Desert Fire (18 page)

Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Desert Fire

12.38Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

SERGEANT JACOBS RELIEVED them a few minutes after two. Roemer dropped Manning off downtown and went over to his own office. He got a cup of coffee and a roll from the canteen and took the elevator up. The only people on duty were the switchboard girl and the night officer. Neither noticed Roemer's arrival.

He took off his coat and opened the six-inch-thick sheath of files he had amassed on this case. He thought once again about Leila Kahled. She was a trained Mukhabarat operative, and she lived under the same roof as the murderer. Did she know who it was? Did she have suspicions? Or had she become so blinded by pursuing old Nazis that she had seen or heard nothing?
Frankly I didn't think Leila played that rough.
Whalpol's words. Yet Roemer suspected that Khodr Azziza had come to Switzerland at Leila's behest to kill or kidnap Roemer's father. It would take them a little time, so he had some breathing room. Time enough, he hoped, to
identify and arrest the murderer. Afterward he would go to Interlaken to take up the vigil with Sergeant Rilke.

From the original files that Whalpol had supplied, Roemer began digging into the backgrounds of General Sherif and his entourage at the Klauber mansion.

In addition to the general and his daughter, there were thirteen others. The general's chief of staff, Lieutenant Colonel Mahmud Habash, and twelve men and officers from the Iraqi Department of Security. For each, Whalpol's files provided a few scant paragraphs of information.

Habash had been with the general the longest, but the others had served in the army with the man at one time or another. All had been detached to the Security commandos. Specialist soldiers. Several had training in demolitions or communications, but not one of them was a nuclear technician.

A curious staff, Roemer mused, for a deputy minister of defense to bring with him on such a project. They were more like a bodyguard or an elite strike force. Perhaps the general felt unsafe here in Germany.

Seven of the men were married, but none had brought a wife or children.

Whalpol's notes yielded no indication of what the men had been doing over the months they had been here. Certainly there would be little for them to do at the KwU research or assembly plants. They would have to be like caged animals by now.

Perhaps he was dealing with nothing more than a bored soldier who had escaped his prisonlike existence to take his revenge on two young women.

But that would not explain how he had come to kill the two who had strong ties to the KwU project. Ties inimical to project security.

Roemer sat back and lit a cigarette. Stanos Lotz's observation that both Sarah Razmarah and Joan Waldmann were dark, black-eyed, pretty career women kept going through his mind.

He was looking for an Iraqi soldier who lived in the Klauber estate and was familiar enough with the project to understand the threat both women presented; further, it had to be a man with an intense hatred for young career women. Perhaps an Islamic fundamentalist who thought women should know their place and remain in the background. Someone strong. Someone who had come at last to Whalpol's attention. Someone, therefore, important.

Who fit such a description? Roemer looked at the files spread out on his desk. Someone who had suffered for the cause, who had gone to Mecca on the hajj, who professed his faith five times each day.
There is no God but God, and Muhammad is His Prophet.

All the general's troops were under the age of thirty-five. If they had suffered, it had not been for long. Only Colonel Habash and General Sherif himself even came close to fitting the picture, if the information in Whalpol's dossiers was correct.

Roemer's cigarette stopped in midair, another piece of the puzzle dropping into place. Leila was the chief of Mukhabarat activities for the KwU project, Whalpol's counterpart. She knew that Sarah's relationship with Ahmed Pavli had gone sour. She would have known about Joan Waldmann's threatening to expose the KwU project on television. And she had been raised to be anti-West in the PLO by her widowed father.

The father knew what the daughter knew.

Roemer opened the general's file. Several photographs showed him coming out of the Council of Ministers building in Baghdad, one with Saddam Hussein, and another showed him inside at a conference table with the Revolutionary Command CouncilâIraq's governing body.

Josef Assad Sherif, born June 15, 1940, in Jerusalem to a father who was an attorney and a mother who was a medical doctor. His parents were killed in an Israeli Irgun raid in 1957, the day before his seventeenth
birthday. The file was vague about the next part, but whoever had written the dossier speculated that the murders of several prominent Israeli citizens in Tel Aviv over the next few months might have been committed by Sherif.

That fall, he turned up at the Arab University at Beirut for double master's degrees in international law and political science. It was there that he met Hanna Kanafani, who was also studying law. They were married in 1962, and their only daughter, Leila, was born the next year.

There were few details about the general's life over the next ten years except that he was very active in the PLO, especially Yasir Arafat's al-Fatah. He was also one of the
fedayeen,
a freedom fighter, helping to defend the Tall al-Za'tar PLO camp, where in 1957 the civil war in Lebanon really began.

Sherif's wife was killed at this camp in 1976, a few months before it finally fell, and he and his daughter disappeared, turning up at Saddam Hussein's side in 1979 when the Tikritis took over the RCC, and therefore the actual leadership of Iraq.

Sherif's had been a tough life, but nothing in his dossier suggested that he could be a rapist and a murderer of young women, or that he was an Islamic fundamentalist. If anything, Sherif (Hussein had promoted him to general in the Special Security Forces in 1984) was an opportunist, albeit a very mysterious man.

Roemer wondered if he was following another dead-end hunch. To imagine that General Sherif was the killer was even more difficult than to believe that Whalpol had committed the crimes on orders from Pullach. Sherif was a highly respected soldier turned diplomat. It was hard to believe that he would risk a project of such importance to his adopted country for the murders of two women.

And where was the motivation? Locked somewhere in his experiences in war-torn Lebanon? In the horrors of Tall al-Za'tar?

Roemer turned next to the computer printouts that Gehrman had supplied him from passport control. The general and his chief of staff, Colonel Habash, were often out of the country. Perhaps they had been gone during one or both of the murdersâthe perfect alibi.

Sarah Razmarah had been murdered sometime late on the evening of Wednesday, November nineteenth. Roemer spread out the passport printouts. The general and his COS had left for Baghdad the very next morning. He himself had watched them leave the house together shortly before Leila had raced off to Pavli's apartment. They had taken a direct flight from Bonn to Baghdad. Anxiously, Roemer flipped through the printouts, to Saturday. General Sherif and Colonel Habash had returned late that day. A full twenty-four hours before Joan Waldmann was murdered.

There was the triple-star imprint on Sarah Razmarah's palm. And Whalpol warned that Schaller would not want to know who had killed the two women.

Roemer lit another cigarette and went to the window, which looked out over the city. It was nearly five o'clock. Soon traffic would begin and Bonn would awaken. He was weary. No matter what the outcome, his life would never be the same. How badly he had misjudged people was just coming into focus for him. Gretchen, Leila, Whalpol and now the general. He felt alone and cold in the predawn darkness.

The telephone on his desk rang. Manning was on the line.

“Whalpol returned to his house about an hour ago.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Have there been any more phone calls?”

“None. But listen, Jacobs just called me. Leila left a few minutes ago.”

Roemer snapped out of his introspective mood. “Did Whalpol's people follow her?”

“No. There's been absolutely no activity up there. No lights, nothing.”

She would be going to Bern, now that the assassin was presumably in Switzerland to pick up his father's trail from the sanatorium. She would find him.

“Where is she going, Roemer, have you any idea?”

“I don't know.”

“Is she part of this?”

“I don't think so, at least not directly.”

Manning hesitated. “You know who killed the two girls?”

Roemer sighed. “I think so.”

“Who?”

“You're not going to like it. No one will.”

“Who?”

“I think General Sherif is the murderer.”

“God in heaven! Why?”

“I don't know. But we're going to have to go very slowly now, Manning. Whalpol is watching the general. If it comes to a confrontation, Whalpol will protect the man.”

“What do we do?”

“I'm going to try for a search warrant later today.”

“From Schaller? He's in bed with Whalpol. He'll never give it to you.”

“We'll see,” Roemer said. “But keep yourself available. If it happens we'll have to move quickly.”

“What about Jacobs?”

“Keep the tap on Whalpol's phone. If anything happens he'll be the first to know. But pull Jacobs away from the Klauber estate before dawn. I don't want him spotted.”

Again Manning hesitated. “How sure are you about this?”

“Not very.”

Now it would begin, Roemer thought. And no one would be happy with the outcome. He telephoned Rudi
Gehrman. His friend answered the phone on the second ring.

“I think you'd better get down here as soon as possible,” Roemer said without preamble.

“What's happened?”

“I'm going to need some fast information. There were some assassinations in Tel Aviv in 1957.”

“Of Jews?”

“Yes.”

“I don't suspect the Israelis will cooperate with us,” Gehrman said. “We'll have to go to Washington, the Central Intelligence Agency. We might be able to get access through the FBI.”

“Do you know anyone over there?”

“I have just the man,” Gehrman said. “But it's still the middle of the night in Washington.”

“Get him out of bed.”

“Who is it, Walther? Do you know who killed those girls? An Iraqi?”

“I'll fill you in when you get here.”

Roemer dialed the Interlaken number. It took a long time before the telephone was answered by Sergeant Rilke.

“Max, this is Walther. Is everything all right down there?”

“The major had a very bad night,” the sergeant grumbled. “He only got to sleep an hour ago. I do not think he will last much longer. His mind is going.”

Kill him, Roemer wanted to say.

“There is big trouble coming your way, Max.”

“Who is it this time?”

“A man by the name of Khodr Azziza will find you sooner or later.”

“I don't know this name.”

“He works for Saddam Hussein.”

The sergeant laughed, short and sharp. “We don't have a quarrel with them. But let him come. I've not had a decent fight in years. The diversion will be interesting.”

“Max, he might want to take my father alive. They want to use him as a hostage in Baghdad. No matter what happens, Max, my father must not leave Interlaken alive.”

“Neither of us will, Walther. You have my word on it.”

IT WAS EARLY morning in Bonn, midnight in Washington, D.C., when Rudi Gehrman called his friend who worked for the FBI. Roemer listened on an extension in his office.

They spoke English.

“Tom Karsten, Rudi Gehrman here in Germany.”

“Rudi, how the hell are you? Have you any idea what time it is here?”

“Sorry, Tom, but I need your help. Unofficially but fast.”

Karsten, an agent attached to the Bureau's Special Investigative Division, had worked with Gehrman a number of times over the past couple of years. Karsten's specialty was running down Nazis who had hidden in the United States after the war.

“It's a two-way street, my friend. What do you need?”

“I want you to get out to Langley. The CIA.”

“I know where it is,” Karsten said dryly.

Gehrman glanced at his notes. “I want you to look up
some records from the late fifties. Israeli criminal records on a series of assassinations in Tel Aviv.”

“Just a sec,” Karsten said. A moment later he was back. “Go ahead.” He'd probably switched on a recorder.

“In June of that year the parents of a man named Josef Assad Sherif were killed in Jerusalem by the Irgun. In August, September and October, eight prominent Israeli citizensâfour men who were attorneys and four women who were doctorsâwere assassinated. Sherif's father was an attorney, and his mother was a doctor.”

There was a pause.

“Let me ask you something, Rudi,” Karsten said. “This man wouldn't be any relation to Iraq's deputy minister of defense?”

“One and the same, Tom. But this has to be kept very unofficial, very quiet.”

“What does your office have to do with an Iraqi general, can you tell me?”

“No. You're going to have to trust me on this one.”

Again there was a pause.

“All right,” Karsten said cautiously. “I can run this first thing in the morning.”

“No. Right now. I need this as soon as possible.”

“I can't get in there at this hour.”

“Pick the lock, Tom. Really, this is extremely important.”

“I'll see what I can do, but I can't promise anything. What specifically do you need to know?”

“Anything you can get. I want to know if an arrest was made, and if not, who the Israelis pegged as their top suspect.”

“You think it was General Sherif?”

“It's possible.”

“Will you be at your office?”

“Yes,” Gehrman said. “And one other thing. We have an incomplete dossier on the general. Find out whatever you can about him.”

“For instance?”

“Has he ever been considered a murder suspect, outside of those assassinations in Tel Aviv?”

“What the hell have you got going there, Rudi? Christ, do you know what kind of noises my government would make if they found out you people were conducting an investigation of an important Iraqi officer without sharing it with us?”

“I'm sharing it with you, Tom.”

“No you're not. In fact, you're putting my ass on the line. I'm going to want an explanation.”

“Call me as soon as you have anything.”

“Right,” Karsten said, and the connection was broken.

Gehrman shook his head. “Are you sure about this, Walther?”

“I've never been less sure of anything in my life.”

“What about our BND friend?”

“It looks as if he's protecting the general.”

“Frankly, I'm a little more comfortable with that notion,” Gehrman said, getting to his feet. “What's your next move?”

“I'm going to force the issue.”

“Whalpol will run you over.”

“He'll try,” Roemer said. “But he's backed himself into a corner now.”

Roemer drove to his Oberkassel apartment. The place was practically empty. He realized that he lived a mostly barren existence. Except for a few photographs of his mother, and his record albums, he had nothing. The personal touches in the apartment had been Gretchen's. Before that, Kata's, and long ago, his mother's. He himself had never collected any of the baggage that most people accumulate: the souvenirs, the knickknacks, the paintings and plants.

He fixed himself a couple of scrambled eggs with spinach, some bread and butter and a cool beer, then
took a long hot shower. He shaved and dressed in his best gray suit and tie.

He looked a lot better than he felt. His wound hurt and he was dead tired. In the six days since he had been called out to investigate Sarah Razmarah's murder, he had gotten little sleep. It seemed as if the week had merged into one long, cold, gray evening.

At eight-thirty he drove back to his office, picked up his files on the murders and his investigation report and walked next door to the Chief District Prosecutor's office, presenting himself to Schaller's secretary at the stroke of 9:00 A.M.

Schaller's large office was thickly carpeted, richly paneled and adorned with dozens of photographs, certificates and awards, all looking down on a huge cherry desk.

The Chief District Prosecutor's eyes flitted from Roemer's suit to the thick bundle of files. He seemed harried.

“What are you doing here?” he asked irritably.

“I've come for a search warrant.”

Schaller sighed theatrically. “You're chasing after shadows, Walther. But if you insist on this, I'll do it for you. I'm sure Major Whalpol will have no objections.”

Roemer laid the files on the large desk calendar. “Major Whalpol did not kill those two women. I was mistaken, and for that I intend apologizing to him in person.”

Schaller eyed the thick stack of files. “You have another suspect?”

“Yes.”

“Whose home you wish to search.”

“Yes.”

Schaller lifted his eyes. “Who?”

“The Klauber estate. I believe General Josef Sherif murdered Sharazad Razmarah and Joan Waldmann. Later this morning I expect to have further information.
But a search of the general's living quarters would be helpful.”

Schaller was stunned. “Do you realize what you're saying, Walther?”

“Last night, with the help of Bonn Kriminalpolizei technicians, I placed a monitor on Ludwig Whalpol's telephone. We intercepted two telephone calls, one partial, one complete. The first one was from Whalpol to what we presume was a BND surveillance unit onsite. The second call was to you yourself, and you know what he said.”

Schaller's mouth was half open, his eyes wide. A blood vessel throbbed at his right temple. But he said nothing.

“Directly after the call to you, I followed Major Whalpol to a small house above and behind the Klauber estate. I believe the BND surveillance unit is located in that house to watch the Klauber estate, to monitor someone's movements.”

“The general has a large staff up there,” Schaller said, finding his voice.

“I have considered that.” Roemer stepped forward, opened the top folder in the bundle, extracted the report he had typed out this morning and handed it to Schaller.

“Impossible.” Schaller laid the report on his desk without looking at it.

“A copy of that report will be filed with my department this morning, along with a request for the results of the BND's investigation and surveillance of General Sherif.”

Schaller slammed his fist on the desk and sprang to his feet. “God in heaven, Roemer, do you realize what you are doing?”

“Investigating a double murder.”

“You are jeopardizing the entire project!”

“Will you sign the search warrant?”

“When you came to me some days ago with the request that Whalpol be arrested for these murders, you told me you had the proof. Something about one of his
shoes, and about his motives. I denied your request. Now you have come up with another suspect. You must continue your investigation until you have
proof!
And then you will find me cooperative, no matter who it turns out to be.”

“That evidence will be found in General Sherif's quarters, and in the BND surveillance records. I want both.”

Schaller shook his head. He was calmer now. “I simply cannot do such a thing. But I will arrange a meeting between you and Major Whalpol.”

“It is also my intention, Chief Prosecutor, to formally charge Major Whalpol with obstruction of justice. We are a nation of laws.”

“Indeed.” Schaller's eyes narrowed. “Criminals shall be punished for their criminal acts. I couldn't agree with you more. Murder has no statute of limitations. Not ten years, not fifty.”

Roemer knew exactly what Schaller was getting at. “My father won't live much longer.”

Schaller's eyebrows rose. “Obstruction of justice, I believe you were saying. You are an officer of the law. You have known the whereabouts of your father for years.”

“So have you.”

Schaller said nothing.

“Will you sign the search warrant?”

“No.”

Roemer turned and went to the door.

“Your files,” Schaller called after him.

“Those are merely copies. I have the originals in safekeeping.”

Schaller picked up the telephone.