Brandenburg (34 page)

Lieber swallowed. “I refuse to speak until I’ve contacted my lawyer.”

“As you wish. You have a safe in the house?”

“A safe?”

“A safe for personal belongings. Businessmen usually have one, and you own several businesses in Asunción, señor. An import-export agency. A property-development company.” Sanchez paused, letting Lieber know he’d done his homework, saw the man’s eyebrows rise. “So, do you have a safe here in the house?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Señor, you can be agreeable and cooperate. To do otherwise will certainly not help your situation.”

“And what is my situation?”

The big man scratched his ear. “If I’m unsatisfied with your replies, I will arrest you on suspicion of being an accessory to the murder of one Rudi Hernandez, journalist. And two other murders also.”

“That’s quite ridiculous,” Lieber said hoarsely. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The detective ignored Lieber’s words. “You haven’t answered my question. You have a safe?”

Lieber considered, then slowly took a set of keys from his pocket. “In the bedroom upstairs facing onto the driveway, you’ll find a painting. A Vermeer copy. Behind it you will—”

Sanchez took the keys. “I know.”

He handed them to the detectives. The men left. Lieber heard their footsteps ascend the stairs.

Left alone with the big man, Lieber glanced around, said amicably, “Amigo, there must be some mistake. You know, I have friends in high places, people who could—”

The detective raised his hand to silence Lieber. “Please. Spare me.” He sat down, produced a cigarette, lit it. “My men will search the rest of the house again. This may take some time.”

“My lawyer—”

“I suggest you remain silent,” Sanchez interrupted, smiling thinly. “I’m sure you are quite happy to do that.”

Lieber pursed his lips and said nothing.

•   •   •

It took almost an hour of waiting, yet he felt strangely confident. There wasn’t a shred in the house to incriminate him. Nothing to connect him to the journalist and the woman.

He saw the two detectives come into the room as he sipped a scotch. One of them carried an album of photographs. Lieber frowned. It was an old album he kept in his bedroom. It hadn’t been added to in years.

He saw Sanchez flick through the cellophaned leaves. He pursed his lips and looked up, walked over to where Lieber stood.

Sanchez held up the album. “This is yours?”

Lieber hesitated, then said, “Yes, it belongs to me.”

Sanchez pointed to a photograph in the album. Lieber swallowed.

“This snapshot,” Sanchez said. “Where was it taken?”

The picture was of a white house. Three men together, Lieber one of them. Jungle cutting in on the right of the frame.

“I can’t remember,” he said hoarsely.

“Think. In the Chaco perhaps?”

“I told you. I can’t remember. It’s an old photograph.”

The detective saw the look on Lieber’s fleshy face and pointed again to the photograph. “The man on the left is you. The other two . . . who are they?”

Lieber shook his head as he saw the detective’s finger point out the men in the photograph, taken many years before, one stocky, dark-haired, and young, the other older, tall, silver-haired, handsome.

“I told you. It was taken a long time ago. I don’t recall.”

Lieber saw the detective stare at him, frustration on his face. The man was unsure of himself, Lieber could tell. Searching. But lost.

“Señor, on the evening of November twenty-fifth and the early morning of November twenty-sixth, where were you?”

Lieber frowned. “I was at home, attending to important paperwork.”

“Alone?”

“Apart from one of my staff, yes.”

“No doubt your staff will attest to this if necessary?”

“No doubt, yes.”

Sanchez glared at the man.

One of the detectives to whom Sanchez had given the keys to the safe returned, shook his head as he handed them back. Sanchez grimaced, placed the keys on the coffee table in front of Lieber.

Lieber said, “Have your men finished?”

“For now. Sí.”

“You intend on arresting me?”

“No.”

“Then I want you and your people off my property.” Lieber stood to his full height, towering over the other man. “Your commissioner will hear about this intrusion of my privacy. Now leave. At once.”

Sanchez put down the album on the study desk. “Señor, I will be back. Again and again, if necessary. I wish to assure you of that.”

“That’s harassment.”

“No, señor.” Sanchez smiled grimly. “I prefer to call it thoroughness.”

Lieber felt the anger rise in him. “Be assured, your commissioner will hear from me.”

Sanchez’s smile broadened. “Yes, I’m certain he will. But you see, señor, there is a certain matter of a tape. A tape recording of a conversation in a certain hotel. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. So be assured, you will see me again.”

The smugness vanished. Perplexed, Lieber felt the blood rise uncontrollably to his cheeks, saw the detective’s hooded eyes stare at him, search for a reaction.

He checked himself, then said hoarsely, “Go.”

•   •   •

Forty minutes later, Lieber was on the Plaza del Héroes. He parked the Mercedes and observed the street. So far as he could tell, he wasn’t being followed. He decided a public phone would be safer.

He found one in a hotel near the plaza. He made two calls, listened to the incredulous voices as he sweated in the hot kiosk. He kept the conversations as short as possible, all the time his eyes searching the hotel lobby to make sure he wasn’t being watched. He told them his plans and received their immediate approval.

The third call he made to an unlisted number on the outskirts of the city. Lieber told the man what he wanted done, then put down the telephone and waited for the reply call.

It came less than five minutes later. He listened to the voice and noted the instructions. A minute later, he stepped from the hotel and walked back toward his car. His eyes scanned the busy streets for anyone following him.

No one did.

•   •   •

Sanchez stood at the office window looking down at the fronds of the palm trees along the
calle,
a mug of steaming coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

Almost nine o’clock. Traffic streaked below, the blue-and-whites pulling up outside every now and then, disgorging their nightly cargo. Hookers. Pimps. Thieves.

He heard the door open loudly and turned. Cavales came in.

Sanchez said, “Well?”

“It was just like you said, he went to make a call. I had four teams following him. Twenty minutes after we left, he drove to the Plaza del Héroes and went into a small hotel, the Riva. We think he made just a couple of telephone calls, but we can’t be sure. The woman watching him said he was pretty uncomfortable, so she didn’t push it.”

“Go on.”

“He drove back home, stayed half an hour. Then he had his manservant drive him to the outskirts. He walked for five minutes, then hailed a taxi. He changed taxis twice. The second took him to the airport, where he picked up a suitcase at the left luggage. We tailed the servant, too. He drove to the airport after he dropped Lieber off and stashed the suitcase in the left luggage, where Lieber picked it up.”

“You managed to check the suitcase?”

Cavales nodded. “It contained a couple of shirts and a suit. Underwear and toiletries. The usual stuff. Nothing interesting.” Cavales paused. “But there’s something else.”

Sanchez raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

“He picked up a package at the information desk, along with the ticket for his luggage. Two of our people followed him to the departure area.”

“They didn’t stop him?”

“There was something much more interesting to consider.”

“Tell me.”

“He had a passport in a different name and checked onto a flight for São Paulo, with the first connection to Mexico City tomorrow night. I guess the passport was the package he picked up. He must be running scared.”

“The name he used?”

“Monck. Julius Monck.”

Sanchez blinked.

Cavales said, “You want me to get immigration in São Paulo
to pick him up?” He checked his watch. “The flight doesn’t land for another hour. Possession of an illegal passport is one thing. Using it is another. On that alone, he’s got some questions to answer.”

Sanchez’s eyebrows knit closely together, as if the act of thinking was painful. “Bring me the map from the wall.”

Cavales unhooked the large hanging map of South America, placed it on Sanchez’s desk.

The big detective stared down at the multicolored patterns on the laminated, nicotine-stained cardboard, then traced a finger from the northeast, Chaco, to the Brazilian border.

“The report from the radar people at Bahia Negra. They said the flight they vectored disappeared toward Corumba, over the border.”

“Sí.”

Sanchez’s finger traced a line on the map. “It’s only a short distance from there to Campo Grande. There’s an airport at Campo Grande. With a shuttle service to São Paulo, I believe.”

Cavales scratched his chin. “I don’t see the point.”

“From Paulo there’s a connecting flight to Mexico City. Lieber’s destination. Maybe the people from the Chaco house took that route. Maybe they went to Mexico City also. Now Lieber’s worried. He needs to talk to them. In person.”

Cavales smiled. “Either that or Lieber’s running for good.”

Sanchez shrugged. “He’s pretty scared about something. You saw the look on his face when I mentioned the taped conversation—it really worried him.” Sanchez thought for a moment, then said, “Get onto Chief Inspector Eduardo Gonzales in Mexico City. Inform him of Lieber’s likely arrival there in the name of Monck.”

“Is Gonzales a friend of yours?”

Sanchez nodded. “We met at a police conference in Caracas. Have a photograph of Lieber wired to him. Lieber’s connecting tickets are in the name of Monck, but just in case he has another passport, they should be able to identify him from the photo. And get onto São
Paulo, too. Ask them to watch Lieber when he arrives, make sure he makes the connecting flight he’s booked on. Ask them to use their best undercover people. I don’t want it blown.”

“You want this Gonzales to pick up Lieber?”

“No. Simply followed. I want to know where he goes. Who he meets.”

Cavales nodded, went to leave.

“And Cavales—”

“Sí?”

“The first available connecting flight to Mexico City. Book two seats.” Sanchez smiled thinly. “But not the same route as Lieber, obviously.”

Cavales smiled back, and left.

Sanchez opened his wallet and stared down at the photograph. It was the one he had removed from the album in Lieber’s house. He had pocketed it deftly. Theft, but justifiable. He doubted that Lieber had noticed; the man had been too distracted.

Now he placed the picture on his desk and blinked. He studied the two men flanking Lieber. From the cut of the clothes, he guessed Lieber hadn’t lied; the photograph was taken a long time ago. Ten years at least, but difficult to say. He saw a veranda behind the three men, painted white like the house in the Chaco jungle. His gut told him it was the same house.

He ran a hand through his thinning hair and sighed now as he thought of the work ahead. He would telephone his wife and tell her of his plans. No more than a day or two in Mexico City, if he was lucky. He stared down at the photograph of the three men once more as he picked up the receiver and went to dial his home number.

Rosario would understand.

This one was for Rudi Hernandez.

This one was personal.

29

BERLIN. WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 14

Volkmann telephoned Jakob Fischer at Berlin homicide, but the policeman who answered said that Fischer was out of the office and wouldn’t return until late that afternoon. Volkmann left a message saying he would call back later.

That afternoon he got a seat on the Lufthansa flight to Berlin. It was after four and growing dark when he landed at Tegel airport. Half an hour later when he made the call, Jakob Fischer came on the line.

“It’s been a long time, Joe. I got your message. How are you, my friend?”

“Good. And you?”

“Six months from retirement and I can’t wait to throw off the harness.”

“I need a favor, Jakob.”

Volkmann explained about Herbert Rauscher, and when he had finished, Fischer said, “Tell me exactly what you want, Joe.”

“I’d like to know what your people have on Rauscher’s death. And whatever background information you’ve got on him. I’d prefer to keep it unofficial and low-key for now.”

“You think this Rauscher was involved in any criminal activity?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay. It’s out of my area, Joe, but I’ll try to get a look at the file anyway. We keep most stuff on computer, so I may be able to get access.”

“I’d appreciate it, Jakob.”

It was almost two hours later when Fischer called back.

“I’m afraid I only got limited access to the file on the computer,
Joe. But I spoke to one of the homicide detectives at the station working the case, and he told me what he could.”