While he waited, he pulled out his phone and looked up Irena Stoepel's address then tapped on the link for directions to the location. It was farther away than he'd expected, and from the looks of it, he'd passed the home on the way in. He looked out the window in the direction the phone was suggesting and realized that Stoepel's home was most likely one of the houses at the top of the ridge surrounding the bay. He'd probably seen it on his walk in from the plane.
"Americano," the young male barista said from behind the bar.
Sean turned around and graciously accepted the hot beverage. The warm cup instantly heated his hand. He gave a nod and took a sip. The espresso and steamed milk had a sweet, roasty flavor and he savored the taste for a moment before swallowing. The hot liquid soothed his body, and he tipped the cup to the barista who'd made it. "Excellente," he said.
They appreciated the compliment and accepted it with a thank you.
"I was wondering," he said, deciding to appear even more innocent, "what was going on up the street? There seemed to be quite a commotion."
The two looked at each other, somewhat confused. "I'm not sure," the girl answered. "We haven't heard anything."
"The police went by a few minutes ago," the young man said. "That's all we know."
"I may walk that way and see what all the fuss is about," Sean lied. The ruse would allow him the deniability he needed if he were apprehended.
He moved slowly over to a counter next to the window and leaned against the bar's surface with his elbow, sipping the drink for another few minutes while he watched the street. No signs of trouble. Not yet anyway, but that could change quickly.
He turned to the two baristas and waved, thanking them again for their service, then exited the cafe. Getting to Irena Stoepel was priority one. With each step he placed on the concrete, he hurried a little more. He dropped the quarter-full cup into a trash bin and took off at a jog.
If the terrorists knew where to find Wolfz, odds are they would know where to find Stoepel — and it would be unlikely they'd have only sent one man to do the job.
16
Sean's journey to the top of the ridge had been sped up by his discovery of an old bicycle leaning against the wall. A man was standing next to it, smoking a cigarette. Sean offered him the equivalent of fifty American dollars for the bike, which the man accepted. The manual vehicle had cut his travel time to the top of the ridge in half, though the short climb had been more difficult than anticipated. Once he reached the crest of the hill, he was gasping for air, leg muscles burning underneath him.
He coasted down a slight grade toward the end of the ridge that ended in a point overlooking the ocean. The homes up here were extravagant, mostly made of brick and stone. Ahead on the left, Sean saw his destination, marked by the number matching the address Tommy had given him. It was a two-story mansion constructed of flat, gray stone on the outside. The material protected the interior of the house from the best the sea could throw at it, as well as the other erratic weather that could pop up from time to time on the southern tip of South America. White window frames accented the drab, gray walls. The front door was in a recessed entryway and contrasted the rest of the home's exterior colors with a chestnut-brown surface. Unlike many of the other homes on the street and in the city below, the roof was adorned with darker slate tiles in lieu of the more traditional terracotta. A two-car garage was attached to the main building via a narrow walkway that was shielded by cedar boards.
Sean parked the bicycle on the street and walked down the driveway, past the green yard and a row of landscaping filled with nandina and juniper, between two granite cherubim, and up the two steps to the door. He only had to knock once before it swung open and an older woman appeared in the doorway. She wore a light-pink skirt and matching half jacket with a white blouse. The wind gusted as the two sized each other up, and her gray, shoulder-length hair whipped around in a frenzy.
"Well, don't just stand there," she said in Spanish. "Come in, or go away. My hair will be a mess if I stay right here."
Sean obeyed and stepped inside the house. It had highly polished cherry wood floors. The stonework from the exterior was also strongly represented inside with the walls and pillars covered in it. A staircase went up to the second floor, making a ninety-degree turn before reaching the top. An empty coat hanger sat in the corner behind the door.
"You can put your coat there," the woman said, pointing at the coat rack. Though she was being accommodating, she was hardly being friendly.
Again, Sean did as he was told: removed his coat and hung it on the rack.
"Please, join me in the sitting room."
He followed her into a room between hallways that overlooked the bay through a huge, single-pane window. She motioned for him to have a seat across from her in a small, antique chair with crushed blue velvet upholstery. He obliged and eased down, surprised at how good it felt to sit down for a minute after all the activity of the last hour.
"I speak Spanish," Sean said, "but if you speak English, I would prefer that." She met his request with a dismissive roll of the eyes.
"Very well, American. What is it you want?"
Her accent carried a hint of her German roots, but decades of living in South America had nearly done it in completely.
"Mrs. Stoepel," he began.
"Miss," she corrected. "I never married. Is that why you're here? You want to marry me for my money?"
She picked up a glass of red wine and took a sip, eyeing Sean up and down as she did. After she swallowed the wine, she spoke again. "You are young and fit, but I am sorry, dear boy, I will be no man's…how do you say in America? Ah yes, sugar mama."
Sean's eyebrows peaked in surprise. She actually nailed the slang term perfectly. "No, ma'am. That's not why I'm here. I'm here because I have questions — questions that I think only you can answer."
Now it was her turn to be surprised. "Oh?" She slid into a nearby seat with red velvet upholstery and wooden arms. "What kinds of questions would a woman like me be able to answer?"
So far, the whole encounter with the woman was weird. Sean had to pry first. "I'm sorry, Miss Stoepel, but do you just let anyone off the street come into your home? What if I was a thief or a murderer?"
She let out a laugh that sounded more like a dog's bark than someone emoting humor. "My dear, you are no thief. And certainly no murderer. I sized you up while I watched you ride that pitiful little bicycle up to my driveway."
"Sized me up?"
"Mmm." She took another sip of the wine then realized she'd not offered anything to her guest. "Would you like a glass of Chianti?"
"No thank you," he waved a dismissive hand. "I do appreciate it, though. I don't drink."
"Ah. Never trust a man who doesn't drink. That's what my father used to say." Before he could bring up her father, she continued. "Yes, I sized you up. A man with an expensive coat like that is not usually the thieving kind, especially since it was probably purchased at the ski shop in town."
"Why do you think that?"
"Because that coat can only be bought here. They don't sell them anywhere else."
"That explains why it was so expensive," Sean said.
"Indeed. So, you're no criminal. But that doesn't explain to me who you are. So I suggest you do so before I have you shot and thrown into the sea."
Her semipolite nature shifted almost unnaturally to threatening.
"I'm sorry? Who's going to shoot me?"
She lowered her glass to the tall, narrow platform next to her chair and removed a small silvery handgun from inside her jacket. "That would be me, American. And believe it or not, I could easily drag your body over to the cliff. No one would be the wiser."