The Enemy (9 page)

"There wasn't one," Vassell said.

"I'm sure there was," I said. "This is the army. It's not the Actors" Studio. We don't do free improvisation sessions." There was a pause.

"There was nothing on paper," Coomer said. "I told you, major, it was no big deal."

"How did you spend your day today?"

"Chasing rumours about the general."

"How did you get down here from D.C.?"

"We have a car and a driver on loan from the Pentagon."

"You checked out of the Jefferson."

"Yes, we did."

"So your bags are in the Pentagon car."

"Yes, they are."

"Where is the car?"

"Waiting outside your post headquarters."

"It's not my post headquarters," I said. "I'm here on temporary detachment."

I turned to Summer and told her to go fetch their briefcases from the car. They got all outraged, but they knew they couldn't stop me doing it. Civilian notions about unreasonable search and seizure and warrants and probable cause stop at an army post main gate. I watched their eyes while Summer was gone. They were annoyed, but they weren't worried. So either they were telling the truth about the Irwin conference or they had already ditched the relevant paperwork. But I went through the motions anyway.

Summer got back carrying two identical briefcases. They were exactly like the one Kramer had in his silver-framed photographs. Staffers kiss up in all kinds of ways.

I searched through them on my desk. I found passports, plane tickets, travel vouchers and itineraries in both of them.

But no agendas for Fort Irwin.

"Sorry for the inconvenience," I said.

"Happy now, son?" Vassell said.

"Kramer's wife is dead, too," I said. "Did you know that?"

I watched them carefully, and I saw that they didn't know.

They stared at me and stared at each other and started to get pale and upset.

"How?" Vassell said.

"When?" Coomer said.

"Last night," I said. "She was a homicide victim."

"Where?"

"In her house. There was an intruder."

"Do we know who it was?"

"No, we don't. It's not our case. It's a civilian jurisdiction."

"What was it? A burglary?"

"It maybe started out that way."

They said nothing more. Summer and I walked them out to the sidewalk in front of post headquarters and watched them climb into their Pentagon car. It was a Mercury Grand Marquis, a couple of model-years newer than Mrs Kramer's big old boat, and black rather than green. Their driver was a tall guy in BDUs. He had subdued-order badges on and I couldn't make out his name or his rank in the dark. But he didn't look like an enlisted man. He U-turned smoothly across the empty road and drove Vassell and Coomer away. We watched his tail lights disappear north, through the main gate, and away into the darkness beyond.

"What do you think?" Summer said.

"I think they're full of shit," I said.

"Important shit or regular flag-rank shit?"

"They're lying," I said. "They're uptight, they're lying, and they're stupid. Why am I worried about Kramer's briefcase?"

"Sensitive paperwork," she said. "Whatever he was carrying to California."

I nodded. "They just defined it for me. It's the conference agenda itself."

"You're sure there was one?"

"There's always an agenda. And it's always on paper. There's a paper agenda for everything. You want to change the dog food in the K-9 kennels, you need forty-seven separate meetings with forty-seven separate paper agendas. So there was one for Irwin, that's for damn sure. It was completely stupid to say there wasn't. If they've got something to hide, they should have just said it's too secret for me to see."

"Maybe the conference really wasn't important."

"That's bullshit, too. It was very important."

"Why?"

"Because a two-star general was going. And a one-star. And because it was New Year's Eve, Summer. Who flies on New Year's Eve and spends the night in a lousy stopover hotel? And this year in Germany was a big deal. The Wall is coming down. We won, after forty-five years. The parties must have been incredible. Who would miss them for something unimportant? To have gotten those guys on a plane on New Year's Eve, this Irwin thing had to be some kind of a very big deal."

"They were upset about Mrs Kramer. More than about Kramer himself."

I nodded. "Maybe they liked her."

"They must have liked Kramer too."

"No, he's just a tactical problem for them. It's an unsentimental business, up there at their level. They hitched themselves to him, and now he's dead, and they're worrying about where that leaves them."

"Ready for promotion, maybe."

"Maybe," I said. "But if Kramer turns out to be an embarrassment, they could go down with him."

"Then they should be reassured. You promised them a coverup."

There was something prim in her voice. Like she was suggesting I shouldn't have promised them any such thing.

"We protect the army, Summer," I said. "Like family. That's what we're for." Then I paused. "But did you notice they didn't shut up after that? They should have taken the hint. Coverup requested, cover-up promised. Asked and answered, mission accomplished."

"They wanted to know where his stuff was."

"Yes," I said. "They did. And you know what that means? It means they're looking for Kramer's briefcase too. Because of the agenda. Kramer's copy is the only one still outside of their direct control. They came down here to check if I had it."

Summer looked in the direction their car had gone. I could still smell its exhaust in the air. An acid tang from the catalyst.

"How do civilian medics work?" I asked her. "Suppose you're my wife."

"Call nine-one-one. Heart attack."

"And then what happens?"

"The ambulance shows up. Takes you to the emergency room."

"And let's say I'm DOA when I get there. Where would you be?"

"I would have ridden to the hospital with you."

"And where would my briefcase be?"

"At home," she said. "Wherever you left it." Then she paused.

"What? You think someone went to Mrs Kramer's house last night looking for the briefcase?"

"It's a plausible sequence," I said. "Someone hears that he's dead from a heart attack, assumes he was pronounced in the ambulance or the emergency room, assumes whoever he was with would have accompanied him, goes down there expecting to find an empty house with a briefcase in it."

"But he was never there."

"It was a reasonable first try."

"You think it was Vassell and Coomer?"

I said nothing.

"That's crazy," Summer said. "They don't look the type."

"Don't let looks fool you. They're Armored Branch. They've trained all their lives to roll right over anything that gets in their way. But I don't think the timing works for them. Let's say Garber called XII Corps in Germany at twelve fifteen, earliest. Then let's say XII Corps called the hotel back here in the States at twelve thirty, earliest. Green Valley is seventy minutes from D.C. and Mrs Kramer died at two o'clock. That would have given them a twenty-minute margin to react, maximum. They were just in from the airport, so they didn't have a car with them, and it would have taken time to get hold of one. And they certainly didn't have a crowbar with them. Nobody travels with a crowbar in their luggage, just in case. And I doubt if the Home Depot was open, after midnight on New Year's Eve."

"So someone else is out there looking?"

"We need to find that agenda," I said. "We need to nail this thing down."

I sent Summer away to do three things: first, list all female personnel at Fort Bird with access to their own Humvees, and second, list any of them who might have met Kramer at Fort Irwin in California, and third, contact the Jefferson Hotel in D.C. and get Vassell and Coomer's exact check-in and checkout times, plus details of all their incoming and outgoing phone calls. I went back to my office and filed the note from Garber and spread the note from my brother on the blotter and dialled the number. He picked up on the first ring. "Hey, Joe," I said.

"Jack?"

"What?"

"I got a call."

"Who from?"

"Mom's doctor," he said. "About what?"

"She's dying."

FIVE

I hung up with joe and called Garber's office. He wasn't in. So I left a message detailing my travel plans and saying I would be out for seventy-two hours. I didn't give a reason. Then I hung up again and sat at my desk, numb. Five minutes later Summer came in. She had a sheaf of motor pool paper with her. I guess she planned on compiling her Humvee list there and then, right in front of me.

"I have to go to Paris," I said.

"Paris, Texas?" she said. "Or Paris, Kentucky, or Paris, Tennessee?"

"Paris, France," I said.

"Why?"

"My mother is sick."

"Your mother lives in France?"

"Paris," I said. "Why?"

"Because she's French."

"Is it serious?"

"Being French?"

"No, whatever she's sick with."

I shrugged. "I don't really know. But I think so."

"I'm very sorry."

"I need a car," I said. "I need to get to Dulles, right now."

"I'll drive you," she said. "I like driving."

She left the paperwork on my desk and went to retrieve the Chevrolet we had used before. I went to my quarters and packed an army duffel with one of everything from my closet. Then I put on my long coat. It was cold, and I didn't expect Europe was going to be any warmer. Not in early January. Summer brought the car to my door. She kept it at thirty until we were off post. Then she lit it up like a rocket and headed north. She was quiet for a spell. She was thinking. Her eyelids were moving.

"We should tell the Green Valley cops," she said. "If we think Mrs Kramer was killed because of the briefcase."

I shook my head. "Telling them won't bring her back. And if she was killed because of the briefcase we'll find whoever did it from our end."

"What do you want me to do while you're gone?"

"Work the lists," I said. "Check the gate log. Find the woman, find the briefcase, put the agenda in a very safe place. Then check on who Vassell and Coomer called from the hotel. Maybe they sent an errand boy out into the night."

"You think that's possible?"

"Anything's possible."

"But they didn't know where Kramer was."

"That's why they tried the wrong place."

"Who would they have sent?"

"Bound to be someone who has their interests close to his heart."

"OK," she said.

"And find out who was driving them just now."

"OK," she said.

We didn't speak again, all the way to Dulles. I met my brother Joe in the line at the Air France ticket desk. He had booked seats for both of us on the first morning flight. Now he was lining up to pay for them. I hadn't seen him for more than three years. The last time we had been together was at our father's funeral. Since then we had gone our separate ways.

"Good morning, little brother," he said.

He was wearing an overcoat and a suit and a tie, and he looked pretty good in them. He was two years older than me, and he always had been, and he always would be. As a kid I used to study him and think, that's how I'll look when I grow up. Now I found myself doing it again. From a distance we could have been mistaken for each other. Standing side by side it was obvious that he was an inch taller and a little slighter than me. But mostly it was obvious that he was a little older than me. It looked like we had started out together, but he had seen the future first, and it had aged him, and worn him down.

"How are you, Joe?" I said.

"Can't complain."

"Busy?"

"Like you wouldn't believe."

I nodded and said nothing. Truth is, I didn't know exactly what he did for a living. He had probably told me. It wasn't a national secret or anything. It was something to do with the Treasury Department. He had probably told me all the details and I probably hadn't listened. Now it seemed too late to ask.

"You were in Panama," he said. "Operation Just Cause, right?"

"Operation Just Because," I said. "That's what we called it."

"Just because what?"

"Just because we could. Just because we all had to have something to do. Just because we've got a new Commander in Chief who wants to look tough."

"Is it going well?"

"It's like Notre Dame against the Tumble Tots. How else is it going to go?"

"You got Noriega yet?"

"Not yet."

"So why did they post you back here?"

"We took twenty-seven thousand guys," I said. "It wasn't down to me personally."

He smiled briefly and then got that narrow-eyed look I remembered from childhood. It meant he was figuring out some pedantic and convoluted line of reasoning. But we got to the head of the line before he had time to tell me about it. He took out his credit card and paid for the flights. Maybe he expected me to pay him back for mine, maybe he didn't. He didn't make it clear either way.

"Let's get coffee now," he said.

He was probably the only other human on the planet who liked coffee as much as I did. He started drinking it when he was six. I copied him immediately. I was four. Neither of us has stopped since. The Reacher brothers' need for caffeine makes heroin addiction look like an amusing little take-it-or-leave-it sideline.

We found a place with a W-shaped counter snaking through it. It was three-quarters empty. It was harshly lit with fluorescent tubes and the vinyl on the stools was sticky. We sat side by side and rested our forearms on the counter in the universal pose of early-morning travellers everywhere. A guy in an apron put mugs in front of us without asking. Then he filled them with coffee from a flask. The coffee smelled fresh. The place was changing over from the all-night service to the breakfast menu. I could hear eggs frying.

"What happened in Panama?" Joe asked.

"To me?" I said. "Nothing."

"What were your orders there?"

"Supervision."

"Of what?"

"Of the process," I said. "The Noriega thing is supposed to look judicial. He's supposed to stand trial here in the States. So we're supposed to grab him up with some kind of formality. Some way that will look acceptable when we get him in a courtroom."

"You were going to read him his Miranda rights?"

"Not exactly. But it had to be better than some cowboy thing."

"Did you screw up?"

"I don't think so."

"Who replaced you?"

"Some other guy."

"Rank?"

"Same," I said.

"A rising star?"

I sipped my coffee. Shook my head. "I never met him before. But he seemed like a bit of an asshole to me."

Joe nodded and picked up his mug. Said nothing.

"What?" I said.

"Bird's not a small post," he said. "But it's not real big, either, right? What are you working on?"

"Right now? Some two-star died and I can't find his briefcase."

"Homicide?"

I shook my head. "Heart attack."

"When?"

"Last night."

"After you got there?"

I said nothing.

"You sure you didn't screw up?" Joe said.

"I don't think so," I said again.

"So why did they pull you out? One day you're supervising the Noriega process, and the next day you're in North Carolina with nothing to do? And you'd still have nothing to do if the general hadn't died."

"I got orders," I said. "You know how it is. You have to assume they know what they're doing."

"Who signed the orders?"

"I don't know."

"You should find out. Find out who wanted you at Bird badly enough to pull you out of Panama and replace you with an asshole. And you should find out why."

The guy in the apron refilled our mugs. Shoved plastic menus in front of us.

"Eggs," Joe said. "Over well, bacon, toast."

"Pancakes," I said. "Egg on the top, bacon on the side, plenty of syrup."

The guy took the menus back and went away and Joe turned around on his stool and sat back-to with his legs stretched way out into the aisle.

"What exactly did her doctor say?" I asked him.

He shrugged. "Not very much. No details, no diagnosis. No real information. European doctors aren't very good with bad news. They hedge around it all the time. Plus, there's a privacy issue, obviously."

"But we're headed over there for a reason."

He nodded. "He suggested we might want to come. And then he hinted that sooner might be better than later."

"What is she saying?"

"That it's all a lot of fuss about nothing. But that we're always welcome to visit."

We finished our breakfast and I paid for it. Then Joe gave me my ticket, like a transaction. I was sure he earned more than me, but probably not enough to make an airline ticket proportional to a plate of eggs and bacon with toast on the side. But I took the deal. We got off our stools and got our bearings and headed for the check-in counter. "Take your coat off," he said.

"Why?"

"I want the clerk to see your medal ribbons," he said. "Military action going on overseas, we might get an upgrade."

"It's Air France," I said. "France isn't even a military member of NATO."

"The check-in clerk will be American," he said. "Try it."

I shrugged out of my coat. Folded it over my arm and walked sideways so the left of my chest stuck out forward.

"OK now?" I said.

"Perfect," he said, and smiled.

I smiled back. Left-to-right on the top row I wear the Silver Star, the Defense Superior Service Medal, and the Legion of Merit. Second row has the Soldier's Medal, the Bronze Star, and my Purple Heart. The bottom two rows are the junk awards. I won all of the good stuff purely by accident and none of it means very much to me. Using it to get an upgrade out of an airline clerk is about what it's good for. But Joe liked the top two rows. He served five years in Military Intelligence and didn't get past the junk.

We made it to the head of the line and he put his passport and ticket on the counter along with a Treasury Department ID. Then he stepped behind my shoulder. I put my own passport and ticket down. He nudged me in the back. I turned a little sideways and looked at the clerk.

"Can you find us something with legroom?" I asked him.

He was a small man, middle-aged, tired. He looked up at us. Together we measured almost thirteen feet tall and weighed about four hundred fifty pounds. He studied the Treasury ID and looked at my uniform and pattered on his keyboard and came up with a forced smile.

"We'll seat you gentlemen up front," he said.

Joe nudged me in the back again and I knew he was smiling.

We were in the last row of the first-class cabin. We were talking, but we were avoiding the obvious subject. We talked about music, and then politics. We had another breakfast. We drank coffee. Air France makes pretty good coffee in first class.

"Who was the general?" Joe asked.

"Guy called Kramer," I said. "An Armored commander in Europe."

"Armored? So why was he at Bird?"

"He wasn't on the post. He was at a motel thirty miles away. Rendezvous with a woman. We think she ran away with his briefcase."

"Civilian?"

I shook my head. "We think she was an officer from Bird. He was supposed to be overnighting in D.C. on his way to California for a conference."

"That's a three-hundred-mile detour."

"Two hundred and ninety-eight."