At Lyon airport’s curvaceous ultramodern terminal after his early-morning flight from Berlin via Frankfurt, he rented a car, a sports model Peugeot 307 to suit his upbeat mood and to help speed him through southern France to Saint Lager Bressac, where Ulrich Mueller lived in disgrace and isolation. Delaney had told only Ackermann what he and young Schneller discovered in the autopsy documents in Bonn. He did not tell Mareike Fischer, he did not tell Jonah Smith and he did not tell Jonathan Rawson. When a story starts to break, Delaney knew from experience that for a time the fewer people who were aware, the better. Mareike, of course, was aware he would travel to France. She had arranged the meeting with her uncle as promised. Actually finding Mueller’s Chateau de Bressac deep in the Ardeche hills would be Delaney’s immediate problem. It was a fine early spring day in a splendid part of France. Light streamed through the sunroof of the car as Delaney headed away from Lyon, negotiating his way carefully among the dozens of oversized Dutchand German-registered holiday trailers thundering southward on the highway along with him.
