A Knife Edge (49 page)

Chalmers shrugged eloquently.

“Who wants it upstairs, Chalmers? Norman? Your boss is determined to do a little empire building, is he?”

The smugness fell away. “I'm through playing twenty questions with you, Cooper.”

I'd hit a nerve. With Tanaka and Boyle dead, Doc Spears was the last link to technology the CIA wanted for reasons I didn't want to think about—a bargaining chip, or leverage, maybe. Or perhaps the intention was to sell it, like Boyle had tried to do. Hell, even as a sewage treatment it was potentially worth billions, wasn't it? The Company could support a whole portfolio of clandestine ops with that kind of money. And with Boyle dead and all evidence under their control, the CIA had Spears exactly where they wanted her. Basically, if she had nuts, they'd be in a vise.

“Did you have anything to do with putting Butler and me together on that mission to Phunal?”

He shook his head. “Can't take credit for that, I'm afraid, though I wish I could. Just a bit of good luck.”

Chalmers turned to the FBI types. He said, “Let's wrap it up here.”

Spears was on her feet and still bewildered, only now she was moving toward the front door as the filling in an FBI sandwich. There were no handcuffs.

“Before you go, Chalmers… that leg of yours. How'd you break it?”

“Leaving now, Cooper,” he said without looking over his shoulder.

“Al Cooke was a big man—past his prime but still powerful. Did he put up more of a struggle than you expected? Is that when you slipped on the
Natusima's
deck, on all those cigarette butts he'd been tossing?”

“Fuck you, Cooper,” said Chalmers, calling on his stock answer to questions he didn't like. He leaned on his cane as he limped toward the door.

I was left alone in the room and even though everyone had gone, it still felt crowded. A movement caught my eye. It was the old doorman, still hovering outside in the hallway. I hoped he wasn't expecting another tip. I called out, “I'll lock up when I leave.”

He nodded, tipped a finger to his cap, and disappeared.

My fingers closed around the small metal box in my jacket pocket, the digital recorder, the one Anna had given me. I took it out and held it up where I could see it, to make sure its beautiful red LED recording light was flashing. I clicked the off switch, picked up my glass of Glen Keith, and took a sip. The ice had melted. Watered-down Scotch reminded me of a bar I used to frequent back in my drinking days. I put the glass down and walked out, closing the door behind me.

T
he newspaper sat on my desk. I supposed Arlen had put it there. The headlines on the front page said something about the President drumming up support in the UN for trade sanctions against Pakistan. Translation: He'd stopped sucking his thumb. Pakistan was making noises about backing away from resuming its nuclear tests. The press still hadn't quite worked out what it was all about, the Pakistani connection to the Transamerica/Four Winds nightmare having so far evaded them, but they were getting closer with every edition.

More important, I noted the Redskins had managed to win five out of six and, in a miracle of no small proportion, scraped through into the playoffs. I gave a hoot and an air punch in support. I flicked through the rest of the paper, killing time, which, as far as I knew, still hadn't been made a crime.

A piece about the CIA getting into hot water with the GAO caught my attention. The story went that one of the CIA's operatives, unnamed for national security reasons, was double-and triple-dipping on his expenses. The GAO had launched a thorough investigation into the expenses of CIA personnel. The investigation so far had revealed the worst offender to be one Willard F. Norman, who'd been fiddling his accounts for years. The article said the guy was finished, washed up. I blinked. With Norman removed, would sharing the conversations recorded in Freddie
Spears's apartment where Chalmers admitted to the CIA's involvement in—at the very least—evidence tampering, serve any useful purpose? The answer was yes. Without Chalmers's admissions, Spears would walk and Tanaka's spirit would keep visiting my dreams.

I gave some more thought to that wallet. I didn't think CIA had anything to do with the bombings of the Transamerica building and the Four Winds apartments. I did, however, believe that they'd put two and two together and come up with the right answer before anyone else had. They knew pretty much from the start that Boyle had been spirited away and that the bombings orchestrated by Pakistan had been used to cover his disappearance. This wasn't a stretch—CIA had more and better intelligence than anyone else, didn't they? CIA just wanted the rest of us to reach the conclusion the Pakistanis wanted us to arrive at because it suited CIA's—or maybe it was just Willard F. Norman's—plans, whatever they were. Why had analysis of Boyle's so-called wallet by independent forensics been denied? Because analysis would instantly have exposed the wallet as a fake, of course.

Unfortunately for CIA, Captain Eugene Metzler and Detective Sergeant Ed Rudenko had gone and made things difficult. Against orders they'd shown me the wallet and the body it was found under. They weren't supposed to have done that. CIA had ordered the SFPD to notify the CIA, and the CIA only, when the wallet CIA itself had planted turned up. The most I was supposed to have obtained was a report with all the blanks filled in. Instead, I'd seen a corpse and the wallet. I'd also seen the way Chalmers arrived to spirit the important evidence away, and instead of answers all I'd been left with were questions. But now every one of those questions was answered.

I turned the page and read a letter to the editor from a guy who'd admitted to spending a small fortune on a shrink to help him get over the reasons for his broken marriage. His ex-wife thought he was oversexed because he wanted it three times a week. Twenty thousand dollars' worth of therapy later, he still
wanted it three times a week. The letter reminded me of the joke about the guy who goes to a shrink: “What do you think of when you see this?” the psychologist says, holding up an inkblot.

“Sex,” says the guy. “Two people going for it doggy-style.”

“How about this one?” says the shrink, showing him another inkblot.

“Oral sex,” says the guy.

After seeing thirty inkblots and getting answers that range from “Three people having sex,” to “A door-to-door insurance salesman getting blown by a customer in the kitchen,” the shrink says, “Do you see sex in everything?”

The guy answers, kind of indignant, “Don't blame me, Doc. You're the one who keeps showing me these goddamn lewd pictures.”

An oldie, but a goodie.

I thought about Haiko Rossi. I wondered how she was getting along. I'd heard she'd been discharged from the hospital the previous week. I'd have visited, only I didn't know which hospital—the Company wasn't keen on giving out that information. I folded the newspaper and dropped it in the trash.

My door suddenly flew open. It was Bradley Chalmers, the aforementioned unnamed double-dipping CIA agent, leaning on his cane, his face the color of a coronary. He yelled, “I don't know how you did it, Cooper, but I came here to tell you that somehow, somewhere, I'm going to fucking get you. I'm going to make it my personal business; you hear me?”

He hobbled out and slammed the door behind him, leaving before I could get in a reply. Just as well. I'd probably only have made it worse. Or better, depending on whose view you took. You can't be buddies with everyone and I was sure on that point we both agreed.

The door opened again. I expected to see Chalmers back for an encore, but it was Arlen. “Who was that guy?” he wanted to know.

“An admirer,” I said.

“Isn't everyone?” he replied. “Um, you got a minute, Cooper? The boss wants to see you.”

“Do you know what about?”

“Yep,” he said, looking sheepish.

“You want to let me in on it?”

“Nope.”

Brigadier General James Wynngate was in a good mood, if the smile on his face was any indication. Last time I saw Wynngate, he'd had a bad cold, but now he was chuckling, sharing a joke with someone hidden by the wall. He glanced up and saw me. “Cooper, come in,” he said, beckoning with a wave of his hand. The smile remained on his face when I walked in. That was unusual. In my experience with senior officers, more often than not the happiness seemed to evaporate when I turned up.

“Major,” said Wynngate as I approached his desk. “You look awful. How you making out?”

“Fine, sir,” I said.

“Good,” he replied, moving right along. “The Office of the Inspector General believes we need to give our ranks a little extra manpower. So … I believe you know the major.” He gestured at the someone I could sense behind my shoulder. “Major Masters has been telling me she's been angling for a transfer to Andrews for six months.”

“Hello, Vin,” said Anna, getting up off the sofa.

I knew the general was saying something, but I wasn't hearing it, the rush of emotions and questions causing serious pile-ups in half a dozen sections of my brain. “Major,” I managed to say. “Good to see you.” It was. And it also wasn't. Making the decision complicated was her lawyer boyfriend, and my time with Lieutenant Colonel Selwyn and the contents of her fridge.

There was a ringing in my ears. No, it was the phone on Wynngate's desk. He bent forward to check the number. “Oh, I have to take this, people. Can you both give me a moment?”

“So …” said Anna as we left his office. “You look pretty good, considering. Arlen gave me a rundown.”

“You've been trying to get a transfer for six months?”

“I put in for one twice and got nowhere. I gave up, pretty
much thinking it was a lost cause. And then, a couple of days ago, it came through. Took me by surprise.”

“What about Germany?”

“I'm a cop, Vin—just like you. There are just as many dead-beats here.”

“What about your JAG lawyer? Is he making the jump too? Or are you going to have a Steinway relationship with him like the one we had?”

“Steinbeck,” said Anna with a reluctant smile. “Um … we're engaged.”

That took a moment to sink in. Even then, I needed to hear it a second time, just to make sure. “You're what?”

Wynngate came out of his office. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No, sir,” said Anna.

“You're engaged?” I repeated.

I didn't get an answer. The general was gesturing at us to come back into his office. He ushered us onto the sofa, closed the door, and sat on the edge of his desk. “Major,” he said, addressing Anna. “I was looking at your record. You worked a case with Cooper.”

“Yes, sir,” said Anna.

“Something's come up and I need a team on it.” He leaned way back, counterbalancing with his feet stretched out in front of him, opened a drawer, and pulled out a sheaf of color photos. He separated the pile and handed a couple each to Anna and me. It took me a moment to make out the subject matter of one of the photos on account of the blood, which was everywhere, and because I had trouble concentrating.
She was engaged?

I glanced at Anna and saw the color drain out of her face as she stared at the prints. Her skin took on the color of boiled chicken. “I-is that what I think it is?” She breathed hard, steeling herself, holding one of the photos up close and then away from her face to get a better, or different, perspective.

“Depends what you think
it
is,” said Wynngate. “Cooper?”

I was still brooding about Anna's intended nuptials.
How long had she known this guy?
I glanced at Wynngate. He was wearing a frown, expecting an answer. I scanned the second photo beneath the first. This one clearly showed a man who had been jointed. Was I seeing this right? Jesus, even the digits of his fingers and toes had been separated. The pieces had then been carefully laid out on the carpet like he was spare parts. I was reminded of one of those plastic kits kids glue together. I kept it simple. “Looks like murder, sir.”

“Yeah,” said the general. “Meet our Air Attaché to Turkey. I want you both on a plane to Istanbul by oh-eight-hundred tomorrow.”