They were seated in a quiet gausthaus outside of the main gate for Seventh Army Headquarters in Stuttgart. King had driven Thorpe directly here from the airport and they'd waited over two hours for the other man to appear, an indication of the German's unhappiness about the meeting. Rotzinger was wearing tan slacks with a black T-shirt under a sports jacket. The coat was well tailored, as Thorpe could barely make out the bulge under the left armpit where Rotzinger's gun was concealed.
He knew GSG-9 members carried the Heckler & Koch P7, a rather radical pistol. The cocking mechanism, which was usually a slide in most pistols, was a lever along the front of the grip, which meant a firer could draw the gun and cock it with the trigger hand. Rotzinger's eyes had the shaded look of someone who had fired his weapon at live targets.
"It is good to meet you, Major," Thorpe said in German.
"It is not good for me," Rotzinger said in perfect English.
"Pleasantries are over," King said with a worried smile.
Rotzinger shifted his hard gaze to the master sergeant. "I owe you and I owe Sergeant Major Dublowski. That is why I am here. Let us get this over with."
"What can you tell me about the names you were given?" Thorpe asked.
Rotzinger splayed large hands on the top of the table and he seemed interested in only his fingernails. "They were American family members. Under the jurisdiction of your Criminal Investigation Division."
"Who disappeared in German jurisdiction," Thorpe said.
"Many people disappear," Rotzinger said. "Many Germans disappear."
"They were girls," Thorpe said. "Do you have children, Major?"
"I am not here to play emotional heartstring games," Rotzinger said.
"Why the hell are you here, then?" Thorpe leaned forward, getting close to the German. "You're a policeman, aren't you?"
"You know where I work," Rotzinger said. "I am not a flatfoot or whatever you call your regular police."
Thorpe knew he meant that GSG-9, part of Germany's border police, was a special unit designed specifically for antiterrorism work after the disaster at the 1972 Munich Olympics. They were Germany's equivalent of the army's Delta Force and the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team.
"You started as a cop," Thorpe said.
"The girls disappeared," Rotzinger said with a shrug. "It was investigated. Nothing turned up."
"One of those girls is the daughter of a friend of mine." Thorpe held himself back with a great effort. "Dan Dublowski's daughter."
"Do you know the problems we have here?" Rotzinger asked. "Everyone thinks it is so great now that the Berlin Wall is down. More than the Berlin Wall came down. We had to take in the East. With most of their police, their military now out of work. And their criminals still working. More terrain to cover. More border. Plus being that much closer to the scum in the other Eastern Bloc countries. It is a terrible mess."
Thorpe bore the outburst with strained patience. "Anything, anything you could tell me to help find her would be greatly appreciated."
"I know nothing that can help you," Rotzinger stood. "Good day, gentlemen."
"Asshole," Thorpe muttered at the broad back of the German as he left the bar.
King was also watching. "Something's wrong."
"What's that?"
"Rotzinger is a hard-core guy. No bullshit. And he owes me and Dan big-time. I think he does know something."
"I don't get it," Thorpe said. "Why wouldn't he tell us if he did?"
"Your guess is as good as mine." King stood. "Let's get you checked in on post. Let me get hold of him on my own and see if I can't get something out of him."
As they left the bar, neither man noticed the surveillance team parked across the street. The team was concealed inside a delivery van, using a camera built into the rack on the top to observe.
Thorpe and King also didn't notice the small man at the bar who had entered just after them and watched them covertly the entire time. The small man, though, did notice the van parked outside and he waited until the van left before leaving the bar himself.
Parker opened the door and was greeted by the vision of Sergeant Major Dublowski in civilian clothes. It was four in the morning and the pounding on the door to her BOQ room had gone on for a while before she'd roused herself.
"Dan!" She hadn't seen him in a long time, since the debriefings for the Omega Missile incident. He'd aged more than the time that had passed. "What's going on?"
"Colonel," Dublowski nodded. "It's Takamura."
"Thorpe's friend?"
"He's dead. I got a call from a buddy in the county sheriff's office. They found my phone number on the body. They're out at the accident scene right now and we can make it before they remove the body if we hurry."
Parker was still trying to process the first sentence. "Dead?"
"Yes." Dublowski looked at his watch. "We need to get moving."
Parker went to the closet and stepped inside the crowded space. She began dressing as she spoke. "What happened?"
"His car hit a tree."
"An accident?"
"He wasn't wearing a seat belt and he appears to have been drinking."
"Shit," Parker muttered. "He was supposed to be running the list using the profile I brought, not out partying."
"He wasn't out partying," Dublowski said in a sharp tone that drew Parker up short as she reached for her jacket "He called me an hour ago. Said he'd uncovered something. We were supposed to meet outside the Ranch this morning and he was going to give me it, whatever it is. I don't think he just hopped up, jumped in his car, and ran into a tree just for the hell of it."
Parker zipped up a jacket. "Let's go."
The drive was made in the numb silence that two people awakened in the middle of the night to tragedy sink into. They arrived at the scene of the accident a half hour after leaving the BOQ.
"He must have been coming back to the main post." Dublowski spoke the first words in that time as they pulled up and were bathed in the flashing lights from the various emergency vehicles.
Dublowski led the way, greeting his man in the sheriff's office with a cup of hot coffee he'd purchased on the way there. "What do you have, Sam?"
Sam eyed Parker distrustfully. His black face was deeply creased from his years patrolling the county, one of the drug byways in the 1-95 corridor. His once-dark hair was now stark white and cut tight against his skull under his Sam Browne hat.
"She's all right," Dublowski said. "I'll vouch for her. She's from the Pentagon."
Sam pulled up the lid on the coffee and took a sip as he considered that. He nodded his head toward the smashed car. "Head-on with a stationary object. The car lost. Not good for the occupant, particularly without a seat belt. On the site cause of death is a broken neck. Coroner will have to confirm that, plus do a tox screen. They're going to pull the body now." He led the way toward the car.
Parker had seen death before, and she'd never met Takamura, but the young man splattered against the tree, his broken body on the crumpled hood of his car, caused her to pause before following.
"You can smell the beer," Sam continued. "Couple of empties in the car. Besides being tanked up, he might have been trying to do too many things at once."
"What do you mean?" Dublowski asked.
Sam walked around the front of the car. He pointed at Takamura's left hand. A cell phone was gripped in the dead fingers. A cord was attached to it.
"There's something else," Sam said.
"What's that?" Dublowski asked.
The sheriff pointed to the left side of the BMW. "Paint marks. I think someone might have helped your friend off the road. Unless, of course, he's been driving around with the side of his car all dented up. We also got some bumper work in the rear that looks like someone hit the car from behind. Green car, looks like."