Authors: David Hagberg
Desert Fire (15 page)
THE EMBASSY OF Iraq in Bonn-Bad Godesberg was in a baroque three-story residence that had once belonged to a wealthy shipbuilder. The green copper roof was gabled, and iron-railed mock balconies fronted each of the second- and third-story windows. Some embassies had moved to Berlin, but the majority of countries still maintained the foreign missions in the old capital.
Leila's office was at the rear of the second floor. But she preferred spending most of her time either at the KwU facility, where she could keep an eye on things, or visiting with team members off-dutyâa task she had neglected for the past few days since Sarah Razmarah had been killed.
It was early when she let herself into her Spartan office. Even before she took off her coat, she picked up the telephone, dialed the communications center in the basement and asked for a secure line to Mukhabarat Headquarters in Baghdad.
While she waited for her call to go through, she phoned upstairs to Bassam abu Zwaiter's office. Zwaiter was the embassy's cultural affairs officer. In actuality he was Bonn Station chief for the Mukhabarat. His secretary agreed to have him stop down when he came in.
Her Baghdad call came through ten minutes later.
“Uncle Bashir,” she said. The connection wasn't very good, made only slightly better by the encryption. It was just eleven in the morning there.
“Leila. We're becoming very concerned. What's going on out there?”
“It's Father. I want him pulled home. Talk to the president. We must do something before it kills him.”
“We need him there, at least until these murders are cleared up,” Bashir Kahair said.
“Murders?”
“Yes, Leila. Don't you know? There has been another killing there in Bonn. Last night. It was on my wire this morning. A German television reporter who was working on a KwU story. It must have been on your overnight Interpol wire.”
She hadn't bothered to look this morning.
“She must have talked with people at the facility,” Uncle Bashir said. “Didn't you hear anything?”
She had, but she had dismissed it. “She didn't talk with any of our people, Uncle Bashir. I didn't think she was important.”
“Someone certainly did. Not more than an hour ago we received a call from Helmut Kohl himself, worried that this could have a devastating effect on our project.”
Leila sat forward, pressing the telephone to her ear. “Uncle Bashir, there are more complications.”
She quickly explained what Chief Prosecutor Schaller had told her father last night at dinner, that Roemer was making noises about the BND being behind the murder of Sarah Razmarah. The German government didn't believe it, of course.
“Impossible!” Kahair exploded. “They would not
jeopardize this project any more than we would. I'm sure it was Ahmed Pavli. You were right when you called for his removal.”
jeopardize this project any more than we would. I'm sure it was Ahmed Pavli. You were right when you called for his removal.”
“But not now, with a second murder.”
“They may not be connected,” Kahair said. “In any event it is not the BND. I know that for a fact, Leila.”
Leila closed her eyes. She understood why Roemer had been picked for the investigation. Habash was correct. “It's even more complicated than that,” she said. “Dr. Azziza is on his way to Geneva. The German investigator working on the American girl's murder is the son of Lotti Roemer, the Butcher of Dachau. He's still alive in Switzerland.”
There was a long silence on the line.
“My father has taken me off my security duties. He wants me to find Roemer's father and turn Dr. Azziza after him. Uncle Bashir?”
“What are you not telling me, Leila? What is it you are holding back?”
Leila's heart sank. “I followed Roemer to Switzerland over the weekend, to a hospital outside Bern where his father is dying.”
“And you did nothing about it, Leila? You made no report? Why didn't you call me? You know what the Germans might make of this.”
“I don't know,” she said softly.
“For once I agree with Habash. I want you to go after Lotti Roemer. His son could be Iraq's most dangerous enemy.”
THE INVESTIGATION OF the two murders was ostensibly proceeding on course along two different routes: Manning's for the City of Bonn, and Roemer's for the BKA at Chief Prosecutor Schaller's behest. Lab reports were being generated in a blizzard of paperwork, a second autopsy was being performed, and Rudi Gehrman continued to watch the comings and goings of the Iraqis through passport control.
Unofficially, however, Manning had arranged to place taps on the telephones in Whalpol's Bad Godesberg house. It would be up to Roemer to lure the BND major from Munich back to Bonn.
In the meantime, Roemer wanted to make one final check before he faced Colonel Legler with his perfidy.
The German National Television Network's Bonn studio was downtown in an ultramodern stainless-steel-and-glass building.
Kurt Bruckner's secretary had been crying. “Herr Bruckner, he is here,” she said into the intercom.
The door opened and the station manager, his jacket off, his tie loose, beckoned Roemer. “Please come in.”
Along one wall of the large office was a bank of television monitors and other electronic equipment.
“This has been a very difficult morning for us, as I am sure you can understand, Herr Roemer. The police were here not more than ten minutes ago.”
“There's just one question I'd like to ask you, Herr Bruckner. Did Fräulein Waldmann ever mention the name of Ludwig Whalpol in connection with her story?”
Bruckner couldn't hide his knowledge. The mention of Whalpol's name had an almost physical impact on him.
“I see,” Roemer said. “I must know if they actually met face to face.”
“I think I should call my attorney.”
“You are not under investigation,” Roemer said sharply.
“Still, I think it's best.”
Roemer looked around the office. “He was here, wasn't he?” he said, taking a stab in the dark.
Bruckner reacted as if he had been shot.
“When?” Roemer demanded.
“
Gott in Himmel
, what is going on? He was here, all right. Last night. Late. She'd made a tape to be aired this morning. Major Whalpol showed up and insisted that we hold off.”
Gott in Himmel
, what is going on? He was here, all right. Last night. Late. She'd made a tape to be aired this morning. Major Whalpol showed up and insisted that we hold off.”
Schaller had lied about Whalpol's being in Munich. Why?
“Joan was upset. She stormed out of here and went home.”
“I would like to see that tape, and any notes she may have made on her story.”
“Major Whalpol took them. He took everything.”
“I see. Herr Bruckner,” Roemer said gruffly. “Keep your newspeople off this story. When it is over I personally will give you an exclusive.”
“Just find Joan's killer, Investigator.”
“You can count on it.”
RUDI GEHRMAN CARRIED a bundle of computer printouts into Roemer's office. “The colonel has been asking for you.”
“What do you have?”
“Passport control.” Gehrman handed him the printouts. “There has been a lot of coming and going.”
Roemer spread the sheets out on his desk.
“This covers only the commercial carriers, unfortunately,” Gehrman was saying. “If they crossed our border by car we have no way of knowing.”
Roemer scanned the arrivals and departures on the dates just before and after Sarah Razmarah's murder. A lot of traveling had been done by Leila Kahled's father, the general, as well as his chief of staff and other high-ranking members of the team.
Roemer shook his head. “It was worth a try.” He was simply going through the motions now. The killer was almost certainly Whalpol. It would only be a matter of
time before the man made a mistake, and he and Manning would nail him.
time before the man made a mistake, and he and Manning would nail him.
“What about your friend, Major Whalpol?” Gehrman asked, lowering his voice.
“Rudi, forget about Whalpol. Forget what I said to you, forget that you ever pulled his national security file. Erase it from your mind, and no matter who asks about it, deny everything.”
Gehrman's eyes narrowed. “What's going on, Walther?”
“Stay out of it.”
“I'm a big boyâ”
“Stay out of it, Rudi, goddammit!”
Gehrman stepped back. “All right, old friend. All right.” He went to the door. “You listen to me, Walther. Don't get yourself in trouble over this. They play very rough down in Pullach.”
“Right.”
“I mean it. They know more about you than you do about them. About your past.”
COLONEL HANS LEGLER, the BKA's Chief District Investigator for the region, was an old army man, a brilliant administrator, and had risen spectacularly within the German Criminal Investigation system. He was a tall man, strong, with steel-gray hair, dark blue eyes and an erect, Prussian bearing.
Roemer presented himself, coming to attention and saluting. Bonn was the only BKA district in which such military formalities were required.
“At ease, Walther. Have a seat.”
“Sorry I missed you on Friday, sir.”
“No matter; in fact I was having dinner with Ernst Schaller. We spoke about you and this KwU business.”
“Yes, sir.”
The colonel hunched forward. “Afterwards we spoke with Helmut Kohl, who wants a resolution in short order.”
“I understand.”
Legler studied Roemer, as if coming to a decision.
“Ernst and I go way back together, Walther. We are the best of friends. We talk frequently.”
“Ernst and I go way back together, Walther. We are the best of friends. We talk frequently.”
Roemer held his silence.
“No one is above the law. But in gathering information, one must take care not to damage the fabric of our society. Do not become a zealot. In the collective German spirit, we are past all of that now.”
“Yes, sir.” Roemer could just imagine what Schaller had told Legler.
“Do you understand? Perfectly?”
“Perfectly.”
“Then there will be no need to have this sort of conversation again.”
“No, sir.”
Legler nodded. “Very well, then. Is there anything I should know about your investigation at this point? Anything I can help you with?”
“Not yet. But I expect to have a break in the case very soon.”
“Do you know who killed the young woman?”
“I have a suspect.”
“Do you have the evidence to satisfy the Chief District Prosecutor?”
“Not yet.”
“I suggest you get to it.”
“Yes, sir,” Roemer said.
“There was another murder last night. A television personality.”
“Yes.”
“I understand you were at the scene this morning.”
Roemer nodded.
“Do you believe there is a connection between the two?”
“It is very likely both women were killed by the same person.”
Legler sighed and turned in his chair to look out the window at the Chancellor's ornate residence. But he didn't say anything more, and after a second or two, Roemer let himself out.
JOAN WALDMANN'S BODY lay on the autopsy table. Dr. Sternig was there with Stanos Lotz. A strong overhead light illuminated the body, which had been cut open from sternum to pubic bone. Dr. Sternig spoke into an overhead microphone as he worked.
Roemer stood just within the doorway. He had no desire to come nearer. The place stank of formaldehyde.
Stanos Lotz looked up. “I expected you to be along sooner or later, Roemer.”
“What do you have for me?”
Dr. Sternig reached up and covered the microphone with his hand. “She was raped, just as we suspected.”
Roemer waited.
“From the sperm samples, which show the man had O positive blood, I'd say that whoever did this may have also killed and raped Sharazad Razmarah.”
Lotz pushed his glasses back up on his nose with the
back of his hand. “Ahmed Pavli was blessed with A negative blood, if that's any help.”
back of his hand. “Ahmed Pavli was blessed with A negative blood, if that's any help.”
Whalpol had the motive in each case. The worn heel of his shoe matched the bloody footprints at Sarah Razmarah's apartment. And now the blood type. Whalpol's was O positive.
“Was she pregnant?”
“No,” Dr. Sternig said.
“Good,” Roemer replied. Sarah Razmarah's pregnancy by Ahmed Pavli was just a coincidence. “Thanks.”
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