“Did you believe them, sir?” Bayer asked Ziegler as they left Lucien Bouchard’s house and walked toward the barn.
“I don’t know,” Ziegler muttered, considering the brief encounter. “If they live here, and she is the thief, she probably wouldn’t abandon her car a farm field away.”
“And if she did, she would have gone to get it by now.”
Ziegler nodded. His instincts told him something wasn’t right. But he had known from the moment he saw the vault breached in Antwerp that he could make no assumptions—it was too easy to be fooled. He stopped, studying the barn and outbuildings. “One vehicle,” he said pointing to the truck.
“Suitable for a farmer.”
“A bicycle leaning against the back of the house.”
“Which she admitted she had,” Bayer said with a shrug. “Everyone has a bicycle. It’s the p
