“Ivan?”
We did not come this far to fail—not with my brother’s life on the line.
“Ivan?” Northcutt had asked him a question. “We just got a message from Rytter. He’s in Nebraska.”
“Nebraska? Why is he so late?”
“We don’t know. He isn’t answering.”
34
Ogallala, Nebraska
Trooper Duane Hanson with the Nebraska State Patrol finished his coffee and took stock of the vast windblown plain while rolling westbound on Interstate 80.
He was just beyond the exit for Brule, midway through his shift, thinking about lunch at Thorsen’s Diner in Big Springs and maybe hitting the books again. He had five years with uniformed patrol and was working on getting selected for the Investigative Services Division.
Making the Cold Case Unit was his dream.
He’d studied, applied and written the exam. His interview was in three days. The brass at Troop D headquarters in North Platte was encouraging. Captain Wagner liked him, and Lieutenant Tolba let slip that Hanson had scored the highest he’d ever seen on an ISD exam.
It likely helped that Hanson was a voracious reader and had a near-photographic ability for retaining details, especially when it came to a “Be On the Lookouts.” While most guys scanned the local, state and national BOLOs, Hanson devoured them every day.
It would be sweet to make it into ISD, he thought, plus, there’d be the little pay boost. He flipped down his visor to a pretty woman smiling at him from a small color snapshot.
Darlene.
He’d met her in high school. They’d been married six years now. She was doing well selling real estate. They’d started talking about buying that property down by the river, starting a family.
Something came up on the right lane.
A Chevy pickup passed him, coming close to breaking the limit. No, that won’t do. Hanson pushed his old Crown Victoria Police Interceptor until he overtook the pickup, got in front of it and slowed things down to the proper speed limit.
Sometimes they just need me in their face, to remind them to abide by the law of the land. Hanson glanced in his rearview mirror. Looked like a young ranch hand, who gave a tiny embarrassed wave.
Hanson smiled to himself.
Reminds me of me, he thought as something blurred by both of them.
“What the hell? Now, that’s a serious violation.”
Hanson hit his lights and siren. The Ford’s big eight roared as he reached for his radio and alerted his dispatcher.
“Seventy-eight-ten westbound on eighty at Brule in pursuit.”
“Ten-four, seventy-eight-ten, description?”
“Looks like a white Chrysler, maybe a three hundred. Man, he must have a Hemi in that thing. He’s up to one-twenty-five, maybe one-thirty. Light traffic. Road is good.”
Hanson’s chase did not last. The driver pulled to the shoulder. Hanson eased up behind the vehicle. It was a Chrysler 300, looked like a rental. Hanson called in the tag, an Illinois plate. Then he gave the location, grabbed his book and got out of his car.
As he approached the driver, his training kicked in.
Be alert. Expect the unexpected.
One occupant. Hanson inventoried him: white, male, in his thirties, clean-cut, military-style brush cut. Blond. Tattooed and well-built; jeans, plain white T-shirt.
“Good afternoon, sir. What’s your rush?”
“I’m sorry. I lost concentration on my speed. I apologize.”
The accent was European, German, maybe.
“Back home on the autobahn there is no limit.”
“Well, this is Nebraska, sir, and our limits are clearly posted. If you exceed them, you break the law. Where you headed?”
“I’m on holiday.”
“Right, that doesn’t answer my question.”
“I was going to meet a friend on the West Coast.”
“Okay, well, I’m going to have to see your license and registration.”
“Of course, Officer. This car is a rental.”
Maybe it was the guy’s accent, his body language or something in the air—Hanson couldn’t pinpoint the reason, but he was getting a weird vibe. The driver got the registration from the glove compartment, pulled his license from his wallet and handed both to Hanson.
In that instant, he noticed a tattoo on the driver’s wrist, not quite covered by his watch.
Hanson clipped the information to his book.
The driver was Dieter Windhorst of Hamburg, Germany.
“That’s a pretty sophisticated watch you got there. Are you a serviceman?”
“I was in the military.”
“It’s a small world—my dad was with the corps, he’s got a watch like yours. Would you mind if I had a closer look?”
As the driver considered Hanson’s request, the corners of his blue eyes crinkled and he moved his arm so Hanson could look at the watch.
“It’s quartz,” the driver said. “Dual time, has temperature, altimeter.”
“Very cool, may I see it?”
The driver hesitated at the casual forwardness of the American cop, unlike police in Europe. It bordered on amusing. Clearly thinking cooperating might help the situation, he shrugged.
“By all means.” The driver removed the watch and gave it to him.
“It is also waterproof. Quite good.”
Hanson held it close, but was actually noting the driver’s wrist tattoo, a cobra in a strike position entwined in wire.
Unease pinged in the pit of Hanson’s stomach.
“Yup, Dad’s wasn’t that good. Very cool.” Hanson returned the watch. “Thanks. Hang tight, partner, it’ll take a while to process your information and to write you up for the infraction.”
“I understand. My apologies.” The driver replaced his watch.
In his car, Hanson radioed for an NCIC check on the car and Dieter Windhorst of Hamburg, Germany.
“Ten-four.”
“And please make an urgent check with Homeland and the FBI. I think we’ve got something here. Can you send backup to my twenty? No lights or siren. I need them now.”
“Roger that.”
Hanson’s pulse quickened as he flipped through the BOLOs on his clipboard. He stopped at an FBI alert displaying a clear illustration of a tattoo depicting a cobra, fangs bared and braided in barbed wire.
Damn, he glanced toward the car, that’s it.
The alert warned that any subject bearing the tattoo could have links to four homicides arising out of the armored car heist in New York City. The subject should be detained for questioning by the FBI. Approach with extreme caution as the subject is considered armed and dangerous.
“Seventy-eight ten subject vehicle a rental out of Chicago, O’Hare. Copy?”
“Ten-four.”
“Lessee is Dieter Windhorst, German national. I’m shooting the particulars to you now.” Hanson checked his small mobile computer. No outstanding warrants or wants.
“What about Homeland, FBI and Interpol?”
“Stand by.”
“What’s the ETA on my backup?”
“Not good, seven-sixty and seven-eighty-one are tied up with an overturned cattle truck near North Platte.”
Hanson dragged the back of his hand across his mouth.
He’d seen news reports of the armored car robbery in New York.
Four homicides, three guards and an FBI agent.
“Seventy-six to dispatch. What’s the situation with county, any chance of any backup within five?”
“Not looking good. Seventy-six, NCIC has a supplemental from Interpol and Homeland. Passport for Dieter Windhorst of Hamburg, Germany, is flagged as lost slash stolen from Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam. Do you copy?”