Desert Fire by David Hagberg

government affairs conference in Berlin over the weekend,” she called to him. “Kai Bauer asked if I’d like to come along.”
    Bauer was her boss. He worked for the parliament, translating news summaries. He was a priggish little man who had left his wife several months ago. His job was quite safe and involved a lot of travel to the States. He had a wonderful apartment across the river and a chalet outside Garmisch-Partenkirchen, south of Munich. He’d be a perfect catch for her. The thought didn’t sit well.
    He opened his eyes. Gretchen had come back to the doorway. She had taken off her robe, and she stood there nude. Her nipples were erect as they always were when she was excited or angry. She was a beautiful woman.
    â€œHe thinks I should move out on you,” she said.
    Roemer didn’t know what to say. But he felt bad.
    â€œDo you hear me?”
    â€œIs that what you wanted to talk about?”

    Her nostrils flared. “You’re impossible,” she cried. “Fucking impossible.”
    She went back into the bedroom and Roemer listened to her packing while the warmth of the water soaked into his bones.

18
    AN HOUR LATER, when Roemer roused himself enough to get out of the tub, Gretchen was gone. He dried off and crawled into bed. He slept fitfully for a few hours, the pain in his arm and shoulder half waking him with a jolt whenever he moved. He dreamed of how it used to be with Gretchen, and of Sarah Razmarah’s body. Major Whalpol’s visage kept floating in and out nightmarishly. And just at the edge of his awareness he thought there was something else he should know. A face, perhaps. A figure, dark and threatening.
    The telephone woke him a few minutes after four and he painfully rolled over and reached to answer it. The caller was Leila Kahled, and the cobwebs instantly cleared from Roemer’s head.
    â€œYour office said you’d probably be at home,” she said.
    Roemer thought of his jacket still lying over the back of the couch. She’d be wanting Pavli’s diary. “Has
everything been cleared up between your people and Lieutenant Manning?”
    â€œYes. We’ve agreed to an autopsy; then Pavli’s body will be flown back to Baghdad in the morning.”
    â€œI’m genuinely sorry for the young man. He must have been very troubled.”
    â€œHow is your arm?”
    â€œPainful.”
    â€œListen, Investigator, I think it was a very brave thing you did, trying to save his life at the risk of your own.”
    â€œYou should tell that to Gretchen.”
    â€œPardon?”
    â€œYou didn’t call to ask after my health, Fräulein Kahled.”
    â€œI’d like to talk to you.”
    â€œTalk,” Roemer said.
    â€œI meant in person.”
    â€œFor what purpose?”
    â€œYou have a murder on your hands, and I have a suicide on mine. The two are certainly connected.”
    â€œWe can meet at my office first thing in the morning. Say eight?”
    â€œNo,” Leila said. “I think we should talk now.”
    Roemer stood up and took the phone over to the window. He looked down at the street. There were a few cars parked along the curb, but he recognized all of them. “Do you know where I live?”
    â€œI could be there in fifteen minutes.”
    â€œAll right, I’ll see you then.”
    Roemer went into the bathroom and shaved, then dressed in slacks and a sweater. From his desk he took out a large brown envelope, which he addressed to himself at his office. He took Pavli’s diary from his jacket pocket and thumbed through it.
    Pavli’s handwriting was small and precise. Each entry was dated, but most of the writing was in Arabic. Sarah’s name, however, was in Latin script and appeared
throughout most of the last third of the book, beginning in late October.
    Roemer studied the entries. It was clear that as early as the twenty-eighth of October Pavli had been