Cindy smiled into his face as their Boeing 737’s tires skidded, and then rolled onto the runway. “I liked the way yesterday started a lot better.”
Hannibal agreed, although after their relaxed and unhurried lovemaking it had turned out to be a busy day. They had gone together to explain their plan to Bea. She was surprisingly agreeable to any straw clutching Hannibal might have in mind as long as she knew Dean would be hospitalized. Cindy had gone alone to explain the situation to Dan Balor, senior partner in her law firm. With Dean as a client, and Bea picking up the tab, he had agreed to let her arrange for tickets and hotel accommodations through the firm. Hannibal had visited Mrs. Peters again to get her home address and phone number. She thought he might convince her husband to attend his son’s funeral. He made no effort to persuade her either way. And at seven p.m. their plane lifted off from Dulles Airport and they settled down for the first airline dinner of the trip.
Hannibal tucked into his seat and went to sleep almost immediately after the meal. They were diving into the early morning sun over London before he learned that Cindy had sat awake almost two hours longer then he did. Seven in the morning was two o’clock to their bodies. Cindy had no interest in breakfast so they spent the hour and a half in Heathrow Airport watching other planes come in. Cindy dozed a bit while Hannibal drank British coffee, which is a transitional step between typical American blends and the stronger European grinds and, to Hannibal’s way of thinking, a good explanation of why British citizens still drink a lot more tea then coffee.
The hop to Germany was barely as long as the London layover, but they passed into another time zone to further confuse their systems. After they landed, Hannibal’s first stop was a vending machine that turned his American cash into German Marks. Then they stopped at one of the numerous stands in the Frankfurt Main for breakfast. It was close to noon, so breakfast consisted of a fat sausage Hannibal recommended. They ate on their way to the Avis booth to pick up their car, each carrying an overnight bag. Cindy babbled, something Hannibal only knew her to do when she was over tired.
“What a rude people,” she said under her breath. “They stare at you, or ignore you, and they don’t know how to smile, do they?”
“Really?” Hannibal said through his bratwurst. “I don’t find them rude at all. Maybe they’re staring because they don’t see too many Latin beauties like you come through here.”
In fact, Hannibal found Frankfurt Main very much like New York’s Kennedy Airport. The decor, the hustling crowds, even the general layout of the sprawling terminal seemed very American to him. And the people looked and dressed like New Yorkers. He actually missed being surrounded by people who clearly had someplace to go and wanted to get there.
“Well, maybe it’s easy for you because you speak their ugly language,” Cindy said. In fact, Hannibal had hardly noticed that he ordered their food in fluent German. Once on the ground, with his mother’s language pouring into his ears, it came as second nature.
Cindy began to relax when they had found their way out of the parking lot and were on their way down the A5 Autobahn toward Heidelberg in a rented Volkswagen Jetta. An hour’s worth of countryside flew past, looking more like New England than Virginia, and when they turned off the highway she actually smiled.
“Well, is this more like it?” Hannibal asked as he slowed to a stoplight. “If I wanted to sell Germany to anyone, I’d always start them off in Heidelberg.”
The Hotel Neu Heidelberg looked like an overgrown cottage, its peaked roof and wraparound porch reminiscent of the houses in Smurf Village. The woman at the desk greeted them in English, asking if they were new to her city. Hannibal explained that while it was Cindy’s first visit to Heidelberg, he grew up in Germany as an American military dependent and knew the town pretty well. The remark seemed to increase his popularity.
Their hostess was older, heavyset and very Aryan in appearance, but she welcomed them with the kind of smile and grace one gets in America only when one has a platinum card or serves in public office. Minutes later they were installed in a room Cindy admitted was comfortable and downright cozy. She was particularly pleased that the furnishings were clearly individual, not part of a stock of hotel furniture. She would have been happy to sit for a while and catch her breath, but Hannibal was anxious to get on with the mission, as he put it.
The Peters home was a modest brick structure perched on a slight rise, far enough north of the hotel that they had a clear view of the sparkling waters of the Neckar River. Hannibal expected Cindy’s attention to be arrested by the river that dominates the city, but instead it was on the door they were approaching.
“Don’t you think we should have called first?” Cindy asked as they walked up the path between carefully tended flowerbeds.
“He’s expecting us,” Hannibal said. “Mrs. Peters called and he said he’d be home this afternoon to talk to us. Calling would have given him the opportunity to cancel.”
Hannibal lifted the heavy doorknocker and let it drop against the wood panel twice, then waited. Any soldier would have identified the man who opened the door seconds later as a sergeant major, regardless of his lack of uniform. Foster Peters wore a well-pressed white shirt and charcoal slacks that matched the hair at the sides of his head. The gray at his temples graded up to hair as black and shiny as his shoes. The man stood ramrod-straight, his dark eyes boring right through Hannibal’s dark glasses. Hannibal tried to be subtle as he straightened his posture.
“You’re the people who knew Oscar,” Foster said. It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes sir,” Hannibal said. “Your charming wife told me we could have a few minutes with you this afternoon. I’m Hannibal Jones and this is Cindy Santiago.”
“Come in,” Foster said. He shook Hannibal’s hand, nodded to Cindy and executed a smooth about face. “I can offer you some refreshment. But please don’t call me sir. I work for a living.”
He led them through a front room that clearly was his wife’s area. All the collectibles were there: the cuckoo clock, the hand-carved miniatures, the Hummel figurines. But when they entered the den, Hannibal knew this was the man’s space. The displays on the walls were military awards, or commemorative firearms, or paintings with a military or hunting theme. Foster stepped behind the bar and busied himself without looking at them.
“I know we’re less than an hour from the Weinstrasse, the heart of the German wine country. But the term ‘German wine country’ never made much sense to me, anyway, so how about a beer? I’ve got some Rauch bier on tap.”
“Rauch?” Hannibal asked. “As in German for smoke?” Foster cocked an eyebrow, so Hannibal added, “I’m an army brat, sergeant major. Grew up in Berlin.”
Foster nodded, then drew three schooners from a home tap and placed them evenly in a rank across the bar. “Berlin used to be a good town. Like Frankfurt was. Twice the military city Heidelberg will ever be. This place loves its tourists too much. But USAREUR moved here back in ninety-four and after twenty-five years the Army had become my life I guess. Got a good civilian job with V Corps after I retired.” He and Hannibal lifted their glasses and drank together. The brew was almost black, with a yeasty aroma and smoky flavor that combined to make it one of the best beers Hannibal had ever tasted.
Cindy tapped his elbow. “Who moved here?” she asked, keeping her voice low. “You-sar-your?”
“It’s an acronym, honey,” Hannibal replied. “It stands for United States Army, Europe. See? USAREUR.”
“Oh.” She sipped from her glass, gave a polite smiled, and put it down. Foster looked at her as if his suspicions had been confirmed. Then he pointedly ignored her, turning his attention to Hannibal.
“But you didn’t come all this way to hear about local military history. What’d you want to ask an old soldier like me?”