Michael McGarrity - Nothing But Trouble

“I did my own computer search on Carrier last night,” he added. “He is a well-connected, staunch supporter of current American foreign policy and a saber rattler for the war on terrorism. Revealing him to be a member of a smuggling ring during his service in Vietnam would be an embarrassment to both the Pentagon and the White House.”

“International affairs of state do not fall under our purview, Hugh,” Clancy said.

“No, sir, but arresting criminals does.”

Clancy leaned back in his chair. “Indeed. But is there sufficient reason to believe that the allegation about Carrier is well founded?”

“I have no reason to doubt Colonel Brannon,” Fitzmaurice replied. “Am I to do as the Yanks ask, and help them clean up their sticky little mess?”

“I see no need for that,” Clancy said. “We have to consider the Canadian authorities, after all. They have as great a claim on Spalding as the Americans. Take Spalding into custody, interrogate him, but do not charge him without my authorization.”

Fitzmaurice smiled as he pulled himself out of the chair.

“Find a way if you can,” Clancy added, “to make it appear that circumstances beyond our control made us unable to comply with the wishes of the Americans.”

“I’ll make it so.”

Fitzmaurice left Garda Headquarters in a hurry and headed down the motorway to Dun Laoghaire. When he arrived at the villa, the officer on station reported the Coast Guard had spotted Spalding’s boat forty-five minutes out. Fitzmaurice took a deep breath and relaxed. It gave him just enough time to put into play the scheme he’d worked up after leaving Clancy’s office. He sent the officer down to the slip along the beachfront to keep watch for Spalding, called the Canadian embassy, and spoke to Ronald Weber, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police liaison officer.

“Surely you’re acquainted with the George Spalding case,” Fitzmaurice said.

“I am,” replied Weber. “An American army officer requested our assistance in gathering information regarding one of his known associates.”

“Well, I’ve a bit of a sticky situation. Apparently, the Yanks now want us to seize up Spalding and surreptitiously turn him over to them.”

“Do you know where Spalding is?” Weber asked.

“We not only know where he is, we know where he’s hidden the vast fortune of ill-gotten gains your government would very much like to recover. It occurred to me that if the Americans spirit Spalding away, you may never hear of him again.”

“That would be unacceptable,” Weber said.

“However, if you were to participate in the arrest, I think it would be impossible for us to comply with their wishes.”

“Where are you now?” Weber asked.

“Close by,” Fitzmaurice replied. “But first, would you be willing to disavow any knowledge of what I’ve just told you?”

“You’ve told me nothing.”

“Excellent,” Fitzmaurice said. He gave Weber directions to the villa and said, “Be here in thirty minutes.”

After he rang off, Fitzmaurice stood on the cliff and scanned the bay with binoculars. The balmy late-summer day had drawn a vast number of boaters to the water, and leisure craft of every imaginable type were cutting through the gentle waves.

Not at all sure what type of boat he was looking for, he lowered the glasses and thought about Lieutenant Colonel Sara Brannon. He feared that only trouble awaited her upon her return to the States.

George Spalding cut the engines and swung the wheel to turn the boat. When Sapphire eased against the slip and came to a full stop, he moored the yacht fore and aft. For a long moment he stared up at the pale-blue villa and the steep, terraced gardens that stepped down to the narrow spit of shore. From dockside it was hard to imagine that Dublin was so close at hand. Here he’d have seclusion, quick access to the city, and, as George McGuire, the freedom to roam throughout the European Union as he pleased without fear of discovery.

He imagined a very good life ahead. When the house was ready, he’d apply for membership at the yacht club, buy a sweet racing dinghy, and, starting next year, spend his summers sailing in the bay. But in the short term, after he qualified for his final sea master’s certificate, he’d be busy with the house.

The builder had promised it done by the time the gloomy Irish winter set in, and Spalding planned to furnish it with the best that money could buy. He walked up the stone steps to the seaside entrance and unlocked the door. Inside, the musty smell of neglect greeted him. The previous owner had lived in it for fifty years without modernizing the interior. The bare wooden floorboards were scuffed and nicked, the large windows that faced the bay were covered with grime, and faded strips of wallpaper hung loosely below the crown molding that bordered the ceilings.

Spalding passed through the rooms, making mental notes of what kind of furnishings to look for, thinking it might be wise to hire an interior decorator after he returned from his qualifying cruise around Ireland. He heard footsteps on the staircase and turned to see a friendly-looking, smiling man reach the landing.

“Mr. McGuire,” the man said, “a moment of your time, if you please.”

“Who are you?” Spalding demanded, as a second man came up the stairs.

“Detective Inspector Fitzmaurice. And this is Inspector Weber of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Walk slowly in my direction with your hands in plain view.”

Spalding didn’t move. He could feel his stomach twist into a knot, his hands get clammy.

“There are police officers outside,” Fitzmaurice said. “It would be foolish not to do as I say.”

“How did you find me?” Spalding asked as he stepped toward Fitzmaurice and Weber.

“Now, that’s quite the tale to tell,” Fitzmaurice replied as he turned Spalding around and cuffed him.

During the flight from Dublin, Sara prepared herself as best she could for a worst-case scenario. With the stop-loss program in effect, implemented to keep all career active-duty personnel from leaving the service, she knew it was unlikely she would be allowed to resign her commission or apply for early retirement.

Although the special orders she’d received from General Clarke protected her from any official reprimand, there were many other ways the civilian brass could exact a pound of flesh, including the depressing possibility of being posted to a job normally held by an officer of lower rank. It was a surefire way to signal to the general staff that an officer’s career was over.

She deplaned at Ronald Reagan Airport, where an army captain in uniform met her outside of customs and drove her directly to the Pentagon.

“You can leave your luggage in the vehicle, Colonel,” the captain said as he parked in a restricted zone near the entrance, “and I’ll have it delivered to your quarters.”

“Fine,” Sara said, knowing full well her luggage would be searched, the Garda’s initial surveillance reports would be confiscated, and the Spalding case file on her laptop hard drive would be permanently erased. But she’d deliberately made no case notes while in Ireland, so that would limit what the search revealed. As she followed the captain into the building, she wondered if she would be interrogated before the hammer fell on her. Instead, she was escorted to the office suite of Major General Bernard von Braun, the provost marshal general of the army. Predictably, von Braun kept her waiting in the outer office for twenty minutes.

Sara did her best to quell her growing anxiety, but when she was ushered into von Braun’s presence and found General Thatcher there, looking smug and self-satisfied, she lost all hope of salvaging her career.

She snapped to, and von Braun kept her at attention as he stared her down for a long minute. He had a large, protruding lower lip that gave his expression a permanent scowl, and a long, pointed chin. Finally, he gave her the bad news. Her orders to the training branch had been rescinded, her leave was canceled, and she was to report to Fort Belvoir for a five-day orientation course in an intelligence-gathering initiative designed to analyze real-time combat-patrol reports of insurgent activities.