The Rendition (42 page)

“I got banged up a little. Any chance of getting a ride home?”

Schneider nodded and called over a van driver. He looked at me. “If we need to talk with you again, we know where to find you. Right? You won't be making any more trips?”

“Without a passport,” I said, “I wouldn't get very far.”

It was close to 0900 hours when the police van dropped me in front of my building. Although I lost the carry-on with my keys in the scuffle, I had my name and address on the tag, and some thoughtful person had returned the bag to the
Hausmeister
. I'd been gone for only three and-a-half days, but it was good to be back—and the bed looked particularly inviting. But while I felt tired and had slept only one night in the last three, my adrenalin was still churning. After wrapping my hand in ice, I drank a liter of beer for breakfast before finally falling into a troubled sleep.

I dreamed of Irmie, which definitely beats dreaming about coffins.

When I awoke in the early afternoon, I called her extension at police headquarters. I was told she was out, and left a message. Shortly before 1330 she returned my call.

“Are you all right?”

“Were you worried?”

“Maybe a little, Alex. You looked shaken up last night.”

“I hurt my hand. Otherwise I'm fine. I'm calling because I'd like to see you.”

Even on the phone I could sense her hesitation. “I don't think so.”

“Can I ask why?”

“There's an investigation, and you're involved.”

Irmie was being diplomatic. She was referring to the investigation of Quemal's murder, and I was not only involved, I was the chief suspect. It would be impossible for us to meet anywhere socially.

I thought for a second, then said, “Kurt Mehling was carrying the murder weapon when he was arrested last night.”

“How do you know, Alex?”

“I was watching while they frisked him. During the raid, I saw a policeman remove a gun from his pocket. A Beretta.” She knew instantly it was mine, and had been used to kill Quemal. “You might want to bring this to Detective Schneider's attention.”

“He'll want to know why Kurt Mehling would want to—”

“—kill Quemal? To shut him up. Quemal murdered Ursula Vogt. He was called the Assassin. Although Miss Vogt worked for Mehling, she was writing an article exposing the conspiracy that he set in motion.”

“How do you know it was the murder weapon?”

“We talked. He told me.”

“If Mehling was in possession of the murder weapon, that fact really could change things.” At that moment I heard voices in the background, and Irmie said hello to someone. And then she said goodbye.

The official announcement finally came: Kosovo declared itself independent of Serbia.

The news broadcasts carried pictures of people holding red flags and dancing in the streets of all Kosovo's major cities. It was a foregone conclusion that the United States would recognize Kosovo as an independent nation.

Although the story never hit the newspapers, the United States' rendition of Ramush Nadaj prevented him from taking a place in the president's cabinet, and thereby prevented al-Qaeda from gaining an influential place in Kosovo's fledgling government.

On the following day, Max and I were seated on high stools at the counter in his kitchen drinking coffee and smearing Gruyere cheese on Bavarian rolls. The weather was cold and clear, and beams of late afternoon sun were streaming through the curtains.

“You've seen the news, I guess.” I pointed at the headline in the copy of the
Washington Post
I had spread out on the kitchen counter: “Independence Is Proclaimed by Kosovo.”

Max nodded. “I saw it on the news yesterday. This is really going to change the situation in the Balkans. United with Kosovo and northern Macedonia, Albania is going to be a rival to Serbia.”

I took a sip of coffee, but didn't say anything. It had taken a while, but I could now understand the logic behind the events I'd become tangled up in. Although the Kosovo Liberation Army had played a major role in Kosovo's push for independence, it was largely supported
by funds obtained from drug and human trafficking, most of it carried on in Western Europe. And certain murky elements within the KLA were closely allied with both al-Qaeda and the Taliban.

“Your people knew this was coming, Alex. With Nadaj so closely involved with al-Quaeda, they couldn't allow him to have a post in the new government.”

“And they couldn't allow the world to believe the United States had gassed forty enemy soldiers in its eagerness to capture Bin Laden.”

“You did a helluva good job.” I thanked Max for the kind words. But the fact that I'd been able to short-circuit Mehling's publishing plans was overshadowed by the murder charge still hanging over my head.

“I hate to say it, Alex, but you look awfully pale. And you've lost some weight.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“I'm afraid it is.”

The truth was, I was having trouble thinking about anything besides the murder charge. I'd spent the previous night tossing and turning, and had hardly slept since my return to Munich. I'd also been suffering from headaches that sometimes lasted for hours. Max had sensed that I needed someone to talk to and had asked me to stop by.

“I haven't heard very much,” Max said. “Most of the people I know are either out of the loop or are retired.”

“How much influence does Irmie have on Schneider's thinking, do you think?”

“Schneider isn't a pushover. He has a reputation for being tough minded and independent.” Max bit into his roll. “And I have to tell you, Alex, he's closed every case he's caught.”

All of a sudden, the rolls and cheese no longer looked very appetizing, and I pushed away the plate. I left a few minutes later.

I had the same nervous feeling I had when, as a high school sophomore, I was called into the principal's office. Except on this occasion, I was in the Munich Police Presidium, and the person who was lecturing me was Detective Paul Schneider. Irmie was next to Schneider, behind her desk and looking on with an expression filled with curiosity. Schneider had a mug of coffee on his desk, but hadn't offered me any.

In the five days since Kosovo had declared independence, the United States had formally extended its recognition. I'd spent much of the time taking long walks around the city, many of them in the English Garden. I wasn't sleeping well, and my powers of concentration had dwindled to the point where I was hardly able to even read a newspaper. I'd lost my appetite and had the feeling I'd dropped ten pounds. I'd stopped by Max's apartment a few times, and although we'd talked, he hadn't been able to find out much of what was going on downtown. I took that as a bad sign.

Suddenly, from out of the blue, Irmie called. She said I was wanted at police headquarters and that I should report to Schneider's office.

“When you first showed up here, Klear,” Schneider said, “I took you for just another wisecracking American.” He took a bite out of a cruller, picked up a napkin, and wiped his mouth.

“And I assume you haven't changed your opinion since.”

As he chewed, Schneider cocked his head. “Is there any reason I should have? Does a leopard ever change its stripes?”

“It's the tiger with the stripes.”

“See what I mean? You and I can hardly have a sensible conversation. Now we're talking about animals.”

Schneider's expression was noncommittal. I was resigned to the fact that when I left Munich police headquarters I'd be wearing handcuffs.

“I thought that when I indicated you were a suspect in a murder case you'd immediately hightail it out of Munich.” He paused. “Flight is a sign of guilt. And we would have caught up with you eventually. Either that, or you would have spent the rest of your life fighting extradition—”

“Filling out forms and consulting with lawyers.”

“Which might be a fate even worse than life behind bars.”

Schneider was right. In some ways, it would have been. “I never thought of leaving.”

“I had to change my opinion of you, Klear. You're a determined guy. And I was watching last week when those goons were trying to get you into their car. You put up some fight. But I also have to say when someone like you turns up these days, the cops in any country are going to be uneasy.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'll tell you. Max Peters said that back before the Wall came down you were some kind of intelligence officer. According to Max, you were very good at it too. Max said your MI colleagues told him about you. He said you personally ran a bunch of agents in the East. He says, one way or another, you always squeezed every last drop of information out of them.”

“I didn't do it alone. I had a partner.” I couldn't help wondering why Schneider wanted to talk about those years.

“Sure. Max mentioned your partner too. What was his name?”

“Romero. Buck Romero.”

“He says people like you and Romero did as much to win the Cold War as anyone.”

“There were plenty of other people who did a helluva lot more than we did.”

“Max says they even gave you guys a nickname—the Gold Dust Twins?”

“Looking back, I'd say Buck and I were very lucky.”

“Klear, I have to confess that I asked Max about you because I was curious. He says you were very conscientious, going over the Wall and holding agents' hands when they were having their breakdowns and personal problems—and often putting yourself in real danger when you did. Running agents in those days was a very risky, tricky business, one slipup and you were toast. I'm assuming that's how you became such a cool customer.”

“Like I say, it was what they paid us to do.”

“Max also says you stayed loyal to your people, making sure the American government delivered on whatever they'd promised.”

“That was my job too.”

“The Cold War is over now, and sometimes I have to wonder what all the fuss was about. But we've got another war now, and we need people like you—guys who believe in something and aren't afraid to stick their necks out when necessary.”

“Are you sure you're not mixing me up with someone else, Detective Schneider?”

“One thing you learn as a cop, Klear. Most people are opportunists. They can't help themselves for the bad things they've done.”

I laughed. “And then they go out and do the same thing again.”

“That's right, and that's why there are so many crooks in the world. And why they never seem to learn.”

“Look at the bright side. As a cop, you'll always have a job.”

Schneider grinned. “Personally, I do think you sometimes cut corners, but like they say, no one's perfect. Max is a little older than me, but he and I agree on some things—one of them being that if it wasn't for guys like you, Germany today would be a Russian colony. And so would a few other European countries.” Before I could interrupt, Schneider raised his hand. “But the world has really changed in the past couple of years, Klear. Situations have changed, and the way the American government does things has also changed. You send your
intelligence and special ops people just about all over. That's what I mean when I say police people begin to worry when someone like you shows up. I've heard stories from MI5 officers in England telling about the problems American intelligence people have caused them.”

I couldn't argue. Schneider was accurately describing the way our intelligence agencies operate in the post-9/11 world, often inside the borders of friendly countries and without any official permission from the host government. It was the way we'd handled the rendition operation down in Kosovo. And it was pretty much the way Sylvia and I had operated here in Munich.

Is it any wonder that the governments of other countries are wary? And is it any wonder that so many of our operations officers, people like me, find themselves in hot water?

I looked over at Irmie, who had put on a pair of reading glasses and was pretending to look through a pile of papers on her desk. The glasses gave her a prim look, but didn't in any way detract from her sexiness—not for me, anyway. She was nine years older than she was when I left, but to my mind, just as lovely. In some ways, she seemed even lovelier. Although her expression remained completely noncommittal, I knew she was hanging on every word.

Schneider said, “It's probably inevitable that our countries go their separate ways, but in a sense it's a shame too. I think things were better when we were partners.” He reached into his drawer, pulled out my passport, tossed it onto the desk. “You can have this back.” He slid a piece of paper across his desk for me to sign. “The murder investigation is going in a different direction. And I agree with what you said the other evening. Whoever broke the Green Beret out of jail did everyone a favor.”

I wanted to jump on the desk and shout for joy. Doing my best to stay calm and give the impression my release was a foregone conclusion, I said, “I'm happy to hear that.” After signing the form, I said, “I'm wondering—”

“About the different direction?” When I nodded, Schneider said, “I'll tell you this much. Kurt Mehling was arrested carrying a murder weapon—and he hasn't provided a very persuasive account for how he
got it. And there's reason to believe he was involved with his reporter's murder. That detective you saw me with at the K Klub was a Balkan specialist from the BND. They've provided information that's shed some new light on things.”

At last Mehling's connection to Nadaj had come to light.

“Oh yeah, one other thing. From some of the women we learned that the dead guy in the basement—what was his name?”