The Heat of Ramadan Page 3

  So far, Kamil was cooperating. He walked out of the Grand Hotel Continental and stood under the large green-and-gold awning, seemingly sniffing the weather, or perhaps expecting some other scent. He was wearing an expensive, olive, Calvin Klein raincoat. It was long and supple. A royal blue silk scarf with delicate paisley ends was wrapped around his throat. His short, wiry dark hair was covered by a soft, brimmed grey cap. He carried a briefcase in one hand and a folded umbrella in the other. It would be fairly easy to track him today, if he did not alter his attire.

  He went into the hotel’s underground lot and came out driving an immaculate, black four-door BMW 316. He switched on the wipers and moved down Max Joseph, making a right on Otto Strasse, at least seeming to be heading for the Stachus. That was when the first set of Casuals made their call, describing Kamil’s dress for the day.

  While the primary team hurried out to assume their first stage positions, Kamil continued driving. Now, as long as he did nothing totally unexpected, there would be no more Casual reports to Schmidt until the second stage.

  On the corner in front of the Justizpalast a middle-aged man was walking a shivering German shepherd. He watched the BMW as it passed the Karlsplatz, but he was not alarmed. The wide double thoroughfare of Sonnenstrasse was one-way on this side. Kamil would have to make a U-turn at Schwanthaler, cross the tram line and double back if he was indeed headed for the Stachus.

  The man crossed over onto the broad median strip of Sonnenstrasse. His shepherd seemed happier to be among the tall trees, though they were winter-dark and threadbare, dripping with water. The man stood, staring up at the huge white Mercedes-Benz sign over the curved set of five-story stone offices on the north side of the square. He looked as though he longed for such a luxurious vehicle, though he was actually counting the endless seconds.

  When the black 316 passed him, heading back the other way, he smiled and bent down to pat his grinning companion.

  For the past four days, Amar Kamil had been coming from his hotel to the Stachus. Sometimes he made elaborate detours through the Innenstadt, but he always arrived at the same place. Even in winter, the Stachus was one of Europe’s most frenetic squares. Above ground, there was a large circular fountain, with hundreds of jets ringing the circumference, spraying white arching fingers into a central geyser. Lining the stone square on its north and southeast were two massive, semicircular business edifices of an unappealing mustard color.

  Grand access to the Stachus was from the east, through the grey medieval arches of the Karlstor, which looked like the entrance to a moated castle. Below the Stachus, accessed by wide stairs and escalators, was a sprawling shopping center and pedestrian mall, spidered with passages leading to the trams and the S-Bahn station.

  It was into this subterranean world that Kamil had descended each day. One of the many mall shops was a small jewelry concern—by appointment only. It was owned by a man named Friedrich Hart, who was actually Horst Schmitter, a senior intelligence officer of the Red Army Faction, more commonly called the Bader-Meinhoff Gang. Apparently Kamil had some interesting business with Schmitter, but as far as the Flute personnel were concerned, at this point that information was irrelevant.

  On the first two days, after spending some hours with Schmitter, Kamil had gone to visit a woman in Bogenhausen. He had been seeing the woman on and off for a year, and by the nature of her appearance—blonde, buxom and athletic—the encounters were assumed to be sexual. An extremely loose tail was placed on her, although no electronic surveillance. Yesterday, she had been out of town, visiting a girlfriend in Freising. Today she was back at home, and it was hoped that Kamil’s appetite had caught up with him in the past forty-eight hours.

  The Casual and his canine companion watched as Kamil’s BMW passed the Hypobank on the northern corner of the Stachus. The car pulled into the indoor parking lot. The Casual knew that attendants received the vehicles there, so the Target, whose name and function he did not know, would shortly emerge. He waited for a break in the traffic on Sonnenstrasse, then hurried across the road with the shepherd. The downpour had receded into a chilly drizzle, and he sat down on one of the large stone stools next to the fountain. He began to play with the dog, who happily responded to cuffs on the ears and short woofs from his master.

  This Casual was no amateur. In his youth, he had worked for British Intelligence during World War II, as a deep cover agent in Berlin. Though long retired, over the past ten years “Johann” had performed thirteen brief but essential tasks for Hans-Dieter Schmidt. He had a vast wealth of street experience, and could “watch” a target almost without looking at him.

  Kamil emerged from the parking garage, crossing the Karlsplatz, using his black umbrella as a walking stick. Johann was confident that Kamil was headed for the stairs leading down to the subterranean mall. In a moment, his role would be over, another clean entry in the weathered old intelligence diary he kept in his head.

  But Kamil made a sharp left and headed straight for the arches of the Karlstor.

  Johann continued playing with the shepherd, yet he blinked in the rain as he watched Kamil’s receding back. The quarry was passing below the large Zeiss sign on the east side of the square, heading for the endless expanses of the pedestrian way on Neuhauserstrasse, where he could disappear in a half-minute.

  Johann walked quickly to the Wienerwald at the south end of the square. He stepped into a yellow-framed telephone booth, threw 20 pfennig into the slot and dialed Kinder-Spiel. The shepherd whined, sensing its master’s discomfort. It was 10:32.

  Hans-Dieter answered before the first ring had stopped.

  “Kinder-Spiel.”

  “Morgen, Hans. This is Johann.”

  “How are you, Johann?”

  “Fine, fine. Listen, Hans, I know we were supposed to meet Leo for luncheon, but he had to go east for the day.”

  “Really?” Hans’s voice barely betrayed his concern. “Are you sure?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m sure. Sorry about the inconvenience.”

  “Not at all. Perhaps some other time. I guess you’ll have the day off, then.”

  “Yes. Wiedersehen, Hans.”

  “Wiedersehen.”

  Both men terminated. Schmidt now had a difficult decision to make. Kamil had deviated, had not entered the Stachus. He was moving east on Neuhauser. Johann had used the word go, so Kamil was on foot. He might return to the Karlsplatz, or he might do something altogether unexpected. If he had already sensed a tail, then Flute was blown anyway. Schmidt decided to move in a pawn.

  He called Ettie in Bogenhausen. When she hung up with him, she made her first broadcast on Frequency A. Her voice, as languid and as casual as that of the female disc jockey now chattering over the Blaupunkts, cut in with a brief commercial announcement.

  “Now, all you lovely Münchner girls, I know it’s raining a bit today, but there is a big sale on at Berlmeyers on Neuhauser. You really should not miss it. Hats, business cases, umbrellas and coats 30 percent off for Fasching!”

  The message was intended for Francie Koln, as Innerstadt was her operational area. But every one of the primary team knew what the relay meant.

  Still parked next to the cemetery, Eckhardt recoiled from the redhead and lit up a cigarette. She did not immediately realize what had happened and took it quite personally.

  In an open parking lot in Marstallplatz, on the eastern side of the National Theatre, Peter Hauser sat in a maroon Audi 80. It was the only “power car” in the primary fleet, and as Hauser heard Ettie’s first report, he realized that all of his motor pool work was going down the toilet. He slammed the steering wheel with a fist.

  In Schwabing, Harry Webber was inside a large, leased private garage. The cab of his long, green Mercedes delivery van was open, and he sat on the running board, listening to the radio and munching on a sandwich of sliced Schinken. Hearing Ettie’s report, he did not even miss a bite. He had been on too many missions. It was still early in the game.

  Francie Koln
stopped short when she heard Ettie’s announcement. Her Walkman used the same three operational frequencies as the mobile Blaupunkts, but it played no decoy tape, so the voice startled her as it boomed through the blank static to which she’d been listening all morning.

  She was two hundred meters from the Marienplatz, walking north through the pedestrian mall on Theaterinstrasse. She cursed herself for having lost concentration, wandered too far from the first-stage area. She quickly spun from the distant vision of the Siegestor triumphal arch, smothered in smoky fog, and she hurried back toward the spoke of her assigned compass. She cut west into Schaffler, willing the twin gold spires of the Frauenkirche to grow larger, loom over her, and then she was past them, nearly running.

  If she reached Neuhauser quickly, she might beat Kamil, if he had not yet turned into a side street. Her stomach was bloated, the Wagner biography heavy in her bag. She was sweating, panting, and she struggled to remember what Ettie had just said—“Hats, business cases, umbrellas and coats.” All right, she had seen over twenty recent photos of Kamil and now she had a good description of the accoutrements as well. She had to try and pick him up. . . .

  Perhaps only two minutes had passed and Johann was still standing in the phone booth at the Stachus, miming a conversation into the dormant instrument. He squinted through the fogged glass at the medieval teeth of the Karlstor, and he began to smile. Yes, Kamil was now strolling casually back through the gate, carrying a newspaper.

  Amar Kamil was no amateur either. He had simply engaged in a brief detour before he descended to visit Schmitter. If he were being classically tracked, he would feel the resultant shake-up, sense the panicked moves in the environment.

  Johann called Hans-Dieter, hoping that his relaxed appearance was a sufficient mask to his hammering heart. He began to laugh, gesturing grandly and making his presence in the proximate booth seem completely innocent. “My God, I’m such a fool, Hans,” he said. “I was looking at the wrong date! Of course we’ll have lunch with Leo today.”

  “Are you sure, Johann?” Schmidt asked. “You can make me crazy sometimes.”

  “I am sure, my friend.”

  Within seconds, Ettie was excusing herself to her “radio audience,” announcing a correction. The sale at Berlmeyers was for tomorrow.

  Already on Neuhauser and close to panic, Francie suddenly snapped her head up to the gorgeous sound of Ettie’s voice. She sat down on a metal bench, leaned back, closed her eyes and then let the rain pound her face. . . .

  * * *

  For the next two hours, Amar Kamil stayed beneath the surface of the Stachus, which, despite the continuing rain, became effervescent with Munichers on lunch hour. Excepting a “mother-and-daughter” team who had immediately replaced Johann and his dog, all of the Casuals had been called off. Now, the only operatives remaining on Flute were the primary team and a few emergency backups. The local residents who had briefly participated would only learn of the mission’s nature if it succeeded and the news reached the morning papers.

  The two remaining non-primaries sat in the Wienerwald, taking an extremely long Mittagessen. The “mother” was not really a Casual, but a photoanalyst from Department. The “daughter” was a clerk from the embassy cipher room. They were happily engaged in addressing invitations to the daughter’s upcoming wedding, and no one bothered them.

  On a signal from Ettie—a reference to a possible improvement in the weather confirming Kamil’s return—everyone else had gone to his Stage Two position.

  Eckhardt reluctantly dismissed his parking companion, who he had belatedly come to realize was really quite attractive and used an erotically disturbing eau de cologne. He honked twice, and Luckmann came trotting out of the cemetery, looking not too much worse for wear. Rainer had found a tomb with a suitable overhang under which he had properly engaged his grief.

  They drove to the Prinzregenten Theater in Steinhausen, moved the car every thirty minutes and took turns grabbing something to eat and relieving themselves in public restrooms.

  Peter Hauser happily put his Audi in gear, left the open lot in Marstallplatz and drove east to the Isar. He moved north on Widermayer along the river and parked by the sloping bank, fifty meters short of the Luitpold Bridge. He sat in the car, studying the enormous grey statues on the arched structure, watching a single elderly woman as she leaned on the metal fence near the steel-colored water, feeding white winter geese.

  He did not dare leave the radio unattended, so he munched on various Schmankerl from a paper bag and drank black coffee from a thermos. On occasion, he slipped over to the passenger side, opened the door and peed onto the grass from a sitting position.

  Harry Webber left the garage in Schwabing, drove across the river, and parked the delivery truck on Schönberg Strasse in Herzog Park. The neighborhood was dead quiet, and he went through two copies of Stern, one of Quick, saving the German edition of Penthouse for last. The bogus “letters” to the staff seemed that much more obscene in Hochdeutsch, and Harry actually laughed out loud at some of the more raucous “real-life” exploits.

  Francie Koln, bereft of transportation, walked to her next station at the Odeonplatz, where Hitler had staged his abortive Beer Hall Putsch in 1923. There, near the high yellow facade of the Theatinerkirche, she found a small Konditorei. For the first time all day, she was happy to be inside a café. She went to the washroom, took off her sopping hat and dried her hair as best she could with a paper towel. Then she took a table near the front, readjusted her Walkman over her ears and actually managed to read a newspaper as she sipped coffee from a porcelain cup. She had already eaten enough for a week.

  Hans-Dieter remained perched over his desk at Kinder-Spiel. He did not eat or drink, but he finished another pack of Krone.

  Ettie made contact once, to change frequencies, and everyone switched to Channel B.

  They waited. It could happen in the next five minutes, or not for five hours.

  At 14:10, Amar Kamil appeared at the top of the Stachus escalator. He walked around the fountain and headed for the parking garage.

  The women timed it perfectly. They collected their invitations, exited the Wienerwald and strolled arm in arm across the Karlsplatz. They walked slowly, further reducing the pace as they crossed under the Hypobank sign, chatting and giggling like schoolgirls. The nose of Kamil’s 316 poked from the parking garage, offering a momentary side view of his face through the smoked glass as he eased out into traffic and headed north on Sonnenstrasse.

  The two women quickly turned toward a bank of telephones.

  “Kinder-Spiel.” Schmidt must have snatched at his phone like a cat after a bird.

  “Hans? It’s Trude,” the elder woman said, not even bothering to conceal her pleasure. “Don’t forget to pick up Uncle Fritz at the station.”

  “Has he left yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see him off?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  It was a critical moment. Schmidt had to be absolutely sure that the target was positively identified. If ‘Trude’ was really convinced, then he could be as well.

  “Okay, just tell me again what he looks like.”

  “Olive raincoat, grey cap, briefcase, umbrella.” Trude added a touch of drama. “I told you, dear. You’re so forgetful.”

  Hans ignored the playacting. “What was it you said about his skin?” he asked.

  “Light, dear.” A Circassian ancestor had given Kamil a somewhat non-Semitic complexion.

  “Earlobes?”

  “Detached.”

  “Yes.” Now he tried to trick her, just to make sure she wasn’t being overly enthusiastic. “Did he limp?”

  Trude hesitated for a split second. Then she said, “No, silly. Of course not!”

  “You’re a good girl.” Hans’s voice was smiling.

  “I know. Wiedersehen.”

  “Bis später.” He hung up, made his decision in a microsecond, and called Ettie Denziger.

  * * *

&
nbsp; “Just a short interruption before we get on with some fantastischen tunes. Believe it or not, Münchner, tomorrow looks to be a sunny day! Wirklich, maybe even good enough for a Fasching picnic!”

  At her café table, Francie Koln lifted her eyes from the paper. Picnic. That was it. Kamil was mobile.

  She dropped a few coins onto the table, gathered her bag, pulled on her floppy tweed hat and left the Konditorei. The rain had almost completely let up, and it was now turning to a light, powdery snow.

  Francie walked briskly north on Ludwig Strasse. She had to make the intersection with Von der Tann before Kamil got there. The midday traffic was thickening, and she was sure to beat him, but she kicked out a pace anyway.

  In planning sessions, Peter Hauser had made a strong case for this route. He had been over it in his own car possibly thirty times, at all hours of the day and night. If Kamil was going to cut through the Innenstadt and cross the river toward Bogenhausen, this was always the best route. If he had other plans, what the hell did it matter?

  Francie waited at the corner, fiddling inside her large handbag, her eyes shifted under the brim of her hat toward the Oskar von Miller Ring. Three minutes passed. Nothing. Then, suddenly, the BMW appeared right next to her, having come from behind up Ludwig. Kamil turned the corner onto Von der Tann, heading east. Francie ran her checklist: black BMW 316, single passenger, last four license digits 5734.

  Hauser was right. Kamil was following the pattern. Francie would make no report. Now it was up to her comrades.

  She had one more assignment, and she walked happily after Kamil’s car, watching it blend into traffic as it headed toward the river. Her steps were lighter now, her enormous tension fading as her chilled neck muscles began to relax.

  She reached the American consulate at the corner of Königinstrasse. The Americans had great respect for their flag, and it had been pulled in from the desecrative weather. A pair of Marine guards stood outside at the main entrance to the old stone structure. Francie felt sorry for them.

  There was a trash receptacle at the corner of Königin. She reached into her bag, came up with an apparently empty can of Tuborg and dropped it into the trash container. Then she walked across the street to the Englischer Garten, down to the large pond near the Japanese Teehaus, and stayed there, watching the ducks, keeping her eye on a pair of public phones not twenty meters away.