Major Ziegler stood by his staff car and eyed Lucien Bouchard’s farm. He scanned the outbuildings, the old French troop truck, and rows of crops in the fields—corn, wheat, and potatoes poking through the soil.
“I don’t see any vehicles,” Bayer said, scanning the property. “It may be abandoned.”
“Yes, maybe,” Ziegler muttered. He looked down the stream to the highway in the distance, the Minerva on the side of the road.
“Should we check?” Bayer asked. “It’s the closest house to the car.”
Ziegler shifted his gaze to the farmhouse. “It’s also the most obvious. Not the best place to hide. I think this woman is too smart for that.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right, sir,” Bayer agreed.
Ziegler put the field glasses back in the case. “Let’s drive into France. Maybe she’s traveling by bicycle an
