The Rendition (33 page)

Irmie frowned. “Why would she be in Munich?”

And why would she be trying to locate me except to get rid of someone who's causing them too many problems? I thought about that for a second. At the same time, I was very aware of Irmie watching me, her eyes full of curiosity. Her hand was resting on the table, and I had all I could do not to reach out and take hold of it.

I said, “I have an idea that the camera over the door at the K Klub took my picture. The KLA is running that place.”

By not reporting the weapon, Irmie had put her future at risk.

Did she do it because she knew Doug Brinkman was innocent?

Or did she do it for me?

Irmie didn't say anything as I picked up the weapon and put it in my pocket. We both knew it wouldn't be wise to leave it in her possession.

I suddenly felt keyed up, combative, and self-confident—and ready to take on the world if necessary. Maybe that Air Force colonel hit the nail on the head when, in a long-ago evaluation, he called me a “loose cannon to end all loose cannons” and a “danger to myself and to everyone in the vicinity.” Well, the person who might want to consider me a danger now was Kurt Mehling.

I thought of Tania, the woman at the K Klub. “They know I killed Quemal. They're using the picture to find me.” When Irmie didn't respond, I said, “Could you call this woman in again?” When Irmie nodded, I said, “I think it's important that I get a fix on her before she gets a fix on me. Also, let me know how I can reach Sedfrit.”

Irmie stood up, and at the door I told her good night.

My last sight of her before she clicked the door shut was of her very round blue-green eyes and a few errant strands of blonde hair. On the drive home, I saw streaks of red and gold in the sky, the first signs of light in the east. I was having trouble not only believing that I'd seen Irmie again, but that, for whatever reason, she'd saved me from being charged with murder.

Four hours after I'd arrived back at the apartment, the phone woke me out of an uneasy sleep. “I'm at the airport,” Buck Romero said. “Just stepped off the plane, and I'm hungry.”

“I'm on my way. There's a café in the arrivals terminal where you can get some breakfast.”

Forty-five minutes later, at a few minutes before nine a.m., Buck and I were shaking hands. Next to the table were a small suitcase and a carry-on. My old partner travels light. I told him it was good seeing him again. Another understatement.

After a second cup of coffee and getting past the small talk, I told Buck I had a possible murder rap hanging over my head. He arched both eyebrows.

“If it wasn't for Irmie, I might be in jail right now.” I explained how Irmie's partner, Paul Schneider, suspected me of having killed Quemal Sheholi at the K Klub and how Irmie had found the murder weapon but not reported it.

“What does Irmie see in you anyway?”

“I'm not sure she sees anything in me. She says she had other reasons for not turning in the gun. She suspected Brinkman was being framed.”

“And she thought you were about to get the same treatment? She wanted to be sure?”

“Something like that.” I got to my feet and grabbed Buck's suitcase. “Let's get out of here. You can probably use a little shut-eye.”

Back at the safe house, I gave Buck the bed Sylvia had vacated. I
assumed he hadn't slept on the plane because a few minutes after arriving in our place he was sound asleep.

Shortly afterward, the telephone rang.

“Alex?” Irmie's voice. “The woman is in my office.”

“Keep her there for twenty minutes. I'll be waiting outside.”

“That shouldn't be a problem. She likes to talk.”

There was some uncertainty in Irmie's tone. I couldn't blame her if she was wondering whether she'd done the right thing by not reporting finding the gun. Even I had to wonder if that had been a smart thing to do.

With my camera in my jacket pocket, I arrived downtown well in advance of when I expected Vickie to leave police headquarters. Ten minutes went by before a snazzily dressed woman emerged from the police building.

It was Vickie, but I very nearly didn't recognize her. With her dark hair hanging to her shoulders and wearing a gabardine rain coat, she definitely looked different from the woman I'd encountered in Kosovo, where she'd been dressed in black camouflage fatigues. As she went, she pulled a cell phone from her purse and held a brief conversation.

Who was she anyway? I remembered Sylvia's story of how she'd managed to blackmail an American businessman. Not only had she pressured him into making large contributions to the Kosovo Liberation Army, she'd manipulated him past the point where he could live with himself—and he'd ended up taking his own life.

She seemed to know her way around. Without hesitation, she turned to her right on leaving the police building, then headed in the direction of the Frauenkirche, which is one of Munich's downtown tourist attractions. After a brisk five-minute walk, she arrived at the Promenadeplatz, a wide square that is the location of an array of expensive shops and boutiques. It's also the location of the Bayerischer Hof, one of Munich's most fashionable hotels. As I watched, she greeted a uniformed doorman, who smiled and rushed to open the door.

When I arrived a minute later, he let me push open the door myself.

It was a few minutes before noon, and the hotel's ornate atrium lobby that has an enormous glass roof was alive with people. Turning left at the front desk, I walked through the lobby, looked around. It took a few minutes before I again was able to locate Vickie. She'd removed her coat and found herself a seat on a sofa in one of the lobby's adjoining lounges. One thing I was able to determine, even with her fashionable boots on, was that Vickie had nice legs. She had them crossed and was leafing through a magazine.

I considered sitting down next to her on the sofa. “Oh, hi. Don't we know one another?” Resisting that urge, I positioned myself behind her and waited. It looked as if she had agreed to meet someone here and that she was early.

She only had to wait five minutes before a lanky individual with fashionably long hair and wearing a dark-blue suit materialized. He seemed familiar, but it took me a minute to place his face. Although I'd been hearing a great deal about Kurt Mehling and had seen him answering questions on television, I was seeing him in the flesh for the first time. He took Vickie's hand, gave her a chaste brush on the cheek, and they sat down. While they were chatting, I circled around and snapped a pair of pictures. After about five minutes, they stood up and, both looking very serious, walked together to the Garden Restaurant, the large Mediterranean-style eating place adjoining the hotel's lobby. From a point in the lobby outside the door of the restaurant, I watched the headwaiter lead them to a booth opposite the large green plants at the center of the room.

Through the entrance I could see the table at which they were seated. They were definitely a power couple. When the waiter arrived, Mehling pointed to the wine card and carried on a brief discussion, no doubt about vintages.

Seated in one of the lobby's comfortable armchairs, I thought things over for perhaps five minutes. The Garden was a fashionable restaurant and not a place in which I wanted to make a scene or, for that matter, a fool of myself. But the way I now saw things, this opportunity was too good to pass up. At a haberdasher's in the lobby, I acquired a gray necktie that the clerk said was a perfect match for my blue sports
jacket and which set me back nearly a week's salary. As I walked through the corridor toward the restaurant, I recalled, in Leadership School, a grizzled old sergeant explaining at length the many ways in which the element of surprise can work in your favor.

Of course, he was talking about heavily fortified enemy positions and not five-star restaurants.

Entering the restaurant, I went by the headwaiter with a nod.

I approached the table so that Vickie saw me first. When I halted, pretending surprise, her eyes widened.

“Vickie!” I flashed a broad smile. “What a surprise! It's nice seeing you again.”

Trying to conceal her astonishment, she frowned, then stuck a napkin in front of her mouth. She might have turned a shade paler. Mehling, who had a wine glass in his hand, looked at me, obviously puzzled.

“May I?” As I eased my way into the booth, I said in English, “Vickie, you look wonderful. Life in Munich must agree with you.” I noticed that her teeth looked better than they had in Kosovo. “Shouldn't you introduce me to your associate?”

Recovering very nicely, Vickie said, “Mr. Klear, isn't it? Alex Klear?”

“You have a good memory, Vickie.”

“This is Kurt Mehling, Mr. Klear.”

“The publisher?” When Mehling nodded, I said, “I'm delighted. Vickie and I know one another from Kosovo.”

Mehling's expression clouded.

Vickie leaned forward. “This is the individual I've been telling you about, Kurt.”

“The gentleman from Kosovo?” Mehling couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice. When Vickie nodded, he looked at me. “Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

I couldn't help thinking that that old sergeant was right about the element of surprise. For a few seconds, Mehling's mouth hung open and his eyes remained wide. He recovered quickly. Smiling, he said, “From what I understand, you had quite an exciting time there.”

“Exciting isn't the word for it, Mr. Mehling.”

“Kurt. Please call me Kurt. We're all friends here.”

I said to Vickie, “How are things in Kosovo, Vickie? How is Ra-mush?” I looked at Mehling and smiled. “Ramush Nadaj. He's another friend.”

Mehling told a passing waiter to bring another wine glass. He'd effortlessly morphed into the perfect host.

“You do get around, Vickie,” I said.

“You also seem to get around,” Mehling said.

“I guess you could say that, Kurt. It's such a small world. Wouldn't you agree?”

Mehling said quickly, “It certainly is. Very small.”

As the waiter poured, Mehling said, “Pinot Noir from Marlborough, New Zealand.” After we'd all taken a sip, he looked at me. “What brings you to Munich? Business? Pleasure?”

“Pure pleasure. There's so much for a tourist to do here.”

“There is indeed.”

“Museums, galleries, castles.” I nodded at Vickie. “Old friends.”

Smiling, Mehling said, “Have you been doing anything besides visiting museums and galleries?”

Mehling's question was an indirect reference to my having helped break Brinkman out of jail. He wanted me to know that he knew. I was sure that Vickie had described me to Mehling in detail. He might also have guessed that I'd killed Quemal.

I decided to pop a question of my own. “I heard you lost one of your reporters a while back. Is it true she was murdered?”

Mehling nodded. “Ursula Vogt. Yes, she worked for me. Her death was a tragedy.”

“Her murderer escaped jail,” Vickie said.

“That's terrible,” I said. “Perhaps he'll be caught.”

“Perhaps,” Mehling said. He looked at me questioningly.

“I heard a rumor that Miss Vogt no longer believed the story she was reporting was accurate. Is that right?”

“I wouldn't know about that.”

I took another small sip of wine, glanced at my watch. “I'm afraid I have to run.”

“Are you sure? We'd be delighted to have you join us for lunch.”

“Perhaps another time. Thank you for the invitation and the wine.”

I'd gotten Mehling interested, and that was all I wanted to do. He couldn't be sure how much I knew. Or how much support I might have. Looking at Vickie, I said, “It's been nice seeing you. I'm sure we'll run into one another again.”

As I got to my feet, Mehling also stood up. As I stepped away from the table, he moved with me, then placed his hand on my shoulder. He removed a business card from his billfold. “That's my private number. I'd like to continue this conversation. Call, why don't you, Alex? This evening would be fine.”

I nodded a goodbye, and he nodded back. It was impossible not to be amused by Mehling's and Vickie's continuing astonishment. The sergeant in Leadership School certainly knew what he was talking about.

“My name is Klear, and I'm a representative of the American government and was with the American president when he visited Albania last June. I want to speak with Sedfrit Sulja.”

It was three hours after my meeting with Mehling and Vickie, and I was standing in the living room of our apartment, my cell phone in my hand. According to Irmie, Sedfrit Sulja was a major player in the Independence for Kosovo movement.

“What do you wish to speak with Mr. Sulja about?” The woman on the other end spoke German with an Albanian accent.

“About independence for Kosovo. My colleague and I were with the president during his visit to Albania last year.”

“Mr. Sulja is not here at the moment.”

I said, “When you speak with Mr. Sulja, tell him that a representative from the American government has just arrived from Washington, D.C., and wishes to speak with him about independence for Kosovo.”

After I'd hung up, Buck asked, “Why speak with him?”

“It's a long shot, but I'm wondering if he might be willing to reveal the whereabouts of Ramush Nadaj.”

Buck frowned. “From what the senator told me, there's talk that in the new government Nadaj will be nominated for a cabinet position.”

“Did the senator say anything about sarin gas?” Buck had indicated that he'd had dinner two nights before with one of the members of the Senate Intelligence Committee.

“No one's supposed to know about sarin gas. It's too deadly.”

“The first I heard about it was from Brinkman. Sylvia would never mention it.”