State Of The Union

“Oh, he certainly did. You see, Heinrich is a waiter at a certain café on Goltzstrasse, and it turns out we used to know each other from the days when I investigated narcotics. He told me he was clean, but based on what I found in his pockets, I think he may be telling an untruth.”

Harvath looked hard at Heinrich and then shifted his gaze to Max. “And?”

“And, well, Heinrich came on duty right when I was preparing to leave. Everyone in the café was watching the policemen outside and talking about what had happened. When Heinrich saw me, he tried to sneak back into the kitchen, but seeing as how we are old friends, how could I pass up such a wonderful opportunity to get reacquainted? For some reason, Heinrich was acting very nervous, so I helped him into the men’s room where I went through his pockets and found that he was not as clean as he claimed to be. Isn’t that right, Heinrich?” said Max as he used his free hand to pat the man firmly on the head where even Harvath could see a very nasty lump was already rising.

“In the course of our conversation,” continued Max, “he asked me why the police had been spending so much time hassling people on the Goltzstrasse. When I asked him to be more specific he told me that yesterday he saw two policemen staking out the apartment building up the street and that they had eventually busted some businessman by zapping him with a Taser. They then cuffed him, threw him into the back of their car, and sped away.”

Harvath couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What did the man look like?”

Heinrich, happy to spit out what he knew and hopefully get away from Max said, “He looked like a businessman in a suit with a long overcoat. Okay?”

“More,” said Harvath. “Height, age, weight, hair color…”

“Gray hair. He was an older man. Maybe he was in his late fifties or early sixties. I am not sure. He was medium height and not thin, but not fat either. That’s all I know.”

Harvath pumped him with further questions and listened as Heinrich the junkie waiter repeated the same story he had told Max.

“Is it common for German police to subdue suspects with stun guns?” asked Harvath.

“I don’t know,” said Heinrich scared of what might happen if he didn’t answer every question the American was asking.

“He wasn’t talking to you,Dummkopf,” said Max, slapping him in the head. “He was talking to me.” Turning toward Harvath he said, “No. Using a stun gun to subdue a suspect is very unusual. That’s why I thought you might want to hear Heinrich’s story for yourself and have a chance to ask him questions. Do you have anything else?”

Harvath asked Heinrich to describe the “policemen” and their car. The waiter gave the best description he could, stating that he did not really get a good look at anything. The car might have been a Volkswagen, or it could have been a Mercedes. He couldn’t tell. As far as the license plate was concerned, he hadn’t bothered taking a very good look at it. What was the point? Besides, the car pulled out and took off so fast, he wouldn’t have been able to see anything if he wanted to. The cops had been in such a hurry, he was surprised they hadn’t broadsided anyone when they tore through the intersection at the end of the block.

When Harvath had heard enough, he nodded to Max that he was finished. Heinrich knew what was coming and flattened himself down in the trunk just as Max slammed the lid shut.

Just in case Heinrich might be listening, Herman drew the men several yards away from the car so they could talk. “Now we know at least part of what happened to your friend.”

“Those guys obviously weren’t cops and to go to that great a risk in broad daylight,” said Max, shaking his head, “someone must have wanted your friend very badly.”

“I agree. So, what do you want to do?” asked Sebastian.

“If Heinrich saw something, chances are somebody else did as well,” replied Harvath.

“Like what?” said Herman “Something that looked like a police arrest? Even if we could find witnesses, they will have their own version of what happened. You know how these things go. People subconsciously color events with their own details-things they thought they saw. At best, we might get a partial description of the men who jumped your friend.”

“Or maybe a partial license plate,” responded Harvath.

Herman rubbed his forehead again with the butt of his hand before responding. “I think the odds are not in our favor.”

Harvath was getting progressively more frustrated. “Not in our favor?I don’t know how you conduct investigations in Germany, but-”

“The police conduct investigations,” answered Sebastian, “and they are already crawling all over that neighborhood questioning everyone about the shooting. Herman is right. The odds of finding someone with something of value are not in our favor. Witnesses are too unreliable.”