The Rendition (27 page)

I said, “We learned all kinds of stuff in Fort Bragg. I know I did.”

“Yeah, we did, but when the hell did we learn to bust someone out of jail?”

“Maybe you didn't, but I did.” I paused again, giving him some time to think. “Tell me this: what've you got to lose?” Brinkman knew what I meant. Inside the prison, he was a marked man. Even if he lasted until his trial date, he'd be looking at twenty years minimum—
and whoever wanted him out of the way would get to him sooner or later, and most likely it would be sooner.

I let him think about it some more, for maybe a half minute. I lowered my voice to a nearly unintelligible mumble. “You've been in police headquarters, right?” When he nodded, I said, “How often?”

“Twice. After they arrested me, and one other time.”

“What happens?”

“They took me down in a van. In cuffs. No way out of that sucker.”

I looked toward the guard, who I sensed might be about to say time was up. “What happens then?”

Brinkman sensed it too because he began speaking quickly. “They drive into the building, into an underground garage. We get out of the van. Then we wait downstairs. On benches.”

“The hearing's going to be on the fourth floor. This one's at fourteen thirty hours. It won't last long. Harry Owen, the guy from the consulate, will be there. When did the guards say they'd let you make a break?”

“I'm supposed to ask to use the latrine while they wait outside. Then I leave, supposedly without them seeing me. I'm supposed to beat it downstairs, grab a van, and drive it out.”

“They can't let you out of their sight for very long.”

“They're giving me three minutes to get downstairs.”

“Then the alarm goes off?” When he nodded, I said, “Tell them you'll go along with the plan to let you take the van.”

I figured I knew the rough location of the fourth-floor hearing room. I'd have to figure out which of the lavatories he'd be using.

“Give it to me again. Quick.” The guard had begun strolling in our direction. “What did they say you should do right after the hearing?”

“There's a washroom down the corridor. I ask to use it. It's got bars on the windows, so they leave off the cuffs and don't worry about me trying anything. Then I beat it down the stairs.”

“On the third floor, look for a washroom with an out-of-order sign on it. There'll be a change of clothes in there. Do you know where the main entrance is?”

He thought for a second. “The side away from the Marienplatz?”

“Not exactly, but you'll have to find it. There's a guard. I'll try to distract him. He buzzes people in and out.”

I knew Munich's Police Presidium from having spent so much time there. I knew the security procedure at the entrance, but the presidium was a sprawling building, one in which you could easily get lost. My mind was racing. Brinkman would have to change and find his way down within minutes.

As I continued to talk, Brinkman's expression slowly began to come alive, and after a minute he sat up in his chair. He had big hands, and he began knotting them and unknotting them. As a member of Special Forces, there's nothing a guy learns to like as much as an all-but-impossible challenge. Doug Brinkman's eyes took on a wild glint, a glint I'd seen before in the eyes of soldiers who were on an adrenaline high. At that moment, it might have been in my own eyes. If it was, I hoped it wasn't too obvious.

After I'd explained everything, he said, “Are you sure something like that'll work?”

I wasn't sure. In fact, I found the scheme kind of crazy, but given the circumstances it was all I could come up with.

“Sure, it'll work. But you're gonna have to move fast, and it will only work if you do exactly what I tell you to do.”

At that moment, the guard was walking toward me and pointing at his watch. I told him I wanted another minute. I breathed a sigh of relief when he turned his attention to one of the other visitors.

Speaking rapidly, I said, “Look for civvies in the latrine. A cell phone and an S-Bahn ticket will be in one of the pockets. And some money. There'll be a number to call. Act like somebody important. A doctor, maybe.” I figured I had to give him self-confidence.

“I'm an
Artzt
?”

“Right. You have to say,
‘Ich bin Artzt.
' That's if anyone asks.” I paused. “Think of yourself as someone important, someone who doesn't have to show his ID.”

Then the guard was there again. I continued to talk, speaking quickly and hoping Brinkman was picking it all up. “And make sure you put the tie on, and the shoes. The clodhoppers will give you away
otherwise.” As I stood to leave, I said, “And there'll be a wig in there. Stick that on too. And the cheaters.”

Outside the prison, I noticed that the sun was no longer shining, and the city looked gray and somber, which was an almost perfect match for my mood. As I drove back to the apartment, the thought occurred to me that what Brinkman had said was true. Probably one of the few things they didn't teach us at Fort Bragg was how to bust someone out of jail.

On Saturday morning Sylvia and I went shopping for Brinkman's clothes.

Although I thought our little expedition would require maybe an hour, it lasted nearly six hours, during which time we visited department stores, boutiques, accessory shops, a haberdasher, and a shoe emporium. As I watched, Sylvia carried on endless discussions about colors, styles, combinations, and sizes.

“The idea,” she told me when we stopped for a brief lunch, “is that he looks important. If he's going to walk out of police headquarters without ID he's—”

“Got to look the part.”

“Exactly!”

By the time we arrived home, we had a gray sports jacket, a white shirt, a blue tie, a pair of black moccasins, glasses with gold frames, and a brown wig.

I was impressed by Sylvia's familiarity with Brinkman's shirt and shoe sizes—further proof, I suspected, that they had gotten to know one another fairly well at the Ariana Hotel in Kabul.

At supper that evening, we hardly spoke. I broke out a bottle of wine, and afterward we disposed of half a bottle of vodka. The tension was getting to us. An hour later, while I was undressing, Sylvia pushed open the bedroom door and gave me a playful shove, which landed me on the bed.

When she fell on top of me, I realized that beneath her blouse she
wasn't wearing a bra. Because her blouse was already half unbuttoned, I found it easy to remove.

As I kissed her, I realized this was the moment I knew would eventually arrive.

Even with Brinkman's breakout attempt still three days away, we needed to vent the tension, and now we'd decided how to do it.

But this was also the moment Buck had warned me about.

Although Sylvia and I had been pretending there was no attraction between us, the chemistry had been there from the moment of our first meeting in the army hospital. I followed our first kiss with a second, which was long and intense. I could feel Sylvia's softness against me. Neither of us felt the need to talk, and within seconds, I was oblivious to everything except Sylvia's presence, which somehow seemed to make whatever else was going on in the world unimportant or nonexistent.

I felt myself being pulled into another existence, one where only Sylvia and I mattered and where no one else and nothing else was important.

“Alex, can I talk—”

“Should I stop kissing you?”

Sylvia began to giggle. “No.”

On top of the sheets was a thick, soft feather bed, and locked in one another's arms, we were rolling around on top of it. I don't know how much time went by. As I smothered her with kisses, my lips all over her naked body, I heard Sylvia sigh. But then I also heard a voice coming from somewhere.

Is this what you really want?

Yes, yes, it is.

Really?

Irmie! Irmie, is that you?—Is this what you want, Alex? Yes, but I want it with you, Irmie.

And then what was happening in the bedroom somehow wasn't that important. My heart just wasn't in it.

Sylvia drew me to her. But when she tried to kiss me, I didn't respond.

I felt her stiffen.

“What's—what's wrong?”

Irmie, I wish I was holding you in my arms.

“Kiss me again, Alex.”

Then I remembered something Buck had said—that Sylvia had been involved with another officer in Afghanistan.

“Is this how it was?” I whispered as Sylvia pressed her lips against mine.

“Was? What do you mean?” Sylvia still had her arms tightly around me. She was still trying to kiss me.

“You know. In Afghanistan. With Doug.”

“How what was? What are you talking about?”

“Sure, you know. Doug Brinkman. You and he were in Afghanistan together. At the Ariana Hotel—”

Sylvia was no longer holding me. “What do you know about the Ariana?” And then she was pushing me away. As I continued to talk, she became a different person.

She struggled to sit up, then said, “How do you know that?”

“I figured it out. I know how you feel about Doug—”

“It's none of your goddamned business how I feel about Doug.”

And then she was on her feet, gathering up articles of clothing. Her last words before slamming the door were, “You're jealous, aren't you? You bastard!”

Twenty minutes later, I was sprawled on my bed with a magazine when I heard the noise coming from the kitchen. It took me a half minute to figure out what it was—the sound of breaking dishes.

In between each smashed dish there was an interval of perhaps twenty seconds. People have different ways of venting their anger. One of Sylvia's, it seemed, was to throw dishes. Leaving the bedroom, I walked down the corridor and stood at the door of the kitchen. By this time, she'd smashed maybe half a dozen plates and saucers. There were shards of china on the floor and on the counter. The door to the cabinet holding the dishes was wide open.

She whirled around when she saw me, her eyes wide with anger.

I said, “I want to apologize.” When a look of bafflement crossed her face, I said quietly, “It was my fault. It shouldn't have happened.”

She approached me until her face was six inches in front of mine. Then she said, “You're goddamned right it was your fault.” She pushed her way by me.

Keeping my voice low, I said, “You have a right to be mad.”

Following her into the foyer, I watched as she grabbed her jacket from the peg next to the door. I said, “I shouldn't have let it happen.”

With her hand on the doorknob, she turned to face me. Maybe it was only my imagination, but I thought there was less anger now in her expression. She left the apartment, clicking the door shut behind her.

Although I shouldn't have let things go as far as they went, my main concern now was the thought that our relationship might have permanently altered. If we were going to continue with this operation, we'd have to continue to be a team. Cleaning up the kitchen was my attempt at a peace offering.

By the time she returned an hour later, the kitchen was spotless. I hoped that she noticed it. Unless we continued working together, there was no hope of getting Brinkman out of jail—or for that matter, of staying out of jail ourselves.

“One key element is that Brinkman's guards are going to be looking the other way after he enters the fourth-floor washroom.”

It was the next day, and Sylvia and I were in the dinette and discussing how we hoped to break Doug Brinkman out of jail. I was doing my best to sound confident.

I said, “The other key element is he'll be wearing civilian clothes. He'll be able to leave the building—providing the alarm hasn't sounded.”

“How long will he have?”

As Sylvia refilled my coffee cup, I said, “I figure, a three-minute window that begins when he ducks out of the men's room. Maybe a shade longer than three, but that will depend on Owen. He'll be on the fourth floor, and might be able to divert the guards for a minute. Two minutes, maybe.”

Sylvia looked worried. As she replaced the coffee beaker in the machine, she said, “That's not very long. Not for everything he has to do.”

Neither Sylvia nor I had discussed the brief amorous interlude of the previous day, which I hoped we'd been able to put behind us.

“We have to get him out of the building during the time when the guards are waiting for him to arrive downstairs—in other words, during the time they think he's still playing ball with them. Once they realize Brinkman isn't heading toward the garage, they'll sound the alarm. And when that happens the building will be sealed up tight.”

When I said that, Sylvia went white, and I couldn't blame her. I hated to think of what the consequences of a screwup would be. The way I saw things, Sylvia was making a huge error by insisting we try this stunt.

She said, “But he also has to get past the guard at the entrance and out of the building.”

“I'll be holding the inner door open. He waves to the guard behind the glass—and if the alarm hasn't sounded by then, the guard buzzes him out. Brinkman takes the S-Bahn a couple of stops, gets off, and we pick him up.”

“You make it sound so easy, Alex.”

I spelled out the well-known acronym—KISS, which stands for “Keep It Simple, Stupid!”—and which every operations officer has had pounded into him at some point in his or her training. In devising this plan, I really had focused on making it simple.

I then showed her what I'd been working on during the morning. It was a large official-looking sign:
Ausser Betrieb. Kein Eintritt.

Sylvia nodded. “Out of order. Stay out.”

“I'll paste it up on the door of the men's washroom a few minutes before Brinkman arrives. We don't want any cops barging in while Brinkman is changing and sticking on his wig.”