Collision of Evil Page 14

  At seven in the evening August Sedlmeyer sat on a wrought-iron park bench and thought of something he had not recalled in decades. The thought had come unsummoned, as thoughts seemed to do increasingly as he aged. Perhaps, he mused, it had to do with not having many opportunities for conversation. Most of his friends had died in the last several years; those who had survived the war. It seemed as if the last years had been one long marathon funeral attendance. The ranks of the living known to him diminished relentlessly.

  Sedlmeyer understood that he had outlived not only his companions, but his time. How long remained to him he did not know. A few years perhaps? A few weeks? He nodded at the wisdom of the biblical injunction about not knowing the day or the hour. After a long journey, there was rightness about death. Sedlmeyer pushed away these reflections and concentrated on what had occurred to him moments before. He did not know why he remembered this thing now, after so many years.

  Kaltenberg. That was the name he now recalled, the name he had for so long forgotten. The first name he did not know, had never known. He had known the man only by his last name and his rank, the rank by which Kaltenberg had been addressed. Stuermbannfuehrer Kaltenberg. The Waffen-SS officer who had commanded that convoy on its harried sojourn from ruined Berlin to the unwounded Austrian meadows. Kaltenberg—the stern officer who had unflinchingly gunned down Fehlmann. Stuermbannfuehrer Kaltenberg, the SS officer with one arm in a sling who had vanished into the Austrian night just before the Americans in their jeeps arrived to take them prisoner.

  Sedlmeyer recalled a few other snippets of information as well. Rumors really, postwar gossip from old comrades, whispered furtively during rare, quiet SS reunions in smoky Bavarian beer halls. Talk that Kaltenberg had fled to Switzerland and adopted a new identity. A remark made in the 1960s that Kaltenberg had established himself as an international salesman with lucrative connections in the Middle East. Maybe all of it was true. Or perhaps some of it was true, or possibly none of it at all. Old soldiers liked to talk as much as old women; the veracity of what was said was a secondary consideration. If Kaltenberg were still alive, he would be a few years older than Sedlmeyer. Dead or alive, Kaltenberg inhabited the past.

  Still, perhaps the SS officer was not entirely a creature of the past; perhaps he had one booted foot solidly in the present. Perhaps Kaltenberg—or more precisely what Kaltenberg knew—would be of interest to Robert Hirter. Kaltenberg surely knew the contents of the convoy consignment; he knew the provenance of the sealed crates that had been so carefully transported to a remote corner of the Alps.

  Sedlmeyer considered, observing the sun descend behind distant peaks. Should he let the past slumber? Wasn’t it prudent to forget that he had recalled Kaltenberg’s name? Or should he pass along this detail to the young American? He was unsure. The matter unresolved, he watched a flock of mallards cross the darkening sky, calling confidently to one another on their way to some tranquil lake and the promise of nocturnal rest.

  Chapter 25

  The center of Munich was vibrant, the streets of the city filled with throngs of tourists and businessmen. A parking space proving difficult to locate, Hirter left his car in the underground garage below the Bavarian opera, a ten minute walk from the restaurant where he was to meet his clandestine colleague, Andrew. The weather was overcast, but there was a fresh breeze in the air, edged with a distinct scent of hops from the nearby Paulaner Brewery.

  Hirter moved with the crowds, taking in the displays in the storefronts of the street called Im Tal. He made use of the show windows of various shops. Feigning an interest in the products displayed, he checked the reflections in the glass to unobtrusively determine whether he was under surveillance. He noted nothing alerting. Another three minutes walk and Hirter found himself at the Torbraeu Hotel and Café, located across from one of the ancient city gates of Munich, its mass of stone painted rich ochre.

  With a final glance for surveillance, Hirter entered the small, tasteful lobby of the hotel and followed a sign to the coffee shop located up the stairs on the second floor. He quickly spotted Andrew. By design, Andrew had seated himself at a table on the balcony permitting an unobstructed view of the street below.

  “Greetings, Robert,” Andrew intoned jovially, the remains of a cappuccino and a largely devoured chocolate croissant on the table in front of him. As Hirter pulled up a chair, his host whispered, “No one on your tail. I’d have been surprised if there were.”

  Hirter nodded agreement. “I haven’t seen a thing, and I had a good countersurveillance route.” Hirter took in the surroundings. The restaurant was airy and bright; a few pastel oil scenes decorated the walls. There were few customers, mostly elderly women klatching over coffee, all of them out of earshot.

  “I have something from our friends back home,” Andrew interjected. From the folds of the Muenchner Merkur newspaper he withdrew a manila envelope and slid it across the table.

  Hirter tucked the envelope into the inside pocket of his cotton windbreaker. “It’s nice to have something to read.”

  Andrew sipped his cappuccino. “Yes, for your reading pleasure. And for your police friend, the content has been cleared for passage. It was waiting in the office for me yesterday. I knew you’d want it as soon as possible.”

  “I appreciate your traveling here. I know you must have other stuff on the front burner. Anything interesting in your view?”

  Andrew leaned back in his chair and looked down at the bustling street below, the ebb and flow of Teutons and tourists. “You don’t want me to spoil your reading, do you? I’m sure you’ll find the contents interesting.”

  “Good. I’ll read it before I hand it over. What’s the gist?” A young waitress appeared, and Hirter ordered a latte.

  Andrew considered, a shadow of concentration settling in his features. “The trace results are positive for those guys. There’s enough stuff there to suggest that you folks have stumbled onto some bad characters. Two names turned up a connection to a third name, also living in Germany; it’s all in there. One of them is a Turk and one an Egyptian. The Turk is ethnically half-Lebanese, it would appear.”

  “Criminal backgrounds?” Hirter asked.

  “Yes. One with garden-variety petty crime and a case of assault in Istanbul; you’ll see the details. Still, it’s the other stuff headquarters found that worries me.”

  Hirter said nothing, waiting for his companion to continue. The waitress returned like an apparition, and Hirter’s latte appeared on the table in front of him.

  “The link analysis turned up something. These guys have nasty connections. The information suggests that they might be more into extremism than run-of-the-mill offenses. I know this is a murder investigation, but I have to tell you, these gents strike me as pursuing other interests.”

  Hirter nodded and placed his hands around the warm café latte cup. “Thanks. I don’t know what to think at this stage. But I have a feeling that Waldbaer is onto something with these suspects.”

  “What’s he like?” Andrew asked.

  Hirter’s features creased with a half-smile. “Well, he can be a stubborn pain in the ass. But then, you can understand that he probably didn’t need me turning up to complicate his investigation. As far as I can tell, Waldbaer is an experienced investigator even if he’s stuck out in the Bavarian pastures. He really wants to solve my brother’s murder. Waldbaer intends to get the guys that did it and put them away, period. I like that kind of commitment.”

  “Of course you do,” Andrew said. “How do you think it will go between you two now that he knows you’re CIA? Will that make it easier or more difficult?”

  Hirter shrugged his shoulders and drank some latte. “Hard to tell. A lot rides on chemistry. I think I can read him a bit, and I’ll try to avoid doing anything to raise his hackles. Even though the agency is involved now, it’s Waldbaer who’s in charge. I think we can make this work. We both have the same goal—finding the murderer.”

  It was Andrew’s turn to nod. He swi
ped a hand through thinning hair and leaned into the table. “Oh, before I forget, I got an email from headquarters along with the cable. I’m supposed to pass along greetings and wish you luck.”

  “Thanks. Who sent the e-mail?”

  “Someone I met once back home on a temporary duty assignment. Her name is Caroline O’Kendell. She works on the European Terrorism desk and she released the cable. I seem to recall that she’s pretty cute. You must know her if she asked me to pass you her regards.”

  There was a loud report from the street and both of the Americans glanced out, alert. They heard the high-pitched whine of a small engine and quickly determined that a Vespa motor scooter had backfired.

  Hirter returned to the conversation. “Caroline O’Kendell. I know her, but slightly. She trained at The Farm a year after I did. She’s been doing European terrorism for a while. We were in some staff meetings together and at the same dinner party once in Alexandria. If you get a moment, drop her a line from me and say thanks for the thought.”

  “No problem,” said Andrew with a smile.

  “And Andrew, you’re right, as I recall she is cute. She would also kill us if she heard us talking this way about her.”

  Waldbaer and Hirter each had a copy of the CIA memo and sat reviewing it in the detective’s unadorned office. Waldbaer took notes on yellow sheets of paper, the tops of which were emblazoned with the stylized shield of the German police. Waldbaer wrote in slashing strokes, his beefy hand clutched near the nib of the pen.

  “Quite interesting,” Waldbaer said, snorting loudly. “I’d love to know where you got some of these details.” He gave Hirter a fatalistic glance.

  “Even I don’t know the sourcing, Kommissar. You can believe that or not, but I don’t have any details additional to the trace report.”

  Waldbaer’s eyes communicated skepticism along with the usual world-weariness. “As you say, Herr Hirter. If we ever go to a court trial, it could get sticky if we can’t identify sources of information, but it’s premature to worry about that yet.”

  Exhaling a breath, the detective smoothed the pad in front of him, the move suggesting reverence for the written word. “Here’s what we have. A group of immigrants to Germany, all young males, all with some sort of undesirable record. One of them,” Waldbaer consulted his notes, “that would be Mohammed al-Assad, has at least one episode of violent assault to his credit. That is not unimportant, considering that this is a murder investigation. In my experience, except with crimes of passion, murderers often have a trail of violence in their past. This is the one I want to focus on. I have a feeling that if we can locate him, we probably will have the man who killed your brother.”

  “I have the same intuition, Kommissar. I don’t know why he would have killed Charles, but I share your feeling that this is the guy we’re looking for. What’s more, I think my headquarters turned up things worth examining beyond his criminal record.”

  He watched Waldbaer scan the CIA information again, the detective’s finger moving down the page as he read.

  “You mean al-Assad’s associations? I agree they’re intriguing, but might be unrelated to the murder.” Waldbaer looked up from his notes to see what the American might add.

  “Al-Assad has a track record of contacts that I find disturbing. He’s more than a criminal. He’s been in direct contact with several individuals internationally who are known figures in the jihadist movement. For example, he met in Istanbul with two fundamentalist Turks, one of whom later detonated himself in a suicide-bombing attack on the British Consulate. He also assisted two Egyptian members of the Muslim Brotherhood in entering Europe via Austria.”

  Waldbaer nodded. “Right. Al-Assad is also believed, according to CIA, to have visited Pakistan on three occasions in the last few years. Your colleagues suggest that the purpose of the trips was not tourism; he was sighted in North Waziristan, in the company of Taliban operatives. Your side believes that al-Assad has terrorist friends. My reply is that this is interesting, but perhaps not relevant to your brother’s death. It doesn’t matter in the end. Until we get al-Assad in our clutches, all we can do is speculate.”

  A telephone rang in an office nearby as Hirter spoke. “Kommissar, I don’t think al-Assad just has terrorist friends. I think he’s a terrorist himself, and since he’s a resident in Bavaria that should concern you. These people don’t change their stripes and they don’t leave the jihad. Intelligence information is always partial, but there’s enough here to suggest that you and I have stumbled onto a terrorist cell. Al-Assad and his buddies are involved in some current activity. My brother’s murder might be the least troubling thing you have to worry about.” Hirter lifted himself from his chair and began to pace the threadbare carpeting of Waldbaer’s office. “These guys are an operational unit.”

  Waldbaer remained behind his desk. “Why do you say that solving your brother’s murder is the least of my problems?”

  “Because Charles is dead. His murder is a crime committed; it’s in the past. I suspect that al-Assad and his compatriots have plans for future activities. They were using that cave as a clandestine storage place. They recently cleared it out and moved the goods to an unknown location. Why? All of these guys have gone to ground; they disappeared and even their relatives don’t know where they are. I put these facts together with what I know about terrorist modus operandi, and it fits a pattern. In my view, Herr Kommissar, these guys are planning an attack, probably soon. And although we know who they are, we don’t have a clue as to where they are. That should worry you.”

  Waldbaer crossed his arms and gazed at Hirter. “What you’re saying is that I don’t just have a crime to solve, I have one to prevent. If your suspicions are correct, and they could be, I need to call in help. The German federal internal service, the BFV, for example. Maybe other agencies. That will put things on a whole new level. The problem with such a big circus is that too much coordination could reduce our chances of getting al-Assad and his friends. I have a sense they are still in Bavaria. Here’s what I’m going to do. For the moment, I’ll put aside the need to coordinate with my superiors. Let’s concentrate on getting lucky.”

  Hirter looked puzzled. “How do you do that, Kommissar?”

  Waldbaer’s features creased with a wry smile. “We get lucky, Herr Hirter, through you. You should be happy; you’ve wanted a role in this investigation all along. Here’s your opportunity. The background information your Langley friends have provided has been helpful. Now, get your agency actively—but unofficially—involved. Increase our chance of getting lucky, Herr Hirter, and I will be obliged.”

  Chapter 26

  The vast black-paved parking lots surrounding CIA headquarters in Langley were mostly empty. It was late and the night shift enjoyed dominion. At this hour, most of the personnel present were analysts pulling together the latest classified items for the PDB, the Presidential Daily Brief, the intelligence assessment of world events presented every morning to the commander in chief. Cleaning crews were present as well, machine waxing and buffing the immense gray vinyl floors. Also present was the legion of uniformed, Glock-armed CIA security guards manning posts at all of the entrances to the building. They held night-shift boredom at bay with cardboard cups of coffee, cans of Coca-Cola, and packages of potato chips and Twinkies.

  A small gathering of Clandestine Service officers was also huddled in the headquarters building on this evening. They had been grouped together in a small, windowless conference room on the sixth floor since four in the afternoon and were together still, trying to reach closure. The issue was not without contention and sharp exchanges of view. Caroline O’Kendell was one of the more junior officers present, but had not hesitated to make her position clear. Randolph Warren Stockbridge, the senior officer, recapitulated the issue. His hands toyed with a thick, black Pelikan fountain pen as he spoke.

  “Okay. Let’s wrap this up. We have two questions to resolve. The first is how much to cooperate with the Germans in this inves
tigation. Do we continue unofficially and informally, or do we establish a formal bilateral operation, bringing in the German intelligence service? The other question, which impacts the first: what have we stumbled onto here? These Middle Easterners are bad actors. It’s clear that we happened onto a terrorist cell, not just a collection of criminals. What are they up to? Are they a support network for an action cell located somewhere else or are they themselves an action cell? What do we do about them? So, gents,” he inclined his head toward Caroline and a female analyst from the Terrorism Center, “and, of course, ladies, what are your thoughts?”

  Caroline wanted to get home too and plunged in, sure of her position. “I don’t see where there’s a need to go for a formal relationship. Maybe later, but there’s nothing yet that screams at us to bring in the BND and go formally to the German authorities. We all know that will take time to arrange, and the Germans, being Germans, will start setting rules on how we do things, and whether our methods are legal in Germany and other nonsense. Let’s not go there. We can use Robert Hirter as the go-between with the police like we are now. He’s a trained case officer and directly in touch with a Kommissar, that should suffice. A formal arrangement will take time, and we might not have lots of time at our disposal.”