The Enemy (45 page)

"I don't know."

"Because there's a category of person you have to tell something."

"Who?"

"Suppose you're a rich guy travelling 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 him 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."

"Marshall? Marshall wasn't even there."

"He was," I said. "You figured it out yourself. You told me about it when we were leaving the post to go see Detective Clark about the crowbar. Remember? When Willard was chasing me on the phone? You made a suggestion."

"What suggestion?"

"Marshall was in the trunk of the car, Summer. Coomer was driving, Vassell was in the passenger seat, and Marshall was in the trunk. That's how they got past the gate. Then they backed in at the far end of the O Club lot. Backed in, because Coomer popped the trunk before he got out. Marshall held the lid down low, but they still needed concealment. Then Vassell and Coomer went inside and started to build their cast-iron alibis. Meanwhile Marshall waits almost two hours in the trunk, holding the lid, until it's all quiet. Then he climbs out and he drives off. That's why the first night patrol remembers the car and the second patrol doesn't. The car was there, and then it wasn't. So Marshall picks Carbone up at some prearranged spot and they drive out to the woods together. Carbone is holding the briefcase. Marshall opens the trunk and gives Carbone an envelope or something. Carbone turns away into the moonlight to check it's what he's been promised. Even a guy as cautious as a Delta soldier would do that. His whole career is on the line. Behind him Marshall comes out with the crowbar and hits him. Not just because of the briefcase. He's going to get the briefcase anyway. The exchange is working. And Carbone can't afford to talk afterwards.

"Marshall hits him partly because he's mad at him. He's jealous of his time with Kramer. That's part of why he kills him. Then he retrieves the envelope and grabs the briefcase. Throws them both in the trunk. We know the rest. He's known all along what he was going to do and he's come equipped for the misdirection. Then he drives back to the post buildings and ditches the crowbar on the way. He parks the car in the original slot and gets back in the trunk. Vassell and Coomer come out of the 0 Club and they drive away."

"And then what?"

"They drive, and they drive. They're excited and uptight. But they know by then what their blue-eyed boy did to Mrs Kramer. So they're also nervous and worried. They can't find anyplace they can stop where they can let a man who may or may not be bloodstained out of the trunk. First really safe place they find is the rest area an hour north. They park far away from other cars again and let Marshall out. Marshall hands over the briefcase. They resume their journey. They spend sixty seconds searching the briefcase and then they sling it out the window a mile further on."

Summer sat quiet. She was thinking. Her lower lids were jacking upward a fraction at a time.

"It's just a theory," she said.

"Can you explain what we know any other way?" She thought about it. Then she shook her head. "What about Brubaker?" she said.

A voice came out of speakers in the ceiling and told us our flight was ready to board. We picked up our bags and shuffled into line. It was still full dark outside. I counted the other passengers. Hoped there would be some spare seats, so there would be some spare breakfasts. I was very hungry. But it didn't look good. It was going to be a pretty full flight. I guessed LA's pull was pretty strong, in January, when you lived in D.C. I guessed people didn't need much of an excuse to schedule meetings out there.

"What about Brubaker?" Summer said again.

We shuffled down the aisle and found our seats. We had a window and a middle. The aisle was already occupied by a nun. She was old. I hoped her hearing was shot. I didn't want her eavesdropping. She moved and let us in. I made Summer sit next to her. I sat by the window. Buckled my belt. Kept quiet for a moment. Watched the airport scene outside. Busy guys were doing things under floodlights.

Then we pushed back from the gate and started taxiing. There was no take-off queue. We were in the air within two minutes.

"I'm not sure about Brubaker," I said. "How did he get in the picture? Did they call him or did he call them? He knew about the agenda thirty minutes into New Year's Day. A proactive guy like that, maybe he tried a little pressure of his own. Or maybe Vassell and Coomer were just assuming a worst-case scenario. They might have figured a senior NCO like Carbone would have called his boss. So I'm not sure who called who first. Maybe they all called each other at the same time. Maybe there were mutual threats or maybe Vassell and Coomer suggested they could all work together to find a way where everybody benefits."

"Would that be likely?"

"Who knows?" I said. "These integrated units are going to be weird. Brubaker was certainly going to be popular, because he's already into weird warfare. So maybe Vassell and Coomer conned him into thinking they were looking for a strategic alliance. Whatever, they all set up a rendezvous for late on the fourth. Brubaker must have specified the location. He must have driven past that spot plenty of times, back and forth from Bird to his golf place. And he must have been feeling confident. He wouldn't have let Marshall sit behind him if he was worried."

"How do you know it was Marshall behind him?"

"Protocol," I said. "He's a colonel talking to a general and another colonel. He'll have put Vassell in the front seat and Coomer in the back seat on the passenger's side so he could turn and see them both. Marshall could be out of sight and out of mind. He was only a major. Who needs him?"

"Did they intend to kill him? Or did it just happen?"

"They intended to, for sure. They had a plan ready° A faraway place to dump the body, heroin that Marshall picked up on his overnight in Germany, a loaded gun. So we were right, after all, but purely by accident. The same people that killed Carbone drove straight out the main gate and killed Brubaker. Hardly touched the brakes."

"Double misdirection," Summer said. "The heroin thing, and dumping him to the south, not the north."

"Amateur hour," I said. "The Columbia medics must have spotted the lividity thing and the muffler burns immediately. Pure dumb luck for Vassell and Coomer that the medics didn't tell us immediately. Plus, they left Brubaker's car up north. That was serious brain fade."

"They must have been tired. Stress, tension, all that driving. They came down from Arlington Cemetery, went back up to Smithfield, came back down to Columbia, went back up to Dulles. Maybe eighteen hours straight. No wonder they made an occasional mistake. But they'd have gotten away with it if you hadn't ignored Willard."

I nodded. Said nothing.

"It's a very weak case," Summer said. "In fact it's incredibly weak. It isn't even circumstantial. It's just pure speculation."

"Tell me about it. That's why we need confessions."

"You need to think very carefully before you confront anyone. A case as weak as this, it could be you that goes to jail. For harassment."

I heard activity behind me and the stewardess came into view with the breakfasts. She handed one to the nun, and one to Summer, and one to me. It was a pitiful meal. There was cold juice and a hot ham and cheese sandwich. That was all. Coffee later, I assumed. I hoped. I finished everything in about thirty seconds. Summer took about thirty-one. But the nun didn't touch her tray. She just left it right there in front of her. I nudged Summer in the ribs.

"Ask her if she's going to eat that," I said.

"I can't," she said.

"She's got a charitable obligation," I said. "It's what being a nun is all about."

"I can't," she said again.

"You can."

She sighed. "OK, in a minute."

But she blew it. She waited too long. The nun opened the foil and started to eat the sandwich.

"Damn," I said.

"Sorry," Summer said.

I looked at her. "What did you say?"

"I said I'm sorry."

"No, before that. The last thing you said."

"I said I can't just ask her."

I shook my head. "No, before the breakfasts came."

"I said it's a very weak case."

"Before that."

I saw her rewind the tape in her head. "I said Vassell and Coomer would have gotten away with it if you hadn't ignored Willard."

I nodded. Thought about that fact for a minute. Then I closed my eyes. I opened them again in Los Angeles. The plane touched down and the thump and screech of tyres on tarmac woke me up. Then the reverse thrust screamed and the brakes jerked me forward against my belt. It was first light outside. The dawn looked brown, like it often did there. A voice on the PA told us it was seven o'clock in the morning in California. We had been heading west for two solid days and each twenty-four-hour period was averaging more like twenty-eight. I had slept for a while and I didn't feel tired. But I still felt hungry.

We shuffled off the plane and walked down to the baggage claim. That was where drivers met people. I scanned around. Saw that Calvin Franz hadn't sent anyone. He had come himself instead. I was happy about that. He was a welcome sight. I felt like we were going to be in good hands.

"I've got news for you," he said.