Nothing But Trouble

by Michael McGarrity

  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.”

  Clancy chuckled. “You would have made a grand politician, Hugh Michael Fitzmaurice.”

  “I am deeply offended by that remark, Commissioner,” Fitzmaurice replied.

  Clancy laughed and rang off.

  Fitzmaurice put the telephone in the cradle, picked up the thick evidence book, and went to the interrogation room where Spalding waited. He was, at best, a nondescript-looking man, what the Yanks would call a good-old-boy type. A bit fleshy in the cheek, he had a wide nose that sloped down to a broad chin, and a bit of loose skin at his Adam’s apple.

  Fitzmaurice dropped the evidence book on the table with a thud and sat across from Spalding. “Where to begin,” he said amiably. “Let’s start with the crimes you’ve committed in Ireland.”

  “I want a solicitor,” Spalding replied.

  “Yes, of course, but first allow me to inform you of the bill of particulars which will be presented against you. The courts are particularly harsh, when it comes to punishment, on those who launder money.”

  Spalding blinked. “What money?”

  “Those many millions you’ve secreted away over the years in a Galway bank.”

  “You must be mistaken.”

  “Ah, George, don’t make it hard on yourself.” Fitzmaurice patted the evidence book. “We’ve uncovered the money, and the court will rule very quickly to freeze your assets. You’ll soon be penniless.”

  Spalding stared silently at his hands for a few moments.

  “Then, of course, there are the additional charges of illegal entry into the country, forgery, conspiracy to commit fraud, and a number of lesser indictments.”

  Spalding slouched in his chair.

  “This must be depressing for you,” Fitzmaurice said. “There you were, about to put all your troubles behind, get on with a new life, and it all vanishes like a puff of smoke. Unfortunately, I’m afraid things will be much worse for you when we turn you over to the Americans.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Yanks want you to disappear, and because you are a wartime deserter from the United States Army technically still under the control of the military, I imagine they can easily do it without any fanfare.”

  “Disappear?”

  Fitzmaurice shrugged. “I can’t be totally sure of it, but that’s my distinct impression. They’ve asked for you to be released to them under their National Security Act.”

  Spalding looked completely nonplussed. “National security? That
doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It has something to do with a member of your smuggling ring, Thomas Carrier.”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  Fitzmaurice took out the information on Carrier he’d downloaded from the Internet and handed it to Spalding. “This may refresh your memory. He’s quite highly regarded by the current Washington administration.”

  Fitzmaurice continued talking while Spalding read. “Were it not for Carrier, you would not be in such a pickle. As I’ve reflected upon it, apparently the Americans wish to avoid any unpleasantness you might cause them by seizing you up and holding you incommunicado in some military prison.”

  Spalding stared at him with worried eyes.

  “And I daresay,” Fitzmaurice added, as he took the documents out of Spalding’s hand, “from what I know about the new laws your government has passed, it may well be that you shall never again see the light of day as a free man.”

  “How do I know you’re not just making this up?”

  Fitzmaurice stood and reached for the evidence book. “I’ll have the Americans here in ten minutes.”

  Spalding waved his hand nervously to stop Fitzmaurice from leaving. “Wait. I haven’t violated any national security laws. I was an enlisted man who worked in a mortuary in Vietnam, for Chrissake.”

  “I know that. But what you did as a foolish young man in Vietnam over thirty years ago now has political implications no one could have predicted, and a far heavier burden than what the law normally allows rests squarely on your shoulders. Surely it is by no means fair. But there may be a way out of it.”

  “What way?”

  “Perhaps we can avoid giving you over to the Americans.”

  “How?”

  “Should you agree to admit to the crimes you’ve committed in Ireland, Irish law would take precedence, which means that neither the Americans nor Canadians could attempt to extradite you until your case here is settled.”

  Fitzmaurice returned to his chair and sat. “That could take a good bit of time, which you and your legal counsel—you will certainly need the services of a barrister as well as a solicitor—could use to an advantage. However, you need to know that I alone will decide if your case goes forward to the courts or if you are to be quietly given over to the Yanks.”

  “What do you want?” Spalding asked.

  “Your free and willing confession, and all that you know about Carrier’s involvement in the smuggling ring.”

  Spalding nodded.

  “Very good.” Fitzmaurice pressed a hidden button on the underside of the table to signal that it was time to start the digital recording. “Let’s begin, then, shall we?”

  Spalding made his voluntary statement with little need for prompting, and by the end of the very long session Fitzmaurice had not only a full confession but a detailed accounting of Carrier’s role in the smuggling operation.

  He turned Spalding over to an officer to be officially charged, called the American embassy to report the capture of George Spalding, and then drove to Garda Headquarters, where he presented himself to Deputy Commissioner Clancy and made his report.

  “Why did you charge Mr. Spalding without my authorization?” Clancy asked.

  “Not to have done so would have raised too many questions.”

  “We have promised the Canadians swift approval of their extradition petition.”

  “Surely the Garda solicitor could sympathetically wring his hands, complain bitterly about the mistake made by a lowly detective inspector, and promise to rectify the situation promptly.”

  “You know that can’t happen,” Clancy snapped. “Spalding’s solicitor will immediately file against the extradition petition. And the Yanks are all too likely to nobble the Canadians, who are well used to bowing to the Americans. What are you up to, Fitzmaurice?”

  “Nothing at all, Commissioner. By the way, I did call the Yanks as you requested. I think it likely that they, too, will be seeking Spalding’s extradition, which should confuse the situation nicely. If we let the Canadians and Yanks fight it out, we can sit on the sidelines while Irish justice runs its course and avoid being accused of playing favorites.”

  Clancy sighed. “You may be right. It does give us a way out of a worrisome situation.”

  “Is there anything else, Commissioner?” Fitzmaurice asked.

  “Consider yourself censured for insubordination,” Clancy said. “Now get yourself home and give my best to Edna.”

  “I will indeed. Good night to you, Noel.”

  “Just walk away, then,” Clancy grumbled, suppressing a smile.

  Outside, Hugh Fitzmaurice relaxed. He’d done what he could to make it impossible for the American government to bury the political embarrassment of Thomas Loring Carrier’s criminal history under the cloak of national security. For Sara Brannon’s sake he hoped he had succeeded. He patted his suit jacket pocket, which contained a video of the Spalding interview he’d burned on a DVD disk. He’d made it just in case he might need a bit of insurance if and when the politicians started braying and carrying on.

  Minutes after an unsettling telephone call from Sara, Kerney made airplane reservations on a flight out of Albuquerque that would take him and Patrick to Washington, D.C., by way of Chicago. With a two-hour layover they would arrive shortly after midnight eastern time.

  He needed to call Sara back and let her know when to expect them, but was reluctant to do so until he could sort through his thoughts and feelings. Her announcement that she would be shipping out to Iraq in ten days had thrown him for a loop. When he’d asked what in the hell had happened to cause such a radical change in plans, she’d shrugged the question off, talking instead about how she wanted Kerney to come to Arlington to help her with all that needed doing before she left. Decisions about the house and its contents had to be made, arrangements for Patrick had to be decided upon, and a myriad of small pressing matters required attention.

  He’d asked her for more information about the sudden turnaround of events, but she resisted talking about it. All he learned was that she would be temporarily assigned to Fort Belvoir, Virginia, for a week of training before she shipped out, but didn’t know if she’d be confined to the post or allowed to make the daily commute from home.

  In spite of Sara’s best efforts to sound composed Kerney had hung up more worried about his wife than he’d ever been. Something bad had happened to Sara. He knew it from what she didn’t say and the way she’d sounded. Her words had been rushed, the pitch of her voice unusually high, her tone tense.

  He tried to figure it out. Did it have something to do with her special overseas assignment? Because he knew nothing about it, he could only guess. But having her orders rescinded, her leave canceled, and given short notice that she was about to be sent to a war zone made Kerney think the two events were connected.

  He let the reality of the situation sink in and decided to let go of his indignation and give Sara his full support. She didn’t need to have him bitching at her about something she couldn’t control. He called her with the flight information, trying his best to sound cheerful.

  “I’ll pick you up,” Sara said.

  “There’s no need. We can take a cab from the airport.”

  “I want to. We’re not going to have much time together for a while.”

  “Do you have any idea how long you’ll be gone?” Kerney asked.

  “Six months, but it could be extended.”

  “You need to tell me what’s going on, Sara.”

  “Not now, not on the phone.”

  Ten hours later Kerney carried a sleepy Patrick up the jetway at the Washington airport, where an exhausted-looking Sara met them outside the passenger boarding area. She scooped Patrick into her arms, gave Kerney a kiss on the cheek, and hurried them out of the airport, asking Patrick, as they walked to the car, rapid-fire questions about his time in Santa Fe with his daddy.

  Never had Kerney seen Sara so agitated, which convinced him t
hat whatever had happened to her was major. He was determined to learn the specifics but knew he’d have to wait until she was ready to talk about it.

  At the house Sara disappeared with Patrick into his bedroom. After a decent interval Kerney looked in on them to see if everything was all right and found them asleep on the small bed, Patrick under the covers, Sara curled up beside him. In the master bedroom he discovered Sara had already begun to prepare for her deployment. Freshly laundered, neatly folded combat fatigues were on top of the dresser, highly polished boots were lined up on the floor, army-issue socks, underwear, belts, and caps were spread out on the bed next to two empty duffel bags.

  Sara had left her orders on the kitchen table. Kerney looked through them and learned nothing more than what he’d already been told. He wondered if he’d misjudged her situation. Perhaps the new assignment was based solely on the requirements of the service during wartime.

  He sat at the table and thought about it. Sara didn’t rattle easily. Was she simply as dismayed as he by the disruption of their plans? He suspected those feelings played into it but couldn’t shake off his intuition that something had gone wrong at the Pentagon.

  He checked on his wife and son again. The sight of them cuddled asleep on Patrick’s bed made all his resentment about the military bureaucracy and his growing fear for Sara’s safety rise to the surface again.

  The next day Kerney and Sara avoided any serious discussions until Patrick, who was delighted to be back home, took his afternoon nap. Earlier, Sara had already decided to tell Kerney everything, army regulations be damned. He had a right to know, not only because he was her husband and completely trustworthy, but because he was the reason the Spalding case had surfaced in the first place.

  While Patrick napped, they sat at the kitchen table and Sara laid out the facts, starting with her suspicions of Thomas Carrier’s participation in the gemstone smuggling ring, who he was, her subsequent hunt for Spalding in Ireland, and how it had all ended badly when she’d been pulled off the investigation, called back to the Pentagon, and royally reamed by the provost marshal general.