Strategically placed in the surrounding area were some twelve patrol cars, each with two officers. Their job, basically, was to seal off the roads just a minute or two before the TAC teams hit the residence.
Coming up in a hurry was the ex-Army OH-58 from the Cedar Rapids Police Department, with its FLIR equipment. Its job was to watch the area of Wittman’s farm with the FLIR and track anybody who might leave before they were supposed to.
We waited for the recon team’s report.
‘‘God,’’ I said, after a minute, ‘‘I just love resources.’’
‘‘This is mainly to ensure that nobody gets hurt,’’ said Volont.
Sure. But, if we’d been able to afford a band . . .
The recon team leader, Tac One, called in. I looked at my watch, out of habit. 2218.
‘‘TAC One has four vehicles in the yard, and what we count as eleven people in the house.’’
‘‘Fuck,’’ said Deputy Roberts.
‘‘Great,’’ said Volont, and meant it. He picked up his mike. ‘‘What does it look like they’re doing?’’
‘‘Looks like a 4-H club meeting,’’ whispered TAC One.
‘‘Adults?’’ asked Volont.
‘‘Mature,’’ came the whispered reply.
‘‘Check the surrounding area,’’ said Volont.
‘‘Done,’’ came the reply. ‘‘Clean.’’
‘‘Well done,’’ said Volont. He switched channels. There was absolutely no doubt as to who was in charge. ‘‘Sky One,’’ he called, addressing the CRPD chopper. Since it was on the federal payroll for the duration, they changed the call sign.
‘‘Go ahead,’’ boomed Sky One. Volont had turned the volume up to hear the whispers of TAC One. I think we all jumped.
‘‘ETA?’’
‘‘We’re orbiting about five miles out. We can be there in two minutes.’’
‘‘Come in and hold at a mile and a half,’’ said Volont. ‘‘TAC One?’’
‘‘TAC One,’’ came the whispered reply.
‘‘Break your packs, Sky One will be holding at a mile.’’
‘‘Roger that.’’
‘‘Break your packs’’ referred to little heat packs that were Velcroed to the shoulders of the officers in the corn and around the farm. Smacking them caused them to mix their chemicals and heat to about 150 degrees. That way, the FLIR could tell the good guys from the bad guys by the intense white spots on their shoulders.
‘‘TAC Six,’’ called Volont, addressing the federal TAC team leader.
‘‘Six.’’ Crisp, calm.
‘‘Sky One is holding at a mile or so. Are you go on the data from recon?’’
‘‘We’re go.’’
‘‘Right,’’ said Volont. ‘‘Do your thing.’’
‘‘Roger that.’’
‘‘Sky One has two vehicles in motion. Those your guys?’’
‘‘From the east, on the highway about now, two vans,’’ said Volont.
‘‘Ten-four.’’
‘‘They’re friendlies, Sky One,’’ said Volont.
We began to move.
Volont changed channels again. ‘‘All units, take your positions,’’ he said.
‘‘I got lots of vehicles movin’ down there,’’ said Sky One.
‘‘That’s us,’’ said Volont.
The federal team went in the house, with recon and the Iowa team securing the perimeter. We pulled in the yard about ten seconds after the federal team hit the residence. There were lights on all over the place, including the basement of the house, with flashlights shining beams inside the darker rooms. I could see the bright basement light shining out of the storm door that led to the basement from the outside.
‘‘One got out of the basement!’’ said a breathless voice.
‘‘We’re on him,’’ said Sky One. ‘‘He’s headed west, into the trees . . . and he’s headed right to two heat packs . . . and it looks like they’ve got him . . .’’
‘‘TAC One has one in custody,’’ came another breathless voice.
Clean sweep. We followed Volont into the house.
It was just about a minute and a half since the TAC team had entered the house through just about every ground-floor opening. In that time, ten people were handcuffed, on the floor in the living room, and guarded by three men with H&K MP-5 submachine guns. There were officers in the attic and in the basement. It was very quiet.
The TAC team leader came up, his eyes extraordinarily white as they peered from his black ski mask.
‘‘Sorry about the one from the basement,’’ he said. ‘‘Apparently was just going down there for something when we came in.’’ His wide grin was very apparent in the mouth opening. ‘‘One of our guys thinks he hit him in the back with the kitchen door as he came through, and probably knocked him down the basement steps.’’
Volont turned to Deputy Roberts. ‘‘Which one’s Wittman?’’
Roberts pointed to a rather soft-looking individual in a gold-and-brown-plaid short-sleeved shirt, green wash pants, and crepe-soled shoes. ‘‘Right there.’’
‘‘You want to do the honors?’’ asked Volont.
‘‘I do,’’ I said.
I walked over and squatted down by Wittman. ‘‘Hi,’’ I said. ‘‘How the hell are ya?’’
‘‘Fuck you, kike,’’ he said.
I smiled. ‘‘Not if you were the last Aryan stud on earth, chubby,’’ I whispered. ‘‘My name is Houseman,’’ I said in a normal tone, ‘‘and I’m a deputy sheriff in Nation County. I’m here to charge you with a murder.’’
No response.
‘‘You have the right to remain silent,’’ I said. Not necessary unless we were interrogating him, but always good for the soul. ‘‘Anything you say . . .’’
As soon as I was done, Volont sat down on the couch near Wittman’s head. ‘‘My name’s Volont,’’ he said. ‘‘FBI.’’
‘‘ZOG fuck,’’ said Wittman.
I laughed. ‘‘You’re gonna have to stop readin’ bumper stickers pretty soon,’’ I said.
‘‘I’m arresting you for conspiracy under the federal RICO statute,’’ said Volont.
‘‘YOU ZOG BASTARDS CAN’T DO THAT!’’ roared a voice behind me. I turned and saw a large handcuffed fifty-year-old woman. The only person behind me that I could see.
‘‘Pardon me?’’ I said politely.
‘‘I SAID YOU CAN’T DO THAT!’’
‘‘Boy,’’ I said, ‘‘I wish you’d call me for supper sometime.’’ I grinned at her.
‘‘YOU THINK YOU’RE SO CUTE!’’
‘‘Well, no, as a matter of fact, but we certainly can do this, ma’am. We are doing this, if you’d look around you. You, however, have merely been secured until such time as . . .’’ I noticed the ten or so rifles behind her. ‘‘Until such time as you can be released without endangering anyone.’’ ‘‘Or anyone’s hearing,’’ I said to myself.
‘‘WE’RE GONNA SUE YOU TO DEATH!’’
‘‘Well, I’m sure you’ll try.’’ I smiled at her again. She struck me as being the sort who would fall and claim she had been pushed.
I thought I’d seen rifles as we came in, but on the other side of the room. I looked, and, yes, there were a half dozen there too. All military rifles. All of post-World War II manufacture. No antiques there.
The TAC team leader followed my gaze. ‘‘You ought to see the basement,’’ he said.
Any weapons discovered during the securing of the scene, of course, we were able to seize. Anything else we wanted to look for would have to be found subsequent to obtaining a search warrant. So I said, ‘‘I’d like to see them.’’
The basement was well stocked. I counted sixteen Colt AR-15s, some old, some newer, judging by the forearm stocks and the two styles of flash suppressor at the muzzles. Four M-14s. Two Colt Commandos, which the TAC team leader informed me weren’t ‘‘really worth a shit.’’
Then we spied two I h
adn’t seen before.
‘‘What in God’s name are those?’’ I asked.
‘‘I’ll be damned,’’ he said. ‘‘French FA MAS . . . full auto . . . never seen them in this country before.’’
There was a rifle standing isolated from the others in a long rack. ‘‘What’s this, a sniper rifle?’’ I asked.
He looked at it, not picking it up. ‘‘Vaime Mk 2,’’ he said. ‘‘Secret Service uses some of these.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘Coated with special paint, to reduce the IR signature,’’ he said. ‘‘That way you can stick it out of a bush and it won’t show well on IR or FLIR equipment.’’
‘‘What’s Wittman need something like this for, you suppose?’’
‘‘I’d hate to think.’’ He walked over to a partition with a small spring-loaded door that was held open by a concrete-block doorstop. ‘‘Check this out,’’ he said. ‘‘The guy we knocked down the stairs tried to hide in here. This is what I was really talking about.’’
The little room contained four H&K G3 7.62 mm rifles, fitted with what appeared to be factory-produced silencers. A steel cabinet, which revealed what turned out to be eight bolt-action 7.62 mm rifles with scopes. Identified by my guide as PM.L96A1s. British Army sniper rifles. Current models. What was worse, the next cabinet revealed seventeen silenced 9 mm Sterling L34A1 submachine guns. Again, British Army issue.
The team leader gestured to a large wardrobe closet at the far end. ‘‘The pièce de résistance,’’ he said.
I opened it. Twenty-four LAW 80 light antitank rocket launchers, according to their labels, and apparently loaded.
‘‘These are British too, from the markings,’’ he said.
‘‘What the fuck?’’ I sort of asked.
‘‘Not sure,’’ he said. ‘‘Very unusual.’’
‘‘Aren’t LAWs U.S. equipment?’’ They were as far as I knew.
‘‘No, these are Brit,’’ he replied. ‘‘They have a ranging rifle, a throwaway, underneath the tube here . . . see?’’
‘‘No shit.’’ At times like these, I’m often a little short of intelligent things to say.
‘‘Houseman,’’ came a voice, ‘‘where’d you go?’’ Volont. A second later, he stuck his head through the doorframe. ‘‘What’s all this?’’
The team leader told him.
Volont and George came in. Volont was quiet for a few seconds. We all were.
Finally, I couldn’t wait. ‘‘So,’’ I asked, ‘‘what’s with the Brit stuff?’’
He shook his head. ‘‘Not sure I can tell you.’’ He held up his hand. ‘‘Don’t take this personally, Houseman, and try to find out on your own.’’ He grinned. ‘‘I can’t tell any of you at this point.’’ He looked at the tubes. ‘‘But I will tell you this . . . We had reason to believe that it had come into the country, about eighteen months ago.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘Never thought it’d turn up in Iowa.’’
Hester came through the door. ‘‘What’s happening? What’s in Iowa?’’
We told her. ‘‘Unbelievable’’ was her reaction.
Volont looked at the team leader. ‘‘Get a couple of your guys to stand guard outside the door,’’ he said, pointing at the spring-loaded partition door. His face was suddenly very sober.
The team leader pushed his mask up and off his head. I was surprised. Not only that he’d done it but that he looked like he was about forty-five, regular thin gray hair . . . in a suit he’d look like a banker. He replaced his radio headset and spoke into the mike.
About five seconds later, there was a knock on the partition.
‘‘We’re secure,’’ he said to Volont.
Volont shut the door. It was damp in the basement, but cool. It started to get warm as soon as the door was closed, between the body heat of five people and three 100-watt bulbs . . .
‘‘All right,’’ sighed Volont. ‘‘Any of this gets out without my permission and you’ll never see the light of day.’’ He looked around. ‘‘Any of you.
‘‘Well, then,’’ he continued. ‘‘About two years ago, now, there was a major theft of arms from a British Army depot in Germany. Everybody thought it was the IRA, or Red Brigade, or some sort of Red Army Faction or Baader-Meinhof sort of thing, naturally. But it turned out that it wasn’t.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘How we found that out, I’m really never gonna tell you.’’
‘‘Well . . .’’ I said.
He smiled. ‘‘Not even you, Houseman . . . could ever find that out.’’
‘‘Right,’’ said Hester. ‘‘However, there’s a gal named Sally, whom you don’t know . . .’’
‘‘Who?’’ said Volont.
‘‘My favorite dispatcher,’’ I said. ‘‘Inside joke.’’
‘‘Right.’’ He gathered his thoughts. ‘‘It so happened that the theft was committed by a neo-Nazi group based in Britain. Never before known for their expertise, I’ll be the first to tell you. Bums. But they affiliated with a group from elsewhere. Never mind where.’’
Bit by bit, he filled us in on the details. A portion of the arms had come into the United States about a year and a half ago. ATF caught a chunk of the shipment, but stuff had got away from them before they could do the raid. They had been waiting until it turned up. Tonight had been their night.
‘‘This isn’t all of it, by any means,’’ said Volont. ‘‘Less than a third, if my memory serves me.’’
‘‘Wonderful,’’ said Hester.
‘‘Not to worry,’’ said Volont. ‘‘The rest of it is with your man Gabriel, far, far away.’’
‘‘You know Gabriel, then?’’ I asked.
‘‘Know him personally,’’ said Volont.
Twenty-two
GABRIEL,’’ said Volont, ‘‘lives in Idaho at the moment. When he’s not in London or Winnipeg or Burlington, Vermont.’’
‘‘Who is he?’’ I asked.
‘‘Well,’’ he said, ‘‘his real name is Jacob Henry Nieuhauser, and he was born in Winnipeg about fifty years ago. He and his parents moved to Idaho when he was about fourteen or so.’’
As Volont explained it, Gabriel had gone to college in the United States, then joined the U.S. Army, ending up as a major with Ranger training, but not a Ranger. He’d been stationed in Europe, and made friends with some liaison officer from the British Army on the Rhine. He also made friends with some ex-Nazis in Germany. That put him in touch with the aforementioned neo-Nazi group in Britain, which got him connected with the later arms theft. He’d retired from the U.S. Army about ten years back, and had been associating with some pretty extreme people ever since. He’d been involved with Wittman in the fraud scheme that had put Wittman in prison, but he’d never been touched. He’d been connected, mostly by inference, to several subsequent schemes, and could have raised as much as twenty-five million dollars. He was currently living in a fortified camp in Idaho with about fifty dedicated followers.
‘‘That’s where we thought all these arms would be,’’ said Volont. ‘‘Certainly not here.’’
‘‘I wonder if there are any more stashes like this one,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Around here.’’
‘‘Me too,’’ I said. I looked at Volont. ‘‘What are my chances of talking to Gabriel?’’
‘‘Zilch.’’ He didn’t even hesitate. ‘‘Because you don’t know who he is, remember?’’
Shit. ‘‘Some days,’’ I said, ‘‘it seems there just aren’t enough petards to go around.’’
Volont was the only one who got it.
The team leader suddenly stiffened.
‘‘What?’’ asked Volont.
‘‘Sky One’s just been ordered back to Cedar Rapids.’’
‘‘So?’’
‘‘There seems to be a fire at the jail.’’
‘‘Bad?’’
‘‘No, doesn’t sound like it, according to the chopper. They just want ’em for security.’’
We decided to take Wittman to the Homer County jai
l and to talk to him there.
I thought Wittman was a piece of cake after being properly softened up. First thing we did, well before we got to the jail, was to call in on the radio and get an attorney coming. The Homer County sheriff had decided to bring everybody to the jail and sort things out there. As we left, George was on his cell phone, assisting his partner in Cedar Rapids in obtaining a search warrant for the Wittman farm. George was in charge of the scene until the lab and ATF people arrived to take charge of the weapons and then to begin the search for more.
There had been a computer in the house, and I was sure George would let the lab folks do all the work on that. I figured he’d had about enough of computers. Besides, Wittman seemed a lot brighter about computer security than those at the Stritch farm. We might actually have some pretty sophisticated protection on that computer.
Wittman was really scared by the time we got him to the jail. He was introduced to his attorney, who was absolutely overwhelmed by us, the accusations, and the facts of the case. He just kept staring at the TAC people as they moved through the area, securing their equipment.
Wittman agreed to talk to us. His attorney was present.
‘‘I don’t know anything about whatever it is that you’re talking about,’’ said Wittman. ‘‘You have no jurisdiction over me. I’m a free, white male over twenty-one years of age, and I don’t recognize your authority to . . .’’
‘‘Understand one thing,’’ said Volont quietly. ‘‘We have jurisdiction. Never doubt that for a moment.’’ He looked at Wittman evenly. ‘‘We had it before, when we put you away for six months. Now you’re facing life at the state level, and thirty years at the federal level.’’ Wittman looked uncomfortable. ‘‘We mean it,’’ said Volont. ‘‘And you know we do.’’
‘‘I’m from Nation County,’’ I said, ‘‘like I said out at the farm. I’m here for one reason, and that’s to find out just who pulled the trigger on the newspaperman at the Stritch farm on the 24th day of June 1996.’’
‘‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’’
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