Authors: David Hagberg
Desert Fire (11 page)
ROEMER SAT ALONE in his dark office, smoking a cigarette. He looked out his window at the deserted streets. He was tired again, and his arm was aching.
He was disgusted. He had listened to parts of the tape three times now. There was little to be gained by going over it again. Nothing would change.
Ahmed Pavli had known about Ludwig Whalpol. Sarah or someone had told him everything. About how she had been recruited, and how she had been brought in to spy with Pavli as her main target.
Roemer inhaled deeply and coughed, the smoke burning his raw throat. He felt like hell.
Pavli wrote in his diary that he had not understood Sarah until he had spoken with LK ⦠Leila Kahled? Afterward he had gone back to Sarah and told her everything, including the fact that he too was a spy.
And a few days later Sarah was dead. The spy gone bad had been murdered, and then raped after she was dead.
A pregnant woman brutally battered. Where was the motive beyond the obvious?
A pregnant woman brutally battered. Where was the motive beyond the obvious?
Gehrman had reluctantly gone home a couple of hours ago, after he had confirmed that flags had been placed on the Iraqi passports. The further they got into this business the unhappier he became.
“We're playing with fire, Walther,” he had said after Janet was gone. “Leave it for Legler in the morning. He'll know what to do.”
“You worry too much, Rudi. Go home. Your supper will be cold and your children worried. There's nothing left to do here tonight.”
Gehrman shook his head. “You dumb bastard. Why don't you and Gretchen come for dinner on Sunday?”
“I don't think so.”
“Are things going badly again?”
“Gretchen is gone for the weekend. Some conference up in Berlin.” He thought about Kai Bauer, who'd be fucking her. It embarrassed him more than it hurt.
“How about you, then? Marlene and the children would love it if you came.”
Roemer smiled. “No thanks, I'd just as soon be alone this weekend. I have a few things to do.”
“I understand.” Gehrman went to shut off the lights in his office. Before he left he stopped back. “Listen, Walther, if there is anything you need, give me a call at home. I'm not going anywhere tonight.”
Roemer nodded.
“I mean it,” Gehrman said. “And for God's sake, don't stay here all night.”
Â
Roemer went through Manning's police report, page by page. There was a lot of detail from the search of Sarah's apartment, testimony from her neighbors (including the observation that her only two regular visitors were men, Pavli and Whalpol), the preliminary forensics results, as well as several photographs of her body and of the bloody footprints, with the comment that they had been
made by a man and that the right heel of his shoe was worn down.
made by a man and that the right heel of his shoe was worn down.
The telephone rang.
It was Manning. “There was no answer at your apartment, so I figured you'd be in your office,” the KP cop said gruffly. “Sternig brought up the autopsy reports. The child was Pavli's. We're ninety-five percent sure.”
“How about the semen on the girl's legs. Pavli's?”
“No. Wrong blood type. His was A negative.”
“Then Pavli didn't kill her.”
“It's not likely.”
“Anything else?”
Manning hesitated. “I could ask you that, Roemer, but I don't suppose you'd offer much.”
“I may have something for you tomorrow.”
“Yes?” Manning said eagerly.
“Tomorrow,” Roemer said firmly. Manning would be feeling the squeeze now. He had tried twice to dump the case onto the BKA, and had failed both times. They'd be getting pretty desperate over there, wondering what the hell they had gotten themselves into. But it was murder, and they would have to go through the motions. Knowing Manning, the motions would be extensive and methodical, if unimaginative.
“We still haven't found out where he got the pistol. It is a three-fifty-seven magnum. American-made. Unusual.”
“It wasn't registered?”
“No.” Manning laughed derisively. “You saw the impression on her palm. How many Iraqis are running around Bonn just now that she would know, besides that bunch at KwU she was associated with? Don't worry, Roemer, I know goddamned well where I'm going to find her killer. Only I can't get to them. Not through ordinary channels.”
“I might be able to help with that,” Roemer said.
“Yes?”
“Tomorrow.”
Roemer sat at his desk for a long time, staring at the photographs of the bloody footprints they had found in Sarah's apartment and on the stairs. Poor Sarah, he thought. Was it possible to tell in advance which people were doomed by their own natures to such endings? Most murder victims had one thing in common ⦠at least the non-random victims did. They lived dangerous lives. They surrounded themselves with unstable, violent people. They got themselves involved in dangerous situations in dangerous places. But they never really knew it. It was like the man who complained he had been robbed. He could not understand why it had happened to him. He had walked down a dangerous street late at night, alone, wearing expensive clothes and carrying a lot of money. He was a mark. So had Sarah been a mark.
IT WAS NEARLY one in the morning by the time Roemer drove to Bad Godesberg, finding an address off the Hinterholerstrasse in an area of narrow, tree-lined streets. A lot of the foreign diplomats working in Bonn lived in this section. And there was a lot of old money here.
He parked his car across the street a half-block from the two-story brownstone house. No lights shone from the windows.
For a long time Roemer just sat there, watching the house. With the car's heater turned off, it was cold. But not as cold as the grave.
He smoked a cigarette, and when he was done he picked up the telephone and gave the mobile operator Whalpol's number. He stared at the house as he waited for the connection to be made. Whalpol lived alone. He did not have a house staff. But he had two homes, which meant if he was in residence in Munich at the moment (which supposedly was the case), this place would be empty.
The telephone rang a dozen times before Roemer hung up. Ernst Schaller had seemed frightened of Whalpol, and of whomever he had spoken with on the telephone the other night. Why? He wasn't a stupid man. There was a lot of this business that the Chief District Prosecutor knew but that had not been presented that night.
Roemer got out of his car, hunched up his coat collar against the chill wind, crossed the street and, keeping within the shadows, walked up to Whalpol's house. He let himself in the gate and went to the front door.
The door was secured by an ordinary tumbler lock. Roemer studied it a moment in the dim light, then took a thin leather case out of his jacket pocket, opened it and selected a long, thin stainless-steel pick. A number six. The lock was stiff with the cold, so it took him nearly two minutes to get it slipped. He pushed the door open a few centimeters with his foot.
The house was quiet. There were no lights, nor were there any audible alarms.
Roemer slipped inside, closed and locked the door, then moved silently through the vestibule into a narrow stairhall. The living room was to the right.
Walking on the balls of his feet, Roemer went up the stairs, which opened onto a short corridor, two doors on either side. A faint odor of perfume, cologne or soap lingered above a mustiness. This house was not used very much, but someone had been here. Recently.
The first room appeared to be a guest room; two chairs and a table, a bed, a chest of drawers and a
Schrank,
empty. The second contained boxes of books stacked in one corner. The third, at the end of the corridor, was a small bathroom, and the fourth, on the right, was the master bedroom, with a wide bed, a big chest and a very large
Schrank
against the far wall.
Schrank,
empty. The second contained boxes of books stacked in one corner. The third, at the end of the corridor, was a small bathroom, and the fourth, on the right, was the master bedroom, with a wide bed, a big chest and a very large
Schrank
against the far wall.
Roemer went to the window, which looked out over a rear courtyard, and pulled the heavy curtains tightly shut. Then he turned on the light and opened the
Schrank
. Several shirts and trousers were hung on one
side, two of Whalpol's old-fashioned suits on the other. On the floor of the big wardrobe were three pairs of shoes, two pairs black and one brown, all of them substantial oxfords with heavy soles and thick leather heels.
Schrank
. Several shirts and trousers were hung on one
side, two of Whalpol's old-fashioned suits on the other. On the floor of the big wardrobe were three pairs of shoes, two pairs black and one brown, all of them substantial oxfords with heavy soles and thick leather heels.
One pair of the black shoes was nearly new, but the other black pair and the brown ones were much older. The right heel on each pair was worn down.
Roemer took both right shoes out of the
Schrank
and held them up to the light. The brown shoe was clean, the black was dusty. The brown shoe had been recently cleaned. The sole and heel had been scrubbed.
Schrank
and held them up to the light. The brown shoe was clean, the black was dusty. The brown shoe had been recently cleaned. The sole and heel had been scrubbed.
Sarah Razmarah's face had been crushed as if someone wearing heavy shoes had stomped her to death. Christ, Roemer thought. Why had they asked him to investigate? What had they wanted him to find? How much control had they expected to exert over him?
He set the brown shoe aside for the moment and, no longer giving a damn how much noise he was making, began searching the room, ripping drawers open.
Quickly he found the jewelry box in the top drawer of the chest. For a moment he just looked at it, as if the thing were diseased. Whalpol was arrogant, but was he stupid?
The jewelry box contained a half dozen sets of inexpensive cuff links, a few tie tacks, a gold cigarette lighter, a thin silver chain.
The cuff links were not here, only the shoe. The damning, arrogant shoe.
By the time he left, at nearly three-thirty, it had begun to snow. The roads were slippery, and the Königswinter Bridge over the Rhine was beginning to ice up. Below, the dark river was choppy in the wind, the snow disappearing at an angle into the broad, black maw. The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the sons; the line kept drumming in his head. Bonn suddenly seemed a dark, frightening city.
CHIEF DISTRICT PROSECUTOR Ernst Schaller, dressed in a bathrobe and slippers, his hair mussed, his eyes still clouded by sleep, answered the door.
“You,” he said.
“You'd better let me in,” Roemer said ominously.
“What's this, for God's sake, Roemer? Have you any idea of the time?”
“Ludwig Whalpol killed that girl because she fell in love with an Iraqi spy.”
“Good Lord.” Schaller staggered backward.
Roemer followed him into the house and closed the door. Schaller seemed genuinely frightened of him. His eyes were wide and he seemed suddenly unable to talk.
“Do you understand what I am saying to you, Chief Prosecutor?” Roemer had a harsh, flat edge on his voice. “I have your murderer for you, and now I wish to be withdrawn.”
Schaller glanced toward the head of the stairs. “Keep your voice down.”
“I shall present my evidence, and then I shall leave.” Schaller shook his head. “It's quite impossible, you know. Ludwig Whalpol is not a killer ⦔ He broke off, a sheepish expression crossing his face, as if he had said something stupid.
“This is a BND matter,” Roemer said. “It was from the very beginning. It is not something for me.”
Schaller noticed that Roemer was holding several files and a shoe. “I don't want any of that.”
“Neither do I.”
“Have you got enough evidence for me to go to trial?”
Roemer laughed. “This will never go to trial. You know that. You and the good major sat in your study and told me as much.”
“Don't be absurd, Roemer. A murder has been committed. If ⦠if an officer of the government, or anyone for that matter, is implicated we will go to trial. It's the very reason you were picked for this assignment. I knew you would find your man.”
“But not Whalpol?”
“I don't think so. I can't imagine it, under the circumstances.”
“If it were true, what then, Chief Prosecutor?”
“Then he would be arrested and placed on trial, as a matter of procedure, of course.”
“Why me?”
“The very question I was about to ask you,” Schaller said. “If Whalpol had killed this young girl, why in heaven's name would he ask for the premier investigator in Germany?”
“Because he's an arrogant bastard who believes he can't be found out.”
Schaller was becoming more sure of himself. “What is your evidence against him? This shoe?”
“I took it from his closet. It will match the footprints at the young woman's apartment.”
“And if it does, so what? He discovered the body. He recovered the file.” Schaller shook his head. “Even if he
were the murderer and I knew it for a fact, I still could not go to trial on the basis of a heel print.”
were the murderer and I knew it for a fact, I still could not go to trial on the basis of a heel print.”
“I wasn't asking for a trial, Chief Prosecutor,” Roemer said. “I merely asked that I be withdrawn from the case. It is clearly a BND matter ⦠unless, of course, you want me to pass my information along to Lieutenant Manning.”
“Don't be a fool!”
“There may be another problem.”
“Yes.”
“Leila Kahled, who is chief of security for the Iraqi team at KwU, came to my apartment to see me. She is the Mukhabarat chief here. Major Whalpol's counterpart.”
“Go on,” Schaller said, grim-lipped.
“She knows who and what Whalpol is, and she knows he recruited Sarah Razmarah to spy on them.”
Schaller seemed to consider it for a moment, but then he smiled. “I don't think you will have too much of a problem with Fräulein Kahled. I'll speak to her personally. I'm having dinner with her and her father on Sunday evening. It was scheduled for last night, but he was recalled to Baghdad unexpectedly.”
“I don't understand. Do you know who this woman is?”
“Yes.”
“And that there is a very good possibility that Whalpol murdered Sarah Razmarah because she was giving away our secrets?”
“I know that you've made that wild accusation.”
Roemer didn't think he could dislike anyone more than he disliked the Chief Prosecutor at that moment.
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