Michael McGarrity - Nothing But Trouble

“From Fort Belvoir you will be deployed as part of a tactical survey team to Iraq,” von Braun said, “and attached to a brigade. You are to report to Fort Belvoir on Monday morning. Until then I’m granting you immediate leave so you can put your affairs in order.”

“Permission to speak, sir,” Sara said.

“Go ahead.”

“Upon deployment, am I to have command of the tactical survey team?”

“No, you are not, Colonel,” von Braun replied. “You will serve solely as a senior analyst. General Thatcher has arranged to have your personal items packed and ready for you to remove from the premises.”

“Sir, I request relief from this assignment and permission to either resign my commission or apply for early retirement.”

“Denied, Colonel,” von Braun snapped, “and for the record, be advised that your investigation of George Spalding has been classified as top secret. Any breach on your part of the National Security Act will be cause for disciplinary action. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Sara glanced at Thatcher, who couldn’t control the pleasure that danced in his eyes. The tin soldier had won, and she didn’t have another damn thing to lose except her pride. She snapped her gaze back to von Braun. “Permission to speak, General.”

“Go ahead.”

“Never mind,” Sara said. “I think I’ve been bullied enough for one day.”

Von Braun’s face turned beet red. “Dismissed,” he thundered.

Sara did an about-face and left. At her cubicle she got an ice-cold reception. Officers she’d worked with for three years averted their eyes or looked down at their desks as she walked by. She checked her cubicle to make sure all personal items had been removed and looked through the packed cardboard box to see if anything was missing. All her files had been taken away and the cabinets and desk drawers were empty.

Carrying the cardboard box, she left without saying a word. At the end of the hallway a civilian employee met her and took her to personnel, where she was officially cleared from the Pentagon and received her new orders. Outside the personnel office General Clarke’s aide caught up with her at the elevators. A congenial man by nature, he seemed morose, almost despondent, when he asked if she had a few minutes to meet with the general.

She followed along, wondering what additional bad news would be dropped in her lap. The general came around the desk when she entered his office and asked her to sit, something he rarely did with subordinates. He arranged himself in a facing leather chair, the big window behind him providing a clear view of a Pentagon parking lot, and sadly shook his head.

“Nasty business,” he said through tight lips.

“Yes, sir.”

“I did my best to stop this, Colonel.”

“There’s no need to explain, sir.”

“There damn well is,” Clarke replied gruffly. “You were following my orders.”

“You made me aware of the risks, sir.”

“I want you to know that your new assignment was my doing. But before you jump to any conclusions, understand this: If I hadn’t intervened, you were going to be buried under Thatcher’s thumb for the next two years and ground into mincemeat. One way or another you would have been cashiered from the service with the loss of all benefits. The Iraq assignment gets you out of here and gives you the chance to retire with honor once you have your twenty in.”

“At this point I could care less about that, sir.”

“Understood, Colonel. You are not alone in your feelings about the current conduct of military affairs in our country. I’ve been asked to hang up my soldier’s suit and retire. I’ll be leaving at the end of the month.”

“Sir, if you’ll excuse me, that sucks.”

“Yes, it does.” Clarke smiled. “You would have made a fine general officer, Colonel. But unfortunately, like me, you’re one lousy bureaucrat.”

“Its been an honor to have known you, sir, and to have served with you.”

“Likewise, Colonel.” Clarke stood. “When you get to Iraq, you’ll be assigned to Slam Norton’s brigade. You won’t have to worry about any political booby traps with him. He’s a good man, a stud officer, and a first-rate leader. Do your job well and he’ll make sure you’ll get a decent posting when you rotate back home.”

Sara got to her feet. “Thank you, sir.”

“Be careful and stay safe, Colonel,” Clarke said, as he stepped forward and shook Sara’s hand.

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”

Clarke’s aide, who had waited for her in the outer office, took Sara through security, and she caught the Metro with her thoughts in a jumble. What should she do with the Arlington house? Rent it? Put it on the market? There wasn’t time to do anything. Kerney would have to deal with it.

What would she tell Kerney? Sorry, but I’m going to Iraq and I can’t tell you what I did to screw things up. What should they do about Patrick? What would be best for him? What would the upheaval do to him?

She got off the Metro at the Arlington station, carrying the cardboard box, feeling that her world had fallen into ruins around her feet. She wasn’t about to let herself cry, although she could feel the wetness stinging at the corners of her eyes.

Because of Sara Brannon, Hugh Fitzmaurice would forevermore think of the interrogation rooms at Dublin Castle as the dungeon. It was there that Spalding waited under the watchful eye of an officer while Fitzmaurice brought RCMP Inspector Weber up to date on the investigation. Weber, an old-school peeler who paid attention to detail, took his time going through the book of evidence Fitzmaurice had assembled.

“What about the Swiss account Spalding has been siphoning money into?” Weber asked when he’d finished.

“Colonel Brannon thought it might belong to Carrier,” Fitzmaurice replied. “But in fact the account is owned by Spalding’s ex-wife. Which means, of course, it could rightfully belong to your government.”

“Excellent,” Weber replied, his gray eyes smiling. “I’ll start the process with the Swiss to learn the particulars. Will you be bringing charges against Spalding?”

“I’d like to use that possibility as a bargaining chip with him,” Fitzmaurice said. “If your embassy made an official request to Garda Headquarters not to do so, it would most probably be granted without delay.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I’ll make a telephone call.”

Weber stroked his chin. “What if the embassy also asked for an expedited extradition hearing on Spalding?”

“We could help to hurry it along.”

“How much time can you give me?” Weber asked.

“I am obligated to inform Interpol and the Americans that Spalding is in custody, but I can dawdle about it until the end of the day.”

“I’ll start the ball rolling,” Weber said, eyeing Fitzmaurice speculatively. “You’re going after this Carrier fellow, aren’t you?”

“It seems a reasonable thing to do.”

When Weber left, Fitzmaurice dialed Deputy Commissioner Noel Clancy’s private line and said, “On behalf of the Canadian government and with their assistance, I’ve taken George Spalding into custody.”

“Well done,” Clancy replied. “Have you informed the Americans?”

“I’ve nary had time to catch my breath. The Canadians would be most pleased if we didn’t bring charges against Mr. Spalding. It would serve to hasten his extradition. Their embassy should be calling soon to discuss the matter.”

“How unfortunate for the Americans that the Canadians became involved. Very good. I’ll inform the commissioner and recommend he take a decision promptly. How long will it be before you catch your breath?”

“Surely not before the end of the day,” Fitzmaurice replied. “I’ve yet to interview Mr. Spalding.”