Game of Shadows (15 page)

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.

San Sebastián, Argentina

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."

Sean stared at the barrel. Though he was certain she wasn't lying, he didn't feel threatened, and his nerves remained calm. "My name is Sean Wyatt. I work for the United States government."

A scowl crossed her face, but she kept listening.

"I worked as an archaeologist for several years, so I have expertise in that field as well as in history. I'm here because I need your help."

Sean didn't want to press the issue about her father too hard, but he was the reason Sean was there in the first place. "Miss Stoepel..."

"You may call me Irena." She lowered the gun to her lap, but held onto it just in case.

"Very well, Irena," he stumbled through calling the older woman by her first name. In the southern United States, where Sean was raised, it was considered impolite to do such a thing. Though it had become more common through the years, he still stuck to his guns when it came to the way he'd been taught to treat people. "I am looking for information on something that went missing long ago. It was something from Germany, and I need to find it."

Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. "If you're here to investigate about my father and war crimes, you'll not find anything of the kind here." Her voice filled with indignation. "Whatever my father did when he was with the Nazis is over and done with, and he is answering for that with the Almighty as we speak. People from the United Nations came through here dozens of times through the years, trying to find out what he did or didn't do. Eventually, he died without being charged, but I always knew that he felt guilty about something. What it was, I will never know in this life."

Sean shook his head. "No, ma'am. I'm not here to do any damage to your family name or try to implicate anyone in anything. But there is something I believe your father knew about, an experiment done on the outskirts of the Polish border."

"Experiment?" Her interest was clearly piqued.

"Yes. It had something to do with physics. We are pretty low on the details, but we believe the Germans were trying to manipulate space-time, the fabric of our universe."

"I know what space-time is, Mr. Wyatt." She stood up and grabbed her class of Chianti. He was afraid he'd pushed too much, and now she was going to ask him to leave.

She walked past the entryway, however, and went into the kitchen. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to follow or not, but then saw the woman grab a dark bottle from a kitchen counter and refill her glass with the deep-red liquid. She returned and resumed sitting where she'd been before.

"I meant no disrespect about the space-time comment," he offered, apologetically.

"Not to worry, dear boy. There are not many people in this world who know a great deal about it, even supposed geniuses. I spent several years studying abroad, many of which were in the field of astronomy. It was one of my passions." She leaned close as if about to share a secret. "The view from my bedroom balcony overlooks the sea. The night sky is breathtaking from up here." She could see he was forcing himself to listen.

"You're not here to talk about the stars with me, though. So what is it you want, Sean Wyatt?"

He could tell Irena Stoepel was a direct woman, which Sean appreciated. He didn't like beating around the bush, and from his read on her, she was the same. "A German submarine disappeared from Hamburg just before the war ended. Its name was not recorded in any of the manifests or records we have access to. The boat's name was
U-1500
."

She laughed again. "Anyone who knows anything about German subs knows that none were made after the electric series. They never made it to 1500, Mr. Wyatt."

"That's true," he nodded. "However, in the last few days, I've stumbled across some interesting evidence that points to the contrary."

"Stumbled? You don't seem the type of man that stumbles his way through anything." She pointed at the bulge in the jacket he still wore. He looked down and saw the outline of his gun. "I hope that you didn't bring that here for me."

Sean kept his eyes evenly focused on the older woman as he spoke. "No, ma'am. But I am concerned there might be others coming, others who aren't as polite as me."

She tilted her head to the side, confused by his statement.

Time for him to tell her everything. The sooner he did, the sooner he could find out what she knew.

"Three days ago, a young Swiss scientist was kidnapped. She was taken out of her laboratory by a terrorist group known as the Black Ring. They've engaged in operations all over the world, usually for profit, which makes them unlike any other terrorist cell out there.

"The professor, a woman by the name of Dr. Franziska Ott, was working on a project in the field of quantum mechanics that she believed would revolutionize the world of science, bring about a unified field theory, and potentially change the course of history."

"Sounds like whatever she was working on was big," Stoepel stated the obvious.

"Yes. It was."

She leaned forward in her chair putting an elbow on her knee. "What does any of this have to do with me, my father, and a German submarine, Mr. Wyatt?"

Sean took a deep breath and explained the story about the experiment in Poland, all the scientists that were executed, the one that had escaped with the help of a renegade Nazi soldier, and how he believed the device known as die Glocke had been transported to Hamburg, placed on a ship, and sailed across the Atlantic to Argentina.

Stoepel listened intently until he finished the tale. When he had, she shifted back against the chair and took another sip of her wine. "Well, that is quite a story."

"That's not all," he added. "An American destroyer claimed they had an encounter with a mysterious U-boat off the northeastern tip of South America. The thing appeared out of nowhere, sent all their electronics haywire, and then disappeared again."

"Seems like a ghost story to me," she said.

"One that an entire crew witnessed."

"That may be, Mr. Wyatt, but my father never mentioned anything about a device like that or coming over here on a submarine. It's true that he escaped the war and came to Argentina, along with several of the German high command. That is no secret to anybody. Books and movies are filled with fanciful tales about such things. We did not try to hide the fact that we were German. My father got rid of all his Nazi possessions, but everyone in this town knew where we came from, and they welcomed us. They treated us well because they were willing to forgive what the members of the Third Reich had done. My father did horrible things, and for that I am ashamed."

He wasn't sure where to go next with the line of questions. It seemed Stoepel was another dead end. The term caused him to think of Dr. Ott. He glanced over at the clock against the wall. He only had four more hours until the deadline.

"Miss Stoepel, these terrorists are going to kill Dr. Ott if I don't find whatever it is they're looking for. She's an innocent person. Are you sure there's nothing you can remember about your childhood or anything your father might have said or left behind that might give a clue as to the whereabouts of this thing?"

Her expression changed to one of sympathy. "Perhaps if I can help you, it will atone for some of my father's sins."

A glimmer of hope shone through the room.

She stood up, sure to remember her glass of Chianti. "Come this way. My study is upstairs. All of my father's belongings are there. If he left anything that would give us a clue as to where this thing you call die Glocke might be, it would be in that room."