Desert Fire (10 page)
Authors: David Hagberg
ROEMER OPENED THE door for Leila Kahled, and it struck him in that instant how like a pocket Tintoretto she looked. Her dark hair was up, her eyes were wide and her lips were moist. She was a painting. But clearly she was upset.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Investigator,” she said in perfect German. She looked beyond him into the apartment. “May I come in? Or perhaps you have company?”
“No, please come in.” Roemer stepped aside.
She brushed past him into the apartment, a faint odor of perfume wafting after her.
Roemer closed the door. “Would you care for coffee, perhaps a glass of wine, Fräulein Kahled?”
“This is not a social visit. I want what you took from Ahmed Pavli's apartment.”
“I don't have it.” Roemer turned and went into the kitchen, leaving her standing there.
“Then you admit you took something from the apartment,” Leila said, coming to the doorway.
Roemer poured himself a small cognac. “Sure you wouldn't like a drink, or do you adhere to your religion?”
“I asked you a question, Investigator.”
He took his time answering. He sipped the brandy. “Ahmed Pavli was a suspect in a murder investigation.”
“Don't be a fool, he didn't kill that girl.”
“They were lovers, weren't they? They worked together.”
Leila's eyes narrowed. “What gave you that idea, Investigator?”
Roemer smiled. “I'm curious about one thing here. Just what is an Iraqi national doing at KwU? Building nuclear reactors, perhaps? You were aware that Sarah Razmarah had been brought here from the United States to work at KwU.”
“I wonder if you understand the significance of what you are saying,” Leila said evenly.
She was beautiful. She didn't look like a cop or a spy. In fact, she could pass for a mannequin. French. Very chic.
“I understand the significance of murder,” he said. “Did you know she was pregnant?”
Leila sucked in her breath.
“No, I did not know it. Was it Ahmed Pavli's child?”
“We'll know after the autopsy.”
She took a deep breath and sighed. “I think I'll have that cognac now.”
Roemer poured the German brandy, and they went back into the living room, where he took her coat and hung it in the vestibule. She glanced over the record albums by the stereo, his collection of classical music mixed with Gretchen's American and British rock.
“An odd combination,” Leila said.
“For an investigator or a German?”
She turned to him. “Let's not be at odds here. Please. This is simply too important.”
“Then we need some honesty between us,” Roemer replied.
They sat down, Leila on the couch, her long, lovely legs crossed demurely, and Roemer perched on the arm of a heavy easy chair.
“Evidently you have been briefed by someone in your government,” Leila said.
“I understand essentially what is going on at KwU,” Roemer said dryly.
“You were told about me?”
“Ostensibly you are an Iraqi Federal Police officer, here with your father. In actuality, I was told, you are chief of security on the Iraqi team.”
Something flashed in Leila's eyes. Disbelief? She knew he had been briefed, but he had not mentioned the Mukhabarat, and she might not suspect that the BND had talked to him.
“What of Lieutenant Manning's investigation?” she asked.
“He understands that Ahmed Pavli and Sarah Razmarah worked at KwU, but he is not aware of the extent of your project.”
“Which, as far as your murder investigation is concerned, is superfluous.”
Roemer thought about the impression in Sarah Razmarah's palm. Had it been too obvious?
Leila sat forward, an earnest expression in her eyes. “Ahmed told me he was in love with her. I tried to discourage it, of course.”
“Of course.”
“It's not what you think, Investigator,” she said sharply. “I knew that man. He came from a very good family. He was honest, sincere, bright.”
“And troubled.”
She nodded. “He had a conscience.”
Roemer suspected that Leila, like Major Whalpol, was an expedient person. It was part of the business. “Was Sarah sleeping with anyone else on your team?”
“Not that I was aware of,” Leila said carefully. “Do you believe someone from our team killed her?”
“Pavli.”
“Other than him.”
“When her body was discovered, we went looking for her car. We found it at the KwU parking lot. It had been sabotaged not to run. Someone drove her home.”
“That is a large company. There are more than ten thousand Germans and other nationals working there.”
“She worked on your project, with your team.” He kept thinking about the footprints in the blood.
Leila got up. A strand of hair had come loose and lay across her forehead. It made her seem fragile.
“I'd like my coat now, and whatever it was you took from Pavli's apartment,” she said.
“It was his diary, but I don't have it.”
“You have read it?”
“It's in Arabic.”
“Where is it now?” she demanded.
“It is off for translation. I will personally see that you are provided with a copy.”
She stared at him in disbelief.
“It may be material to my investigation,” Roemer said.
“That book very likely contains sensitive Iraqi state material.”
“This is not Iraq, Fräulein Kahled. This is Germany, and it is my investigation.”
“We'll see,” she snapped, and she turned on her heel and went to the vestibule, where she grabbed her coat.
Roemer did not move from the arm of the chair. He raised his glass. “Nice seeing you again,” he said softly. She was beautiful, but she was a bitch.
She let herself out without looking back, and Roemer finished his drink in one swallow. He put the glass down, went to the window and watched her drive away. She might try to pressure Ernst Schaller for the return of the diary, but he doubted it. She would, however, undoubtedly
warn the Iraqi team members that a German police investigator suspected one of them of murdering Sarah Razmarah. Or at least he hoped she would.
warn the Iraqi team members that a German police investigator suspected one of them of murdering Sarah Razmarah. Or at least he hoped she would.
Meanwhile, there was Gretchen. He turned away from the window. He should feel bad that he was losing her. But he did not. They'd had a few good years. In a way he felt relieved.
ROEMER PICKED THE lock on the downstairs mail slot and retrieved the envelope containing Pavli's diary. Then he drove downtown, arriving at his office well after six. Gehrman was getting ready to leave. He walked across the quiet operations room into Roemer's office.
“You don't look much the worse for wear,” he said.
“Is Colonel Legler still here?”
Gehrman shook his head. “He left early, some dinner function somewhere. But he still insisted on seeing you first thing in the morning.”
Roemer took off his jacket and hung it over his chair. “How about you, Rudi, are you up to some overtime?”
“I was afraid you were going to say something like that,” the operations chief said, but his eyes were bright. He loved a mystery. The more complicated the better. He had once said: “I should have been a scientist. Figuring out the universe has to be a hell of a lot easier than unraveling human motivations.”
“Anything yet on our friend Major Whalpol?”
Gehrman laughed. “What the hell, Walther, it's only been two hours!”
Roemer waited.
“Shit. I could never hold out on you. It came up twenty minutes ago. It's locked in my desk. Manning's report came over too.” Gehrman went across to his office as Roemer opened the envelope he had addressed to himself and pulled out Pavli's diary.
The entries started nine months ago, presumably when Pavli had been assigned to the KwU project, and continued until the night before his suicide.
Throughout the book Roemer caught references to Sarah Razmarah, as well as to a lot of other people by initials. Near the end, however, another name was spelled out in the Latin alphabet: Ludwig Whalpol. Pavli knew Whalpol.
Gehrman returned with two file folders, one thick and the other quite thin.
Roemer looked up. It was stunning. Pavli had known about Whalpol for at least two months.
“What is it, Walther? Christ, are you all right?”
“Who can we get up here right now to translate from the Arabic?”
Gehrman's eyes went to the diary in Roemer's hands. “Janet Hölderlin, downstairs in research. She was here as of half an hour ago.”
“Get her up here,” Roemer growled. He was suddenly having a bad feeling that he had been set up. That he, and not Manning, had been dragged into this thing as window dressing.
Gehrman left to make the call, and Roemer opened Whalpol's dossier in the thin file folder. There were only two sheets of paper: one listing his vitals, including his date and place of birth, his height, weight and blood type (O positive), his educational history, his employment background and his present assignment and addresses. He had houses in Munich and here in Bonnâin Bad
Godesberg. He had set Sarah up there so that he could be close to her. It was very cozy.
Godesberg. He had set Sarah up there so that he could be close to her. It was very cozy.
The second document, marked “Confidential,” contained a more extensive outline of Whalpol's background, with emphasis on friends and acquaintances. This was a summary report of Whalpol's background investigation at his time of entry into the BND.
None of it was any help. Whalpol was who he presented himself to be, a loyal, hardworking German who had spent most of his career with soft assignments. No assassinations, no battlefields for him. He was an agent runner specializing in industrial espionage.
“She's on her way up,” Gehrman said at the door. “What else have you got?”
“I want you to put a flag on some passports. I want to know if and when they leave the country.”
“How many of them?”
“One hundred and twenty-six.” Roemer handed over the dossier on the Iraqi team.
Gehrman whistled when he opened the folder and looked at the names. “I think it's time for that explanation now. This is a BND file. A lot of trouble could come from this.”
“A young girl spying on the Iraqis for Whalpol was murdered.”
“One of these Iraqis killed her?”
“It was made to look like that, Rudi.”
“Then this assignment belongs to the BND.”
“It was given to me by them. By Whalpol himself.”
Gehrman's eyes went automatically to Whalpol's dossier, then to the diary. “The one who killed himself?”
“He was spying on us for the Iraqis. He and the girl were lovers.”
Gehrman shook his head. “Listen to me, Walther, we don't belong on this mountain. Dump it in Colonel Legler's lap. Let him make the right noises.”
“We're already involved in it, don't kid yourself.”
“I don't know.”
“Don't fold on me now, Rudi. I need you. With any luck this will be all over by tomorrow.”
“Do you know who killed her?” Gehrman asked. “The Iraqi?”
“Get the flag on those passports. But under no circumstances are any of those people to be detained. I just want to know when they come and go.”
Gehrman shrugged. “I think you are crazy, but what the hell, so am I.”
JANET HÃLDERLIN WAS a shirttail relative of the German poet. She was in her late thirties, mousy, a little dumpy, never married. But she was very bright. She could read and write in fourteen languages.
“I want you to listen very carefully to me, Janet, because this matter is of extreme importance,” Roemer began once she was seated.
Her glasses slipped down on her nose. She pushed them up and nodded.
Gehrman brought in a tape recorder and Roemer turned it on.
“I have something that I would like you to translate from the Arabic, orally. But when you are finished, you will leave everything you have seen or heard in this office. You will take no notes, and afterwards you will speak to no one about this. Do you understand?”
The woman looked from Roemer to Gehrman, who stood by the door, and then back again, before she
pushed at her glasses. She nodded. “It is a police matter?”
pushed at her glasses. She nodded. “It is a police matter?”
“Exactly,” Roemer said. He picked up Pavli's diary. “This is a diary of a man who committed suicide recently. The man may also have been involved in a homicide. There may be clues here material to the investigation.”
The woman nodded again, nervously.
“I must warn you of one other thing, Janet. There will be information that may be quite startling to you. Perhaps confusing. That should not be your concern. I merely want you to be a translator.”
“Anything I can do to help, sir.”
Roemer handed her the diary, then sat back and lit a cigarette.
Perched on the edge of the seat, her knees primly together, she opened the leather-bound book and scanned the first couple of pages. “A lot of this is in code, sir,” she said. “Initials and things like that.”
“For instance?”
She indicated the first page. “The very first entry says: âP. was at it again, and we've only been here two weeks from seven.'”
“That's all right,” Roemer said. “Just go through the book for me. We'll figure out the code later.”
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