“Identification? I don't understand.” A dark skinned woman, head covered in a hijab, frowned at him as she passed by. Gunther wished he hadn’t objected loudly. It had triggered something in the man, who seemed to be her boss.
The supervisor approached Mrs. Woods. “We’re on high alert,” he said to Gunther, “and doing random checks.”
His passport, where was it? No, nothing in that coat pocket. His shoulder bag, of course. Gunther fumbled around inside. Credit cards, pocket calculator, nothing there. Wait, there it was, in the first pocket all along. “Here,” he said.
The Red Coat with the moustache snatched the passport and brooded over the signature page and digitized photo. “An American citizen, Mr. Gunther?”
“I’m naturalized."
"Originally from where?"
"From Austria.” Gunther noticed
