The Thirteenth Skull by Rick Yancey

somebody from the civilian interface.”
    â€œAnd that somebody would be ...?”
    â€œMe.”

05:06:01:41
    After breakfast, two doctors came in, escorted by the policeman Detective Black had stationed outside my door. At least, the cop thought they were doctors. One carried a stainless-steel valise. The other walked with a cane.
    â€œMore tests, huh?” I asked.
    â€œMore tests,” the one with the cane said.
    The cop left. Nueve leaned his cane against the bed rail and sat in the chair while his buddy got to work. He gently peeled off the bandage over my nose and leaned over me, examining the damage. His breath smelled like cinnamon.
    â€œHow bad is it?”
    He sniffed. “Seen worse. We’ll make it work.”
    He dug into the valise. I glanced at Nueve, who was smiling without showing his teeth.
    â€œWe’re stopping by Samuel’s room before we leave,” I told him.
    â€œUnnecessary. It increases the risk.”
    â€œI don’t care. I want to say goodbye. I owe him that.”
    He shrugged. Cinnamon-Breath was leaning over me again, applying latex prosthetics piece by piece, using a small brush and a foul-smelling adhesive.
    â€œWhat did you find out about Jourdain Garmot?” I asked Nueve.
    â€œAge: twenty-two. Citizenry: French. Marital status: single. Occupation: president and chief executive officer of Tintagel International, a consulting firm based in England that specializes in the research and development of security-related systems and software.”
    â€œWhat’s that mean?”
    â€œIt means its business is war.”
    â€œWar?”
    â€œFighting them, winning them.”
    â€œAnd it’s big.”
    â€œThere is no bigger business than war, Alfred.”
    â€œHold still,” Cinnamon-Breath scolded me. “Look up at the ceiling and don’t move. I have to do your eyes.”
    â€œThe lavender goes better with the outfit,” Nueve said to him.
    Cinnamon-Breath rolled his eyes. “Do I tell you how to kill people?”
    Nueve shrugged. I said to Cinnamon-Breath, “He shrugs a lot.”
    â€œHe’s European,” he said. “They’re world-weary. Close your eyes.”
    â€œTintagel’s board of directors voted him to the presidency after the untimely demise of our friend Monsieur Mogart,” Nueve said. “Prior to that he was a university student in Prague.”
    â€œWhy would a superrich, multinational corporation put a twenty-two-year-old college student in charge?” I asked.
    â€œWatch him,” the makeup man said. “He’s going to shrug.”
    Nueve was holding himself very still in his chair.
    â€œHe fought it back,” Cinnamon-Breath said. He reached into the valise again and removed a gray wig.
    â€œI don’t know why I have to be so old,” I said.
    â€œWho do you see the most in hospitals? Huh? What’s the demographic?”
    He shoved the wig over my head and began tucking my own hair up into it. He gave a soft whistle and said, “Hey, love your hairstyle and I’m really digging the gray—very post-mod radical chic—but we really should shave it off.”
    â€œYou’re not cutting my hair,” I told him.
    â€œMaybe I should just wrap some gauze around it. Like you have a head injury. We’re gonna be too lumpy this way.”
    â€œWhere is Jourdain Garmot now?” I asked Nueve.
    â€œPennsylvania.”
    â€œPennsylvania?”
    â€œHe flew into Harrisburg two nights ago, where he rented a car and drove to a tiny hamlet called Suedberg.”
    Something clicked when he said the name, but I couldn’t pin down why Suedberg sounded familiar to me.
    â€œWhat’s a Frenchman who runs a company in England doing in a tiny hamlet in Pennsylvania?” I wondered aloud.
    â€œHere it comes,” Cinnamon-Breath said. Then Nueve shrugged. “Maybe it’s more a tic than a