The Rendition

by Albert Ashforth

  Irmie said, “One of our homicide cases seems like it might connect to the Kalashni Klub.” She fished out a sheet of green paper from one of the folders and started reading it. “An Albanian man was found murdered a while back, almost a month ago.” She hesitated briefly. “He was found—Well, I’ll come back to that.”

  Looking at me, Max said, “Didn’t you mention that this Quemal had been in Afghanistan?” Then he glanced toward Irmie. I had the feeling they were communicating with one another with nods and glances.

  “This is one of the things we wanted to know, Mr. Klear. The murder victim seems also to have spent time out there.”

  I asked, “In Afghanistan?”

  Irmie nodded. “He’d been in Afghanistan earlier. But he came to Munich from Kosovo.”

  After referring to the report, she said, “We have no idea what he was doing in Afghanistan. His name was Muzaci, Nicola Muzaci. He had a visitor’s visa, good for three months. He wasn’t working, just hanging around. He was staying in a warehouse, just a bunch of beds in a big room. He had some money, a few hundred euros. From what we’ve heard, he spent time at the Kalashni Klub.”

  Max said, “And he got himself killed.”

  “It might have been someone he met at that place who killed him. Muzaci seemed to have it in for someone, some other Albanians.”

  “People from the club?” I asked.

  “Maybe.” Irmie again glanced down at some of the papers. “I’m getting this from Detective Schneider’s report. He’s a colleague. He interviewed some of the people out there. Muzaci started spending time at the bar, coming in every evening, drinking, talking.”

  Max looked at me. “Just the rotgut they serve there could have killed him.”

  Irmie said, “He talked a lot about Afghanistan.”

  I frowned. “Afghanistan? What was he saying?”

  “That’s what we’ve been trying to find out,” she said, “but it’s been difficult. You know how these people are. They keep to themselves. If you’re not Albanian, well, you don’t count.” She paused to take another look at one of the papers in front of her.

  Max said, “You know what the Kanun is?”

  I nodded. “The code of law.”

  Irmie said, “The Kanun governs their lives. They really stick by it. We couldn’t get anyone to open up about anything. And we questioned quite a few people. We’ve asked them all to remain in Munich.” She pointed to the paper. “I have the names here. Muzaci seems to have served with some guerrillas down there—”

  Max interrupted. “Fighting with the Taliban?”

  “How they came to join up with the Taliban is still unclear. According to Muzaci, someone sold them out. At least that’s what he seemed to be saying—or something along those lines. We’re not really sure.”

  “Sounds like Muzaci was asking for trouble,” I said. “Well, he certainly found it. Something else he said had to do with the Kosovo Liberation Army.”

  I said, “What was that?”

  “He seems to have said something about someone breaking the besa, his word of honor. He said that someone had betrayed the KLA and Kosovo. His body was found in this raunchy warehouse where he was crashing—on his bed in the corner of this big unheated room. Lots of blood. Someone had cut up his face. One of our detectives said he’d never seen anything quite like it before.” Irmie removed a pair of photos from the dossier and slid them across the table.

  Max made a sour face. “What happened? It looks as if—”

  “You can see for yourself, Max.”

  Shaking his head, Max said, “It looks like someone stuffed something in his mouth. He shook his head. “Bad.”

  When I saw the pictures, I was glad I hadn’t given Max any of the details of my Kosovo stay. The recollection of my two days in the company of Ramush, Quemal, Fadilj, and Vickie served to speed up my heart rate just a shade. These pictures were pretty much the kind of nightmares that had me waking up shouting for the past eight months. In one of the recurring dreams, I was on my back in a coffin. When a grinning figure closes the lid and everything goes dark, I wake up, soaked in sweat, naturally.

  I pushed them back across the table toward Irmie, made a noncommittal nod.

  As she returned the pictures to the folder, Irmie made a point of ignoring our comments. I continued to glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She’d always known how to keep me in my place.

  But what I was thinking of at that moment was Ramush Nadaj’s references back in Kosovo to something having happened in Afghanistan. I also recalled the weapon he was carrying, an MP5 machine pistol, an automatic weapon that was cleared only for American Special Operations people in Afghanistan. If Muzaci had been in Afghanistan, he might have been involved in some way with Ramush Nadaj, the guy our government wanted to talk with so badly.

  I looked across the table at Irmie. “What do you figure to do?”

  “What you’ve said about this Quemal could be important. I had no idea he was also in Afghanistan. Detective Schneider, my colleague, will want to talk with him.”

  I said, “I’d appreciate it if you let me know what he finds out.”

  Irmie looked directly into my eyes, but her expression gave away nothing. As she began gathering up her folders and stood up, I wondered what she might be thinking. I had the urge to say something, something personal—to ask how she was feeling or ask to see her after work.

  Again we shook hands, and she said it was nice seeing me again. Very businesslike.

  When she was gone, I looked at Max. “You could have at least given me some warning.”

  Downstairs, Max suggested a cup of coffee, and we headed across the Marienplatz, pushing our way through knots of shoppers and tourists until we arrived at a small café next to the Viktualienmarkt. After getting coffees, Max said, “It makes sense.”

  “What makes sense?” For some reason, my mind was wandering.

  “What we were talking about up there. The handyman working for the Vogt woman might connect with this murdered Albanian guy in some way. It’s worth looking into.”

  But at the moment I didn’t feel like discussing the case. “Irmie looks good. She hasn’t changed.”

  Max looked at me, nodded. “What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know. I still remember that story of how she landed in the hospital.”

  “She had a close call and was in the hospital for nearly two months.” When I didn’t say anything, Max said, “When she returned to the job, they gave her a commendation.”

  I recalled the story well enough. A pair of armed robbers had become trapped in a bank at the southern end of the city, not far from Irmie’s assigned precinct. They’d taken some hostages and were threatening to kill two young children unless the police gave them safe passage out of the country. Hearing that, Irmie didn’t hesitate. But when she entered the bank, one of the robbers sent a hail of fire in her direction, hitting her on the left side of her body, one round piercing her body armor and two striking her in the left thigh.

  But by diverting the robbers, she gave another cop the chance to roll a tear gas grenade into the bank, an action that made it possible to disable the thugs and rescue the children.

  For some strange reason I felt responsible, and I couldn’t sleep for weeks after hearing the story.

  We lost something, Irmie and I, when she stormed the bank on that hot summer day—and it still hurts me to think about it. Although I used to wonder if we could ever get back what we lost, I never wanted to risk finding out whether what was lost was irretrievable—and I suppose it was that fear that kept me from ever wanting to return to this city.

  At times I wondered what would happen if I bought a ticket, jumped on a plane, and telephoned Irmie from the airport—but I never did it. It was a daydream and nothing more. Deep down I knew I never would have come back to Munich if circumstances hadn’t brought me back.

  As Max munched on a cruller, and I gazed at the people drifting back and forth, some of them look
ing for things to buy, some just gawking, I thought about Irmie as a police detective and working homicide. Although I’d never precisely imagined her doing that kind of work, I remembered how quick and capable she was, with an ability to make difficult decisions and take things in stride—and to combine an in-born scrappiness with a sparkling, bubbly, very feminine personality. Irmie could handle the police job. She’d discern things that her male counterparts would completely miss. In the end, I could see her being a valuable addition to the city’s police.

  I’ve known any number of capable and attractive women, but for me Irmie was special—and the minute I saw her again, I knew I’d never meet anyone who could replace her.

  I said quietly, “I lost touch. I wrote, but she never wrote back.”

  Max said, “Do you blame her? She liked you, Alex. You know that.” When I didn’t respond, Max said, “Very few guys ever have a woman feel about them the way Irmie felt about you, and certainly never a woman like Irmie.” Max paused. “Do you know what I used to wonder, Alex?”

  “What?”

  “I used to wonder what it was that made her so crazy about you.”

  “Smoke and mirrors, Max, nothing more.”

  Max took a sip of coffee, gazed at me unsympathetically, his blue eyes suddenly seeming very cold. “That’s what I thought.”

  Thinking back, I couldn’t blame Max for thinking I was a fool for leaving Irmie and never writing. Everything that happened was the result of a series of misunderstandings—and while I hated to admit it, most of them were my fault. Maybe all of them were. Back then, I was working a dangerous, stress-filled job, in a foreign country, living from week to week and month to month and unsure about the future—and frankly fearful that every time I went behind the Wall I would never come back. Then a woman fell in love with me. It had all happened too suddenly. I needed time, to think and to sort things out.

  Maybe I felt I was responsible for Irmie landing in the hospital. During my home leave, which coincided with the intelligence draw down, I was reassigned to the States. The following year, I decided to do what some other people were also doing—resign in favor of contracting. Afterward, I’d let myself be distracted by other activities—and, I suppose, other women.

  But that’s all those activities and women were. Just distractions. For better or worse, I knew that now.

  “I kind of thought she’d be married by now.”

  Max shrugged. “She was friendly with a guy in the construction business for a while. I don’t know what happened.”

  Max looked at me thoughtfully, but didn’t say anything. He’d said what he thought needed to be said, and we sat in silence for a minute.

  After I got up and brought back two more coffees, Max said, “Things are different in Munich from the way you remember them, Alex. The Albanian mob has pretty much taken control of the drug trade and the trafficking of women. They’re well organized. It’s an international network, tangled up with Kosovo and even with the Taliban in Afghanistan. They’re into other stuff, but they’ve got the trafficking end of the market cornered.”

  I said, “I suppose that’s what the Kalashni Klub is all about.”

  “Yeah, pretty much,” Max said. “And they must be paying off the right people. We can’t close the place.”

  “You know, sometimes I wish the Cold War hadn’t ended. Things were simpler then.”

  “Remember how we used to complain?” Max said. “We didn’t know how good we had it. I never thought that I could ever be nostalgic for Checkpoint Charlie.”

  We sat there silently for a minute thinking fondly of the Berlin Wall. “Amen,” I said after a while.

  Back at the safe house, Sylvia had the heat turned up and was seated at the table frowning over her laptop—and was quite possibly communicating with someone back in D.C., maybe even someone in the National Security Council. Or for that matter, in the White House. Even POTUS, which is the Secret Service designation for the president, wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility.

  When I stepped around behind her in order to get a look at what she had on her computer screen, she shooed me away.

  I didn’t say anything. I’d come to realize that, where Sylvia was concerned, anything was possible. The Pentagon has its own intelligence agency, and in the years since 9/11, I’ve sometimes gotten the feeling that the spooks and people like Sylvia are running our government.

  Sylvia was wearing a pair of ripped blue jeans and a man’s white shirt that looked two sizes too large and no bra. She had the sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons were undone. When she turned to face me, I said, “How long since you combed your hair?”

  “The last time a man made a saucy remark to me, I shot him.”

  “If I’m going to die at the hands of an attractive woman, I’d prefer a lingering death.” When Sylvia said “Really?” I said, “What I’d like you to do is first—”

  “Spare me your lingering death fantasies. What happened at police headquarters?”

  When I looked at Sylvia, I couldn’t keep from comparing her with Irmie. Gazing at her brown, not quite rust-colored hair, blue eyes, and delicate features, I was reminded that I was living at close quarters with a remarkably attractive and very capable woman.

  After I’d told her the story of my interview with the police, she said, “I don’t like it. You talk too much. The German cops are smart. They pick up on everything.”

  “I was careful.”

  “I didn’t think you knew the meaning of the word.”

  “That’s because you underestimate my vocabulary.”

  “But you say you told them you were in Munich in a semiofficial capacity. That doesn’t sound too bright. The police could throw you out of the country for that.”

  “My passport was in order. No identifying stamps or notations. Nothing to raise suspicions.”

  She threw me a skeptical glance, again making me feel she was able to read my mind. Sylvia’s disheveled sexiness almost certainly would have been more of a distraction if I hadn’t just seen Irmie again. I was still thinking about her and only half paying attention to this conversation. Although I’d told Sylvia that Max and I had spoken with a female police detective about Quemal, I diplomatically failed to mention that I’d known Irmie way back when. “Not too many people have been to Afghanistan,” I said. “It’s worth checking out.”

  “You didn’t tell the detective how Quemal connects to the Vogt case?” When I shook my head, she said, “You’re sure?”

  I said, “They should make the connection, but I agree—better later than sooner.”

  “I know you’ve known some of these people for a while, Alex, but we can’t trust the German cops.”

  “I never trust any cops. All they care about is themselves and their pensions. They don’t have the honesty and integrity of us intelligence types.”

  “They’re not patriotic like we are.” Sylvia turned off the computer, stood up from the table, reached up, placed her hand on my shoulder, pulled me to her. I had no choice but to give her a brief kiss. “Not patriotic like you and me.” Her voice was a throaty whisper. “What do you have in mind, Alex?”

  “Quemal could be our man,” I said, resisting the urge to put down the beer bottle, slip off her shirt, place my hand on her naked breast, and tell her what I really had in mind. I fought against that urge. No one knows me better than Buck, and he says women are my big weakness.

  Although Sylvia still had her hand on my shoulder and her lips were inches from mine, I continued to talk. “Quemal could have killed Ursula Vogt. He could be the character I encountered in Kosovo. He could have murdered this KLA soldier who was complaining about what happened in Afghanistan. Nadaj and his crew were all in Afghanistan. It seems to add up.”

  “So what do we do?” Her voice was still a throaty whisper, more sultry than before. Naturally, I could have said that what we do first is go into the bedroom and spend the night in bed together—but I was already thinking about the Kalashni Klub.
r />   “Do you have any plans for Sunday evening?”

  Chapter 17

  Sunday, January 27, 2008

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Sylvia said. “Check that. I mean, I hope you know what we’re doing.”

  “It doesn’t sound as if you have much confidence in me.”

  “No comment.”

  Sylvia was dressed in a navy-blue turtleneck sweater, dark slacks tucked into black motorcycle boots. On her head she had a knitted cap, and to complete the package, she wore black gloves. When I told her she looked sexy, she told me not to be “facetious.”

  I told her to speak English.

  I was dressed more appropriately for an evening on the town, in a dark-green golf jacket, beneath which I had a blue flannel shirt, jeans, and the kind of peaked cap that’s popular in Europe. Beneath my shirt, I had my KA-BAR in a sheath at my waist.

  “Do you know where this place is?”

  I said, “I drove by it today. If they haven’t moved it in the last eight hours, I know.”

  Sylvia was referring to the Kalashni Klub, where Doug Brinkman said Quemal hung out. If you knew it was there and knew what you were looking for, it wasn’t that difficult to find. A small, lighted sign with an assault rifle fashioned to look like an arrow pointed you in the right direction.

  If you weren’t looking for anything, you’d ignore the sign and go on about your business.

  When Sylvia asked if we were ready to go, I said, “Almost.”

  I went into my bedroom and returned a minute later with a 9mm Beretta pistol. I said, “I’m assuming you know how to handle one of these.”

  I knew Sylvia was familiar with the weapon because the military had adopted the Beretta after concluding that the .45 Colt automatic was too bulky and, for most situations, not all that practical.

  “I pick my teeth with these babies.”