The Rendition (24 page)

“Where could this have been taken?” I asked.

“Probably in Pakistan. In the Pushtun country. I've sent copies back to D.C., and that's what the analysts think. You're helping our people pin down Bin Laden, Alex. You'll get a medal when we catch up with him. Anyway, that's the kind of building you'd find in that area.”

“What was Mehling doing out there? Or let me put it another way: does anyone know he's been out there?”

“I doubt it,” Sylvia said. “Back in D.C., they've been asking where we got this stuff.”

As I continued to examine the picture, I said, “Who's been asking?”

“The chairman of the House Intelligence Committee, for one.”

“I hope you told him. I hope you also told him that they should boost my GS rating.”

“Take a look at the next one.”

The second picture showed Mehling standing in front of the same building, this time with a smiling blonde woman. “Ursula Vogt,” I said. When Sylvia nodded, I said, “Old home week in Pakistan.”

“Let me tell you what I make of all this, Alex. Item number one: Mehling's firm is owned by a holding company that's incorporated in Liechtenstein. Item number two: they don't want the firm's true owners to become known. Item number three: Mehling is friends with Bin Laden.”

“You're saying that
Welt-Bericht
is financially supported by Bin Laden's loot.”

“Mehling's the perfect front man. He's spent time in the States. He's very good at deflecting criticism. What he gets out of it is money. He's even got a yacht. The Bin Laden people see to it that he's able to maintain his lifestyle.”

“It adds up.”

“
Welt-Bericht
is a propaganda outlet, pure and simple. But because they hire good reporters and editors, people regard it as a news magazine. The magazine's stories are picked up all over the world, even by American news outlets.”

The third picture showed Mehling standing next to a group of mujahedeen, one of whom was Nadaj.

Sylvia said, “Mehling is almost certainly connected to the K Klub, and the K Klub is connected to Nadaj's KLA people back in Kosovo. They're connected to al-Qaeda, the Brotherhood, and whatever other terrorist organizations are out there.”

I was finally beginning to see why the National Security Council had sent Colonel Frost over here. With Bin Laden backing him, Mehling could cause all kinds of problems.

I said, “It's too bad we let Bin Laden get away at Tora Bora.”

“Bin Laden's days are numbered, believe me. We're close, and getting closer. And the next time he won't get away.”

When I again asked what Nadaj did to break the
besa,
Sylvia didn't
answer.

Instead, she said, “There's one thing that continues to worry me.” When I asked what it was, she said, “The German cops. They could spoil everything.”

As I figured it would, the murder at the Kalashni Klub made Tuesday's papers. One of the city's tabloids even ran a picture of the building.

According to the story, Quemal Sheholi, a Kosovo national, was found shot to death in a vehicle in the K Klub's parking lot. The police were still looking for witnesses. However, there were suspects. Rival Albanian gangs often resorted to violence. The police investigation was described as “continuing.”

Needless to say, I wondered what “continuing” meant—and I wondered what kind of role Irmie would be playing. Munich's
Mordkom mission,
as I recalled, had twenty-five detectives. Although they helped one another with investigations, one detective caught the case and had the responsibility of following it up to its conclusion. I can't say I was surprised when, shortly before noon, I received a call from Max.

“Call Irmie, Alex. Posthaste.”

“Do you know what it's about, Max?” I knew it was about Quemal's murder, but I didn't see where I had any choice but to play dumb.

“Have you seen the papers? There was a murder at the Kalashni Klub Sunday night.”

“Who was murdered?”

“I'll tell you who. The very guy you were asking about.”

“Quemal? Who killed him?”

“Who knows? All anybody knows is someone blew his brains out. And I mean that literally. Call Irmie, Alex. The detectives want to talk with you. They don't know how to contact you. You're supposed to be registered with the police. That's another little detail you've overlooked.”

Max was right. It's the small stuff much more than the big stuff that trips up agents on foreign assignments. I knew that well enough.

When I told Sylvia about Max's call, she said, “The police are calling you in?” When I nodded, she said, “What do you think it is?”

“I expressed an interest in Quemal, and now he's dead. Naturally, they want to talk with me. It's not anything to worry about.” I hoped I was right. I picked up the telephone and dialed police headquarters, but when I gave my name and asked for Irmie I was told she was away from her desk.

“I'm Detective Schneider. I'm running the investigation of a murder at the Kalashni Klub. Detective Nessler said she spoke with you about—”

“About the Albanian who was shot out there.”

“Right. How did you know?”

“I just got a call from Max Peters.”

“Okay. Can you come in today, say about three?” I said I could and put down the telephone. Sylvia still had a worried look on her face. I told her I had an appointment that afternoon at police headquarters.

Before she could say anything, I said, “You worry too much, Sylvia.”

“And you don't worry enough. If the German cops tumble to what's going on, we end up in the slammer. I don't like the idea of my career going down the tubes for something like this.”

If my career hadn't already gone down the tubes or up in smoke or wherever it is old careers go, I was grateful. Although I wasn't too concerned about that end of things, Sylvia was right that landing in the Kraut slammer for murder wasn't an attractive prospect.

“Tell me what Ramush Nadaj did to break the
besa
.”

“I'll tell you later.”

It was still early morning in the States, and on my way to police headquarters, I stopped to make a telephone call.

Buck and I had long ago worked out a mildly elaborate system for diminishing the possibility of an NSA analyst becoming an unwanted eavesdropper when one of us was calling the States from overseas.

From a public call box near the Romanplatz that could handle
overseas calls, I dialed Buck at home and asked if “Josie” was there. When Buck, sounding just a little sleepy, said he didn't know “anyone named Josie,” I recited the number I was supposedly calling, which was the number of the call box I wanted him to call, read backward. He was then supposed to call back from a public phone in his neighborhood.

I hung around the call box next to the Romanplatz for ten minutes before it rang.

I picked up, stuck my thumb inside my cheek, and said, “You callin' Alex he ain't here.”

“I'm happy to see you haven't forgotten all your tradecraft.”

“Some things you never forget, like always making your bed with military corners. You'll never guess who's running this operation.”

“Isn't it Jerry?”

“Colonel Frost. She showed up only hours after I arrived over here.”

“Colonel Frost reports to the deputy secretary of defense.”

“I know. I'm in exalted company. You could have knocked me over with a toothpick when she showed up. Not only that. We're sharing the same quarters. A safe house near the Hirschgarten.”

Buck was silent for a second, then said, “Be careful, Alex.”

“Don't worry. It's not gonna happen.” I wished I felt as confident as I sounded.

“Don't let it. You could end up in hot water.”

“You mean in more hot water than I'm in already?”

“What else?”

“Somebody broke into Ursula Vogt's place.” Buck would know who the “somebody” was. “It seems that there's a Kosovo connection to Ursula Vogt's murder. But that's not all. The same ‘somebody' killed the chief suspect in the Vogt murder, who happened to be one of Nadaj's KLA lieutenants. That could lead to problems.”

“Why did he do that?”

“His life was being threatened. He had no choice.” I paused. “Things have to happen quickly.”

“Things?”

“What I'm wondering is, do you still talk to the senator?” I was
referring to one of Buck's long-time contacts, a senator who was a member of the Intelligence Committee.

“From time to time.”

“I'm hoping he still owes you some favors. Colonel Frost is still very tight lipped about what happened in Afghanistan when Nadaj's people were out there. Also, anything you can dig up on Kurt Mehling.”

“The name rings a bell.”

“He's the publisher of
Welt-Bericht
. I have a feeling he's in this up to his eyebrows.”

“That's not good. A guy like that has a lot of clout.” Then, after a brief pause, Buck said, “Anything else?” He all of a sudden sounded worried.

“I saw Irmie. She's a detective now, working homicide.”

“Good for her.”

When I told Buck I was on my way to police headquarters, he said, “Tell Detective Nessler hello.” Then he added, “Be careful, Alex.” Everyone seemed to be telling me that these days. I told Buck I was grateful for whatever he could find out and that I'd get back to him.

“I suppose you know what happened,” Detective Paul Schneider said. Irmie had introduced Schneider to me as one of her colleagues on the homicide squad, and he was dominating the interview. When I told Schneider Max had mentioned a murder at the K Klub, he said, “Quemal Sheholi, a visitor from Kosovo, was shot two nights ago.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” I looked at Irmie. “I was hoping to be able to talk with him.”

I was in the detectives' office, a long room with a window at the far end. Schneider and Irmie had desks alongside one another. The shelves on the walls were lined with the kind of sturdy plastic binders you see in offices all over the European Union. On one of the shelves was a coffee machine, next to it a package of filters. I remembered that Irmie liked her coffee strong.

I also remembered that we drank a lot of coffee together in the morning on the balcony outside her apartment as we watched the sun move higher in the sky. I wondered how often she thought of those
times, if ever. Somewhere in the course of my travels I learned that women are much less sentimental than men.

I was seated on a chair facing Schneider. From behind her desk, Irmie was looking intently at me, her blue-green eyes filled with curiosity. She was wearing a pantsuit that was probably supposed to be practical but to me looked sexy. Beneath a dark-blue jacket I could see a beige blouse and, around her neck, a silver necklace. When Schneider gazed down at some papers on his desk, I stole a glance in her direction.

I was recalling a long-ago birthday when I gave Irmie a silver necklace.

“Was this a coincidence?” Schneider asked sharply. He wore rimless glasses, had a dark mustache, thinning hair, and a rugged face. He also had the kind of bull neck you see on football linemen. His white shirt was tailored to emphasize his broad chest and shoulders and to let the world know that he liked pumping iron. He'd be a tough guy in a fight. Munich cops often put me in mind of New York cops—whatever it is, you have the feeling they've seen it before. And when you're dealing with them, you want to be careful, always remembering that no matter how friendly they may be, they're never your friend.

And as with New York City cops, you're generally well advised to forget the excuses and explanations—and throw yourself on the mercy of the court. Unfortunately, in this situation that wasn't going to be possible.

“Is what a coincidence?” I was stalling, remembering Sylvia's warning to be careful what I told the police.

Schneider flashed an impatient frown, grabbed a pencil, then let it drop.

Irmie picked up Schneider's line of thought. “The fact that you asked about him only days before he got shot.”

Schneider fixed me with an unfriendly stare. “You should know, Mr. Klear, I'm skeptical about coincidences.”

I said, “I only wanted to talk with him. I didn't want to kill him.” That was true enough—but I was glad I wasn't hooked up to a lie detector.

Irmie said, “You indicated that he had some connection with the KLA. Could this murder have been politically motivated?”

I thought for a moment, then nodded. “I knew very little about him.” That, too, was true.

“But you say you wanted to talk with him,” Schneider said. “About what? What would you have said?”

“I would have asked him some questions.”

“About what?”

“About what he was doing in Afghanistan, for one thing. I would have asked what kind of connection the Kosovo independence movement has with the Taliban.”

“Do you think he would have answered questions like that, Mr. Klear?” Irmie asked.

“I don't know.” If this kind of interview were being conducted in the States, I would have refused to answer any more questions and called for a lawyer ten minutes ago. But in Germany you don't do things like that. In France, where the Napoleonic Code still applies, things are even worse. If the police deem you to be not forthcoming, you can be tossed into the cooler immediately.

“Take a guess,” Schneider said.

“He might have. You never know.”

“Suppose he didn't?” Schneider asked. “What would you have done then? Offered some encouragement?”

“We never got that far. Why bother to speculate?”

“The reason we're asking,” Irmie said, “is that when you lived over here you were attached to the American government.” When Schneider looked at her, she added, “Mr. Klear told me that.” When I nodded, Schneider frowned, started tapping with his pencil. Irmie said, “We're concerned that you're not planning to do anything unlawful.”