The Weissach Historic Center did not resemble Prestige Auto Works. Where the American shop was built on flashy chrome and showmanship for wealthy clients, the German facility was an operating theater designed by ascetic monks of engineering.
The walls were lined with white glazed ceramic tile from floor to ceiling. Recessed LED strips flooded the room with clinical, shadowless white light calibrated to 5500 Kelvin. There were no posters, no banners, and no visible tools hanging from pegs. Every torque wrench, dial bore gauge, and micrometer rested inside climate-controlled drawers lined with velvet and oiled lambskin. The air smelled of medical-grade isopropyl alcohol, synthetic preservative wax, and cold steel.
Standing in the center of the room, elevated on a hydraulic single-post lift, was Arthur Vance’s white Carrera RS 2.7.
Surrounding the car were five men dressed identical knee-length white lab coats with the embroidered Porsche shield in black thread on their left lapels. None of them held a tool. Each carried a metal clipboard and a digital stylus.
At the head of the group stood Dr. Helmut Brandt.
Brandt was a tall, gaunt man with silver hair cut down to the scalp, rectangular rimless spectacles that sat low on a thin, aristocratic nose, and hands that were long, dry, and immaculate. Beside him, looking smaller and noticeably sweaty in a modern black track jacket, stood Harold Grimes. Grimes’s eyes darted nervously across the room, avoiding Vance the moment the double pneumatic doors swung open.
"Arthur," Dr. Brandt spoke first, his English clipped, precise, and devoid of inflection. "You are twelve minutes late. We were about to proceed with the preliminary documentation in your absence."
Vance walked in with slow, measured steps, his overcoat unbuttoned, his hands tucked into his trouser pockets. Behind him walked Marcus, still wearing his washed-out charcoal hoodie and scuffed New Balances. To the German technicians in their sterile white coats, the boy looked like an alien organism that had somehow escaped quarantine.
"A headwind over Frankfurt, Helmut," Vance said smoothly. "You know how stubborn the atmosphere can be. It refuses to adhere to German timetables."
Brandt’s gaze flicked past Vance, landing on Marcus. His eyes traveled slowly from the frayed cuffs of the hoodie down to the salt-stained rubber of the boy's sneakers. The expression on his face did not register anger; it registered the mild, clinical disgust one might show toward an oil stain on clean linen.
"And this," Brandt said, tapping his digital stylus against the corner of his clipboard, "is the individual Mr. Grimes reported? The... diagnostic savant?"
"His name is Marcus Brooks," Vance said, stopping at the edge of the lift. "And he is my chief technical consultant on this chassis."
A faint, mocking snort escaped Grimes’s lips from the back of the group. "Consultant. The kid’s mother cleans floors for twelve bucks an hour, Arthur. He’s never seen an inspection micrometer in his life."
Marcus didn't look at Grimes. He didn't look at Brandt. His eyes went immediately to the undercarriage of the Porsche above them.
The car was sitting on the single-post lift at shoulder height. The rear engine shield had been removed, along with the exhaust heat exchangers. Marcus could see that someone had already placed yellow grease-pen markings along the engine casing, circling several hardware heads.
"We have completed the non-invasive optical scan," Brandt announced, stepping toward the rear of the car and gesturing with his stylus. "The findings are severe. Item one: an unauthorized non-conductive polymeric adhesive—commonly known as PVC electrical tape—has been applied to the primary trigger lead of the Bosch ignition unit. This introduces an unacceptable thermal insulation layer that traps heat generated by the exhaust header, risking internal melting of the coaxial core."
Brandt turned a page on his clipboard with a crisp, dry rustle.
"Item two: the routing of the trigger wire has been modified, bypassing the factory-specified retainer clamp on the crankcase web. This alteration changes the vibrational harmonics of the wiring harness, which, according to factory endurance testing protocols established in October 1972, leads to premature work-hardening and fatigue fracture of the copper strands within two thousand operating kilometers."
Brandt looked over his spectacles at Vance.
"In accordance with Section Nine of the Historical Provenance Agreement, these modifications constitute gross technical negligence. They invalidate the car’s original matching-numbers status. The vehicle will remain here in Weissach. Our master technicians will remove the drivetrain, perform a complete non-destructive metallurgical test on the crankcase, and replace the entire electrical architecture with period-correct components from our historical vault. The estimated duration of the remediation is fourteen months. The cost will be billed to your account."
Grimes’s lips stretched into a broad, triumphant smile. He leaned against the white tile wall, crossing his arms, looking at Marcus as if the boy were already on his knees with a mop.
"Fourteen months," Vance said, his voice flat. "And you believe that will restore the car, Helmut?"
"It will restore it to historical perfection," Brandt said with absolute finality.
"Marcus," Vance called out softly.
The teenager stepped forward until he was standing directly beneath the engine block. He looked up at the yellow grease marks on the magnesium casing, then at the shiny, brand-new replacement fuel lines the German technicians had already laid out on a stainless steel tray nearby.
"Tell Dr. Brandt why his engine won't survive thirty minutes on the Autobahn," Marcus said.