Free Without Options by Trevor Scott Page B

area, especially to the bakery he’d just sat in for nearly an hour, nobody had seen Jake hit the cop. He slowly closed the door, wiped his prints from anything he’d touched, and hurried to the Audi. He needed to move the car and dump it.
    Fifteen minutes later, Jake had dropped off the Audi in a residential area a few blocks from the downtown of Garmish, wiped the car as clean as he could and hoisted his pack to his back and started walking with purpose toward the S-Bahn train station a kilometer away. If he got lucky, he could get right onto a train. The two guns could be a problem, but trains within the country still had mild security on the commuter lines. He rarely saw anyone stopped, unless they were drunks or derelicts. Regardless, he swapped out his passport to a diplomatic U.S. version, which would allow him to be armed.
    Hiking along, he saw a Polizei car race on a street across the river in the direction of the bakery. The cop had called in his assault. Crap. He had a pretty good relationship with German Polizei. Not just friends, but he had lectured them a number of times on counter-terrorism in nearby Oberammergau. He’d have to be sure to send the guy a Christmas present.
    At the S-Bahn station, Jake bought a one-way ticket to Nurnberg with cash, but he’d get off before Munich. He did get lucky. The train was on the track and pulled out with German precision ten minutes after Jake sat down, his eyes on the station for any Polizei. None came.
    A number of trains run from Garmish-Partenkirchen to Munich, from locals that stop at nearly every dinky town, to more express lines with only a couple of stops. Jake had gotten onto a local. He wanted the extra stops, just in case he needed to jump off. Also, he could use the extra time to get a little sleep.
    When Jake barely woke to the sound of his stop ahead, he waited for the train to stop and then found his backpack on the overhead rack and wandered off the train.
    Pullach was a small town on the southwestern edge of Munich. Jake guessed most of the residents either worked in that major city or at the most prominent employer in the town, BND, the German Federal Intelligence Service. Although the BND headquarters was still here, another office had opened in the Berlin area. Last he’d heard, though, his contact was still at this location.
    As Jake walked down the cobblestone platform heading to the small station, he noticed cameras focused his way and tried his best to keep his head down.
    Inside the little station, he found a pay phone and plugged in a couple Euros. Since it was Saturday he hoped she would be home, but she could be just about anywhere in the World.
    A woman answered with a simple Ja.
    “Can we talk?” Jake asked in German.
    “Who is speaking?”
    He recognized her voice, but he’d caught her off-guard. He couldn’t say his name, though.
    “A Prussian man dies in the Spree,” he said, hopeful she would understand.
    She cleared her throat and said, “Cousin Johann. How long has it been? I can’t believe I didn’t recognize your voice. I thought you weren’t due in until this afternoon.”
    “I have a cold. I caught an earlier train. Can you pick me up?”
    “Absolutely,” she said. Hesitating a moment, she added, “ten minutes?”
    “That would be wonderful. I’ll be waiting.”
    They both hung up and Jake glanced about the small room. A young couple with a baby in a stroller. An old man sweeping the floor. Two Goth kids with enough piercings to open a sewing shop. Nothing out of place. He checked his watch and wandered out to the street side of the building. It was nearly ten-thirty.
    The streets were relatively calm. Only a few cars and a city bus came by. So when he saw the black BMW pull up swiftly to the curb, Jake considered pulling one of his guns. But the passenger window was down and he could see Alexandra behind the wheel. She was still as beautiful as he remembered. Three features on her face had always caught his