Lee Child - The Enemy

“Who outranks me?” he asked again.

“The Secretary of Defense,” I said.

He nodded. “A nasty little man. A politician. Political parties take campaign contributions. And defense contractors can see the future the same as anyone else.”

I said nothing.

“A lot for you to think about,” the Chief of Staff said. He hefted the big Transformation file back into his drawer. Replaced it on his desktop with a slimmer jacket. It was marked: Argon .

“You know what argon is?” he asked.

“It’s an inert gas,” I said. “They use it in fire extinguishers. It spreads a layer low down over a fire and prevents it from taking hold.”

“That’s why I chose the name. Operation Argon was the plan that moved you people at the end of December.”

“Why did you use Garber’s signature?”

“Like you suggested in another context, I wanted to let nature take its course. MP orders signed by the Chief of Staff would have raised a lot of eyebrows. Everyone would have switched to best behavior. Or smelled a rat and gone deeper underground. It would have made your job harder. It would have defeated my purpose.”

“Your purpose?”

“I wanted prevention, of course. That was the main priority. But I was also curious, Major. I wanted to see who would blink first.”

He handed me the file.

“You’re a special unit investigator,” he said. “By statute the 110th has extraordinary powers. You are authorized to arrest any soldier anywhere, including me, here in my office, if you so choose. So read the Argon file. I think you’ll find it clears me. If you agree, go about your business elsewhere.”

He got up from behind his desk. We shook hands again. Then he walked out of the room. Left me all alone in his office, in the heart of the Pentagon, in the middle of the night.

Thirty minuteslater I got back in the car with Summer. She had kept the motor off to save gas and it was cold inside.

“Well?” she said.

“One crucial error,” I said. “The tug-of-war wasn’t the Vice-Chief and the Chief. It was the Chief himself and the Secretary of Defense.”

“Are you sure?”

I nodded. “I saw the file. There were memos and orders going back nine months. Different papers, different typewriters, different pens, no way to fake all that in four hours. It was the Chief of Staff’s initiative all along, and he was always kosher.”

“So how did he take it?”

“Pretty well,” I said. “Considering. But I don’t think he’ll feel like helping me.”

“With what?”

“With the trouble I’m in.”

“Which is?”

“Wait and see.”

She just looked at me.

“Where now?” she said.

“California,” I said.

The Chevy was runningon fumes by the time we got to National Airport. We put it in the long-term lot and hiked back to the terminal. It was about a mile. There were no shuttle buses running. It was the middle of the night and the place was practically deserted. Inside the terminal we had to roust a clerk out of a back office. I gave him the last of our stolen vouchers and he booked us on the first morning flight to LAX. We were looking at a long wait.

“What’s the mission?” Summer said.

“Three arrests,” I said. “Vassell, Coomer, and Marshall.”

“Charge?”

“Serial homicide,” I said. “Mrs. Kramer, Carbone, and Brubaker.”

She stared at me. “Can you prove it?”

I shook my head. “I know exactly what happened. I know when, and how, and where, and why. But I can’t prove a damn thing. We’re going to have to rely on confessions.”

“We won’t get them.”

“I’ve gotten them before,” I said. “There are ways.”

She flinched.

“This is the army, Summer,” I said. “It ain’t a quilting bee.”

“Tell me about Carbone and Brubaker.”

“I need to eat,” I said. “I’m hungry.”

“We don’t have any money,” Summer said.

Most places had metal grilles down over their doors anyway. Maybe they would feed us on the plane. We carried our bags over to a seating area next to a twenty-foot window that had nothing but black night outside. The seats were long vinyl benches with fixed armrests every two feet to stop people from lying down and sleeping.

“Tell me,” she said.

“It’s still a series of crazy long shots, one after the other.”

“Try me.”

“OK, start over with Mrs. Kramer. Why did Marshall go to Green Valley?”

“Because it was the obvious first place to try.”

“But it wasn’t. It was almost the obvious last place to try. Kramer had hardly been there in five years. His staff must have known that. They’d traveled with him many times before. Yet they made a fast decision and Marshall went straight there. Why?”

“Because Kramer had told them that’s where he was going?”

“Correct,” I said. “He told them he was with his wife to conceal the fact he was actually with Carbone. But then, why would he have to tell them anything?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because there’s a category of person you have to tell something.”

“Who?”

“Suppose you’re a rich guy traveling with your mistress. You spend one night apart, you have to tell her something. And if you tell her you’re dropping in on your wife purely to keep up appearances, she has to buy it. Maybe she doesn’t like it, but she has to buy it. Because it’s expected occasionally. It’s all part of the deal.”

“Kramer didn’t have a mistress. He was gay.”

“He had Marshall.”

“No,” she said. “No way.”

I nodded. “Kramer was two-timing Marshall. Marshall was his main squeeze. They were in a relationship. Marshall wasn’t an intelligence officer but Kramer appointed him one anyway to keep him close. They were an item. But Kramer had a wandering eye. He met Carbone somewhere and started seeing him on the side. So on New Year’s Eve Kramer told Marshall he was going to see his wife and Marshall believed him. Like the rich guy’s mistress would. That’s why Marshall went to Green Valley. In his heart he knew for sure Kramer had gone there. He was the one person in the world who felt he would know for sure. It was Marshall who told Vassell and Coomer where Kramer was. But Kramer was lying to him. Like people do in relationships.”

Summer was quiet for a long moment. She just stared out at the night.

“Does this affect what happened there?” she said.

“I think it does, slightly,” I said. “I think Mrs. Kramer talked to Marshall. She must have recognized him from her time on-post in Germany. She probably knew all about him and her husband. Generals’ wives are usually pretty smart. Maybe she even knew there was a second guy in the picture. Maybe she was pissed off and taunted Marshall about it. Like, You can’t keep your man either, right? Maybe Marshall got mad and lashed out. Maybe that’s why he didn’t tell Vassell and Coomer right away. Because the collateral damage wasn’t just about the burglary itself. It was also about an argument. That’s why I said Mrs. Kramer wasn’t killed just for the briefcase. I think partly she was killed because she taunted a jealous guy who lost his temper.”

“This is all just guesswork.”

“Mrs. Kramer is dead. That isn’t a guess.”

“The rest of it is.”

“Marshall is thirty-one, never been married.”

“That doesn’t prove a thing.”

“I know,” I said. “I know. There’s no proof anywhere. Proof is a scarce commodity right now.”

Summer was quiet for a beat. “Then what happened?”

“Then Vassell and Coomer and Marshall started the hunt for the briefcase in earnest. They had an advantage over us because they knew they were looking for a man, not a woman. Marshall flew back to Germany on the second and searched Kramer’s office and his quarters. He found something that led to Carbone. Maybe a diary, or a letter, or a photograph. Or a name or a number in an address book. Whatever. He flew back on the third and they made a plan and they called Carbone. They blackmailed him. They set up a swap for the next night. The briefcase for the letter or the photograph or whatever it was. Carbone accepted the deal. He was happy to because he didn’t want exposure and anyway he had already called Brubaker with the details of the agenda. He had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Maybe he’d been through the process before. Maybe more than once. Poor guy had been gay in the army for sixteen years. But this time it didn’t work out for him. Because Marshall killed him during the exchange.”