Conviction

Fisher — who was already on the run and well established in the mercenary community — had looked for other agencies with an interest in Ernsdorff’s activities. They found their stalking horse in Germany’s BND, the Bundesnachrichtendienst, or Federal Intelligence Service. Fisher’s BND contact, Hans Hoffman, hadn’t specified what kind of information they were seeking, instead giving Fisher plenty of latitude. “Whatever you can find, ja?” had been Hoffman’s vague instructions, which told Fisher that the Germans were in just the initial stages of mounting an operation against Ernsdorff or against someone Ernsdorff serviced. Either way, during the months running up to Fisher’s penetration of Ernsdorff’s estate the BND had supplied him with dribs and drabs of peripheral intelligence, which he had dutifully funneled back to Grimsdottir at Fort Meade. None of the information had been, in and of itself, earth shattering, but it had given them a few insights into the man. Now Fisher had to report back to his customer and turn over the information he’d gathered — at least such information as Grimsdottir deemed juicy enough to satisfy them but benign enough to keep the BND behind Third Echelon’s own investigation. Until they were done with Yannick Ernsdorff, he needed to remain untouchable.

“When are you going to have your come-to-Jesus meeting with the team?” Fisher asked.

“Hansen’s set to call in within the hour.”

“Keep me posted.”

“As soon as I have something, I’ll call. The safe house is solid. You won’t get any unexpected company. Stay there, get some rest.”

“Twist my arm.”

“Hang in there, Sam. I think we’re in the last innings.”

Fisher nodded and smiled wearily. “Unfortunately, that’s usually when the rain starts falling.”

* * *

Ignoring the instincts that had for the past year kept him constantly moving from city to city and country to country, Fisher took Grimsdottir’s advice. He had a long, hot shower, washed his clothes, then laid out all his gear, inspecting and cleaning each piece until satisfied everything was working as designed. At three o’clock he walked down the block to a sporting goods store and bought a Deuter Quantum 55+10 backpack, large enough to accommodate all his gear, and an assortment of kayaker’s dry bags, then found a grocery store and bought some fruit, cheese, sourdough bread, sliced turkey and roast beef, and a six-pack of Berliner Kindl Weisse, then returned to the brownstone and ate at the dining room table.

At five he heard a soft double bing from upstairs. He walked into the office and touched the phone’s SPEAKER button. Grimsdottir’s face appeared on the LCD. “You look a little better,” she said.

“I feel a little better. Might be the two Berliner Kindl Weisses, though.”

“What?”

“German beer.”

Grimsdottir screwed up her face. “Too stout for me.”

Fisher shrugged. “What do you know?”

“I talked to Hansen and his team. I think I talked them down. Rattled their cages a little bit. It won’t last forever, though — especially with him. He knows something’s off about their mission, but at least for the near future he’s willing to take some things on faith.”

“Good. And Vianden?”

“They took some initiative and played a hunch. They still buy that you’re freelance, and they assumed Luxembourg had something to do with a job. Noboru still has contacts in that world, so he came up with a few names of players that are still in the know. Ames made a few calls and got a hit.”

“Explain.”

“It’s a small world you’re in, Sam, and somebody of your caliber stands out. According to Ames, it was just a matter of asking about jobs in Luxembourg and U.S. government covert operatives gone bad, so to speak. Nobody had your name, but somebody had Ernsdorff’s. They drove up from Luxembourg city, started scouting the area, and the rest is bad luck.”

“How did they catch up to me after I lost them the first time?”

“Police scanner. Something about a man with a gun in a campsite.”

“Hippies were robbing my Range Rover.”

“Pardon me?”

“Forget it. So, you buy it — Ames’s story?”

“It’s plausible.”

“Do we know who Ames got the tip from?”

“Somebody named Karlheinz van der Putten.”

Fisher smiled. “I know the name. Half-German, half-Dutch guy. Used to be Fernspaher — special-forces reconnaissance unit. He’s got to be in his sixties by now. His nickname was Spock.”

“Why, does he have some kind of ear fetish? Something sexual?”

“Not so much sexual as surgical. He used to take ears as trophies.”

“Very nice,” Grim muttered. “Well, his trophy days are over, evidently. According to Noboru, van der Putten went into the information business.”

“How much did Ames say he paid him?”

“Fifty thousand.”

“Where’s he living now?”

Grimsdottir paused a moment and looked down at her PDA. “Spain. A village called Chinchon southeast of Madrid. Why?”

Fisher didn’t answer. “Where did you leave it with Hansen?”

“They’re back in Luxembourg, regrouping. Kovac’s breathing down my neck, so I’ll have to put them on the road again soon. Check your Lycos account tomorrow after Hammerstein.”

“And Ernsdorff’s server?”

“I’ve downloaded the package for Hoffman to your OPSAT. Should be plenty there to make the BND happy and keep them busy for a while.”

15

HAMMERSTEIN, GERMANY

It was a leisurely two-hour drive from Aachen to Hammerstein, and the road meandered east before turning south through Cologne, then to Bonn, where Highway 42 took him along the east bank of the Rhine down to Hammerstein. Fisher met Hans Hoffman at a small, locally owned winery called J. P. Zwick Weinstube Weingut. The day was bright and sunny, the surface of the Rhine ruffled by a slight breeze. Fisher could see barges and pleasure boats in the main channel. Horns and whistles echoed across the water.

He found Hans Hoffman seated at a table in a rear courtyard surrounded by hedges. Sitting on the kelly green tablecloth were four empty wineglasses. He was sipping his fifth.

“How long have you been here, Hans?” Fisher asked as he sat down. There were only five other people in the courtyard: two couples sitting several tables away, and a thick-necked, broad-shouldered man in a black suit standing near the courtyard’s rear wooden gate. Bodyguard, Fisher thought. This told him something he’d suspected about Hoffman: The man was fairly high in the Bundesnachrichtendienst. This was the first time, however, that Hoffman had brought along protection.

Hoffman smiled, shrugged. “Long enough to sample four… no, five wines,” the BND man replied in lightly accented English. “They don’t give you much to try, you know. Would you like—”

“No, thanks.” Fisher shifted in his chair ever so slightly so he could see both the bodyguard and the courtyard’s main entrance. “Who’s your friend?”

“Dietrich.”

“He needs to smile more.”

Hoffman chuckled. “He is very stern, isn’t he?”

Fisher said nothing but held Hoffman’s gaze. Finally the BND man waved his hand dismissively. “Nothing to