The oak door of the Küssnacht Heath Private Club closed quietly behind Shane, sealing away the warmth of the crackling fireplace and the faint aroma of roasted coffee. What lingered outside was the chill of the Swiss night and the distant hum of Lake Zürich, shrouded beneath a pale veil of moonlight.
At the end of the cobblestone path, a man waited beside a dark Oxford green Citroën Type B12. The driver—a Serbian veteran with half of his left ear missing—stood with the stoic posture of a man long accustomed to orders.
"The luggage is already in the boot, sir," he rasped. His voice was coarse, ruined perhaps by years of gunpowder and cold Balkan winters. "We'll take the Gotthard Pass. With fair weather, we'll reach Innsbruck before dawn."
Shane brushed a gloved hand along the polished teak of the car window, admiring the smooth grain. The Citroën's engine purred to life, its headlamps slicing through the mist that hung low over the lakeside road. Behind them, the shimmering waters of Zürichsee faded into darkness—like scattered pearls lost in the night.
"Any tails?" Shane asked quietly as they entered the first tunnel.
The driver's grin flashed in the rear-view mirror, revealing a row of unnaturally white teeth. "Three cars followed us out of the city, but they all stopped at the Altdorf toll gate." He tapped a small Swiss customs emblem on the dashboard with a thick finger. "Mr. Hofmann arranged a British study visa for the customs chief's daughter. That tends to smooth things over."
Shane's lips curved faintly. The dim tunnel lights cast moving shadows across his face, highlighting the quiet calculation behind his eyes. According to the schedule, Mikhail's convoy—carrying the modified equipment—should already be crossing from Basel into France by now, bound for Belfort under diplomatic cargo cover.
Hours later, as the first light of dawn brushed the Tyrolean peaks, the Citroën rolled past Innsbruck and descended toward the Austrian plain.
By dusk, Vienna appeared through a haze of gold and smoke—its church spires and copper domes gleaming like half-forgotten crowns from a vanished empire.
The car turned off Kärntner Ring, entering a narrow cobbled lane near the Opera House. Its tyres crunched softly over the stones, startling a few pigeons that burst upward, flapping toward the ornate balconies of the Baroque buildings.
At a café tucked into the alley, WilliamCatterson sat waiting. A cup of cold coffee rested before him, untouched. His long fingers turned a folded newspaper while his other hand flicked open his pocket watch every few minutes.
When Shane stepped from the car, the two men exchanged a brief look—wordless, efficient. Their eyes met just long enough to confirm what needed no speech.
"Journey smooth?" Catterson asked quietly, already half rising.
"Smooth enough," Shane replied, making a subtle hand gesture.
Catterson reached into his coat and produced a kraft-paper envelope. Shane took it, then turned back toward the car window. "Thank you, Dragan. These are your hotel keys—and a small token of appreciation. Rest well."
The driver accepted the envelope. The corner parted slightly, revealing a Central Hotel keycard and five crisp hundred-franc notes. His rough fingers paused on the paper.
"Have a pleasant stay in Vienna, sir," he said, his tone unexpectedly sincere.
When the Citroën's taillights disappeared into the narrow street, Shane and Catterson turned into the maze of Vienna's Innere Stadt. They moved quietly through a series of side streets until they reached an Art Nouveau townhouse on Kärntner Strasse.
A bronze plaque by the door read:
"Jakob Morell – Internal Medicine Clinic."
Under the flickering glow of a gas lamp, the grapevine reliefs and wrought-iron window frames gleamed faintly, hinting at wealth and discretion. The polished bronze handle bore the embossed insignia of the Royal Physicians' Association, a silent testament to Dr. Morell's reputation.
When Shane pushed open the door, a bell chimed softly. Inside, the clinic exuded refinement—dark walnut furniture, deep red velvet curtains, and certificates from the Vienna Medical College displayed in neat symmetry. The air was a mixture of antiseptic and strong Italian espresso.
Behind a mahogany desk sat Dr. Jakob Morell, a round-faced man with thinning hair and a pair of immaculate gold-rimmed glasses. He was polishing them when he looked up and smiled warmly.
"Mr. Cassidy," he greeted in lightly accented English. "Mr. Catterson mentioned your condition yesterday. I assumed you'd rest another day before calling."
Shane's voice carried a trace of weariness. "Didn't want to risk a relapse, Doctor."
Morell gestured to the examination couch. "Please, sit. Let's have a look at your throat."
He worked methodically—tongue depressor, stethoscope, steady hands. Only the faint ticking of the wall clock and the occasional scratch of pen on paper disturbed the silence.
After a few minutes, the doctor stepped back and removed his spectacles. "A minor cold infection," he concluded. "Your temperature is slightly elevated, and the pulse runs fast. Nothing serious."
He moved toward a tall medicine cabinet. "I'll prepare an intravenous injection—sodium salicylate, a new treatment from Britain. You'll feel much better by morning."
Catterson, leaning against the doorframe, asked casually, "Any side effects?"
"Only mild fatigue," Morell replied, snapping open the glass ampoule. "I suggest a good night's rest afterward."
The needle went in with practiced precision. A few minutes later, the doctor wrote out a medical certificate, his fountain pen gliding over the letterhead in perfect German script. At the bottom, he stamped the document with the clinic's steel seal.
"This will suffice for any official purpose," he said quietly, pressing a finger over the embossed signature. "Do take care not to catch another chill."
Catterson placed a discreet envelope on the desk—thick enough to stand upright. Morell didn't touch it; he only nodded politely in acknowledgment.
When they stepped back into the street, the night over Vienna was perfectly clear. The Graben shimmered under gaslight, and the faint clip-clop of carriage horses echoed between the colonnades.
Shane paused and looked up. The spire of St. Stephen's Cathedral rose high above the rooftops, its Gothic silhouette cutting into the starlit sky.
His thoughts drifted back to Zurich—to the faces of Heinrich Müller and his team, to the half-finished machine that promised to change the world.
"Let's head back to the hotel," Catterson said softly, breaking his reverie. "I have a few matters to report."
Shane nodded, his gaze lingering on the skyline. Every step in this game—every document, every meeting—was a calculated move toward something greater. In a world where the future was still unwritten, even a forged medical certificate or a single new invention could tilt the balance of history.
He buttoned his coat against the chill and walked on, the echo of his footsteps fading into Vienna's nocturnal calm.