“I told them nothing,” Roemer said. “I merely requested anything they might have on Sherif. Among other things, he was suspected of murdering eight Israelis in Tel Aviv in 1957. The killings may have been in retaliation for the deaths of his parents in Jerusalem.”
“Interesting, but it proves nothing, Walther,” Legler said.
“Whoever carried out the Tel Aviv assassinations was believed to be the international terrorist named Michael.”
Whalpol cut in. “The Israelis dropped their investigation of Sherif.”
Roemer nodded. The BND major had seen the same files. “His wife was killed in a raid on a PLO camp in Lebanon in 1976. She was a businesswoman, same description. Like Sherif’s mother, she did not fit the Arab mold of a dutiful wife.”
“He’s unhinged, is that what you’re telling us?” Legler asked.
“I think it’s possible.”
“What made you suspect him, of all people?”
“My question for Major Whalpol.”
Whalpol cleared his throat. “Fräulein Waldmann was putting together a story on the project. I told her that we could not allow it. She stormed off. I felt it might be wise to go to her apartment and try to reason with her. When I got to her apartment, I saw General Sherif driving away, and she was dead.”
“Sherif’s blood type is O positive,” Roemer said, “which has already been established as the killer’s blood type.”
“What do we do now?” Schaller asked softly. He looked at Roemer reproachfully. “We can’t arrest the man, Walther. It would blow the entire project.”
“Sherif might simply return to Baghdad and be out of our hair,” Whalpol said. “No one will ever know.”
“The Iraqis know,” Roemer said.
Whalpol snorted. “You incredible fool. You called them. You told someone.”
“An Iraqi homicide detective in Baghdad. I told him everything.”
51
IT WAS ONE in the afternoon when the black Mercedes-Benz limousine bearing BKA colonel Hans Legler, Chief District Prosecutor Ernst Schaller, BND major Ludwig Whalpol, and BKA investigator Walther Roemer pulled up in the circular driveway at the German Federal Chancellor’s residence on the Adenauerallee.
Two army guards in crisp uniforms opened the car doors on both sides, and the four men were ushered inside the ornate building and upstairs to a second-floor conference room.
Roemer had all his files and notes, as well as the pair of cuff links he had taken from General Sherif’s study. He had telephoned Manning to tell him to stand by, that something might be happening this afternoon.
On the drive over, Colonel Legler had been stern. “A decision will be made this afternoon, and whatever it is, the matter will be put to rest. Is that understood?”
Roemer nodded. Now that all the pieces had been fit together, he really didn’t care what happened. His thoughts had already turned back to his father, and Leila with her hired gun somewhere in Switzerland.
“It is possible you will be asked some very difficult personal questions.”
Roemer looked up out of his thoughts. “The man is guilty, there can be no doubt about it.”
“But the Iraqis are almost certainly going to ask about your past.”
An eye for an eye. A friend of Saddam Hussein was being destroyed by the Germans. Hussein would certainly want retribution. His father was going to have to die before the Iraqis got to him.
Helmut Kohl, along with Minister of Defense Bernard Mahler and special adviser to the Chancellor Rolf Länger, entered the sunlit room and took their places at the head of the long table. A fire was burning in the fireplace that dominated one end of the room.
For twenty minutes Roemer detailed every step of his and Lieutenant Manning’s investigation, including their early suspicion that Whalpol was the killer. Once or twice Kohl interrupted to ask a question, but through most of it he had no visible reaction.
Roemer finished and sat down.
“Extraordinary,” Kohl said.
Defense Minister Mahler sat forward. “You say Sherif has troops up there?”
“Yes, sir. A dozen.”
“Your contact at the FBI in Washington had no idea why you wanted this information on Sherif?” Länger asked. He was an elderly man with thick white hair.
“No, sir,” Roemer said. “He promised to keep our request confidential. We have worked with him in the past.”
“What would you recommend, Investigator Roemer?” the Chancellor asked.
“General Sherif is a murderer. He should be arrested and stand trial here in Germany for his crimes.”
“What would you say to his government concerning his diplomatic immunity?”
“Under the circumstances, we should request that they waive those rights.”
Kohl thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “You are aware of the important project under way at the present time?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In the face of that, you would still seek Sherif’s arrest and trial?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I see,” the Chancellor said slowly. “What is his present status? Where is he at this moment?”
“At the Klauber estate,” Whalpol said. “We have him under surveillance.”
“What is your feeling in this, Major?”
“It was our preference to isolate him so that he caused no further harm until the project was completed. Then we would have been willing to turn our case files over to the government of Iraq for action. It’s possible they would have prosecuted.”
“Of course it is too late for that now,” Kohl said. He turned to Roemer. “Do you also understand, Investigator, that the government of Iraq will almost certainly insist that you be interrogated as to the present whereabouts of your father?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In the face of that you would want us to proceed?”
“Yes, sir.”
Again Länger spoke up. “In light of Investigator Roemer’s contact with this Iraqi homicide detective, our options are limited. We will have to make a statement this afternoon.”
“I’ll see their ambassador at three. At the very least, General Sherif will have to be removed from the project. Immediately.”
“Of course.”
“But I tend to agree with Investigator Roemer. If the man is indeed guilty of murdering those two young women, he should stand trial, with proper psychiatric examination, of course.”
The Chancellor got heavily to his feet. Everyone else stood as well.
“We are a nation of laws, Investigator,” he said to Roemer. “But we are also a nation responsible for our past and our future. This puts us in a very difficult position.”
Roemer held his silence. The victory gave him no pleasure.
“Major Whalpol will keep General Sherif isolated for the time being. Without force,” the Chancellor said.
“Yes, sir,” Whalpol said.
“A very disturbing situation from which no one will emerge unscathed,” the Chancellor said. He looked at Roemer. “It might be wise if you removed yourself from this business, at least for now. Perhaps I can sidetrack any unpleasantness.”
“Thank you, sir,” Roemer said.
“I’ll have my office prepare the legal briefs,” Schaller said. “Though there will be no precedents.”
52
ROEMER RODE UP in the elevator with Colonel Legler. They’d driven back in silence, each with his own thoughts.
Roemer got off, and Legler held the door for a moment.
“I can’t say that you handled this in the best way possible, Walther. Although you did find the murderer.”
“I wonder if the project is worth it.”
“It’s not for us to say, you know. We’re policemen, and nothing more.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take the next few days off. Straighten out your personal life. Get some rest.”
Roemer went back to his office, where he stood staring out the window
.
Gehrman came in. “Well?”
Roemer turned around. “I’m taking the next couple of days off. The politicians have it now. We’re finished.”
“They believed you?”
“What choice did they have?” Roemer said. “Call Manning for me this afternoon. Thank him. I’m going to go home and get quietly drunk.”
Roemer drove back to his apartment. The Iraqis would increase their efforts to find his father, which meant there wasn’t much time left. Max Rilke would fight, but he was an old man, and Azziza was a pro. It would be like General Sherif’s case: People would get hurt, and there would be no satisfactory solution.
Roemer fixed a sandwich but didn’t want it. He took a beer into the living room and sat down by the window. There wasn’t much traffic now, only an occasional delivery truck. It was quite cold and the sun was already low in the west.
He had been a cop all of his adult life. Even in the Luftwaffe, under NATO command, he had been attached to the Military Police. He had never made a conscious decision to make law enforcement his career. He suspected that it had something to do with his need for a sense of belonging. He had felt the camaraderie of shared purpose in the military, and it had seemed natural.
Now, however, it was ruined for him. Compromise was something he didn’t accept. Yet the political system demanded it. Men such as Whalpol, who were adept at juggling several mutually exclusive principles, belonged in this system.
Roemer looked around his nearly bare apartment. Perhaps he was at heart a loner. Perhaps he did not belong in the BKA.
Yet his only talents were in unraveling mysteries: catching the bad guys.
The telephone rang and he started to get up to answer it, but then slumped back. He did not care any longer. He’d found the killer for them, unraveled the mystery. Only one thing remained for him to do. In the morning he would drive to Interlaken to take care of it. Afterward … He let the thought trail off. The phone stopped on the tenth ring, leaving a thick silence.
Roemer held the cool bottle of beer against his forehead. When Interlaken was taken care of, he would return home and resign from the BKA. Whalpol would demand it. Schaller would be relieved. And Colonel Legler would believe it was in the best interest of the Bureau.
He closed his eyes. Once, when he was a young boy, he woke in the middle of the night and heard his mother crying. Their apartment was very small; his bed was a couch in the tiny living room. He crept to his mother’s room. She was crying in her sleep. Lotti, why have you done this to me? He could remember his confusion and fear. Had she cried because her husband was a mass murderer, or because he had deserted her?
A couple of hours later Roemer woke, stiff and cold, to the sound of someone pounding on his door. The beer had spilled and when he got up he stepped in the puddle. He went to the door and opened it.
“Rudi told me you were here, but you didn’t answer your phone,” Gretchen said.
Roemer came fully awake. She surprised him. “Did Kai Bauer kick you out already?”
“May I come in? I have to talk to you.”
“Why not?” Roemer went into the kitchen, got a towel and wiped up the spilled beer.
Gretchen came in but stood by the half-open door as if she needed an escape route.
“What is it, Gretchen? Are you in trouble?”
“No. But I think you might be.”
Roemer smiled wearily. “Bauer is going to press the assault charges? Is that what you’ve come to warn me about?”
“He deserved it,” she grumbled. “This has to do with Leila Kahled.”
A sinking feeling came over Roemer. “What about her?”
“She telephoned me yesterday afternoon. Or at least Rudi thinks it was her. He told me I’d better tell you right away.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This woman called me at work. Said she was from your office, and was trying to locate you. When I asked to speak to Rudi, she told me he wasn’t there. But she had no idea who he was. I could hear it in her voice. When I told Rudi what had happened, he said it was probably Leila Kahled. He said she is with the Iraqi Secret Service or something.” Gretchen shook her head. “Christ, Walther, I had no idea. I’m so goddamned sorry.”
“What did she ask you, Gretchen?”
“She said that you had gone out of town, that you were in Bern over the weekend. She wanted to know where she could reach you.”
“Go on.” Over a year and a half ago he had confided in Gretchen about his father. She’d never mentioned it since. “What did you tell her?”
“I didn’t mean it, Walther. Honest to God.”
“Interlaken? Did you mention Interlaken?”
“She knew about Bern. I was so mad at you for what you did to Kai. It just slipped out.”
The telephone rang. “Yes?” he shouted into the receiver.
It was Rudi Gehrman. “Did Gretchen get in touch with you?”
“She’s here now.” Roemer was breathing hard.
“Listen, Walther, don’t do anything foolish. I’ll call the Swiss police. I have a friend down there—”
“Don’t you do it!”
“Goddammit, you’re not thinking right!”
“I’ll take care of it myself.”
“If you go charging down there, they’ll probably kill you. If it’s a Mukhabarat operation they won’t fool around.”
“Have you told Colonel Legler?” Roemer made an effort to bring his voice back to normal.
Gehrman hesitated. “No.”
“Don’t.” Roemer hung up. Gretchen was gone. It was just as well. He didn’t know what he might have done to her.
He dialed his father’s chalet outside Interlaken. The telephone rang a half dozen times before Max Rilke answered it.
“Max, this is Walther. There is trouble coming your way much sooner than I thought.”
“We’ve been getting ready. Peter called from Town Hall, told me a woman was asking about taxes on the place.”
It was Leila. “She’ll be calling Azziza.”
“If it’s just him and the girl, they’ll be in for a nasty surprise,” Rilke said.
“I’m coming down. I’ll take a plane to Bern and then rent a car.”
“That’s not a great idea, kid. If all hell breaks loose you’ll have a lot of questions to answer. The Swiss police aren’t exactly our friends.”
“I’ll be there. But meanwhile if it gets too rough, you know what to do.”
“I do, Walther.”
There was a Swissair flight at five-thirty for Bern, with a fifteen-minute layover in Zurich. Roemer threw a few things into his overnight bag and stuffed his gun deep inside. With luck it would not be found by Swiss customs, but his BKA identification would help. From Bern he would rent a car and get down to Interlaken in about an hour.
He looked around his apartment as if seeing it for the last time. There was nothing here for him any longer.
53
BY LATE AFTERNOON, Leila had decided to turn back to Interlaken. She’d had enough killing. Lotti Roemer would have to be brought to Baghdad and kept out of harm’s way for the duration of the project.
The old man would be dead soon in any event, and his son would finally be free.
Azziza’s ominous accusation that she was in love with Walther Roemer still clung. Back home, it would eventually be used against her. No matter her father’s influence with the RCC, she could be charged with treason. Uncle Bashir was disappointed in her. Even the friendly Bassam Zwaiter had apparently arranged to bug her office telephone. If only she could have found the killer of the two women. It was probably someone from the team. Crazed with a holy rage against the infidels. How could she have failed to recognize the signs, unless she had been too preoccupied with her own life?
She sifted options. She could telephone Zwaiter, explain the entire situation, make him see that it was best not to assassinate the old man. But Zwaiter did not have the authority to stop Azziza even if he want
ed to. Uncle Bashir had the authority, but what could he do from Baghdad? She could tip off the Swiss police that someone was on the way to murder Lotti Roemer. The old man’s sergeant would cooperate with her or stand alone against Azziza.
She shuddered, thinking about Azziza, and her grip tightened on the steering wheel. He would know she was there, in the house. But that wouldn’t slow him down. All this for what? To give an old monster the chance he never gave thousands of innocent people?
54
THERE HAD BEEN a lot of activity all through the early afternoon at the Klauber estate. From their vantage point in the surveillance house, they had watched through powerful binoculars and listened to the telephone conversations over a monitor.
Major Whalpol dialed the Chancellor’s office. An aide answered.
“Any news yet?” Whalpol asked.
“The Ambassador from Iraq is here. They are in conference, Major. Any change at your end?”
“Plenty.” Whalpol was getting nervous. It looked as if General Sherif was about to make a move, but when and to where were unclear. “Six technicians from the plant arrived twenty minutes ago. Apparently they’re moving something back to the KwU. Possibly a computer.”
“Anything else?”
Whalpol leaned forward to look through the binoculars set on a tripod. Three panel trucks had pulled up on the driveway leading to the garage and other service buildings behind the main house. The technicians and four of Sherif’s men were loading crates marked with the IBM logo into the vans. They were in a hurry. More disturbing was the fact that Sherif’s troops, dressed in battle fatigues, carried Kalashnikov automatic rifles.
“It looks like a military operation. Sherif’s people are all heavily armed.”
There was a hesitation on the line. “Do nothing to aggravate the situation, Major Whalpol, is that perfectly clear?”
“There isn’t much I could do. If Sherif did decide to make a move and I tried to stop him, there would be a lot of bloodshed.”
“Avoid that at all costs. As soon as a decision is made here, you will be informed. Their ambassador will have to cable Baghdad for instructions. In the meantime just observe the general’s movements.”
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