The Death Trust Page 8

  “Before we start, do you mind if we record the interview?” asked Masters.

  Fischer eyed the device.

  “Don’t let it worry you, Sergeant,” Masters said. “It’s just more reliable than our note-taking.”

  Fischer relaxed. “Okay.”

  “Now, I believe you have some information,” said Masters. Things had settled down between them while the waiter was distracting me. I got the feeling that their silent bout had resulted in a draw.

  “Yes. While I’m General von Koeppen’s PA, I also did a little work for General Scott when things got busy. I liked him. He worked hard. At least, he did before his son was KIA in Iraq. He was pretty broken up about it. He went gliding a lot…”

  I nodded and was about to say we knew that when the sergeant added, “…and he started seeing another woman.”

  “He was having an affair?” I blurted. Fischer had caught me completely off guard. General Scott didn’t seem the type, but I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that there was no “type” where affairs were concerned.

  “Yeah.” She was dismissive.

  “How do you know that? Did he confide in you?” Masters asked.

  She shrugged. “This is Europe; men have mistresses. He had another cell phone, not a NATO one, a secret phone he used for his private calls.”

  “How do you know about it?” I asked.

  “Because I arranged the cell for him—one of those prepaid jobs. No bills, and no list of numbers for the spouse to examine every month. I think he cared about his wife very much.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” I said. Given the circumstances of my divorce, I was not quite ready to accept Deception as an emotionally caring institution.

  Fischer ignored my sarcasm, as did Masters. Sisters, already.

  “Do you have the number?” Masters asked.

  “Yes,” said Fischer. “General Scott told me I could call him if I ever needed to.”

  “Did you?”

  Masters rephrased my question. “Were you also having an affair with General Scott?”

  “No, ma’am,” she said, shaking her head.

  The way she said it, I believed her. I also believed she’d left a few wrecked marriages in her wake, and none of them hers. “Do you know who the other woman was?” I asked.

  “No, sir, he never told me.”

  Masters again. “Do you know where he kept this other cell?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Masters and I both let it all sink in. I was now wondering whether General Scott had been killed for the same reasons we mere mortals are, after all. I thought of his official air force photo: sitting straight, eyes bright, smiling at the camera, his four stars the symbols of control over a sizeable chunk of the world’s military might—a man, as von Koeppen had said, at the top of his game. An adulterer. I also found myself wondering what Harmony Scott would do if she caught her man up to his nuts in some other woman’s guts. “Could you put the number of the general’s private cell into mine?” I asked Fischer, passing it across. She took it out of my hand, leaning forward. I caught a glimpse of cleavage. I wondered whether she’d presented it on purpose. And then I wondered hopefully whether she’d do it again. For the past year or so, wallowing in the bunker oil spillage that was my private life, I’d been celibate, hardly noticing the existence of the opposite sex, preferring to lean on my three buddies Arlen Wayne, Jack Daniel’s, and Glenkeith. But now, sandwiched between these two women with my divorce behind me, parts that had been asleep for some time were waking up, having a stretch, and inquiring about the chances of some exercise. Fischer keyed in the number, then handed back my cell.

  I cleared my throat and asked, “What about you and General von Koeppen?”

  “I make it a rule never to sleep with the boss, if that’s what you mean,” she said. The way she said it, holding my gaze with the barest hint of a smile, indicated that this little rule of hers didn’t necessarily include a particular special agent. “And General von Koeppen is not my type,” she said.

  The question had to be asked, what was her type? But I refrained. Instead, I asked, “What sort of working relationship did Scott and von Koeppen enjoy?”

  “‘Enjoy’ is hardly the word I’d use. There was a fair bit of tension between them.”

  “Did this tension have a particular cause?”

  “Not as far as I know. The working relationship between the two of them was never great.” Fischer gave this some consideration and then added, “Look, I don’t want to give you the impression that General Scott and I were confidants. We weren’t. He was a secretive man. The business with the cell was unusual. Pretty much all of the time our relationship was by the book.”

  “Can you tell us anything about how his son died?”

  “All I can tell you is what the whole base knew—that the poor bastard opened his own son’s body bag.”

  I saw Masters flinch. Yeah, it was a far from pleasant image, one that had stayed with me since the interview with Aleveldt.

  Fischer took a deep breath. “The general took some time off after that. Three weeks, according to the records. Managing leave is one of my administration duties.”

  “Have you heard any scuttlebutt about the way Scott’s son was killed in Baghdad?”

  Fischer shook her head slowly, considering that. “No, sir.”

  “Had anything struck you as odd in General Scott’s behavior in the weeks prior to his death?” asked Masters.

  “No.”

  “Do you know anyone who’d want to kill him?” I asked.

  The PA shook her head again. “No, I don’t, but I bet you’ll have a better idea yourselves after you find the person he bought that phone to talk to.”

  I changed tack. “Sergeant, you don’t like General von Koeppen. Why?”

  “Off the record?” she asked.

  “Sure.” I cleared this first with a little eye contact with Masters.

  “Do you mind turning that off?” Fischer gestured at the recorder.

  Masters hit the button.

  “So this is totally off the record?” Fischer asked again.

  I nodded.

  “Well…I think he’s a vain, supercilious cocksucker.”

  “Could you be more specific, Sergeant?” I said with the straightest face I could muster.

  “He couldn’t lead a thirsty horse to water, sir. He’s a lazy, inconsistent, narcissistic sleazebag.”

  “Is von Koeppen also having an affair?” asked Masters, rapid fire, beating me to the question.

  “He’s always sniffing around, ma’am,” said Fischer. “Preferably young women. He seems pretty successful with them, too. I don’t know where he finds them all.”

  That nailed my unasked question about von Koeppen’s preferred brand of squeeze. Masters cleared her throat. If I didn’t know better, I’d have said she was blushing. And something about this rising color forged another question in my head, but not one for Fischer. I had nothing more to ask the PA for the moment and Masters also seemed to have suddenly run dry. The interview was over. Masters picked up her recorder, dropped it in her bag, and rose, apparently keen to send the sergeant on her way. Fischer took the hint and stood. “Thank you for your help, Sergeant,” Masters said. “Do you mind if we call you again if we think of anything else?”

  “Yes…I mean no, ma’am. Sure,” said Fischer.

  “Thanks, Sarge, we’ll be in touch,” I said, forcing my eye line to stay above the PA’s neck. It took every ounce of willpower. I could feel Masters watching me. I’m told the Europeans handle this sort of dilemma totally differently from us Americans. They just go ahead and look.

  Newspapers and magazines were lowered again as Fischer made her way out.

  I sat and reached for a doughnut. At last, food. “What do you make of that?” I said, mouth full.

  “That Scott had another woman? Kind of opens up the territory a bit, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Doughnut?”

  Masters declined
the offer as I reached for another.

  We rehashed what we knew about Peyton Scott, about the state of his corpse, about the autopsy report, and about how the two didn’t gel. The death of the son kept cropping up, and I couldn’t help feeling it was significant to the killing of General Scott in a way we didn’t yet understand. And there was the other question unrelated to father and son that I wanted to ask Masters, but I wasn’t sure how she’d take it.

  I ate all the doughnuts while we talked. Eventually we came full circle. “So, how do we find this other woman?” asked Masters.

  “The missing cell will take us straight to her.”

  “Yeah, but how do we find that?”

  “I have an idea,” I said.

  NINE

  It was dark by the time we left the Melting Pot. The wind was up and the temperature had dropped to the mid-fifties. I wasn’t dressed for it and the cold sliced through my clothing. I’d had enough for one day. In the silence, Masters said, “A bit of housekeeping. I’ve ordered a couple of extra ACUs for you. They should arrive tomorrow. Your rank is lieutenant, right?”

  I didn’t bite. I was too damn tired to spar. Also, the question I wanted to ask Masters was sucking away much of my attention. My cell rang. “Hello.”

  “Sir, Flight Lieutenant Bishop here,” said the voice.

  Bishop…Bishop…

  “I’m working on the general’s computer, sir,” said the flight lieutenant helpfully.

  It came back to me. “Right. Sorry, Peter, it has been a hell of a day.”

  “That’s okay, sir. Just wanted to tell you. I’ve struck a problem.”

  “What kind of problem?” I repeated for Masters’s sake.

  “Managed to get past the general’s user code, but he’s running a program called Dungeon.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Dungeon is what it sounds like—a lockup, only one for your files. It’s a tough nut to crack. Four levels, each one trickier than the last to get through. The general has around one meg of files locked away—not a lot, really.”

  “But he probably wouldn’t bother unless those files were important.”

  “A reasonable assumption, Special Agent.”

  “You going to be able to break into it?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I’ll need a couple days for each level, maybe more. I can’t even guarantee I’m going to be able to crack the innermost levels.”

  “Do what you can, Flight Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, ending the call.

  “What’s up?” asked Masters.

  “The general’s computer. All his files are locked in a kind of prison with no visitors allowed. Bishop’s starting to tunnel in, but he’s going to need time, and a file baked into a cake.” I rubbed my face with both hands. It felt good so I did it again.

  “A what?” Masters looked confused.

  “Never mind,” I said. “I’m just tired.”

  “Yeah, you look dead on your feet, Cooper. Leave your car here and I’ll give you a lift back to K-town.”

  “Sure, thanks.” I was hoping she’d offer, but didn’t want to ask. “You live in K-town?”

  “Out on the edge where you’re less likely to get hit by a jogger.”

  I folded my arms against my body and turned the heater up as we cleared the security post. Warm air funneled from the duct, making me more drowsy.

  “So where is it?” she asked.

  “Where’s what?”

  “Scott’s cell. We recovered his NATO one in his study. I’ve already asked to have the last fifteen months of records pulled and sent over.”

  “Let me have a Columbo moment. We’ll both find out tomorrow if I’m right.”

  “Fair enough.”

  In truth, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure we’d find it, especially if its battery was flat, which could have been the case. The reflective cat’s eyes buried in the road zipped past like slow-motion tracers. Eventually Masters said, “She was flirting with you, you know.”

  “Who? Oh, you mean—”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did I pass the test?”

  Masters swung out of the lane and passed a big rig. “Barely.”

  The silence closed in like the darkness around the Mercedes’s headlight beams.

  That question I was sitting on, waiting to ask Masters…I hoped I was wrong but I already knew the answer. I also hoped it would have no bearing on anything we were working on. I couldn’t hold on to it any longer. “So when were you and von Koeppen seeing each other?” I asked as casually as possible.

  Silence.

  “We stopped well over a year ago.”

  Silence.

  Eventually she asked, “How did you know?”

  “Just a guess.” Masters was protective about him on the one hand and dismissive on the other. And whenever he came up in conversation, she’d change either color or the subject or both. Actually, I haven’t had much to do with him. He’s a bit of a ladies’ man, or so I’ve heard—base gossip. I couldn’t imagine what she saw in him. “It’s not going to get in the way, is it?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  We sat in silence for the rest of the drive. Maybe Masters thought my lack of conversation was some kind of reproach, but I was so tired I was having trouble clearing a path from my brain to my mouth.

  We drove like that all the way to the Pensione Freedom. “Oh-eight-hundred in the foyer. Okay?” she said as the Mercedes came to a stop beneath the trees opposite the pensione’s steps.

  “Oh-eight-hundred,” I repeated. I felt like I should say something rousing about the progress we’d made thus far, move the mood on from our first meeting. But I’ve never been a big fan of locker-room speeches.

  I got out of the car and tapped it lightly on the roof. I watched as Masters drove off slowly. Breaking glass distracted me. A couple of backpackers with Canadian flags sewn to their packs were swaying precariously, either because of the weight of the loads that towered over their heads, or because they were rolling drunk. Canadians. Probably both, I decided, as one bent to pick up the broken bottle they’d dropped. He toppled sideways and lay on the ground like a cockroach sprayed with insect killer, legs and arms flailing, unable to right himself. His buddy burst into fits of laughter and collapsed in the gutter, quivering hysterically.

  They were having too much fun. I ignored them and walked up the stairs of the pensione. The foyer was empty, a bell provided for tenants requiring assistance after six P.M. The space was lit with brutal fluorescent tubes and the light bounced off the walls and turned the skin on my hands a purple color. My nose told me that bratwurst was no longer on the menu. Tonight, it was either boiled boot or cabbage and potato. Despite this, my stomach growled audibly. Half a dozen doughnuts hadn’t filled the hole for long.

  I walked the two blocks to a McDonald’s I’d seen on the way in. Wary that the truce between my toothache and the drugs might be fragile, I bought a couple of cheeseburgers because they were soft and easy to eat. They tasted of clove.

  I’m not sure whether codeine is a hallucinogen but I had some pretty freaky dreams, mostly about people with missing heads.

  Then the case kept me awake and I went a few rounds wrestling with the sheets. The sheets won and so I got up and paced in the dark. I told myself that this case was no different from any other I’d worked on. What I needed was some distance. I was too close to the individual details and they were meaningless because of that, like those mounds and scratches on the ground in Mexico that become figures or animals or geometric patterns when they’re viewed from altitude. I also wondered how long I, or rather we—OSI—would have on our own before some other agency began sniffing around. Within half an hour I was in a cab to Ramstein. On the way there I left a message on Masters’s cell, telling her not to bother picking me up.

  Masters had done a good job securing the OSI block at the base. At the entrance stood a massive French MP who looked like a refrigerator wit
h a two-day growth. He smelled of garlic and Gauloises. My swipe card got me in the front door and I walked up to two other NCMP people armed with M16 carbines covering the door to the windowless bunker that contained the general’s papers. I swiped the door and went in. Boxes were placed on gray Formica tables and there was a fair bit of paper scattered around, in the process of being catalogued. It appeared that the general had been pretty systematic with his filing, only much of his fastidiousness had been undone by our rush to relocate his records.

  I didn’t really know where to start, so I just sat down with one of the boxes and began sifting through the contents at random.

  Two hours later, Masters walked in with a cappuccino for us both. “Morning,” she said.

  “Morgen,” I replied.

  “How’d you sleep?”

  “Like a baby—”

  “Good.”

  “—with colic.”

  “Oh…Tooth still bugging you?”

  “Among other things.”

  The guarded way Masters looked at me when I said that told me she thought one of those other things was her onetime relationship with von Koeppen. Frankly, I hadn’t given it any thought. It was a long time in the past and had no bearing on anything. That’s if I took Masters at her word, and I had no reason to doubt her.

  She came over with the coffee and a newspaper. Without the camouflage jacket on, I could see she had a hell of a figure—athletic, but without the roidal gym-junkie shoulders or thighs that can turn a woman’s figure into a parody. She was wearing perfume, too—Issey Miyake, if I was not mistaken. My favorite. Her hair wasn’t tied back and it fell around her face and shoulders like ribbons of dark chocolate silk. “And, anyway, I wanted to get an early start—we’ve got a lot to do,” I said to get my mind off what it would be like burying my nose in her hair. I relieved her of one of the coffees.

  “The news is out,” she said. “Front page.”

  I turned the newspaper over. It was the Herald Tribune. The world was the usual insane mess with people happily blowing up themselves and each other all across the globe. I recognized a face. It was Scott, and he was smiling. “Accident Kills Top U.S. General,” said the headline. There were a few paragraphs about why he was a top U.S. general, and nothing about him being assassinated. “That was quick,” I said. “Von Koeppen must have had the Tribune over for tea.