Free The Death Trust by David Rollins

heard—base gossip. So…why don’t I catch up with you after you interview von Koeppen’s PA? That’ll give me enough time to get things organized back at the office.”
    “Sounds good.” I liked this new era of cooperation. I was in a NATO facility, after all. It was a pleasant change to be in someone’s good books, even if I had to be chewed out by my boss to get there. Talk of von Koeppen’s reputation reminded me of Roach’s comments on Masters, but I thought, on the whole, it would be best to keep that knowledge to myself, at least while things were going so well between us.
    “Okay, I’ll see you later,” said Masters, walking back to my rental.
    “Where’re you going?”
    She opened the passenger door, leaned in, and came out with my cell and pager. She thumbed them so that I could hear the “on” beeps, and then dropped them back onto the passenger seat.
    “Yeah, I was going to do that,” I said.
    “Sure you were,” Masters replied.
    I got behind the wheel and the gadgets immediately started buzzing and ringing with stored messages. I was further distracted by an awful smell inside the car. Maybe Hertz had inadvertently left something decaying under my seat. I groped under it with my hand, which brought my nose closer to the source of the troubling odor. Me. I looked at myself in the mirror behind the sun visor. I hadn’t had a shower for close to forty-eight hours and my five-o’clock shadow was putting in overtime. On top of this I’d eaten nothing, unless two blister cards of codeine could be considered food, and my breath smelled of something rotting sprinkled with cloves. I was fast becoming a walking biological weapon.

 
     
    SIX
     
    T he building that housed logistics was a flat brown block with small, mean windows sheathed in silver heat film. I parked the rental in a visitor’s spot out front and jogged the stairs to the third landing. It was warm inside.
    A passing sergeant gave me the directions to Captain Reinoud Aleveldt’s cubicle. I threaded my way through the maze of partitions; most were empty. I glanced at my Seiko: 1315. Lunchtime. After a couple of false turns I arrived at a workspace plastered with photos and torn-out magazine spreads of various gliders. Captain Aleveldt wasn’t in his chair.
    “Yes? Can I help you?” asked a voice behind me. I turned and saw a man with hair the color of cheddar cheese, ruddy pale skin, and thick fleshy lips which were red-raw dry and wind-chapped. He licked them. He wore running gear ironed with such precision that the knife-edge creases in his shorts were carried on by the creases in his T-shirt. I took a shot. “Captain Reinoud Aleveldt? You got a minute?”
    “Actually, I was just on my way out.” The guy was itching to get away and he kept shifting his weight from foot to foot. If he’d been two, I’d have taken him to the potty.
    Who gives a fuck? As a general rule, I don’t prepare people I want to question with a preemptive phone call. I like their answers to be off-the-cuff, especially when I’m not sure how a witness fits into the investigation, as was the case here. “Special Agent Vin Cooper, OSI,” I told Aleveldt, flashing my ID to further refine his attention. “Just a few questions, if you don’t mind. I’m investigating the assassination of General Scott.” Why sugarcoat it?
    The news appeared to hit Aleveldt like a punch under the rib cage. His jaw dropped slightly, his eyes went wide. I could read him so clearly I considered asking whether he’d like to play a few hands of canasta. “Assassination? But—”
    “Got somewhere we can talk, Captain? Like a room with a door?”
    He led the way to a meeting room, no doubt resigned to missing his jog, or whatever they did hereabouts for exercise. On two of the walls were enormous Whiteboards filled with hieroglyphics and scribbles slightly less decipherable than Greek. Or, given Aleveldt’s nationality, maybe double Dutch. We both took seats at a cheap