Occasional farms dotted the terrain. Fräulein Stoltz had acquired one of them, situated on a small rise, for her assistive technologies company. Six or seven mature oaks, stripped of leaves and dripping, huddled around an old house that could’ve passed for a small manor.
I lowered the passenger window a few inches to let Ghost poke his nose out and he snuffled noisily at the rain.
We were halfway up the lane to the house when my secure satellite phone sounded in my duffel, which lay on the passenger-side floor. That couldn’t mean anything good.
I had to stop to fumble for the bag. The phone never stopped ringing as I searched for it, which reinforced my gut feeling of “not good.”
I wasn’t disappointed. Well, actually, I was.
“Where are you?” Church asked.
“About a hundred yards from Sister Stoltz’s Home for Disadvantaged Terrorists.”
I heard a grunt before he asked, “Have you seen her?”
“Not yet, I’m on approach.”
“Well,” Church said, “no joy on the air strike. Drone got to the target and found the cockroaches had scuttled. Looks like they knew they were in somebody’s crosshairs.”
“Damn,” I said. I hate terrorists, but terrorists with good intel are particularly scary. “Out here.”
He didn’t say, Proceed with caution. He didn’t have to. The hair on the back of my neck was already doing that.
I left the Porsche at the side of the lane and, with Ghost trotting a few yards ahead, conducting olfactory reconnaissance, I strolled toward the house. Classic architecture, built of stone, three stories high, lots of windows. A façade displaying the company name in blocky white letters had been added to the front, and a dozen or so small cars, most of them gray or white, stood in an orderly row along the left side.
As I passed the first oak, I studied the yard. Bare branches couldn’t conceal security monitors and floodlights mounted among them. Typical for a business in a crime-ridden urban neighborhood, but it seemed like overkill in the German countryside. I furrowed my brow, wondering what she was afraid of.
Ghost ranged around the yard, nose to the ground, tail wagging with the rhythm of his trot. No indications he’d detected explosives, drugs, or anything else of concern.
I called him to heel with a hand signal before I pulled the antique doorbell chain. Soft, quick, padding footsteps reached me before the front door swung open, and a slim woman peered up at me with sky-blue eyes. About my age, I estimated, with blond hair twisted up in a braid around the back of her head. Not a knockout, but certainly she surprised me. I’d imagined more of a Mother Teresa. The eyes revealed boundless compassion veneered with caution.
“Sister Stoltz?” I queried, and hoped she spoke more than rudimentary English.
She offered a small smile that bordered on shy. “Fräulein Stoltz now. May I help you?” Her pronunciation was precise, but not accent-free.
I introduced myself, displayed my credentials.
“American government?” She sank back, one hand going to her ample breasts, and her eyes widened with concern. Not fear, I noted. “Is something wrong?”
“I hope not,” I said, and genuinely meant it. Something I couldn’t put a finger on touched a still-painful spot in my heart. Grace. What is it about her that reminds me of Grace? “I need to ask a few questions,” I said. “May I come in?”
“You may, Mr. Ledger,” she said. Her gaze fell on Ghost, who sat near my feet. He cocked his head in a beguiling manner and gave her his best tongue-out dog-smile. Even offered her a paw to shake. Yeah, my highly trained combat dog. But her fine brows lowered slightly. “I must, however, request that your dog remain out of doors.”
I swore inwardly. I really wanted Ghost to help me check out the facilities here, but dared not push it.
“Sorry, boy,” I said, and slipped him the guard hand signal as I stepped inside. My hackles hadn’t entirely lain down even if Ghost’s hadn’t risen. Yet.
As Frieda Stoltz guided me through a variety of labs and assembly rooms on all three floors, giving me the nickel tour, I noted how she had preserved the old home’s refinements despite converting it to a lab. I also observed unfeigned warm greetings from several researchers and mechanics as we entered each area, and their eagerness to demonstrate or explain their projects to me.
One older man stopped to shake my hand and confided, “Fräulein is the angel for people who suffer with disadvantages.” The radiance in his eyes more than compensated for his uncertain English. I had no doubt he believed that to be true.
None of the workers seemed well-dressed or had driven new cars. I realized that these folks weren’t out for money. They were trying to save the world. I knew that feeling.
Of all her creations, she clearly considered her self-driving auto technology to be her magnum opus. Excitement lit her features as she explained, “This will allow blind persons in Third World countries to have greater independence without the expense of human drivers. We are conducting a test program that I believe will bring about great change.”
She opened the door into her office on the second floor, what appeared to have been a spacious bedroom, complete with a tall, antique armoire against the wall opposite her equally antique desk, and bay windows that overlooked the front grounds. “Please be seated, Mr. Ledger,” she said, indicating a deep wing chair. She closed the door, sat opposite me, and said, “Now that you have seen my company, what questions may I answer?”
I cut to the chase. “We have reason to believe your self-driving auto technology is being used by ISIS.”
Frieda transformed into a human ramrod before my eyes. She stared with mingled shock and outrage. “How dare you—”
“I’m not accusing you,” I began, raising a placating hand.
“How can you believe such a thing?” she demanded. “What evidence do you have to support such an accusation?”
The demise of the Saudi prince and his family had been all over the international news since Sunday morning. While that was open source, certain details uncovered in the investigation were highly sensitive and had not been released to foreign nationals. I said only, “There’s ample evidence.”
She studied me for several heartbeats, her shapely jaw taut.
“Who buys your self-driving technology?” I pressed. “What countries have the highest demand for it? Do you only sell whole systems, or also parts for them? Do you handle shipping yourself?”
“This is foolishness!” she insisted. She sprang up from her chair, arms rigid at her sides, her fists clenched. “At this time the cars are going only to North Africa, where they are being tested. They are not available on the open market.”
“Who conducts the tests?” I persisted. “How do the cars get to them? Do they provide you with reports? Written documents, for example, or videos of the tests?”
“Yes, yes.” Frieda slipped behind her huge desk, her face a mask of determination. Grace, I thought again. But she had opened a drawer and produced a simple business card, which she thrust at me. “He is from Sudan,” she said, “a very pleasant man who is very hopeful for my work.”
The name hit my eye like a boxer’s glove. One of many that the thug went by. He’s also very wanted by Interpol, for trafficking in opium, little girls, and anything that goes boom. He’s playing her for all she’s worth.
I didn’t tell Frieda that, at first. Instead I said, “Thank you. May I keep this?” as I slid the card into my shirt pocket. “Please, sit down now.”
To my mild surprise, she did, though her sky-blue eyes still held a furious glint.