The Rendition (9 page)

“And it continues to have its uses.”

“It's out of the way. That's always a plus for people in our business.”

I could have told Shenlee that I wasn't in his business anymore, but then I wasn't really sure whether I was or whether I wasn't.

I also could have told Shenlee that he was throwing a very large monkey wrench into my life, but I knew that wouldn't do any good either.

I was thinking of my girlfriend, Vanessa, an attractive and lively schoolteacher whom I'd met four months ago in the taproom of the Saranac Inn. With her engaging personality and off-the-wall comments, she'd quickly made me forget the TV baseball game to which I had my eyes glued while knocking down a hamburger and my third or fourth Sam Adams.

When someone legged out a ground ball, causing the crew at the
bar to let out a spontaneous cheer, Vanessa turned on her stool and innocently asked, “Did your team score a goal?”

“No,” I said. “The tight end just kicked a home run.”

“How did the end get tight?”

“Let me buy you a drink and I'll show you.”

We were on a stretch of highway that had a garbage landfill on one side and fields full of cattails on the other.

“Are you enjoying the scenery, Klear?”

I assumed Jerry meant the remark ironically and didn't reply.

Vanessa was fun, but whenever I thought about settling down with her, I'd begin thinking again about Irmie. As we drove, I shoved all thoughts of Vanessa from my mind. I didn't even want to think what her reaction might be to the news of a sudden departure on my part.

Farther on, we passed a ball field and some ancient hangars, and Shenlee said that was the airport. On the other side of the road was a marina and dunes full of swamp grass. In the distance, I could see water and what looked like a bridge. Even though we weren't that far from New York City, there didn't seem to be much going on out here, certainly not on a cloudy January afternoon.

Shenlee slowed, we hung a left, drove through a patch of scrub pines and weeds until we reached a barrier. When Shenlee flashed some ID, the guard raised the barrier and we drove maybe another quarter of a mile before arriving at a small complex of cinder block buildings. In front of the largest building was a guard who seemed to know Shenlee and who nodded as we headed inside.

Shenlee did some talking with a guy at a metal desk and we passed through a metal detector, went down a short corridor, and entered a room furnished with a wooden desk, some chairs, a couch, a table with a computer on it. On the wall behind the desk was a map of the East Coast of the United States and next to it stood an American flag.

A few minutes later, the door opened and a woman entered. She was carrying a thin briefcase, which she immediately tossed on the desk. Not only did I recognize the briefcase; I also recognized its owner.

“Hello, ma'am,” I said, trying not to appear too surprised.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Colonel Frost extended her hand. “Nice to see you again, Alex.”

“Can I get anyone anything?” Shenlee asked.

“I'd like coffee,” Colonel Frost said. “Alex?” When I said the same would be fine with me, Shenlee went trotting off.

On this occasion, Colonel Frost was out of uniform. She was dressed in a gray suit, the jacket of which she removed and placed on a coat peg beside the door. Much as she'd done in the hospital dayroom overseas, she pointed me toward the couch. Seated in a chair opposite me, she said, “You're looking fine, Alex. Much better than last time, if you don't mind my saying so.”

I suppose surprise was still written all over my face. I recovered enough to say, “I certainly feel better, ma'am.” I knew I looked flustered. I couldn't help recalling how boorish I'd been during the debriefing overseas. Although Buck had said that it was Colonel Frost's clout and quick thinking that had saved my life, it was also Colonel Frost's patched-together operation that had landed me in the clutches of Ramush Nadaj and his gang.

“I don't know how much Jerry has told you—”

“Jerry is nothing if not discreet.”

Colonel Frost allowed herself a thin smile. “Good, Alex. I'll start at the beginning.” Shenlee had said I'd be talking with someone from D.C., but hadn't said with whom. They'd set this up very nicely.

But at some point I wanted to get across the fact that I wasn't interested in taking part in any special ops.

As with our first meeting, Colonel Frost made a point of being all business. I couldn't help recalling Buck's nuggets of gossip—that she'd had an affair with another officer in Afghanistan and that her subordinates referred to her as “Colonel Bitch-on-Wheels.” Except for the fact she was now in civilian clothes, she looked much the same as she had last time. She still had her chestnut hair in a kind of military bob. She was wearing a white blouse and her gray skirt was not quite knee length, a little detail I couldn't help but notice. I made an effort to avert my eyes but wasn't completely successful. She also had on tiny silver
earrings. Although she had a ring on her left hand, it wasn't a wedding ring. No question that Colonel Frost projected a quiet intensity. I've always liked intense women. Of course I've also liked quite a few who weren't all that intense.

Although I'd already decided that I wasn't going to take part in whatever these people had in mind, I was having trouble getting a word in edgewise. I realized now I'd made a mistake when I let Jerry drag me down here.

Before she could begin, we were joined again by Shenlee, who was carrying coffee and crullers on a plastic tray. With the coffee and cream ritual out of the way, Shenlee found a seat next to me on the sofa.

“As you've probably already guessed, Alex, we don't have a lot of time. Once you hear the story, I think you'll know where you fit in.” I couldn't help noticing that everybody just assumed I'd be accepting this assignment.

“I see.” I said the words unenthusiastically, but neither Jerry nor Colonel Frost took any notice.

“A woman named Ursula Vogt was murdered, stabbed to death. The murder took place in Miss Vogt's home late on a Friday afternoon, three weeks ago. Miss Vogt lived in Munich.”

“And she was a journalist,” Shenlee said. “Worked for that big news magazine,
Welt-Bericht.
”

Colonel Frost put down her cup. I had an idea she didn't like being interrupted. “
Welt-Bericht
means ‘World Report' in German, as I'm sure you know. It belongs to the Mehling Group, and the proprietor, Kurt Mehling, is not exactly pro-American.”

Colonel Frost pulled a couple of magazines from the pile of paper on the coffee table and passed them over. I recognized the familiar blue masthead of the magazine with the words “Welt-Bericht” splashed in large block letters on the cover. I leafed quickly through the copies, saw nothing much had changed since I'd last seen the magazine.

“I assume you're familiar with the publication, Alex.”

I nodded. “I used to look at it occasionally.” I didn't mention that I found the magazine too predictable to be very interesting.

“Anyway, the person arrested for the murder is an American named
Douglas Brinkman. Brinkman is a former major in Special Forces, who has been living in Munich. He was involved with Special Ops in Afghanistan. Brinkman and Miss Vogt had been seeing one another. We want to know what happened and why.”

“We're assuming they knew one another pretty well,” Shenlee said. “We know they met in Afghanistan. Brinkman did three tours there, one for about thirteen months.”

“We're hoping you can find out who killed Miss Vogt, Alex,” Colonel Frost said.

It was now obvious where I fit in. They wanted me to go back to Europe. I'd worked in Munich for over seven years, during which time I'd gotten to know how the people over there think and how the German legal system works. I'd become comfortable with the dialect people speak in that part of the world, a small skill but a useful one when you're trying to make friends or just maintain a low profile.

“I have no intention of going back to Europe.”

Colonel Frost's jaw tightened.

“And I have no intention of taking part in any special ops, assuming that's what you people have in mind.” I stood up from my chair.

“Siddown, Klear!”

“I don't want to hear any more. Find someone else. I have a business to run.”

I'd become untangled from the special ops stuff, and I wanted to stay untangled.

“What's the problem, Alex?” Colonel Frost asked.

“The problem is, I didn't like the way the last operation turned out. I'm surprised you even ask a question like that.”

Shenlee said, “They got to you, Klear. Is that what you're saying?”

Shenlee is as subtle as a kick in the teeth, and I ignored his obvious attempt to needle me. “There are plenty of people around who'd be happy to go over.”

Colonel Frost said, “You're perfectly qualified for this kind of assignment.”

“So are dozens of other people, ma'am.”

“You've got contacts over there, people you can call,” Colonel Frost said. “We don't have a lot of time.”

I didn't say anything. I wondered how many of the people I knew I could still call. I could imagine some hanging up the minute they heard my voice on the telephone. In the kind of job I had, it was impossible not to antagonize people.

“I think he's gun-shy,” Shenlee said, gazing at Colonel Frost. “It happens, even to the best of them, guys who—”

When Colonel Frost glared, Shenlee shut up. Then she pointed toward the door and said she wanted to speak to me alone. With Shenlee gone, I sat back down.

“Alex, listen, the Munich police had Major Brinkman in
U Haft
—in other words, under interrogation—at the big prison, Stadelheim. He's out of the interrogation section, but still in jail. Once they get a case prepared, he'll go on trial.” Colonel Frost consulted a pad on the table. “The only person who's been able to speak with Brinkman is a man named Owen. He's supposedly from the consulate.”

“Supposedly?”

“The FBI's legal attaché, actually. But the Germans don't know that.”

“Don't be too sure they don't know it,” I said.

Colonel Frost nodded. “Right, it would be a mistake to underestimate . . . an ally. In any case, we want you to work around American officials. You can play things by ear, but we don't want you to advertise your presence.”

I shook my head. “I'm just not interested. Find someone else.”

“We're assuming you know people over there. They owe you favors. They'll be happy to see you again.”

“You're making some unwarranted assumptions, ma'am.”

She removed her reading glasses. “Jerry's right, isn't he? You're gun-shy.” When I didn't reply, she said quietly, “I'll go even further. I think you're scared.”

I smiled, shook my head. “Believe what you want to believe, ma'am.”

“Afraid of what might happen. Afraid someone will toss you back in that hole? Is that it? Scared shitless?” She lowered her voice. “I'm right, aren't I?”

I supposed it was remarks like that which earned her the “Colonel Bitch” moniker among her subordinates, but I wasn't going to let Colonel Frost get to me.

When I didn't comment, she said, “Brinkman maintains his innocence. We believe him.”

“Why? Does he have an alibi?”

“That's maybe part of the problem,” Colonel Frost said. “He doesn't have an alibi, but we still believe him.” She paused. When I didn't say anything, she said, “Brinkman has a fine military record. He was one of the best. All the people who served with him had nothing but the highest praise. Doesn't that mean anything to you? The fact that a good soldier is getting a raw deal?”

“Of course. But I don't see that I can do anything about it.”

“People like Major Brinkman don't just go over the edge.”

I could feel myself frowning. The truth is, people do go over the edge, and I doubt there are many special ops people who haven't felt close to the edge at some point in their careers. I knew that, and I had a feeling Colonel Frost knew that. Although I didn't say anything, I made a point of looking at my watch.

For a long minute, Colonel Frost went through her papers. I took a sip of cold coffee. The silence was oppressive. Because I had an idea that was how Colonel Frost wanted it to be, I didn't say anything. When she looked up, I fixed her with a cold stare, letting her know I didn't intend to budge.

Finally, she said, “You drive a hard bargain.”

“What do you mean, ma'am?”

After a brief pause, she said, “I picked you for this assignment, and now I'm going to tell you why. Your ability to get around in Europe is useful, but you're right. We have plenty of people who can handle that end of things. There's another reason I chose you. Are you still listening?”

“I'm curious.”

“This operation ties in with the Kosovo rendition. Not only are the two operations connected, they're closely connected. I can't give you all the details up front, but you can believe me when I say that.”

“That may be true but—”

“The same people are involved. I'm offering you a golden opportunity, Alex, the kind of opportunity that very few people in our business ever receive.”

“What would that be?”

“You're going to have a chance to get back at the people who tossed you into that hole. The woman, what was her name?”

“Vickie.”

“Thanks to you, we were able to ID her. You said she'd been in the States, in Connecticut somewhere.”

“She said Bridgeport.”

“Which isn't that far from Stamford. When a well-heeled businessman in that city stopped making his annual quarter-of-a-million dollar contribution to Yale's Alumni Fund in favor of sending the money to a front organization for the Kosovo Liberation Army, his bank became suspicious. They passed the information on to us. You provided the answer. We discovered he'd been tangled up with a woman from that part of the world who fit your description to a T. She used another name over here, but if she is who we think she is, she's a major player. And she plays very rough.”