The door swung open quickly and a skinhead walked in, stepped over the fat man's legs, and then relieved himself. Without concern, he simply walked out.
Herb shook his head in disbelief. He dropped the fat man's head and let it slam to the ceramic floor. Quickly he emptied the contents of the man's pockets onto the floor. A handful of Deutschemarks, a small knife, two paper clips, a pen, a slimy comb; nothing out of the ordinary. Inside his jacket was a gun and shoulder holster. The right inside jacket pocket contained a small piece of paper.
Herb looked behind him to the door, and then unfolded the paper. The initials F.I. and the number 0920 were at the top. Then Rome and Lufthansa were scribbled quickly. He folded the note and returned it to the man's right pocket. Frankfurt International, Lufthansa from Rome arriving at 0920. That's nice, Herb though, but what fucking day.
The fat man lay with a stupid smirk on his face. Unfortunately, he probably didn't even feel the blows to his face. Maybe the pain would come in the morning.
Herb started to leave the men's room, but stopped. He came back and rolled the fat man on his side, tugged his wallet from his pocket, took all the money out, and returned the wallet to his pocket. Robbery was reason enough to beat a man.
Outside the Gasthaus, back in his car, Herb wondered what day that flight would arrive and whether there was even any significance in the information. Something had to work. Somehow, he had to prove to Jake, to himself, to the rest of the customs office, that he was worthy of the best assignments. That he still had what it takes to run a proper investigation. Some way he had to bring this whole thing together. Make sense of it all. Somebody would have to make a mistake eventually. And the fat man lying on the men's room floor might be that somebody.
Herb gripped the shift knob and quickly pulled it back against his chest in pain. Even through the leather glove, he could tell that his hand would be bruised from smashing the fat man's face. A small price to pay, he thought.
The large black board ticked away feverishly updating the arrival schedule of flights from across the globe. Herb watched as Lufthansa Flight 86 from Rome clicked up in bold white letters, Arrived. The large crowd of people pushed and shoved closer to a metal railing that separated them from four doors leading to a ramped customs area. A pair of U.S. Army Military Police stood staunchly side by side surveying the crowded scene. Two German Polizei, armed with Uzis, strolled over to the edge of the crowd and parked themselves next to the corridor that led from the International Terminal to the large parking ramps and the main airport terminal.
Finding the right day for the Lufthansa flight had been easier than Herb had expected. The airlines changed times of their flights frequently to deter terrorists from becoming overly familiar with their routes. It was laughable reasoning, but just one small effort out of many to curb the possibility of a bombing. So the flight had been the day after the fat man found his face against the men's room tile.
A soft female voice echoed over the public address system in German, English and French the gate where the Rome passengers would descend through. Herb scanned the shifting crowd for Gunter and his men. Nothing. It had to be the right day, he thought.
A fat woman walked over with a small poodle on a leash and sat in the chair next to Herb. He pretended not to notice her, but her body odor would have chased a room full of weight lifters from a gym.
Then he saw the fat man at the far edge of the awaiting crowd on the opposite side of the Polizei with Uzis. The fat man's face looked like it had gone through a car windshield in an accident. His left eye was swollen shut, his nose looked twice the normal size, and his upper lip would take days to get back to its proper dimensions. Herb smiled as he looked down to his own bruised hand.
Passengers started streaming down the ramp and through the four open doors to the terminal waiting area. Some carried only brief cases, but others pushed carts loaded with suitcases. Herb kept his eyes open for Gunter Schecht. He had to be there somewhere.
Then the fat man moved forward quickly to greet a man in a blue suit with a black and gray beard. He only had one thin suit bag slung over his shoulder, and a small brown attaché case. Who the hell was that? Herb reached to his ankles and pulled up his socks, then he sat up again to watch for Gunter.
The two Polizei, seeing Herb's signal, approached the fat man and the bearded passenger. The man, apparently disturbed, set down his attaché case, pulled a blue passport from his inside coat pocket and flipped it open for the armed men. Satisfied, the Polizei slowly strolled over to a young couple and asked to see their passports as well.
Herb got up and followed the men to the exit. Outside, the men waited next to the curb. Herb lingered and watched from the window next to the automatic sliding doors.
The early morning fog had actually gotten worse. The large multi-level parking ramp only a short distance across the loading road, taxi area, and bus stop was barely visible. In a few seconds, a silver Mercedes pulled up and stopped in front of the two men. It was Gunter's car. The fat man opened the rear door for the bearded man, closed it behind him, and then got into the front passenger seat. Swiftly the car pulled away and was lost in the fog.
Herb wandered outside and watched as passengers and friends boarded buses and taxis and awaiting cars. The cold moist air seemed to move right through Herb's body as if a ghost had enveloped him and then departed to another victim. He shivered and pulled his thick cloth collar up around his neck.
The electronic doors slid open behind him and the two Polizei walked toward Herb. They chatted about the lousy weather as they brushed up beside Herb and passed a small note into his open left pocket. He put his hands into his pockets and held on tightly to the piece of paper. He knew that his break had finally come. Following Gunter was of no consequence to him. Whoever this man was, he had to be important to his case. The fat man acted as though he were somebody. Gunter wasted no time picking him up. Normally, his arrogance made him late. Yes, the distinguished bearded man had to be important. He had to be a key to Bundenbach's plans.
Finally, Herb pulled out his wallet with his right hand and placed the note inside among his Deutschemarks as if seeing how much money he had. "Steven Carlson" is all that was written. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn't place where he had heard it. It wouldn't take too long to find out more about this man, but he'd need Jake's help. He missed the days that he and Jake had worked side by side. He felt as though Jake was the only one who believed in him. The only one to see him for what he was. Not perfect, not the best, but a fellow human who needed to feel viable once in a while. Jake took him seriously. He listened to his ideas and cared.
Herb went back inside through the doors. He slowly strolled back toward the parking ramp. Passing close to a smoke-filled airport bar, he felt the urge to go in and shoot down a few shots of schnapps to celebrate his small victory. He even stopped for a second and started to turn in. But then he changed directions and continued on toward his car. He stopped at a yellow enclosed phone booth, called Italy, and left a message for Jake.
Back at his car, he planned his next move. He would drive back to Bonn and keep track of Gunter and Steve Carlson until Jake got back. Carlson had to be the key, Herb was convinced.