Desert Fire (19 page)

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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Desert Fire
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ROEMER WALKED BACK across the courtyard, but instead of going up to his office, he got his car. In forcing the issue, the first step had been his formal request for a search warrant. The second had been accomplished with Schaller's telephone call. Roemer had no doubt that the Chief District Prosecutor had called Whalpol. Now that Schaller knew there was a tap on Whalpol's telephone, he would be arranging a meeting with the BND major. Roemer wished he could be present at that tête-à-tête, a little bird in the corner. They would talk about how to stop Roemer before any real damage was done. Schaller was running scared. But Whalpol was the real danger.
Roemer crossed the Kennedy Bridge, the traffic quite heavy this morning, the riverbanks lined with dirty snow.
Murder was a crime relatively simple to solve. In ninety percent of the cases, the killer and victim were
related either by blood, marriage or some close emotional tie.
When the killer was smart and the motive obscure, however, the only way he could be caught was if he made a mistake. Mistakes were made under stress, natural or contrived.
Roemer turned up the Siegburgerstrasse and then the Bonnerstrasse before he halted near the driveway to the Klauber estate. He lit a cigarette to calm his nerves.
Up behind the estate, Roemer could make out the roofline of the small house from which Whalpol's surveillance team was watching. Undoubtedly they had spotted Roemer on the Bonnerstrasse. Coming on the heels of Schaller's disturbing call, Roemer's showing up here would enrage Whalpol.
Roemer was running out of time. His focus was beginning to shift to Switzerland. No matter how the situation with his father turned out, it would not be satisfactory. He did not want the murderer to slip through his fingers as well. General Sherif had only to get on a plane and fly back to Baghdad, where he would be safe.
Roemer cranked down his window, flipped his cigarette away and drove up the driveway to the front of the three-story house, which looked big enough to hold a medieval army.
He got out of the car, straightened his tie and went to the front door. He was about to knock when the door swung open.
One of the German house staff faced him.
“Guten Morgen.”
Roemer showed his BKA identification. “I would like to speak with General Sherif.”
“Of course.”
Roemer followed the servant to a large room beyond the main stairhall, a book-lined study with a wide leather-topped desk and a huge fireplace. French doors led to a veranda at the side of the house.
“If you will just wait here, Investigator, I will announce you to the general.” The servant left.
Roemer started across the room. He stopped in mid-stride. The desk was a mess. Papers were scattered, an ashtray overflowing, a ring of keys next to a wooden tray containing two gold objects. His eyes locked on the tray. It was unbelievable. The man's arrogance was even greater than Whalpol's.
An angry voice rose in the hall. Roemer grabbed the two gold cuff links from the wooden tray. They were heavy and square, with three stars in bas-relief. Roemer pocketed them and stepped away from the desk as General Sherif barged in, an imperious, angry scowl on his face. He was dressed in a thick wool sweater over a casual shirt.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded in English.
“I'm Investigator Walther Roemer from the—”
“I know who you are.”
A heavyset man appeared at the doorway behind the general. Colonel Habash, Roemer assumed.
“I've come to ask a few questions, General.”
“Concerning what?”
“The murders of two young women the past week.”
General Sherif's left eyebrow rose. “Have you a search warrant to enter my home?”
“No, sir. I'd hoped you would cooperate with me in my investigation, so I took the liberty—”
“Leave immediately, Investigator.” The general stepped away from the door.
“Just one or two questions, about Jerusalem and the Irgun. I understand that—”
“Colonel Habash,” the general said, without taking his eyes off Roemer.
“Sir?”
“Telephone Helmut Kohl, and tell him that I would like a word with him.”
“Yes, sir.” Colonel Habash walked past Roemer and picked up the desk telephone.
“That won't be necessary,” Roemer said. “I'll leave. For now.” Habash stared at him coldly as he went.
Roemer got into his car and headed down the driveway. General Sherif stood at the open French doors watching him.
LEILA THOUGHT A lot about Walther Roemer on the long drive to Switzerland. By the time she crossed the border at Basel she'd come to no firm conclusion other than the simple one that she was confused. Jacob Wadud's gibe—
What if it were your own father?
—kept drumming through her mind.
She had hoped that by the sheer act of movement her resolve would solidify. That by doing her duty, driving to Interlaken, finding Roemer's father and reporting the location to Azziza, she would rid herself of her troubles. She would not stick around for the outcome. Despite what Lotti Roemer was, she wouldn't have the stomach for a murder or kidnapping. She would return to Bonn, pack her things and leave immediately for Baghdad. There was a place for her at Al Kumait on the Tigris, where she would bury herself for a few weeks or months —whatever it took to put everything in perspective. By then the KwU project would be completed, her father would return home and she would get back to work.
Worst of all was that she knew Roemer would despise her for what she was doing. He would understand why she was doing it, but at the sanatorium she had seen anguish on his face. Lotti Roemer, the Butcher of Dachau, was all he had.
Interlaken, a lovely town of about five thousand people, lay in the valley between the lakes of Thun and Brienz, amid vast, wild mountain scenery.
Leila arrived at noon and got a room with a magnificent view on the fifteenth floor of the Hotel Metropole. Among the few things in her overnight bag were her files and notes on Walther Roemer and his father, including the incident at the sanatorium.
She taped the files to the underside of a bureau drawer and went up to the hotel's top-floor bar and restaurant, where she ordered a glass of wine, French onion soup and a croissant.
This lovely place was so different from what Baghdad had become. Beautiful. Peaceful. Open. There seemed no room here for violence. Yet it was coming.
After her lunch she dawdled over a cigarette and coffee. She was being a fool. Lotti Roemer had killed thousands of people, even if they were Jews. Jews, not Zionists. The man's death would free the son from his influence. For Iraq's safety, it was as simple and as necessary as that.
Leila took the elevator down to the lobby and got directions to the town hall, just off Interlaken's main, tree-lined boulevard, the Höheweg.
It was just three blocks from the hotel, in a splendid, ornate old mountain chalet.
The clerk of property records was alone behind his counter on the second floor. He was an old man with thick glasses and thinning white hair.
“Good afternoon, Fräulein,” he said in heavily accented Swiss-German.
Herr Walkmann,
the nurse in the sanatorium had shouted at Roemer. For just a moment her resolve
weakened. “I've just come from Bonn, on behalf of Walther Walkmann.”
“Yes?”
“I've been sent to pay the taxes on the Walkmann property here in Interlaken.”
The clerk squinted. “Walther Walkmann? I don't know …”
“Perhaps the property is in his father's name. I'm not sure.”
“You must mean Lotti Walkmann.”
Leila stayed calm. She nodded.
“But the taxes have been paid. Max Rilke was here … perhaps eight weeks ago. Nine. They are paid, Fräulein.”
Leila acted confused. “That cannot be. I have personally driven all this way at Herr Walkmann's … the son's instructions. He was quite concerned.”
“I am quite certain.”
“Please, if you could just check your records. It has been a terribly long drive.”
“Of course.” He shuffled into a back room.
The outer office was small. Behind a narrow wooden counter were two desks and a couple of ancient file cabinets. The place smelled musty.
The clerk came back with a large ledger, which he opened on the counter.
“See for yourself, Fräulein. The taxes on the Walkmann property have been paid. In full and on time, as usual.”
Leila ran her finger down the columns as if she were checking amounts and dates, but she was staring at the top of the page, the address. The property was listed under the name of Lotti Bernard Walkmann, a Swiss citizen. The land and house had been purchased in 1941. The address given was Jungfraujochstrasse, No. 15, Interlaken.
She looked up. “I'm sorry, but it seems as if my trip all the way down here was for nothing.”
“You say Bonn, Fräulein?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you would like me to call Herr Walkmann.”
“That won't be necessary. I had planned on stopping out there to pay my regards anyway.”
“I see,” the old man said. He had become suspicious. The Swiss had a penchant for order. Leila's story had not been neat.
“Thank you very much for your kind help,” Leila said, smiling warmly. “I'm sorry to have been such a bother.”
“Of course,” the clerk said coolly.
Leila left the office and started downstairs, but she stopped. The building was very quiet. She could hear someone talking on the telephone. She hurried back up the stairs.
The clerk, his back to the door, was speaking on the telephone, and although she could not make out what he was saying, she could hear the urgency in his tone.
Lotti Roemer had come here with a lot of money, for which the Swiss would treat him as a favored citizen. He was apparently being warned about her presence.
Leila turned, hurried back downstairs and left the town hall. She had two choices, now that she had located Lotti Roemer. She could go out to the house and confront the old man tonight. There would be a fight, but she could handle herself against the sick old man and his sergeant. Or she could call Khodr Azziza at the Geneva number she had been given by Colonel Habash, and return to Bonn. In that event she would be clear of the issue. She would not have to be present when the end came for Walther Roemer's father.
BY THE TIME she arrived back at the hotel, Leila decided to telephone Dr. Azziza in Geneva. The moment she opened her door she knew something was wrong. She fumbled in her purse for her gun when Khodr Azziza appeared from the corner by the window. She froze.
Azziza was a wiry man with jet-black hair, thick eyebrows and black, piercing eyes. His lips were thin, his nose sharp. He was smiling, but there was no warmth to his smile.
“If you're going to shoot me, Leila, get it over with. Otherwise come in and shut the door. We should talk.”
“What are you doing here?” She closed the door behind her.
He had searched the room. The bureau was open, her files spread out on the bed. “Have you found Herr Walkmann … the elder, that is?”
“I thought you were in Geneva.”
“Habash telephoned me. Told me you got information from Gretchen Krause.”
They had a monitor on her telephone at the embassy. That meant Zwaiter was in on it, a sickening realization. Yet she could hardly blame them. The Butcher of Dachau was quite a prize for them just now, and it was evident to those around her that she wasn't thinking straight.
“Are you here to kill him?” she asked.
Azziza's back was to the window. He was silhouetted in the strong sunlight. “I understand the man may be too old and sick to be moved. A termination would probably be for the best. I don't relish the idea of carting a dead body back to Baghdad.”
Azziza radiated a chill. He was of the Hasson al-Sabbath, the ancient assassins. She shivered.
“I see,” Azziza said, evidently reading her expression. He languidly lit a cigarette. He was dressed in dark trousers, a light shirt, dark leather jacket and soft leather boots.
“He's dying,” Leila said. “He probably hasn't got a month to live.”
“Tell that to the men, women and children he killed.”
“What do you care? They were Jews!”
His eyes flashed. “I do not kill innocent people. You're young, you have no conception of what I am.”
He moved out of the direct light. Leila tried to put an age on him, but he could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty.
“He wasn't one of the worst ones, but we do know he personally tortured and killed at least a hundred men and women with his own hands. And undoubtedly he signed the orders for several thousand more to die in the gas chambers.”
“Killing him won't do anything for us.”
“No.” Azziza smiled sadly. “Killing him will simply deny him another month or so of life.”
“If he is dying, maybe it would be better to let him suffer.”
“You don't know a thing, little girl, so prim and pretty. Life isn't given up so easily. We fight for our last breath.
Believe me, I know.” He laughed. “I've been called a soldier.”
“You enjoy it.”
Azziza's face tensed. For a moment Leila feared for her own life.
Then he relaxed. “It was a good piece of work you did, following the son to Bern, picking up the Walkmann name. And I can understand why you didn't pursue it then and there, though Colonel Habash is at a loss.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You are in love with him,” Azziza said casually.
Leila felt as if she had been punched in the gut.
“It was also a nice bit of work tracking down Interlaken from his girlfriend. I must say, he has terrible luck with women. But then, all the good ones do.” Azziza smiled. “Don't look so surprised. I happen to agree with Jacob Wadud. Walther Roemer is one of the good ones.”
“Someone on our KwU team has probably murdered two young women,” Leila blurted.
Azziza nodded. “You may be right, little girl. But that is not my assignment. Walther Roemer will find the killer. His father is my concern. You can make it easy or difficult. Where did you fly this morning, little bird? Who did you talk with?”
“His sergeant is with him.”
“Max Rilke. A tough old bastard.”
“Will you kill him too?”
“I expect he will get in the way.”
“And the house staff? There may be nurses.”
“Who did you talk with this morning, Leila?” Azziza stopped within an arm's length of her. He smelled faintly of cloves. His aura seemed to produce an electric current that paralyzed her.
“Who are you protecting, Leila? The son?”
“Jungfraujochstrasse,” Leila said softly.
“Number?”
“Fifteen.”
“And this information came from whom?”
“The clerk of property records. I asked about taxes on the place.”
Azziza nodded. Gently, he touched her cheek with his cool fingertips. The gesture shocked her. She reared back, bumping her head on the door.
Azziza took her arm and led her away from the door. “Get in your car now, little girl, and drive away. Don't look back.”
He stepped to the ashtray by the window, picked out his two cigarette butts and pocketed them. He put on a pair of thin leather gloves, then went to the door.
“What if his son comes down here?”
Azziza turned back, a distant look in his eyes. “Pray he doesn't, little girl. He is one I have no desire to kill.”
He left. For a long time Leila stared at the door, numb. Then she roused herself enough to gather her things and repack her overnight bag.
The Butcher of Dachau was as good as dead. Azziza would wait until tonight and go in under cover of darkness. The property clerk's call would put them on their guard. They would not run, however. The dying old man was too sick to be moved so soon after the trip from the sanatorium. His sergeant would be on the lookout tonight. Azziza had called him a tough old bastard. But it wasn't likely he'd be able to stop the assassin.
Leila went down to the desk, where she paid her bill, assuring the curious clerk that nothing was wrong with her room or the service; urgent business had come up.
She drove out of the city. The cold sky was crystal clear, the sun bright at this altitude. Her involvement with Lotti Roemer was over. It was time to go home. To forget.
On the superhighway toward Bern, she let her mind drift to the warmth of the Tigris Valley. There was work for her there. A million years ago, she had been trained as a nurse. Whenever she went back to her adopted home she opened the tiny clinic, and all the sturdy Bedouins, who for most of the year were as healthy as pack animals,
suddenly came down with everything from sprained ankles to mysterious backaches and migraine headaches. She didn't mind. She enjoyed the busywork. The camaraderie of the clinic. But it was also lonely. Uncle Bashir visited from time to time, but always came with an assignment for her. Something for her special talents.
She pounded the steering wheel. It wasn't fair. Where was the love? Where were the bells and the golden path that led out to some garden of togetherness?
Against her will, Walther Roemer's strong, good face swam before her mind's eye. Impossible, she told herself. Utterly impossible.
“What if his son comes down here?”
Her own words.
“Pray he doesn't, little girl. He is one I have no desire to kill.”
The property clerk had probably called Sergeant Rilke. Would Rilke, fearing the worst, have called Walther Roemer?

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