son once a month, who would have given me wonderful monosyllabic answers like “Mhm”, “Hm”, “Ah” or “Uh”.
Instead, I'm sitting in that helicopter in pain, hoping my contact on the ground doesn't have to take action and shoot down LAPD air support. It's better for everyone if this escape doesn't end with a big bang.
My pilot seems to notice how tense I am and tries to distract me from the current situation.
“Is the next job already lined up or are you going on your own mission first?” she asks, hinting at something I haven't thought about once.
“You mean, do I want to take revenge on the boy?” I clarify. I don't know exactly why, but I have to laugh.
“As far as I know, you've never had anything go so wrong. And when Joe messed up the Warsaw job, you-”
“But Joe wanted the job. And Ethan...,” I interrupt her angrily, but as quickly as the feeling came, it leaves me again. “I don't see any advantage in getting hung up on that mistake. Besides, doing nothing might make him wonder for the rest of his life whether I won't come around the corner again.”
Judging by the look on her face, she finds this thought more amusing than I do.
The truth is, I haven't thought any further than finding a place where I can go into hiding for the time being. A new name and a new passport are waiting for me in Panama. From there, I will travel to Nicaragua and relax on a beach somewhere for a few weeks before everything returns to normal.

Nothing happens as I had imagined. My husband on the ground didn't have to get the LAPD out of the sky, but a parachute jump into the open sea is nowhere near as pleasant as it might sound. Water is hard and a parachute like that definitely has too many straps. The Chinese on the freighter get me out of the water at the last second and have to resuscitate me. Every death was on my radar, except drowning.
I need the days until I get to Panama City to get fit again and get over this experience. Instead of getting on a bus to nowhere with my new papers, I check into an expensive hotel and prescribe myself a cure to get back to my old self.
Even though Panama itself should be safe for me, I change my appearance first. I usually go for the hair and beard off option rather than putting on a wig, because that's what the authorities are on the lookout for. Wigs and fake moustaches. But since I had to lose my hair in prison, that's no longer an option. Instead, I get myself a smart suit, which I can still wear in these temperatures, as well as a matching cap and sunglasses.
My Spanish is a little rusty, but it's enough to allow me to indulge in every conceivable comfort I can think of.
A week passes like this.
Two.
Three.
One month and I feel like me again.
The rainy season is reaching its peak and I know I can't go on like this for much longer. So I contact my dealer, but although he's happy to hear from me, this failure has put a bit of a damper on my job situation. The big players will be watching my progress for a while before they get back in, and jobs in the US are off limits for quite a while. Nevertheless, I'm looking for something. Europe seems a bit risky for now, but Asia and Russia are no problem.
Six more weeks pass. I visit seven different countries on three different continents. Four double agents and two whistleblowers lose their lives, but I prefer not to transport plutonium. I don't think anyone can blame me for that, but my dealer gets suspicious.
“You're just dealing with small stuff,” he says in my ear as I'm about to get on a quad bike to leave this damn Siberian desert. “What happened at LAX that made you lose confidence in your own abilities?”
“Don't you have a TV or do you live on the moon? Then at least ask Google. I'm sure you can find every detail there.”
“Exactly not. Your name was on the news. I think. And a picture where they can't recognize your face, but apart from that ... Nothing. Mastermind of the foiled Novichok attack. And then they keep showing this TSA employee who's supposed to have stopped you.”
I snort and step on the gas, unnoticed.
My dealer on the other end of the line laughs briefly in disbelief. “That's ... that's the truth? This greenhorn has you ...? Until now, I thought that something had broken in the device during turbulence.”
“Well,” I grumble and deliberately step on the gas even more.
“Then why are you still alive?”
The question. The fucking question I've been trying to avoid for the last few months. I abruptly slam on the brakes and am glad that there is no one else on the road in this godforsaken freezing cold.
“I don't know either, okay?” I snap at him. “And could you please just tell me where I need to go next?”
Silence falls on the line. Only the click of a keyboard tells me that he hasn't hung up. It takes so long for him to say something again that I start the quad again and keep driving.
“So,” he begins in his business tone. “I have three jobs to choose from that deviate somewhat from the monotonous bring-the-target-person-around approach. First, we have an offer from China. They want to cut off one of their ambassadors.”
“Didn't you say no more contract killings?”
“That's the thing. The man mustn't die. So you'd have to spend some time in a sunny country again and shadow the ambassador to gather a few explosive details.”
“Sun doesn't sound bad at all.”
“Number two. A hacker group wants you to plant a virus in an oil company. But you have to go back to the States for that.”
“Too soon, and since when do hacker groups have the money to pay me?”
“Since you set those limits on the body count.”
“I did what?”
“Jesus Christ again, you've turned down every job that could get even a few civilians killed.”
“You're imagining things,” I dismiss. “What's option three?”
He sighs deeply and is silent for a moment, then says, “You're going to Tahiti for the holidays.”
“Tahiti?” I ask and think about it. “I've never been there. What's on the agenda?”
He hesitates. That's atypical. But then he says: “Ethan Kopek is taking a Christmas vacation with his girlfriend and baby.”

It's Christmas Eve and the rain clouds are slowly disappearing in Tahiti. It's 73 degrees and the black jacket and hoodie are actually too warm again, but I'm wearing them today. One last time. At least that's what I've decided to do.
I'm standing on a jetty at the Hilton Hotel Tahiti with a view of the hotel complex and waiting.
The flight from LAX to PPT landed on time about an hour and a half ago and any moment now Ethan and Nora and their baby should be entering their hotel room.
If all goes as planned, Nora will take care of the baby first and Ethan will go to the balcony with the breathtaking view. He'll probably have a heart attack when he sees the wireless headphones lying on the table. I even wrote please on the note next to it this time.
Right ear.
Do it now.
Please, do it, Ethan.
And then he'll be so out of it. The question is whether he'll be close to a panic attack or still be able to keep a clear head. No matter what it is, it will bring me great joy. But he has to get through that door.
In the small seaplane next to me - a Cessna 172S converted into a float - the pilot waits patiently for us to take off. The plane rocks slightly on the small swell. This could be calming and hypnotizing, but my heart is honestly beating as fast as I suspect Ethan's should be. I don't even understand why. Nothing can happen. He'll be about 50 meters away from me on a balcony on the third floor. Even if he calls the police, I'll be gone before even one officer is in the car.
But Ethan keeps me waiting.
An hour.
Two. The pilot is getting restless.
Three. Dusk slowly sets in.
Four. I have to take a deep breath.
Five.
It's dark, but the jetty is brightly lit, so I'm on display. The pilot's fee has doubled and he is relaxed again. My resignation slowly sets in. I should have been on a ship to take me from the Cook Islands to Auckland by now. This is proof that I should retire.
I've already turned towards the plane and am about to board when my ears start to buzz before a voice rings out.
“I didn't expect you to last this long.”
I pause and slowly turn around again. Ethan is standing on the balcony. With his forearms resting on the railing and my notepad in his hands, he looks down at me. Although there's a light on the balcony, he's too far away for me to read his expression.
“How long have you known?” I ask without thinking about it. I'm too astonished.
“Since I entered the room five hours ago. I saw the note when I threw the suitcase on the bed.”
I'm speechless for a moment. Then I ask louder than I intended: “Then why am I still standing here and not yet in handcuffs?”
“I assumed that Tahiti wouldn't extradite you if you were here.”
“You idiot! Tahiti belongs to France. Of course the Europeans have an extradition treaty with the USA.”
Now there is silence at the other end. Long seconds, then the dial tone of a line can be heard.
“Are you serious? Now you're calling the cops.” This conversation is not going at all as I had imagined. I can only shake my head. “This is a waste of time Ethan. I'll be out of the 12 mile zone in four minutes.”
The beep continues and then someone picks up in French.
“Please, Ethan! Listen to me,” and now my voice sounds so desperate.
I hear him take a deep breath, but he seems to hang up.
“You have 60 seconds, then I won't hang up again.”
“60 seconds, that's enough for me.” In theory, that's true. But actually getting the question over my lips ... even after a year, it's not that easy. I wanted to forget it and simply threw myself back into work after my escape. My arrest didn't contribute to a slump in my job situation, quite the opposite. But it's not the same anymore. I developed scruples and turned down a job for the first time. That in turn wasn't good for the job situation and it didn't actually help anyone, because the job was done by someone else. And yet the question remained.
“Ten seconds are already up.”
“All right, all right, all right. So I wanted to let you know that you have nothing to fear from me, even if I'm out here. Neither you, nor...” I had thought long and hard about whether I should actually say her name, but since I had also decided against finding out the baby's name or gender, perhaps I should leave it alone. “... Someone near you. I don't even know where you live now.”
“What do you expect? That I believe you and say thank you nicely?”
“A little trust, please. When have I lied to you? Apart from the diamonds from Papua New Guinea?”
“Hm. Let's think about it. Maybe when you said you'd let me go as soon as the plane left? Or that Mateo would just fly back from DC? Or that you'd let Jesse go when it was all over? Or that you wouldn't do anything to Nora once the job was done?”
“Well, at least the latter would have been true. After all, she didn't know anything,” I start to justify myself half-heartedly before I can stop myself.
“And that's supposed to make it better now?” he also gets louder.
“That's not the point, Ethan! For fuck's sake, I'm trying to be nice. Doing the right thing!”
“The right thing would have been to get convicted and pay for what you did! The rest of your fucking life!”
“And what did I do, please? You stopped me. No one on this plane got ha-” I interrupt myself as an ‘Ethan?’ sounds from the background.
I can see him walk to the balcony door, then he says, “I'll be right back to bed. I just got a call.”
“Don't lie to her this time and blame me afterwards,” I growl, even though I wanted to keep my mouth shut.
“Has something happened? Who is calling at this time of night?” She sounds sleepy.
“Everything's fine. I'll explain in the morning. Just go back to sleep, will you?”
I can't hear an answer, but he pulls the balcony door shut again and comes back to the railing. Then he simply continues where we left off: “Eight people are dead because of you!”
“Eight?” I ask, although I really only wanted to do a mental count.
“Your two friends, the two guys who got you the Novichok, my boss-”
“Ex-boss.”
“-the officer in the sorting department, Mateo and ... and Lionel!”
“Oh, I thought you'd gotten over that,” I almost mumble. “But you still seem to blame yourself for Lionel's death. Hey, don't feel guilty. You know very well that it was me.”
“Shut the fuck up. I don't need a therapy session from the guy who's really to blame!”
I do as I'm told and walk back down the jetty to land instead, without taking my eyes off Ethan. The only thing between us now is the pool area of the hotel complex and the three floors to his balcony.
“What are you doing?”
“I just want to sit on one of those really uncomfortable-looking deckchairs. You know, I just spent six hours standing up waiting for a former sleepyhead to get on his balcony.” And I sit down on the first deckchair I come across. I cross my legs and cross my arms in front of my chest, taking off my cap so that I can see Ethan better from this position.
“I don't understand what you want from me,” he finally says, sounding extremely resigned.
“Me neither.”
“What?”
“I don't understand. What I want from you. Why I'm here. On fucking Tahiti. What's so great about Tahiti? But most of all, why am I still alive? Why didn't you let me die in this fridge? I don't understand. Please, enlighten me.”
There it is, the question. It has finally passed my lips. Even without knowing the answer, the relief is an incredible feeling. And either Ethan doesn't know the answer himself or he doesn't want to tell me, because he remains silent. For quite a while. I don't break the silence and wait patiently. Even though I'm sick of waiting.
When the answer comes, I don't think I like it.
“It's not just my job to help people. It's my calling.”
“You probably would have helped people more if you had killed me. It would have been cheaper for the state. There wouldn't have been the commotion in court. No one would have to waste their time looking for a ghost. And my ex-wife and my son would probably have been very grateful to you too.”
“Being a cop doesn't mean just putting a bullet in the head of evil. It means averting evil with the least possible force and letting a court impose the punishment.”
“Those were definitely the words that went through your head when you pulled me out of the fridge.”
Ethan gives me the middle finger and shakes his head in a gesture of disbelief.
“I can't believe you're chasing me halfway around the world over this question, ruining my vacation, risking getting caught again, and I'm also stupid enough to have a conversation with you without calling the police!”
“You took the risk that the Novichok could have spread on the plane. But it was actually much riskier that you could have been poisoned yourself.”
There's silence again and Ethan crosses his arms defensively in front of his chest on the balcony. I can only assume that he's pouting and that's when it clicks. I reflexively sit up straight and grab the edges of the lounger.
“You got poisoned by the Novichok.”
“When I landed, I tripped over you and somehow touched your shoes with my bare skin. But it wasn't really Novichok. It was just a component of it.”
“You actually risked your life for mine. Did you develop Stockholm syndrome in such a short space of time?”
“You're the one who sent me a bloody thank you card and seems to be worried about my welfare. So if that's the case, you've developed Stockholm syndrome.”
“Very funny. It's called Lima syndrome,” I mumble in response and actually think about whether it could be. Unconsciously, I start biting the nail on my thumb. Apparently you can see it from the balcony, because Ethan laughs. A little spitefully.
“Another reason for you to see a therapist.”
“Not so easy for someone like me.”
It's quiet again for a moment, then Ethan continues in a much too serious voice: “That would certainly be possible in prison. If you turn yourself in now, I promise to make sure you get the help you need.”
The tone of voice catches my attention more than his words, which is why I look more closely at him again. He has one hand on his ear and then the dial tone sounds again. At the same time, a shadow appears at the balcony door.
“The 60 seconds have been up for 15 minutes.”
The temptation is there for a split second. The thought of talking to Ethan for a few more minutes. But as I said, it's only a split second, then I stand up from the deckchair with a jerk.
“No danger from me. I promise,” I say again, raising both hands to emphasize my words.
Meanwhile, Nora steps out onto the balcony and for some reason I can see the look on her face. Or maybe I'm just imagining it. It's a mixture of shock and anger. And neither is clearly directed at Ethan.
He notices her too and holds the cell phone out to her when a voice speaks in French again.
“Can you tell he's down there? I don't speak French.”
A little panic overcomes me and I take a step back to the plane too quickly to seem relaxed.
“And I won't take any more jobs with chemical weapons. I realize now how badly that can backfire.” For now, anyway.
I gesture to the pilot to start the engine and he does the same.
“If you set foot in LA, I'll change my mind.”
“I don't think Stockholm Syndrome cares what you think. You either have it or you don't.”
“I will hunt you down,” he clarifies, completely ignoring my objection.
The words make it easier to climb into the plane, but I turn around once more and raise my hand in farewell.
“Merry Christmas, Ethan.”