Текст книги "Conviction (2009)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Now, just before noon Madrid time, he found himself standing before the Monasterio de las Descalzas Reales. He paid the driver, waited for the car to squeal around the corner and out of sight, then walked four blocks southeast to an Internet cafe on Calle de la Montera.

Fisher got signed in, left his passport at the counter as requested, then found an open computer cubicle and sat down. There was a draft message in his Lycos mailbox. It read simply:21 Calle de la Concepcion Jeronima

Apartment 3B

Key, baseboard

This would be another safe house. Fisher memorized the address, deleted the message, and was out the door and in a taxi two minutes later. It wasn't until the car pulled onto the narrow street that Fisher realized the apartment faced the building housing Spain's Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Cooperation. Nice touch,he thought as he got out.

As advertised, beside the door to apartment 3B Fisher found a loose baseboard, and behind it a key that opened the apartment door. Inside there was nothing. Where the German safe house had all the charm of a hotel chain, this studio apartment was completely empty, save for a familiar-looking keypad lock on the bedroom door. He punched in the correct code and pushed through. Inside was, of all things, a red beanbag chair sitting before an LCD television. On the floor next to the chair was a speakerphone. Fisher typed in his pound/asterisk code, and sixty seconds later Grimsdottir appeared on the monitor.

"You're alive," she said simply.

"So it appears. They were tipped off, Grim."

"What?"

"You heard me. If Hans Hoffman hadn't grown a conscience, they would've been on me when I walked out of the winery."

"Explain." Fisher did so, and Grim said, "So Hoffman gets a thirdhand call that trickled down from the top, which means the original call had to come from someone with horsepower."

"I got the impression it came from outside the BND. One of those 'step aside and let nature take its course' orders."

"Kovac?"

"That was my first thought. What better way to undermine you than to arrange my capture? He makes some calls to ally agencies, cashes in a few favors, gets lucky. . . ."

"No proof, though," Grim replied. "No one in the Bundesnachrichtendienst or the German government would cross Kovac."

"Agreed." Fisher moved on. "What do Hansen and his team think?"

"About your stunt? They're skeptical, but the rescue workers haven't even found the car yet, let alone a body. Truth is, I think they're all in shock. They all think you did it on purpose; most of them think you thought you'd survive and were wrong."

Fisher nodded. This was one of the outcomes for which he'd hoped. The other involved the Neuwied police. He asked Grim about it.

"The second Mercedes–with Valentina, Ames, and Noboru–managed to take off before the cops arrived on the bridge. Hansen and Gillespie talked their way out of it. They told the police they saw a dangerous driver and were trying to keep it in sight until the police arrived. Apparently, aside from your BMW, the Hammerstein cops couldn't identify any of the cars involved in the chase." Grim asked, "How'd you do it?"

Fisher recounted the incident, from his car's impact with the water to his arrival in Madrid.

"Why the limousine?"

"The opposite of anonymity is–"

"Ostentatiousness," Grim finished. "Hiding in plain sight."

"Something like that. Were they even covering the airports?"

"No, they drove straight back to Cologne Bonn Airport. I pulled them back to Luxembourg and put them in a holding pattern. I assume you're in Madrid to visit the local ear collector?"

"You assume correctly," Fisher replied.

Karlheinz van der Putten, a.k.a. Spock, lived in Chinchon, twenty-five miles to the south. Ostensibly, Ames, using Noboru's contacts in the mercenary world, had produced the lead that had led the team to Vianden. Fisher wanted to know if, in fact, van der Putten was the source of the information. As Grim had said during their previous teleconference, the scenario was plausible, but something about it wasn't sitting right in Fisher's belly. What he couldn't quite figure out was whether the suspicion was born of instinct or of his dislike for Ames.

"How long is van der Putten going to take?" Grim asked.

"If he's home, I'll have my answer before morning."

"Good, because your next stop is right next door–Portugal."

Third Echelon's mainframe was still chewing on the bulk of the data Fisher stole from Ernsdorff's server, but, Grimsdottir told him, an interesting lead had bubbled to the surface: the name Charles Zahm–a person also known as Chucky Zee. Fisher had plodded through one of Zahm's novels, Myanmar Nightmare–250 pages of an In Like Flint-style secret agent karate-chopping his way through hordes of turtleneck-wearing villains and sleeping his way through gaggles of impossibly buxom women in beehive hairdos. At last count, Zahm's series had grown to thirteen books and publishing contracts worth millions, all predicated upon the fact that Charles Zahm had, until seven years earlier, been a member of the Special Air Service, or SAS, Britain's elite counterterrorism force.

According to Ernsdorff's private investigating team–most of the members of which were culled from Britain's Security Service, also known as MI5–Zahm hadn't restricted his postretirement exploits to paper but had also gone into crime. Along with five of his former SAS mates, Zahm was the leader of what London's tabloids had dubbed the Little Red Robbers, based on the Mao Tse-tung masks they'd worn during their robberies of two armored cars, four jewelry stores, and four banks. Whether Zahm had ever read or even heard of Chairman Mao's famous Communist treatise, known in the West as The Little Red Book, was a hotly debated topic in the country's gossip rags. What wasn't in doubt, however, was the Little Red Robbers' willingness to use violence. In all, six innocent bystanders had been beaten nearly to death during the robberies as preemptive warnings to would-be heroes, the police suspected. One woman lost her unborn child in the process.

"I don't buy it," Grimsdottir told Fisher.

"I disagree," Fisher replied. "The SAS doesn't induct idiots. Maybe Zahm isjust that smart. Write a bunch of critically panned novels that make millions and hide in plain sight as a dim-witted former soldier."

"While pulling off some of the biggest heists in Britain's history," Grim finished.

"He's got the training. With his money and contacts, it wouldn't have taken much to learn the ropes. There are plenty of retired thieves who'd gladly pass on their knowledge for a price. How solid does Ernsdorff's info look?"

"Very. Names, dates, accounts, sexual predilections . . . In fact, it looks like a blackmail file. But for what purpose?"

"Can't be money," Fisher replied. "Ernsdorff has more money than he could spend in ten lifetimes. My guess: He's leveraging Zahm–using his Little Red Robbers for a job or jobs."

"That seems out of character given what we know about Ernsdorff. He's been exclusively a background player"

"We know he plays middleman for bad guys and their money. And we know he's playing bank for this auction. From that, it's not that big a leap to other kinds of services."

18

CHINCHON , SPAIN

ONEof the benefits of hunting people who live on the fringes of society is that they also tend to gravitate toward the fringes of communities. When you kill and steal and blackmail for a living, and have even a modicum of karmic awareness, you tend to worry about your deeds someday coming back to haunt you. Aside from the very rich, who could afford to live apart from the world and surrounded by security, or the very careful, who left no footprints that would lead enemies to their door, the bad guys who survive the longest are the ones who ignore that reclusive impulse and choose, instead, to dwell in plain sight, disguised as average citizens.

Luckily for Fisher, Karlheinz van der Putten, a.k.a. Spock, was neither wealthy nor karmically self-aware. Upon retiring from active mercenary life and setting himself up as an information clearinghouse, van der Putten moved to Chinchon, a town of five thousand whose two claims to fame were its central square, which served as a temporary bullring, and the church of Nuestra Senora de la Ascuncion, where Francisco Goya's Assumption of the Virginwas housed.

After signing off with Grimsdottir and picking up a rental car, Fisher made two stops: one to replenish his basic traveling supplies, including an economy-sized bottle of ibuprofen for his bruised ribs, and the second to pick up the DHL box containing his weapons and gear. He was heading south out of the city by three and arrived in Chinchon an hour later, in the middle of siesta, the traditional Spanish period of late-afternoon rest and rejuvenation. He wore Bermuda shorts, sandals, and an "I Madrid" T shirt.

Chinchon was perched on the eastern slopes of Spain's Sistema Iberico mountain range, so the narrow cobble and brick streets rose and fell and branched at unexpected angles. The architecture was what one would expect from a village born during the Middle Ages: buildings of heavy, dark chiseled beams stacked closely together, faded stucco walls of yellow ocher and pale mocha, half-hidden courtyards, balconies fronted by ornate black iron railings, and a sea of undulating roofs covered in U-shaped terra-cotta tiles.

Fisher found a parking spot behind a tavern a few blocks from the Plaza Mayor and got out to stretch his legs. The streets were eerily quiet and deserted, save for the handful of people Fisher could see sitting on front porches and swinging in hammocks. A lone dog–a mix between a beagle and a husky, Fisher guessed–padded across the street and into a shaded alley. He stopped to give Fisher a glance over his shoulder, then trotted off into the shadows.

Fisher wandered for a few minutes, enjoying the quiet, then made his way toward what he hoped was the Plaza Mayor .It wasn't hard; all the roads and alleys and paths seemed to converge on the town's center. The bullring was up, Fisher saw: a six-foot-tall bloodred-and-yellow-striped fence enclosing a dirt clearing about 120 feet across. Surrounding the ring, like bleachers, were three-story galleried houses fronted by dark green railings. The sun reflected off the taupe-colored dirt, causing Fisher to squint. He caught a whiff of manure on the breeze.

A hand-painted sign on a nearby fence post announced that the bullfight would take place the next morning. With luck, he'd be gone by then. Not only did he have no love for the sport, but he needed to get on with the business of paying Charles "Chucky Zee" Zahm a visit and finding out precisely what he and his Little Red Robbers had been doing for Yannick Ernsdorff.

FISHERreturned to his car and meandered through town to the southwestern outskirts and followed the signs for Castillo de Chinchon until he pulled onto the tree lined dirt road that led him to a small gravel parking lot. As castles went, Chinchon's was probably underwhelming for the unseasoned traveler; Fisher had seen enough of these to know that was more the rule than the exception. Built on a square and anchored on each corner by a turret barely taller than the crumbling stone walls, the castillowas not quite two hundred square feet; it was, however, built on a slope overlooking the entire town, which, during its prime, likely compensated for its size.

There were only two cars in the lot and both looked local.

FISHERparked, got out, and walked across the bridge through the portcullis, pausing to grab a brochure from the wall-mounted box. Once inside he walked across the courtyard to the northern wall and followed the steps up the battlement. He was alone; if the two cars in the lot belonged to attendants, they were probably on siesta somewhere.

He pulled his binoculars from his rucksack and panned down the green fields between the castle and the town, picking out landmarks until he found what he was looking for. Karlheinz van der Putten's home, a two-story red-roofed villa surrounded by a low outer wall built under the shadows of mature olive trees, sat by itself on a dead-end road. Judging by the built-in swimming pool, lined with blue and white arabesque tiles, and the travertine flagstone deck, van der Putten had done well since going into business for himself. A balcony fronted by hand-chiseled cedar rails overlooked the pool deck; spanning the balcony's width were sliding-glass doors through which Fisher could see a master suite. A matching set of sliding doors on the ground floor led to what looked like a living room, a breakfast nook, and a kitchen.

Fisher scanned the patio until he saw a lone man sprawled on a chaise lounge beneath a potted lemon tree. The angle made positive identification difficult, but the face seemed to match that of van der Putten. Fisher smiled. It seemed the man had spent a good portion of his profits on groceries. Van der Putten was pushing the scales at nearly three hundred pounds. His height, five feet six, combined with his choice of swimwear, a pair of red Speedo trunks, did nothing for him. The image of a sausage ringed by a too-tight rubber band came to mind. Still, Fisher could tell there was a layer of muscle beneath the layer of fat. He'd take care not to underestimate the portly mercenary's experience and familiarity with violence–in fact, the story behind his nickname, Spock, told Fisher that van der Putten was not only familiar with violence but that he enjoyed it.

A woman appeared on the patio, carrying a pair of margarita glasses. She gave one to van der Putten, then lay down on the neighboring lounge. She had long brown hair, was supermodel thin, and was taller than van der Putten by a good four inches. She wore owl sunglasses that dominated her gaunt face, giving her a distinctly alien appearance. Only extraterrestrial origins or an abiding attraction to money could explain her choice of companion, Fisher decided. To each her own.

Fisher kept scanning, studying the other homes on van der Putten's road, looking for likely infiltration and exfiltration routes, and good cover, until finally lowering his binoculars. As he did so he caught a flash of reflected sunlight to his left. Instinctively he knew it hadn't come from a windshield or window or mirror but rather a lens of some kind–spotting scope, binoculars, or camera. Fisher leaned forward, pulled the brim of his cap lower over his eyes, and rested his arms on the stone, casually looking around as tourists tend to do. He stopped the rotation of his head just short of the flash's origin and used his peripheral vision to watch for it. A few moments later it came again. Fisher raised his binoculars and pointed them skyward, ostensibly watching the hawk riding the thermals above the castle but flicking his eyes left. A few hundred yards to the north and west, a cluster of villas sat atop a lesser hill. Parked at the head of an east-facing empty cul-de-sac was a gray compact car. Two men stood outside it. Both were armed with either cameras or binoculars. Above Fisher, the hawk cooperated and banked west. He followed it, one eye fixed on the two men until they came into complete focus. Neither looked familiar; both were well tanned, with black hair. Locals, he guessed. One of them was pointing a camera at van der Putten's home; the other, a pair of binoculars at Fisher himself.

Competition,Fisher thought. Of what type, it was too soon to tell.

Fisher took his binoculars off the hawk and lowered them, resuming his touristlike scan of the lush fields beneath the castillo. After a few more minutes, the two men got back in their car, backed down the cul-de-sac, and disappeared from view, only to reemerge on Cuesta de los Yeseros, the east-west road a quarter mile below. He watched the car meander east, then disappear again, then reappear on Calle del Alamillo Bajo, the road he'd followed twenty minutes earlier to reach the castle.

This could not be a coincidence.

He briefly considered bluffing it out as a tourist, but if they were curious enough to drive up here, they would also be thorough enough to memorize his face and record the make and model of his car. He didn't have time to get away, not in the car, at least.

He waited until the gray compact disappeared behind a line of scrub pines, then pulled out his Canon, zoomed in on van der Putten's, and took five sets of bursts, then put the camera and binoculars away and returned to the courtyard. He followed the brochure's map to the eastern wall, then down a set of steps the led beneath the wall, into a short tunnel, then outside through an arch built into the sloped foundation. He turned left, jogged to the base of the southwest turret, and peeked around the corner. He saw no one. He pulled back and waited.

A few minutes later he heard the crunch of tires on gravel, then the soft squeal of brakes. Two car doors opened, then shut, and then he heard feet scuffing over dirt. In his mind's eye he imagined the two men walking to his rental car and taking down the particulars before heading for the portcullis bridge. The footsteps went quiet as they crossed onto stone. Fisher peeked around the corner and saw the tops of two heads moving toward the portcullis. He heard the soft bang of the brochure box's lid falling shut, then counted to ten, stepped out, and walked quickly but quietly west along the wall. He was under the bridge and at the southeast turret seventy seconds later. He didn't pause, didn't look back, but kept going until he reached the copse of cypress bordering the entrance road. Once in the deep shade, he laid himself flat, scooped the loam into a berm before him, and went still.

His visitors took their time, spending almost thirty minutes in the castle before emerging from the portcullis and crossing back over to the parking lot. A minute passed without the sound of car doors. Two minutes. A door opened and closed, followed by a second. An engine revved up, and moments later the car was moving down the entrance road above Fisher's hiding spot. He gave them five minutes, then retraced his steps to the castle, back through the courtyard, and across the bridge to the lot.

His car looked undisturbed, but he knew better than to take that on faith. He found the GPS transmitter–a DIY affair consisting of a prepaid cell phone, a plastic project box, and glued-on neodymium magnets–attached to a bracket on the engine's firewall. Interesting. They were observant and thorough but were using a homemade tracker. Fisher had seen their type: mercenaries or contract security consultants who were good but underfinanced. Entrepreneurs trying to break into the business. Fisher reassembled the tracker and put it back.

He lay in the cool shade beneath the car for a few minutes, thinking. He'd found himself in a wheels-within-wheels situation. Were these men watching him or van der Putten? If the former, were they watching him becausehe was watching van der Putten, or because he was potential competition or a threat? If their primary interest was van der Putten, they could be anyone: enemies, personal or professional; potential employers doing homework; law enforcement; intelligence operatives. . . . Fisher realized these mental aerobics were largely unnecessary. Bottom line: He needed to talk to van der Putten, and he needed to do it before these new players did whatever they'd come to do.

FISHER'Ssolution to the GPS tracker was to play his tourist role to the hilt. He left the castle and drove through Chinchon until he reached the M-316, which he took northeast toward the town of Valdelaguna three miles away. Soon after leaving Chinchon's outskirts, the gray compact appeared in his rearview mirror and followed him into Valdelaguna. Fisher spent an hour ignoring his pursuers, who seemed to worry less about being seen as time went by and Fisher went about his photography tour, snapping dozens of shots of architecture and scenery before finally heading back to Chinchon.

By the time he got back, siesta was over and the townsfolk were moving about. Fisher found a hotel, Casa de la Marquesa, within view of the bullring, and checked in, making sure to ask the desk clerk in halting Spanish about the bullfight the next day and nearby photography hot spots, in case his watchers should decide to ask the clerk about his gringo guest.

Once in his room, a quick peek through the curtains revealed his watchers had taken up station on the patio of a cantina down the block. After a half hour, they left. Fisher checked his watch: six thirty.

19

HEwaited until dusk, when the town's lights began to flicker to life. He wandered down to the bullring and found it had been converted into an outdoor dance hall complete with pole-mounted torches and loudspeakers through which strains of jotamusic drifted. Fisher wore brown trousers, hiking sandals, and a dark blue polo shirt over a white T-shirt, both untucked to cover the butt of the SC pistol and the folded Nomex balaclava in his waistband. He'd debated bringing more equipment, at least the Tridents or the Night Owls, but given Chinchon's close-set houses, narrow streets, and the celebratory mood of the town, his chances of encountering a civilian were too great.

Though night had not yet fully fallen, half the town seemed to have already converged on the ring; it was standing room only. Fisher spent twenty minutes picking his way through the throng, smiling and greeting revelers and enjoying the spectacle, all the while keeping his eyes open for his watchers. They were nowhere to be seen, and this told Fisher something else about them: They probably had no backup, and they relied too heavily on the GPS tracker, a dangerous approach, especially in a town where a person could walk from edge to edge in ten minutes. Then again, he'd given them little reason to further pursue their curiosity about him. Clearly, he was a shutterbug tourist who happened to be in the same area as their target.

Sticking to side streets, Fisher proceeded south, using the decorative lights of the castle on the hill as his guide until he reached Cuesta de los Yeseros, where he stopped beneath the sidewalk trees and watched and listened. He then walked across the road, scaled the shrub-covered embankment into the field beyond, and turned west. Another hundred yards brought him opposite van der Putten's rear patio, fifty feet across the road and situated atop a berm of scrub grass. Tiny halogen theater lights set into the patio wall cast soft white cones on the flagstone, and submerged lights glowed amber beneath the pool's surface. Van der Putten's master suite was dark save for a half dozen glowing candles. As Fisher watched, a door opened and in the rectangle of yellow light stood the silhouetted form of van der Putten's companion. She stood still for a moment, one leg before the other, arms lightly braced on the jamb, clearly showing off for van der Putten, whom Fisher could now see was lying on the bed. He was still wearing his red Speedo trunks. The woman flipped off the light and the room went dim again.

Through the ground floor's sliding-glass doors Fisher saw a circle of red appear, pan quickly across the kitchen, then go dark again. Only someone interested in preserving their night vision would use a red flashlight. His friends in the gray compact were making their move.

Fisher drew the SC, pushed his way through the undergrowth, zigzagged down the embankment, then sprinted across the road and up the berm to van der Putten's patio wall. Through the ground-floor glass he could see two shadowed figures moving through the living room toward the front of the house–toward stairs, Fisher assumed. He rolled over the wall and ran, hunched over, around the pool until he reached the sliding-glass doors, where he crouched down. He tried the door. Locked. He drew the Gerber Guardian from its calf sheath. He laid the SC down, then used his right hand to pull the door to the right, while wedging the tip of the Guardian into the latch mechanism. With a click, the lock popped open. He sheathed the Guardian, picked up the SC, crab-walked inside, and paused to slip on his balaclava.

From upstairs came a woman's scream, then a thump, like a body hitting the floor.

SC extended before him, Fisher moved through the kitchen, checked the foyer, then peeked around the corner up the stairs. Somewhere upstairs a light was on. Another scream. Fisher mounted the stairs, stepping carefully and steadily until the second floor came into view. At the end of a ten-foot hall, the door to the master suite was partially open. He could see a nightstand and a lamp, which was the source of light.

He heard a soft thwump, like a gloved hand striking a heavy dictionary.

Noise-suppressed weapon, a detached part of Fisher's brain told him. Either van der Putten or his girlfriend had taken a bullet, and the woman's scream that came a second later gave Fisher his answer. It wasn't a scream of pain but of resignation, of anguish. They'd killed van der Putten. Fisher quashed the urge to charge the door. The woman was still alive. The intruders had other business, or else she'd have already gotten her bullet.

Fisher took two more steps down the hall and stopped at an open door on his right. A bathroom. He stepped in, carefully groped with his hand until he found a heavy, glass soap dish. He switched the SC to his left hand, picked up the dish with his right, then stepped back into the hall.

"Hurry up, Rodrigo!" said a male voice in Spanish.

"This ain't as easy as it looks, damn it!" came the reply.

Fisher took a step forward, pressed himself against the left-hand wall. Now he could see around the lamp. On the bed were two pair of calves–one set on the bottom, unclothed and toes pointed up; the second wearing pants, toes pointing down. Their owner was kneeling on the bed over van der Putten. The bed was rocking from side to side.

Fisher cocked his right arm, took aim, and hurled the soap dish into the master suite. The dish flew true, striking the sliding-glass doors dead center. Even as the glass shattered, Fisher was moving through the door.

At the threshold he looked right and saw one man standing over van der Putten's naked girlfriend. He had a booted foot pressed into her neck and a noise-suppressed 9mm pointed at her skull. Predictably, he was gaping at the shattered doors. Fisher spun, shot the man in the head, and he stumbled sideways and slid down the wall. Fisher turned again and took aim at the man kneeling over van der Putten.

"Don't move," Fisher ordered in Spanish.

The man had been in middle of turning his head. He stopped, his face in profile. His hands were out of sight, held in front of him.

"Let me see your hands," Fisher ordered.

The man didn't move.

Fisher repeated his order.

The man raised his left hand above his head; it was bloody up to the wrist.

"The other hand."

Fisher knew what was coming. He could see it in the man's posture, in the flick of his eyes.

The man turned his head back toward the sliding-glass doors, and said, "Okay, okay . . ."

Fisher took a wide step to his left, and a half second later the man made his move. Left hand still raised above his head, the man spun his torso counterclockwise, revealing his right hand and the 9mm it held. The muzzle flashed orange. The bullet thunked into the wall where Fisher had been standing a moment earlier. Fisher fired twice, both bullets entering within an inch of each other directly beneath the man's armpit. Both bullets shredded his heart. Already dead, he pitched forward over the edge of the bed, his legs jutting skyward for a few moments before he crumpled into a ball on the carpet.

Behind him the woman whimpered.

"Don't move. Don't look up," Fisher told her. "You're going to be okay."

She didn't answer.

"Say yes if you understand me."

He got a feeble siin response.

Fisher walked to the doors and pulled the curtains shut, then checked van der Putten. The former mercenary lay facedown on the bed, a Rorschach of blood staining the white sheets beneath him. He'd been shot once behind the right ear–or what little remained of the right ear. It had been sawed off, along with the left, by the bloody tanto knife that lay beside the body. The ears lay side by side on a nearby pillow. They looked like miniature, dehydrated pork chops.

Karma,Fisher thought.

HEquickly searched both men, taking everything he found, then grabbed a spare blanket in the linen closet and covered up the woman. After some coaxing, she got to her feet, and Fisher led her out of the bedroom and downstairs to the living room couch.

"What happened?" she murmured, barely coherent. She was in shock. "Who were those men? Why did they kill Heinzie? Who are you? Why did they . . . ?"

Fisher let her ramble as he went into the kitchen and found a plastic grocery bag, into which he dumped the men's wallets, pocket litter, and a set of car keys. He then went back upstairs and rummaged in van der Putten's medicine cabinet, where he found a bottle of Ambien. He gave the woman a tablet and a shot of Scotch, both of which she accepted without protest. He knelt before her.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Isobella."

"Isobella, does Heinzie have a safe? Someplace he keeps important information? Maybe a hiding place?"

"What?" Fisher repeated the question, and Isobella shook her head. "He just has a watch and some rings. No jewelry–"

"I'm talking about documents. Important papers."

"Why do you need that?" For the first time since sitting down, Isobella lifted her head and seemed to truly focus on Fisher. Seeing his balaclava-covered face, she withdrew and her eyes went wide.

"I'm a friend," Fisher said. "I'm sorry I didn't get here in time to save Heinzie. Those men were after information." This was likely untrue, but the woman wasn't coherent enough to dissect the argument. "If I don't find it and get it out of here, more men will come. Do you understand?"