Desert Fire

by David Hagberg

While she waited for her call to go through, she phoned upstairs to Bassam abu Zwaiter’s office. Zwaiter was the embassy’s cultural affairs officer. In actuality he was Bonn Station chief for the Mukhabarat. His secretary agreed to have him stop down when he came in.

  Her Baghdad call came through ten minutes later.

  “Uncle Bashir,” she said. The connection wasn’t very good, made only slightly better by the encryption. It was just eleven in the morning there.

  “Leila. We’re becoming very concerned. What’s going on out there?”

  “It’s Father. I want him pulled home. Talk to the president. We must do something before it kills him.”

  “We need him there, at least until these murders are cleared up,” Bashir Kahair said.

  “Murders?”

  “Yes, Leila. Don’t you know? There has been another killing there in Bonn. Last night. It was on my wire this morning. A German television reporter who was working on a KwU story. It must have been on your overnight Interpol wire.”

  She hadn’t bothered to look this morning.

  “She must have talked with people at the facility,” Uncle Bashir said. “Didn’t you hear anything?”

  She had, but she had dismissed it. “She didn’t talk with any of our people, Uncle Bashir. I didn’t think she was important.”

  “Someone certainly did. Not more than an hour ago we received a call from Helmut Kohl himself, worried that this could have a devastating effect on our project.”

  Leila sat forward, pressing the telephone to her ear. “Uncle Bashir, there are more complications.”

  She quickly explained what Chief Prosecutor Schaller had told her father last night at dinner, that Roemer was making noises about the BND being behind the murder of Sarah Razmarah. The German government didn’t believe it, of course.

  “Impossible!” Kahair exploded. “They would not jeopardize this project any more than we would. I’m sure it was Ahmed Pavli. You were right when you called for his removal.”

  “But not now, with a second murder.”

  “They may not be connected,” Kahair said. “In any event it is not the BND. I know that for a fact, Leila.”

  Leila closed her eyes. She understood why Roemer had been picked for the investigation. Habash was correct. “It’s even more complicated than that,” she said. “Dr. Azziza is on his way to Geneva. The German investigator working on the American girl’s murder is the son of Lotti Roemer, the Butcher of Dachau. He’s still alive in Switzerland.”

  There was a long silence on the line.

  “My father has taken me off my security duties. He wants me to find Roemer’s father and turn Dr. Azziza after him. Uncle Bashir?”

  “What are you not telling me, Leila? What is it you are holding back?”

  Leila’s heart sank. “I followed Roemer to Switzerland over the weekend, to a hospital outside Bern where his father is dying.”

  “And you did nothing about it, Leila? You made no report? Why didn’t you call me? You know what the Germans might make of this.”

  “I don’t know,” she said softly.

  “For once I agree with Habash. I want you to go after Lotti Roemer. His son could be Iraq’s most dangerous enemy.”

  35

  THE INVESTIGATION OF the two murders was ostensibly proceeding on course along two different routes: Manning’s for the City of Bonn, and Roemer’s for the BKA at Chief Prosecutor Schaller’s behest. Lab reports were being generated in a blizzard of paperwork, a second autopsy was being performed, and Rudi Gehrman continued to watch the comings and goings of the Iraqis through passport control.

  Unofficially, however, Manning had arranged to place taps on the telephones in Whalpol’s Bad Godesberg house. It would be up to Roemer to lure the BND major from Munich back to Bonn.

  In the meantime, Roemer wanted to make one final check before he faced Colonel Legler with his perfidy.

  The German National Television Network’s Bonn studio was downtown in an ultramodern stainless-steel-and-glass building.

  Kurt Bruckner’s secretary had been crying. “Herr Bruckner, he is here,” she said into the intercom.

  The door opened and the station manager, his jacket off, his tie loose, beckoned Roemer. “Please come in.”

  Along one wall of the large office was a bank of television monitors and other electronic equipment.

  “This has been a very difficult morning for us, as I am sure you can understand, Herr Roemer. The police were here not more than ten minutes ago.”

  “There’s just one question I’d like to ask you, Herr Bruckner. Did Fräulein Waldmann ever mention the name of Ludwig Whalpol in connection with her story?”

  Bruckner couldn’t hide his knowledge. The mention of Whalpol’s name had an almost physical impact on him.

  “I see,” Roemer said. “I must know if they actually met face to face.”

  “I think I should call my attorney.”

  “You are not under investigation,” Roemer said sharply.

  “Still, I think it’s best.”

  Roemer looked around the office. “He was here, wasn’t he?” he said, taking a stab in the dark.

  Bruckner reacted as if he had been shot.

  “When?” Roemer demanded.

  “Gott in Himmel, what is going on? He was here, all right. Last night. Late. She’d made a tape to be aired this morning. Major Whalpol showed up and insisted that we hold off.”

  Schaller had lied about Whalpol’s being in Munich. Why?

  “Joan was upset. She stormed out of here and went home.”

  “I would like to see that tape, and any notes she may have made on her story.”

  “Major Whalpol took them. He took everything.”

  “I see. Herr Bruckner,” Roemer said gruffly. “Keep your newspeople off this story. When it is over I personally will give you an exclusive.”

  “Just find Joan’s killer, Investigator.”

  “You can count on it.”

  36

  RUDI GEHRMAN CARRIED a bundle of computer printouts into Roemer’s office. “The colonel has been asking for you.”

  “What do you have?”

  “Passport control.” Gehrman handed him the printouts. “There has been a lot of coming and going.”

  Roemer spread the sheets out on his desk.

  “This covers only the commercial carriers, unfortunately,” Gehrman was saying. “If they crossed our border by car we have no way of knowing.”

  Roemer scanned the arrivals and departures on the dates just before and after Sarah Razmarah’s murder. A lot of traveling had been done by Leila Kahled’s father, the general, as well as his chief of staff and other high-ranking members of the team.

  Roemer shook his head. “It was worth a try.” He was simply going through the motions now. The killer was almost certainly Whalpol. It would only be a matter of time before the man made a mistake, and he and Manning would nail him.

  “What about your friend, Major Whalpol?” Gehrman asked, lowering his voice.

  “Rudi, forget about Whalpol. Forget what I said to you, forget that you ever pulled his national security file. Erase it from your mind, and no matter who asks about it, deny everything.”

  Gehrman’s eyes narrowed. “What’s going on, Walther?”

  “Stay out of it.”

  “I’m a big boy—”

  “Stay out of it, Rudi, goddammit!”

  Gehrman stepped back. “All right, old friend. All right.” He went to the door. “You listen to me, Walther. Don’t get yourself in trouble over this. They play very rough down in Pullach.”

  “Right.”

  “I mean it. They know more about you than you do about them. About your past.”

  37

  COLONEL HANS LEGLER, the BKA’s Chief District Investigator for the region, was an old army man, a brilliant administrator, and had risen spectacularly within the German Criminal Investigation system. He was a tall man, strong, with steel-gray hair, dark blue eyes and an er
ect, Prussian bearing.

  Roemer presented himself, coming to attention and saluting. Bonn was the only BKA district in which such military formalities were required.

  “At ease, Walther. Have a seat.”

  “Sorry I missed you on Friday, sir.”

  “No matter; in fact I was having dinner with Ernst Schaller. We spoke about you and this KwU business.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The colonel hunched forward. “Afterwards we spoke with Helmut Kohl, who wants a resolution in short order.”

  “I understand.”

  Legler studied Roemer, as if coming to a decision. “Ernst and I go way back together, Walther. We are the best of friends. We talk frequently.”

  Roemer held his silence.

  “No one is above the law. But in gathering information, one must take care not to damage the fabric of our society. Do not become a zealot. In the collective German spirit, we are past all of that now.”

  “Yes, sir.” Roemer could just imagine what Schaller had told Legler.

  “Do you understand? Perfectly?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Then there will be no need to have this sort of conversation again.”

  “No, sir.”

  Legler nodded. “Very well, then. Is there anything I should know about your investigation at this point? Anything I can help you with?”

  “Not yet. But I expect to have a break in the case very soon.”

  “Do you know who killed the young woman?”

  “I have a suspect.”

  “Do you have the evidence to satisfy the Chief District Prosecutor?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I suggest you get to it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Roemer said.

  “There was another murder last night. A television personality.”

  “Yes.”

  “I understand you were at the scene this morning.”

  Roemer nodded.

  “Do you believe there is a connection between the two?”

  “It is very likely both women were killed by the same person.”

  Legler sighed and turned in his chair to look out the window at the Chancellor’s ornate residence. But he didn’t say anything more, and after a second or two, Roemer let himself out.

  38

  JOAN WALDMANN’S BODY lay on the autopsy table. Dr. Sternig was there with Stanos Lotz. A strong overhead light illuminated the body, which had been cut open from sternum to pubic bone. Dr. Sternig spoke into an overhead microphone as he worked.

  Roemer stood just within the doorway. He had no desire to come nearer. The place stank of formaldehyde.

  Stanos Lotz looked up. “I expected you to be along sooner or later, Roemer.”

  “What do you have for me?”

  Dr. Sternig reached up and covered the microphone with his hand. “She was raped, just as we suspected.”

  Roemer waited.

  “From the sperm samples, which show the man had O positive blood, I’d say that whoever did this may have also killed and raped Sharazad Razmarah.”

  Lotz pushed his glasses back up on his nose with the back of his hand. “Ahmed Pavli was blessed with A negative blood, if that’s any help.”

  Whalpol had the motive in each case. The worn heel of his shoe matched the bloody footprints at Sarah Razmarah’s apartment. And now the blood type. Whalpol’s was O positive.

  “Was she pregnant?”

  “No,” Dr. Sternig said.

  “Good,” Roemer replied. Sarah Razmarah’s pregnancy by Ahmed Pavli was just a coincidence. “Thanks.”

  39

  ROEMER SPENT THE remainder of the morning pulling together the files on Sarah Razmarah, Major Whalpol and Joan Waldmann. He wrote a brief synopsis of what he’d done to date, including his initial conversation with Schaller and Whalpol.

  Lieutenant Manning telephoned for lunch, and they met at a small, crowded Bierstube around the corner from the town hall.

  Roemer passed on the autopsy information.

  “Both O positive from the sperm samples,” Manning said, drinking his beer. “So what? We knew it was the same killer.”

  “Whalpol’s is O positive. He was at the television station last night.”

  “Christ.”

  Quickly Roemer told him what he had learned from Bruckner, the station manager.

  Manning thumped his beer glass down on the table. “The bastard followed her home and killed her. Just like that.”

  “What about the phone tap?” Roemer asked.

  “Tonight. My people will be over there around midnight. Will you be there?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  40

  TWO FINAL NAGGING doubts lingered at the back of Roemer’s mind. The first was Stanos Lotz’s observation at Joan Waldmann’s apartment this morning. Both women had been young, dark, pretty and black-eyed.

  The second was that the evidence was circumstantial, and had come too easily. Whatever demons lived inside Whalpol’s head, he was a highly trained German Secret Service operative. Would he have made such obvious mistakes? Could it be put down simply to arrogance, and insanity?

  Roemer drove back to his apartment in the Oberkassel in time to bump into Gretchen. The apartment door stood wide open. She had a load of clothes on hangers in her arms, and was evidently on her way down to her car.

  “Moving out?” Roemer didn’t think he cared. The business with his father and Leila Kahled had him off balance.

  “Yes,” Gretchen said defiantly.

  “Can’t we talk about it?”

  “I’ve tried, Walther. But you’re so pigheaded … so goddamned …”

  “German?”

  “Verdammt. What are you doing at home at this hour anyway?”

  “I thought I’d get some sleep. It’s been a long weekend.”

  “Well, why don’t you come back later?”

  Roemer glanced toward the open apartment door, suddenly understanding that she had brought along Kai Bauer, her new lover, to help her move out.

  “Don’t start a scene,” Gretchen said.

  He went into the apartment. Things lay in disarray everywhere. The furniture had been shoved aside and the carpeting, which belonged to Gretchen, had been rolled up ready to go.

  “We were coming back this afternoon to straighten the place out, Walther. We wouldn’t leave it like this for you.”

  Roemer went to the bedroom door in time to see Kai Bauer, a trim man with thick blond hair, look up from Roemer’s family photo album.

  “Scheiss,” the man said.

  Roemer was across the room in three long strides, and he hit the man in the jaw, sending him crashing against the wall.

  “You bastard!” Gretchen screamed in the doorway.

  “I’ll be back in a few hours. See that this place is clean.”

  41

  THE GOVERNMENT OF Iraq had established liaisons with the government of Germany on many levels. Through trade agreements, exchange students, technical services and Interpol, information was passed back and forth between Bonn and Baghdad, with a stop at the Iraqi Embassy. And it was with these records that Leila began her investigation of Walther Roemer, searching for his flaw, the weakness that could be exploited to find his father.

  She spent the morning with the records in the basement of the embassy.

  She learned that Roemer’s salary was something over forty thousand marks per year, around twenty-seven thousand U.S. dollars. Old newspaper clippings showed that in college at Westphalia he had been an outstanding soccer player. He had been married (no children), and his former wife, Kata Zimmer, lived in Munich. And twice in the past two years he had turned down promotions that would have involved substantial raises but would have stuck him behind a desk. Roemer was definitely a man of action. A field man.

  Roemer knew Iraqi homicide detective Jacob Wadud. They had worked together on two different occasions: the first when Wadud had come to Germany chasing a man and a woman suspected of str
angling an eighty-year-old woman in Diyala, and the second when a German gang smuggling hashish to Iraq had had a falling-out and killed one another on the docks in Bremerhaven.

  It was likely that Roemer and Wadud had spent more time together one year ago, in Paris, during an Interpol-sponsored gathering of police detectives from three dozen countries.

  In her office, she directed the embassy operator to place a call to Wadud in Baghdad.

  While she was waiting, the embassy Mukhabarat station chief, Bassam abu Zwaiter, came in. He was a short, intense little man, brilliant and easygoing. He and Leila got along well.

  “Sounds as if you have your hands full,” he said, perching on the seat above the radiator by the window.

  “Did you talk to Uncle Bashir?”

  Zwaiter nodded. “Is it true that Lotti Roemer is still alive somewhere in Switzerland?”

  “Apparently.”

  “But you’d just as soon not get yourself involved with Dr. Azziza,” Zwaiter said.

  “I don’t have a choice, Bassam. But what about Joan Waldmann?”

  “It was on the morning wire. I guess your friend Walther Roemer was there at the scene.”

  Leila sighed. Uncle Bashir had evidently told him the entire story. But it rankled. Everyone knew her business. “He’s not a friend. But I’m going to have to use him in order to get to his father.”

  “And that bothers you as well?”

  “Yes it does.”

  The telephone rang. Jacob Wadud was on the line from Baghdad. “What can I do for you, Ilehnisa Kahled?” The detective’s voice was raspy.

  “I understand you know a German homicide investigator in Bonn. Walther Roemer.”

  “A good man. We’ve worked on a couple of cases. And last year, just to show there were no hard feelings over the Gulf War, we spent a week raising hell in Paris.”

  “He’s an infidel,” Leila said sharply.

  “I’m sorry, Ilehnisa Kahled, I wasn’t aware that you had those feelings about nonbelievers. Is there something I can tell you about Roemer?”

  “I’m trying to find his father.”

  “For what reason?”

  “The man is wanted by the German government for war crimes.”