The Rendition

by Albert Ashforth

  I didn’t want to even think about having to spend time in the UHaft. It was a tough, unpleasant place, where you spent twenty-three hours a day in solitary—and where, under German law, the police could keep you pretty much indefinitely. I was on thin ice. I began to wonder whether my smartest move mightn’t be to buy a ticket on the first plane back to the States.

  “I talked him out of it, at least for the time being. I don’t know why I did.”

  “You know I’m grateful, Irmie.” I was doing my best to find the words for what I wanted to say. I didn’t want to talk about the case. “I miss you. A day never goes by that I don’t wake up thinking about you.”

  “Should I believe that, Alex?” She took out a tissue and began dabbing at her eyes. “I don’t think I can believe it.”

  “Why not?”

  Close to a minute passed before she answered. “I just can’t, that’s all. Too much happened. Too much time has gone by.” She put away the tissue. Deep down, Irmie was tough. She’d gotten a grip on herself, and I sensed she wouldn’t again let her emotions get the better of her.

  “I know that. I wrote to you but—”

  “Your words and your actions. They’re two different things.”

  I knew, of course, what Irmie was talking about. And I knew I deserved whatever she might want to say about how badly I’d acted—although “dumb” and “selfish” might be better words to describe my actions. But Irmie didn’t say anything more.

  As we sat there in the darkness, I recalled that the quality that had first attracted me to Irmie was that she had a soft heart. She could have mentioned the dumb letter I’d written while I was in the airport and waiting for my flight back to the States. Of all the things I’ve done in my life this is the single thing that I most regret. I’d written the letter hastily, thinking of myself when I should have been thinking first of Irmie.

  “Why are you over here, Alex? You didn’t come to see me.”

  “I wanted to see you—more than anything else in the world.”

  “You said some kind of case brought you over, something that has to do with the government.” She shook her head—expressing her bafflement?—or more likely, her disappointment?

  “These jobs you have, these government jobs. Where do your loyalties lie?”

  It was an impossible question to answer.

  “I was going to call.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “I would have. You have to believe that, Irmie.”

  “Alex, let’s face the truth. You’re only here because this assignment brought you over. You wouldn’t have come otherwise.”

  There are some things that are just beyond explanations, and this was one of them. How could I tell Irmie how I’d become involved in this situation?—beginning with the Nadaj rendition, getting whipsawed by Shenlee and Colonel Frost, then becoming involved with Brinkman.

  “Irmie, I—”

  “I have to go home.”

  We got to our feet and headed up the path in the direction of the Isar Ring, the bright lamps lighting our way along a path that hand in hand we’d walked along dozens of times.

  “I’m going to take a taxi.”

  “Do you still live in the Maria-Theresestrasse?” Irmie had lived just down the street from one of Munich’s landmarks, the Peace Angel.

  “No, I’ve moved to Gröbenzell.” I knew Gröbenzell. It was one of Munich’s secluded western suburbs. “I have an apartment there.” When she added, “With a garden,” I was reminded of how much Irmie had always brightened when I arrived with flowers. These were painful memories. I had had so much and let it slip away.

  I would like to have climbed into the taxi and ridden home with her. I would like to have taken her in my arms and kissed her. At the very least, I could have asked to see her on the weekend. I did none of those things. It wasn’t the right moment, and I had no choice but to let her go.

  When she offered me her hand, I said, “Good night, Irmie.”

  “Good night, Alex.”

  And then, wondering whether this was going to be the end between us, I stood on the sidewalk watching the cab until the red taillights finally disappeared into the Isar Ring traffic.

  Chapter 22

  Wednesday, January 30, 2008

  It was just over two hours later, and Sylvia and I were alone in the cozy back room of Triangolo, an out-of-the-way café at the other end of the city. Sylvia had said she was in the mood for Italian food, and Triangolo wasn’t the kind of place where you were likely to run into anyone you know. On the walls were large photographs of European movie stars, most of them Italian and French, and some scenes depicting a variety of European cities.

  In the week she’d been in Munich, this was only the third time Sylvia had left the apartment. I wasn’t exactly surprised by this—operations officers always keep their profiles low—but Sylvia was carrying things to an extreme. She was wearing dark glasses, jeans, and a nondescript sweater over a white blouse. It was as if she’d gone to extreme lengths to make herself unmemorable.

  As we sat there, each of us toying with a glass of red wine, I couldn’t help admiring her good looks—her angular features, thin nose, bright blue eyes. Although Sylvia seemed happy at the news that the police had arrested Sedfrit, I was having difficulty sharing her enthusiasm. I was still thinking of Irmie’s comment that Schneider could be a very tough customer. I believed her.

  Sylvia said she was hungry. After taking her order for a salad and a bowl of spaghetti, the waiter looked at me. I said I’d get my nourishment from wine and told him to bring me another glass.

  Still thinking about my meeting with Irmie and Schneider, I said, “The detectives may still need some convincing that Sedfrit was the murderer.”

  “You’re too pessimistic, Alex. You said Sedfrit had been in the K Klub only a short time before and had been publicly humiliated by Quemal. That certainly gives him a motive.”

  “There was something that the police mentioned, but I didn’t tell you about.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Quemal’s dead body had been mutilated.” I fixed Sylvia with a stare. “How do you explain that?”

  “You were there,” Sylvia said. Her expression became grim. “You know what happened.”

  I nodded, remembering how I’d waited in our car while Sylvia fumbled with Quemal’s body. When I had assumed that she was going through his pockets, she was cutting him up. I decided not to comment. She’d definitely been thinking ahead, and there was no question her ploy had thrown the police off the track—and deflected suspicion from me. Even though I now had an idea that Schneider wasn’t completely buying the fact that Sedfrit had committed the murder, Sylvia’s action had definitely bought us some time. The police, at least for the moment, were assuming that Quemal had been the victim of some Albanian or Kosovar rival—and Sedfrit filled that bill perfectly.

  “We were lucky,” Sylvia said quietly. “Lucky that Sedfrit had a public fight with Quemal an hour before. Let’s leave it at that.”

  Then, just as Sylvia was digging into her spaghetti, her cell phone rang.

  After she’d listened for a minute, she said, “Damn! I was afraid of something like that.”

  As I listened to her side of the conversation, I was able to determine she was talking with someone named Harry and the person they were talking about was Doug Brinkman.

  “It’s called Café Triangolo. I don’t know exactly.” She looked at me.

  “It’s near the Pasing station. Tell him to walk one block east from the exit.”

  “That was Harry Owen.”

  “The attaché from the consulate?”

  As she pushed away her untouched plate of spaghetti, Sylvia said, “Someone tried to kill Doug Brinkman.”

  “The con came up from behind. Brinkman was on his hands and knees cleaning out the commode.”

  It was thirty minutes later, and Harry Owen, whom I was meeting for the first time, was sitting across the table from me, a g
lass of wine in his hand, and describing Doug Brinkman’s recent narrow escape from death. While Brinkman was cleaning up a prison latrine, a fellow inmate had attempted to knife him.

  “I think the assailant was a Turk,” Owen said. “I don’t know much more than that. We’d like to talk with him, but I don’t see much chance of that happening. The prison authorities have clammed up.”

  Owen was African-American and had an intelligent and expressive face. He was broad shouldered, medium height, and had closely cropped hair. He was a chain smoker, one of those people who didn’t seem happy without a butt in his hand. Or maybe it was only that his job was getting to him. If it was, I could understand it. He was the man in the middle, between the American and German governments, with the job of keeping both sides happy. If either side became disenchanted with him, he’d be on his way back to the States.

  Officially, he was an employee of the American Consulate on the Königinstrasse, a legal attaché. Unofficially, he was an FBI agent. The important thing, as far as we were concerned, was that he had regular access to Brinkman.

  “What happened was, this character had a real nice shiv, not homemade, and the question is, Where did it come from? Anyway, Brinkman heard him, dodged at the very last second. The knife came down on his shoulder, and he came up punching. He’s also got a gash on his arm. He was beatin’ the shit out of the guy when the guards broke it up.”

  “Where were the guards when this convict attacked Doug?”

  I didn’t say anything. I’d become used to Sylvia referring to Brinkman as “Doug.”

  “I figure they’d been bought off,” Owen said. “According to Brinkman, they were outside the latrine taking a smoke break.”

  “How’s he doing otherwise?” Sylvia looked very troubled.

  “They moved him into a one-man cell. Supposedly, he’s safer now. He probably is if he doesn’t die of claustrophobia. The cell is six by twelve feet.”

  “Almost as small as a room I once had in a London hotel,” I said.

  Needless to say, Sylvia glared when I said that.

  As Owen talked about Brinkman, I remembered the Stadelheim prison from some visits there years ago. After a pair of GIs had managed to get themselves sent up on drug charges, I’d been assigned to report on their living conditions. The cells were dark and depressing, with the only light coming through a high window during the day and from a weak bulb on the wall at night. As I recalled, their main complaint had to do with the food, which was usually cold by the time it arrived.

  “He gets time every day to stand around in the yard,” Owen said, “but now he’s suspicious of everybody. There’s a library, but everything’s in German. Otherwise, he’s got no one to talk to, nothing to do.”

  Sylvia shook her head. “Depressing.”

  I said, “He seemed to be doing all right when I spoke with him.”

  “That was just after he got out of the U-Haft and before someone tried to murder him. Now he’s pretty much on edge all the time.”

  Looking at Owen, Sylvia said, “He knows he’s a marked man. The murder attempt wasn’t a random occurrence. We have to get him out.” There was an urgency in her voice. “Alex?”

  I said, “At least he’s out of the U-Haft. We’d never break him out of there.”

  The U-Haft was a section of the big prison where the authorities kept prisoners isolated and locked up for twenty-three hours every day, occasionally for as long as a year. Very few stood up to the pressure. After melting down psychologically, the suspect would say just about anything the prosecutors wanted him to say—and thereby make it possible for a court to find him guilty of whatever crime the authorities wanted to hang on him.

  “Now listen to this.” Gazing across the table at Sylvia and lowering his voice, Owen said, “This is what I think you should know. In two weeks Brinkman’s got an appointment for what’s called a Haftprüfung.” When Sylvia frowned, Owen said, “It’s a hearing before a judge, like an arraignment. The district attorney has to show the judge he’s got evidence that’s solid enough to keep the prisoner locked up.”

  “Where will this take place?” Sylvia asked.

  “In the Schwurgericht— in other words, the criminal court. It’s in the Nymphenburgerstrasse. Maybe we could—”

  “Forget it,” I said. “There’s more security there than anywhere.”

  Owen looked at me doubtfully, then at Sylvia. “The only other possibility is the Police Presidium downtown. On Tuesday, he’s scheduled for a hearing. He’s got some papers we have to sign. The judge asks Brinkman a couple of questions, and that’s it. Five to ten minutes at the most. But there’s a catch.”

  Sylvia said, “What kind of catch?”

  “Well, one of the guard captains told Brinkman they’re letting him break out, and that’ll be his only chance. According to the guard, someone’s paid them to look the other way. When Brinkman asked who, he was told someone in our government. Brinkman’s supposed to find keys in a prison van. According to the guard, two guards’ll be escorting him in the hallway. They’ll let him use the john, but they won’t go in. When he leaves, they’ll pretend they don’t see him. Brinkman’ll have like maybe three minutes to beat it down the stairs into the basement garage and—”

  Sylvia interrupted, her voice very urgent. “Someone’s paid them? Who?”

  “Don’t look at me,” I said.

  Nodding, Owen said, “That’s what I thought. I didn’t figure it would be you people.”

  “It’s a setup,” Sylvia said. “Only this time it won’t be a prisoner who murders him. It will be one of the guards. What else did Brinkman say?”

  “Brinkman’s not dumb. He knows it’s a setup. He told the guard to get lost.”

  “The hearing’s on the fourth floor. I know the room.”

  Sylvia looked at me. “Alex, what do you think?”

  I said, “Today’s Wednesday. I have an appointment to see him the day after tomorrow.”

  “You’ll need some kind of plan by then,” Sylvia said. “You’ll need to tell him what to do.”

  “That’s not much time to work something out.” Owen looked at me. “Plus, you’ll have to persuade him to break out. Right now, he’s not sure.”

  These people seemed to think I was a miracle worker. I let Sylvia and Owen kick the topic around a little more before deciding to call for the check. Outside, we found a cab. On the taxi ride home, neither Sylvia nor I said anything.

  Back in the safe house kitchen I watched Sylvia remove a bottle of Riesling from the refrigerator and cut up two pears. She found some cheese, crackers, and cold cuts and laid them out on the table in the dinette. She seemed to be trying to get on my good side. A minute later, we were sitting opposite one another, and I was pouring out more wine.

  When Sylvia said, “We have to get Brinkman out,” I said, “Impossible!”

  “Mehling will kill him otherwise. He’s a sitting duck. Listen, Alex. You were told about Doug before you came over. I said he’d been framed. I was very up front about that.”

  “I wasn’t told about Doug. I was told about Major Brinkman. And I wasn’t told I was expected to break him out of jail.”

  “You’re under contract and being paid a salary—a good salary, I might add—to make yourself available. I’ve made the decision. We break him out.”

  “There’s no way, Sylvia.”

  “Owen says Doug’ll be leaving the prison to go to police headquarters next Tuesday. That’s our chance.”

  “He’ll only be down there for a half hour, probably less.”

  “That should be long enough.” Before I could respond, she said, “Alex, would you leave a wounded buddy on the battlefield?”

  I felt the blood rush to my face when she said that. “Colonel Bitch” has a way of winning arguments.

  “Well?”

  “Of course not.” After a minute, I said, “There are just too many obstacles. Brinkman has already said he’s not sure about breaking out. I won’t be able to
convince him.”

  “I’ll tell you how. Mention my name.”

  I didn’t respond. The realization that Sylvia was serious about getting Doug Brinkman out of jail killed my appetite, and I pushed away the plate of half-eaten pears. If this scheme didn’t work out—and I didn’t see any reason why it should—our heads would be in a noose. Sylvia could get some government functionary to intercede on her behalf and save her career. But Jerry Shenlee had stressed the fact that I was over here on my own.

  Without anyone putting in a good word for me, I’d be facing a minimum of five years in the German slammer. And that’s only if no one died.

  Chapter 23

  Friday, February 1, 2008

  It was early afternoon, and the only sound in the drafty interview room of the Stadelheim prison was the low buzz of conversations, mine with Brinkman and those of the two inmates next to us with their wives. One of the women I remembered from the waiting room, maybe because she had a kindly face, dark curly hair and reminded me of my mother. She’d spoken Turkish, and it was obviously her first visit to the prison. She’d come with a bunch of flowers. When one of the guards took away the flowers, she began crying.

  The guard who had escorted Brinkman out said we had twenty minutes. I didn’t see how we could cover everything in that space of time.

  Harry Owen was right, Brinkman was much paler than he’d been at our earlier powwow. His eyes darted around in a way they hadn’t previously, and from time to time he’d drum his thick fingers on the edge of the big table in front of him. He seemed to be a nailbiter, or maybe he’d only become one in the last week.

  I didn’t have to ask him what was wrong. I knew the answer. He rolled up his sleeve and pointed to a large white bandage on his forearm. “He nearly got me. I lost a lot of blood.”

  Lowering my voice, I said, “We want to break you out of here.”

  He looked at me as if I was crazy. “Everyone wants to break me out. A guard told me the American government will give the guards money if they let me escape. I’d be dumb to try something like that.” With his sleeve back down, he grimaced. “I told him no way.”