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She made a scoffing noise as she folded her clothes, about to shove both into his pack on top of his tools and rope. “Get everything you needed from here?”
“Got it.” He’d taken a knife, small flashlight, and a couple of the more likely lockpicks, but that was it. Like Remi, he wore his holster toward the small of his back, and he checked his own reflection to make sure it couldn’t be seen.
She shoved her clothes into the pack. He did the same, then zipped it closed. “How quickly they grow,” he said, hefting it over his shoulder.
Remi walked to the window, pulling a curtain to look out. “You better brush up on your German. It’s getting crowded down there.”
Sam glanced out. There were at least a couple of dozen well-dressed guests mingling on a terrace beneath propane heaters. “You think they’ll miss us if we skip the party?”
“Somehow, I doubt it.”
“Let’s go do this.”
Unfortunately, Helga was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs—and somewhat impatiently, judging by the expression on her face. She motioned them to move quicker. Sam lifted his backpack, mumbling, “One moment,” hoping it passed for something German. Then he slipped into the garage, getting one last look at the door. A red light on the alarm keypad blinked steadily. Hoping the code Rube provided was still good, he left his backpack on the base of the rack. There were still several uniforms left hanging on it, and he wondered if some of the hired help hadn’t shown up.
“Schnell!” the woman said, waving her hand for them to quicken their pace. They followed her out, and she led them down a graveled path, around the garage, to the manicured garden. Shorter boxwood hedges surrounded fountains, flowers, and topiaries. Farther down the path, an expanse of lawn stretched out just beneath the terrace, accessed by twin staircases, one on either side.
Two armed security guards walked past, giving them a quick look, before continuing on toward the perimeter, as Helga rushed them up the staircase to their right. At the top, she said something to Remi, then quickly walked toward the main house, where uniformed staff, carrying hors d’oeuvres, mingled among the guests.
Remi touched Sam’s sleeve. “This way, Hans. Apparently, we’re here to serve champagne.” She nodded toward a long table on one side of the terrace, where a bartender filled crystal flutes.
Sam, following Remi’s lead, picked up a tray. “Somehow, we need to get back out to the garage and that door.”
“How?”
“Playing it by ear, Marta.” He casually moved to the edge of the terrace and saw a line of cars, headlights glowing in the dark as they idled in the street, waiting to enter to drop off even more guests. The guards who’d been removed from the perimeter to carry the potted plants earlier that evening were back on patrol. Sam turned toward the guests, now numbering over three dozen, surprised to recognize a couple of faces in the crowd. “Take a look at ten o’clock.”
Her gaze slid to the left, her brows going up. “American Ambassador Halstern and his wife. And that congressman . . . What’s his name . . . ?”
“Jones.”
“What’re they doing here, of all places? Halstern, I get. But Jones?”
“I seem to recall some recent trade agreement with Germany.”
Remi smiled at a man who approached, taking two flutes from her tray. “Lovely. Always nice to know our politicians are fraternizing with crooks.”
“We’re assuming they know he’s a crook. At least Rolfe isn’t around. Do me a favor. Try not to position yourself anywhere near them in case he suddenly makes an appearance and they recognize you.”
“I doubt any of them will see past our uniforms.”
“If we get caught, you better make sure they do see past them. They might be our only chance out of here.”
“So what’s the plan?” Remi asked.
“We serve champagne until we can go down the opposite staircase and get back to the garage. Too many guards on this side. If we get separated, you glue yourself to the Halsterns. Whether they’re supporters of his or not, I doubt they’ll allow Rolfe to start an international incident by killing an American on his back porch.”
“Fingers crossed.”
Sam hefted his tray, about to take a step in that direction. “How do I say—”
“Champagner,” she replied.
“Got it.” He wove his way through the guests, feeling the warmth from the propane heaters as he passed by. “Champagner?” he said, holding the tray out. He’d picked a path that would purposefully avoid Ambassador Halstern. And just when he thought he had a clear path, the Ambassador and his wife suddenly appeared in front of him.
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The Ambassador grabbed two flutes from Sam’s tray, handed one to his wife, who barely spared Sam a glance before both turned back toward the couple they were talking to.