The Death Trust by David Rollins Page A

one of these photos: Prince Charles, the future King of England. Other faces began to look familiar. One photo featured the general and a former U.S. president laughing together. Others showed him trackside at Formula One motor races with drivers and/or Hollywood stars. This guy was a player.
    I turned my attention to the general’s desk. It was a vast gray granite number. There was the ubiquitous laptop, another smaller model of the Jaguar, and a couple of phones. No in-trays or paper of any kind. I wondered how “hands-on” he was. Roach had commented that Scott was a known workaholic, and I found myself wondering how much of the big picture Scott allowed his German comrade to handle. Zip, most likely. Thanks to the briefing notes provided Stateside, I knew the number-two position at Ramstein had to be filled by a German officer of the rank of lieutenant general. The chief of staff was a British air marshal. The French had their finger in the pie, too, along with the Belgians, the Czechs, the Poles, and more than half a dozen other nations. Being a North Atlantic Treaty Organization facility, the makeup of the combined HQ here had been set up to reflect NATO’s diversity. How the hell they got anything organized was beyond me.
    “It’s a good plane, ja?”
    “Certainly looks the business,” I said, caught out. While my eyes had been snooping around, von Koeppen had finished his call.
    “Do you fly?”
    “As little as possible. I’ve developed issues with it over time.”
    “A great shame. Well, an air force needs all types of talents to function properly, doesn’t it? And yours must be exceptional for your Pentagon to have sent you all the way to investigate an accident, albeit a tragic one.”
    He was trying hard, working it.
    “A murder investigation, actually. The crash investigation team has concluded that General Scott’s plane was sabotaged.”
    “Sabotage!” he said, jumping up as if his butt had suddenly located a nail in the seat of his leather chair.
    He walked around his office a couple of times with one hand on his waist and the other a balled fist against his chin. “General Scott…murdered?” He shook his head. “I don’t believe it. God!”
    I let von Koeppen have a moment uninterrupted with the brutal reality.
    “That poor woman,” he said. “Mrs. Scott will be devastated. Have you informed her yet?”
    “No, sir.”
    “When will you do that?”
    “After I leave here.”
    Von Koeppen went to his window and watched a couple of those Turkish F-4s take off. “I don’t believe it,” he said again, shaking his head.
    “If you don’t mind, I have to ask you some questions.”
    “Of course.”
    “Do you know anyone who may have wanted to kill the general?” Just about every murder investigation has that question asked at some stage. You always hope the answer’s yes.
    “No,” he said, sticking to the usual pattern.
    “No enemies?”
    “No.”
    “Did he gamble? Have any bad habits that might have brought him into contact with the wrong crowd?”
    “No. General Scott was exactly what he seemed. He was at the top of his game, a fine pilot and an able administrator. He was also my friend. How was it done?”
    “A vital part of his glider was tampered with.”
    “What? How?”
    “We don’t know yet, sir.”
    “Who would have wanted him dead?” he asked, directing the question at the mirror shine of his black leather shoes.
    And why? I added mentally.
    “You will break the news gently to his widow…?”
    No, I’ll bash her over the head with it. “Of course, General.”
    “Anything you need to solve this crime, just ask,” he said. “It’s a terrible business…”
    “Maybe one thing, sir.”
    “Yes?”
    Despite what I’d said to Gruyere about hearing the news of Scott’s death on CNN, I was reasonably sure that the story had not yet been made public. “I think it would be a good idea to release selective details to the press before they start printing