The Death Trust by David Rollins Page B

unsubstantiated rumors. I would suggest also that we attribute General Scott’s death to accidental causes. At least for the time being.”
    “Of course. Good idea.”
    The phone rang again.
    Von Koeppen excused himself and grabbed the handset with annoyance. “Ja,” he said. His tone instantly changed to one of deep concern. “Ja, of course, of course. Ja, I’ll tell him.”
    Whoever was on the other end of the line was upset and giving von Koeppen both barrels. It sounded like a woman. He hung up, his face a mixture of embarrassment and anger. “Did you give orders for the police to seize General Scott’s files?”
    What?
    Before I could answer, he said, “That was Mrs. Harmony Scott. She is very distressed. I order you to release her husband’s effects back to her.”
    I assumed this was Masters’s doing. If so, General von Koeppen placed me in a pickle. Masters and I weren’t much of a team, but she was the only team I had. She hadn’t warned me about going straight to Scott’s widow’s home, which could have been tit for tat with von Koeppen for his offhand dismissal of her. But I hoped it was for some other more substantial reason, because my reply to the acting commander of Ramstein Air Base was, “No, sir. I won’t do that.”
    “I’m giving you a direct order, Major,” he said, stressing my rank to remind me who was boss. We were back to that superiority shit again.
    I stood and faced him. “I’m sorry, General, but I cannot obey that order.” I was amazed at how quickly the dynamics in the room had changed. Masters must have left von Koeppen’s office, driven like Michael Schumacher over to Scott’s house, and sealed the victim’s records, ignoring as she did so the widow’s attack of apoplexia. I wondered if this was the reason why Masters so readily left von Koeppen’s office. Whatever, the woman had balls.
    The door opened and a tall blonde with an unbelievably ample chest, wearing the uniform of a sergeant in the USAF, entered the room. She had to be von Koeppen’s PA—handpicked, I had no doubt, because of her efficiency. The sergeant informed her boss that some famous person was on the line and gave the name. The name she dropped was familiar and then it clicked—the President of Germany had called for a chat. Von Koeppen’s face had flushed a bright red and his eyes were locked with mine. He was a man unused to having his orders ignored. But he knew, and I knew, and I knew he knew, that I answered to a higher authority—namely the big cheese back at Andrews. The general blinked first. A call from the German president himself could not be ignored. “Dismissed, Special Agent,” he said with an imperious wave for the benefit of his PA.
    The sergeant held the door open for me. I heard von Koeppen pick up the handset and start talking in a jocular fashion, switching from shitty to happy camper on a dime. The performance reminded me that generals are as much politicians as soldiers. As I passed the noncom, I happened to catch her name tag, and not because it was clinging to possibly the most spectacular hills this side of the Himalayas. It was because I caught the smile, a faint one, one that implied she appreciated seeing von Koeppen with a bug fisted up his colon. Maybe the general wasn’t well regarded, and I was suddenly interested to know why.

 
     
    FIVE
     
    I wanted to have a few words with von Koeppen’s PA, but it would have to wait. I bummed a lift back to my rental outside Roach’s hangar. At the security gate, I asked for, and was given, the dead general’s residential address. Before the soldier gave it up he checked my identity again and cleared it with Ramstein’s OSI office.
    The drive back to Kaiserslautern was uneventful and it gave me time to think. I’ve been present many times when bad news has been delivered to the friends and relatives of murder victims. Von Koeppen’s reaction to the news was a terrific performance. Even though I didn’t like the