Authors: David Hagberg
Desert Fire (25 page)
ROEMER HAD NOT told Leila about her father. They sat across from each other in the living room of the Interlaken house. Swiss police came and went with their usual efficiency, photographing and cataloging the crime scene. Two men dead in a shootout on the first floor, one dead upstairs in the bedroom. The coroner was upstairs.
A police lieutenant from Bern leaned against the grand piano watching them through hooded eyes.
“You brought weapons illegally into Switzerland. For that alone you will spend a long time in prison,” the sour-faced cop said.
Roemer looked up tiredly. “When your ballistics people finish, it will be clear what happened here.”
“I don't need you to tell me my business,” the cop snapped.
The first police had shown up within five minutes. Someone had reported the shooting.
“I would like to telephone my embassy, if I may,” Leila said politely.
“I'll let you know when you can call someone. I want to know why you were here chasing Nazis. And I want to know who the dead men are in the study.”
“One was Khodr Azziza,” Roemer said. “The other was Max Rilke.”
“We know about Rilke.” The cop turned to the piano and opened a passport. “The other one was Lawrence Behm. Austrian citizen.”
“He was an Iraqi. Worked for Military Intelligence, from what I understand.”
“You know this one? You knew he was coming here? Any idea why?”
“I had a fair idea,” Roemer said.
“How did you come by that information, Investigator?”
Roemer glanced at Leila. She turned away. Her eyes were closed. She was shivering.
“A BND officer, Major Whalpol, told me that Azziza was probably somewhere in Switzerland.” Roemer no longer cared who was implicated now.
The Swiss cop tossed the passport down on the piano. “What was this Azziza doing here? What is your relationship with the old man upstairs?”
“He was my father.”
“You found out Azziza was coming here so you intercepted him.”
“I killed Azziza,” Leila said.
“I figured the Beretta we found outside might be yours,” the cop said. He opened Leila's passport. “May I ask what you are doing with a diplomatic passport?”
“You may not.”
The cop's jaw tightened. “You say that you killed Azziza, whom Investigator Roemer claims was your fellow countryman. I don't understand, Fräulein Kahled.”
“Azziza wanted to kill the man upstairs. I wanted to bring him to Baghdad for ⦠questioning.”
“You and Azziza were working together?”
“No.”
The cop shook his head. “Iraqis and Nazis and German Federal Investigators. This will make for some juicy headlines, let me tell you.”
The coroner, an older man with thick white hair and gold wire-rimmed glasses, came down the stairs. “We can move the body now, Arndt.”
“He was murdered?” the cop asked.
“Smothered to death, several hours ago, I'd guess.” The doctor shrugged. “He would not have lived much longer in any event. I'd guess he had heart problems, at least, and probably a liver or kidney dysfunction.”
“Cancer,” Roemer said.
The doctor looked over at him. “He was recently in a hospital? There are intravenous needle marks in his arms.”
“A sanatorium outside of Bern.”
“Did you kill your father?” the cop asked, the first hint of compassion in his voice.
“Max Rilke, his sergeant, did, I think. He knew someone would be coming here. We agreed on the phone that my father would never be taken alive.”
“So you ordered him to kill the old man?”
“We agreed to it as a measure of last resort. I was too late getting here.”
“I arrived first,” Leila said. “Azziza killed Sergeant Rilke, and then tried to kill me.”
“It will be months before this is straightened out.”
One of the uniformed cops came in. “Pardon me, Lieutenant, but there is a radio message for you outside. It's Captain Frick.”
“Watch these two,” the lieutenant said, and he went out. The coroner left too.
“I didn't want it to work out this way,” Leila said.
“There will be no talking,” the young police officer barked.
Roemer ignored him. “You didn't call Azziza?”
“No. He just showed up at my hotel in town.”
“Stop this ⦔
Roemer glared at the cop, whose voice trailed off. Roemer turned again to Leila. “How did he find this house?”
“I told him.”
“Then why did you come back?”
“Azziza meant to kill him.”
She seemed fragile and frightened. Sooner or later he was going to have to tell her that her father was a murderer. Now, though, she would probably believe that he was striking back at her for leading Azziza here. Azziza's taunt hammered in his head.
She came here to stop me. She's in love with you. Didn't you know it?
She came here to stop me. She's in love with you. Didn't you know it?
Roemer no longer knew what was solid or real. Going back was impossible for him. But going forward didn't seem to hold any promise either.
Lieutenant Arndt returned five minutes later, his cheeks red. He went directly to the piano, where he had laid the passports with Roemer's BKA identification card and shield and the weapons. He gazed at the things, the young cop behind him fidgeting. It was obvious that the lieutenant had just received some disturbing news. Something that he could not accommodate.
He turned finally and looked at Leila and Roemer. “You mentioned a Major Whalpol. Do you also know a Rudi Gehrman?”
“He's Operations Chief for the BKA Bonn District,” Roemer answered.
The lieutenant looked at Leila. “You are not what you present yourself to be. It says in your identification that you are an Iraqi Federal Police officer. On the contrary, you are a case officer for the Mukhabarat. Your father is Deputy Minister of Defense.”
Leila sat forward, her eyes alert.
The cop gathered up their passports and IDs and weapons and laid them on the heavy oak table in front of them.
“A helicopter will be here in a few minutes to return you to Bonn. My people will take care of everything here, including your automobiles.”
“My God, what has happened?” Leila demanded.
The lieutenant went on as if he hadn't heard her. “We have an agreement with your Chancellor's office that you will return to answer questions. There will be a hearing.”
Roemer had a fair idea what might be happening. Apparently they had tried to arrest General Sherif and a firefight had erupted. It wasn't so much him they wanted back in Bonn, it was Leila, who was needed to help calm her father.
“She does not know?” the lieutenant asked.
“No,” Roemer said.
“What are you talking about?” Leila asked fearfully.
“I feel sorry for you, Fräulein Kahled,” the lieutenant said. “Truly.”
WHALPOL STOOD BESIDE his car, listening to dozens of sirens converging from the north and south. They would be Bonn and Köln police. Newspeople would be swarming in response to the sirens. This place would be crawling with people, every damned one of them in the direct line of fire from the blockhouse, vulnerable to the explosion should Sherif's troops get nervous and touch off their charges.
He'd sent Ebert and Kleiner into the administration building minutes ago to make sure the KwU security people did not get into the fray. They were also looking for any plant personnel who might be able to provide them with engineering plans of the R&D building. It was a safe bet Sherif's troops weren't going to be smoked out with a frontal attack. They would either have to be convinced to stand down voluntarily (Leila Kahled was their single hope on that score), or somehow they would have to be ambushed. Whalpol didn't think they'd have much chance with the latter.
Whalpol reached inside for the microphone as the black Mercedes limousine sped through the main gate and raced directly across to the gates of the blockhouse.
“Basra Brigade, this is Abel One. General Sherif has arrived. We will not interfere.”
“There are many police units in pursuit,” the radio blared. “Stop them.”
The Mercedes screeched to a halt just within the inner fence, and two soldiers leaped out and closed both gates. The car moved to the front of the building. A moment later, General Sherif, striding tall, along with his chief of staff, Colonel Habash, and the rest of the troops, went inside.
A green and white Bonn police cruiser screamed up from the main gate and angled across the parking lot. Whalpol flashed his headlights until the squad car came around in a wide arc and headed toward him.
Three other squad cars followed. Whalpol pulled out his BND identification, held it high over his head and stepped away from his car.
The first squad car slammed to a halt and two Bonn police officers, guns drawn, leaped out, crouching behind their open doors.
“Whalpol! BND!”
Still more police units entered the vast parking lot. One brought Lieutenant Manning.
“Manning, it's Ludwig Whalpol! BND!”
“General Sherif and his men made a break for it!” Manning shouted.
“They're in the blockhouse,” Whalpol said. “You're going to have to keep everyone away. They've taken hostages.”
Manning had a hard look. “They've already killed two of my people. They've got a bazooka or a rocket launcher.”
“It's likely that they have set explosives around the nuclear stockpile. Get your people settled down. Block off the main approach to the gate and get someone
behind the R&D building along the railroad line.”
behind the R&D building along the railroad line.”
“Tell them not to get nervous. First thing is to get the hostages out of there.”
“An army unit is coming up from Wiesbaden,” Whalpol said.
“We have to coordinate communications.”
“What about Roemer?”
“We're trying to find him and Sherif's daughter. She might be able to defuse the situation.”
More sirens were coming in from the distance.
Whalpol picked up his microphone. “Basra Brigade, this is Abel One.”
“We read you.”
“It's going to take a few minutes to get everybody calmed down. I don't want anyone trigger-happy.”
There was no answer for several long seconds. One by one the police sirens were being switched off, creating an eerie silence.
“Basra Brigade, are you there?” he radioed.
“We copy, Abel One, stand by.”
Manning came back from his car. “My dispatcher tells me that our switchboard is flooded with callsâevery second one a journalist.”
“Abel One, this is Basra Brigade,” the radio blared.
Whalpol lifted the mike. “I'm here.”
“We have four initial demands for you. When they are met we will release our hostages and make our final demand. From this point on we will communicate only with you. Do you understand?”
“I copy.”
“Number one: We want a one-hundred-meter fire zone immediately established around the entire perimeter of this building. If there is any movement within that zone, we will detonate the high explosives we have placed at the fuel rod pool. Two: We demand that you immediately turn over to us BKA investigator Walther Roemer. Three: We demand that Roemer's father, Lotti Roemer, who is known in Switzerland as Lotti Walkmann, be
turned over to us. If he is already dead, we want his body. Four: Once these three conditions have been met, we demand to be put in radio contact with Chancellor Helmut Kohl.”
turned over to us. If he is already dead, we want his body. Four: Once these three conditions have been met, we demand to be put in radio contact with Chancellor Helmut Kohl.”
“We copy that. May I speak with General Sherif?”
“Request denied.”
“This will take time. Roemer and his father are both in Switzerland.”
“We understand that, Major Whalpol. But time is the enemy. Sooner or later a mistake will be madeâby one of your people, or one of ours.”
“May I speak to one of the hostages?”
“Request denied.”
“How do I know they are alive and unharmed?”
There was no answer.
“Basra Brigade, this is Abel One, do you copy?”
“Stand by for a demonstration.”
Seconds later a tremendous explosion shattered the scene, an orange ball rising from the rear corner of the R&D building, debris flying hundreds of feet into the air.
“We are prepared in here, Major. Don't try our patience.”
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