“Come off it, Max.”
“You know what I’m talking about. There are no more American Army installations here in Munich—which means no more American military people throwing their weight around.” I knew what Max was referring to. When the situation called for it, we’d bent the rules and pulled some wild over-the-top stuff, with black bag operations being the least of our stunts—things that, admittedly, I never would have dreamed of trying back in the States. I thought that some of the resentment that might have been building up inside Max over the years was finally spilling over.
“Do you understand me, Alex?”
“No, not really. I thought we were friends.”
Max made a point of not commenting. After a brief pause, he said, “I’ll give you a call in a day or two. Until then, take some friendly advice—and stay away from the Kalashni Klub!”
As I drove back to the apartment, I wondered what Max might have in mind, if anything. At one time, he’d been a great guy to work with, but time had changed things.
Chapter 14
Thursday, January 24, 2008
After reporting to Sylvia on my visit to Brinkman, I found a beer in the fridge and poured out a half liter into a glass. Then I collapsed onto a chair. For some reason, I’d found the conversation with Brinkman emotionally draining. “I think I broke the ice. He trusts me, a little bit at least.”
As I took a long swallow, Sylvia eyed me with what could have been mild distaste. “Has anyone ever told you that you drink too much?”
“No,” I said, taking a long swallow and very nearly emptying the glass. The truth was, I had begun to drink too much. I’d been away from the special ops stuff for a while, maybe for too long. My nerves were drawn tight, and I needed a quick way to relax.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re hard to get along with?”
“Most people say I’m very friendly and cooperative.”
“Has anyone ever called you a loose cannon?”
I didn’t respond. It sounded as if Sylvia had been reading through my personnel file.
“Has anyone ever called you ‘a loose cannon to end all loose cannons’?” When she quoted the Air Force colonel, I knew she’d been reading through my personnel file.
Since we were getting personal, I could have said, “Has anyone ever referred to you as Colonel Bitch-on-Wheels?” I wisely refrained from putting any additional strain on our already strained relationship.
She crossed the room and stood at the window for a long minute, her arms folded, her back facing me. “What’s he like?” she asked finally.
Much of the stuff I’d brought back from Ursula Vogt’s place—folders, photos, paper—was still stacked up and spread out on the table. Sylvia had said she wanted to handle that end of things, and she’d gone through most of it.
“He’s tough. He’s smart. I guess you could say he’s like most Green Berets.”
“How’s he handling the prison situation?” She was facing me again.
“Like I say, he’s in Special Forces. He’s probably handled situations that were a lot worse.”
“If he’s so smart, why did he become involved with Ursula?”
I said, “That’s probably not so hard to figure. You’ve seen the pictures.”
“Did he know about her other boyfriends?” Sylvia asked.
Something occurred to me then. I sensed that Sylvia knew Brink-man personally. I remembered what Buck had said about a relationship between Sylvia and another officer while she was in Afghanistan.
“Maybe not at first,” I said. “Maybe what happened was, he tumbled to the fact that he had competition—quite a lot of competition.”
“And then he killed her? We don’t like that idea.”
“But maybe it happened that way. He has a short fuse.”
“So? A lot of people have short fuses. I have one myself, but I haven’t killed anyone—not yet anyway.”
“You’ve shown admirable restraint.”
“I’m glad you’ve noticed. As I said, we don’t like that idea. We’re here to prove Brinkman innocent, to get him out of jail.”
After a second, I said, “According to Max Peters, the German cops are positive he killed her.”
“Have the German cops ever been wrong before?”
“They’re like cops everywhere. They’re wrong as often as they’re right.”
“You’re awfully cynical.”
“When you’ve had as much to do with cops as I have, you’d be cynical too.”
“I doubt that, but let’s not argue the point. I’ve been going through some more of Ursula Vogt’s stuff. She wrote a lot of notes. She also kept a diary. But one article is of particular interest.” Sylvia held up a CD.
“What is it?”
“She was writing a long article explaining her reporting in Afghanistan. She was reporting a story about a battle in the mountains—and how she’d come to change her mind about what had happened there.”
“What happened?”
Ignoring my question, Sylvia said, “I also found some notes regarding interviews with some American officers in Afghanistan that tie into this article.” Sylvia began hunting through the pile of paper on the table. Finally, she found a small notebook. Sylvia held up a small notepad. “This seems to be a record of some conversations she had with Brinkman.” After quickly leafing through it, she passed it over to me. “She used a kind of shorthand, and this slanted German writing is difficult to read.”
Sylvia was right. The notebook was nearly indecipherable.
Sylvia said, “If you look at the first page, you see Brinkman’s name and some dates. I don’t think she interviewed him exactly. It looks as if these notes were put down after she’d spoken with him a number of times. But they’re probably a fairly accurate record of what he might have said.”
Sylvia was also right on the fact that the notebook seemed to hold a record of a number of meetings and conversations. Between the various meetings there were usually some dates and one or two blank pages. “What do you make of it?” I asked. I couldn’t decipher much of it and tossed it back on the table.
“She was pumping him. Asking questions and putting down the answers afterward.” Sylvia picked up something else that was on the table, a tape cartridge. She held it up, then inserted it into a small tape player on the table. As the tape began to play, she turned up the volume.
For a couple of minutes, there wasn’t much beside some sighing and sounds that were somewhere between a groan and a cough. There was a good bit of external noise, which made the voices difficult to understand, and some more gasps and comments. Finally, a woman said, “What are you doing?” and then there was some giggling. Sylvia politely cleared her throat. “I’m going to fast-forward a little.”
I thought it might be a good idea, but didn’t say anything.
A woman’s voice speaking accented English: “Where are the cigarettes?”
“You smoke too much.” I recognized Brinkman’s voice.
“So I have a weakness.”
“That’s not your only weakness.”
“How about you? Don’t you have any weaknesses?”
“No. I’m perfect.”
“Ha. That’s a laugh.” When I glanced at Sylvia, I saw she was listening intently.
“Name a weakness I have.”
“You’re addicted to sex,” the woman said. “Stop that.”
“Sex ain’t a weakness.” They both began to laugh. “Should I stop?”
“No,” the woman said.
When I raised my hand and flashed Sylvia a questioning look, she said, “I’ll fast-forward again.” Her face was beet red. I couldn’t tell if she was embarrassed or angry.
“—and we had three Delta operators with us.” It was the man’s voice.
“How many were you altogether?” Woman’s voice.
“With the Delta people and the Air Force guy and the intel guy and me, we were six people.”
“And just what were you tryin
g to do?”
“We were trying to break up this supply line the Taliban had. They were getting regular fuel shipments. One time we found these two drivers on the side of the road, fast asleep.”
“When was this?”
“Oh, like the second week in December. Like I say, we snuck up on these two drivers. I jammed my M4 up against—”
“M4?”
“My sidearm, an automatic pistol. I jammed it up against his head, told him to start talking or else. He did, but it was hard to figure out what he was saying. One of our guys knew some Pashto. They gave us some song and dance about selling the gas to farmers.”
“Maybe it was true.” Woman’s voice.
The man laughed. “Maybe. But whether it was or wasn’t, we called in a couple of choppers and they sent a bunch of rockets flying into the trucks. That was some fireball, believe me.”
“How were you people traveling?” the woman asked.
“We were just a couple of pickup trucks—no headlights. I was driving, using my NVGs.”
“Who was commanding this operation?”
“We were part of Task Force Dagger. But altogether we weren’t more than twelve A-Teams. That’s why we needed the Northern Alliance.”
Woman’s voice. “But I’m more interested in the other battle—”
“I told you. I wasn’t up there.”
Sylvia fast-forwarded again.
“They were burning up the telephone lines,” the man said. He laughed again. “They didn’t realize we were intercepting all their calls off the satellite, so we knew that they were heading back into the mountains, toward Pakistan.”
Sylvia turned off the tape player. “Do you recognize the voice?” When I said the male voice was Brinkman’s, she nodded. “What else do you think?”
“He was talking about Tora Bora. The heavy bombing started right around the end of November. Part of the problem was, we didn’t have that many people in-country at that time. We had to depend on the Afghans. There was a lot of heavy fighting. We know that things didn’t work out exactly as we wanted them to.”
“Anything else?”
“You’re right about Ursula. I think she was pumping him without him knowing it. Right after speaking with him, she’d write down what he said.”
“And sometimes she’d use a tape recorder. That was pillow talk. What else does this tell you?”
“That the female of the species isn’t to be trusted. But that’s not exactly news.”
“You are the most obnoxious male chauvinist I’ve ever encountered.”
“Do I have any redeeming features?”
“None at all.” Sylvia paused, a thoughtful look on her face. “Ursula Vogt made a number of trips into Afghanistan. She always went into the east, into the mountains. She got to know her way around out there. There was an attack on a company of Taliban, most of them holed up in some caves. They all died. She went there, saw what happened.”
“The Taliban also killed some of our people. Quite a number, mostly special ops.” I recalled that I had at one time been a member of Special Forces. I can’t help wondering from time to time how my life would have turned out if I’d remained a Green Beret.
I said, “What may have happened: Brinkman discovered that he was the source for a lot of the stuff in her stories, realized he’d been used, followed her here to Munich—and then killed her.”
I figured Sylvia would shoot down that surmise, and she quickly did. “Alex, I said Brinkman did not kill Ursula Vogt. I know what I’m talking about. Would you kindly get that through your thick skull?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“My name is Sylvia.”
I said, “We have another lead we should be working on.”
It was just over two hours later, somewhere after seven. I’d banged together a meal of soup and sandwiches, and at the moment I was munching on an apple. I was observing Sylvia, who was sitting across from me in the dinette, as she worked on her laptop and drank the last of a cup of tea.
She looked up and said, “Does it have to do with Doug?”
Sylvia had changed into a light-blue blouse that was not quite transparent, and I was doing my best not to stare at her tits. Living at close range with an attractive woman tends to dilute your ability to stay focused, at least if you’re a male. I wondered if we’d end up in bed together.
Is that what she wanted? Is that what I wanted? Unfortunately, I had an idea that I was in a situation where what I wanted wasn’t important.
“Doug?”
“Doug Brinkman. Does it have to do with him?”
“It has to do with something that Brinkman mentioned.”
When Sylvia asked what it was, I told her about Ursula Vogt’s handyman, Quemal. Then I explained that one of the two soldiers in Nadaj’s crew had been named Quemal. “Maybe it’s only a coincidence, but we have two people with the same name.”
She said, “Is Quemal a common name in Albania?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you know? The government gave you a course in Albanian. I remember reading that in your file.”
“The government gave me a ten-day course in Serbo-Croatian and Albanian, and that was in 2000. Then they sent me into Bosnia. I spent time on Eagle Base. During the run-up to us extracting Slobodan Milosevic, I was on the ground in Belgrade, learning the streets, attending demonstrations, formulating a Plan B in the event we needed a Plan B. Fortunately, we didn’t.”
“So you’re saying there’s a possibility that Quemal, the handyman, might be the same individual you encountered in Kosovo—and that he actually murdered the Vogt woman.”
Recalling my conversation with Thiemann, Ursula Vogt’s neighbor, I said, “He certainly had the opportunity.”
“Keep going.”
“Nadaj knew Ursula. The picture showed them together. Maybe Nadaj got mad at Ursula for some reason and sent Quemal to Munich to kill her.”
Sylvia didn’t say anything for a long moment, and I had an idea she was considering the possibility of what I’d just told her. Finally, she said, “You and I could drop by this club. Check the place out.”
“I don’t think so. I spoke to Max about the place. He says something like that wouldn’t be advisable.”
“What do you suggest?”
I said, “Let me think about it for a day.”
“All right, you have twenty-four hours.” Sylvia crossed the room, and took a VCR tape out of a box of stuff she had placed next to a lamp. She said, “I want you to see this.”
After she’d jammed the tape into the TV set, we both moved over to the sofa.
“What are we going to do? Watch Wheel of Fortune?”
She shook her head, and when I put my arm around her shoulder, she said, “We’re not at a drive-in. Please remove your arm.”
I said, “I spent the happiest days of my life going to drive-ins.”
“You may be older than I thought.” She hit the switch and the TV screen lit up. There was some music, then in bold letters: “Das Erste Programm Sendet: Politiker Antworten.” Sylvia said, “The name of the show is ‘Politicians Answer.’ This was broadcast last week. One good thing about television over here—no commercials. I was given the tape just before I left.”
When I said something about the commercials being the best part of most programs, Sylvia, naturally, ignored the remark.
The TV program was a political interview—a guest being questioned by an interviewer doing her best to pry out a juicy political quote or two. In other words, it was the kind of show that at home I would do my best to avoid.
Then we saw a desk. On one side was the interviewer, a serious-looking blonde woman wearing a gray suit, with not one strand of hair out of place. Opposite her was the guest.
The guest had medium gray hair, a high forehead, a prominent beak, and a square jaw. He didn’t look handsome, exactly, but he appeared distinguished, and was probably in his early or middle fifties.
Sylvia nudged me. �
�That’s Kurt Mehling.”
“He looks okay.”
“Don’t be fooled by his suit and tie.”
“I’m a sucker for custom-made clothing.”
“What else are you a sucker for?”
“A good-looking woman.”
After a brief introduction and some softball questions, the interviewer asked Mehling why he was so against the United States. This brought forth a lengthy answer.
“I was an exchange student back in the late seventies. At Yale. At first, I liked living in America. After I graduated, I got myself a green card and a visa. But after a while I became disenchanted.”
I said, “His voice is very cultivated.”
Before the interviewer could ask another question, Mehling was talking again.
“It was the emphasis on money that disturbed me. All that’s important to Americans is the size of their bank accounts.” I recalled what Nadaj had said to me in Kosovo—that all Americans care about is listening to pop music and wearing jeans. At times, talking to people from other countries about one’s own land can be instructive. I remember a Russian general once asking me whether Americans ever ate anything but fast food—and then not believing me when I said yes.
It was quickly apparent that Mehling liked to talk.
“America doesn’t have the influence in Germany it once had. That’s because we no longer need America to protect us from the big, bad Russian bear.”
“What stories are you working on now? There’s a rumor WeltBericht will be running a series critical of America.”
“I can’t give you details.” He smiled again.
I asked, “What’s this critical story he’s going to publish?”
“Ursula Vogt’s story, of course,” Sylvia said, turning her head to look at me.
“You’re on record,” the interviewer said, “as saying your magazines have been pressured by the American government. Is that true, Herr Mehling?”
Mehling said, “The American government admits it has spent millions—hundreds of millions, probably—in its propaganda efforts. Our magazine presents a different point of view.”
I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t exactly news that our government threw its weight around in a variety of ways. But who can blame us for that? While Buck and I were in Munich, one of our covers was that we were journalists, working for Radio Free Europe. In Berlin, I’d been involved for a time with employees of RIAS, short for Radio in the American Sector, agents who doubled as broadcasters—or was it vice versa? I’m not sure anyone knew. I certainly didn’t.
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