The Rendition (36 page)

Buck said, “From what we hear, Bin Laden won't be around much longer. I spoke recently with someone from Special Operations Command in Fort Bragg. Bin Laden's enjoying the hospitality of some people in Pakistan, but he won't be enjoying it for much longer.”

Max shook his head. “Mehling could turn out to be as tough to take down as Bin Laden is. People fear him, important people.”

At sometime around two a.m., we called it a day. I told Irmie I'd drive her home, and Max offered to drive Buck back to the safe house.

Alone with Irmie in my car, my mood changed completely. In fact, the other stuff all at once didn't seem that important. I felt I had so much to say to her, and I wondered whether she felt the same way. I wasn't sure that she did.

“There's a question I have to ask you, Irmie.” She turned to look at me. “Why did you risk your life during that bank robbery?”

“I don't know, Alex. It was a long time ago. Why do you ask?”

“Did it have anything to do with me?”

“I have a question to ask you. Why did you leave so suddenly? You went back to the States without—without even saying goodbye.”

I let a minute go by before I answered. “I was under a lot of pressure. The job was getting to me. I have to admit that I wasn't thinking clearly.” I paused. “I intended to come back. I only needed some time to think.”

“You never did come back. You wrote a letter.”

“You were in the hospital.” I paused. “Then I was reassigned.”

“Just because you were reassigned doesn't mean you couldn't have come back.”

I thought about that. Irmie was right. But by then, I'd heard the story of how Irmie had charged into the bank. That action was nearly suicidal. Had she been trying to kill herself because she thought I'd abandoned her? I found that notion hard to confront. I suppose that was the reason I didn't want to go back.

“I knew you were under pressure, Alex. I sensed it. You never spoke much about your work. And when you did, it was usually some kind of offhand remark.”

As I drove, I tried to re-create those years in my mind—what it was like and what I was thinking. What was it that led me to leave so suddenly?

Irmie's expression clouded over. “I wasn't important to you. I was just someone you met at a party.”

I remembered the Christmas party hosted by the police president
on one of the upper floors of the Police Presidium. Irmie was new to the Munich police force, and I'd never seen her before. After exchanging a few words at the buffet, I joined her at a table where she was sitting with a couple of girlfriends. I couldn't keep my eyes off her, and I guess that was apparent. Suddenly, the most important thing in the world was that I take her home.

And that I see her again. And that I get to know her.

Those things all happened, and our lives together went on from there.

Why did everything go so wrong?

At the door, Irmie extended her hand. “Good night, Alex,” she said. There was a sparkle in her eyes and I thought just the trace of a smile at the corners of her mouth. I was holding her hand, but as I drew her toward me and tried to kiss her, she raised her hand, keeping me at a distance.

On the drive back to the apartment, I was reminded of a book I'd read for a high school English class. All I could remember of the book was that the main character, who gave fabulous parties and addressed everyone as “Old Sport,” was obsessed by the idea of reclaiming the past, the years during which he'd been separated from the woman he loved. Since it was so obvious that his efforts were doomed to failure, I found the book unrealistic and hard to comprehend. But now, as I thought about Irmie and what might have been, the book took on a significance that had eluded me when I was fifteen years old.

“Trafficking in women must be a good business,” Buck said.

Buck was eyeing Sedfrit Sulja's house, a chalet-type building situated on the outskirts of the city of Garmisch. Just beyond the house was a small grove of trees, many of them birch. We were in the rented Mercedes, waiting for a guy to unlock the chain leading onto the concrete apron that served as a parking area.

“I still say he's not going to tell us anything.” Buck was dressed in a blue blazer, white shirt, red tie, and gray trousers. He looked every inch the role he was going to play—a highly placed official of the American government who had been with the president when he visited Albania the previous June.

The truth was, I shared Buck's pessimism. That morning a woman named Fabiola had called me back to invite us to have lunch with Sedfrit at his house in Garmisch. Sedfrit had caused the stir at the K Klub by getting in a knife fight with Quemal and his friends and had briefly been a suspect in Quemal's murder. Since he was an influential figure in Kosovo's independence struggle, I was hoping he'd give us some clue to the whereabouts of Ramush Nadaj. Even if it was only a one in-a-thousand shot, I thought it might be worth taking.

As we parked the car, Buck said, “Kosovars live and die by the
Kanun
. Whatever Sedfrit may think of Nadaj, he's not going to give up anything, not to us.”

It had been a while since I'd been in Garmisch, which lies directly at the foot of the Zugspitz, one of Europe's highest peaks. When Munich hosted the Olympics in 1972, the year eleven Israeli athletes were
killed by a terrorist group called Black September, the skiing events had been held in Garmisch. With its proximity to the Alps, Garmisch is one of Europe's well-known winter resorts.

After I'd parked, we made our way around the house to an enclosed terrace in the rear. Seated at a long table was a massive individual with a mop of black curly hair and a bushy beard, who I remembered from my visit to the Kalashni Klub. It was Sedfrit, who was now wearing a tan sports shirt, white pants, and around his neck, an impressive collection of gold chains. Next to Sedfrit was a young woman, who was very thin and quite attractive, and I wondered about her relationship to Sedfrit. She had brown hair cut short and wore a short-sleeved white dress.

“I'm Fabiola,” she said. “This is Sedfrit Sulja.”

Sedfrit stood up and stuck out his hand. “
Mirëseer'dhët!”
Welcome.

After I'd introduced Buck, Fabiola poured wine for each of us. Speaking English, Fabiola said, “Sedfrit wants to drink to independence for Kosovo.” I said that was a fine idea.

I asked Fabiola if the house belonged to Sedfrit, and when she said it did, I wasn't surprised. Although he was a generous supporter of the Kosovo Liberation Army, there seemed to be plenty left over for things like an expensive home.

A minute later, a male servant dressed in an apron arrived carrying a tray and placed a large bowl of salad on the table. Sedfrit pointed at the salad and said, “
Ha!
”

Looking at Buck, I said, “
Ha
means eat.”

I knew we wouldn't be able to talk until we'd polished off the food.

After the salad, we were served lamb covered with gravy. The servant also brought a fresh bottle of wine.

Afterward, he brought coffee and a bottle of slivovitz.

Translating for Sedfrit, Fabiola said, “Sedfrit says the people of Kosovo are good people.”

“If the people of Kosovo are good people,” I said, “why were some of them fighting against the United States in Afghanistan?”

When Fabiola said that, Sedfrit's face clouded. Fabiola said, “Sedfrit wants to know what you mean.”

“Ramush Nadaj led a detachment of KLA soldiers in eastern Afghanistan.” When Sedfrit shrugged, I said, “Does Sedfrit know they died?”

“In the struggle for independence people must die,” Fabiola translated. She began doodling on a pad, and there was something in her expression that told me she was very troubled.

This was Buck's signal to chime in. “The United States will not support Kosovo's bid for independence if Kosovo remains united with the Taliban.”

Sedfrit banged a big fist on the table and glared at Buck. I heard the word
budalla.
When I told Buck a
budalla
is a fool, he grimaced.

Raising my voice, I said, “I want to know the whereabouts of Ra-mush Nadaj. Where is he, Sedfrit?”

“Ramush Nadaj,” Fabiola translated, “is a hero to the people of—”

Buck looked at his watch, then stood up.

I still hadn't given up and motioned to Buck to sit back down. “Ramush Nadaj broke the
besa,
Sedfrit. Tell me where he is!”

Sedfrit began mumbling and toying with the bottle. Fabiola said, “Sedfrit says he does not know the whereabouts of Ramush Nadaj.”

When I said, “Tell Sedfrit the American government knows he sends money to support the Kosovo Liberation Army,” Sedfrit began to laugh.

Then Fabiola said, “Sedfrit wonders who you are. He says you don't know much about what your government wants.”

“This is a waste of time,” Buck said angrily. “All we're getting here is a goddamned runaround.” Again he stood up.

Sedfrit said something to Fabiola, who said something in return. I picked up
bu'rri inxe'hur—
which meant something along the lines of “the guy's very angry.”

Sedfrit laughed and waved at Buck dismissively. Fabiola seemed upset. Quietly, she said to me, “Sedfrit does not fear you or your threats.”

This conversation wasn't going the way I'd hoped.

I said, “My companion is from the State Department, and he is the specialist for Balkan policy.”

Glaring at me, Sedfrit said,
“Nuk ju besoj'!”
I don't believe you! I
didn't need Fabiola to translate that. Then she said, “Sedfrit says Kosovo will declare its independence—and the United States will support Kosovo's independence!”

Sedfrit poured himself another slivovitz, raised his glass and said,
“Pavarësi' per Kosova!”
Independence for Kosovo! Then he glared.

When Buck said, “Let's get out of here!” Fabiola nodded. No one said goodbye.

As Fabiola silently led us back around the house toward our car, she lost her balance and stumbled against me.

Back in the car, Buck said, “I can't say I'm surprised.”

As I drove slowly back toward the gate, I glanced into the mirror. In front of the house, a lonely figure stood on the terrace. It was Fabiola. Standing alone with the wind whipping her hair and skirt, she appeared very frail. She remained unmoving, watching us as we drove.

Why was she watching us? As we waited for the gate guard to materialize, I recalled her stumbling. I reached into my left pants pocket—and found a folded piece of paper with some writing.

It read: “In two days, Nadaj arrives in village outside Pec. A house near the river. My brother died in Afghanistan.”

As the guard raised the barrier, I passed the paper to Buck without comment.

After a long minute, he said quietly, “Fabiola's brother was one—”

“One of the forty Kosovar soldiers who were gassed in Afghanistan.”

“Do you know Pec, Alex?”

I nodded. “I know the area. I drove through it once on the way to Plav in Montenegro. Lots of small villages, heavily wooded.”

“It's in the west then. Which river would that be?”

“The Bistrica. She said he arrives in two days.” I turned to look at Buck. “What time is it?”

“Almost three thirty. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

“It's nine thirty back in D.C. Jerry Shenlee should be in his office.”

By the time I'd pulled the car into a rest stop, Buck was already punching in Jerry's number. He didn't have long to wait before he was talking to someone in Shenlee's office. Just as I killed the engine, I heard Buck say, “Hello, Jerry.”

After a pause, he said, “Alex says hello too. No, he's not in jail yet. Listen, Jerry, we've got a fix on Nadaj. He's still in Kosovo and—”

Buck was silent for a good half minute while Jerry, presumably, read the riot act to him.

Finally, he said, “Jerry, I know all that. Alex knows it too. Yes, he knows he should have been more careful.” Buck looked at me, shrugged, held the telephone a couple of inches from his ear. “Of course our information is reliable. We wouldn't be calling otherwise. We know the location. We don't think we have all that much time—” After listening to Jerry for a while, he said, “I'll let Alex tell you that.”

Buck handed me the phone.

“Forget it, Klear,” Shenlee announced. “I'm not interested.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm assuming this is just another one of your cons. You're in hot water with the Kraut cops, and now you've got your buddy over there. You've dreamed up some scheme to get yourself out of trouble, and you're looking to get some help from us. Like I say, we're onto you. Forget it.”

“Are you sure you're making the right decision, Jerry?”

“Completely sure. Now let me get back to work.”

“You may be the one who's going to be in hot water, Jerry.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“When the deputy secretary hears we had a chance to land Nadaj, and you didn't follow up. Instead you start blowing smoke about schemes and cons—”

“I don't trust you guys. All that Gold Dust Twins bullshit. Those days are over, ancient history. Tell your partner that. All I care about is what—”

“Is what we've done for you lately. Well, we're ready to do something for you. Right now. Something that will make you look good.”

“Knock it off, Klear.”

“Jerry, listen. Like Buck says, we've got solid information on the whereabouts of Nadaj, but we don't have much time to act on it.”

“What's this so-called solid information? Where does it come from?” When I said, “From inside the Kosovo Liberation Movement,”
Shenlee said, “Baloney! Since when do you have a source inside? You've been over there three weeks and you've developed a source in the KLA? We've been trying to get someone in there for five years. C'mon. They have this thing, what's it called?”