The Rendition (34 page)

“Probably with good reason. She might have had orders from people upstairs not to say anything about sarin. The fewer the people who know that story the better.”

“What story?”

“According to the senator, forty soldiers from Kosovo died from sarin gas in Afghanistan. They were killed by their own people.”

“It wasn't ours.”

“No, it wasn't. Saddam Hussein had factories in Iraq. He didn't have the technology to produce nuclear weapons, but he was able to produce chemical weapons.”

I said, “Like everyone else, I also know that the UN inspectors never found any evidence of Saddam manufacturing nerve gas. And when our army invaded Iraq no weapons of mass destruction were found.”

Buck said, “Hussein got rid of it before the inspectors arrived. The question is: What happened to it? Our intelligence people have been scrambling all over trying to locate those canisters. Some went to Syria. One of the other places they landed was Afghanistan, where they fell into the hands of the Taliban. Their first thought was to use sarin against our troops in the east.”

“I never heard of that happening.”

“It never did happen, and the senator told me why. The Taliban got what they thought was a better idea. Since our guys have chemical
warfare uniforms, they realized sarin gas might not do much damage. So they came up with an alternative plan.”

“They decided they'd use it against their own soldiers and give us the blame.”

“And ruin our country's reputation. We'd look like the worst kind of international hoodlums, a country so desperate we'd break every rule and defy every treaty.”

Buck took a swallow of beer and continued to talk.

“Since the Geneva Convention outlawing the use of gas ninety years ago, no nation has used it. Hitler toyed with the notion, but the idea was shot down by his generals. If al-Qaeda had been able to persuade the world that the United States was using sarin gas, we'd look even worse than Hitler.”

I said, “If the world believed the story, al-Qaeda could even justify exploding a nuclear device in the United States.”

“That's where Kurt Mehling fits in. They'd have to publicize it, and get the word out. As the publisher of
Welt-Bericht
, Mehling could arrange that. Bin Laden's network had been secretly financing Mehling's magazines for years. By the way, the senator says Bin Laden's days are definitely numbered.”

“Finally!”

When I asked if we knew where he was, Buck nodded. “It won't be long.”

Buck knew about the photographs showing Mehling and Bin Laden together. “Since they knew we would deny the charge and that the story would get plenty of scrutiny, they needed to send a reputable reporter out to Afghanistan, someone who would honestly research the story and someone whom people would believe.”

“Ursula Vogt.”

“Exactly. She was honest, and she was gutsy. She'd been with a couple of good newspapers before going to work at
Welt-Bericht.
She wasn't afraid of anything. In Afghanistan, when she made contact with the Taliban, they told her that the American forces had launched a gas attack.”

“Wasn't she skeptical?”

“Sure, but the Taliban brought Vogt and a photographer up to examine the site. When she reported back to the magazine, Mehling told her to verify what happened, and gather as much evidence as possible that the attack was by the American army. They knew we'd deny it, and that meant their claim had to be airtight. And that's how she came into contact with Doug Brinkman again, who at that time was out in Afghanistan. She knew him already from her first tour.”

“She seems to have used every trick in the book.”

Buck grimaced. “She was the Mata Hari of war correspondents. At first, Brinkman fell for it all. Maybe he really liked her. I'm not sure exactly what he said.”

“He admitted to making some offhand comments. That we may have stockpiled nerve gas, just in case someone uses it against us. Brinkman never said we'd used it, but perhaps in an unguarded moment, he may have said it was always a possibility.”

Buck took a swallow of beer. “Well, there may have been other unguarded moments. By this time, Brinkman had been in Afghanistan for months. Suddenly, he has an attractive woman showing all kinds of interest in him.”

I pulled out my phone and punched in a number. “Speaking of Mr. Mehling, he said he wants to talk with me.”

“Alex! I'm so delighted to hear from you. I found our conversation today interesting. I'm wondering if we could continue it.”

“Tonight would be fine with me.”

He hesitated, then said, “I have an appointment, Alex.”

I said, “I have an appointment too, with the prime minister. I'll cancel it.”

I heard Mehling chuckle. “I truly am busy this evening.” After a pause he said, “Tomorrow evening, Alex. I could meet you at seven. Do you know the park that looks out on the Tegernsee? We could meet there.”

“What time?”

“Seven. I'll be on one of the benches.”

“I'll find you, Kurt.”

After hanging up, I said, “Mehling calls me Alex.”

“Now that you're on a first-name basis with an important citizen,” Buck said, “I hope you won't forget your old friends.”

“What old friends?” I went into the bedroom and returned a minute later holding the 9mm Beretta that Irmie had returned to me the previous evening.

“I don't suppose you intend to shoot him,” Buck said.

When I told Buck what I intended to do, he made a sour face, and I knew why. The only other time I'd tried planting evidence was a case involving some American military contractors who were selling cocaine to jazz musicians visiting Munich. When our scheme backfired, the contractors got off and I ended up in all kinds of hot water.

It was at that time that the Air Force colonel described me as “a loose cannon to end all loose cannons.” Come to think of it, maybe I deserved that evaluation. And maybe I've come to see it as a compliment more than a criticism.

I said, “Mehling's a big shot. He's untouchable.” My thought was that by planting the gun in Mehling's car, we could pin Quemal's murder on him.

“Let's hope it works this time,” Buck said. He didn't look happy.

Kurt Mehling, dressed in a stocking cap, blue ski jacket, and dark woolen pants, paused, took a long drag on the cigar he had just lit up, and gazed out toward the water. “Some people believe we are headed toward an Armageddon,” he said. “What do you think, Alex?”

“I left my crystal ball at home this evening.”

He smiled. “That's what I like about Americans—the sauciness, the endless wisecracks. The refusal to take even the most earnest matters seriously.”

“It sounds like you're describing prime-time television.”

We were seated next to one another on a bench overlooking Tegernsee, one of the alpine lakes just south of Munich. Two men occupied a bench diagonally across the quadrangle. They were near enough to observe but not near enough to overhear. Buck had driven me out here, and since he was somewhere behind us, I wasn't concerned about Mehling's goons.

Although Mehling had suggested this meeting, all we'd done so far was exchange small talk.

In front of us was a broad lawn that sloped for about a hundred feet toward the water. The other benches were occupied mostly by couples, young people speaking quietly.

Mehling smiled appreciatively, blew some smoke.

“The humor is what I miss living in Germany.” He paused. “Life here is orderly, predictable. I lived for a while in the States, you know.”

“I heard.”

“Ah, my reputation precedes me.”

“Such as it is, Kurt.” When Mehling chuckled, I said, “I'm assuming you don't like America.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Your news magazine,
Welt-Bericht
, is anti-American.”

Mehling gazed down at his cigar, and didn't answer right away. Tegernsee was a pretty sight, and after a moment he returned his gaze to the inky water. The lights from distant buildings twinkled in the darkness, and a handful of stars were visible overhead. In the distance the Alps were looming black shadows silhouetted against a dark-blue sky. Bavaria, like much of Germany, is so beautiful I would sometimes wonder why the German people ever felt a necessity to acquire new territories or start a war—or organize and carry out such unmitigated horrors as the Holocaust.

“You know, Alex, I'll let you in on a little secret. This is where I come when I'm seeking relaxation. When I've had a difficult day, I drive down here, find a bench. I'll sit here in the darkness, just looking out at the water. The water, I find, has a soothing effect. Sometimes I'll sit here for hours.”

“The stress of modern life. Everyone feels it.”

“Some of us feel it more than others. What do you do to ease the tension?”

“Nothing, Kurt. I don't have the money to afford a therapist.” I suppose I could have told Mehling that I sometimes pop a beer at the end of a long stress-filled day, but I wasn't in the mood to reveal all my secrets.

“Believe it or not, I was seeing a therapist for a while. She helped a little bit. I stopped because I didn't have the time to continue going.”

“Was that the reason, lack of time?”

In a matter-of-fact tone, Mehling said, “The real reason is I got tired of sleeping with her.”

“So now you come down here to Tegernsee and stare at the water.”

“Precisely.” Then, after a brief pause, he said quietly, “Armageddon. That's what some people think we're heading for. A clash of Islam against the West.”

“Do you have a reason for telling me this, Kurt?”

“Yes, actually. Now is the time to choose sides. Wait, and it might be too late.”

“I've chosen sides.”

“I enjoy talking with you. When I first heard about you, I wondered what kind of person you were.” After a moment, he said, “You mentioned the anti-American outlook of the magazine. Your country is the difficulty, Alex. You people are causing too many problems around the world.”

It sounded as if Mehling had been reading his own magazine. It wouldn't be the first time someone began believing his own propaganda.

“Do you really think so?”

“I do. Honestly. I also believe that we are witnessing the end of an era. The Western World, our civilization, is in decline. I don't think it will survive yours or my lifetime. What we'll have is a new world order, and believe me, Alex, it's not that far off.”

New world orders seemed to be coming and going at a rapid rate. With the new world order that followed the end of the Cold War, I found myself aligned with former Stasi and KGB agents, and for that reason I had some reservations about it. Recalling what Buck had said, I could have told Mehling that by the time his new world order arrived it was doubtful that his friend Osama bin Laden would be around to see it.

Strangely enough, and for reasons I wasn't too clear about myself, I hadn't taken an instant dislike to Mehling. I could see why he'd been successful. He was an opportunist, and wasn't the type to let anything stand in his way. He was ready to believe anything and ready to do a deal with anyone just as long as he came out on top. I had to wonder whether he truly believed his own interpretation of events.

“There's a lack of spiritual belief, Alex. People don't care for anything beyond the most superficial pleasures. Sex and money are the two engines that drive our world. People need a better system of beliefs and real goals.”

“What do you have against sex and money?”

Mehling smiled, then took another long drag on his cigar, which had burned down considerably during the course of our conversation.

“Tell me. Where's Brinkman?”

“Brinkman?”

“Don't play dumb. Brinkman is the Green Beret who killed Ursula Vogt.”

“Correction, Kurt. Brinkman is the Green Beret who was accused of killing Ursula Vogt.”

“Where is he, Alex?”

“How would I know that?”

“Something you said today at the hotel intrigued me. It's one of the reasons I wanted to speak with you.”

I knew what Mehling was about to say.

“You said Ursula Vogt no longer believed in one of the stories she was reporting. What story would that be? Would you know?”

“It had something to do with Afghanistan, Kurt. You would know better than I would.”

“What is your source for that kind of information? You seem very well informed.”

“But not as well as you. Can you tell me what the Afghanistan story was all about?”

“I don't think I need to. I think you know. The break-in at Miss Vogt's home. The late Miss Vogt.” He paused. “The person made off with her notes, interviews, papers, and so forth. I think that person was you. And that's how you know what you know.”

“Why me?”

“Because the person must have been a genuine professional. She'd fashioned a compartment in the wall of her basement office. These were things she didn't want anyone to find. I'm assuming, Alex, that you found those materials. Among them was an article detailing her thoughts on Afghanistan.”

“Miss Vogt's story told of forty Kosovar soldiers in Afghanistan who had been betrayed by their own leaders, one of whom was Ramush Nadaj. They were led into a cave where they were exposed to sarin gas.
At first she was told that the United States was responsible. But in time she came to realize the truth—”

“Which was?”

“That it was a conspiracy to destroy America's reputation. That's what she wrote.”

“The reason I wanted to talk with you, Alex, I like you. Many of my people aren't very impressive, I'm afraid. You're different. I want to offer you an opportunity.”

“The last time someone offered me an opportunity I ended up as the owner of ten acres of worthless swampland in Florida.”