The Rendition (30 page)

Sylvia looked at me. “Ursula Vogt wanted to know if we were using sarin gas in Afghanistan.”

When Brinkman nodded, I said, “What did you say?”

“At first I wasn't paying that much attention. I didn't say the right thing. I said I knew we had sarin stockpiled somewhere, but I wasn't sure where. I never said we used it. She asked if we'd brought any of it to Afghanistan. I said I didn't know. She talked constantly about sarin gas. After a time I became suspicious, and finally I tumbled to what she was after.”

Sylvia said, “It was Mehling who put her up to asking these questions.”

I could visualize the situation readily enough. Kurt Mehling had baited the trap with an attractive woman. Probably most of the quotes Ursula Vogt had gotten from Brinkman were pillow talk—comments that Brinkman had made in an unguarded moment. But even a handful of taped quotes could become dynamite on the printed page and in another context—and particularly if they could be attributed to a decorated officer in America's elite Special Forces. This wasn't the first
time that a reporter had taken advantage of an unwitting member of the military in order to land a story, and almost certainly wouldn't be the last.

“Anyway, I knew I had to report what had been going on. It went up the line and eventually all the way back to D.C.”

“I was assigned to come over and determine what had happened,” Sylvia said. “After speaking with Major Brinkman, I decided to have him stay close to the Vogt woman. After that, he was working for us, trying to find out what he could about Kurt Mehling.”

I said, “But they didn't print the story back then. Why not?”

After Brinkman and Sylvia exchanged glances, Sylvia said, “That was because of Ursula Vogt. Although some people might question her methods, she was an honest reporter. Mehling had hired her away from one of the big newspapers where she'd built her reputation. She was talking to other people and began to doubt whether the United States had really used sarin after all. She told Doug she felt there was something fishy in the way the magazine had insisted she write that story. By the time she was back in Munich, she no longer believed it had really happened.”

I said, “That's why they killed her.”

“She was ready to go public with what she knew and what she thought. You brought back her complete story, Alex. It was on one of the discs. She wrote a long article describing a conspiracy to make it appear the United States had used sarin gas.

“They moved quickly. Nadaj sent Quemal to kill the Vogt woman. Although Quemal was a logical suspect, Mehling fixed the investigation, right down to pressuring the homicide cops who were assigned to the case. They were told to concentrate the investigation on Major Brinkman.”

The pieces were falling into place. When I spoke with Max shortly after arriving in Munich, he'd been wary of the case, almost as if he'd smelled a rat. And Max would have been doubly careful if he'd thought the case reflected badly on the Munich cops. Even Thiemann, Ursula Vogt's neighbor, said he thought Quemal might have been the murderer.
It was an effective job of framing an innocent man—and I could now see why Sylvia was so eager to get Brinkman out of prison.

Considering that she'd personally assigned him to stay close to Ursula Vogt, Sylvia was largely responsible for Brinkman. No wonder she pulled out all the stops to break him out of prison. Mehling was worried about what Brinkman might say if the case went to trial. But with Ursula Vogt and Brinkman both dead, Mehling could have run the sarin gas story in
Welt-Bericht
—and safely speculated that Brinkman had killed Ursula Vogt as part of a cover-up by the American government.

Who knows what else they could have written.

On the S-Bahn riding back to Munich, I realized that there was a piece of the puzzle still missing, something that Sylvia still hadn't told me. She hadn't said why it was still important for us to get our hands on Ramush Nadaj. And another question was: Why did Ursula Vogt honestly believe the United States had used sarin gas if we never had?

Something had happened back in Afghanistan that might provide the answer to both those questions. Sylvia's revelations confirmed some things I'd already suspected. But I hadn't known anything about sarin gas.

When I arrived back in the apartment, I found a text message on my cell phone: Will arrive Munich in two days. Buck.

Even though I was tired, I lay awake for most of the night, probably because I couldn't get these new revelations out of my mind. Buck had planned to talk with the senator on the Intelligence Committee, and as I tossed and turned, I wondered if he might have found out anything about sarin gas.

I was still awake when, early the next morning, the first rays of sunshine peeped through a crack in the curtains.

While I was drinking a second cup of coffee, I called Sylvia's cell phone and left a message. I figured Brinkman would be flying out of Ramstein Air Base, but using a military installation to aid an escaped prisoner would make the German government very unhappy—and would probably be the cause of a flurry of notes and protests flying back and forth across the Atlantic. It would be Sylvia's job to make sure that the German government remained none the wiser.

With Sylvia and Brinkman using the car, I decided I'd be needing wheels, and rented a black Mercedes E350 from one of the downtown agencies. But while I was on the highway that circles the city, I became aware of a blue Audi on my tail and as I went by the Olympic Stadium I speeded up, and he speeded up. When I changed lanes, he changed lanes. Whoever it was, he didn't seem concerned by the fact that I'd made him, but continued to maintain enough distance to keep me from seeing who he was. I got off the Ring and turned into Schwabing, Munich's answer to Greenwich Village. When I glanced into the mirror, I saw the Audi had reappeared, and was proceeding slowly up the narrow street.

I found a parking space twenty yards from the corner. Although the Audi went by slowly and halted a few yards beyond where I'd parked, I still couldn't get a look at the driver. I exited my car and strolled across the sidewalk to a shop window. I used the reflection to watch the other driver as he backed into an empty space. When he climbed out, I recognized Detective Paul Schneider.

I should have known. Only a cop would tail someone so obviously. I supposed the idea was to make me nervous.

Even wearing a black leather jacket and brown corduroy pants, Schneider looked like a policeman, largely from the way he walked, or swaggered—with an attitude and as if he owned the street. He waved, then with his hands in both jacket pockets and a friendly smile on his face, he came strolling up the sidewalk in my direction. As it happened, the store window I was staring into was a woman's boutique, a detail that struck him as funny.

He pointed to a dress on one of the manikins. “I think you'd look good in blue. I wonder if they have it in your size.”

I said, “In the States that's a remark that even a cop couldn't get away with.”

“What you people over there need is more law and order. More respect for people in authority.”

“How would you know?” I said.

“I spent my vacation in the States a couple of years ago—rented a motorcycle, biked around for three weeks. Enjoyed it.”

He nodded in the direction of a small café on the corner. “C'mon. You feel like a cup of coffee? I'm buying.”

Inside the café were mostly middle-aged women, all seemingly talking at once. I found a table in the rear next to the big glass window. Across the street a shapely blonde emerged from a beauty salon. As I watched, she strolled up the sidewalk.

“Not a hair out of place,” Schneider said grinning, as he placed two cups of coffee, two crullers, and a handful of napkins on the table. As he eased himself down on the chair, I realized how big he was. No question that he was a serious iron pumper.

Without preamble, he said, “You're good, Klear. Real good. And I mean that.”

I took a sip of coffee. “Good at what?” The remark sounded mildly ominous. I knew Schneider hadn't arranged this meeting just to pay me compliments.

“Let me explain. It goes back to this murder case Detective Nessler
caught. The dead Albanian in that warehouse? First, you let on to me and my partner that you've got some kind of interest in this Quemal individual because he was down in Kosovo, but you also knew that he had spent time in Afghanistan. At the same time you tell us you're here in Munich as a tourist.”

“Anything wrong with that?”

“Only that we wondered why a tourist would know anything about some character from Kosovo. Kosovo? Afghanistan? I mean, what's the connection? Of course with an American passport you're permitted to spend up to three months in the Federal Republic without a visa. No problem there. You haven't committed any crimes. But naturally, my partner and I had to wonder about your interest. And to be honest, Detective Nessler and I are still wondering.”

I nodded. “Sure. But I was also very up front about the fact I once worked over here.”

“That's true. From what I understand, you worked for the American government's radio station in the English Garden.”

“You're well informed.”

He shook his head. “Not really. I only know that because Max Peters mentioned it. Max was the police liaison with you guys for a long time.”

“Max was good at it too. He always knew how to smooth over the rough waters and keep everyone happy.”

“Max was a good cop. But that radio operation was a cover for spies and intelligence people. Everyone knows that. Not to mention all the East bloc exiles you people had working for you. Malcontents and pests, mostly. Anyway, Detective Nessler and I were willing to cut you a little slack there. And we appreciated your information that this Quemal might have had something to do with the murder at the Albanian club.”

“I was trying to help.”

“Like I say, we appreciated that. I think everyone in law enforcement agrees that we should all share information and work together. Particularly these days with all this international terrorism. Right?”

“I'm not with intelligence anymore.” I took another sip of coffee.

“Oh right, I forgot.” He smiled. “But then, Klear, something extraordinary happened.”

“What was that?”

“This Quemal, the very person you mentioned. He turns up dead, murdered by person or persons unknown.”

“Unknown? I thought you'd arrested someone.”

“Just because we arrest someone doesn't mean he's guilty. I'll be candid, Klear. I would have brought you in for questioning right then and there.”

“But you didn't.”

“It was my partner, Detective Nessler. She said she saw things differently. She thought we should concentrate the investigation on this individual who had the big public argument with Quemal just before Quemal was murdered. And, of course, there was also the matter of the murdered guy having his testicles sawed off. That made it appear as if someone was sending a message. These Balkan people will do things like that sometimes.”

“It sounds to me like the pieces all fit together. Like you have your man.”

“That's the way things appeared at first, all signs pointing to this Sedfrit individual as the murderer.”

“So?”

“We gave him a real going over. But the more I spoke with him, the more I got another impression.”

“Let me guess. He said he was innocent.” When Schneider grinned, I said, “Don't they all say that?”

“That's right. They do. No criminal wants to admit he committed a crime, and was so clumsy that even the cops were able to figure out who did it.”

“Bad for a lawbreaker's image.”

“Very bad. But Sedfrit, I have to admit, came across as a cool character, and not dumb.”

“In other words, not an individual to have a public argument with someone and then knock the person off an hour later.”

“Sedfrit has no record of violence. He settles things in other ways.”

“But still—”

“I know, I know. There's always the possibility that he might have blown his cool on this occasion, and I've factored that into the situation. Something else I've factored in is that he has an alibi of sorts.”

“What kind of alibi?”

“He was getting his arm patched up at the doctor's.” When I asked if the doctor was from Kosovo, Schneider smiled.

“If you don't think Sedfrit killed Quemal, where does that leave you?”

“It leaves us right back at square one. Because I know it's not going to do us one damn bit of good to arrest the other prime suspect.”

“Who would that be?”

“You, of course. Like I say, Klear, you're real good. I just don't see us squeezing anything like a confession out of you. You're tougher than you appear, I can tell that. But then this other thing happens.”

I took a swallow of coffee, gazed into Schneider's dark eyes. “What other thing?” I didn't like the direction in which this little talk was headed.

“Maybe I was a little slow in making the connections. This American Green Beret who'd been indicted for murdering the Vogt woman? He broke out of jail yesterday, walked out of the Police Presidium under the noses of the guards.”

“You're kidding.”

“Unfortunately, I'm not.”

“Well, maybe you can recapture him before he leaves the country.”

“We'll try, but I'm not optimistic. All he has to do is get onto one of the American military installations. They'll fly him back to the States. No problemo.”

“Hold on, Detective. Are you saying the American government would aid a murderer to escape German justice?”

“The American government is not a bunch of angels, Klear, as you and I well know. Not only that, I'm also saying that an agent of the American government may have helped this Brinkman character to break out.”