The 19th Hijacker Page 2

  “Yes, I’m calling about your boyfriend.”

  “My boyfriend? He’s not here. I mean, he’s in America.”

  “May I come to see you, Fräulein?”

  “Come to see me? Here? You want to come here?”

  “Yes. There. We will be there in an hour.”

  “In an hour? But I’m not dressed. I just had an operation. I took a pill.”

  “In an hour, Fräulein. Please be ready to receive us.”

  The vice kommissar rang off.

  Karima looked down at Sami’s package and carefully pulled out the letter again.

  Most of all, I want you to believe truly that I love you with all my heart. You must not have any doubts about this. I love you, and I will always love you, until eternity. Do not be sad when I depart for somewhere else, in a place where you can neither see nor hear me. But I will see you, and I will know how you are. And I will wait for you until you come to me. I feel guilty about giving you hope about marriage, wedding, children, and family. And many other things.

  Were they breaking up? Without even a final conversation? God willing, no!

  I regret that you must wait until we come together again. I did not run from you. I did what I was supposed to. Everyone has his time. And this is my time. You should be proud of me. This is an honor. You will see the results, and everybody will be happy …

  Her eyes floated to the ceiling as she clutched the letter to her chest. What was he talking about? I will see you, and I will know how you are … This is an honor … What on earth?

  You must remain very strong as I always knew you. Remember always who you are and what you are. Whatever you do, always have a goal. Keep your head high. The victors never bow their heads. Hold on to what you have until we see each other again. And then we will live an eternal life together, where no problems and no sorrow exist, in castles of gold and silver.

  I do not leave you alone. Allah is with you and with my parents. If you need anything, ask him for what you need. He is listening and knows what is inside of you.

  If you marry, have no fear. Think about who, besides me, could deserve you. I kiss you on the hands. And I thank you. I say I am sorry for the difficult years you spent with me. Your patience has a price.

  I am your prince.

  God willing, I will see you again!!!

  Your man always, Sami, brave as a lion.

  High in a corner office at police headquarters in Bruno-Georges-Platz, Vice Kommissar Günther Recht and his deputy, Heinrich Braun, had been summoned for a brief meeting with the chief kommissar. Subject: Suspect 21. The chief had only a few minutes to spare for this sideshow. The kommissar was feeling overwhelmed. Annoyed as Recht was at his deputy over the binoculars, he allowed Sergeant Braun to report on his surveillance.

  “You say she looked startled,” the first kommissar said.

  “Yes, sir. She stood there for a long minute just staring at it, and then, as I said, she walked briskly back to the door.”

  “We must have that package, Recht,” the kommissar snapped. “I suggest you move right in and take her into custody.”

  Recht’s gaze drifted to the window, and his hand lifted to his mouth reflectively. It was one of his signature gestures, when he was stalling for time and collecting his thoughts. The mannerism always exasperated the chief.

  “Well? Come, come, Recht. I’m a busy man.”

  “I’m not sure that’s the right course,” Recht said slowly. “It might be illegal.”

  “Scheisse, Recht. What about the second wave? You have heard about the second wave, haven’t you?”

  Recht ignored the insult. “At this point we have no cause to arrest her, or to seize her property. We have no evidence whatsoever that she’s involved.”

  The first kommissar spat out his contempt. “We must assume she is part of the cell. She was certainly involved with Samir Haddad!”

  “Yes,” Recht continued in his slow deliberate manner, “but he was in America, and she was here. She was never seen at Marienstrasse, and her voice has never turned up on any tape. I think we must proceed carefully, Herr Kommissar, even under these circumstances.”

  “A second wave, Recht! This woman is a perfect candidate for a meaningful suicide … Catch my drift? How would you feel if you were in her situation? Think about it: a high-rise in Frankfurt … or the Reichstag! No one will complain later if we bend the rules a little.”

  “Judge Schneider might,” Braun piped up.

  The moment was awkward. “The judge appreciates the gravity,” the chief said finally. “The clock may be ticking.”

  Recht glowered at Braun and then turned back to the first kommissar.

  “If a second wave is in the works … if she really is somehow involved, well—”

  “Well what?”

  “Well, we would lose her immediately if we arrested her now. And on what charge? We’d look pretty silly if that packet contained fancy leather gloves from Alsterhaus.”

  The kommissar sputtered his frustration. “Do you have any idea the pressure I’m under, Recht?” he said gruffly.

  Again, Recht ignored him. “I propose we work her for a while. See where she leads us. If she is part of the cell, let her lead us to the others. Find a way to get the package legally, in a way that Judge Schneider won’t complain about. Track her movements, listen to her calls—”

  “All right, Recht. It’s your case … For the time being it’s your case, I should say. I’m prepared to give you a second chance after your last screwup. No screwups this time, please.”

  As the detectives rose to leave, Recht asked, “How goes the hunt for Muktar, Herr Kommissar?”

  “If there are any developments there, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “And Omar?”

  “Nothing yet. Good day.”

  When Karima opened the door, before her stood a tall, beefy man with a pasty face and a prominent mole. His overcoat was wrinkled and had a stain near his right pocket. He was accompanied by a younger officer in uniform.

  “Guten Abend, Fraulein Ilgun,” said Recht with a slight bow, “I am Vice Kommissar Günther Recht. And this is Sergeant Braun. May we come in?”

  She tried to speak, but no words came out. She had a stock image of policemen: gruff, hostile, cynical, dangerous. She had heard many stories in the community. Kommissar Recht’s manner was proper enough. She didn’t like the way the uniformed policeman was leering at her.

  They sat around her coffee table.

  “You have a very nice apartment,” the vice kommissar said, as his eyes wandered around the room. “You are a dentist, I believe.”

  “Yes.”

  “We all have a certain awe … and fear of dentists, you know.”

  “I have heard so.”

  “I have just had a tooth taken out actually. Fortunately, it was in my lower jaw, so you can’t see the hole when I smile.”

  Karima felt his discomfort at small talk and said nothing.

  “Well,” he said, slapping his knees. “I must come to the point. Do you know this man?” He nodded to Braun, who placed a picture on the table in front of her, as if playing a trump card. It was Sami’s passport photo … his second passport photo after he had claimed to lose his first.

  “Yes, that’s my boyfriend.”

  “Ja … und?”

  “His name is Samir Haddad. You called about him. But he’s not here. He’s in Florida, the United States. Has something happened to him?”

  He looked at her curiously, as if she had told some sort of sick joke. “Tell me about him,” he said.

  “Tell you about him? Kommissar, is Sami okay?”

  “Please, Dr. Ilgun, try to be responsive. This is a formal interview.”

  “Formal?”

  “Yes, formal. Tell me about your boyfriend.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she protested. “Fi
ve foot, eleven inches, brown hair, green eyes, that sort of thing?”

  “No.”

  “He’s from Lebanon. Perhaps you know that. From a very fine family … What is this about, Kommissar Recht?”

  “I will get to that,” he snapped. “What about his friends?”

  “His friends? Oh no, I don’t know any of his friends.”

  “You don’t know any of his friends?”

  “I mean, I’ve met a few, but I don’t know them. He didn’t want me to know his friends, you see.”

  “Continue.”

  “Continue what? That’s all I know … about his friends, I mean.”

  “He had a friend named Omar. Do you know about him?”

  “No.”

  “You never heard of him?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “What about his family, then?”

  “His family has roots in the Bekaa Valley going back to ancient times.”

  “And in present times? Where was he raised?”

  “He grew up in a Mazraa apartment in Beirut.”

  “Mazraa, what is that?”

  “Mazraa is the name of the neighborhood in the southern part of the city. I remember the name because Sami told me never to confuse it with the town of Mazra’a.”

  “Mazra’a?”

  “Yes, that’s an Arab town in occupied Palestine.”

  “I see. In Israel.”

  “In Palestine.”

  “What do you know about the rest of his family?”

  “Well … he has an uncle who is a well-to-do banker and a member of Lebanon’s parliament, I believe.”

  “Do you know about another uncle named Assem?” he asked.

  “I know about him, but I haven’t met him.”

  “Haddad never mentioned him?”

  “Oh yes, he’s mentioned him. Often, actually,” Karima replied. “He idolizes him.”

  “Did you know that this Dr. Assem was a secret agent for the East Germans in the 1980s?”

  Karima tried to control herself. “No, I was not aware of that. Has Uncle Assem done something wrong?”

  “Later this uncle worked for Libyan secret service in an operation code-named ‘the Dealer.’ Its purpose was to collect information on the notorious Abu Nidal. You know who that is, don’t you?”

  “I’ve heard the name. Really, Kommissar—”

  “He was the founder of Fatah, the ‘father of the struggle,’ the one the West called a psychopath, the most dangerous and ruthless of the Palestinian ‘terrorists’—at least, until Saddam Hussein had him murdered.”

  “Kommissar Recht, you’re talking about things I know nothing about. I’m a dentist. I’m busy learning how to extract an impacted tooth.”

  “But you said Haddad spoke of him.”

  “He talked about his uncle’s powerful personality. That’s all I know. I never heard about that other stuff. I can ask him more about his uncle when he calls, if you like. I’m expecting to hear from him soon.”

  Recht and Braun exchanged glances. “All right. Where did you meet Samir Haddad?”

  Karima exhaled in exasperation. “In Greifswald. At the university. In a class.”

  “And you say you have been together for four years.”

  “I didn’t say that, but yes, on and off, for four years.”

  “Then you know him very, very well.”

  She stood up. She had had enough. “Really, Kommissar Recht, I’ve just had an operation, and I’m not feeling well. I am on medication. Please come to the point. I’m quite tired, as you can see. What is this about?”

  “Don’t you know, Dr. Ilgun?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m afraid I have some very bad news for you.”

  Kommissar Recht stared at the floor as Karima wept, her hands over her face, and then squirmed into a ball on her couch. The policeman had been the bearer of bad news many times before, but nothing like this. As unlikely as it was, if this were truly the first she had heard the news, he could understand how shattering it was. He was prepared to wait as long as he had to. As Karima howled, Braun gazed blankly at Haddad’s picture on the glass table.

  When her sobs subsided, Recht reached in his pocket and offered a crumpled handkerchief. She shook her head and rushed to the bathroom. The officers glanced at one another, and Recht nodded his head toward the desk. Braun slipped over to it and noticed the package facedown among other papers. He reached under the desk and placed his bug expertly. The toilet flushed, and they heard tissues being pulled from their box. Karima emerged, clutching a small towel in her hand, her face contorted and her eyes glazed.

  “I’m sorry,” she whimpered.

  “Dr. Ilgun, I want you to listen closely,” Recht said softly. “We believe that you may be in danger.”

  “In danger? In danger for what? From what?”

  “I cannot be sure. For your protection we will be assigning a security detail to watch over you.”

  “Security detail? You’re telling me you’re spying on me?”

  “Nein, nein, nein. We’re assigning you bodyguards for the time being. I must inform you that a massive investigation is underway, and I’m afraid there’s a bit of chaos at the moment. We want to be sure that no one else gets hurt.”

  “Will I be able to come and go?”

  “Certainly. But you must be very careful. A guard will be posted overnight on the street outside.” He paused. “And by the way, do you have any written documents of Samir Haddad?”

  Karima thought for a moment. The officers followed her glance toward the desk.

  “I’m not very organized, I’m afraid,” she answered.

  “Yes, I see that,” the Kommissar replied, nodding at the desk.

  “I have a few postcards, I think,” she continued. “Oh, and there is a letter from his college health insurance office, detailing dental charges. I may still have some travel receipts. It would take a little time to find everything.”

  “Fine,” the Kommissar answered politely. “If you could gather them together and put them in an envelope for us, that would be appreciated. An officer will come by for them in the morning.”

  When the officers were out on the street, Braun turned to Recht. “She’s a pretty good actor, huh, chief?”

  Recht nodded. “And she’s lying,” he said.

  Inside, Karima collapsed again in sobs on the couch. The spasms came in waves, one after another. Why had the kommissar been so interested in Uncle Assem? Once, Sami had quoted Assem’s philosophy of life: “To live life fully, risk must play a part.” Was he somehow involved too? But Sami had other mentors, with other credos. Sami, a terrorist? a murderer? Dead in a field in Pennsylvania, swallowed up by the mud of the earth? It was unbelievable.

  She went to the bathroom again to wash her face. Suddenly, she saw in the mirror the image of a convict, someone on the run. She heard the bang of the gavel and the clang of her prison door.

  And then her telephone did start to ring. First, her mother in Stuttgart, befuddled and frightened; she thought she had seen a picture on television of a man who looked a little like Sami. After that call she let her answering machine take over. There was a call from Gretchen, her old roommate from Greifswald, offering to come to stay with her for comfort. And a call from Sami’s fellow student at his flight school in Florida, wondering whether she was okay. Another call from Omar terrified her most.

  It was true. She was going to need protection.

  She fell to her knees. “Whoever forgives and makes reconciliation, his reward is with Allah,” she mumbled, and then she rose and seated herself again at the desk. She reached for the package and opened it again, gingerly, and retrieved its contents, then began examining them more carefully, one by one. Sami’s fingerprints would be all over the stuff, and now hers would be too. She glanced out at the street. “Please, God, nothing important
,” she whispered. Trembling, she put the first cassette in her machine, half-hoping it would be blank. But Sami’s voice was calm, soft.

  September 10, 2001, 10:00 p.m.

  “Karima, sweetheart,

  “I was never really sure about this. You must have sensed my conflict in July. You must believe this. Even to this last day. Yahabibti—May God forever protect and nourish you—I lied to you. I lied to you so many times. I am so sorry. But you did not realize that with each lie, you fueled my doubts all the more.