The Rendition (25 page)

“Unlawful? That's not my—”

Schneider said, “Like planning a rendition. That's what you people call it, isn't it? When you grab someone off the street? A rendition?”

“Rendition?” I shook my head. “You've got the wrong guy.”

“You could be the advance man. You say you're here as a tourist, but you could be scouting the territory.” When I shook my head,
Schneider raised his hand. “You were maybe thinking of grabbing him, carting him off to an American military installation, and flying him off somewhere.”

“Absolutely not.”

Schneider was sharp and not that far from the truth. I couldn't help thinking that this all began with our failed attempt to grab Ramush Nadaj. I wouldn't be here in Munich police headquarters, stalling and evading, if the original rendition had gone according to plan.

“Can we be sure?” Schneider asked.

“That sounds pretty fantastic, Detective Schneider.”

“I have to tell you, Klear. It's happened, more than once, and the last time wasn't that long ago.”

I knew what Schneider was talking about. A German court in Berlin had tried three terrorists charged with setting off a bomb at an American military installation and found them innocent. Shortly after being released, the terrorists disappeared, and it was rumored that they'd been grabbed by an American special ops team.

In any case, I decided not to answer Schneider's question. Instead I said, “I worked in Germany for the American government for quite a while. I never did anything unlawful.” Of course the truth was, I never got caught doing anything unlawful. And in those days, with Russia as a common enemy, the aims of the American and German governments pretty much harmonized. We were in close touch with the German Counter Intelligence units headquartered in Pullach as well as with the BND, the German equivalent of the FBI. The BND almost never countermanded our activities, although they expected to be thoroughly informed of what we were doing. On that score, we were always as obliging as we could be.

“Things were different back then,” Schneider said.

“I think Mr. Klear's making sense.” Irmie stared straight at me. “With Quemal dead, it's all pretty much beside the point.”

Although Schneider continued to look skeptical, he didn't say anything. Thank you, Irmie.

There was a brief awkward silence, then Irmie said, “We have an idea that Quemal was murdered by another Albanian.”

“Can I ask who?”

Irmie looked at Schneider, and when he shrugged, Irmie said, “Someone named Sulja. Sedfrit Sulja. He runs a trafficking ring, and he has close connections to some organizations back in Kosovo. He's a conduit for funneling money out of the EU back to Kosovo.”

Tania said Sedfrit Sulja was the name of the individual who'd come barging into the K Klub with a beef about the K Klub boss having picked off one of his women. According to Tania, that was what had caused the fight.

Sedfrit had walked right into it.

“And there's something else,” Irmie said. She looked at Schneider.

“He was castrated,” Schneider said matter-of-factly.

I suppose I looked startled when I heard that. I hadn't done anything along those lines. Thinking back to what had happened right after Quemal was shot, I remembered Sylvia saying she wanted to go through Quemal's pockets. Well, she'd definitely been thinking ahead. No question that the detectives' first thought would be that this was some kind of gang killing. Sedfrit would fill the bill almost perfectly.

“It's possible someone was sending a message,” Schneider said.

“They've certainly got a language all their own,” I said.

“Of course, you never know.” When I asked Schneider what he meant, he said, “This Sedfrit's a trafficker. He imports women by the carload for his brothels. He's been accused of kidnapping women, but he's got plenty of money and he can buy off any dame who complains. He's always been smart enough to avoid any kind of violence. I don't exactly see a guy like that doing something so stupid.”

“Maybe he has a short fuse.”

Irmie held up a flyer she was reading. “There's a meeting of the Kosovo Liberation Organization tomorrow evening. Sedfrit's listed as one of the officers.”

Printed across the top of the flyer in bold letters were the words
Drejtësi për Kosova!
Justice for Kosovo!

Before I could comment, there was a knock at the door. Schneider got up, stepped out into the corridor, and held a brief conversation with someone. During the minute that he was gone, I scrawled a note and
pushed the piece of paper across Irmie's desk. She only had time to slide it beneath a folder when Schneider reappeared.

“We've arrested Sedfrit,” Schneider said. When Irmie asked where they'd found him, Schneider said, “He was at the club's headquarters. They'll be bringing him here within an hour.”

Irmie was on her feet. “Will we get to talk to him today?”

Schneider said they'd be holding him overnight in the presidium's detention facility. I knew the drill. Within one day they'd decide whether or not to keep him in
U-Haft
or release him. I had an idea they'd want to keep Sedfrit around for a while.

Irmie came out from behind her desk and escorted me to the door. When I looked back, Schneider was standing alongside his desk with a telephone in his hand and punching in a number, and pretty much ignoring me. With Sedfrit as the primary suspect, I wasn't important anymore.

The question was, how long would Sedfrit remain the primary suspect?

I nodded a goodbye to Irmie. She gazed up at me for a long moment, but her expression betrayed nothing.

As I walked down the corridor away from the office on my way to the stairwell, I thought about the message I'd pushed across the desk. It had said, “Meet at the bench, tonight 7:30.” Irmie would know what “the bench” was. We used to go for long walks in the English Garden, and for some reason always ended up on the same bench, which was situated in a quiet corner not far from the Tivoli Bridge, near Radio Free Europe where, pretending to be a journalist, I'd worked, on and off, for a number of years.

I spent a nervous three hours walking around the city, gazing into shop windows, drinking coffee—and wondering if Irmie would show up.

Irmie came.

She arrived ten minutes late, but she came. And I don't think I was ever so happy to see someone as I was to see her approaching up the path. A minute later we were seated next to one another. It suddenly
seemed to me as if nine years hadn't gone by. “Thanks for coming,” I said.

“You knew I'd come.” When I shook my head, she said, “I gave you some help.”

“I know.” In the distance, lights from the Hilton Hotel flickered. The trees of the English Garden were a dark silhouette against a blue-black sky. The John F. Kennedy Bridge across the Isar was less than twenty-five yards away. A young woman with a small dog went by without giving us a glance.

“I know what you're thinking, Alex.”

“You could always read my mind, Irmie.”

“No, Alex, things would have worked out differently if I could have read your mind.” She turned to look at me. “Why did you ask me to meet you here?”

“I haven't gotten over you, Irmie. I want you to know that.”

“Well, I'm sorry for you then.”

“I never will get over you, Irmie. Ever.”

“It's over, Alex. Over between us.” She looked away. “It's been over for a long time. That's why I came—to tell you that.”

“I don't believe that, Irmie.” I paused. “I don't think you do, either.”

“Detective Schneider still thinks you may have some connection to this murder. I have to tell you, Alex, he's smart and persistent.”

“I could see that.”

“He won't let up until he's solved this case. He told me he's considering having you arrested.”

“You've arrested someone.”

“We're skeptical about whether Sulja committed the murder. Detective Schneider has more questions he wants to ask you.”

I didn't want to even think about having to spend time in the
UHaft
. It was a tough, unpleasant place, where you spent twenty-three hours a day in solitary—and where, under German law, the police could keep you pretty much indefinitely. I was on thin ice. I began to wonder whether my smartest move mightn't be to buy a ticket on the first plane back to the States.

“I talked him out of it, at least for the time being. I don't know why I did.”

“You know I'm grateful, Irmie.” I was doing my best to find the words for what I wanted to say. I didn't want to talk about the case. “I miss you. A day never goes by that I don't wake up thinking about you.”

“Should I believe that, Alex?” She took out a tissue and began dabbing at her eyes. “I don't think I can believe it.”

“Why not?”

Close to a minute passed before she answered. “I just can't, that's all. Too much happened. Too much time has gone by.” She put away the tissue. Deep down, Irmie was tough. She'd gotten a grip on herself, and I sensed she wouldn't again let her emotions get the better of her.

“I know that. I wrote to you but—”

“Your words and your actions. They're two different things.”

I knew, of course, what Irmie was talking about. And I knew I deserved whatever she might want to say about how badly I'd acted—although “dumb” and “selfish” might be better words to describe my actions. But Irmie didn't say anything more.

As we sat there in the darkness, I recalled that the quality that had first attracted me to Irmie was that she had a soft heart. She could have mentioned the dumb letter I'd written while I was in the airport and waiting for my flight back to the States. Of all the things I've done in my life this is the single thing that I most regret. I'd written the letter hastily, thinking of myself when I should have been thinking first of Irmie.

“Why are you over here, Alex? You didn't come to see me.”

“I wanted to see you—more than anything else in the world.”

“You said some kind of case brought you over, something that has to do with the government.” She shook her head—expressing her bafflement?—or more likely, her disappointment?

“These jobs you have, these government jobs. Where do your loyalties lie?”

It was an impossible question to answer.

“I was going to call.”

“But you didn't.”

“I would have. You have to believe that, Irmie.”

“Alex, let's face the truth. You're only here because this assignment brought you over. You wouldn't have come otherwise.”

There are some things that are just beyond explanations, and this was one of them. How could I tell Irmie how I'd become involved in this situation?—beginning with the Nadaj rendition, getting whipsawed by Shenlee and Colonel Frost, then becoming involved with Brinkman.

“Irmie, I—”

“I have to go home.”

We got to our feet and headed up the path in the direction of the Isar Ring, the bright lamps lighting our way along a path that hand in hand we'd walked along dozens of times.

“I'm going to take a taxi.”

“Do you still live in the Maria-Theresestrasse?” Irmie had lived just down the street from one of Munich's landmarks, the Peace Angel.

“No, I've moved to Gröbenzell.” I knew Gröbenzell. It was one of Munich's secluded western suburbs. “I have an apartment there.” When she added, “With a garden,” I was reminded of how much Irmie had always brightened when I arrived with flowers. These were painful memories. I had had so much and let it slip away.

I would like to have climbed into the taxi and ridden home with her. I would like to have taken her in my arms and kissed her. At the very least, I could have asked to see her on the weekend. I did none of those things. It wasn't the right moment, and I had no choice but to let her go.

When she offered me her hand, I said, “Good night, Irmie.”

“Good night, Alex.”

And then, wondering whether this was going to be the end between us, I stood on the sidewalk watching the cab until the red taillights finally disappeared into the Isar Ring traffic.

It was just over two hours later, and Sylvia and I were alone in the cozy back room of Triangolo, an out-of-the-way café at the other end of the city. Sylvia had said she was in the mood for Italian food, and Triangolo wasn't the kind of place where you were likely to run into anyone you know. On the walls were large photographs of European movie stars, most of them Italian and French, and some scenes depicting a variety of European cities.

In the week she'd been in Munich, this was only the third time Sylvia had left the apartment. I wasn't exactly surprised by this—operations officers always keep their profiles low—but Sylvia was carrying things to an extreme. She was wearing dark glasses, jeans, and a nondescript sweater over a white blouse. It was as if she'd gone to extreme lengths to make herself unmemorable.

As we sat there, each of us toying with a glass of red wine, I couldn't help admiring her good looks—her angular features, thin nose, bright blue eyes. Although Sylvia seemed happy at the news that the police had arrested Sedfrit, I was having difficulty sharing her enthusiasm. I was still thinking of Irmie's comment that Schneider could be a very tough customer. I believed her.

Sylvia said she was hungry. After taking her order for a salad and a bowl of spaghetti, the waiter looked at me. I said I'd get my nourishment from wine and told him to bring me another glass.

Still thinking about my meeting with Irmie and Schneider, I said, “The detectives may still need some convincing that Sedfrit was the murderer.”

“You're too pessimistic, Alex. You said Sedfrit had been in the K Klub only a short time before and had been publicly humiliated by Quemal. That certainly gives him a motive.”