Sinclair
Interstate 83
He had been driving in silence, cursing their inability to draw in the net closer. Driving toward Lancaster on a calculated hunch was all they had for the moment, and he had no guarantees things would improve. Sinclair was gambling right now, and he hated being pushed to that final tactic. It was not how he’d survived all these years. Throwing dice up against a wall was no substitute for shrewd analysis.
As he headed east on US 30, Entwhistle began downloading some responses to his last set of queries to thin out the data he’d requested. “Hel-lo!” he said slyly. “I think we have something here.”
“Fill me in.” Sinclair adjusted to changing traffic patterns but listened acutely.
“The pay phone was in a Stop’n’Go petrol station on the corner of Chestnut and Prince Streets.”
“And that is significant why?”
“You’re going to like this.” Entwhistle chuckled. “The pay phone is across the street from an establishment called Manny’s Tap Room.”
Sinclair shook his head. His exec’s habit of stretching out information as if playing a game was sometimes infuriating. “Why should I ‘like’ that? Get to the fucking point.”
“The ‘Manny’ referenced is listed on the original papers of incorporation as Manfred Fassbaden and the other name is Erich Bruckner.”
Sinclair knew he should be connecting the dots by now, but he was tired, pissed off, and having trouble keeping his thoughts focused. He’d just passed a sign announcing the proximity of Lancaster: seven miles. “Just tell me what you’re getting at.”
“Both men were officers in the U-boat service.” Entwhistle’s voice was low and deliberate.
“No such thing as coincidence.” Sinclair, who felt a sudden flash of vindication in heading toward Lancaster. “A good first step, but we need more than that.”
“I’m not finished yet. Fassbaden and Bruckner graduated the unterseeboot academy at Flensburg together. They served on different vessels until April, 1945, when they were both slated for a secret mission. No details beyond that, but it connects them rather well, wouldn’t you say?”
“No such thing as coincidence,” Sinclair repeated. “How can we use it?”
Entwhistle chuckled. “Try this: I have a Richard and Margaret Bruckner living on Foxshire Drive in Lancaster.”
“Any other Bruckners in this town?”
“None.”
“Put that address into the GPS. That’s where we’re going to wrap this thing up.”
Entwhistle began punching in the correct digits. “Do you foresee extreme methods?”
Sinclair eased out a breath. “Probably…”