“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.
47
ROEMER WALKED BACK across the courtyard, but instead of going up to his office, he got his car. In forcing the issue, the first step had been his formal request for a search warrant. The second had been accomplished with Schaller’s telephone call. Roemer had no doubt that the Chief District Prosecutor had called Whalpol. Now that Schaller knew there was a tap on Whalpol’s telephone, he would be arranging a meeting with the BND major. Roemer wished he could be present at that tête-à-tête, a little bird in the corner. They would talk about how to stop Roemer before any real damage was done. Schaller was running scared. But Whalpol was the real danger.
Roemer crossed the Kennedy Bridge, the traffic quite heavy this morning, the riverbanks lined with dirty snow.
Murder was a crime relatively simple to solve. In ninety percent of the cases, the killer and victim were related either by blood, marriage or some close emotional tie.
When the killer was smart and the motive obscure, however, the only way he could be caught was if he made a mistake. Mistakes were made under stress, natural or contrived.
Roemer turned up the Siegburgerstrasse and then the Bonnerstrasse before he halted near the driveway to the Klauber estate. He lit a cigarette to calm his nerves.
Up behind the estate, Roemer could make out the roofline of the small house from which W
halpol’s surveillance team was watching. Undoubtedly they had spotted Roemer on the Bonnerstrasse. Coming on the heels of Schaller’s disturbing call, Roemer’s showing up here would enrage Whalpol.
Roemer was running out of time. His focus was beginning to shift to Switzerland. No matter how the situation with his father turned out, it would not be satisfactory. He did not want the murderer to slip through his fingers as well. General Sherif had only to get on a plane and fly back to Baghdad, where he would be safe.
Roemer cranked down his window, flipped his cigarette away and drove up the driveway to the front of the three-story house, which looked big enough to hold a medieval army.
He got out of the car, straightened his tie and went to the front door. He was about to knock when the door swung open.
One of the German house staff faced him. “Guten Morgen.”
Roemer showed his BKA identification. “I would like to speak with General Sherif.”
“Of course.”
Roemer followed the servant to a large room beyond the main stairhall, a book-lined study with a wide leather-topped desk and a huge fireplace. French doors led to a veranda at the side of the house.
“If you will just wait here, Investigator, I will announce you to the general.” The servant left.
Roemer started across the room. He stopped in mid-stride. The desk was a mess. Papers were scattered, an ashtray overflowing, a ring of keys next to a wooden tray containing two gold objects. His eyes locked on the tray. It was unbelievable. The man’s arrogance was even greater than Whalpol’s.
An angry voice rose in the hall. Roemer grabbed the two gold cuff links from the wooden tray. They were heavy and square, with three stars in bas-relief. Roemer pocketed them and stepped away from the desk as General Sherif barged in, an imperious, angry scowl on his face. He was dressed in a thick wool sweater over a casual shirt.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded in English.
“I’m Investigator Walther Roemer from the—”
“I know who you are.”
A heavyset man appeared at the doorway behind the general. Colonel Habash, Roemer assumed.
“I’ve come to ask a few questions, General.”
“Concerning what?”
“The murders of two young women the past week.”
General Sherif’s left eyebrow rose. “Have you a search warrant to enter my home?”
“No, sir. I’d hoped you would cooperate with me in my investigation, so I took the liberty—”
“Leave immediately, Investigator.” The general stepped away from the door.
“Just one or two questions, about Jerusalem and the Irgun. I understand that—”
“Colonel Habash,” the general said, without taking his eyes off Roemer.
“Sir?”
“Telephone Helmut Kohl, and tell him that I would like a word with him.”
“Yes, sir.” Colonel Habash walked past Roemer and picked up the desk telephone.
“That won’t be necessary,” Roemer said. “I’ll leave. For now.” Habash stared at him coldly as he went.
Roemer got into his car and headed down the driveway. General Sherif stood at the open French doors watching him.
48
LEILA THOUGHT A lot about Walther Roemer on the long drive to Switzerland. By the time she crossed the border at Basel she’d come to no firm conclusion other than the simple one that she was confused. Jacob Wadud’s gibe—What if it were your own father?—kept drumming through her mind.
She had hoped that by the sheer act of movement her resolve would solidify. That by doing her duty, driving to Interlaken, finding Roemer’s father and reporting the location to Azziza, she would rid herself of her troubles. She would not stick around for the outcome. Despite what Lotti Roemer was, she wouldn’t have the stomach for a murder or kidnapping. She would return to Bonn, pack her things and leave immediately for Baghdad. There was a place for her at Al Kumait on the Tigris, where she would bury herself for a few weeks or months —whatever it took to put everything in perspective. By then the KwU project would be completed, her father would return home and she would get back to work.
Worst of all was that she knew Roemer would despise her for what she was doing. He would understand why she was doing it, but at the sanatorium she had seen anguish on his face. Lotti Roemer, the Butcher of Dachau, was all he had.
Interlaken, a lovely town of about five thousand people, lay in the valley between the lakes of Thun and Brienz, amid vast, wild mountain scenery.
Leila arrived at noon and got a room with a magnificent view on the fifteenth floor of the Hotel Metropole. Among the few things in her overnight bag were her files and notes on Walther Roemer and his father, including the incident at the sanatorium.
She taped the files to the underside of a bureau drawer and went up to the hotel’s top-floor bar and restaurant, where she ordered a glass of wine, French onion soup and a croissant.
This lovely place was so different from what Baghdad had become. Beautiful. Peaceful. Open. There seemed no room here for violence. Yet it was coming.
After her lunch she dawdled over a cigarette and coffee. She was being a fool. Lotti Roemer had killed thousands of people, even if they were Jews. Jews, not Zionists. The man’s death would free the son from his influence. For Iraq’s safety, it was as simple and as necessary as that.
Leila took the elevator down to the lobby and got directions to the town hall, just off Interlaken’s main, tree-lined boulevard, the Höheweg.
It was just three blocks from the hotel, in a splendid, ornate old mountain chalet.
The clerk of property records was alone behind his counter on the second floor. He was an old man with thick glasses and thinning white hair.
“Good afternoon, Fräulein,” he said in heavily accented Swiss-German.
Herr Walkmann, the nurse in the sanatorium had shouted at Roemer. For just a moment her resolve weakened. “I’ve just come from Bonn, on behalf of Walther Walkmann.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been sent to pay the taxes on the Walkmann property here in Interlaken.”
The clerk squinted. “Walther Walkmann? I don’t know …”
“Perhaps the property is in his father’s name. I’m not sure.”
“You must mean Lotti Walkmann.”
Leila stayed calm. She nodded.
“But the taxes have been paid. Max Rilke was here … perhaps eight weeks ago. Nine. They are paid, Fräulein.”
Leila acted confused. “That cannot be. I have personally driven all this way at Herr Walkmann’s … the son’s instructions. He was quite concerned.”
“I am quite certain.”
“Please, if you could just check your records. It has been a terribly long drive.”
“Of course.” He shuffled into a back room.
The outer office was small. Behind a narrow wooden counter were two desks and a couple of ancient file cabinets. The place smelled musty.
The clerk came back with a large ledger, which he opened on the counter.
“See for yourself, Fräulein. The taxes on the Walkmann property have been paid. In full and on time, as usual.”
Leila ran her finger down the columns as if she were checking amounts and dates, but she was staring at the top of the page, the address. The property was listed under the name of Lotti Bernard Walkmann, a Swiss citizen. The land and house had been purchased in 1941. The address given was Jungfraujochstrasse, No. 15, Interlaken.
She looked up. “I’m sorry, but it seems as if my trip all the way down here was for nothing.”
“You say Bonn, Fräulein?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you would like me to call Herr Walkmann.”
“That won’t be necessary. I had planned on stopping out there to pay my regards anyway.”
“I see,” the old man said. He had become suspicious. The Swiss had a penchant for order. Leila’s story had not been neat.
“Thank you very much
for your kind help,” Leila said, smiling warmly. “I’m sorry to have been such a bother.”
“Of course,” the clerk said coolly.
Leila left the office and started downstairs, but she stopped. The building was very quiet. She could hear someone talking on the telephone. She hurried back up the stairs.
The clerk, his back to the door, was speaking on the telephone, and although she could not make out what he was saying, she could hear the urgency in his tone.
Lotti Roemer had come here with a lot of money, for which the Swiss would treat him as a favored citizen. He was apparently being warned about her presence.
Leila turned, hurried back downstairs and left the town hall. She had two choices, now that she had located Lotti Roemer. She could go out to the house and confront the old man tonight. There would be a fight, but she could handle herself against the sick old man and his sergeant. Or she could call Khodr Azziza at the Geneva number she had been given by Colonel Habash, and return to Bonn. In that event she would be clear of the issue. She would not have to be present when the end came for Walther Roemer’s father.
49
BY THE TIME she arrived back at the hotel, Leila decided to telephone Dr. Azziza in Geneva. The moment she opened her door she knew something was wrong. She fumbled in her purse for her gun when Khodr Azziza appeared from the corner by the window. She froze.
Azziza was a wiry man with jet-black hair, thick eyebrows and black, piercing eyes. His lips were thin, his nose sharp. He was smiling, but there was no warmth to his smile.
“If you’re going to shoot me, Leila, get it over with. Otherwise come in and shut the door. We should talk.”
“What are you doing here?” She closed the door behind her.
He had searched the room. The bureau was open, her files spread out on the bed. “Have you found Herr Walkmann … the elder, that is?”
“I thought you were in Geneva.”
“Habash telephoned me. Told me you got information from Gretchen Krause.”
They had a monitor on her telephone at the embassy. That meant Zwaiter was in on it, a sickening realization. Yet she could hardly blame them. The Butcher of Dachau was quite a prize for them just now, and it was evident to those around her that she wasn’t thinking straight.
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