Basic Law

by J Sydney Jones

  Kramer scoots back to his original hiding place, grabs the leather day pack, and crawls back to the kid.

  “Kramer!” It’s Vogel, from the small hut.

  Kramer ignores him for the moment, opening the pack, and pulling out the copy of Reni’s memoirs.

  “This is what your fearless leader is after,” he says, dropping it in the kid’s lap. “I suggest you read pages 133 and 134.”

  The kid looks at the papers suspiciously at first.

  “Kramer!”

  Kramer looks toward the hut.

  “How you doing, Vogel?” he yells out.

  “We had a deal.”

  Kramer smiles. “I didn’t like the terms.” Then to the kid, “Read. You might learn something.”

  The kid flips through the pages, finding the ones Kramer told him about—the ones he inserted in the manuscript just this morning. The kid reads them quickly, then takes the pages out, and compares the typing on them to other pages in the manuscript.

  “Lies,” he finally says, setting the sheets back down in his lap and wincing at another jolt of pain.

  “Kramer!” Vogel yells again. “You got what you want. Just leave. We’re square.”

  “You don’t want the documents?” Kramer calls out, and looks at the kid with savvy eyes.

  Silence from Vogel’s hut for a moment. Then, “You brought them?” A hint of eagerness in the voice.

  “Sure,” Kramer yells, never taking his eyes off the kid. “But you didn’t give me a chance to trade. Look, I leave the documents, and you and your organization forget all about me, okay?”

  In the intervening silence, the kid picks up the memoirs again and rereads the passage Kramer had written this morning, substituting Vogel for Müller as the spy who had worked for the East to get money to fund Germany United.

  “Okay,” Vogel calls out. His voice sounds reassured once again, in control.

  “You’re full of lies, just like all journalists,” the kid says.

  Kramer shakes his head at him. “You know it’s true. Why else would Vogel take chances eliminating a washed-up intelligence agent like Gorik?” He gives it a moment for the name to sink in. “Gorik was his East German handler, and Vogel didn’t want any traces of his former employment.”

  The kid considers this for a moment, his eyes opening a fraction.

  “Kramer?” Vogel calls. “You got a deal. You hear?”

  “I want guns thrown out first,” Kramer yells to him. “Nobody follows us.”

  “You’re crazy,” Vogel screams from the hut.

  “You’ve got to trust me. I don’t want a war with all the right-wingers of Germany. I just want to peacefully withdraw from here. Don’t force me to use the heavy shit. I’ve got men here. They would just as soon start lobbing grenades, understand?”

  Silence.

  The kid looks hard at Kramer. “Why tell me this?”

  “I like to see justice done. Know what I mean? And I don’t much like your fearless leader. Maybe it’s time for a change of leadership. You know my reputation. I’ve always covered you folks fairly. We could work together in the future, but Vogel …” He looks toward the huts. “Maybe he’s outlived his usefulness to your cause.”

  The kid squints at the pages again, and Kramer can almost hear his brain working, the simple calculus clicking through the boy’s mind. Get rid of the traitor Vogel, and there is one less person between me and the center of power.

  “You give those pages to Vogel,” Kramer says, taking the rest of the manuscript from the kid. “That’s what he’s after. I’m keeping my end of the bargain.”

  Then, looking at the hut by the Mercedes where Vogel is holed up, “What about it, Vogel? Do I need to start counting? There’s some pretty pissed-off men at work here.”

  “Okay. We’re throwing down our weapons. No tricks.”

  “No tricks,” Kramer says. Then to the kid, “Your man under the Mercedes might be interested in learning why Vogel was having him risk his life knocking off the opposition. Might be interested to know just what noble cause got his buddy out there shot to hell.”

  The kid considers this for a moment.

  “Something to think about, huh?” Kramer says, and the kid nods slowly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Rain is washing along the gutters of the town by the time they arrive. The dash clock reads 22:30. Maria is sleeping with her head on Kramer’s lap and Randall is slumped against the passenger door next to them. In front, Georges and Rudi are speaking softly in Romanian. The swish and slap of the wipers sound like a metronome; puddled water explodes underneath the Rover’s chassis. Rudi puts an arm on the back of his leather seat and swivels to Kramer. “You sure you got to see this guy tonight?”

  Kramer nods. “I’m sure.” He pats Maria’s head absently, liking the warmth of her next to him. “It’s the next left,” he says to Georges, and makes eye contact with him in the rearview mirror, Georges’s face illuminated by the dash lights.

  They pull up in front of the municipal building. The final stop; the last piece to fit into the puzzle. The second floor is mostly in the dark, but one office remains lit.

  Randall awakes as the engine is turned off. Kramer has to gently nudge Maria to wake her.

  “What … ? No …” she begins, but he pats her consolingly.

  “It’s all right,” he says, lifting her by the shoulders. “I’ve got a little errand, and then we’re homeward bound.”

  She is disoriented, and Kramer gives her no time to get her bearings, to ask difficult questions. She leans against Randall and closes her eyes. Kramer and Randall exchange smiles.

  “You sure you don’t want company?” Randall says.

  Kramer opens his door. “Not this time. I’ll be back in a sec.”

  “And if you are not, Kramer?” Rudi says.

  The cold damp air sweeps into the car from the partially open door. Kramer considers this. “Give it ten minutes. If I’m still in there, you better call the police.”

  “Most amusing, Kramer,” Rudi says.

  Kramer slides out of the car and dashes through the rain to the front door of the building. The front desk is manned by a noncom. It’s a slow night in Bad Lunsburg; most of the uniformed officers have gone home.

  “I’ve got an appointment with Kommissar Boehm,” Kramer says to the young noncom. The evening paper is open on the desk, the sports page announcing that the German team has been eliminated in World Cup competition.

  “Yeah, good,” the policeman says, barely lifting his eyes from the paper.

  Kramer passes through the empty interviewing area, its desks tidied up for the day. A light burns in a back office. Kramer goes to the emergency stairs and climbs a flight to the second floor. Boehm’s office is to the left of the stairs, the light still on.

  Kramer taps on the frosted glass, then eases the door open. Boehm is sitting at his desk, his head bent, looking at his green blotter. A lamp washes the desk in light, leaving the rest of the room in shadows. Boehm does not look up as Kramer enters; does not stir as he crosses the room and takes a seat across the desk.

  They sit for a moment in silence. Finally, Boehm raises his head. Kramer sees the photograph of the Kommissar’s daughter on the blotter.

  “What have you been up to, Kramer?”

  Kramer sits silently for a moment, staring at Boehm. “I think you know,” he says.

  Boehm forces a smile. “We are going to be cryptic, are we?”

  Kramer shakes his head. “No. There are no more secrets or hidden codes.” He looks at the picture. “She was a pretty girl. How’d she really die?”

  Boehm squints at him. “I told you.”

  “I don’t think so, Kommissar.”

  “What are you getting at, Kramer?” Boehm slouches back in his desk chair; the leather squeaks under h
im. “And what’s happening with Vogel?”

  “I’m sure you’ve had a call about that,” Kramer says. “But then again, maybe not. Maybe Vogel’s in no shape to be making calls.”

  Kramer can still see Vogel’s face this afternoon going red as he screamed at him, demanding the lists, accusing him of treachery after the neo-Nazis had thrown down their guns.

  He had a point, Kramer must admit. Kramer demanded one more little favor before handing over the memoirs. So, after speaking clearly into the microphone and signing a statement, Vogel had reason to be fuming when Kramer did not come through with his part of the bargain. But those watching the interview had no way of knowing the memoirs were altered.

  “Instead you give me this … this pack of lies. We’ll get you for this, Kramer. No matter where you go, we’ll be there.”

  “I’m just the messenger here, Vogel,” Kramer told him. “You don’t like the message, too bad. And if I were you, I might think twice before doing something dumb. My friends here”—he nodded at Rudi and his gang—“have long memories. You might watch out where you step, yourself. There’s dog shit enough to go around for everybody.”

  Kramer isn’t worrying. The Hitler Youth kid, leaning on a broken branch as a makeshift crutch, was watching it all, his face cold and dispassionate, his eyes full of suspicion. No-Neck didn’t look any too happy, either, once he took a look at the pages. Kramer knew there would be a change of leadership at Germany United very soon. Vogel would meet with an unfortunate accident, perhaps en route to Munich.

  “Straight talk, Kramer,” Boehm says, jarring him back into the present.

  Kramer fixes his eyes on Boehm again. “Okay. Straight talk. Before Renata Müller killed herself, she let her father know about her memoirs. So he came and tidied up things. And then he called the police.”

  Boehm sits forward in his chair about to protest, but Kramer waves a hand at him. “Just let me finish. Then we can talk. So he calls the police. It’s late at night. Later than tonight, but someone’s on duty. Someone who works late, who doesn’t have much of a home life. Someone who even understands what it might feel like to lose a daughter. So our policeman goes to the scene and immediately sees what Müller has not: a list of prominent politicians who are members of a certain right-wing party.”

  “You got a crystal ball, Kramer? Where’d you hear this? Where’s your witness?”

  “Let’s imagine,” Kramer says. “Humor me.”

  But it was the last piece of the puzzle handed to him by Rick’s girlfriend, Margit. That night at the gasthaus in Vienna when Kramer was talking about how the purple car was traced back to Vogel, he mentioned that it was Kommissar Boehm who tracked it. You mix with very strange company, Kramer, Margit said then. But it was not just Vogel she was referring to. No. He confirmed that when he talked with Margit earlier this morning to try and find Vogel’s hideaway. Margit meant both of them; Boehm was in attendance at Vogel’s party for the graduates of basic training. An honored guest, she told him.

  “Just humor me,” Kramer repeats.

  Boehm snorts. “Okay. So what the hell would some cop care about membership lists?”

  “That’s simple,” Kramer says, forming a steeple with his fingers and touching his lips with the forefingers. “Because our policeman is also a member of this right-wing party. Secretly, of course. He figures his name won’t show up on any membership lists. He’s much too smart for that. But he cares about protecting the party; protecting the membership and contributor lists.”

  Boehm leans forward, hands on the desk. “Continue, please. I’m all ears.”

  “Our wise policeman must have known about Müller’s Nazi past. The old boys’ network would see to that. Though he certainly did not know about Müller’s activities on behalf of the former German Democratic People’s Republic. So he plays a double game. He enlists Müller’s support; tells him he knows how it feels to lose a daughter, that he can help to tidy things up. And Müller agrees. What our smart policeman doesn’t know, though, is that Müller is playing his own double game. But we’ll get to that in a moment.”

  “I’m sure we will,” Boehm says. “You’ve got a very active imagination for a journalist, Kramer.”

  Kramer ignores this. “Our policeman needs time. Time to investigate further. If Renata Müller had membership lists of this right-wing party, what other incriminating bits of evidence might there be tucked about the place or given to friends and relatives? Solid deductive reasoning,” Kramer says, “because our policeman is not just somebody on the beat, but a well-trained, thorough detective. So Müller goes home with his bit of misery, the memoirs. And our policeman calls in help from the right-wing party itself. A car arrives in the middle of the night all the way from Munich. A purple car that turns up in many different places in this case. Inheritance is turned over; every nook and cranny searched for further incriminating evidence. It is only then, in fact, that the leader of this right-wing party learns he has been infiltrated by Ms. Müller. Most unsettling. Who else might she have confided in? Isn’t there a husband? But he is nowhere to be found.”

  Kramer pauses momentarily. Rain streams down the office window, back-lit by sodium streetlamps, and reflects on the interior wall opposite: an orange, flowing light show.

  Boehm still hunkers over his desk like a caged bear.

  “So the suicide goes unreported,” Kramer continues. “Renata Müller is left to molder until her stink arouses neighborly curiosity. Meanwhile, time is bought to ensure there are no further copies of the list. There is no sign of the husband­, but Herr Müller very helpfully—too helpfully, in fact—furnishes­ a lead. A certain Herr Gorik who lives in Berlin has been in touch with Reni. Gorik subsequently has an accident, and his place is completely cleaned out. The policeman and the Nazi leader hope that all is taken care of. Renata Müller’s body is duly discovered and buried, but then comes a journalist and former lover of Renata Müller’s asking unfortunate questions, making people nervous. Instead of simply getting rid of the journalist, it’s decided that he should be used to trace the wandering husband. And in order to do that, he has to be won over by the policeman, made to think they are playing the same game and are after the same prize. He has to be convinced that the policeman hates the Nazi leader—let’s call him Vogel, shall we?—as much as the journalist. So the cop gives the journalist a heartbreaking story about a daughter who got lost in drugs and the skin trade. But like everything else the policeman said or did, this story, too, was phony. The journalist did some checking late this afternoon in Munich, see, and found out the policeman’s daughter died in a car accident. The other driver was a Nigerian who’d been drinking.”

  Kramer pauses a moment before continuing, his voice hard and cutting now, “Is that what sent you into Vogel’s arms, Kommissar? What made a secret Nazi of you? That and your frustration at a legal system that prevents you from being cop, judge, jury, and executioner all in one?”

  Again Boehm leans back, exhaling a mighty breath. He scratches his eyebrow, rubs his nose, and smiles at Kramer. “Interesting,” he says.

  “So you used me,” Kramer says, keeping his hatred on low fire, controlling his voice. “You did some computer searches on Gorik and gave me some information about a parked car, which led to Vogel. But these were trails that I was on the verge of discovering anyway. And you won me over. You spoon-fed me Gerhard’s credit card information and then turned me loose like a trained bloodhound to sniff out the husband for you. Your goon killed Gerhard, and then I had outlived my usefulness. The goon’s next job was to get rid of me, too. But suddenly, the trail led back to Herr Müller in ways you never expected. When I told you that Müller was actually a wanted war criminal named SS-Oberleutnant Arno Semich and that he was a spy for the East Germans, this changed the game. Only then did you understand how Müller had set you and Vogel up; how Müller had used you to do his dirty work eliminating Gorik. So you decided
to kill Müller instead of me and thought that would be an end of it. That everything could be pinned on Müller if he were dead, and that I would go off to Vienna and play reporter again and you and your friend could get on with your work undisturbed.”

  Boehm makes no response to this, merely shaking his head.

  “And then you used me one last time after I discovered the true identity of Müller, telling me that no judge was going to convict on the strength of a blurry, forty-year-old photo of SS-Oberleutnant Semich. What we need is a confession, you told me, and I bought it. I agreed to be the stooge, going to Müller and getting him to talk, with you waiting outside to clap the handcuffs on. But instead, you waited long enough for Müller to threaten me—you knew he would. And so you came in blazing away like a cowboy.”

  “Is that all?” Boehm says. He’s got the photo of his daughter in his hand now.

  “No. One last thing. It’s time for you to retire.”

  “You wouldn’t be wearing a wire, would you, Kramer? Trying to pull on me what we did to Müller?” He sets the photo down and eases his hands off the desk.

  “Nope. No wire. Just a carload of heavily armed friends waiting downstairs for me.”

  Boehm’s hands stop wherever they were going, coming back to the top of the desk. “Why would I want to retire?”

  “To keep your pension. Once word of your involvement with Germany United gets out, I doubt there will be any retirement party for you. No gold watches.”

  “It’s a pretty story, Kramer. But that’s all it is. A story. You’ve got no proof for any of it. You get witnesses or hard proof, you bring them in. Until that time, don’t bother me.”

  On cue, Kramer brings out the digital recorder he carries in the inside pocket of his oilskin. He sets it on the desk, clicks it on. Vogel’s resonant tones fill the room.

  This is to confirm that Kommissar Reinhard Boehm of the Bad Lunsburg Police is a dues-paying member of Germany

  United and a long-time supporter of our cause.

  Kramer snicks the switch off, puts the device back in his pocket.