Authors: John Le Beau
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 swiped 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?”
Chapter 26Waldbaer’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.”
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 investigation. 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.”
A sleek-haired whippet of a man with the drawn look of a marathon runner objected. “That won’t work. We’d be better off making this an orderly joint investigation. We can get an MOU, a memorandum of understanding, signed by both sides. That’s also the thinking of our people in Berlin who are, frankly, uncomfortable with the whole Hirter arrangement. They don’t feel they have sufficient control over this.”
“Control?” Caroline shot back with undisguised exasperation. “Control? They don’t need control. They’re in the loop, they’re advised what’s going on, aren’t they? Frankly, there isn’t a lot that Berlin can do for this case, the action element is back here and if we dispatch people to the field it won’t be to Berlin. Gamsdorf is hundreds of miles from Berlin.”
The whippet looked sullen but said nothing more, masking his retreat by soberly doodling on his notepad.
Stockbridge, silver-haired, well-dressed in a black summer-weight suit and with wire-rimmed spectacles magnifying his gray
eyes, placed his fountain pen on the tabletop with a precise touch. “I’m persuaded that Caroline is right. We have a functional situation and I’m not sure what happens if we make a formal approach to the Germans. They can be complicated, like their cars. Don’t forget, the Germans could turn down a cooperative effort and tell us to mind our own business. They don’t like Guantanamo, they don’t like renditions, and they don’t like our interrogation methods. My preference is not to open a can of worms when we have a reasonable arrangement. Let’s stay with the Hirter connection; apologies to Berlin. Caroline, take responsibility for communicating with Hirter. Handle this personally.”
Caroline tried unsuccessfully to subdue a smile.
“We aren’t done yet,” Stockbridge continued, adjusting his striped silk tie. “What are we going to do about this cell other than unofficially provide the Germans background? What’s our plan of action?”
A middle-aged, overweight officer from the Central Europe desk shifted in his chair and spoke in a gravelly voice. “Well, we don’t know where these terrorists are holed up, that’s the main problem, otherwise the Germans could bag them. Like the realtors say, its location, location, location. I think we should put any technical surveillance means we have available in Germany on this. See if we come up with a suspicious phone call, fax, or e-mail. I know we have technical limitations, but its worth trying.”
The whippet interjected. “You’re right, we should try technical means. My suspicion, though, is that this cell is security conscious. They know that phone calls can be intercepted. If they communicate, they’ll speak in code and if they’re using throwaway cell phones—the Germans call those “handies” I think—it’ll be hard to get a fix on them.”