The Death Trust (16 page)

Masters nodded. “And then Scott disappears for a few weeks. He turns up in Riga at the end of that period to see Varvara, who he then brings back to Ramstein. A few months after that, the photo of the body bags on the Ramstein apron finds its way into the papers under the byline of a journalist who subsequently turns up dead. Somewhere along the way, Harmony Scott finds out about Varvara—”

“So, full of jealousy, she sneaks onto the base and tampers with her womanizing husband’s glider to make its wings fall off,” I said as we pulled up at a Ramstein Air Base security post.

I gave the French corporal our CAC cards to scan. He passed them through the machine, handed them back, and then waved us on. “And everyone lives happily ever after, unless you have pretty much anything to do with Peyton, in which case you seem to die in an unfortunate accident.” Our hypothesis had more holes in it than a roadside speed sign in Alabama. “Okay, I’d like to chase down several things,” I said. “One: What did Scott uncover in Riga, apart from Varvara? Two: Where did he disappear to in the weeks after Peyton was killed? Three: Why didn’t Scott believe the autopsy report that accompanied his son’s body back from Iraq? Four: How is the U.S. Army managing to get dead guys to perform autopsies? And five: Why are those police putting Scott’s records in the back of that Humvee?”

“What?” said Masters, followed by, “Shit!” when she saw that the general’s records—the ones we’d secured for our investigation—were indeed being carted out of the OSI offices. I pulled up behind the Humvee in question and we both jumped out. “Airman! Stop there!” Masters snarled at one of the NCMPs coming out the door with a cardboard box in his arms. She positioned herself to block his path. I had to admit, my partner was growing on me. She knew what was going on and stood up to anyone. Even me.

“Keep it moving,” said General von Koeppen, striding through the door, herding another airman carrying boxes before him.

Masters stood aside and let von Koeppen and the MP pass. Okay, so she stood up to
almost
everyone.

“Excuse me, General, but these records have been secured as part of the OSI investigation—over which you have no jurisdiction—into the murder of General Scott.” I sounded righteous even to me.

“But it seems there was no murder, Special Agent.” Von Koeppen pushed past carrying the laptop I recognized as belonging to Scott.

“What?” I said, the best question I could manage in the confusion.

“A suicide note has been found. It seems Mrs. Scott was correct. General Scott killed himself. I have taken it upon myself to ensure that his personal effects are returned to his grieving widow forthwith. I expect your new orders will come through soon enough. In fact, I believe there’s a C-5 heading back to Washington, D.C., in a couple of hours. Perhaps it might suit you to be on it.”

Von Koeppen seemed keen for me to get lost. I thought he was going to offer to drive me out to the plane then and there. But instead he climbed into the front seat of one of the Humvees and slammed the door.

I admit that this unexpected turn had caused me a mental meltdown. If there were flies about, my mouth would probably have been wide enough to catch them. What goddamn suicide note? Where had it come from? Why were we, the investigating team, apparently the last to know about it? And why would a lieutenant general, a three-star, get so involved with the details of this case that he would actually come down here to supervise the removal of potential evidence? And as for the suicide note? Suicide notes are usually only left behind in movies. In the real world, most people who decide to take their own lives do so because they believe their lives are worthless, or that existence is futile. Either way, they are usually of the view that no one will give a shit if they turn off the lights themselves. Leaving a “good-bye, cruel world” note usually doesn’t fit with this state of mind.

“They just marched in and told us to stop work, sir,” said a British voice beside me as I watched the Humvees roll away. It was Peter Bishop. “Just like when you’re taking an exam and your time’s up. Only these people made their point with M-16s.”

“Do we have a copy of this so-called suicide note?” I asked.

“Actually, we have the original,” replied Bishop as he handed me a plastic evidence bag containing an envelope and a single sheet of white unlined paper. Several neat lines were handwritten on it, the sort of writing you’d expect a general to have—careful, controlled.

“Do you mind if I have a look?” asked Masters. I passed it to her and she read it aloud.

“5/17

Harmony,

I don’t want to do this anymore. Things are so complicated on the one hand, but so simple on the other. Where did we go wrong? It wasn’t just Peyton. I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused you, will cause you with my selfishness.

Abe”

Short and sweet, with the whiff of vaudeville about it. And if it was genuine, which I doubted, after what, a quarter-century of marriage, it wasn’t exactly a fond farewell. But then, I’d met the addressee.

“General von Koeppen told us Mrs. Scott found it beside his bed, tucked into one of the books he was reading,” said Bishop. “She was picking up some things and it fell out.”

Suicide. We’d discounted it, and yet here was a note supposedly written in the general’s own hand, heavily implying he intended to leave Planet Earth permanently. My cell rang. “Hello,” I snapped, annoyed, distracted.

“General Gruyere.”

“General,” I said, surprised, sounding like she’d just jumped out from behind a door and given me a scare.

“A sad business. Suicide.”

“Only just heard about it myself, General.” News was sure traveling damn fast between Germany and the U.S. these days.

“You’re Johnny-on-the-spot, Special Agent,” she said. “What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t mind running some tests on the note
allegedly
left by General Scott, ma’am.”

“Allegedly? Didn’t his wife find it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The wife he’d been married to for twenty-four years.”

“The same, ma’am.”

“Don’t you think she’d be able to recognize her own husband’s handwriting by now?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So why the hesitation?”

Good question. Why
was
I quibbling? We had no evidence at all that contradicted the note in my hand—that Scott had taken his own life. It was unlikely, but he
could
have tampered with his own glider. The business with Peyton, the affair with Varvara…Was all that enough to make Scott take a high-altitude dive into the earth? I couldn’t answer those questions with any satisfaction. And so, packing up and heading home just didn’t feel right.

“Special Agent Cooper?”

“I’m not sure, General.”

“Do you suspect foul play?”

Well, did I? “Can I speak honestly, ma’am?”

“You may,” said Gruyere.

“There’s a lot going on here with this case and we, Special Agent Masters and I, we don’t know where it’s going. I have to tell you, ma’am, before this note turned up, several things were looking pretty iffy.”

“Like what?”

I laid it out for her—the autopsy, Peyton, the circle of death that seemed to be closing around General Scott, Captain Veitch, Riga. I also told her about Varvara. When I’d finished, I felt like reminding her that I’d only been on the job here a couple of days. That’s because, in the telling, I knew that what we had was thin.

“Well, Vincent,” she said, unconvinced, using the name only my mother called me by, “you can leave Special Agent Masters to tie up any loose ends. I think it’s fair to say this has stopped being a murder investigation.”

I could sense the relief in Gruyere’s voice. With the exception of the question of the anomalous autopsy and the mysterious Captain Veitch, Masters and I had turned up little. As she saw it, General Scott had ceased to be a critical cog in the well-oiled and highly lethal U.S. war machine. She believed that he had become—for reasons that had the whiff of sex and betrayal about them—a fallible and frightened man. And he had killed himself. No need for a homicide cop to hang around when no homicide had been committed.

In short, she wanted me home.

“No need to hurry,” she added. “Take the evening off and we’ll see you back Stateside tomorrow.”

Gee, thanks.
“Well, that’s all, folks,” I said to Masters after the call was terminated. She’d been close by, frowning, listening to my side of the conversation, not needing the blanks filled in. She could guess. Flight Lieutenant Bishop, though, had been standing out of earshot. He wandered over when he saw that I was no longer speaking into my coat sleeve. “Thanks for all your help, Peter,” I said, putting out my hand.

“So, we’re done, sir?” he said as we shook.

“And dusted,” I replied.

We saluted, and that was the end of my investigation into the death of General Abraham Scott. The Brit wandered back inside the OSI building. Masters would see through the remaining details, just as Gruyere had said.

“Can I give you a lift back to K-town, Vin?” Masters was getting all chummy now that it seemed she’d be getting rid of me.

“Thanks, but no thanks. Have to return the rental, anyway.”

“Look, I know we started out rough,” she said, “but I think I misjudged you.”

“I doubt it,” I said.

She smiled, and I don’t think I ever wanted to kiss a woman as much as I wanted to kiss Anna Masters at that moment, take her in my arms and go into liplock until we both needed a Chap Stick. Perhaps it was the sudden change in my status at Ramstein.

“So, do you believe he killed himself?” she asked.

“Not a chance,” I said.

SIXTEEN

I
t was still light when I arrived at the Pensione Freedom. I’d returned the rental, eaten at a local restaurant that served something vaguely reminiscent of macaroni and cheese, and, by the time I’d finished, I was ready to put the day in the past tense. My tooth was playing up again, probably because there was nothing to distract it, and the codeine-and-clove combo was running out of steam.

The drunken backpackers I’d encountered the day before were giggling and guffawing in the foyer when I went in—stoned, by the look of them. They must have read the sign out front and obviously, although they weren’t U.S. servicemen, were hoping to get laid. I considered spoiling their fantasy and explaining that the only thing getting screwed at this hotel was the English language, but thought better of it. They were on life’s adventure. Let them discover its idiosyncrasies on their own.

I went up to my room, showered, shaved, popped more painkillers, rolled the toothbrush around two-thirds of my mouth, and crawled into bed. I lay there for a time, staring at the ceiling, considering my last conversation with General Gruyere. She wanted hard facts, evidence—things in short supply. I could tell she wasn’t interested in what my gut was telling me. And I had a fair idea why. Harmony Scott’s dear old dad lived just up the road from Andrews AFB. There’d be enormous pressure to get the case of Abraham Scott’s death resolved, and a suicide verdict was neater than murder. And so it goes. I closed my eyes and for some reason the parade of Peyton Scott photos on the workbench and in Scott’s study drifted through my mind.

Many combat vets have a recurring dream that takes them back to events they’d rather forget, only imagination has made the memories even worse, twisting them into a frightening parody of reality. I’m no exception. Mine goes something like this: The sky is dark blue when I look up into it because I’m at altitude, close to space, and the air is as brittle as thin ice. I’ve come in by C-47, a massive twin-rotor helo that’s about as big as a shipping container and slightly less aerodynamic. I’m perched on a hilltop inside the Pakistan border with half a dozen infantrymen. My mission is to plant a pineapple tree, which our pilots will use to help them line up on so that they can bomb a nest of scorpions. (For the pineapple tree, read radio beacon, and those scorpions are Taliban and al-Qaeda insurgents. I don’t know why a pineapple tree, but the scorpions at least make some sense.) I dig the hole required to plant the tree with a pick, breaking through the frozen rocky sand, and the infantry guys are crouched in a ring around me, their weapons pointing out.

The next time I look up, the infantry are being ripped apart by these scorpions, big fuckers, which suddenly morph into ragheads with eight arms and legs wielding steel blades. Heads are parted from shoulders; my men are being quartered by these creatures of subconscious gene-splicing. The helo is circling, trailing a thick gray rope I realize is smoke. It has been hit. I see a man in a hatch firing a machine gun and the glowing red tracers accelerate as they close the distance between us, smashing into these “talibugs.” Some are hit and they roll around squeaking while yellow stuff oozes out of them. I lift up my foot and there’s one squashed into the tread under my shoe. Don’t ask me how this can be, given the man-sized dimensions of the creatures—this is a dream, right?

So anyway, the helo attempts a landing but is driven off by enemy fire. And then suddenly, from a neighboring hillside, a fusillade of incoming lead. I somehow know it’s half a dozen Australian Special Air Service soldiers over there, across the valley. Snipers. They’ve worked their way into a position that gives them a clear line of fire and are picking off the scorpion/Taliban creatures. The helo circles before landing on the hill and the machine-gunner in the hatchway is shot and tumbles, dangling out the back of the aircraft from his safety harness like a tea bag. The C-47 touches down. The four of us still alive and capable of walking drag our dead and wounded to its ramp, shooting as we go. A head comes off the man beside me and rolls away down the hill, gathering speed as if it’s a bowling ball. A scorpion is among us. I turn and empty my clip into the freak show.