by Rachel Lee
Schulingen huffed. “Do you really think so, Stuffz? If so, pardon my disrespect, but you are a fool. You cannot make them German. They do not want to be German. And we should get them out of Germany.”
Neufel nodded. He did not wish to argue politics, and especially not with a member of his crew. Such disputes could easily undermine the effectiveness of the team, and he took great pride in his crew’s performance.
“Perhaps you are right, Private,” Neufel said. “I am no politician. But I am a German, and I have grandparents. I do not wish to explain to my grandchildren the very same mistakes that my grandparents had to explain to me. So we must all be careful, no?”
“Ja, Stuffz,” Schulingen said, obviously taken aback by the firmness of Neufel’s tone. “I apologize. I am worried about my family.”
“Of course. Now see the medic, Private.”
Schulingen sighed. “I am sure it will go away.”
Neufel studied him for a moment. “What is wrong, Private? Why are you not taking care of this?”
After a long moment, the loader sighed. “The way she looks at me. It makes me feel…unclean.”
Neufel chuckled quietly. That would explain it. The company medic was a young woman from Frankfurt. More than that, she was exceptionally pretty. Schulingen obviously had a crush on her, not unheard of among men and women in uniform, but exquisitely embarrassing if the man was a tanker with a flaming red rash in his crotch and the woman the medic who would treat it.
“Has she said anything to you?” Neufel asked.
“Only that it is caused by the heat and that the powder will make it go away,” Schulingen said. “But it is not what she says, Stuffz. It’s…I wish she were not seeing me there at all, not that way.”
Neufel smiled and shook his head. “Well, Private, I cannot resolve your love life. But I need you healthy and fit in my tank. So somehow you must put aside your fears and see the good Frau Sanitäterin. That is not a request. It is an order.”
“You are a hard tank commander,” Schulingen said.
“Yes,” Neufel said. “I am. Now go, before I have to put you on report.”
Neufel briefly checked on the other men of his crew, ensuring that they had finished their assigned tasks and were settling in for the night. But he could not sleep yet, for as tank commander, he had additional duties. Once he had seen to his own tank, he reported to the platoon leader for the daily debriefing. With quick, clipped sentences, Neufel reported on the condition of his vehicle and his men.
After each of the tank commanders had reported, Bräuburger gave them the customary dressing down for the day’s myriad mistakes. The platoon had been a half hour late leaving its position that morning, owing to a thrown track on the number three tank as they were forming up. The lieutenant gave his men a lot of slack on many things, but he gave no leeway on vehicle maintenance.
Bräuburger turned his attention to the commander of the number one tank, who had twice lost visual contact with the trail vehicle of the platoon ahead of them. While it seemed a small thing in a training exercise, in combat such a mistake could leave the company staggering piecemeal into a battle, and dying piecemeal, as well. The digital network technology used by the Bundeswehr was second only to the Americans’, but even the best electronics could fail. War was and would always be an intensely personal affair, and there was no substitute for direct visual contact with the other members of one’s unit.
Still, as a training march, it had gone about as well as could be expected. Hans could count on his fingers the number of field exercises he had participated in during his tour of duty. Field training was expensive, dangerous and inevitably destructive of civilian property. It was also essential. Computer simulators were good, but they could not replace the inherent chaos of five hundred men and sixty vehicles attempting to move from one place to another in the real world. Hans considered himself a professional soldier, and his crew were capable and disciplined. Still, he wondered how his unit would perform if it faced combat.
Fortunately, he thought, he was unlikely ever to know. The horror and devastation of the Second World War and the birth of the European Union had signaled the end of the major power wars in Europe. Hans Neufel was, and would probably always be, a peacetime soldier.
And he liked it that way. To be ready to defend one’s homeland was a noble calling. To actually face an enemy, to fire his tank’s twelve-centimeter cannon in anger, to confront the stark choice of killing or being killed, was not a prospect he sought. Others might long for the adrenaline rush of combat, but he was not among them.
He would finish his tour, attend university and move on with his life. Just like his father.
Rome, Italy
Although he had come to Rome to be Steve Lorenzo’s bodyguard, Miguel Ortiz spent most of his time alone. In the course of his daily ministry, the priest rarely faced any threat more dire than a hungry child. Most of Miguel’s day was spent watching from a discreet distance, looking busy enough not to attract attention without actually being engaged in anything that would distract him if he were needed.
Miguel also tried to avoid attention for another reason. While Miriam Anson had reported him dead upon her return from Guatemala, he knew the murder of the American ambassador there—a murder he had participated in—was still unsolved. Should anyone recognize Miguel, they might wonder why a dead man was still among the living. So he had gained some weight from regular meals accompanied by pasta and had cut his long indio hair to a more European style. He’d even had it tightly permed and was often mistaken now for a Moroccan or Arab, not an advantage in the current climate, but still a form of anonymity.
The treatment he saw Muslims enduring picked open memory scars like the thorn bushes in his native jungles. He had seen, firsthand, what people will do when they feel the boot of oppression and live in constant fear. He was beginning to wonder if Europeans were incapable of living with anyone, including themselves. The more he pondered, the more he concluded that the human race was its own worst enemy, and far less civilized than it believed.
He looked up as the door to the small ristorante opened and Padre Steve entered. The priest wore what he called his “mufti”: jeans, a windbreaker and a T-shirt that read I’d rather be golfing. He looked like an American tourist, but Miguel knew el padre was no tourist in Italy. He had obviously lived here before and was as fluent in Italian as he was in his native English or his adopted Spanish.
Steve, as the padre insisted Miguel call him now, sat down across the table and smiled. Moments later he ordered a meal that Miguel knew was far more than he would eat, but Steve would take away the leftovers to give to the poor he encountered on his way back to his room.
While Miguel had gained weight, Steve seemed to have lost even more than the jungle had sweated off him. He didn’t exactly look gaunt, but he looked…purified, Miguel thought. The air of a prophet or a shaman seemed to clothe him now, something more than even his priesthood.
“I need your help, Miguel.”
“Always.”
Steve smiled a little wryly. “Our new task will be dangerous. I am being followed.”
Miguel nodded, listening and enjoying his pasta. If he ever went back to Guatemala, he was going to miss eating pasta with every meal. “I have already noted that. I was waiting to tell you until I identified them. They are from the Vatican, Padre.”
“I know.”
“Why should your own people follow you?”
“Because of the codex. They think I know where it may be. And while they are not exactly correct, it remains that you and I have a dangerous task. We must recover it. But we must not let it fall into other hands.”
Miguel paused with a forkful of linguine halfway to his mouth. His dark eyes met Steve’s, and he saw certainty there. This was no joke.
“How are we to find the codex?”
“My friend tells me the trail is in France.”
“Since I have never been there, I will enjoy at least some of t
his journey.”
The smile returned to Steve’s eyes. “I hope so. It may be our last.”
“It will be as God wills. As you have taught me, Padre, we only get into trouble when we try to bend God’s will to our own.”
“Very true. However, I will be honest with you, Miguel. I am not certain about God’s will in this matter.”
It was Miguel’s turn to smile. “Somehow, Steve, I have a very strong feeling that God is guiding you on every step through your life.”
“That would be wonderful if it were true, but I have my doubts. I’m only a man, after all, and I can be misled as much as any other.”
Miguel leaned forward, keeping his voice low. “This codex. Paloma taught us that it is very powerful. Whether that power comes from the heavens or somewhere else, it is not my place to know. But what I do know is that given its power, it must not be in the wrong hands. God would will that we recover it if for no other reason than that it will be safe in your hands.”
Steve shook his head. “You can’t know that.”
“Yes, I can. Because it was to you that Paloma passed it. She knew all would be well if you held it. I need no more proof.”
Steve looked uneasy, but Miguel let it go. The food was good, the mission ahead frightening, and he could do nothing except live in the moment until he needed to do otherwise.
At last Steve rose, most of his meal packed to take with him, and tossed money on the table to cover the bill. “Tomorrow,” he said. “At the main station at nine.”
“I will be there.” A train ride to France. Not everything in life was bad.
Renate waited for the takeout meals she’d purchased for Jefe and herself, and watched the two men, one older, one considerably younger. She was troubled by the feeling that she had seen them before and told herself she had probably seen them right here, dining. She certainly came here often enough.
The past six weeks had been a whirlwind of activity that had led her nowhere. Worse, most of the action had been focused in Germany—the still unexplained death of Karl Vögel, the vote of distrust that had deposed Vögel’s successor and brought Harald Müller into office, and the bombing in Hamburg—and Jefe still stubbornly refused to let Renate go there to investigate.
Lawton and Margarite were excellent agents, but they were not German. Lawton’s German was improving but still spotty. While Margarite spoke the language fluently, she was not a native and was likely to miss subtle subtexts that Renate would catch. Renate knew she ought to be in Germany. She was willing to take her chances at being recognized, and she chafed at being forced to sit on the sidelines in Rome.
Worse, she knew her old companions at the BKA were botching the investigation in Hamburg. The River Police had recovered a slashed Zodiac, surely the intended means of escape for the two bombers. That it had been slashed meant that someone else had been involved in the bombing—someone who wanted to make sure that the two Lebanese men were killed at the scene and their bodies found. But the BKA, eager to soothe a frightened populace, had focused on the bombers and their known links to the virulently anti-Zionist Hezbollah movement.
As Renate walked through the darkened warehouse district, she could already see and hear the bitter fruits of that sort of easy investigation. The Italian government had designated this district as an Islamic protection zone. For the past week there had been steady traffic as non-Muslims moved out and Muslim families moved in. Some of the new arrivals seemed pleased at the prospect of creating a community that would reflect their ethnic and religious sensibilities. Others resented having lost nicer homes in the city and its suburbs in exchange for the promise of greater protection from the Polizia di Stato.
Neither they nor Renate had noticed any increase in police presence. Renate was happy enough for that; the founders of Office 119 had chosen this warehouse for its headquarters because this district was loosely monitored and their presence would attract little attention. But that would change if there was trouble.
It wasn’t until she was almost back at the warehouse that she realized why she had recognized the younger man in the restaurant. In the office, she quickly passed the bag of food to Jefe and sat down at a computer, calling up old files.
“What’s going on?” Jefe asked.
“I think I just saw someone the FBI was looking for.”
“It’s not our job.”
“It is if it satisfies my curiosity. It goes back to the first case I worked with Lawton, the shooting of Grant Lawrence. I just saw a man who was involved somehow.”
“Was he one of the planners?” Jefe asked.
“I’m not certain. Maybe I am wrong, but I trust my instincts. As I recall, this man was reported as killed.”
A few minutes later, she sat back in her chair, perplexed. “It was this man.”
Jefe leaned over her shoulder and looked. “Miguel Ortiz, one of the rebels who killed the U.S. Ambassador to Guatemala. He was reported dead. By Special Agent Miriam Anson.” The photograph of Miguel was a mere snapshot, taken by a tourist as the assassination unfolded. “Miriam Anson was in Guatemala when they tried to capture Ortiz in the village of Dos Ojos. She saw him die. Are you sure this is the man you saw?”
Renate bit her lower lip. “Time has passed. The man I saw today was heavier. His hair was different, too. Not long and straight but short and very curly, almost African. I’d have placed him as Semitic.”
“So maybe there’s just a similarity. They say everyone has a double. Think about it, Renate. Miriam Anson is widely regarded as the best of the best in a field where people aren’t prone to saying that.”
Renate stared at the photo and shook her head. “I could swear I saw him in Rome once before—before the change in hair and weight. He was with a priest.”
“Well, that’s a likely combination.”
She heard the humor in his voice, but she wasn’t smiling when she looked up. “It’s the same man. I need to let Frau Anson know he’s in Rome. Something’s going on.”
11
Washington D.C.
M iriam Anson recognized the voice immediately, although she had heard it only once, years ago in a motel room in Montana. Renate Bächle.
“Miguel Ortiz is in Rome.”
She sat back in her chair and for a long moment almost couldn’t catch her breath. Her investigation in Guatemala had left her with a few lingering scars, not the least among them the memory of that awful day when she and Miguel Ortiz had ambushed and killed a rebel patrol in the jungle. She still had nightmares of paper targets blowing in the breeze, only to watch them turn to men while her bullets shredded their bodies.
She had shot and killed a man who had had a rifle trained on Grant Lawrence. She had shot and killed men in Idaho, in a firefight between a right-wing militia leader and his men and the FBI SWAT team that had been there to stop their escape from the country. But on both of those occasions, the men she had shot had been shooting back at her, or at least intending to shoot someone she was charged to protect.
In Guatemala it had been different. While she had seen these rebels kill without mercy, none had time to so much as lift his rifle during that ambush. She had shot them where they stood, their faces frozen in surprise and the awful realization of impending death.
When she had first arrived, her Guatemalan police translator and driver had said, “You will not have happy memories of Guatemala.” She’d watched him die only a few weeks later, caught in the crossfire at Dos Ojos. His words had been all too prescient.
“Miguel Ortiz is dead,” Miriam said quietly.
“No, he is not,” Renate replied. “I saw him this morning. He is traveling with an American. And your voice tells me you are not surprised by this.”
Miriam didn’t answer immediately, and the fact that she hesitated spoke volumes about how her outlook had been changed in Guatemala. Yes, the U.S. Ambassador’s murder was evil. But she’d also seen what the Guatemalan army, operating at the behest of the U.S. government, had done to the vil
lagers of Dos Ojos, whose only crime had been to give birth to one Miguel Ortiz. Those same villagers had sheltered her and treated her wounds, and carried her to safety with them.
Nor were the rebels any less evil. After the raid on Dos Ojos, the rebels knew that the government was looking for Miguel Ortiz. And Miguel knew far too much about them to be allowed to fall into police hands. So the rebels, too, had come to Dos Ojos, killing men and women and babies, pursuing the villagers through the jungle, until Miriam and Miguel had killed them in the ambush.
The only ray of hope she’d seen was Father Steve Lorenzo. God bless that man, she thought. Although Miriam was not Catholic, Father Steve had heard her confession and given her absolution. What was more, he had listened to her pain and guilt, neither justifying nor condemning her for having killed men in cold blood but simply recognizing the awful necessity of that act at that moment. No one else, except for her husband, Terry, had listened that way. The Bureau’s shrink certainly hadn’t seemed to understand.
Even now, sitting at her desk in the White House complex, Miriam couldn’t find it easy to think of Miguel as a criminal. The murder of the U.S. Ambassador had been more an act of war than a crime, an attack on a foreign invader, for the people of Guatemala had lived with civil war for half a century, instigated by a Cold War-era CIA that saw other countries as mere pawns on a chessboard.
She shook her head. Did she really have to deal with this decision again?
Hell yes, she thought. Good God, the things she’d learned in the last few years were enough to shake bedrock. The Miguel Ortiz who had killed in Guatemala City had been a mere boy whose father had been killed by the army of his country. Grief and rage had driven him into the arms of the rebels, and with them he had struck at a symbol of the American legacy in his country.
Did she really want him in jail? Or executed? No. She had no evidence that he was engaged in anything illegal at present, and no motivation to see him punished for what had happened in the past. She had arranged for his escape then, and she saw no reason to change her mind now.