That was a bad sign. If he was on the run, selling computer chips, he wouldn't have left a thick wad of Deutschemarks lying on the nightstand.
On a Friday evening, strange cars entering Birkwald weren't uncommon. Jake knew that people came from kilometers away for the substantial Schnitzel served at Birkwald's only Gasthaus. Charlie Johnson was a big eater, and Birkwald was just a short distance out of his way before reaching Autobahn 48 on his way home. It was only five o'clock; most Germans ate much later, so Jake knew the Gasthaus crowd would consist mostly of beer drinkers. But it was about the right time that Charlie would normally pass through. Jake didn't expect to find Johnson, but maybe someone had seen him recently.
After about ten minutes, he started his car and in the darkness slowly pulled forward and onto the cobblestone street-then turned his lights on. He cruised past the Gasthaus. He was a bit cautious after the morning encounter. Flying bullets, although infrequent, always put him on edge.
He pulled the Volkswagen around the back of the building to the guest parking area. It was a paved area with unnumbered slots. There were only twelve rooms in the Gasthaus, and only four occupied. The parking lot was equally vacant. He was fairly certain that the three men in the Fiat van wouldn't try to hit him at the Gasthaus. If they had wanted to, they could have done that last night as he slept soundly following the twelve-hour flight.
Jake entered through the back door with a guest key. He pushed on a timed light that gave him two minutes to reach the second floor and into his room without going off.
This time he stood outside the door until the light went out, and then he quietly slipped through the door. Inside, Jake clicked on a small desk lamp and scanned the one-room apartment. It had a full-size bed, a small desk with a phone, a tiny stove and refrigerator, and a bathroom with a tub, a sink and a water-preserving toilet. Everything appeared to be as he left it in the morning.
He had to call Portland. He punched in Milt Swenson's private number.
"Hello," came a voice on the other end.
"It's Jake."
"How's it going?" Milt asked.
"I went to Charlie Johnson's house. His landlord confirmed he's been gone for over five days. His car wasn't there either. I also talked with Blaise Parker at Bitburg. He doesn't know much except that Johnson has never been late for work in the ten years that he's known him."
"What about the police?" Milt asked.
"I haven't talked with the Polizei yet. I'll have them keep an eye out for his car. There aren't too many Chevys in Germany. They'll probably have me look at the morgues."
"Morgues?"
"Yeah, it's a possibility. I've got a friend who might be able to help me. I'll talk to him in the morning."
"What about the other tech reps?"
Jake wasn't sure how much to tell Milt. "Johnson told you one of his tech reps destroyed the bad chips, but according to Blaise Parker, Johnson got rid of them."
"Shit! Was Johnson selling them?"
"I don't know, but someone wants to keep me from finding out. Three men and a cute blonde tried to cut my stay in Germany short with enough lead to sink an aircraft carrier."
"What?"
"That's what I'm wondering. I just got here. Didn't even ask my first question. And someone tries blowing me away. How the hell'd they even know I was here?"
"Who do you think they're working for?"
"I don't have a clue. It could be a number of companies or governments," Jake said. "As you've said, the technology is an important breakthrough." Then Jake thought for a moment. "What if Johnson already sold the chips to someone else? Wouldn't whoever is buying these chips have everything they already need?"
"No! They can test the chip in an electronic environment and say, Yeah, this is one fast chip, but they still don't know how we make it so fast. I can't even tell you that, Jake. Only a handful of people at Teredata know that information."
"So, Charlie Johnson could be trying to sell something that isn't his?"
"Right! Charlie doesn't know enough to really hurt us. But we still can't allow these chips to be out in the market, because eventually someone could give away the rest of the formula."
"What next?"
"Find Charlie Johnson," Milt said. "We need to know who he's selling out to."
"Hey, Milt, I have someone shook and willing to blow me away," Jake said. "Do you want me to push further and see who I can shake from the bushes?"
"Don't take any extraordinary risks, Jake."
Jake was used to people asking him to take risks, and sometimes he even took them without being asked. But he didn't like people taking pot shots at him. "No problem, Milt. I can handle myself."
"I know! That's why I hired you."
There was a pause on the line.
"Give me a call if you find anything," Milt said.
"Sure." Jake hung up slowly.
His stomach growled as if on cue to him hanging up. He went to the small bathroom, splashed some water on his face, and then pulled his shirt off over his head and replaced it with a fresh one.
Back out in the main room, he looked at his automatic pistol in its brown leather shoulder holster draped over the back of a chair. Reluctantly, he left it behind.
Downstairs the bar was crowded, a prelude to Fasching, the German equivalent to Mardi Gras. The carved wood faces on the walls stared at Jake as he entered through the door and took a seat at the end of the bar with his back against the wall.
He drank a beer and ordered his meal from the bar. Then, in his best German, he started asking people if they'd seen Charlie Johnson, flashing the man's personnel photo at each person.
Finally, the owner, Brunner Weiss, motioned for him to have a seat at his table. Weiss was a stout and brusque man with the thick forearms of an ancient seaman. His pipe was notched permanently in the side of his mouth. He ruled over his realm from the family's corner booth. He never had to say a word. A nod of the head, a crooked pointing finger, or a blink of the eye would send the waitress in the proper direction as if a whip had cracked.
Jack took a seat across from the man, dropping his beer on the oak table. He studied Brunner. "Do you know Charlie Johnson?"
The old man nodded. "Ja, he hasn't been by in a while."
"I heard he came here a lot," Jake said.
Brunner nodded and sucked on his pipe.
"Did he have any friends here?"
The old man shook his head. "No, he sat alone most nights. Once in a while with me. He ate his meal, had a beer and some scotch, and then left. It was common with him. He isn't a talker."
Jake stayed in the bar for a few more beers before heading upstairs. But he learned nothing about Charlie Johnson.
Gunter Schecht waited outside the Gasthaus for a reply to his license plate inquiry. His cellular phone finally beeped and the woman on the other end informed him that only one car was registered to a rental company, the green VW Passat. "Danke, Gurt," he said, and then smiled.
Gunter was parked down the alley with only a tunnel vision of the Gasthaus parking lot through overhanging shrubbery and vines. He pulled a small transmitter from the glove box of his Mercedes, felt it over carefully in the darkness, and placed it in his leather coat pocket.
"Let's go Adolph, time to earn your keep." Gunter said to his long-haired dachshund that had been sleeping in the passenger's seat.
He clipped the leash to the dog's collar and entered the outside darkness for an evening stroll. Only a dim yellow light shone across the small parking lot. When Gunter reached the rear of Jake's car, he pulled back on the leash and Adolph stopped and sat. Gunter quickly placed the transmitter under the bumper of the VW, and then returned to his car.
"You're slipping, Jake Adams," he said softly to himself.
CHAPTER 6