Desert Fire by David Hagberg Page A

morning.”
    â€œIraqi Federal Police,” Manning said. “You two should have a lot in common.”

15
    BONN WAS ACTUALLY three cities in one. Premier among them was the former parliamentary metropolis of 300,000 people, with its Bundeshaus and other government buildings, as well as the secondary residence of the Federal President at Villa Hammerschmidt in the Adenauerallee. Then there was the ornate town with two thousand years of history: Ancient buildings competed with the modern; castles overlooked the Autobahns; the spires of baroque churches stabbed the same gray sky as radio and television towers. Finally, at the center was the middle city of libraries and gas stations, of supermarkets and the Sears store, of police barracks and the hospital.
    It was not quite noon when Roemer was discharged from the hospital’s emergency ward, three stitches just above his left elbow, his arm in a sling. His shoulder had been thrown out of joint by the force of the .357 magnum slug.
    â€œYou are lucky, Investigator, let me tell you,” the
doctor had said cheerfully as he stitched. “If it hadn’t been a steel-jacketed slug, you might not have an arm.”
    â€œI feel very lucky by comparison with the one who did this to me,” Roemer grumbled.
    He was in a foul mood. He was tired and hungry, and angry that he had been dragged into this business. Pavli’s diary was still in his jacket pocket. It would be so easy to blame the murder on him and leave it at that. That would make Whalpol happy.
    Manning would accept the verdict. The Iraqis might put up a little fuss. But Pavli had been using the girl as much as she had been using him. Soon the furor would die down, and even Gretchen would be pleased.
    But he couldn’t, could he? Whalpol had counted on it, just as Gretchen knew it was inevitable: his stupid sense of dedication. Or was it simply that he didn’t like loose ends?
    His jacket thrown over his shoulders like a cape, Roemer walked down the hospital driveway to his car on the street. There was a parking ticket on the windshield.
    He grabbed the ticket, crumpled it up and threw it in the street. “Goddammit to hell,” he roared.
    Two nurses who were passing by looked up, startled, and quickly crossed the street. He was being a fool. He had a choice here. He could walk away from this business. Lay it in Schaller’s lap: “Here, Chief Prosecutor, I am not the man for this.”
    Whalpol had maneuvered him so easily. Of course they knew about his father. And of course they’d make use of the fact. It was a wonder Simon Wiesenthal’s people weren’t already camped on his doorstep. The sins of the fathers would be visited upon their sons. Wasn’t that the line?
    Perhaps this weekend he would drive down to see his father. There weren’t many hours left.
    Roemer went back to the hospital and took the elevator down to the basement, to the city morgue. He rang the bell at the security door.

    The door was opened by the forensics man who had been on Manning’s team at Sarah Razmarah’s apartment. Roemer knew of him. His name was Stanos Lotz and he was one of the best in Germany.
    â€œInvestigator Roemer, I wondered when you’d be showing up,” Lotz said. His lab coat was dirty, and his thick glasses, which had slipped to the end of his nose, were flecked with blood.
    â€œIs Dr. Sternig here?”
    â€œAt lunch, I suspect.”
    â€œHas he finished his report?”
    â€œOn the Razmarah girl?” Lotz smiled briefly. Then he shook his head. “You are too optimistic. Perhaps tomorrow, but then the weekend will be upon us. Monday would be more likely.”
    â€œI need it now,” Roemer said. He felt dangerous.
    â€œI thought as much. Come in.”
    Roemer followed Lotz down the corridor, through glass doors into a long, narrow operating theater. There didn’t seem to be anyone else around. Two steel tables were