As he entered the terminal, he saw several instantly. They were right where they always were, high above and looking down on the masses of people. Unfortunately, the masses weren't there at a quarter past midnight. When they found the car, they would discover him on the tapes shortly thereafter. That was why he was walking with a limp and hunched shoulders. For good measure, he wrapped his right arm across his body and let his left arm hang limp. This served two purposes: first, to disguise his height and walk; second, to make them think he was wounded. Maybe they would waste some of their resources looking for him in clinics.

He looked for the baggage claim signs and took the escalator down one more level. Only one of the carousels was crowded with passengers from a recent arrival; the others were empty. Rapp went to the busy carousel, meandered about for a minute as if he was looking for his wife, and then walked out the door to the cab stand. Seven cabs were lined up, and when Rapp raised his hand, the first one in line pulled up twenty feet to his spot on the curb. Rapp sank into the back seat and pulled out his wallet. A quick glance at the dashboard told him the tank was full. In German he asked the man how much it would cost to take him to Essen, about an hour and a half one way. The cab driver smiled at the opportunity. Rapp paid the man and thanked him with a good tip. Before replacing his wallet, he took out some additional cash. As he eased back into the seat, his left hand slid under his jacket and found the grip of his 9-mm Glock.

The car pulled away from the curb, and the cab driver radioed his dispatcher that he had a fare to Essen and would check in after he dropped off his passenger. When they had cleared the airport and were back on the autobahn, Rapp slid forward, switching his gun from his left hand to his right. He placed the tip of the pistol against the back of the driver's head and in German told him to keep both hands on the steering wheel.

The driver, a tall, thin man who was close to forty, stiffened at the sudden development but kept his hands on the steering wheel. The man was a heavy smoker. Rapp could smell it on his doilies and his hair.

«If you do exactly as I say, nothing will happen to you. If you fuck up, just once, I'll put a bullet in your head and dump you in a ditch.» Rapp didn't raise his voice; he wasn't sure what words to stress in German, so he pressed the tip of the gun into the man's head and said, «Am I making myself clear?»

The driver nodded his head slowly. «Good,» Rapp replied. With his left hand, he took the cash he'd held and stuck it in front of the man's face. «Take it. We are not going to Essen. You're taking me to Frankfurt.»

After taking the money, the cab driver nodded slowly, and Rapp pulled the gun back an inch, allowing the man to straighten his head. Rapp checked the driver's credentials on the glove box. His name was Geoffrey Herman.

«Geoffrey, you're going too slow. Speed it up, and keep your eyes on the road.» Rapp watched the speedometer and asked, «Ever had this happen before?»

The driver nodded his head and croaked his reply through a pair of parched lips.

This was a good development. The man had walked through the desert and survived. «Well, I can promise you this. If you do everything I say, nothing will happen to you. I will get out of your cab, and you will have made a lot of money for driving someone to Frankfurt. If you try anything funny, you're dead. That's our deal. No negotiating.»

Geoffrey nodded enthusiastically, but he was still obviously terrified. Rapp knew he had to calm him down so they wouldn't get into an accident. «Why don't you have a cigarette and relax? We've got a long drive ahead of us.»

The driver nervously fished for his smokes and lit one up. Now came the interesting part for Rapp. He had a little more than two hours to cultivate a bond with this man. Mitch didn't like to kill people, and he would do everything possible to avoid having to off this poor sap. There was nothing Geoffrey could give the police that they couldn't get off the surveillance tapes at the airport. The only reason to kill him would be to buy more time, and Rapp hoped to do that in another way.

«Where are you from, Geoffrey?»

«Hamburg.»

«What brought you to Hanover?»

Still a little nervous, he replied flatly, «I didn't like Hamburg.»

The conversation got better over the next hour and a half. As Rapp probed, the driver loosened up. He was get- ting a good picture of who Geoffrey Herman was. They passed several police cruisers parked on the side of the autobahn. Each time, Rapp watched Geoffrey to make sure he did nothing to alert them. The driver kept his hands on the steering wheel and his eyes straight ahead. Rapp learned that Geoffrey was divorced and lived alone. He owned the r cab, and he liked working nights. It allowed him to enjoy his days and do as he pleased. He was also a recovered alcoholic, and he reasoned that it helped keep him out of the bars in the evening. The most important thing Rapp learned was that Geoffrey Herman was a convicted felon. He had spent two years in prison for robbery and had no love for the law. Rapp couldn't have been happier with the news.

It was almost two in the morning when Geoffrey announced that he should call his dispatcher. He had told her he would check in after he dropped his fare off in Essen. Rapp thought about it momentarily and asked, «Do you have to go back to the airport, or are you done for the night?»

«I'm done when I want to be done. I own the cab.»

Geoffrey should not have offered that piece of information so freely, Rapp thought. «Would it be unusual for you re to call it a night at this time?»

«Not at all. You were my last fare of the night.»

Rapp took a second to think it over and said, «Go ahead ld and call in. Tell them everything went well, and you're going to call it a night.»

Rapp watched Geoffrey dial the number on his cell phone and leaned forward to listen to the conversation. The female dispatcher sounded genuinely tired and disinterested. The call lasted no more than ten seconds. After they said goodbye, Rapp took the phone and turned it off. Watching Geoffrey's face closely, he asked, «Was that your normal dispatcher?»

Without hesitation, he nodded yes. «Her name is Sheila. I've worked with her for five years.»

Sinking back into the seat, Rapp breathed a sigh of relief. The BKA had yet to pick up his trail. If they had, they would have tried to keep Geoffrey on the phone. Rapp looked at the map on his lap and thought now might be one of those times he could push it. «Geoffrey, have you spent much time in southern Germany?»

Irene Kennedy awoke to strange sounds that could only be coming from one thing: cartoons. This had become a Saturday morning ritual. Young Thomas, or Tommy, as he was called by most of his peers, was six. The days of him calling for her when he woke up were gone. In a strange way, she missed it. He was always at his best in the morning, affectionate and cuddly. She preferred the extra hour of sleep on Saturdays, but every once in a while, she wouldn't mind having to get out of bed and rub his back and kiss him until he was ready to get out from under the covers. He was too old for that stuff now; he had told her. He had an independent streak that no doubt had come from Kennedy herself.

She sat up in bed and swung her feet onto the floor. The bedside clock told her it was 7:58. Kennedy was simple in most regards. Her pajamas for as long as she could remember were either flannel pants or boxers and whatever large T-shirt happened to be available. She was thin, maybe too thin. It wasn't intentional; she just wasn't a big eater.

In the bathroom, she turned on the water and pulled her straight brown hair into a ponytail. After scrubbing her face with a washcloth and soap for a good three minutes, she brushed her teeth and went down the hall to find Tommy right where she thought he'd sitting four feet in front of the TV in his pajamas, completely entranced by the Power Rangers blowing buildings apart. Kennedy walked around the couch and kissed the top of his head.