Conviction

worry about, Sam. Another matter altogether. Apparently not everyone I deal with likes me as much as you do.”

It was a lie. A well-told lie but a lie nevertheless. Fisher offered Hoffman a hard smile. “Who said I like you?”

Another laugh. Hoffman was the quintessential jovial German. Dietrich, on the other hand, was the quintessential stone-faced Teutonic knuckle dragger. His suit was also poorly fitted. Fisher could see the outline of a semiautomatic in a paddle holster at his waist.

“We’re good friends, Sam.”

“I’ll take your word for it. His coat shouldn’t be buttoned, you know.”

“Pardon me?”

“Dietrich. His coat. It’ll cost him a second or more when he goes for his weapon.”

Hoffman glanced at his bodyguard and frowned slightly. “I’ll see to it. Tell me how you fared in Luxembourg.”

In answer, Fisher placed a 4 GB USB flash drive on the table and slid it across. “A lot of information. Whether it’s what you’re after is for you to judge.”

Hoffman touched the flash drive with his index finger and slid it to the edge of the table, behind his collection of wineglasses. “I’ll arrange for your fee to be transmitted when we’re done here.”

Fisher nodded. “Hans, just so we’re clear: If you’ve set me up, I’ll put two bullets in your heart before Dietrich can even reach his buttons.”

Hoffman’s face went slack. He cleared his throat. He shifted in his seat. “I don’t know that I would it call it a ‘setup.’ ”

“What would you call it?”

“An order from on high. I got a call from Pullach,” Hoffman said, referring to the BND’s headquarters in Pullach.

“From whom, exactly?”

“Does it matter? Someone called him, and someone had called the person before him. They wanted to know if I was working with you. What could I say?”

Nothing, Fisher thought. Unless Hoffman was lying and the request had come from outside the government — and his motivation was personal gain — he was taking the only option open to him. Besides, Fisher had just given Hoffman a flash drive full of useless information, so they were even.

“Who’s coming for me?” Fisher asked. “Some of yours?”

“No, but I do not know who.”

“Do they know what I’m driving?”

“If they do, it’s not from us.”

“How soon?”

Now Hoffman smiled. “Why, when we meet, of course. At two o’clock.”

Fisher checked his watch. It was one fifteen. “Thanks, Hans.”

“For what? I showed up early to enjoy the wine, and here you were.”

“Anything else you can tell me?”

“No, I’m sorry. If I had to guess, however, I would say they are flying in.”

“Which means Cologne Bonn Airport.”

“Yes.”

From the airport to Hammerstein it was an hour’s drive south on Highway 42. At least he would know from where the threat was coming — unless they were already here, that was.

“Frankfurt is only ninety minutes to the south. Big city. Plenty of places to lose yourself.”

Fisher stood up and extended his hand. “Do me one more favor.”

“Certainly.”

“In five minutes call the local police. Tell them a mad-man in a BMW is smashing into cars in the marina parking lot south of the winery. Tell them he headed south down 42.”

Hoffman pursed his lips in confusion but nodded. “Five minutes.”

“Thanks.” Fisher turned to go.

Hoffman said, “Just tell me one thing: If you hadn’t liked the answer I gave you, would you have shot me?”

“Yes. But I wouldn’t have enjoyed it.”

He turned and headed for the rear gate, leaving Hoffman chuckling at the table.

* * *

Fisher went around the winery and came through the trees in the side yard. He stopped beside the bushes and looked around. Across the highway a couple dozen cars were parked in the boat-launch lot. It was busy for a weekday, with cars and boat trailers jockeying around one another, waiting for a chance to launch or leave.

Fisher watched, looking for anomalies. It didn’t take long. Two men and two women dressed like locals, but not quite like locals, were moving through the lot, pausing at cars, peering in windows, and keeping one another in sight. Ames, Valentina, Noboru, and Kimberly Gillespie. He should have known that forty-five minutes was enough of a head start. Like any good operative Hansen had moved his team into position well before his quarry was set to arrive.

Speaking of Hansen… Fisher watched him emerge from between a pair of cars in the lot and step over the guardrail and onto the shoulder of the road. He waited for a break in traffic, then started across toward the refinery.

Fisher didn’t hesitate but stepped out from between the bushes and started toward his BMW. Hansen spotted him immediately and picked up his pace. Not quick enough, Fisher thought, and kept walking. When he was ten feet from the BMW, Hansen called, “Don’t, Sam, we’ve got you.”

Fisher didn’t reply, didn’t look up.

Hansen hesitated; his pace faltered. “Fisher!” It was almost a shout.

Fisher was five feet away. He pointed the key fob at the BMW and unlocked the door. In the corner of his eye he saw Hansen’s right hand reach into the folds of his black leather jacket. Fisher reached for the door handle, lifted it, and opened the door, only then looking up at Hansen, who’d just reached the edge of the winery parking lot. Fisher gave him a curt nod and got into the car. As the door shut Hansen muttered, “Damn!” then turned and sprinted back across the highway. Fisher started the engine, did a Y-turn in the lot, and pulled onto the highway, heading south.

Indecision and youth, he thought grimly.

* * *

Whether born of his own suspicions about their mission, Fisher’s saving of Noboru at the Siegfried Line, or something else altogether, Fisher didn’t know, but clearly Hansen hadn’t yet crossed the threshold.

As advertised, Fisher sped to the marina a quarter mile south of the winery, pulled into the parking lot, and side-swiped a dozen unoccupied cars before pulling back onto the highway and continuing south. He glanced in his rearview mirror. Several cars sat at the exit to the boat-launch lot, but none had emerged since he’d left the winery.

He made no attempt to blend in with traffic, and made no turns, but headed straight south, pushing the BMW as fast as he dared, weaving around slower cars until four minutes later he saw the sign for Neuwied. He glanced in the rearview mirror. Two miles back a pair of sedans was swerving over the center line, leapfrogging around slower cars; far behind them Fisher could see flashing blue lights.

He had no intention of letting this turn into a protracted chase. Hollywood portrayals notwithstanding, urban high-speed chases always attracted the police, and the police usually won in the end. Plus, in the back of Fisher’s mind he knew he’d been lucky too many times over the last few days. In broad daylight, with two cars to Fisher’s one, Hansen would get the upper hand sooner rather than later. What he needed was to end the chase quickly and dramatically — and in a way that would not only allow his escape but also complicate Hansen’s situation.

Sitting at the table with Hoffman, Fisher had reviewed his mental map of the area and picked his spot.

* * *

As he sped past the Neuwied city limits sign the traffic thickened, and he slowed to 60 kph. Highway 42