The Rendition (16 page)

When I said that, Brinkman looked surprised. Bad Tölz at one time was European headquarters for Special Forces 10th Group, before the command closed down the post and moved to a location near Stuttgart. Flint Kaserne was the name of the former installation.

“You know it?”

I nodded. “I was there too.” I figured he might warm up to me a little if he knew I'd been with Special Forces, even if my stay hadn't been all that long.

Brinkman didn't say anything, but it was clear he liked the idea
that he was talking to a former member of the brotherhood. I asked him what it was he and Ursula Vogt found to talk about.

“Well, she was a reporter, so she wanted to pick up whatever she could about the American invasion. We'd only been in country about two months then.”

“That's all it was? Just business?”

“Boy meets girl. You know how it is. Afterward, we talked about all kinds of things.”

“Politics, you mean? The world situation?”

“She wanted to know what was going on with us. With the Americans. The Germans call us Amis.”

I said, “Not as bad as some of the things we call them.”

“She was very interested in the American military. How things ran, all that kind of stuff.”

“How much did you tell her?” When he shrugged, I figured he knew she'd been pumping him. I said, “Did you two spend a lot of time together?”

He nodded. “Afterward, yeah. I ran into her in Kabul, in the Ariana Hotel.”

“How often?”

“I was part of the Special Operations force. After Tora Bora, I spent time in Kabul. We'd be going on missions all the time. But we talked, sure. I'd get back. A few times she was out there. With us.”

“Out where?”

“Out in the mountains. She had a lot of freedom. Her paper let her go pretty much where she wanted.”

“So you saw quite a bit of one another?” I had visions of the two of them sharing a sleeping bag, à la Hemingway.

He frowned. I could see he didn't like the questions.

I said, “Did you think Afghanistan was going to be your last tour?”

“I guess. But everything changed later. But, yeah, I was thinking of getting out at that time. I'd put in close to twenty years. It was time to do something else. I couldn't see the sense in going back to Bragg again. All that training gets old after a while.” He shook his head. “Fighting the war wasn't as bad as training for it.”

I nodded sympathetically. I knew what he meant. At Bad Tölz reveille was at 0345 hours and we woke up by swimming a couple of laps in an ice-cold swimming pool. “Is that the reason you wanted out? Because you didn't want to go back to Fort Bragg?”

He looked at me suspiciously, then he nodded. “Like I say, everything changed later. I went back to Afghanistan in 2003.”

I turned the conversation back to Ursula Vogt. “How come you came to Munich?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why didn't you go back to the States? That's what most guys do.”

“I'm not most guys.”

I had the feeling I was losing him. I could see I'd said something that was bothering him. After being surrounded by foreigners for so long, he liked the idea of talking English with someone, and maybe that was the main reason he was willing to see me. But he didn't like all the questions. “Munich's a nice city. I'd been stationed down in Tölz. I knew my way around.”

I thought about what Max had told me—that he'd broken up a bar. Although I wondered what might have brought that on, I decided not to mention it. A little alcohol, together with a lot of frustration, once led me to do something like that. Fortunately, First Sergeant Aubrey kept the lid on, and I got off with an Article 15 and by paying damages to the bar owner. By this time, Brinkman was frowning. I decided not to push matters. I had an idea he'd maybe be more open about things if I came around again. I'd broken the ice, or at least I hoped I had.

When I told him I was about to leave, he said, “So what's going to happen? The Krauts wanna try me for murder.”

I said, “We'll see.”

“Mr. Owen says they're arranging for another lawyer. The first one they had got sick or something.”

I didn't say anything. I had an idea the lawyer might have sensed there were more angles to this case than he wanted to handle. Or he might have been disqualified by people back in D.C.

I said, “You're innocent, and we may be able to get you off before things get that far.”

“How far?”

“To a trial.” Then I recalled my visit to Ursula Vogt's house. “One more thing.” The guard had come over and was pointing at his watch. I told him I needed another minute. He frowned, then nodded. “Did you know the handyman that worked for Miss Vogt?”

“Oh, you mean Quemal? Yeah, he came around twice when I was there. Ursula didn't like him.”

“Was that his name? Quemal?” When Brinkman nodded, I wondered whether it was the same Quemal who was with Nadaj in Kosovo. If so, he was definitely on the short list of people I hoped to one day encounter in my travels.

Brinkman thought for a moment, then said, “Ursula said her publisher arranged for the guy to come around. She said he gave her the creeps.” When I asked him what else he knew about him, he said, “Not much. I know he hung around this club—”

“Club? What kind of club?”

“An Albanian club.”

“Was this Quemal Albanian?”

“Not exactly. He spoke Albanian, but he said he came from Kosovo.”

“What was the name of the club?”

“The Kalashni Klub,” Brinkman said. “The club was called the Kalashni Klub, short for Kalashnikov, the assault rifle. There's a little sign with a picture of the weapon in front.” He smiled. “Bang, bang—if you know what I mean.”

“Where is this place?”

“On the road toward Ingolstadt. You know where that is?” I nodded, recalling that I once made a trip to Ingolstadt to pick up a new car from the Audi factory.

“You're sure of this?”

“I gave him a lift one time. We went inside. I had a schnapps, and left.” He grinned. “Lots of chicks hanging around, if you know what I mean.”

As I pushed back my chair and stood up, he looked at me but didn't say anything.

“I'll try to get back to you.” I wasn't sure when I could get in again.

“Mr. Owen said he'd come tomorrow. Can I mention I talked with you?”

“I think it'll be okay.” I knew that Owen, coming from the consulate, would have an easier time getting into the prison than I just had.

As I was leaving, I said, “
De Oppresso Liber
.” It's the Special Forces motto, and means “to free the oppressed.”

“Yeah, sure,” Brinkman said without enthusiasm. If he was thinking of himself as one of the oppressed, I couldn't blame him for that.

When I was out of the prison and driving home, I punched in Max's number on my cell phone.

“The Kalashni Klub, Max, you know it? Some kind of Albanian hangout?”

“Every cop in Munich knows the K Klub, Alex. Steer clear of the place.”

“I want to take a look, Max. And I'd like some backup. Someone who has some authority in this city.”

“No. Absolutely not. I'm retired, and I'm not accompanying you to that place.” Before I could say anything more, Max said, “I know how you operate, and I'm not getting mixed up in one of your schemes. Those days are over.”

“I don't have to go in right away. I can wait a few days—”

“Listen, Alex, and listen carefully. Things aren't like they used to be. It's not ten years ago.”

“Come off it, Max.”

“You know what I'm talking about. There are no more American Army installations here in Munich—which means no more American military people throwing their weight around.” I knew what Max was referring to. When the situation called for it, we'd bent the rules and pulled some wild over-the-top stuff, with black bag operations being the least of our stunts—things that, admittedly, I never would have dreamed of trying back in the States. I thought that some of the resentment that might have been building up inside Max over the years was finally spilling over.

“Do you understand me, Alex?”

“No, not really. I thought we were friends.”

Max made a point of not commenting. After a brief pause, he said, “I'll give you a call in a day or two. Until then, take some friendly advice—and stay away from the Kalashni Klub!”

As I drove back to the apartment, I wondered what Max might have in mind, if anything. At one time, he'd been a great guy to work with, but time had changed things.

After reporting to Sylvia on my visit to Brinkman, I found a beer in the fridge and poured out a half liter into a glass. Then I collapsed onto a chair. For some reason, I'd found the conversation with Brinkman emotionally draining. “I think I broke the ice. He trusts me, a little bit at least.”

As I took a long swallow, Sylvia eyed me with what could have been mild distaste. “Has anyone ever told you that you drink too much?”

“No,” I said, taking a long swallow and very nearly emptying the glass. The truth was, I had begun to drink too much. I'd been away from the special ops stuff for a while, maybe for too long. My nerves were drawn tight, and I needed a quick way to relax.

“Has anyone ever told you you're hard to get along with?”

“Most people say I'm very friendly and cooperative.”

“Has anyone ever called you a loose cannon?”

I didn't respond. It sounded as if Sylvia had been reading through my personnel file.

“Has anyone ever called you ‘a loose cannon to end all loose cannons'?” When she quoted the Air Force colonel, I knew she'd been reading through my personnel file.

Since we were getting personal, I could have said, “Has anyone ever referred to you as Colonel Bitch-on-Wheels?” I wisely refrained from putting any additional strain on our already strained relationship.

She crossed the room and stood at the window for a long minute, her arms folded, her back facing me. “What's he like?” she asked finally.

Much of the stuff I'd brought back from Ursula Vogt's place—folders, photos, paper—was still stacked up and spread out on the table. Sylvia had said she wanted to handle that end of things, and she'd gone through most of it.

“He's tough. He's smart. I guess you could say he's like most Green Berets.”

“How's he handling the prison situation?” She was facing me again.

“Like I say, he's in Special Forces. He's probably handled situations that were a lot worse.”

“If he's so smart, why did he become involved with Ursula?”

I said, “That's probably not so hard to figure. You've seen the pictures.”

“Did he know about her other boyfriends?” Sylvia asked.

Something occurred to me then. I sensed that Sylvia knew Brink-man personally. I remembered what Buck had said about a relationship between Sylvia and another officer while she was in Afghanistan.

“Maybe not at first,” I said. “Maybe what happened was, he tumbled to the fact that he had competition—quite a lot of competition.”

“And then he killed her? We don't like that idea.”

“But maybe it happened that way. He has a short fuse.”

“So? A lot of people have short fuses. I have one myself, but I haven't killed anyone—not yet anyway.”

“You've shown admirable restraint.”

“I'm glad you've noticed. As I said, we don't like that idea. We're here to prove Brinkman innocent, to get him out of jail.”

After a second, I said, “According to Max Peters, the German cops are positive he killed her.”

“Have the German cops ever been wrong before?”

“They're like cops everywhere. They're wrong as often as they're right.”

“You're awfully cynical.”

“When you've had as much to do with cops as I have, you'd be cynical too.”

“I doubt that, but let's not argue the point. I've been going through
some more of Ursula Vogt's stuff. She wrote a lot of notes. She also kept a diary. But one article is of particular interest.” Sylvia held up a CD.

“What is it?”

“She was writing a long article explaining her reporting in Afghanistan. She was reporting a story about a battle in the mountains—and how she'd come to change her mind about what had happened there.”

“What happened?”

Ignoring my question, Sylvia said, “I also found some notes regarding interviews with some American officers in Afghanistan that tie into this article.” Sylvia began hunting through the pile of paper on the table. Finally, she found a small notebook. Sylvia held up a small notepad. “This seems to be a record of some conversations she had with Brinkman.” After quickly leafing through it, she passed it over to me. “She used a kind of shorthand, and this slanted German writing is difficult to read.”

Sylvia was right. The notebook was nearly indecipherable.

Sylvia said, “If you look at the first page, you see Brinkman's name and some dates. I don't think she interviewed him exactly. It looks as if these notes were put down after she'd spoken with him a number of times. But they're probably a fairly accurate record of what he might have said.”

Sylvia was also right on the fact that the notebook seemed to hold a record of a number of meetings and conversations. Between the various meetings there were usually some dates and one or two blank pages. “What do you make of it?” I asked. I couldn't decipher much of it and tossed it back on the table.

“She was pumping him. Asking questions and putting down the answers afterward.” Sylvia picked up something else that was on the table, a tape cartridge. She held it up, then inserted it into a small tape player on the table. As the tape began to play, she turned up the volume.