The Rendition (35 page)

This time Mehling didn't chuckle, or even smile. “But before I tell you what I have in mind, let me say, I'm offering it to you because I value your abilities and your intelligence. I think highly of you.”

Before I could interrupt, Mehling raised his hand. “Don't say I don't know you, Alex. I have ways of finding out things. You're focused, determined. I can see that. And I've been able to piece together what I've heard and what I suspect to be true.”

“I assume you know what happened in Kosovo.”

“I do indeed.”

“Vickie—if that's her name—told you.”

“You acquitted yourself well, in fact, very well. I knew the story before you joined us at the hotel. I really did enjoy meeting you. I wished you had stayed. The sea bass was delicious.”

“There are differences of opinion on how well I acquitted myself. It doesn't take a great deal of skill to get yourself captured.”

Mehling smiled. “Maybe your superiors didn't appreciate that, but you shouldn't be too hard on yourself. And I have to admire the way you got out of that predicament.” After a brief pause, he said, “As I indicated, I asked you out here because I want to make you an offer.”

“What kind of offer?”

“You'd be using your expertise. What else? And Alex, don't play dumb. It's irritating.” Mehling turned to look at me. “I know that you spent time over here working for one of the intelligence agencies.”

“I'm not interested.”

“First, let me tell you, Alex. I'd make you a rich man. Just give me the number of your bank account. By the end of the week, I'll have paid in a quarter million euros.” After a brief pause to blow some more smoke, he said, “Does that sound interesting?”

“What would I have to do to earn this money?”

“I'd want you to tell me what you've been doing for the past ten days. And don't tell me you didn't have something to do with all this stuff that was going on.”

“Stuff? Be more specific.”

“About the break-in at Miss Vogt's home. About the murder at the K Klub. Were you involved with those incidents?”

“Why would you think that?”

“The victim was one of the people who held you prisoner in Kosovo. You might have tracked him down—and avenged yourself.”

“This Quemal who, by the way, was also known as Quemal the Assassin, worked for Miss Vogt as a handyman and was a suspect in her murder.”

“Go on.”

“If he was the individual I encountered in Kosovo, I would like to know what he was doing here in Munich. My guess is he was sent up here to murder Miss Vogt.”

“Why would anyone—?”

“To prevent her from publishing the story we just talked about.”

“Where's the story now?”

“I don't know.” That was true enough. I'd assumed that Sylvia had passed on the contents of the CD to her bosses in the NSC.

“You could be more forthcoming with your future boss, Alex.”

“I haven't accepted your job.”

“True, but I'm hoping that you will.”

“Every man has his price, right Kurt?”

Mehling smiled. “Where money is concerned, things generally are simple.” He got up from the bench. “I've made my offer, and I think we can end our discussion right here.” He glanced at his watch. “We should be getting back.” He sounded more than a little irritated.

He tossed away his cigar, and we walked back up the hill. Although Buck had driven me down here, I said, “I'll let you drive me back to the Peace Angel, Kurt.”

“Fine. We can continue to talk.” As we drove, Mehling said, “You know that when I referred to your expertise, Alex, I meant your trade-craft. That is what the people in the business call it, is it not?”

“I think you may be overvaluing me—and my tradecraft.”

“Let me be the judge of that. I have a yacht in the Mediterranean. I'd like you to begin there.”

“What would I be doing on your yacht? Swabbing the deck?”

Mehling was no longer chuckling at my comments. “I'd find things for you. We'll be headed for the Persian Gulf, probably within a week. That much I can tell you.”

“You're still being vague, Kurt. I don't like that.”

When we'd arrived at the Peace Angel, Mehling turned and looked at me. “I meant everything I said. And I also meant it when I said I could make you a rich man. It wouldn't be the first time someone has switched sides, you know. In fact it happens all the time. But I do understand that it is a major decision for you. You have my card. I expect to hear from you within twenty-four hours.”

I pushed the car door open and climbed out.

“However, after twenty-four hours all—What's the expression?”

“All bets are off.”

“Exactly, Alex. After that time, all bets are off.”

“He's self-centered and he's arrogant,” I said. “But he's interesting to talk to.” I was describing my meeting with Kurt Mehling to Buck.

“You would have liked him better if he'd laughed at your jokes,” Buck said.

“He laughed at some of them.” When Buck, who was guiding the car through the Munich traffic, tossed me a skeptical glance, I added, “He has all sorts of interesting ideas.”

“Like what?”

“Well, he thinks the world is heading toward Armageddon.”

“Did he say who's going to win the conflict?”

I nodded. “The forces of Islam are going to overwhelm the Western World. I doubt he believes it himself. He also offered me a job, and I told him I'd think it over. I have twenty-four hours to make up my mind.”

“A job doing what?”

“He's interested in my expertise, and he said something about going to work on his yacht in the Mediterranean somewhere.”

“Sounds good.”

“He also offered me a quarter million euros just to sign on.”

“How long would it be before they tumbled you into the drink?”

“I figure two days, maybe three. They wouldn't do it until they'd squeezed every last piece of information out of me.”

“One consolation: you'd die rich.”

“Assuming Mehling's check doesn't bounce.”

“What else?”

“Not much. He's too cagey to give away anything. He was trying to get me to talk, and I was trying to get him to talk. Neither of us was very successful. From some of the things he said, I got the idea that the detectives gave him access to Ursula Vogt's home.”

“Was he looking for something?”

“He knew she was writing a story about her experience in Afghanistan that would have blown him out of the water. He wanted it.”

“But you got in there ahead of him.”

“Sylvia read it, and she probably passed it on to the National Security Council, possibly to Jerry Shenlee. When I saw that someone had gone through Ursula Vogt's stuff, I figured they were looking for something. That led me to look around. The cabinet behind the bed wasn't that hard to find.”

“Mehling paid off the detectives who investigated Ursula Vogt's murder, is that it?”

“Irmie suspected that. It may have been one of the reasons she didn't turn in the gun when she found it.”

“Do you think that was the only reason?” Buck was referring to the possibility that she might have done it because of me.

“I don't know.”

We were stopped at a light, and it had begun to rain heavily. Buck turned to look at me. “Where's the gun?”

“Under the front seat on the passenger's side.” I had put the weapon in Mehling's car. Our plan was for the cops to find it there.

“We want to bring that fact to someone's attention. Is that what you're thinking?”

“Detective Schneider's attention. He's handling the investigation. We're not that far from the main railroad station. This might be the best neighborhood to look for the kind of person we need.”

“Someone to drop a dime?” Buck and I had worked together for so long that, in situations like this one, only minimal communication was necessary.

On the street ahead of us, a car pulled away from the curb and Buck pulled into the space.

After checking the station and not finding anyone, we decided to try the neighborhood bars, the kind of places that offer temporary haven to the lost souls who aren't doing anything or going anywhere. Their haven lasts for as long as they can pay for their booze.

“I'll go this way,” I said. Buck nodded and headed off in the other direction.

I looked into a couple of places but didn't see anyone. I found Buck at a corner table in a smoky bar in the next block. For some people, those with nowhere better to go, it was a place to come in out of the rain.

When I arrived, Buck folded up his newspaper, took a last swallow from a cup of coffee, then nodded in the direction of a moon-faced un-shaven guy with hair that didn't appear to have been combed recently and who was wearing a jacket that appeared to have been slept in. He had an intelligent face, but he definitely appeared to have seen better days—and he was staring into space almost as if he was doing his best to recall them.

“He was talking to a few characters when I got here,” Buck said. “Bavarian dialect. Said he'd been working construction for a while. He's switched from schnapps to beer.”

“Can he read?”

“There's a newspaper on his table. He was able to put sentences together a few minutes ago, but he's half smashed now.”

“Not totally smashed?” I watched as the guy took a long swallow from his beer bottle. When I nodded, Buck headed off to the bar to pick up more beer, and I headed over to our friend's table.

I said, “
Grüss Gott,”
and he looked up at me with bloodshot eyes.

He mumbled a greeting, gave me an inquiring stare. As he gazed balefully out at the teeming rain, I said something about the weather gods not favoring us lately. I told him I was Alex, and he said he was Willi. A minute later Buck arrived and shoved a bottle of beer in Willi's direction.

Willi had lost his job as a machinist and had subsequently helped out on a couple of construction sites. Somewhere along the way, his
wife had left him. When he said his unemployment insurance had run out, I took out a hundred euro bill and pushed it across the table. He gazed at it longingly, but didn't pick it up.

“Would you like to earn five hundred euros?” I said. “I have four more of those.”

“I don't want to go back to jail,” Willi said. I thought that was a good answer.

“You don't have to do anything illegal.” I took out a piece of paper. “If you can read this out loud, you can earn another four hundred euros.” I handed Willi the paper, but when he only squinted at it, my heart sank. I was about to take the paper back, but Willi began to fumble around in his jacket. Finally, he pulled out a battered pair of reading glasses.

“Can't even read the newspaper anymore without these.”

When I said, “It's a bitch getting old,” he grumbled. Then he held up the paper to six inches in front of his nose and began reading. When he'd finished, I nodded at Buck, who nodded back.

Outside, there was a row of pay phones. “You just have to read this into that telephone, Willi.”

When Willi hesitated, Buck said, “This is your chance to earn some money.”

Using a disposable telephone card, I dialed Detective Schneider's number at the Police Presidium. When his machine directed me to leave a message, I handed Willi the receiver.

“Ja, Detective, it's about the shooting at the Kalashni. I should have called last week. I was in the parking lot in my car. It's a brothel. My wife would divorce me if she knew I was there. I read your name in the newspaper. It's been bothering me. These two guys—they pushed the other guy into the back of the car. Shot him, left his body. Then they drove away. A Mercedes, nice wheels. It was one shot. They killed him. I took down the plate number of the car. It's M274K75.”

I reached across and broke the connection. When we were back inside the bar, Willi looked at me uncertainly.

“You did good, Willi.” I handed Willi four hundreds.

“Who did I speak with?”

“No one.”

Buck called to the bartender for another beer. “If we ever need you again, Willi, we'll call.”

Willi continued to stare, unbelievingly, at the bills in his hand. As Buck and I headed for the door, Willi was still staring.

In the car on the way to Max's apartment, I said, “Detective Schneider will want to ask Kurt Mehling a few questions—and will want to search his vehicle.”

Buck shook his head. “Do you think it will fool him? He's a smart cop.”

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

I'd just finished passing around the pictures I'd taken that afternoon of Mehling and Vickie talking in the hotel lobby. “If there's any doubt about Mehling's involvement with Nadaj, this should remove it. Vickie is the woman who was with Ramush Nadaj and Quemal in Kosovo. Their gang held me prisoner for two days.”

It was after midnight, and the four of us—Max, Irmie, Buck, and I—were clustered around Max's living room coffee table.

Irmie shook her head. “Whose idea was it to use the gas like that—against their own people?”

“Probably it was Mehling's idea,” Buck said. “According to people in Washington, he's as bad as Bin Laden, and now could be more dangerous. He arranged to have his own reporter killed when she wouldn't play ball. Then he framed Brinkman.”

“Brinkman they could have taken care of in prison,” Max said. His expression darkened. “One of the detectives who investigated Miss Vogt's murder disappeared.”

Looking at me, Irmie said, “You mentioned that there were pictures showing Mehling and Bin Laden together.”