Infiltrator

them—not to mention the gold coins. She still had contacts that could get rid of them for her and pay her well, keeping her name out of it. But she just couldn't bring herself to do it.

Maybe that was why she'd taken to drinking, to shut that part of her up. She'd kept fit; running even a small farm would help you do that. But she'd gotten sloppy, and bored, and she'd let things slide.

Well, it's not too late, Sarah thought. This can be fixed. In a few months, no one will ever know how close I came to losing it. No one but herself, that is. And that's how it should be.

'This is Krieger Trucking?' a voice said behind her.

A voice with a faint accent, a voice that froze every muscle in her body. She hadn't expected this. It's too soon, she thought. I'm not ready.

'Hello?' he said again.

Sarah turned slowly, trying to keep the terror off her face, knowing that it didn't matter. Her thoughts jumbled together. 'It' could read her fear in other ways.

When she saw his face—its face—she couldn't help but gasp. This close, the resemblance was too perfect, too complete. This can't be an accident!

'Ye-es,' she managed to choke out.

'I'm looking for—'

Sarah broke, she turned and walked away; by the time she hit the corridor that led to the garage she was running. She knew it had come for her and she raced through the garage and out into the alley without a backward glance.

In their early days in this town she'd mapped out several escape routes; now she took the nearest and, she hoped, best. Running flat out, she made good use of the twisted alleyways.

Dieter stared at the empty space that had just been occupied by a slender woman with short dark hair. Then he reacted, leaping over the counter and giving chase.

He didn't recognize her, but she unquestionably knew him. Of course, he wasn't so much disguised as situated in an unlikely place.

He'd spent most of his life as a counterterrorist operative, starting out in an elite unit of the Bundesheer, later working closely with American and Israeli intelligence. He was a good operative, but he was no monster, not one of the mad-dog killers of popular fiction. The woman had no reason to fear him unless she herself was guilty of something horrendous.

He was lucky at the first few turns; the ground was wet and she'd left footprints in the mud. Then the ground began to get hard, and he began to pant. Finally he came to an open space, surrounded by buildings, seemingly abandoned. He tried doors and windows, but all were securely locked. There were no footprints'.

Dieter wiped the sweat from his brow and looked around, letting his breathing return to normal. Tomorrow morning, first thing, he thought, back to running ten miles. He was sweating like a pig! Next thing he knew he'd have a potbelly.

He listened, and heard nothing. There were voices in the distance and some traffic, but nothing nearby. A dog stuck its head around one of the buildings and whined at him.

'Hey, boy,' Dieter said, leaning down. The dog came up to him, wagging its tail so hard its whole stern was lashing back and forth. 'Did you see her, huh?' he asked, scratching the mutt's ears. His eyes moved over the surrounding buildings even as he appeared to be concentrating solely on the dog. 'Did you see where she went?'

The stray was wiggling in ecstasy, as it strained to lick Dieter's hands, and grunting with pleasure when the big man switched to scratching its ruff.

'Dat's a good boy,' Dieter assured the animal in the baby-talking voice that even some antiterrorist operatives used with animals.

He straightened up and put his hands on his hips, realizing just a little too late that he might have acquired a new friend. Looking around, von Rossbach tightened his mouth while the dog looked up worshipfully.

The woman could be anywhere by now. Probably she'd gone to ground in a previously scouted hiding place. Obviously he wasn't going to find her here, he looked around at the blank building faces.

Unless, that is, he was willing to put time into it, finding a niche somewhere and blending into the scenery until the woman felt safe enough to emerge from hiding. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

No, he was retired, he was no longer obligated to chase everyone who ran. They would know who she was at the trucking company, so that was the logical place to go for information. Besides, he needed that shipment.

Sarah watched in the mirror before her, aimed to catch the view through a filthy window, as the man she'd been almost certain was a Terminator reached down to pet the dog. She stood up slowly and let out her breath in a rush, then stood there panting, shaking from adrenaline reaction.

Licking her lips, she tried to think what to do. If a dog can tolerate him, he can't be a Terminator. Humans can be fooled, but not dogs. As von Rossbach turned to walk away, she made up her mind.

Unlocking the window, she lifted it and slipped through, easing it down behind her. 'Wait!' she called weakly.

If he wasn't a Terminator she had to find out what, or rather who, he was, and why he had come looking for her. He couldn't have seen her spying on him this morning, could he? Her skills were rusty, but surely not that rusty.

She went to the nearest building and peeked around the corner. The man was

leaning over, trying to persuade the dog to go home, though it was obvious just looking at the mutt that it didn't have one.

'You've got a friend for life there,' Sarah said, trying to keep her voice steady.

The man looked at her. Her voice had quavered a bit and her hands were still shaking; she might as well try to use that, along with her diminutive size, to seem harmless. It might wipe that closed look off his face.

'I'm sorry,' Sarah said. 'I'm so sorry.' She brushed her hair back and gave a nervous little laugh. 'I thought you were someone else.' She looked at him, wide-eyed, then burst out, 'But you're not. Obviously.'

'Who did you think I was?' he asked. His voice was quiet, but his eyes were hard, evaluating her.

She lifted her hands and then dropped them; shaking her head, Sarah walked a few steps toward him.

'Please,' she said, her eyes on the ground as she walked, 'I'd rather not say. I'm so embarrassed as it is. Anyway, you don't want to know about it. It's just…'

She waved her hands helplessly. 'Please, could we start over?' Sarah looked up at him and smiled tremulously, trying to look innocent.

'Who are you?' he asked, still suspicious.

'I'm Suzanne Krieger,' she said, holding out her hand. 'That's my trucking company.'

'Oh, really.' He sounded dubious.

'A lot of people are surprised to hear that,' Sarah assured him, smiling weakly.

There was an awkward moment of silence. 'I just want you to know that was a very uncommon reaction,' she said, twisting her fingers together nervously. 'I really don't make a habit of running away from my customers. Honest.' Don't overdo it, Connor, she warned herself.

'You're an American,' Dieter observed.

'Yes. But my husband was Paraguayan.'

'Was?' Dieter walked by her side as they wended their way back to the trucking company.

He found her face attractive in an angular way; her blue eyes were very expressive and her mouth was… tempting. A good figure, too, he thought.

But he was still not lulled by either her fluttering manner or her refusal to explain. He noticed that she kept as far from him as she could in the narrow alley.

'Yes, he died the year after he bought the company.' She lapsed into silence for a few moments. 'Anyway, that's enough about me,' she said as they came to the open door of the garage. 'What is it you came here for?'