by Ron Lealos
In civilization, Finnen, Washington, and I were out of our element. There was a society here, not dinosaurs. Trying to look the part of US military officers, we were outfitted in starched dress uniforms with bars and braids. Dunne had neglected to give us raincoats, and we shivered before the Bell’s heating system could overcome the opening of the door. Worse, no one wore a turban or a hijab. No one yelled “Khootey me ookhra” at us. Eat my balls. Or pointed an AK47 at our heads. All of this was done behind our backs.
It didn’t take us long to fly the 150 klicks, and we were treated to a panorama of modern Germany. Mostly countryside after we left metropolitan Frankfurt, flying over smaller towns, villages, islands of forest, flocks of Mercedes, and farms. None of us had been here before, and we tried to look like sophisticates but couldn’t help being tourists. Every time Finnen made a silly observation like “Look, it’s the remains of a concentration camp. That smokestack must be the crematorium,” I nudged him hard in the ribs. Washington was silent, seemingly uncomfortable in his stiff shirt. His comments were more in the vein of “Move over, motherfucker, and quit leanin’ on me”—hissed to Finnen, who was in the middle. I didn’t know if I was Larry, Moe, or Curly in this movie.
At the Wintershall headquarters, we buzzed the complex and landed in the big circle marked with a huge capital H painted in blue for Hubschrauber. Helicopter.
The building wasn’t impressive: fourteen windowed stories of flesh-colored stucco. It did have its own tram stop, and four people hovered under umbrellas waiting for the next trolley to appear. We had passed over a city with several large parks and one main boulevard that ended at a columned structure that looked like a miniature Reichstag. The streets would be lined with green at another time of year, but now the trees were drooping skeletons like the ones that surrounded the Wintershall offices. One of the two escorts jumped out of the Bell first and held the door open. We did the useless reflexive stooping routine and hurried toward the building entrance, as if walking straight and tall would mean decapitation by the still-spinning rotor blades. Finnen skipped ahead, a small child in Euro Disney.
Inside, we shook ourselves like drenched Dobermans. A Fräulein, resembling Marlene Dietrich in a tight skirt, met us with barely a smile.
“Willkomen, gentlemen,” she said.
Too much red lipstick. But, if they promoted here based on breast size, she would be CEO. Her white blouse was razor pressed and about to detonate with the pressure coming from under her bra.
“Lordy me,” Finnen croaked, not able to drag his eyes away from our greeter’s chest.
This was Germany, and she wasn’t amused. She turned a perfectly rounded firm rear end to us and said, “Please follow me.”
No stopping now, Finnen whistled under his breath and whispered, “I’m gettin’ a woody.” He put his officer’s cap over his crotch and followed, about to break out in a goosestep if I hadn’t stopped him with another shot to the ribs.
Washington was a different story. He squirmed in his uniform and constantly brushed his creased pants, ignoring Finnen. More often than not, he was scowling when I looked at him. A man that big and unhappy was scary. I had no idea what had gotten up his rectum, but didn’t want to be in Schultz’s brogues.
All three of us carried briefcases. It wasn’t to look efficient or officious. The false bottoms in each hid a Hush Puppy and Ka-Bar, de rigueur for Company assassins. I also had a garrote in my pocket disguised as a lighter. Flick the switch, and out came the monofilament line that could, with a twist and a giggle, cut through neck bone like it was vanilla ice cream.
The Dietrich lookalike led us to an elevator marked Exekutiven Nur. Executives Only. She pushed a button and stepped aside, ushering us in first. There was only one choice labeled 14 on the control panel. She touched the number, and we rose.
On the way up, I reviewed Dunne’s contingency plan. If we had to shoot our way out of the building, there would be a black-windowed Mercedes 600 sedan idling at the corner of Schumacher and Weserstrasse, a few blocks west. I hoped that didn’t happen and we would be returning in the Bell; it would be too messy, and there were no rocks to hide behind. I wanted to find the Notfall exit stairways. Emergency. They would be marked by that stickman walking down a staircase symbol I’d seen in a summer university break trip to London and Pairs made in another life. I didn’t have to worry about translating with Washington playing the grump.
At the top level, Marlene stepped out first and waved her hand. “On your left, bitte,” she said.
It was a long, carpeted hallway, the walls covered in dark cherry-colored wood, lit by muted sconces on the sides. No stickman icon. I looked in the opposite direction. It was there, the green image framed in a white background. I turned back after giving our escort a smile and followed Finnen and Washington toward the only door. It was at the end and a masterpiece of cedar carving, displaying curlicues, gargoyles, flower buds, and swirls. No tag announcing “Bad Guy.” If there were legions of assistants typing madly to keep up with the heavy business demands of a multi-national petroleum giant, none were in evidence. Washington didn’t even bother to knock on the door. He put his hand on the burnished ornate handle and engaged the lever, walking straight into the room. The woman let out a small gasp, obviously exclaiming on the rudeness. I trailed after Washington and Finnen, ushering Marlene in first. She refused with a stern shake of her head.
The far wall was blinding. Floor-to-ceiling windows giving a view onto a park I could barely make out in the glare, my eyes having adjusted to the dimness of the hallway. A space the size of a ballroom and way too big and plush for the Head of Security. Ornate carpets covered much of the stained wood floor and broke the expanse into separate areas with overstuffed chairs and polished oak tables. Lamps and sconces lit the parts of the room that needed more illumination. The same thick wood paneling as in the hall, only darker. Paintings of Teutonic Generals on horses leading their men into battle and portraits of unyielding men in nineteenth-century suits. Hounds on the chase. No flowers or knickknacks. Nothing to dilute the sense of pompous heaviness except the brightness from the windows. The smell was expensive cigars and money.
The woman walked around us as we gawked and said, “Your American ten o’clock, Herr Schultz,” she said.
From in front of the dazzling view, a tall, silver-haired man stood from behind a mahogany desk the size of two billiard tables. He walked around the side toward us.
“Ja, Helga.” he said. “Danke.”
Schultz was taller than Washington and ten kilos lighter. His suit must have been tailored while it was still on his body, the fit was so precise. When he strode toward us with a slight limp, it was as if he had brown pin-striped Burmese silk skin. His shoes appeared to have been cut from the finest Italian leather and polished with hundred-dollar bills. Gold and diamond rings on his left hand reflected the window light as he moved across a carpet, which probably cost a dozen Afghan women ten years of their lives to weave. His bearing was regimental and stiff, presenting the aura of a graduate of the Prussian Military Academy. He held out his right arm stiffly, and I could immediately see, by the color and texture of his hand, it was a prosthetic. But it was his face that was the most remarkable.
A map of Berlin etched in scars. One hairless eyelid sagging to almost hide its vision. A nose with the right nostril closed by skin melted into the cartilage. Unframed glasses. The lips on the right side of his mouth turned down in a perpetual frown. Only half a chin. It looked as if he had tried to eat a grenade, except for the perfect teeth. He spoke clearly and in fluent English.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “Dieter Schultz.” His smile could cause a room full of kindergartners to become hysterical in fright. His face was terrifying—but with not a hint of evil. It was right there to see.
He shook our hands individually as we introduced ourselves.
“I apologize for the rain,” he said. “Or maybe it’s a good change from where you’ve been. I know there’s very little prec
ipitation there.” He turned toward an alcove away from the window with a sofa and chairs. “Please, we’ll sit over here. Would you like Helga to bring us some hot coffee or tea?”
The three of us declined and followed him to the leather seats.
“Helga,” Schultz said. “Make sure we are not disturbed, bitte.”
Helga bowed and left, softly closing the door behind her.
Finished with my scan of the room, I hadn’t detected any cameras. I was confident the room would be bugged, if only to record the high-level business deals and intrigues that took place.
They sat, Schultz taking the largest chair in front of a massive unlit stone fireplace. He crossed his legs and folded his hands on his lap. I remained standing.
“How shall we begin?” he asked.
No feeble jokes from Finnen or comment from Washington. I placed my briefcase on the rug beside me after taking a seat in a high-backed armchair.
“First,” I said, “I must request that any cameras or audio recording devices be turned off. Our discussions are considered private by the United States government, and any taping whatsoever is strictly prohibited.”
An attempt at a smile through crooked, mangled lips and straight teeth.
“I assure you there is no such equipment in operation,” Schultz said.
Finnen nodded faintly in agreement. The surveillance detector in his pocket must have given an “all clear” vibration. I had already decided the windows were thick enough to prevent penetration by parabolics.
Not taking chances, I said, “I see you have a fine Berendsen stereo system.” I pointed toward a cabinet next to the fireplace. It was glass enclosed and held hardback books with mostly German titles. On the bottom shelf, a high-wattage Berendsen tuner and amplifier. “It would be nice to listen to a Brahms concerto, don’t you think?”
Schultz knew as well as everyone else in the cavernous room that my request was really a demand to veil our conversation as much as possible.
Schultz uncrossed his legs and stood.
“I don’t have Brahms,” Schultz said. “I tend to enjoy Mozart more. His Sonata Number 4 in E flat would do nicely. Will that be satisfactory?”
“Yes,” I said. “That will be fine.”
As he walked to the dark-grained unit and opened the cabinet doors that held rows of CDs, I stood and went to the fireplace, acting like I was inspecting the rock pattern.
The piano solo came on, and Schultz returned to his throne.
When he sat and was apparently comfortable, I stepped in back of him and strung the garrote around his neck, applying only enough pressure to prevent him from crying out, not to make him bleed or leave his head rolling on the expensive rug like a well-used and scarred soccer ball.
At the same time, Finnen and Washington reached for their briefcases and took out the hidden pistols and Ka-Bars. Washington went to the door and Finnen to the windows, staying concealed behind the heavy open drapes. When they were in position, I let Herr Schultz breathe a little easier.
“Before we start the real questions,” I said, “how does a Head of Security get an office like this? It should be reserved for the conglomerate King.”
Knowing the smallest movement would cause the garrote to sink into his skin, Schultz barely opened his mouth.
“Herr Zwitserloot is rarely here,” Schultz said. “He’s in Ludwigshafen, the BASF headquarters. We are a subsidiary. I use his office when he is away.”
“Does he know you are buying heroin and shipping it to Germany on company planes?” I asked.
“I do not understand. Nothing like that is occurring. He cannot know about something that does not exist.”
It was always, always the same. No one could skip past the denial phase. At least we weren’t in a cave or an abandoned mud house. The view of the park out the window was spectacular.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Dieter, Dieter, Dieter,” I said, shaking my head and scowling. “I can tell by your bearing you have a military background. And certainly, you weren’t a private. You’re keenly aware I’ve been dispatched to get information and that the methods I employ are up to me. I’m sure you’ve used some of those techniques yourself. But I might have a few new kinks you haven’t seen.”
I tightened the wire enough that his head jerked back. “We can start by making a deal. If you tell the truth, there’s a chance we can turn you to get the others we want. Otherwise, your death will be mourned as just another Nazi gaining his reward.” I loosened the garrote again. “Talk to me, Dieter.”
Schultz gasped, trying to fill his lungs in one breath. A few seconds, and he was ready to talk.
“Why do you people insist on calling all Germans Nazis?” he asked. “I have served the Fatherland. Now, I work for Wintershall. I am not a Nazi and do not follow their beliefs. Nor have I ever.”
“One point for the bad guy,” I said. “I apologize for my callous ethnocentricity.” I leaned closer to his ear. “But that’s irrelevant. What you do follow is the god of money. And that has led to the worship and support of the Taliban and al-Qaeda. The result is friends of mine dying from bullets and bombs you helped pay for.”
This time, the garrote went deep enough to cut into the skin. Blood seeped around the wire and began to drip on his white collar.
“Enough lectures. We don’t have time for you to get a doctorate in geo-politics. I want names. Who are you working with in Afghanistan?” His legs stopped flopping when I released the pressure and let him catch his breath.
“How do you know my orders, if there were any, don’t come from Washington?” Schultz asked. “And you are making a rather big mistake.”
Washington and Finnen both looked at me, eyebrows raised in wonder. Or maybe glee from Finnen.
The one strategy Schultz could use to stall. He would be aware we were serious and not the least shy about strangling him. Bringing the US government into the picture was his only card. No question he was highly intelligent and a trained warrior. No question he had thought about the possibility of a visit like this. I had to find out if his reference to Washington was synonymous with Langley. Or Dunne. Finding out if the Company was involved was hypothetically the main purpose for the trip anyway. We already knew his man in Afghanistan was Dostum.
“Okay,” I said, “we’ll skip ahead. Who in Washington is your contact?”
He tried to wipe away some of the blood on his neck, managing only to smear it like red finger paints.
“If I told you now,” Schultz said, “it would just be a short while longer before I was killed.”
“No,” I said. “You could go to Bild or the New York Times. Put your own twist on things before the garbage collectors were dispatched. I’m sure you’ve thought this through.”
“It would only delay the inevitable. A horrible accident.”
This man had lived with pain. He would not grovel like Abernathy. Death was familiar, and he had obviously stared it down in the past and arranged it for others. His pride would keep from begging, puking, or wetting himself, telling the truth only if it served him. I didn’t sense saving his own life was of that much significance. Pain and threatened death would not be motivators. Money wouldn’t either, unless he needed to buy a small country.
Loosening the wire until it hung slack around Schultz’s neck, I let the spring pull the garrote into its fake lighter home and walked around in front of him. There would be no run for the door or attempt to take me hostage. He was too smart, knowing he couldn’t escape the other weapons in the room. Even if he yelled, I would be on him before the words got out. Just in case, Washington walked over to me and handed me a Hush Puppy, replacing his with the one in my briefcase. He went back to the door.
Beside the book and stereo cabinet, a picture hung on the wall showing five uniformed soldiers standing in front of a Leopard 2 German tank. Schultz was in the middle and barely recognizable without the scars. The men were smiling. Schultz wore a beaked campaign hat and appeared to be the one in charge. The backgro
und was unrecognizable and could have been in Vermont but probably was a training exercise in Bavaria. The others were shorter and less distinguished. Schultz had once been a handsome man. No more. He watched me, preparing for the next round.
The Hush Puppy felt better than the garrote and was more familiar. I rested it on my thigh, barrel pointed at Schultz.
“Worse than death or torture to you would be exposing your evil and Wintershall’s,” I said. “We have enough proof for you to be hung and the company disbanded. Your legacy would be traitor. Every history book would put you just below Himmler.” I nodded toward the picture. “I notice the only photo you have displayed in this office that isn’t your office is one of you in German military uniform. I assume you may have commanded a Panzer Division. Is that right?”
“Ja,” Schultz said.
“I’ll make some more assumptions,” I said. “You don’t really care about or need the money. Wintershall has overextended itself on the pipeline project, and you came up with a solution for the crisis. You’re conditioned to serve your masters and, now that you’re retired from the army, you have new commandments to follow. You’re being a good Wintershall German. You don’t take your marching orders from Washington or anyone outside the Rhineland. You are too nationalistic and arrogant for that. Right so far?”
