The Rendition (32 page)

“Colonel Bitch-on-Wheels” was behaving with predictable self-indulgence, covering her own ass at the expense of mine.

“You can continue to use the safe house for the foreseeable future.”

“Foreseeable future? What's that supposed to mean?”

“Until whatever happens—happens.”

“You mean until the cops arrest me. Sylvia, listen. We've already been able to—”

“I wish you the best.” Click.

I tossed the phone across the room, where it struck the floor lamp and narrowly missed the large mirror on the living room wall. Then I went into the kitchen, popped a half liter of beer and emptied most of the bottle while standing next to the refrigerator.

“I truly enjoyed our time together.” I said the words out loud in a
singsong voice. “I hope things work out for you.” Then I grabbed another beer. I very nearly threw it against the wall too. Showing some self-restraint, I took it with me into the living room where I plunked myself down on the sofa and tried to think.

I spent ten minutes with my head in my hands and wracking my brain, but couldn't come up with any answers.

The worst of it was, I'd been warned. Buck had told me to steer clear of Sylvia. The word was out all over D.C. about Colonel Bitch-on-Wheels. You don't get that reputation without having earned it. I had only myself to blame for landing in this mess. Whenever things don't work out, there has to be a fall guy, and this time I was elected. I should have seen it coming right from the beginning.

According to Sylvia, I'd been incompetent when, in Kosovo, I'd “let” myself become a prisoner.

And at the K Klub I'd acted irresponsibly when I “let” Tania escape. “You've jeopardized the entire operation for the sake of a lousy whore,” is the less than elegant way she put it on that occasion.

And I'd made the mistake of shooting Quemal when he had a knife at my throat.

Nor did Sylvia like the fact that I'd figured out that the officer she'd become involved with in Kabul was Brinkman. Her boss, the deputy secretary, didn't know about that—and wouldn't like it if he found out.

Put it all together, and it was clear that Sylvia regarded me as the ideal fall guy. The perfect time to check out would have been when Sylvia showed up at the safe house. Ironically, I almost did.

Sprawled on the living room sofa with another bottle of beer in my mitt, I clicked the TV on to an American cop show. A couple of detectives, a guy in a trench coat and a blonde woman, were trying to solve the murder of a prostitute in New York City. The show couldn't have been all that riveting because somewhere in the middle I dozed off.

I guess the detectives solved their case because when I woke up the screen showed a group of beautiful people gathered in a circle and chattering excitedly about books they'd read and films they'd seen.

Because I was still a shade groggy, it took me a good fifteen seconds to realize my phone was ringing. Then I spent time looking before finding it on the rug behind the easy chair, where it had landed after I'd heaved it at the wall. Aware that I was still half asleep, I answered warily.

“Alex?”

“Yes?”

“This is Irmie.”

The very last person on earth that I ever expected to call me was Irmie. All I could think to say was, “I'm surprised to hear from you, Irmie.”

That was truly the understatement of the century.

“I'm calling because I want to speak with you.” When I mumbled a response, she said, “Can you come over now?”

The beer had made me drowsy, and I made a monumental effort to clear my mind. Why was Irmie calling me? What was going on?

“Now?”

“Yes, Alex. Now.” Her voice had an edge to it. “Can you manage that?” When she gave me her address, I said, “I'll call a taxi.”

“No, don't take a taxi. Do you have a car?”

“Yes.” Outside, it was pouring rain. Having drunk two liters of beer, I'd almost certainly be driving over the legal alcohol limit. “Irmie, couldn't we make this—”

“No, Alex. Come now. Can you do that?”

I was wondering what I might be getting myself into. I needed time to think. “Yes,” I said finally.

“Good. Make sure you aren't followed. Don't park on the street. There's a space at the rear of the building.”

I was about to ask who might be following me, but then thought better of it. I wondered if it might be the police. Or someone more sinister—although at the moment I couldn't think of anyone more sinister than Detective Schneider. After giving me her address, she said, “I'll be waiting for you.”

I'd driven less than a mile through the dark, deserted streets when
I saw headlights a hundred yards to my rear. Keeping my eyes on the rearview mirror, I made a number of detours as well as a few wrong turns until I was sure that the car that might have been on my tail was no longer there. By the time I arrived in Gröbenzell twenty minutes later, I was positive no one was behind me. Driving slowly, I spent more time searching for the right address. As it turned out, Irmie now had a garden apartment in a four-story brick building with a lot of lawn around it. I found a parking space behind the building where my car wouldn't be visible from the street.

After buzzing me in, she was waiting with the apartment door open and said a quiet hello.

Just the sight of her face, the wide eyes, round face, and blonde hair, sent a pang of excitement through me—and despite these strange circumstances, brought back memories.

Standing in the middle of her living room I could see black mountains, the Alps, looming in the distance. When she closed the drapes, we were briefly enveloped in a silent darkness that under other circumstances I might have thought of as romantic but that now only seemed mysterious.

I wanted to ask: why all the secrecy?

After turning on a lamp, Irmie pointed me toward the dining room, and I took a seat at the room's large table. I watched silently as she brought a pot of tea from the kitchen, but as she poured her hand shook ever so slightly. Her face looked pale, as though she hadn't slept. What was going on? When she sat down, I couldn't believe that, after all these years, I was again alone with the woman whose memory had haunted me for so long. The situation wasn't just strange, it was eerie, and it was made eerier by the tension that was so obvious in Irmie's expression and movements. The only sound was the ticking of a clock on the wall. It was a few minutes before two.

Irmie looked extremely tired, and when she spoke, her voice was soft. “You're wondering why I asked you over here.”

“I have to admit I was surprised to hear from you.”

“Alex, I'm going to ask some questions, and I insist that you answer all of them—and that you answer truthfully. Can you do that?” When
I hesitated, she said, “I think that you're involved in some way with American intelligence. You may not want to answer these questions.”

“Will you be asking them as a police officer?”

“I am a police officer.” As she took another sip of tea, she looked at me over the rim of her cup with her round blue-green eyes. Again I felt her overwhelming attractiveness, a feeling so strong I was helpless to fight against it.

I thought back to Sylvia's phone call. Not only had she tossed me to the wolves, I had the feeling she'd enjoyed doing it. And now, only hours later, I had Irmie asking me questions, the answers for which could very well land me in even more hot water. Was I being manipulated again? Was Irmie also thinking of her career?

I realized I would have to make a decision—either to trust Irmie or not to trust her.

“You must answer honestly, Alex. If you can't do that, I'm going to ask you to leave.”

The clock struck two.

“Well?”

I paused. As she continued to look at me, I said, “I've always been honest with you, Irmie. Anything you want to know, just ask. I'll tell you.”

Without another word, she stood up. When she returned a minute later, she was holding an object wrapped in a piece of cloth. I recognized the cloth. As she removed the cloth, her hands trembled. She was holding a gun in her hand—a 9mm Beretta automatic.

She carefully placed the weapon down on the table. “I'm sure you recognize this.” When I nodded, she said, “There were two of us, another detective and I, who searched your apartment. We each took a bedroom. When I tried pulling open a drawer in the bedroom closet, it felt heavier than it should have. When I removed the drawer, I found this taped underneath.” She looked at me.

“It's mine. I brought it over.”

“I thought so.”

“Are you saying you found the gun, but haven't told anyone yet?”

She nodded. “Only you, Alex. You're the only person who knows.”

Irmie took a sip of tea, then said, “I placed it in the pocket of my jacket without saying anything.” She hesitated. “But now there are things I have to know.”

We both knew that if what she had done became known it would not only be the end of her career but that she could face an array of criminal charges, perhaps even be charged as an accomplice to murder. Why had she taken such a risk? I took a sip of tea and waited for the question I assumed she was about to ask.

“There was a murder committed at the Kalashni Klub. My partner, Detective Schneider, is convinced you committed it. Two days after it occurred, he wanted to arrest you.”

“He told me.”

“My first question is, was this gun used in the murder?”

“I shot Quemal with this weapon.”

Her eyes widened. “You fired the shot?”

“It was self-defense.”

Irmie poured each of us another cup of tea. Despite her nervousness, I found myself admiring the deft and graceful way she did even the smallest things.

“So many circumstances point to you, Alex. Not just the murder. There's the jailbreak and the break-in at Ursula Vogt's home. Detective Schneider hasn't arrested you only because I've intervened.”

“He doesn't know about us, the way things were.”

“No one knows about us. Only Max, and he won't say anything. Detective Schneider thinks the pressure will get to you and you'll panic—that you'll try to get back to America. Flight means guilt. Germany will ask for extradition. Your life will be ruined.”

I knew what Schneider was thinking. Even if I managed to get away, I'd live the rest of my life as a kind of fugitive, with the knowledge there was a warrant in the EU for my arrest. I'd spend all kinds of time consulting with lawyers and fighting extradition. I would lose my self-respect. I knew I could never live like that. Irmie knew it too.

“That won't happen.” Or would it? I could no longer know myself what I might do. Would I panic at some point—and bolt?

“Alex,” Irmie said quietly, “I have to know the whole story.” When I didn't respond, she said, “It's as important for me as it is for you.”

So I did something that under normal circumstances I would never do. When you're involved in intelligence, you learn to talk as little as possible. When you have to talk, you say very little and reveal almost nothing. But in this case I tossed away half a lifetime of habits, and told Irmie everything. I gave her names, dates, information. I began with the phone call from Buck that eventually led to the trip to Kosovo, my hospital interview with Sylvia, the reappearance of Jerry Shenlee in my life, and finally my arrival in Munich. I told her about the break-in at Ursula Vogt's home, my ill-fated visit to the K Klub, and concluded with the story of how Sylvia, Harry Owen, and I were able to break Doug Brinkman out of the Police Presidium. Irmie frowned as she listened to that story. Then she asked me why we did it.

The clock on the wall showed two thirty.

“I don't believe Brinkman killed Ursula Vogt,” I said. “Eventually, he would have been murdered in prison.”

Irmie didn't say anything for half a minute. I was surprised when, finally, she nodded. After another pause, she said, “Other people also think he is innocent. Among the detectives, there were questions about the investigation.”

I said, “Kurt Mehling arranged for Quemal to come to Munich and murder Ursula Vogt. Then he put pressure on the detectives investigating the homicide to frame Brinkman.”

Irmie's eyes widened. “Kurt Mehling? This is the first time I've heard his name mentioned.”

“He pressured the detectives to charge Brinkman. Max told me one of the detectives resigned. The other dropped from sight and may be dead.”

Irmie looked at me searchingly. “Everyone thought the obvious suspect was the handyman from the Balkans. He was also a suspect in the Muzaci murder, the case I investigated.” She shook her head. “But why murder Ursula Vogt?”

“Ursula Vogt refused to report a story from Afghanistan. Mehling
needed to get her out of the way to save his own reputation. She'd discovered he was involved with al-Qaeda, and that his magazine was supported by Bin Laden's money.” I nodded at the weapon. “When I shot Quemal, he had a knife at my throat. It was self-defense. I had no choice.”

Irmie was a police detective, and I'd told her enough for the police to lock me up and throw away the key.

“Alex,” she said after a second, “someone has been asking about you.”

“Who?”

“She showed me a picture of you. It looked like it was taken by a security camera. She was vague about why she wanted to locate you.”

“She? A woman?”

Irmie nodded. “She wouldn't tell me much. She spoke to me because she'd learned that Detective Schneider and I were investigating Quemal's murder.” When I asked what the woman looked like, Irmie said, “On the thin side. Attractive. Brunette. She spoke with an accent.”

“Was she American?”

“No. I have her name here. Viktoria Rubi.”

“Vickie!” I said, “That was the woman from Kosovo. She was with Ramush Nadaj.”