Judging by the body style, the Porsche had been manufactured between 2004 and 2007. Built with an excessive amount of horsepower and racing technology—with the premium Porsche name and badge—Gage could only imagine its value. While the three cars waited in front of the chancellery, Gage used his phone and located nine similar Porsches of the same make and model for sale in the U.S.
The price tags ranged between a half-million and a million dollars.
“The balls on this guy,” Gage muttered.
A few minutes before 10 A.M. Boden entered the Mercedes and a younger man, perhaps an attaché, remained behind the wheel of the Porsche. The processional slowly exited the chancellery drive, headed to the northeast.
Less than a kilometer behind, Gage Hartline followed.
* * *
The next three hours of Gage’s life were spent in the bowels of a cold Frankfurt parking deck. While tedious, such surveillance was critical, aimed at providing him with a method to track the Ministerpräsident’s movements. Earlier, after they’d arrived at the building and dropped Boden and several of his staff at the main entrance, the processional had driven to the belowground parking deck beneath the office building where they were now.
The building itself was located in Frankfurt’s Nordend, a gleaming and prosperous area of the bustling financial center. Located a good tee shot from the Messe Frankfurt, the building was the tallest in the area, housing the headquarters of numerous German companies. Boden could be meeting with any of them, although Gage didn’t trouble himself over which.
Once the convoy had parked on the first level of the parking deck, Gage parked on the opposite end and watched. The three drivers exited their vehicles, hands in pockets, shooting the breeze.
The next action was calculated but necessary. Besides, Gage desperately needed to relieve himself and felt the risk was worth it. None of the drivers had ever seen him, and Boden’s security man was probably by his boss’s side upstairs in the building. Regardless, taking no chances, Gage donned the wig Dü had fitted him with—different from the gray wig he’d worn in Limburg. He added the trendy, thick-frame eyeglasses with zero prescription lenses she’d recommended. Gage carried one of Karl Vogel’s expensive briefcases and exited Boris’ car, making the long walk down the aisle to the elevators.
With his fashionable dark blazer, an open collar white dress shirt and gray slacks, he was just a regular businessman heading into a regular office building. Near the end of his journey, he reached the three-vehicle caravan and whistled upon noticing the Porsche. His eyes swiveled to the three men, standing in a group, two of them with half smoked cigarettes. Then, ignoring them, he walked around the Porsche, studying it closely.
“Can we help you?” one of the men asked.
“Does this car belong to any of you?” Gage asked.
The three men eyed Gage with utter boredom. Their collective uninterested countenance reminded Gage of his days as a soldier, when waiting is your only option and very little can occur to provide any sort of excitement other than relief from your duties.
“I wish,” the youngest one finally said. “Belongs to my boss. Please don’t touch it.” He turned back to his friends.
“Does he let you drive it?” Gage asked, striving to make sure his German remained completely native.
With irritation, the youngest turned back to Gage. “Yeah, he lets me drive it, but not the way I’d like to drive it.”
The two older men chuckled and, assuming the query was complete, the threesome resumed their discussion.
“He doesn’t want to sell it, does he?” Gage persisted.
Clearly annoyed, the youngest one turned to Gage again. “Do you have any clue how much that car is worth?”
“Depends on the condition and how many kilometers it’s been driven,” Gage replied evenly. “Could be close to a million euro.”
Now the three men were interested.
“I don’t think he intends to sell it,” the oldest one answered, appraising Gage head to toe.
Gage handed over a thick business card, courtesy of the “package” he’d gotten from Mike Pastore at Delta Force. The card had raised metallic ink—the antenna—announcing Gage as the principal of a private investment firm in Hannover. Moments before, Gage had armed the transmitter by pressing his fingernail into the center-rear of the card. The card, of course, matched the passport and credit card of the identification from the package.
“Would you please give this to your boss? Tell him I’ve been looking, scouring actually, for a Carrera GT and will almost certainly be willing to pay well above the car’s appraised value.”
The three men eyed the card. The one who hadn’t yet spoken couldn’t hide a note of derision as he glanced at Gage.
“I doubt the man who owns this car will be swayed by an offer slightly over appraised value.”
Gage grinned and took a step toward the building. “I didn’t say ‘slightly.’ Tell him I’m a highly motivated buyer—he’ll understand. Have a good day.”
He walked into the basement of the building, finding a restroom. After relieving himself, Gage found a stairwell and climbed two levels to the ground floor. With a careful glance in all directions, he made sure he didn’t see Boden. Then he exited into the lobby and walked out the side entrance. Gage made his way back into the parking deck via a rear entrance and
