Nothing But Trouble

by Michael McGarrity

  “You’re missing one of America’s great writers. He wrote a trilogy set here that reads like the work of a native son. Would you like me to write the titles down for you?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Enough about books,” Fitzmaurice said as he pushed his empty fruit bowl away, “otherwise we’ll be sitting at this table long into the wee hours of the night.”

  After the table had been cleared, Sean retreated to his room to study, and Sara helped Edna scrape and stack the dishes in the galley kitchen. As they stood at the sink, Edna turned to her and said, “I do hope you don’t think I invited you over to see if my husband was planning to take you away on a dirty little weekend.”

  “I think he’ll be glad to see the last of me,” Sara replied with a smile.

  “You’re welcome in this house anytime you decide to return.”

  Impulsively, Sara hugged Edna as though she were an old and dear friend.

  Fitzmaurice arrived to find the two women chatting like magpies, which continued over coffee in the living room. When he was finally able to suggest that it was time to take Sara back to her hotel, she reluctantly agreed.

  She left Edna on the front stoop with thanks for a scrumptious meal and a promise to visit again, then climbed into Fitzmaurice’s car and waved good-bye.

  Fitzmaurice started the engine, beeped the horn, and drove away. “The text messages Spalding sent to Paquette’s computer don’t help us one bit,” he said. “They were all about small changes he wanted the builder to make to the architect’s blueprints.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Afraid so.” He glanced at Sara. “I think we need to agree upon a plan of action in the morning. I can’t keep the number of people assigned to the case working any longer than that. Orders from the higher-ups.”

  “Okay,” Sara said. “We’ll figure something out in the morning.”

  At the hotel she thanked him for the wonderful evening, complimented him on his delightful family, and took the lift to her room, wishing Kerney and Patrick had been with her to meet Clan Fitzmaurice.

  It was eleven p.m. in Dublin, and four in the afternoon in Santa Fe, but Sara was too drained to call Kerney or even check her e-mail for messages. She got ready for bed, her thoughts firmly fixed on Spalding and what to do about catching him come morning.

  Chapter Nine

  As Brigadier General Stuart Thatcher saw it, he’d risen through the ranks because he was objective, ambitious, and maintained a healthy skepticism about other people’s motives. Accordingly, he was constantly on guard for any sign of disloyalty from his subordinates or any outside threats to his authority.

  On Friday, as he was about to leave the office at the end of the day, a memo from the vice chief of staff had been hand-delivered by his aide, advising Thatcher that Lieutenant Colonel Sara Brannon had been tasked to carry out a special courier assignment effective immediately. The memo contained no specifics as to the whys or wherefores, nor had Thatcher been consulted on the matter. His authority had been undermined, and he was desperate to know why.

  Officially there wasn’t anything Thatcher could do about it other than defer to the vice chief. Still, he fumed that Clarke had not even given him the courtesy of a call about needing Brannon for a special detail. Because Henry Powhatan Clarke was clearly Brannon’s mentor and protector, Thatcher couldn’t help but wonder if hidden motives were in play.

  Since her arrival at the military police directorate, Brannon had caused Thatcher nothing but trouble. It had started with her assignment to revise sexual-assault criminal investigation protocols and procedures, which she’d turned into an indictment against the army for failure to prosecute offenders and adequately protect victims.

  Her findings had reached the halls of Congress, and it had taken a concerted effort to keep the situation from becoming an embarrassment to the service while preserving the careers of several ranking, highly connected officers. Fortunately, Thatcher’s second cousin, U.S. Senator Howard Ballard Rutledge, chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, had buried Brannon’s report under the provisions of the National Security Act. But from that moment on Thatcher had kept a watchful eye on Brannon and her work, reviewing it in exhaustive detail.

  Thatcher had hoped to quash Brannon’s chances for promotion by holding her back from accepting a plum temporary duty assignment with the training branch, and giving her a less than exemplary efficiency rating prior to her departure from his command. But General Clarke had outmaneuvered Thatcher and quashed his plans.

  He wondered what Clarke and Brannon were up to and had spent the last two days discreetly trying to learn the nature of Brannon’s assignment. People he could usually rely on for information had professed no knowledge, and all his attempts to tease out any particulars from collateral sources failed.

  Alarmed and convinced he was a target of some scheme hatched by Clarke and Brannon to ruin him, Thatcher decided to uncover the threat on his own and counteract it. Late Tuesday evening, after the personnel in Brannon’s section had left for the day, he exercised his authority to conduct a security audit of her workstation and began going through her files, paperwork, and notes in minute detail, searching for anything that would confirm his suspicions and reveal the nature of the plot against him.

  In the top drawer of Brannon’s desk he found a file containing computer printouts of her outgoing telephone calls. Some time back Brannon had placed a number of calls to the Quartermaster Corps and the army forensic lab. He knew of no reason for her to do that. Additionally, over a considerable period of time, Brannon had also telephoned the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. One call had been made the day before Clarke had cut her special orders. What was that all about?

  Thatcher decided to dig deeper and began dialing the numbers. Within short order he had duty officers at the Quartermaster Corps and the forensic lab scrambling to locate any documents or memorandums to or from Brannon. Then he phoned the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and spoke to a supervisor, who told him his department routinely kept in contact with Brannon regarding the status of an army deserter named George Spalding.

  “What is the current status of the case?” Thatcher asked.

  “Spalding is still at large,” the officer replied. “But based on a close watch list of one of Spalding’s known friends, we now have reason to suspect that he may be in Ireland.”

  “Was this information shared with Colonel Brannon?” Thatcher asked.

  “Yes, the colonel was advised.”

  Thatcher thanked the officer and hung up. Well over a year ago the Spalding case had been transferred from Brannon to army CID. Yet Brannon had continued to follow up on the investigation without his knowledge or authorization. What was she up to and why all the secrecy?

  He called back the duty officers and told them to concentrate on looking for specific information to or from Brannon that pertained to the Spalding investigation.

  Within the hour Thatcher hit pay dirt. Long after the case had been transferred, Brannon had requested a handwriting analysis on documents she’d requested from the Quartermaster Corp which showed that Thomas Loring Carrier had, during the Vietnam War, forged signatures on personal-effects release forms.

  Brannon had obviously targeted Carrier as a member of the smuggling ring Spalding had operated in Vietnam, which was completely incredible to Thatcher. Tom Carrier was no common criminal. A born-again Christian and a great American, Carrier had the ear of important people in the president’s inner circle. Brannon’s assumptions about him were simply scurrilous.

  Had Brannon sidestepped him because of his friendship with Carrier and taken her unfounded suspicions to General Clarke? If so, why now?

  He ran a hand through his thinning hair. He didn’t like Brannon. She was an officer who subtly challenged his authority in ways that avoided outright censure, who had a pattern of consistently maneuvering behind his back, and had no allegiance to the command ethics of the army.

  Thatcher tapped his
fingers on the desktop. Brannon had been tasked by Clarke on a secret assignment one day after she’d learned from the RCMP that Spalding might have surfaced in Ireland. Could it be that was where Clarke had sent her?

  Clarke had to know of Carrier’s ties to the White House, how he’d been a media point man to sell the administration’s handling of the war on terrorism. Had Clarke authorized the mission to find evidence that could embarrass the commander-in-chief by raising questions about a man closely associated with his war policies?

  Thatcher smiled. As far as he could tell, he wasn’t a target after all, and foiling Lieutenant Colonel Sara Brannon’s mission for General Henry Powhatan Clarke might win him his second star. If he played his hand well, the result would be decidedly less pleasant for Brannon and Clarke. His smile widened in anticipation of the debt of gratitude Tom Carrier would owe him and the good days that loomed ahead.

  In the morning Sara met Fitzmaurice in the hotel lobby. On the way to the car he gave her an update on the overnight activity. Spalding had made no new credit-card purchases, his boat hadn’t been spotted by the Irish Coast Guard, and Paquette had spent the evening clubbing with friends before retiring late to her hotel room.

  “Is that it?” Sara asked.

  “We’ve dropped surveillance on her,” Fitzmaurice said as he opened the car door for Sara. “But I’ve arranged for her hired driver to keep us informed of her whereabouts. All on the QT, of course.”

  “Good.”

  Fitzmaurice settled behind the steering wheel and handed Sara a file folder. “We have been able to determine the specifics of Spalding’s Irish citizenship claim based on the passport information we got during our visit to the Irish Sailing Association. He was granted citizenship by virtue of descent under the name of George McGuire, but the supporting documentation of his Irish-born grandparents was forged.”

  Sara scanned the report.

  “Also,” Fitzmaurice said, “we accessed the records of the mobile-phone account Spalding established under the name of McGuire. He’s been using it to communicate with the Dún Laoghaire solicitor who handled the conveyance of the villa. A detective spoke to the solicitor early this morning and learned that Paquette has signed a legal document that will transfer the property to Spalding at the end of the year by private treaty. Paquette stands to receive payment of half a million euros for the property. A far cry from the full value of the house, but a tidy sum nonetheless.”

  “So Paquette is looking forward to a very profitable payday,” Sara said.

  “In squeaky clean cash.” Fitzmaurice put the key into the ignition but didn’t start the engine. “The text messages he sent to Paquette’s computer are interesting. He gave her very specific instructions on the type of countertops, appliances, and fixtures he wanted installed in the kitchen and bathrooms at the villa and a color scheme for the walls of each room. Apparently, he’s planning to settle permanently in Dún Laoghaire, as you suggested, and live a long and happy life as George McGuire.”

  Sara closed the file. “What else?”

  “He’s made several recent calls on his mobile to a London telephone number, one of which was placed just before he left Bray on his boat. We’ve asked the London authorities to find out what they can and ring us back.”

  “I wonder if he sailed to England,” Sara said.

  “He could get to Wales in a matter of hours,” Fitzmaurice replied. “Or, according to the Coast Guard, he could not be at sea at all, but cruising along the mouth of some inland waterway.”

  Sara looked out the windscreen of the car. People hurried along the quay, shops were opening, lorry drivers were queuing up at curbside to make deliveries, buses rolled by. Sunlight dappled the Liffey, the blue sky was tinged with green, and the tourists were in short sleeves, anticipating a warm, clear day.

  “Do you have a plan?” Fitzmaurice asked.

  Sara let out a small sigh. She’d hoped to get to Spalding by working around Paquette and leaving the smallest possible footprint of her participation in the investigation. “Has there been any fresh communication between Spalding and Paquette?”

  Fitzmaurice shook his head. “Not as far as we know.”

  Sara bit her lip. If she waited for Spalding to surface or make another misstep, it could be days before he could be brought to ground, and time wasn’t on her side. “Let’s have a talk with her.”

  Fitzmaurice turned over the engine and laughed. “That’s a fine plan, Colonel Brannon. One I heartily endorse.”

  Sara touched Fitzmaurice’s shoulder. “Wait a minute. Let’s think this through. Where is she now?”

  Fitzmaurice glanced at his watch. “On her way to an appointment with a Canadian artist who is about to have a major show at a gallery in the Temple Bar district.”

  “Can we have her picked up without arousing her suspicion?”

  “A subterfuge of some sort? Is that necessary? We have sufficient cause to question her.”

  “Which would surely put her on guard,” Sara countered. “If we approach her as a suspect, she could immediately go on the offensive and either request a solicitor or ask to contact the Canadian embassy.”

  Fitzmaurice eyed Sara. “And you wouldn’t want that.” Sara shook her head.

  “I could arrange for a detective to approach her about a theft of items from her hotel room.”

  “That would work. But I would prefer to meet with her somewhere other than your office.”

  “Dublin Castle would do nicely,” Fitzmaurice replied.

  “Isn’t it a big tourist attraction?”

  “One of the most popular in the city. The former police yard and armory on the castle grounds house Garda offices, including the drug unit. There are several belowground rooms that are equipped for interviews and interrogations.”

  Sara laughed. “So we’ll have Paquette thrown into the castle dungeon.”

  “Not quite,” Fitzmaurice said with a smile as he pulled out into the crush of morning traffic. “But with a bit of embellishment it will give you an excellent tale to tell once you’re home in the States.”

  Sara asked how far it was to the castle, and Fitzmaurice replied that it was no more than a biscuit’s throw away. When they arrived, he gave Sara a few minutes to look around, pointing out an old Norman tower with tall battlements that housed the Garda Museum; the circular gardens, with their serpentine footpaths amid lush grass, resting on the site of the dark pool—dubh linn—that had given the city its name; the Gothic Revival chapel; the state apartments; and the viceroy’s coach house that, from the outside, looked much like a small castle but now served as an exhibition and conference center.

  “Originally,” Fitzmaurice said, as he led Sara to a brightly plastered building that bordered the circular garden, “the castle sat along a river. But the old moat was filled in and it’s an underground river now that flows into the Liffey.”

  “This is an amazing place,” Sara said as she followed Fitzmaurice inside the Garda Carriage and Traffic Building. They walked down a long hallway, past offices where uniformed officers manned desks, to a suite of rooms that housed the drug unit. There Fitzmaurice introduced Sara to a detective named Colm Byrne and explained that he had need of an interrogation room.

  Byrne, who had the look of a young tough who could street-fight with the best of them, gave Sara the once-over from head to toe.

  “You’ve come up in the world,” he said to Fitzmaurice with a toothy grin. “Circulating with a much better class of people now, are you?”

  Fitzmaurice smiled jovially. “I’m still knocking the north side riffraff’s heads together as need be, Colm, and if you keep drooling on the good colonel’s shoes, I’ll soon be adding your name to my list.”

  Byrne threw back his head and laughed. “I want none of that. The interrogation rooms aren’t in use. Take your pick.”

  The underground rooms had one-way mirrors that hid small viewing areas where digital video equipment was set up to record interviews and interrogations. T
he walls were a neutral beige and the rooms were well lit. The only furniture consisted of rectangular office tables and several straight-backed chairs.

  “Perfect,” Sara said.

  “Soon you’ll have Paquette in hand,” Fitzmaurice said, “which may put you in close reach of Spalding. But who are you really after?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  He perched on the end of the table and studied Sara’s face. “Yes. You’ve skirted around Paquette until it has become absolutely necessary to confront her, you’ve relied on me as your intermediary to make it seem as though the investigation has been conducted completely independent of any involvement on your part. Except for being introduced to Colm Byrne, you have avoided all possible contact with Garda personnel other than myself. I’m half convinced that soon you’ll be asking me to delete all references in my reports of your presence in the Republic and your participation in the investigation.”

  Sara shook her head. “I have no need to do that, and to ease your mind, I’m not setting you up.”

  “Since I am an Irishman and a peeler, and therefore doubly suspicious both by disposition and training, normally I wouldn’t believe you.” Fitzmaurice rose to his feet and smiled. “But I do. However, you’ve severely limited my ability to assist you.”

  “The person I want is outside of your reach,” Sara said.

  “Fair enough, but when all is over, I expect to be told the truth, in the strictest confidence, of course, with no mention of it to be made in my official reports.”

  “Fair enough,” Sara echoed. “How much time do we have before Paquette is picked up?”

  “About a half an hour, more or less, I would say.”

  “Then let’s go over all the facts and information we have before she gets here.”

  Fitzmaurice opened the folder he’d been carrying and sat at the table. “I have a statement from Paquette’s driver you might find interesting, as well as a report from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police that came in overnight, addressed to you, about Paquette’s rather precarious current employment and financial situation.”