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  He stubbed out his cigarette, pushed himself off the couch and stood for an unsteady moment until the room stopped moving.

  He put water on for coffee, then took a shower, shaved and dressed.

  This morning he would present his evidence to Colonel Legler. Then either he would be pulled off the case (which he hoped) or Legler would give him the go-ahead.

  Legler was a political animal, but he had been one of the clean Germans, his past untainted by the Nazis, so he would not be afraid of making waves. He had the clout to deal with Whalpol as well, or at least to insulate Roemer from the BND long enough for him to complete his investigation.

  The telephone rang. It was Manning. “Roemer? You’d better get over here, we have another murder.”

  The cobwebs cleared. “Where are you?”

  Manning gave him an address in Putzchen, which was on this side of the river and very near. “There is a connection between this one and the other.”

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Manning couldn’t know about Whalpol, so what connection was he talking about?

  32

  THE WIND HAD died and it wasn’t as cold as it had been over the past couple of days, though the sky was overcast and it would probably snow again soon. What traffic there was flowed the opposite way, into the city, people on their way to work, and within five minutes Roemer pulled up in front of the ten-story apartment building. There were a lot of police cars, the Criminal Investigation van, the coroner’s car and hearse, as well as a crowd of newspeople.

  Flashing his badge, Roemer crossed the police lines and entered the building. He took the elevator up to the tenth floor. Manning, his tie loose, hair mussed, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, left the evidence tray and came to the doorway. He looked mean.

  Beyond him a body was laid out on the floor beneath a sheet. Blood spread around it on the carpet.

  “You said you would have something for me on Friday,” Manning grumbled. “It’s Monday and we’ve got another murder.”

  “Who?”

  “Joan Waldmann. An investigative reporter with Television One. She was working on a KwU story.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Notebook in her purse. It’s all there.” Manning looked at the body. “Same as before. Crushed her skull. Fucking pervert.”

  “Let me have a look and then we’ll talk.”

  “You’re goddamned right we’re going to talk. You may be a federal investigator, but this is my city.” Manning stepped aside.

  “I’ll want to see the notebook.”

  Manning nodded. “Let’s call it a trade.”

  Roemer thought about the file Whalpol had pulled from behind the Schrank in Sarah Razmarah’s apartment, about the bloody footprints and about Pavli’s diary. He also thought about Leila. “All right,” he said.

  As at the last murder scene, Manning’s people were prowling the apartment. There was an almost casual disregard for the body beneath the sheet, except that the coroner, Dr. Sternig, and the forensics man, Stanos Lotz, were in discussion over it.

  “Good morning, Investigator,” Sternig said.

  “What can you tell me?”

  “She died sometime last night. Possibly as long as eight hours ago. The same as Sarah Razmarah.” Sternig knelt and gently eased back the sheet.

  Roemer took a deep breath. The young woman’s face was destroyed, as Sarah’s had been. “Was she raped?”

  “I think so. I’ll let you know later this morning as soon as we do an autopsy.”

  “Not very pretty,” Stanos Lotz said.

  “No.”

  Lotz looked down at the body. “Did you notice the other similarity, Roemer? Curious, isn’t it? Both women were young, attractive, dark-haired.”

  Sternig reached down and gently lifted an eyelid. “Black eyes,” he said softly.

  Roemer had his suspect. It all pointed to Major Whalpol.

  But pretty dark-haired young women with black eyes? Was it an Arab, after all? Some Islamic fundamentalist who believed women should cover their faces and obey the ancient social rules?

  “I made the connection right off,” Lotz said. “But I didn’t tell anyone.”

  “Don’t. I’ll talk to Manning.”

  Sternig was troubled. “Investigator, if you’re implying what I think you are, we have a homicidal maniac on our hands. In that case we have a certain responsibility.”

  “Our responsibility is catching this killer. I’ll tell you what, telephone Chief Prosecutor Schaller. Do you know him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Talk it over with him before you do anything.”

  Roemer went out to Manning in the corridor.

  “Not a pretty picture, is she?” Manning said.

  “Sternig thinks she was raped.”

  “I know.” He looked into Roemer’s eyes. “I tried to get you over the weekend. There was no answer. Where’d you go?”

  “Out of town.”

  “Anything to do with this?”

  “No.”

  Manning was quietly simmering. “I waited for your call Friday.”

  “It would not have prevented this.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Roemer wasn’t. Especially not now. “You mentioned a notebook.”

  “In her purse,” Manning said. “She knew or suspected that KwU was selling a nuclear reactor somewhere outside the country.”

  “Is that all? Had she any idea who was getting the reactor?”

  “Not that her notes showed,” Manning said. “But you and I know.”

  “Who did she talk to at KwU?”

  “No one important. But she did put at least half the story together.”

  “You think the Iraqis killed her to keep her quiet?”

  “Goddamned right.”

  “What about Sarah Razmarah? Why would they want to stop her?”

  “Come off it, Roemer, you saw the impression in her palm.”

  “Which means nothing if the killer wanted to throw off the investigation.”

  A new look came into Manning’s eyes. “What have you got, Investigator? What little secrets? It’s time for our trade now.”

  Roemer glanced into the apartment. No one was paying them any attention. “I was recruited on Sarah Razmarah’s murder by Chief Prosecutor Schaller … at the request of the BND.”

  “Why … good Christ, she was a spy!”

  “For us.”

  “So the Iraqis killed her.”

  “Sarah Razmarah was a good spy, but she had a big heart. She fell in love with her target.”

  “Ahmed Pavli, the Iraqi who killed himself.”

  “None other.”

  “And Leila Kahled, the Iraqi cop. Is she a spy too?”

  Roemer nodded.

  Manning pondered a moment. “If Sarah Razmarah’s spying on the Iraqis went sour because she’d fallen in love, there’d be no reason for the Arabs to kill her.”

  “Something like that.”

  “But whoever killed her wanted it to appear as if an Arab had done it.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But it was probably the same one who killed Joan Waldmann last night. The connection is still the KwU.”

  Roemer remained silent, letting the KP lieutenant finish his theory.

  “If it wasn’t an Iraqi, who then? The only other party with a vested interest is … the BND.” Manning took a deep breath.

  From the elevator two morgue attendants emerged pushing a trolley stretcher. Manning and Roemer stepped aside to let them into the apartment.

  Manning lowered his voice. “Christ, Roemer.”

  “It’s my intention to turn this over to my chief this morning. He can bounce it back down to Pullach.”

  “Bullshit. They won’t let either of us off the hook and you know it. Who was it from the BND who recruited you?”

  “Don’t get yourself involved, Manning. You’re a good cop. Find the killer through normal channels.�
�

  Something else dawned on Manning. “The Schrank in Sarah Razmarah’s bedroom had been pushed away from the wall. She’d hidden something back there. Notes. Whoever killed her knew where they were hidden. The other man who visited her often. Not Pavli, the tall, thin man. Her BND control officer. And you know who he is.”

  Roemer turned away.

  “Goddammit, Roemer, who is he? Arrest the bastard!”

  He had tried, but Schaller had laughed in his face. And rightly so. There wasn’t enough hard evidence. He was kidding himself by believing he could go up against the BND.

  “It’s more complicated than that,” Roemer said softly.

  “We could work together, Roemer. We could nail this bastard.”

  “It’s possible I’m wrong.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Investigator.”

  The ambulance attendants loaded Joan Waldmann’s covered body on the cart and went to the elevator, Sternig and Lotz right behind them.

  Roemer looked at Manning. “We’ll need to search his house, put a tap on his telephone and place him under round-the-clock surveillance. All without the Chief Prosecutor knowing about it, which means we’ll have to go through our usual routines as well. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  Manning was finally smiling.

  33

  LEILA KAHLED CAME down to breakfast at seven-thirty, after a difficult night. Her father and his chief of staff, Lieutenant Colonel Habash, were already at the table deep in discussion.

  Habash jumped up. “Good morning, Leila.”

  “Morning,” she mumbled. She went around to her father and kissed him on the cheek. He looked worn out. His color was bad.

  “Good morning, kitten,” he said.

  “Did you sleep well, Father?”

  He shook his head as she took her place across the table from him. “It was a tiring weekend. And dinner last night with that fool Schaller didn’t help.”

  “We were just discussing it,” Habash said, his piggish eyes on Leila.

  “Just coffee,” she told the maid.

  The maid poured the coffee and left.

  “Is there anything to what the man says?” the general asked. He was a tall man with a heavily lined face, fierce glistening black eyes and thick black hair.

  “I don’t know,” Leila said. “But I think Roemer is sincere.”

  “You know this investigator?” Habash asked sharply.

  “He was at Pavli’s apartment. It was in my report.”

  Habash looked at the general. The breakfast room was chilly. Leila lit a cigarette. It tasted horrible.

  “I stopped by to see the young man’s parents in Baghdad,” the general said softly. “They are good people. I felt sorrow for them.” He sighed. “I don’t know where it all leads, you see. It is very confusing. Two years ago when this all came up I argued against it. But that bunch with Hussein on the Revolutionary Command Council wouldn’t listen. We cannot deal with the Germans, I told them. Not so soon. But they are blind. They have nuclear stars in their eyes.”

  “To me it sounds plausible,” Habash said. “And I think it was decent of Chief Prosecutor Schaller to warn us.”

  “Nonsense,” the general snapped. “We know that the BND did not kill that girl.” He turned to his daughter. “It was Pavli. He killed her and then committed suicide.”

  Leila remembered how Pavli had sounded and looked. “I don’t think so.”

  The general leaned forward. “I do.” He shook his finger sternly. “If it is proved that an Iraqi killed a woman, the entire project will be jeopardized. Iraq will be made to suffer once again.”

  Her father’s face was flushed. Leila was frightened for him, what this assignment was doing to him. Like so many other PLO soldiers, he had lost much at the hands of Westerners. His parents, two brothers and three sisters had been killed in raids on their squatter camps. His survival of the nightmare was something he seldom talked about.

  “You say you have met this chief investigator … on more than one occasion?” Habash asked.

  Leila looked at him. He was cunning. She had not wanted this to come up, but when Roemer’s name had been mentioned last night, it had become inevitable. Her father, she feared, would take this badly.

  “I went to his apartment.”

  “You what?” her father asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “He took something from Pavli’s apartment. A diary.”

  “Allah in heaven,” the general said. “He knows about you, then.”

  Leila nodded.

  “I’ll speak with Schaller again. This morning. This is impossible.”

  “The diary is not important, I think,” Habash interjected. “It’s Roemer we must worry about. He is a Nazi. Germany for Germans. I telephoned an acquaintance last night in Vienna who worked for Simon Wiesenthal.”

  Leila was torn by something she had seen in Roemer’s eyes. There was danger everywhere.

  “Our chief investigator’s father was Lotti Roemer,” Habash said.

  The general shrugged. “So?”

  “SS Major Roemer,” Habash said. “The Butcher of Dachau.”

  The general turned to his daughter. “What does this mean?”

  “They have control over him. The fact that his father is still alive is supposed to be secret. They’re going to use him against us.”

  “Probably to extort even more money from us,” Habash said.

  “Hussein will never agree to it.”

  “He may have no choice, General,” Habash said. “It’s possible the Germans staged this murder and will use Roemer to blame us.” Habash turned his gaze to Leila. “You were gone Friday night. Where did you go?”

  Leila flared. “My movements have never been, nor shall they ever be, any of your concern, Colonel!”

  “Leila,” her father warned.

  “I’m sorry, Father, but this is a Mukhabarat operation. We are no longer in the Dark Ages.”

  “I am chief of this mission,” the general retorted. “Need I remind you?”

  “My guess is that she went to Switzerland,” Habash said.

  “Switzerland?”

  “I suspect that she followed the chief investigator,” Habash went on. “Perhaps Pavli’s diary is important after all. There could be things in it that would be injurious to Iraq.”

  “But why Switzerland?”

  “There is a sanatorium outside of Bern,” Leila said in a small voice.

  “You actually saw him?” Habash asked, his eyes bright.

  “No. But he was there. I confronted the investigator.”

  “I expect he moved his father someplace else.”

  “Did you follow him?”

  “No, I came back here.”

  “Did you report this to Colonel Mikadi in Baghdad?”

  Leila lowered her eyes. “Not yet. Roemer’s father is dying. He has only a few weeks to live.”

  “All the more reason for us to hurry,” Habash said. “He must be killed before the Germans make use of him.”

  “Leila will find him,” the general said.

  “There is more to it, General,” Habash said. “My contact in Vienna told me that Major Roemer smuggled gold into Switzerland.” He looked directly into Leila’s eyes. “We could use it to pay the Germans. It would be fitting.”

  Leila shuddered. After her confrontation with Roemer, she’d driven back to Bonn hurt and confused. She felt like a traitor.

  “You are detached from project security as of this moment,” her father said. “You will spend your time now finding out where Roemer has hidden his father.”

  She knew what was coming. “I won’t be able to get close to him. He knows what I am after.”

  “You will have some help,” Habash said smoothly.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Dr. Azziza is on his way to Geneva at this moment.”

  Even the general was surprised, but he grunted his approval. “Azziza is a hard man, but very good.”

  “The
best.”

  “He is a killer,” Leila snapped. Khodr Azziza was probably the most cold-blooded man in Saddam Hussein’s Presidential Guardians. He was the last resort for dealing with the enemies of the state, expert at what he did. Leila had met him several years before at Mukhabarat headquarters in Baghdad. He had the eyes of a panther: totally devoid of human warmth. If Azziza was on his way to Switzerland, Roemer’s father was a dead man.

  “Yes, he is a killer,” Habash was saying.

  “Between the two of you I expect results,” the general said.

  “If I refuse, Father?”

  The general’s eyes widened. He pushed his coffee cup aside and got slowly to his feet. His nostrils flared, his face flushed. “Do you know what you’re saying to me?”

  “Dr. Azziza will find him,” Leila said.

  “Have you any idea what we could lose at his hands?”

  Leila could feel tears welling up. “I’ll do it, Father.”

  Habash was smug. She knew he had engineered this confrontation to make points for himself. “I’ll find him,” she said. She left the breakfast table.

  Upstairs in her bathroom, she looked at her red-rimmed eyes in the mirror and splashed cold water on her flushed cheeks. Her heart was racing. Something would have to be done about her father. The bastard Habash had maneuvered him into this, had practically turned her father against her.

  34

  THE EMBASSY OF Iraq in Bonn-Bad Godesberg was in a baroque three-story residence that had once belonged to a wealthy shipbuilder. The green copper roof was gabled, and iron-railed mock balconies fronted each of the second- and third-story windows. Some embassies had moved to Berlin, but the majority of countries still maintained the foreign missions in the old capital.

  Leila’s office was at the rear of the second floor. But she preferred spending most of her time either at the KwU facility, where she could keep an eye on things, or visiting with team members off-duty—a task she had neglected for the past few days since Sarah Razmarah had been killed.

  It was early when she let herself into her Spartan office. Even before she took off her coat, she picked up the telephone, dialed the communications center in the basement and asked for a secure line to Mukhabarat Headquarters in Baghdad.