The Rendition (41 page)

Vickie left, and Mehling said, “The whole thing was embarrassing for the detectives, Alex. They kept offering explanations for why they'd called me. Except for one female detective, they were all extremely apologetic. They even played a tape of a telephone message on which some drunk said he'd seen someone being shot in a vehicle. It was so ridiculous—”

“Untie me, Kurt.”

Mehling squashed out his cigarette and shook his head. “As I say, this detective, a blonde woman, kept asking unpleasant questions. Making herself obnoxious.”

That would have been Irmie.

“After a time, my patience really wore thin. I have a certain amount of influence with the police authorities. I promise you that this female detective, whoever she is, won't be with the police force much longer. And one day she'll just disappear. I'll see to that.”

When I didn't say anything, Mehling shrugged. “Balkan gangsters, men like Igor, can be very effective.”

“Effective at what?”

“At instilling discipline, Alex. To start with, a sedative to make the woman drowsy. After she's been raped fifteen or twenty times, she has little choice but to become cooperative, wouldn't you agree? Provide some cocaine from time to time, and rape her until she's crying for the drug and telling you she'll do anything for another high. When Igor puts them to work, they'll oblige even the most revolting men.” He smiled. “Anything to keep her pimp happy.”

I didn't say anything. I'd spent enough time in the Balkans investigating these types of operations to know how they worked. Max had hinted that Mehling's influence extended in every direction. One thing I knew: the trafficking of drugs and women can only exist in countries where the authorities look the other way, and to me it looked as if the countries of Europe, like some of the countries of the Far East, were permitting the traffickers to have free rein.

“Why are you looking at me like that, Alex? The only way to survive in the world is to destroy your enemies—to do what you have to do.”

Why had I involved Irmie in this? I felt sick.

“Don't you agree? What's wrong, Alex? Are you squeamish?”

I made an effort to move my legs, but it was no use.

“Relax. You're not going anywhere.” Mehling grinned. “This detective seemed to want to connect me to the murder of Ursula Vogt. Now, tell me, where she would get the idea that I would want to murder one of my own employees?”

Mehling might have figured out that I had told Irmie he was behind Ursula Vogt's murder.

“Well?”

“Ursula Vogt wouldn't go along with the sarin gas story. You had to
get rid of her.” Mehling wanted to talk. He was obviously curious about how much we'd been able to figure out.

“Really?”

“Sure. You had to have her killed if you were going to stay on the good side of Bin Laden and his buddies. They're paying your salary, Kurt. The American government knows that.”

“I'm not afraid of your government. I've defied it for a long time. And I'll tell you something else. I'm not the only one, Alex. Some of the most influential and admired people in the West are al-Qaeda agents. Money buys everything in our world, absolutely everything.”

Mehling patted his jacket pocket. “I have an idea that this is the weapon that killed the unfortunate Quemal.” He smiled. “Alex, I can't tell you what a favor you did me by getting rid of that unpleasant individual. However, I've just been informed that a team of Americans in Kosovo have taken Quemal's commander, Ramush Nadaj, into custody. You remember him, I'm sure.”

I assumed that was the news that Vickie had brought to Mehling.

“That should end any thoughts you had about printing stories about the United States using sarin gas in Afghanistan. Nadaj has another story to tell, and he may be telling it at the World Court one of these days. That crumb gassed his own men.”

Mehling was probably one of the people behind the decision to gas the KLA soldiers. He didn't like what I'd just told him, and began toying nervously with the zipper on his jacket. He opened the door and stepped outside. When he returned, he had one of his goons with him, the one who now had a bandage over his eye.

“As you know, Alex, Kosovo is a primitive country, by our standards at least. Feuds and rivalries endure for centuries. The rule there is, an eye for an eye. According to Igor here, you have cost him the sight in his left eye. It's a matter of honor with him. He's now demanding that before we kill you he be allowed to return the favor.”

Igor had some kind of small curved knife in his hand. As he and Mehling were speaking, Mehling was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. This situation was growing worse by the minute. As Mehling spoke, I eyed Igor warily.

With the phone to his ear, Mehling's face suddenly took on a troubled expression. “What? Here?” He shook his head. “Impossible.” Since he was speaking English, I had an idea he might be talking with Vickie, who was probably in another part of the building.

I wondered what she might be telling him.

“How many?” Then a pause. “Are you sure?”

Without another word, Mehling clicked off his phone, turned, and removed the automatic from his jacket pocket. With a concerned look still on his face, he stepped toward me.

“Goodbye, Alex. I have to leave. Igor will function as the agent to execute Kosovo justice.”

Mehling said something to Igor, then placed the automatic back in his pocket. At the door, he hit the light switch. The only light came from a small lamp in the far corner. Before leaving, Mehling took one last look at me, nodded at Igor, then shut the door behind him. I was in the last place in the world that I wanted to be: alone with Igor.

The shadowy darkness seemed to suit Igor just fine. He pointed to his bandaged eye and, speaking quietly, said something.

I wondered what it was that had changed Mehling's mood so suddenly.

“Let me loose, Igor.”

Igor shook his head, then said something I couldn't understand. Even in the darkness, I could see a strange glint in his good eye, as though he was enjoying the moment.

When the door behind Igor began slowly to open, I wondered whether Mehling was coming back to watch as Igor dispensed his country's justice. Igor was so enraged, he trembled. His entire attention was focused on me. As he waved his knife in a strange circular motion, I couldn't take my eyes from it.

Igor stepped forward, then looking directly at me, said something in Albanian. It had a formal sound to it, as though he was reciting a chant and we both were part of some kind of strange ritual. In the darkness behind Igor something moved—a green shadow. Then it moved again, this time with the silence and speed of a jungle cat. A second later, it was directly behind Igor.

As Igor continued his eerie chant, I recognized the word
“Drejtësi!”
Justice. He said the word twice and raised his knife. But the voice that spoke the word a third time was that of a woman.

Igor's chant ended abruptly, in mid-sentence, with his knife inches from my face.

He stumbled forward, fell to his knees, then as if he'd been struck by a train, dropped to the ground, the last sounds he would ever utter a pathetic, hardly audible gargle. In the darkness, a green figure flitted through the shadows and within seconds slipped back into the corridor. The door closed, and I heard the lock click.

Prostrate in front of me, his left arm extended, lay Igor, the blade of what looked like a bayonet protruding from his back. The force from the blow was so great I could well believe the blade had punctured his heart.

Still held down by the duct tape, I couldn't move. Soaked in sweat and with my heart pounding, I remained alone in the dark, drafty room for maybe five minutes. Then someone started banging on the door.

A second later, two policemen, both wearing green Kevlar helmets and flak jackets and carrying weapons, came crashing into the room. One of them hit the light switch, and the other stuck his Uzi in my face, and asked me who I was.

I said, “My name is Klear.” I hoped that was the right answer. It seemed to be because he nodded. When he asked if I was “the American,” I said I was. I guess that was the right answer too because he lowered his weapon.

When he asked who Igor was and what had happened, I told him.

“I think we've found the Ami,” the cop said into his radio. “We're downstairs, in the cellar.” After a pause he added, “But you're not going to believe this. There's a damned body down here.”

A minute later, we were joined by two more cops, also in SWAT team regalia. After they'd cut through the tape, I spent a couple of minutes trying to restore some circulation and regain my sea legs. As I was doing so, Detective Paul Schneider came strolling through the door, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. When he saw me, he shook his head.

“So this is where you spend your free time, Klear. In the
Poof
.”

“You seem to have a dumb remark for every occasion, Detective.”

“It's become a habit. I learned it from you.”

Looking down at Igor, he said, “Who's this?”

When I told him, he frowned, then shook his head. After giving
some orders to the SWAT team guys concerning the body, he turned his attention back to me.

“You had a close call,” he said.

“How'd you find me?”

“I'll tell you later.” Looking me over, he shook his head unsympathetically. “You're a little banged up.”

“I'll be all right.”

Schneider then headed out of the room and back up the flight of stone steps. I followed. In the parking area next to the building, which was now lit up by searchlights from police vans, there was a lot going on. Half a dozen men, one of whom was Kurt Mehling, were being frisked while leaning against a pair of police vans. As I watched, one of the policemen removed the Beretta from Mehling's jacket pocket. My gun. The one I used to shoot Quemal.

Then I saw Irmie. She came striding out of the building's side door, and as she walked by me, we exchanged the briefest of glances. She may have smiled, but in the darkness it was hard to tell.

In all, I counted twenty policemen. A minute later, half a dozen women, a couple of whom I remembered from my earlier visit to this place and all with their heads down, emerged from the building and began shuffling across the gravel. Two policemen herded them toward a police van. It was a gut-wrenching sight.

One of the women was Tania, the woman who'd been in the car and who'd escaped after I shot Quemal. When she saw me, she halted for a second, then fixed me with a long stare. As she walked, she continued to look toward me, turning her head as she went. Finally, she stopped, still staring. When one of the policemen tried to urge her along, she brushed away his hand. Then they were moving again.

I watched. Standing on the van's top step, Tania hesitated, again looked toward me—and silently mouthed a word. Even in the darkness and from a distance of fifty feet, I thought I knew what it was. I nodded just as she disappeared inside the police van. Tania, I noticed, was wearing a green jacket and green slacks.

It would only occur to me later that Vickie was not among the women arrested by the police.

“Are you enjoying the show?” I turned to see Schneider and another detective standing next to me.

I said, “This looks likes a full-fledged old-fashioned
Razzia.
” A
Razzia
is a police raid.

“That's what it is,” Schneider said. “It's been a while since I've been on one.”

“Do you intend to close this place?” I asked.

“We'll try.” Schneider pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. When he offered me one, I said I had enough bad habits. After a minute, the other detective drifted off.

“You're still a murder suspect,” Schneider said. “One of my theories is that you were sent over here with orders to terminate Sheholi, first name Quemal. Is that right?”

“No way, Detective. You've got an overactive imagination.”

“You can't blame me for thinking that. American intelligence agencies have their people all over the world, knocking off the unfriendlies.”

I said, “Look at it this way. If they sent me over here for something like that, they'd have me out of here by now, wouldn't they?”

“Maybe. Something else, Klear. The Green Beret who busted out of jail had help.”

I said, “Whoever helped spring the Green Beret saved the German government from the embarrassment of convicting an innocent man. Give the guy a medal.”

“Fat chance.” Schneider blew some smoke.

“What the police should be investigating is Kurt Mehling's connection with the drugs and women being trafficked up here from the Balkans. The traffickers send the money they earn back to the KLA.”

“We're the police, Klear. Just investigating the local stuff keeps us busy.”

I didn't say anything. I had the feeling that Schneider knew I'd shot Quemal and that he was determined to nail me for it. But I also wondered whether he didn't agree that the Albanian Mafia had too much influence in Europe.

Then I said, “Before you ask me any more questions, let me ask you one: how did you know I was at the K Klub?”

“Before I tell you that,” Schneider said, “let me ask you this question. Where have you been the last three days? That apartment you've been staying in has been empty.”

“I took a short trip.”

“I thought you might be trying to leave the country. We already have the word out. You would have had a tough time flying out of any airport in the EU. If you'd been outside the EU, you'd have been in violation of the law. Where were you?”

“I was staying with a friend.”

Schneider fixed me with a skeptical stare. “We staked out your apartment because we were watching you. When we saw these other characters hanging around, we ran the plate number of their vehicle and saw it was registered to someone from Kosovo. They were there for almost two days. Also waiting for you, we figured. You put up one hell of a fight when they jumped you.”