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 hadn’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 amp;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 piece de resistance,’’ 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.’’