Infiltrator

help.

Dieter tucked into his desk and booted up his computer. He had an Identikit program and he brought it up now. In about twenty minutes he had a fair likeness of Suzanne Krieger and made up a version with and without glasses.

The woman didn't feel to him like a terrorist; there was an aura about them that Dieter could usually pick up on.

Besides, females were rare among their ranks. Those who chose the terrorist lifestyle, though, tended to be excellent actresses. So he couldn't afford to eliminate the possibility solely on gut feeling.

It was also possible, given that she owned a trucking company, that Mrs. Krieger was running drugs. Her overreaction today indicated that she was coming down off of something. But it might just be cigarettes, as she said. When he'd quit smoking he'd been close to dangerous for six weeks.

She's probably smuggling, he thought. But in Paraguay it's more likely to be DVD players than drugs. Smuggling is the national industry, or was.

Von Rossbach studied the stark portraits he'd created of Suzanne Krieger, looking for something in the images that would give him a clue. She's guilty of something, he thought. An innocent woman doesn't take off like a hare being chased by hungry hounds. She calls for help, she runs to the nearest man, she doesn't clear out for parts unknown without even making a sound. That, he felt, was a telling detail. She knows how to run. If she didn't, I'd have caught her.

And the way she moved… She had combat training somewhere. Martial arts, certainly.

Dieter flattered himself that the mere sight of his face wasn't likely to send women running for their lives. Maybe she'd bumped off Paul Krieger before moving down here. Whatever—he composed a note to Jeff Goldberg, his former partner in the Sector Operation.

Hi Jeff,

Sorry to bother you, but I'm wondering if you can tell me anything about this woman, who currently runs a trucking company in Villa Hayes.

Strangely enough she ran from me the moment she saw me (no comments please) and gave me a story about being threatened by some man who wanted to buy her business.

She's going by the name Suzanne Krieger, widow of Paul Krieger, and she has a son. It might be nothing, but my antennae are up on this one. Looking forward to hearing back from you.

Dieter

P.S. When are you and Nancy coming to my ranch to visit?

Soon, he hoped. There was a lot to like about this country and this life, but after eight months away from the Sector he was finding it incredibly dull. You could be bored in 'the business'— were bored, most of the time—but there was always an edge of anticipation.

He supposed it was to be expected; compared to his old life running down terrorists and international criminals, pursuing cattle across the Chaco was an inevitable come down. Each day ran into the next here with very little to distinguish them from each other.

Today, though, had been exceptional and he felt good. He might just be chasing shadows here, but at least he wasn't chasing cows.

'John? John?' Sarah stood in the tiled-and-whitewashed hallway of her estancia and listened, but the house was silent. He couldn't have gone far, though; he wouldn't leave the house open like this if he wasn't in earshot. She went out onto the portal. 'John!' she shouted.

She heard a distant call in answer and looked in that direction. Of course, the barn. He'd been riding Linda. She leaped down the three steps and trotted toward his voice. Sarah found him in the paddock at the back of the barn, grooming the bay mare, who was trying to wrap her neck around him in a horsely hug.

'She says that you neglect her shamefully and leave her to starve as often as not,' John said with a grin, pushing the horse's big head away gently.

'She lies like a rug,' Sarah said, crossing her arms atop the paddock gate.

'Which she might soon become if she keeps blackening my reputation that way.'

'Y'hear that, Linda?' John asked, scratching under her chin. The horse stretched her neck out in ecstasy, a foolish expression on her long face. 'I may be your favorite human but you have to know which side your hay is buttered on. This lady is your meal ticket, don't you know that?'

Linda sneezed, splattering John's T-shirt with green.

'Auuggh! Thank you, Linda!' he said, holding his arms out in disgust. John whipped off the shirt and used the clean side to wipe his face and arms.

Sarah gave a short laugh at his expression. 'Come out of there before she starts to lick you.' She opened the gate, and then she turned serious. 'We have to talk.'

Unlike most teens, John's automatic reaction wasn't What am I supposed to have done now? Instead he asked, 'What's gone wrong, how can we fix it?'

He slipped through the gate and turned to fasten it behind him. Then he squinted up at the sun. 'You're early,' he said, almost a question.

Sarah opened her mouth. Now that she was in front of him she didn't really know how to begin.

John lowered his head and raised his eyebrows. 'Mom?'

'I had… a really strange experience today,' she began. With one hand she brushed her hair back and frowned into the middle distance.

'Strange, how?' John asked. Was it getting off the cana?he wondered. D.t.'s or some shit like that? 'Cause he didn't know if he could handle it if it was. Did you just lock them in a closet with a bag of candy and hope for the best, or what?

'This guy came in today to pick up a shipment and, John'—she looked him in the eye—'I swear to you, he was the spitting image of a Terminator.'

John shook his head. 'You're—'

'He had a beard, and his accent was less noticeable, but otherwise he looked exactly like a Terminator.'

Sarah tightened her lips; it was obvious he was having trouble believing her.

They stared at one another for a long minute, and then John shook his head as though to clear it.

'Doesn't necessarily mean anything,' he said. 'Skynet may have made the Terminators up to look like pictures it had on file. It had to get those faces from someplace, right? So it doesn't have to be a threat, right?'

'We didn't stay alive and out of jail by treating something that looked like a threat as if it wasn't one,' Sarah reminded him. 'I don't want this to mean anything either, but we can hardly afford to bury our heads in the sand. Right?'

'What happened?' John asked, holding up his hands in a slow-down gesture.

'Exactly.'

So she told him. 'He was definitely human,' she finished. 'While he was looking for me this stray dog came along and fell in love with him. And he took the time to pet it and talk to it, and it followed him home.'

John spluttered a laugh. 'It followed him home? That doesn't sound like a Terminator, does it?'

She gave her son a steely look. 'Except he looked just like one. What's more'—

why hadn't she told him this in the first place?—'he's moved in right next door to us.'