Jake nodded. "So you think there was really nothing wrong with the chips and Charlie may be hawking them to someone else?"
"Maybe."
"The discretion you're asking for could land my ass in jail," Jake said. "I take it you haven't notified the government?"
"I have nothing to report," Milt said emphatically. "The chips are officially destroyed."
"And the chips themselves aren't really classified, but restricted from trade," Jake said.
"Right. But the avionics contract is classified," Milt conceded. "So, we're not really required to report a leak in our own chip technology unless it involves the avionics system."
Jake thought about it for a minute, looking carefully for some sign or reason to trust Milt and Steve. Milt's logic was straddling the fence a bit. But Jake was used to borderline propriety. Since going private, he found himself swaying in the breeze on that fence more times than not.
Jake rose from the chair. "When do I leave?"
"As soon as possible," Milt said. "I have tickets for you to leave tonight on Northwest Flight 125 to Frankfurt. I've made copies of the personnel files on Charlie Johnson and his men. You can read them on the plane."
"Anything else?" Jake asked.
Milt hesitated. "Unfortunately. A delegation of the Senate Armed Services Committee will visit us here in two weeks to observe our progress on the retrofit. We've had nothing but glowing reports in the past, and I was hoping to give them a similar report. As you know, budgets can be cut at any time. They could make or break our contract bid for the Joint Strike Fighter."
"Two weeks! That's not much time," Jake said. "Have you also heard about my fees?"
"Yes," Milt said. "I'll double your standard fees and your expenses to cover the foreign travel. This is extremely important to us."
"Sounds good."
Jake and Milt shook hands, and then Jake nodded with Steve Carlson on his way out the door.
As he left the modern glassed building in the heart of Portland to retrieve his car, he couldn't help feeling nostalgic returning to Germany. He knew he'd have to report his findings to the U.S. government if he found the restricted chips had been sold to another country. Before hearing about the chips, he would have guessed his first theory correct. A girl. But Milt's concern was far too grave for simple solutions. And something in the back of his mind told him that Milt was still holding back information. Regardless, he would definitely need the full two weeks.
CHAPTER 3
A persistent fog had frozen overnight turning trees into crystalline works of art and transforming rolling green hills into a convoluted tundra.
Jake Adams cranked over his rental Audi A4, and as the engine slowly warmed, he thought about the personnel files on the Teredata tech reps he was on his way to talk to. After arriving at Frankfurt International yesterday, he acquired a new CZ-75 9mm automatic pistol with a few boxes of ammo. Then he headed straight for the Gasthaus Birkwald, perched on top of a hill in the Eifel region of Rhineland-Pfalz. Jet lag had caught up with him, though. So he spent the rest of his arrival day and the evening in the Gasthaus eating, drinking good beer, and sleeping. But mostly sleeping.
Jake shifted in the wide bucket seat, strapped the shoulder harness across his black leather jacket, and clicked the seat belt in. As he waited for the heater to clear the windshield, he looked into the rear view mirror at his tired brown eyes. Red spiders streaked the whites. He hadn't bothered to shave; dark stubble crackled as he scratched the right side of his face. He ran his fingers through his dark brown hair. How did it get so long?
He looked across the street and noticed a blonde woman sitting erect in a small red Ford Fiesta. She glanced over at Jake and then quickly forward again. She was a beauty. Silky blonde hair. High cheek bones. It was strange, though. Her car was running and parked on the opposite side of the road facing the wrong direction. Then she quickly pulled away from the curb and sped off.
The windshield now clear, Jake signaled, pulled out onto the main road that dissected the small village, and took off in the same direction as the blonde.
Shortly, he rounded the last corner before entering the village next to his, and quickly down shifted into second gear. Then he saw the blonde again. He slowed down even more for a better look.
As he slowly passed the blonde, she smiled. Jake found himself smiling and then looking over his shoulder and in his rear view mirror as the distance grew between their cars.
He wondered why she turned around and sat at the intersection. She was probably on her way to work and forgot something at home. Yet, it did make him a bit suspicious. He moved slowly through the gears now, taking the corners smoother.
A dark blue Fiat van with three men sat among a group of thick pine trees with a view of the winding German country road. The driver, a robust man with high brow ridges and thick black eye brows, worked feverishly to keep the windshield defrosted. The engine ran at idle, but the breathing of the three men fogged the windows.
Gunter Schecht sat next to the passenger door with his 9mm Uzi cradled across his wide lap. "Dummkopf!" Gunter yelled at his driver. "How do you expect to complete this job if you can't even keep the damn windshield clear?"
The driver grumbled under his breath. The middle man, not quite as stout as the driver, his eyes closed, smiled broadly.
Gunter had briefed his men on Jake Adams. He only hoped they took him seriously.
"He's coming," said a soft, female voice over the Fiat's radio. The three men made last minute preparations. On Gunter's command, they all chambered rounds.
Jake fiddled with the Audi's radio trying to come up with a station that played classic Rock and Roll, but the rolling hills bounced the FM signal every which way but to his antenna.
He shifted into fifth gear after clearing a small hill, and once again took his eyes off the road to search for a station. He looked up for a second and noticed a blue van a kilometer ahead pull from a small dirt road. Shifting down to fourth gear, anticipating he would have to pass the van, he looked at his radio again.
As Jake looked up again, "Shit!" He slammed on the brakes and clutch simultaneously as both arms tightened to the steering wheel.
The car quickly decelerated.
He jammed the stick toward first gear, but it wouldn't slide into place.
Flashes from the guns flickered furiously without noise.
He dove to the passenger seat, straining against his seat belt. His feet slipped from the clutch and brake and stalled the Audi with a great lurch forward.
The windshield shattered and thousands of tiny pieces of glass rained down on Jake's back.
The van sat broadside in the road, with three men crouched next to it. They continued to empty their Uzis into the front of Jake's car from fifty meters away. Only the sound of lead hitting metal and glass broke the silence.
"Son of a bitch!"
Jake brushed broken glass from the seat and worked his way back behind the wheel.
He peeked over the dash. Three men. The largest man quickly opened the front door of the van and squeezed behind the wheel. The other two were changing the clips in their guns.
Jake twisted the keys and the four cylinders cranked over but didn't start. He tried again. This time they kicked in. He cranked the wheel, jammed the gas pedal to the floor, and popped the clutch. The Audi's tires dug in, but he couldn't make a full U-turn without first coming to a stop, putting it in reverse, and then forward again.
Just as he pulled the gear shift back into second, a new barrage of 9mm slugs shattered the back window and the trunk of his car. He crouched as low as he could. By the time he hit third, he was down the hill and out of range.