Desert Fire by David Hagberg Page B

me by then, open it. It’s a diary. In Arabic. Have it translated.”
    â€œAnd don’t tell anyone about it,” Gehrman said.
    Roemer smiled. “You’re catching on. You just might make a good cop yet.”
    â€œAn unemployed cop.”
    Roemer hung up, and only then did he remember the files on Sarah Razmarah and the Iraqi team that Whalpol had given him. He had stuffed them under the front seat of his car and had forgotten to bring them upstairs this morning. They were still there.

19
    ROEMER OPENED THE door for Leila Kahled, and it struck him in that instant how like a pocket Tintoretto she looked. Her dark hair was up, her eyes were wide and her lips were moist. She was a painting. But clearly she was upset.
    â€œThank you for seeing me on such short notice, Investigator,” she said in perfect German. She looked beyond him into the apartment. “May I come in? Or perhaps you have company?”
    â€œNo, please come in.” Roemer stepped aside.
    She brushed past him into the apartment, a faint odor of perfume wafting after her.
    Roemer closed the door. “Would you care for coffee, perhaps a glass of wine, Fräulein Kahled?”
    â€œThis is not a social visit. I want what you took from Ahmed Pavli’s apartment.”
    â€œI don’t have it.” Roemer turned and went into the kitchen, leaving her standing there.

    â€œThen you admit you took something from the apartment,” Leila said, coming to the doorway.
    Roemer poured himself a small cognac. “Sure you wouldn’t like a drink, or do you adhere to your religion?”
    â€œI asked you a question, Investigator.”
    He took his time answering. He sipped the brandy. “Ahmed Pavli was a suspect in a murder investigation.”
    â€œDon’t be a fool, he didn’t kill that girl.”
    â€œThey were lovers, weren’t they? They worked together.”
    Leila’s eyes narrowed. “What gave you that idea, Investigator?”
    Roemer smiled. “I’m curious about one thing here. Just what is an Iraqi national doing at KwU? Building nuclear reactors, perhaps? You were aware that Sarah Razmarah had been brought here from the United States to work at KwU.”
    â€œI wonder if you understand the significance of what you are saying,” Leila said evenly.
    She was beautiful. She didn’t look like a cop or a spy. In fact, she could pass for a mannequin. French. Very chic.
    â€œI understand the significance of murder,” he said. “Did you know she was pregnant?”
    Leila sucked in her breath.
    â€œNo, I did not know it. Was it Ahmed Pavli’s child?”
    â€œWe’ll know after the autopsy.”
    She took a deep breath and sighed. “I think I’ll have that cognac now.”
    Roemer poured the German brandy, and they went back into the living room, where he took her coat and hung it in the vestibule. She glanced over the record albums by the stereo, his collection of classical music mixed with Gretchen’s American and British rock.
    â€œAn odd combination,” Leila said.
    â€œFor an investigator or a German?”
    She turned to him. “Let’s not be at odds here. Please. This is simply too important.”

    â€œThen we need some honesty between us,” Roemer replied.
    They sat down, Leila on the couch, her long, lovely legs crossed demurely, and Roemer perched on the arm of a heavy easy chair.
    â€œEvidently you have been briefed by someone in your government,” Leila said.
    â€œI understand essentially what is going on at KwU,” Roemer said dryly.
    â€œYou were told about me?”
    â€œOstensibly you are an Iraqi Federal Police officer, here with your father. In actuality, I was told, you are chief of security on the Iraqi team.”
    Something flashed in Leila’s eyes. Disbelief? She knew he had been briefed, but he had not mentioned the Mukhabarat, and she might not suspect that the BND