He found spot 206 at the back of the lot, and there his night was ruined. A mechanic with a work light was beneath the small motor home, his legs jacked out from under the front bumper.

“What is wrong?” Gurhan asked, bending down toward the ground.

The mechanic, dressed in greasy coveralls and with a wrench in his hand, slipped out from under the camper. “The engine starter is bad. I have to replace it.”

The man had light hair, but Gurhan thought his accent was not German. Probably a Pole or a Latvian, he supposed, another expatriate brought in to do the dirty work. Not that it mattered to a Turkish delivery driver. “When will it be ready?” he asked.

“I cannot get a new part at this hour. Tomorrow, I think. Probably close to noon.”

Gurhan cursed under his breath. “They just sent me here from Stralsund. What will I do until then?”

The mechanic shrugged and pushed back under the bumper.

Gurhan stood straight and looked at his watch: 11:45. He looked at the gatehouse and saw the frau whose shift was nearing an end. From a distance she seemed more attractive, and from any range utterly bored. What the hell, he thought. He started walking back to the shack.

“Hey!”

He turned and saw the mechanic’s head again.

“I’ll need the keys if I am going to make this work.”

Gurhan didn’t hesitate. He tossed them across the divide, a poor throw actually that was headed for the grill. Then the blond man swept out his hand and snatched them cleanly from the air.

Chapter 27

TWENTY-SEVEN

By three a.m. Slaton had skirted Berlin and was sweeping through the heart of Germany, nearing Magdeburg, a modern and vibrant industrial city that seemed to have no recollection of being plundered by the Holy Roman Empire, or later bombed into oblivion by Allied air forces.

Sassnitz was a hundred and fifty miles behind, and by daybreak Slaton would have two hundred more. Rain had begun to fall, the kind of dense October drizzle that might not break for days, and the camper’s tires hissed over wet asphalt as the headlights skipped their predictable pattern over glistening white lines. Striking a pothole, the vehicle rattled down to its bones, and somewhere behind him Slaton heard a drawer slide open. The RV had seen a lot of use. It smelled of mold and cheap cleanser. Slaton didn’t care in the least.

He studied the rearview mirrors, and for the fifth time tonight cataloged the headlights drifting behind him. Vehicle headlights, he knew, produced unique signatures at night, and with some diligence could be logged and tracked. The shape of various lenses, their geometry and spacing, not to mention brightness and color. Taken together, it was all as telling as a written signature, and any vehicle following for a length of time could be readily identified. Slaton saw none behind him now that looked familiar.