The Rendition (12 page)

“Like what?”

“There was lining from an army field jacket under her fingernails. She was trying to defend herself. She must have ripped whatever the guy was wearing.”

Max got to his feet and came back a couple of minutes later with a pair of sausages on rolls. After smearing mine with mustard, I said, “There are a lot of military field jackets around. From a lot of countries.”

“Yes, but they're made out of different material. This kind of lining is from an American military field jacket. Granted there are plenty of people walking around the city wearing field jackets, but there aren't too many wearing American field jackets. Not anymore.” It's true that the U.S. military, which except for bases in Vilseck and Grafenwöhr, has pretty much pulled out of Bavaria.

Before Max could buy a second beer, I suggested we ride out to the house. I needed to see it for myself.

Max's face clouded over and he looked at his watch. Finally, he nodded. Maybe I was overreacting, but I had the feeling he wasn't too
anxious to see me again or to give me any kind of help in this case. But we'd worked together for a lot of years, and in the course of that time done each other more favors than either of us could count. At Christmastime, the German cops threw great parties to which we were always invited, the fanciest being the annual shindig on one of the upper floors of the Police Presidium and hosted by the police president himself. I had met Irmie at one of those Christmas parties. For our part, we saw that Max and his crew got invites to our blasts, and I always made sure Max went home with an American turkey from the PX and a large bottle of bourbon, the kind of things that, because of EU tariffs and trade barriers, you just can't get in Europe.

We took the Ring, the highway that circles Munich, and as I looked at the passing sights, I found it difficult to believe that, after all these years, I was really back in this city. In the distance on the right was the
Funkturm
, the tower from which television and radio signals are broadcast and one of Munich's landmarks. On the left we went by the Olympic Stadium, the massive hanging Plexiglas roof that no one thought would last a year still very much intact. The fact that every car on the road seemed to be a snazzy new model served to remind me that Germany, like the other countries of the EU, is enjoying a period of mild prosperity.

As we drove, Max said, “I have to admit, I'm surprised to see you, Alex. I mean, I just never thought you'd come back.”

I knew what Max was talking about. “That makes two of us, Max.”

“Have you been in contact with Irmie at all?”

“Not for a while.”

The truth was, I'd written one letter while she was in the hospital. When she didn't respond, there wasn't any more contact between us. That was a long time ago.

I was curious about Irmie, but I decided not to ask any more questions.

Ursula Vogt's house was in Munich's northwest corner, a neighborhood called Obermenzing, a place of upper-middle-class respectability. Max turned off the Verdistrasse, the main drag leading out to the autobahn going west, then on to a curving street along a narrow sidewalk.
Driving slowly, we went a few blocks until we reached a wider street called Karwinskistrasse. We then made a left onto a tree-shaded street of comfortable looking homes, all with well-kept gardens, many with secure fences. We parked in front of a house that was behind a high hedge. “That's it, Alex, that's where Ursula Vogt lived.”

It was a nice piece of property, but all that was visible was a thick eight-foot-high hedge, at one end of which was a steel gate. When I tried the gate, it was locked.

“I guess she liked privacy,” I said.

“I guess so,” Max agreed.

Peering through the gate, I could barely glimpse a two-story building with white walls set back fifty feet from the sidewalk.

After we'd spent a couple of minutes looking things over, I said, “I'd like to go inside, Max. Take a look around.”

“Sure you would, Alex, but I don't think that can be arranged.”

“Maybe you can talk with someone downtown.” When he shook his head, I said, “You sure, Max?”

Years ago, Max hadn't been above carrying out a “black-bag” entry when the circumstances called for it, and when the interests of our respective governments harmonized, we'd even collaborated on a couple. To be honest, I never thought of those illegal entries as a very big deal. We always had good reasons for the break-ins, and we were always careful to make sure no one was any the wiser. On one of them, we found and photographed evidence used in a case against a member of the Bundestag, an elected representative who was being paid to funnel information to East Berlin. On another, while I was installing a bug in a suspected agent's telephone receiver, I heard a key being inserted in the downstairs door—and to avoid detection, Max and I ended up spending a below-freezing night on the guy's terrace. But that was then, and this was now. Our personal relationship had changed—“cooled” might be a better word. As I stood looking things over, I concluded that this house might be a tough nut to crack.

A mildly overweight neighbor who'd been raking the lawn of the adjoining property took our arrival as an excuse to take a breather. He paused, wiped his face with a handkerchief, and stood watching. When
Max walked over and flashed some ID left over from his years as a cop, the guy said, “My name is Thiemann, Ludwig Thiemann. My God, it was a terrible thing. I still can't believe it. She was a nice woman.”

Thiemann's dialect was thick, and because Bavarians sometimes exhibit a bunker mentality, dealing with the locals on this kind of assignment can be a challenge. Along with talking like them, you need to think like them. Looking at Thiemann, I figured he enjoyed his quota of sausage and beer.

“How well did you know her?” I asked.

“Pretty well. But she did a lot of traveling. She'd be gone sometimes for weeks or even months.” He sighed, wiped more perspiration from his face. “I guess that's the way it is when you work for a newspaper.”

Max pushed open his gate. A path of flagstones wound around a flower bed and ran alongside the hedge separating his property from Ursula Vogt's. With his practiced cop's eye, Max gave the property a quick once-over.

“Anything else you can tell us?” he asked.

“Not really. I spoke with the detectives the day after it happened. They were all over the neighborhood, asking questions. It was a Friday afternoon. Funny, I was home at the time.” He shook his head. “I didn't hear anything. Whoever did it came and went without anybody seeing them.”

While Max talked, I took a stroll. At a point some fifty feet back from the sidewalk, the hedge gave way to a five-foot metal fence. From this point, I could see the rear of Ursula Vogt's home. There were two glass doors looking onto a stone veranda with some garden furniture strewn chaotically and a grill lying on its side. It looked as if the Munich police hadn't picked up after themselves.

Which, I suppose, made them no different from the police everywhere.

I strolled back. “I guess you know they arrested a guy for the murder.”

He nodded. “The American. I've been following it in the newspapers.”

“Did you know him at all?” I asked.

“Sure. I used to see him. Tall, broad-shouldered. Spoke with him a few times. He knew some German. Said at one time he'd been stationed down in Bad Tölz. That was the Green Beret headquarters. He told me about the training, skiing around in the mountains and all. That was before they closed the base.” When I asked if there was anything special about Brinkman, Thiemann said, “Not really. He seemed friendly enough.”

“How often would he come around?”

“I couldn't say. My wife would know. She keeps track of things like that.” When I wondered whether he could ask her, Thiemann said, “Sorry. She's up in Frankfurt, visiting her mother. You know, the guy I would have looked at was the other guy who used to come around.”

“Who was that?” Max asked.

“The handyman.”

“What can you tell us about him?”

“Not much. To be honest, he always seemed suspicious to me. I think he repaired stuff for her and did some gardening. He wasn't around all that long. If I was her, I wouldn't have let him in the house. Cops questioned him. But they let him go.” He paused. “But there was something about him I never liked. Couldn't put my finger on it exactly.”

I said, “Could you try?”

“He'd say he was going to come but he wouldn't show. A lousy work ethic.”

“How would you know that?” I asked.

“She told me.”

“That doesn't mean he'd kill someone,” Max said. “Just because he has a lousy work ethic.” When Thiemann agreed, Max threw me an impatient glance. It was obvious we weren't going to get much more out of this guy, and he wanted to get moving.

“A lot of these Balkan people are like that, I guess,” Thiemann said.

I halted when he said that. “Where in the Balkans was he from? Do you know?”

“Bosnia, Macedonia, Croatia. Who knows? All those countries are the same to me.” After wiping away some more perspiration, he jammed the handkerchief in his back pocket.

“You ever been down there?” I said.

“We were planning to go to Sarajevo back eleven or twelve years ago, but then the civil war started. I told my wife to forget about it.”

Max said, “Thanks for your help.”

The neighbor pointed to his lawn. “My wife's coming back tomorrow. I need to have everything shipshape or she'll raise hell.”

We said we understood his problem.

“Nice meeting you guys,” Thiemann said before returning to his raking.

Before climbing back into the car, I took another look at Ursula Vogt's home. “I need to take a look inside.” I knew I was pushing it.

Max didn't say anything for about a minute, then he shook his head. “I have to draw the line somewhere, Alex, and I'm drawing it here.” He turned over the engine. “I'll drive you back to wherever it is you're staying.”

Whoever had decided on the location for the safe house had a good feel for the city and had chosen wisely. The apartment was on the top floor of a four-story building located between the Hirschgarten, a beer garden where in the old days I'd spent many a summer evening, and the park surrounding the Nymphenburg Palace. I remembered reading that, in 1972, some of the Olympic horse riding competitions were held on the palace grounds. It was a low-profile neighborhood, and my comings and goings weren't likely to attract much attention. Since I figured it might be wise not to let the police know exactly where I was holed up, I had Max let me off at the Romanplatz and walked the rest of the way.

Max diplomatically didn't ask where I was staying, and I didn't volunteer the information.

It was a quiet street, and as I walked I passed only a woman with a dog and an elderly man carrying packages, neither of whom gave me a second glance. Using one of my keys, I let myself into the building, which had two apartments to every floor. What I found mildly intriguing was that the apartment, which was alone on the top floor, wasn't listed on the bell register in the lobby. A nice touch, I thought, for a place meant to house only intelligence people. Guys like Shenlee were well paid for dreaming up this kind of dodge.

Maybe I got into the wrong end of the business.

Although it was late afternoon, I'd slept on the plane and still didn't feel tired. As one of my former bosses used to say to people looking for some extra time off, “Jet lag is only in your mind.” But just as I was
about to insert the key in the door, I stopped. Inside the apartment I could hear a voice, the excited sound of a newscaster describing some disaster or other. Someone had the TV on.

At one point in my career, I simply would have drawn my Beretta automatic, kicked open the door, and barged in. But now that I've mellowed, I try to handle things with more, shall we say, finesse.

Or maybe my hesitation was due to the fact I wasn't carrying a handgun on my person—out of consideration, naturally, for the German government's extreme dislike of anyone in their country packing a weapon. When the Frankfurt cops during a routine traffic stop found one of our case officers with a sidearm in his glove compartment, they tossed the guy into the local cooler for three weeks, which was the amount of time that elapsed before he decided to sing. Even then, it was a while before he told his story to the cops' satisfaction. With his cover blown, he returned to the States, resigned, and hasn't been heard from since.

In this business, the smallest blunder can be career ending. Or life ending.

With this thought in mind, I stood in the hallway considering things. I decided that if someone was looking to surprise me, they wouldn't be playing the TV at this volume.

As soon as I rang, I heard movement inside, and seconds later the door was opened.

“Hello, Alex,” Colonel Sylvia Frost said, and motioned me into the apartment.

“Well, this is a surprise. I rang because I heard the TV.”

“I didn't want to surprise you when you got back.” She closed the door. “You are surprised?” She crossed the room and turned off the television.

“Yes, of course. For some reason I assumed I'd be the only person—”

“With a key to this apartment?”

With Colonel Frost just behind me, I walked through the apartment and checked out both bedrooms. Colonel Frost had made herself at home. She'd tossed her gear into the bedroom I'd originally selected
and put my gear in the other bedroom—which meant she was now occupying the bedroom with the double bed and large closet. Needless to say, she'd also laid claim to one of the apartment's two bathrooms. I didn't know whether to be happy or unhappy about all this.

I felt I was being pushed around, so I decided to be unhappy. In my new bedroom, I took a quick look through my stuff. The three shirts I'd hung up in the other closet were now lying on the bed.