The Rendition

by Albert Ashforth

  “I truly enjoyed our time together.” I said the words out loud in a singsong voice. “I hope things work out for you.” Then I grabbed another beer. I very nearly threw it against the wall too. Showing some self-restraint, I took it with me into the living room where I plunked myself down on the sofa and tried to think.

  I spent ten minutes with my head in my hands and wracking my brain, but couldn’t come up with any answers.

  The worst of it was, I’d been warned. Buck had told me to steer clear of Sylvia. The word was out all over D.C. about Colonel Bitch-on-Wheels. You don’t get that reputation without having earned it. I had only myself to blame for landing in this mess. Whenever things don’t work out, there has to be a fall guy, and this time I was elected. I should have seen it coming right from the beginning.

  According to Sylvia, I’d been incompetent when, in Kosovo, I’d “let” myself become a prisoner.

  And at the K Klub I’d acted irresponsibly when I “let” Tania escape. “You’ve jeopardized the entire operation for the sake of a lousy whore,” is the less than elegant way she put it on that occasion.

  And I’d made the mistake of shooting Quemal when he had a knife at my throat.

  Nor did Sylvia like the fact that I’d figured out that the officer she’d become involved with in Kabul was Brinkman. Her boss, the deputy secretary, didn’t know about that—and wouldn’t like it if he found out.

  Put it all together, and it was clear that Sylvia regarded me as the ideal fall guy. The perfect time to check out would have been when Sylvia showed up at the safe house. Ironically, I almost did.

  Sprawled on the living room sofa with another bottle of beer in my mitt, I clicked the TV on to an American cop show. A couple of detectives, a guy in a trench coat and a blonde woman, were trying to solve the murder of a prostitute in New York City. The show couldn’t have been all that riveting because somewhere in the middle I dozed off.

  I guess the detectives solved their case because when I woke up the screen showed a group of beautiful people gathered in a circle and chattering excitedly about books they’d read and films they’d seen.

  Because I was still a shade groggy, it took me a good fifteen seconds to realize my phone was ringing. Then I spent time looking before finding it on the rug behind the easy chair, where it had landed after I’d heaved it at the wall. Aware that I was still half asleep, I answered warily.

  “Alex?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Irmie.”

  Chapter 30

  Friday, February 8, 2008

  The very last person on earth that I ever expected to call me was Irmie. All I could think to say was, “I’m surprised to hear from you, Irmie.”

  That was truly the understatement of the century.

  “I’m calling because I want to speak with you.” When I mumbled a response, she said, “Can you come over now?”

  The beer had made me drowsy, and I made a monumental effort to clear my mind. Why was Irmie calling me? What was going on?

  “Now?”

  “Yes, Alex. Now.” Her voice had an edge to it. “Can you manage that?” When she gave me her address, I said, “I’ll call a taxi.”

  “No, don’t take a taxi. Do you have a car?”

  “Yes.” Outside, it was pouring rain. Having drunk two liters of beer, I’d almost certainly be driving over the legal alcohol limit. “Irmie, couldn’t we make this—”

  “No, Alex. Come now. Can you do that?”

  I was wondering what I might be getting myself into. I needed time to think. “Yes,” I said finally.

  “Good. Make sure you aren’t followed. Don’t park on the street. There’s a space at the rear of the building.”

  I was about to ask who might be following me, but then thought better of it. I wondered if it might be the police. Or someone more sinister—although at the moment I couldn’t think of anyone more sinister than Detective Schneider. After giving me her address, she said, “I’ll be waiting for you.”

  I’d driven less than a mile through the dark, deserted streets when I saw headlights a hundred yards to my rear. Keeping my eyes on the rearview mirror, I made a number of detours as well as a few wrong turns until I was sure that the car that might have been on my tail was no longer there. By the time I arrived in Gröbenzell twenty minutes later, I was positive no one was behind me. Driving slowly, I spent more time searching for the right address. As it turned out, Irmie now had a garden apartment in a four-story brick building with a lot of lawn around it. I found a parking space behind the building where my car wouldn’t be visible from the street.

  After buzzing me in, she was waiting with the apartment door open and said a quiet hello.

  Just the sight of her face, the wide eyes, round face, and blonde hair, sent a pang of excitement through me—and despite these strange circumstances, brought back memories.

  Standing in the middle of her living room I could see black mountains, the Alps, looming in the distance. When she closed the drapes, we were briefly enveloped in a silent darkness that under other circumstances I might have thought of as romantic but that now only seemed mysterious.

  I wanted to ask: why all the secrecy?

  After turning on a lamp, Irmie pointed me toward the dining room, and I took a seat at the room’s large table. I watched silently as she brought a pot of tea from the kitchen, but as she poured her hand shook ever so slightly. Her face looked pale, as though she hadn’t slept. What was going on? When she sat down, I couldn’t believe that, after all these years, I was again alone with the woman whose memory had haunted me for so long. The situation wasn’t just strange, it was eerie, and it was made eerier by the tension that was so obvious in Irmie’s expression and movements. The only sound was the ticking of a clock on the wall. It was a few minutes before two.

  Irmie looked extremely tired, and when she spoke, her voice was soft. “You’re wondering why I asked you over here.”

  “I have to admit I was surprised to hear from you.”

  “Alex, I’m going to ask some questions, and I insist that you answer all of them—and that you answer truthfully. Can you do that?” When I hesitated, she said, “I think that you’re involved in some way with American intelligence. You may not want to answer these questions.”

  “Will you be asking them as a police officer?”

  “I am a police officer.” As she took another sip of tea, she looked at me over the rim of her cup with her round blue-green eyes. Again I felt her overwhelming attractiveness, a feeling so strong I was helpless to fight against it.

  I thought back to Sylvia’s phone call. Not only had she tossed me to the wolves, I had the feeling she’d enjoyed doing it. And now, only hours later, I had Irmie asking me questions, the answers for which could very well land me in even more hot water. Was I being manipulated again? Was Irmie also thinking of her career?

  I realized I would have to make a decision—either to trust Irmie or not to trust her.

  “You must answer honestly, Alex. If you can’t do that, I’m going to ask you to leave.”

  The clock struck two.

  “Well?”

  I paused. As she continued to look at me, I said, “I’ve always been honest with you, Irmie. Anything you want to know, just ask. I’ll tell you.”

  Without another word, she stood up. When she returned a minute later, she was holding an object wrapped in a piece of cloth. I recognized the cloth. As she removed the cloth, her hands trembled. She was holding a gun in her hand—a 9mm Beretta automatic.

  She carefully placed the weapon down on the table. “I’m sure you recognize this.” When I nodded, she said, “There were two of us, another detective and I, who searched your apartment. We each took a bedroom. When I tried pulling open a drawer in the bedroom closet, it felt heavier than it should have. When I removed the drawer, I found this taped underneath.” She looked at me.

  “It’s mine. I brought it over.”

  “I thought so.”


  “Are you saying you found the gun, but haven’t told anyone yet?”

  She nodded. “Only you, Alex. You’re the only person who knows.”

  Irmie took a sip of tea, then said, “I placed it in the pocket of my jacket without saying anything.” She hesitated. “But now there are things I have to know.”

  We both knew that if what she had done became known it would not only be the end of her career but that she could face an array of criminal charges, perhaps even be charged as an accomplice to murder. Why had she taken such a risk? I took a sip of tea and waited for the question I assumed she was about to ask.

  “There was a murder committed at the Kalashni Klub. My partner, Detective Schneider, is convinced you committed it. Two days after it occurred, he wanted to arrest you.”

  “He told me.”

  “My first question is, was this gun used in the murder?”

  “I shot Quemal with this weapon.”

  Her eyes widened. “You fired the shot?”

  “It was self-defense.”

  Irmie poured each of us another cup of tea. Despite her nervousness, I found myself admiring the deft and graceful way she did even the smallest things.

  “So many circumstances point to you, Alex. Not just the murder. There’s the jailbreak and the break-in at Ursula Vogt’s home. Detective Schneider hasn’t arrested you only because I’ve intervened.”

  “He doesn’t know about us, the way things were.”

  “No one knows about us. Only Max, and he won’t say anything. Detective Schneider thinks the pressure will get to you and you’ll panic—that you’ll try to get back to America. Flight means guilt. Germany will ask for extradition. Your life will be ruined.”

  I knew what Schneider was thinking. Even if I managed to get away, I’d live the rest of my life as a kind of fugitive, with the knowledge there was a warrant in the EU for my arrest. I’d spend all kinds of time consulting with lawyers and fighting extradition. I would lose my self-respect. I knew I could never live like that. Irmie knew it too.

  “That won’t happen.” Or would it? I could no longer know myself what I might do. Would I panic at some point—and bolt?

  “Alex,” Irmie said quietly, “I have to know the whole story.” When I didn’t respond, she said, “It’s as important for me as it is for you.”

  So I did something that under normal circumstances I would never do. When you’re involved in intelligence, you learn to talk as little as possible. When you have to talk, you say very little and reveal almost nothing. But in this case I tossed away half a lifetime of habits, and told Irmie everything. I gave her names, dates, information. I began with the phone call from Buck that eventually led to the trip to Kosovo, my hospital interview with Sylvia, the reappearance of Jerry Shenlee in my life, and finally my arrival in Munich. I told her about the break-in at Ursula Vogt’s home, my ill-fated visit to the K Klub, and concluded with the story of how Sylvia, Harry Owen, and I were able to break Doug Brinkman out of the Police Presidium. Irmie frowned as she listened to that story. Then she asked me why we did it.

  The clock on the wall showed two thirty.

  “I don’t believe Brinkman killed Ursula Vogt,” I said. “Eventually, he would have been murdered in prison.”

  Irmie didn’t say anything for half a minute. I was surprised when, finally, she nodded. After another pause, she said, “Other people also think he is innocent. Among the detectives, there were questions about the investigation.”

  I said, “Kurt Mehling arranged for Quemal to come to Munich and murder Ursula Vogt. Then he put pressure on the detectives investigating the homicide to frame Brinkman.”

  Irmie’s eyes widened. “Kurt Mehling? This is the first time I’ve heard his name mentioned.”

  “He pressured the detectives to charge Brinkman. Max told me one of the detectives resigned. The other dropped from sight and may be dead.”

  Irmie looked at me searchingly. “Everyone thought the obvious suspect was the handyman from the Balkans. He was also a suspect in the Muzaci murder, the case I investigated.” She shook her head. “But why murder Ursula Vogt?”

  “Ursula Vogt refused to report a story from Afghanistan. Mehling needed to get her out of the way to save his own reputation. She’d discovered he was involved with al-Qaeda, and that his magazine was supported by Bin Laden’s money.” I nodded at the weapon. “When I shot Quemal, he had a knife at my throat. It was self-defense. I had no choice.”

  Irmie was a police detective, and I’d told her enough for the police to lock me up and throw away the key.

  “Alex,” she said after a second, “someone has been asking about you.”

  “Who?”

  “She showed me a picture of you. It looked like it was taken by a security camera. She was vague about why she wanted to locate you.”

  “She? A woman?”

  Irmie nodded. “She wouldn’t tell me much. She spoke to me because she’d learned that Detective Schneider and I were investigating Quemal’s murder.” When I asked what the woman looked like, Irmie said, “On the thin side. Attractive. Brunette. She spoke with an accent.”

  “Was she American?”

  “No. I have her name here. Viktoria Rubi.”

  “Vickie!” I said, “That was the woman from Kosovo. She was with Ramush Nadaj.”

  Irmie frowned. “Why would she be in Munich?”

  And why would she be trying to locate me except to get rid of someone who’s causing them too many problems? I thought about that for a second. At the same time, I was very aware of Irmie watching me, her eyes full of curiosity. Her hand was resting on the table, and I had all I could do not to reach out and take hold of it.

  I said, “I have an idea that the camera over the door at the K Klub took my picture. The KLA is running that place.”

  By not reporting the weapon, Irmie had put her future at risk.

  Did she do it because she knew Doug Brinkman was innocent?

  Or did she do it for me?

  Irmie didn’t say anything as I picked up the weapon and put it in my pocket. We both knew it wouldn’t be wise to leave it in her possession.

  I suddenly felt keyed up, combative, and self-confident—and ready to take on the world if necessary. Maybe that Air Force colonel hit the nail on the head when, in a long-ago evaluation, he called me a “loose cannon to end all loose cannons” and a “danger to myself and to everyone in the vicinity.” Well, the person who might want to consider me a danger now was Kurt Mehling.

  I thought of Tania, the woman at the K Klub. “They know I killed Quemal. They’re using the picture to find me.” When Irmie didn’t respond, I said, “Could you call this woman in again?” When Irmie nodded, I said, “I think it’s important that I get a fix on her before she gets a fix on me. Also, let me know how I can reach Sedfrit.”

  Irmie stood up, and at the door I told her good night.

  My last sight of her before she clicked the door shut was of her very round blue-green eyes and a few errant strands of blonde hair. On the drive home, I saw streaks of red and gold in the sky, the first signs of light in the east. I was having trouble not only believing that I’d seen Irmie again, but that, for whatever reason, she’d saved me from being charged with murder.

  Chapter 31

  Friday, February 8, 2008

  Four hours after I’d arrived back at the apartment, the phone woke me out of an uneasy sleep. “I’m at the airport,” Buck Romero said. “Just stepped off the plane, and I’m hungry.”

  “I’m on my way. There’s a café in the arrivals terminal where you can get some breakfast.”

  Forty-five minutes later, at a few minutes before nine a.m., Buck and I were shaking hands. Next to the table were a small suitcase and a carry-on. My old partner travels light. I told him it was good seeing him again. Another understatement.

  After a second cup of coffee and getting past the small talk, I told Buck I had a possible murder rap hanging over my head. He arched both eyebrows.


  “If it wasn’t for Irmie, I might be in jail right now.” I explained how Irmie’s partner, Paul Schneider, suspected me of having killed Quemal Sheholi at the K Klub and how Irmie had found the murder weapon but not reported it.

  “What does Irmie see in you anyway?”

  “I’m not sure she sees anything in me. She says she had other reasons for not turning in the gun. She suspected Brinkman was being framed.”

  “And she thought you were about to get the same treatment? She wanted to be sure?”

  “Something like that.” I got to my feet and grabbed Buck’s suitcase. “Let’s get out of here. You can probably use a little shut-eye.”

  Back at the safe house, I gave Buck the bed Sylvia had vacated. I assumed he hadn’t slept on the plane because a few minutes after arriving in our place he was sound asleep.

  Shortly afterward, the telephone rang.

  “Alex?” Irmie’s voice. “The woman is in my office.”

  “Keep her there for twenty minutes. I’ll be waiting outside.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. She likes to talk.”

  There was some uncertainty in Irmie’s tone. I couldn’t blame her if she was wondering whether she’d done the right thing by not reporting finding the gun. Even I had to wonder if that had been a smart thing to do.

  With my camera in my jacket pocket, I arrived downtown well in advance of when I expected Vickie to leave police headquarters. Ten minutes went by before a snazzily dressed woman emerged from the police building.

  It was Vickie, but I very nearly didn’t recognize her. With her dark hair hanging to her shoulders and wearing a gabardine rain coat, she definitely looked different from the woman I’d encountered in Kosovo, where she’d been dressed in black camouflage fatigues. As she went, she pulled a cell phone from her purse and held a brief conversation.

  Who was she anyway? I remembered Sylvia’s story of how she’d managed to blackmail an American businessman. Not only had she pressured him into making large contributions to the Kosovo Liberation Army, she’d manipulated him past the point where he could live with himself—and he’d ended up taking his own life.