Desert Fire (17 page)

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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Desert Fire
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ROEMER SPENT A restless evening alone in his nearly bare apartment, made more unsettling by Leila Kahled's appearance on the street below. He had watched her car for twenty minutes, until she pulled away. She was the most dangerous person in Germany to his father's safety.
Manning telephoned near midnight to say that he and his team were on their way out to Whalpol's house in Bad Godesberg. They agreed to meet behind the ornate town hall before moving in.
Before he left, Roemer checked his gun to make sure that the ejector slide moved freely. Whalpol was a dangerous man.
Traffic was light as Roemer drove down from the Oberkassel, crossed the river on the Konrad Adenauer Bridge and worked his way back up to the Bad Godesberg town hall. Manning's Cortina was parked behind a black windowless van in a rear courtyard where town hall officials normally parked during the day.
Roemer pulled up behind the Cortina and doused his lights. Manning and another man got out of the car and came back just as Roemer was climbing out. He recognized the second man as Sergeant Jacobs, Manning's pinched-faced assistant.
They all shook hands.
“We can pick up his line from the junction box,” Manning said. “There's one in a tunnel a half-block away.”
“How many in the van?” Roemer asked Manning.
“I drew a couple of techies from Division. Mundt and Achmann. I want to keep this to a minimum.”
“We're going to have to move fast. If he goes to ground before we get anything concrete, we'll never stop him.”
“We're going to get the bastard, no doubt of it.”
“But I want to know why he killed those women. I want to know what he thought he could accomplish.”
“The bastard is crazy,” Manning said.
“Probably.” But Roemer wondered. Whalpol seemed ruthless, cynical, but not unbalanced.
“It will take my people fifteen minutes to identify Whalpol's line and place the tap,” Manning said. “They'll rig a small, narrow-beam transmitter that will bring the signals back to the van.”
“Good,” Roemer said. “Sergeant Jacobs can stay with the van once they're set, while you and I go over to the house for a quick look. Let's go.”
They drove the half dozen blocks to the telephone junction box, located in a tunnel beneath a manhole cover in the sidewalk just off the Hinterholerstrasse. Whalpol's house was around the corner, out of sight.
Sergeant Jacobs and the two technicians from the van hurried across the street, pried open the manhole cover and disappeared into the tunnel.
Manning offered Roemer a cigarette and then lit one for himself. “All this is for money, isn't it?” the KP lieutenant said.
“It would appear so.” Roemer hunched up his coat
collar against the chill. The residential street was very quiet.
Manning's face was pale in the light from the street lamp at the corner. “What if Whalpol isn't working alone? Have you considered that?”
“He has his own people. He answers to Pullach.”
“But what happens if the killings were part of a government operation? A cover-up to make sure their little project out at KwU remains safe?”
The thought had crossed Roemer's mind. “I don't know, Manning, I simply don't know.”
Manning looked away. “Do you ever get the feeling that we're in the wrong business?”
We're a nation of laws, Colonel Legler had said. But the legacy of fifty years ago was still too close to the surface, with the recent anti-foreigner riots, and it was frightening that something similar could be starting again.
“No,” Roemer answered.
“Why don't you just call Pullach? Talk to the head of the BND? Make him see?”
“Without proof it would be worse than useless, Manning.”
Sergeant Jacobs crawled up out of the tunnel and came across the street. His eyes sparkled. “We've got his line. He's definitely home, talking on the phone right now.”
“With whom?” Manning asked.
“Don't know yet. But it sounded as if he's mounting a surveillance operation. Mundt is monitoring it, but we won't have the recorders set for another few minutes.”
They followed Jacobs back to the manhole.
Mundt, a headset pressed against one ear, motioned for silence. “He just hung up. Sounded as if he was talking to a mobile number. Something about a safe house.”
“Where?” Roemer asked.
“Sorry, sir, but they didn't say. Apparently they both understood the location. But it sounded as if the mobile number was on his way there now.”
Mundt again held up his hand for silence. “He's dialing,” the technician said. “Two.”
Roemer pulled out a notebook and pen and wrote down the numbers.
“Three. Seven. Zero. One. Two.”
Roemer recognized the number: Chief Prosecutor Schaller's. He stuffed the notebook in his pocket, hurriedly climbed down into the close confines of the tunnel and took the headset from Mundt. The number was ringing.
Schaller answered. “Yes?”
“It's Ludwig.”
“Where are you calling from?” Schaller sounded upset.
“I'm in town. Did you talk to Hans?”
“This afternoon. Roemer is convinced that you murdered both of those women. He was at your house.”
“I know. The monitors were on. He took one of my shoes.”
“They were your footprints, evidently, in the apartment.”
“It was a silly mistake on my part. But it will probably work out for the best in the end.”
“What in God's name are you talking about? Do you realize what kind of trouble this could bring? Helmut Kohl is damned upset, he calls here four times a day.”
“In two months it will be all over, so don't worry.”
“Two months!” Schaller exploded. “What if there is another killing?”
“There won't be, I can guarantee it.”
There was a long silence on the line. When Schaller came back his voice sounded strained. “Legler seems to think you have the motive.”
Whalpol laughed, the sound harsh in the headset. “Don't be an ass.”
“If Roemer brings him proof, any kind of proof, he'll get all the backing he needs.”
“Roemer can't possibly come up with proof of something that isn't so, Ernst. But I don't want him diverted. Don't interfere with him. He's keeping that Mukhabarat bitch out of my hair.”
“What are you talking about now?”
“Roemer went down to see his father at the sanatorium. She followed him. If Roemer is smart he's already moved the old man.”
“Where?”
“God only knows, Ernst. But the two of them will keep each other busy. Busier once Roemer gets wind of the fact she's got help.”
Roemer's grip tightened on the headset.
“Khodr Azziza, Hussein's top hit man, went to ground in Baghdad more than twenty-four hours ago. Word is, he's out of the country. My guess would be Switzerland. He's one bad bastard. Frankly I didn't think Leila played that rough. But once she finds Roemer's father she'll call Azziza in like a guided missile.”
Again there was a silence on the line. Roemer glanced up. Manning and Jacobs were staring down at him. Roemer held up his hand for silence. His heart was aching. No matter what happened now, it seemed that time had finally run out for his father. He must not be dragged back to Baghdad. A bullet in his head would be better for everyone concerned.
“Do you know who killed those girls?” Schaller asked.
“I think so.”
“Who is it?”
“It will not happen again. I will see to it. In any event you don't want to know.”
“Will he be brought to justice?”
“That would be impossible, Ernst.”
“One of the Iraqis, then?”
“I must go now, but keep me informed about our friend Roemer.”
“I did what you wished, Ludwig, I told Sherif that
Roemer was on the case, and that he suspected the BND.”
“Good,” Whalpol said.
“Roemer should be told.”
“Absolutely not. I forbid it.”
“Sarah Razmarah's murder can be blamed on that Iraqi who shot himself. But the newswoman. Television One will never let it rest.”
“We'll find a scapegoat. It won't be too difficult,” Whalpol said.
“Just like that? I sincerely thought we had risen above such things.”
“No government can rise above such unfortunate happenings. It is not pleasant, Ernst, but such things at times become necessary.”
Schaller started to say something, but the connection was broken.
Roemer continued holding the headset against his ear. If not Whalpol, then who? One of the Iraqis, after all? Or was Whalpol merely continuing to cover his own tracks?
“He is off the line now, sir,” Achmann said.
Roemer handed him the headset. “Rig up your transmitter. I want every call recorded.”
He climbed out of the tunnel and stood facing Manning, angry. Even if Whalpol had not murdered those women, he knew who did and planned to protect the killer. He had manipulated Sarah Razmarah into coming to Germany, to her death. He had sidetracked Joan Waldmann. And he had, in effect, engineered the coming confrontation between Leila and Roemer's father.
“Who was he talking with?” Manning asked.
“I'll tell you on the way,” Roemer said. “We'll take my car; leave yours for Jacobs.”
“Watch yourself,” Manning said to Jacobs, and then he and Roemer went across the street, climbed into Roemer's car and took off.
“What happened?” Manning demanded.
Roemer didn't answer until they pulled around the corner and parked, the headlights off. At the far end of the block stood Whalpol's house. Lights shone in the upstairs windows. Whalpol's Mercedes was parked in front.
“He was talking with Chief Prosecutor Schaller. He knows who killed the girls.”
“It's a cover-up. He's lying.”
“He told Schaller there would be no more killings.”
“Who else would have the motive?”
“I don't know,” Roemer said.
The lights in Whalpol's house went out. A couple of minutes later the front door opened and a man emerged, passed through the gate, crossed in front of the parked car and opened the driver's door. For a brief moment he was illuminated by the dome light. It was Whalpol.
“Call the van. Tell them we're on the move,” Roemer said.
Whalpol's car pulled away from the curb. Roemer waited until it disappeared around the corner, then followed. Whalpol turned onto the Hinterholerstrasse and sped up.
Traffic was light, but there was enough to conceal them behind Whalpol.
They reached the Kölnerstrasse, paralleling the river.
“Where the hell is he going at this hour?” Manning growled.
“He's evidently set up a surveillance team to watch whoever he suspects is the killer.”
“Could we have been so wrong, Roemer?”
Roemer shrugged. He felt numb. A lot of bad memories coursed through his head.
They crossed the Konrad Adenauer Bridge and Roemer had to fall back farther. On the other side, Whalpol turned east on the Königswinterstrasse and sped up again in the general direction of the Köln-Bonn Autobahn.
Roemer thought Whalpol was heading out to the KwU
research facility beyond the airport, but when he crossed the interchange and headed up toward Siegburg itself, a chill passed through Roemer.
He knew where Whalpol was heading. Suddenly he could see the entire thing all laid out for him like a nearly solved crossword puzzle. It was stunning.
They came around the corner onto the Bonnerstrasse, and Manning suddenly sat forward.
“God in heaven,” he said. “The Klauber estate.”
“Yes.”
Whalpol's car turned up a driveway that led to a small house behind and above the estate. Roemer shut off his headlights and parked just below.
“General Sherif,” Manning said.
“Or one of his staff.”
IT WAS COLD in the car. Roemer could see his breath. From where they were parked they had a clear line of sight to both houses. A few lights shone on the first floor of the Klauber estate, but Whalpol's surveillance house was dark. The BND team would probably have a lot of sophisticated equipment up there. Certainly a telephone monitor, probably an infrared telescope and camera, possibly a long-range sound-detection dish and amplifier. They'd be picking the Klauber house apart electronically.
Whalpol was guilty of nothing more than an awesome German cynicism. Roemer could see it now. The man had probably had some fatherly feeling for Sarah Razmarah. When she was murdered he had called on Schaller to hire a BKA homicide investigator—but one who could be controlled if the situation got out of hand. It was likely that Whalpol had had his suspicions about someone on the Iraqi team, but no proof. Perhaps with the second killing, Whalpol had discovered something that led him to the general's staff.
Whalpol would be working under tremendous pressure; the project must be kept safe at all costs. In a couple of months, if they could all hold out that long, the project would be completed, the Iraqis would have their reactor and their team would go home, and the Germans would have their money. The murders would eventually be buried as unsolved, or with any luck they'd come across a known sex offender dead, the “scapegoat.”
Manning was now confused, torn between his duties. “What the hell do we do?”
“Find the killer and arrest him,” Roemer said.
Manning shook his head. “Do you think Whalpol and his crowd would allow that? We're playing with fire here.”
“You should have a clear conscience that there wasn't a conspiracy after all.”
A hard look came into Manning's eyes. “I don't know which disgusts me more. A conspiracy, or a cover-up. I don't understand it, Roemer.”
“Understand this. I'm going to find out who the killer is, arrest him and see that he stands trial. I don't give a damn who it is, or what Whalpol and his people do about it.”

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