“If it gets out, there will be a lot of trouble for us,” Uncle Bashir said. “In Washington, in Tel Aviv. Everywhere.”
“I understand.”
“Your father is a presence.”
“I’ll slow him down, Uncle Bashir.”
“There’s been criticism from the Council because your father was not born in Iraq, yet he’s chief negotiator.”
“Have there been questions about his loyalty?”
“Some,” Uncle Bashir admitted. “But President Hussein is behind him for the moment. So long as no mistakes are made.”
“I see what you mean,” Leila said, and she was sick at heart. But these were horribly strange times for all of them since the war. She wasn’t even sure that they were doing the correct thing.
They started back up the hill toward Operations. Uncle Bashir looked at her shrewdly, and smiled. “You need a vacation from the foreign desk in any event, I suspect.”
Leila had to laugh. “It shows?”
“It shows.”
Six months, she thought. All during that time her father had shuttled back and forth between Bonn and Baghdad, and sometimes he disappeared for days at a time. Just like the old days. Now, in Germany, she was left behind again to maintain the household they had borrowed from one of the Krupp steel magnates across the river. And always there was the secrecy.
She turned away from the window and went to her desk, where she switched on a small lamp. Papers and files were strewn everywhere. Last night she’d gone to bed early, ignoring the report to Baghdad. First she wanted to speak to Pavli before she made another, stronger recommendation that he be removed from the team.
The telephone on her desk buzzed and she picked it up. Her father was on the house line.
“Good morning, little one, you’re up?”
She smiled. “Just. Are you leaving again?”
“I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. You’ll have to cancel our dinner engagement tonight … unless you want to host it alone.”
“It’s no one important,” Leila said. “I’ll reschedule for next week. But just a moment, I’m coming down.”
“Don’t bother,” her father said. “I have an airplane to catch. I’ll see you when I return.”
“I’ll be just a moment …”
“No.” Her father cut her off harshly. “I’m leaving immediately. But listen to me, Leila. I don’t want you parading around at the windows … naked.”
Leila stifled a laugh. Habash had told on her. What a bastard. Her father was, for all his world travels, still an Arab.
“Yes, my father,” she said at length. “’As-fa,” I’m sorry.
“You can never tell about the bastards in this country,” he said.
“Have a good trip, Father,” she said. “With Allah.”
He hung up. A moment later Leila put down her phone and stared at it. Her father sounded exhausted. He was working too hard, just as Uncle Bashir had warned her. She would speak to him about it when he got back. Not that it would do any good. She felt further apart from him than ever before.
She went back to the window, now parting the curtains only a crack, and looked down. Her father and Habash came out of the house. They seemed to be arguing. She could see that her father was angry.
They got in the car, and a minute later they were down the long driveway and out the gate, hidden from view by the trees that lined the avenue down to the Ronner-strasse.
She felt a sudden, overwhelming sorrow for her father, and for herself. Neither of them had anyone except the other. He’d lost his mate, and she had never really had one.
Turning away from the window, she could almost envy Ahmed Pavli and Sharazad Razmarah. At least they thought they had love.
13
IN THE PALATIAL bathroom, Leila took a quick, hot shower, then dressed as a Westerner in a white blouse, short, dark wool skirt and medium heels. She pinned up her long hair, put on a little makeup, and at her desk stuffed a few things into her thin, soft leather briefcase.
Before she went downstairs she opened her purse, took out her Beretta .380 automatic and cycled a couple of rounds out of the breech, making sure the action was smooth. Then she ejected the magazine, reloaded it and snapped it back into the butt, her motions quick and efficient.
Her passport and identification proved she was an Iraqi federal police officer. She had a permit to carry a concealed weapon, and was known by Interpol throughout Europe. Uncle Bashir thought it best to temper a big lie with a smaller one. That way the Germans could at least pretend it was all right for her to be in Bonn, armed.
Downstairs she was met in the hall by one of the domestic staff provided by the owners of the house. There were a dozen on her father’s military staff, but they kept to themselves in a far wing at the back.
“Good morning, Madam Kahled,” the maid said.
“Good morning,” Leila replied. “Just coffee, and the newspapers.” She set her briefcase on the hall table. “And have Dieter bring my car around.”
“Very good, madam,” the older woman said, her English heavily accented. (Leila’s father, though fluent, refused to speak German most of the time. As a consequence they all spoke English with the house staff, Arabic with one another.)
The breakfast room overlooked what in the summer was a pleasant garden of flowers, fountains and statuary. This morning, even in the uncertain autumn light, it looked lovely, neat, fresh.
Her coffee and the newspapers came … Bonn, Frankfurt, Berlin, the Paris edition of the Herald Tribune, and Baghdad.
At first Leila had tried to warm up to the house staff, but she had gotten nowhere. The chief butler had asked that their relationship be kept on a strictly professional level.
Finally her father had spoken to her about it. “They don’t like us,” he said with a smirk.
The mood only served to heighten her sense of isolation here, more so this morning because of her disturbing dream last night.
She lit a cigarette and sipped the excellent strong coffee as she began to look over the newspapers; first the German, then the international and finally Baghdad, so that she could keep her perspective in place.
The telephone in the hall rang and was answered.
The maid came rushing down the broad corridor a few seconds later.
“Oh madam … Fräulein Kahled, Gott in Himmel!”
Leila jumped up. “What is it?” She thought immediately of her father. Had he been hurt?
“Das Telefon. For you!”
Leila pushed the woman aside, raced to the telephone. “Yes, hello? This is Leila Kahled.”
At first there was nothing, but then there was a muffled cry of anguish.
“Who is this? What has happened?”
“Oh, God … oh, God … she’s dead,” a man cried in Arabic. “Do you understand?”
“Pavli? Is that you? Ahmed?”
“She’s dead! Can’t you hear me? They killed her, they murdered her! She’s dead. I saw her body.”
“Ahmed, listen to me!” Leila shouted at him in Arabic. “You must calm down now. Perhaps your life depends on it.”
“My life …” He suddenly laughed maniacally. “What does my life mean now?”
He sounded drunk. “Listen to me, Ahmed, you must pull yourself together so that I can help you.”
Pavli sobbed.
“Who is dead? You say you saw the body.”
“It is Sarah … The Germans killed their … whore. She is dead. Dead! You were right …”
“Where?” Leila forced a calmness into her voice. “Where did you see her?”
“At her apartment,” Pavli cried.
“Ahmed, where are you now?”
“At home!”
“Did you just come from Sarah?”
“It was hours ago. Yesterday. Last night.”
“Where have you been since then?”
There was a terrible silence on the line.
“Ahmed?”
“It doesn’t matter,�
� Pavli said, abruptly calm.
“Please stay where you are, and I shall be there immediately,” Leila said. “Perhaps Sarah is not dead. Perhaps she is merely injured. We’ll call a doctor. Please. Min fad lak.”
“She’s dead, all right,” Pavli said, still calm. “I saw her. There was a lot of blood. Cold, stone cold, don’t you see? They were jealous of us. You all were.” He laughed, the sound slicing through Leila. “I’m going with her. We’ll be …”
“No! Ahmed, listen to me. Do nothing. I will be right there. We’ll work this out together. Don’t you want to see her murderer brought to justice?”
Pavli did not reply.
“Ahmed?” Leila could hear that the line was still open—a clock chimed the hour.
“Ahmed?” she shouted.
She slammed down the phone, grabbed her purse, coat and briefcase, and rushed out the door. The yardman had not yet brought her car around from the garage in the back, so she ran around the house, slipping on the wet cobbles, her coat flapping, her breath ragged.
Dieter was just coming from the staff’s quarters when she reached the garage and yanked open the door.
“Madam!” he called in alarm.
But Leila was inside, sliding behind the wheel of her dark green Mercedes 400E; she started the engine and shot out past the startled yardman and down the long drive to the access road.
Her mind was racing. Sarah’s death was not a Mukhabarat action, she knew that for a fact. Nor did she think the BND would have any reason to eliminate her. In fact, had she learned about Sarah’s death from anyone else, she would have bet Pavli had killed her.
14
ROEMER HATED SURVEILLANCE, that part of police work that entailed endless waiting. What he hated more, however, was driving very fast under poor conditions.
The dark green Mercedes fishtailed around the sweeping interchange from Siegburg onto the broad Königs-winterstrasse, which paralleled the river through Beuel, and sped up, weaving through the early-morning traffic.
Roemer was tired from being up all night, and the tires on his aging BMW were not great, but he managed to keep up with the woman.
Sarah Razmarah had worked for Whalpol, with Ahmed Pavli as her primary target. The Iraqi intelligence service surely had that information. Roemer had decided to watch what would happen once the Mukhabarat team leader found out about the murder.
He’d had a near false start when the other Mercedes, gray, had emerged earlier from the Klauber estate, until he recognized in it General Sherif and another man.
Minutes later, the green 400E, Leila Kahled driving, had screamed down the road like a bat out of hell. Bound for Bad Godesberg, he was betting.
Roemer passed a large tandem truck, the sudden airstream pushing his car over on the wet pavement, and he fought the wheel to keep control, nearly missing the Konrad Adenauer Bridge turn.
The green Mercedes ducked around a trolley bus across from the Federal Parliament Building on the Gorresstrasse, then shot toward the Friedrich-Ebert Allee, another of Bonn’s main thoroughfares.
As he drove, Roemer’s mind worked. Who killed Sarah Razmarah? It was a toss-up between the Iraqis and the Germans. The Mukhabarat because she knew too much? Because she had been too effective against Ahmed Pavli? In which case it admitted a gigantic Iraqi conspiracy. And if so, how the hell would he handle it? Eight billion marks had a logic all its own.
On the other hand, the murderer could be a BND hit man sent to neutralize the woman because the Mukhabarat had been using her as a conduit for disinformation.
In either case, Roemer would be up against stiff odds. As a cop he was good. As an unraveler of international plots, he was way out of his league.
Nevertheless, it was murder. A crime he understood. And this one especially bothered him. This morning he had run through the dossiers Whalpol had handed him.
Sarah Razmarah was a poor Iranian girl who had desperately wanted to better herself. Perhaps she had seen in her father’s fate her own. So she had emigrated to the United States to improve her lot.
On the other side was Leila Kahled, the Mukhabarat bitch, here to manipulate her charges; she with her smooth good looks, her fluency in a dozen languages. Christ, her type made him sick.
The Allee became the Kölnerstrasse past the Godesberg Fortress on the hill, then ran up beyond the ornate town hall and the Redoute on the Kurfürstenstrasse.
Roemer expected the Mercedes to turn onto the Schillerstrasse, off which Sarah’s apartment was located. Instead it continued several more blocks, finally turning into a narrow alley, where it pulled up in front of a tobacconist’s.
Roemer recognized the address from the dossiers. It was Ahmed Pavli’s apartment.
He parked a block beyond the alley and trotted back to the corner.
The Mercedes was half on the sidewalk, the engine still running.
Pavli’s apartment was on the second floor above the shop, which was closed at this hour. A side door led up to the short corridor. Even before he started up the stairs, Roemer heard the crying and shouting above.
He pulled out his gun and took the stairs two at a time.
The apartment door was open. Leila Kahled stood just within, her back to the corridor, her right hand outstretched as if in supplication. She was saying something in Arabic which Roemer couldn’t understand. He did understand, however, the urgency of what she was saying.
Roemer moved away from the railing for a better line of sight into the apartment. He froze.
Ahmed Pavli, holding a large pistol to his head, was backed up against the far wall of the living room. His eyes were wild, and he was babbling.
Holding his own weapon down at his side, Roemer stepped into full view just behind Leila.
Pavli suddenly aimed the pistol at the doorway.
“Murderer!” Pavli screamed in German.
“Don’t do it, Ahmed!” Roemer shoved Leila aside.
Pavli’s gun went off, the shot blowing a big hole in the plaster wall inches from the door frame.
“Police!” Roemer shouted, dropping to his knees.
Pavli fired a second shot, this one catching Roemer in the left arm above the elbow. Two more shots went wild.
Roemer fired twice to the left of Pavli, hoping it would freeze him.
Pavli shouted, “Sarah!”, then turned the pistol to his forehead and pulled the trigger.
His head slammed back against the wall, the rear of his skull erupting in a mass of blood, bone and brains. The pistol fell to the floor, and Pavli fell sideways onto a lamp table, his legs twitching.
Holstering his weapon, Roemer rushed across the room and pulled Pavli down onto his back.
“Call an ambulance,” he shouted over his shoulder, as he started CPR.
Pavli’s eyes were open, his eyelids fluttering. He was still breathing in huge, racking gasps. Sweat poured from his forehead; his complexion was deathly pale.
“Come on, kid, hang on!” Roemer shouted.
Pavli’s body heaved and went slack.
Roemer put his ear to his chest. Nothing. The heart was still.
For a minute, Roemer pumped Pavli’s chest, his hands locked, elbows stiff, blood from his own wound soaking his coat sleeve. But he knew it was no use. Too much damage had been done. Mucus clogged the boy’s mouth and slid down over his blue lips.
“Verdammt,” Roemer said softly, sitting back on his haunches. He hung his head. “Goddammit to hell.”
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” Leila demanded in German.
Roemer turned tiredly to look up at her. She was pale, but controlled, no hysterics in her eyes.
“He must have telephoned you, Fräulein Kahled. What did he tell you?”
“Who are you?” Her right hand was in her purse at her side.
A gun, Roemer figured. “My name is Walther Roemer. I am assigned to the Federal Bureau of Criminal Investigation.”
“This is a political matter over which you have no jurisdiction. Ahmed Pa
vli is an Iraqi national. He has diplomatic immunity.”
Roemer shook his head. “No, Fräulein Kahled, he does not. He is dead. And so is an American girl, Sarah Razmarah.”
“Insha’ Allah,” Leila said, lowering her head. She looked up a moment later. “Why have you come here?”
“This man was a suspect in her murder, diplomatic immunity or not.”
“Ridiculous,” Leila said.
“Perhaps.”
“In any event, I must ask you to leave at once, until I can contact my embassy.”
Roemer got slowly to his feet. There was a telephone on a narrow table beside the couch. He nodded toward it. “Please, Fräulein Kahled, telephone your people.”
A siren sounded in the distance.
“You must leave now,” Leila insisted. “At once.”
Roemer’s shoulder throbbed, as if it had been dislocated. He wasn’t losing much blood, however. He suspected it was merely a flesh wound. “I’m afraid I cannot comply with your request.”
Leila pulled an automatic from her purse and pointed it at him. “If I have to shoot you, Investigator, I will.”
Roemer ignored her. God, why did he always have such rotten luck with women?
“Investigator!”
The sirens were coming closer. Someone must have reported the gunfire. “Leave, you bastard!”
Roemer went into the bedroom. Leila was right behind him. She grabbed his shoulder to pull him back. He spun and with his right hand yanked the gun from her grasp, then shouldered her away. “Don’t ever point a gun at me, Fräulein Kahled.” He thumbed the Beretta’s safety on and handed the weapon back to her.
She looked into his eyes for a long moment, then took the gun, turned and went out to the telephone.
The sirens were just outside now, a lot of them. Roemer went into the bedroom. Even before the first footsteps clattered up the narrow stairs he found what appeared to be Pavli’s diary, a small, leather-bound volume on the floor beside the bed. Beside it was a German schnapps bottle, nearly empty, and a glass sticky with the dregs of the liquor. Roemer pocketed the diary.
Someone out in the corridor shouted: “Police! This is the police!”
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