“How did you find me?” Spalding asked as he stepped toward Fitzmaurice and Weber.
“Now, that’s quite the tale to tell,” Fitzmaurice replied as he turned Spalding around and cuffed him.
During the flight from Dublin, Sara prepared herself as best she could for a worst-case scenario. With the stop-loss program in effect, implemented to keep all career active-duty personnel from leaving the service, she knew it was unlikely she would be allowed to resign her commission or apply for early retirement.
Although the special orders she’d received from General Clarke protected her from any official reprimand, there were many other ways the civilian brass could exact a pound of flesh, including the depressing possibility of being posted to a job normally held by an officer of lower rank. It was a surefire way to signal to the general staff that an officer’s career was over.
She deplaned at Ronald Reagan Airport, where an army captain in uniform met her outside of customs and drove her directly to the Pentagon.
“You can leave your luggage in the vehicle, Colonel,” the captain said as he parked in a restricted zone near the entrance, “and I’ll have it delivered to your quarters.”
“Fine,” Sara said, knowing full well her luggage would be searched, the Garda’s initial surveillance reports would be confiscated, and the Spalding case file on her laptop hard drive would be permanently erased. But she’d deliberately made no case notes while in Ireland, so that would limit what the search revealed. As she followed the captain into the building, she wondered if she would be interrogated before the hammer fell on her. Instead, she was escorted to the office suite of Major General Bernard von Braun, the provost marshal general of the army. Predictably, von Braun kept her waiting in the outer office for twenty minutes.
Sara did her best to quell her growing anxiety, but when she was ushered into von Braun’s presence and found General Thatcher there, looking smug and self-satisfied, she lost all hope of salvaging her career.
She snapped to, and von Braun kept her at attention as he stared her down for a long minute. He had a large, protruding lower lip that gave his expression a permanent scowl, and a long, pointed chin. Finally, he gave her the bad news. Her orders to the training branch had been rescinded, her leave was canceled, and she was to report to Fort Belvoir for a five-day orientation course in an intelligence-gathering initiative designed to analyze real-time combat-patrol reports of insurgent activities.
“From Fort Belvoir you will be deployed as part of a tactical survey team to Iraq,” von Braun said, “and attached to a brigade. You are to report to Fort Belvoir on Monday morning. Until then I’m granting you immediate leave so you can put your affairs in order.”
“Permission to speak, sir,” Sara said.
“Go ahead.”
“Upon deployment, am I to have command of the tactical survey team?”
“No, you are not, Colonel,” von Braun replied. “You will serve solely as a senior analyst. General Thatcher has arranged to have your personal items packed and ready for you to remove from the premises.”
“Sir, I request relief from this assignment and permission to either resign my commission or apply for early retirement.”
“Denied, Colonel,” von Braun snapped, “and for the record, be advised that your investigation of George Spalding has been classified as top secret. Any breach on your part of the National Security Act will be cause for disciplinary action. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Sara glanced at Thatcher, who couldn’t control the pleasure that danced in his eyes. The tin soldier had won, and she didn’t have another damn thing to lose except her pride. She snapped her gaze back to von Braun. “Permission to speak, General.”
“Go ahead.”
“Never mind,” Sara said. “I think I’ve been bullied enough for one day.”
Von Braun’s face turned beet red. “Dismissed,” he thundered.
Sara did an about-face and left. At her cubicle she got an ice-cold reception. Officers she’d worked with for three years averted their eyes or looked down at their desks as she walked by. She checked her cubicle to make sure all personal items had been removed and looked through the packed cardboard box to see if anything was missing. All her files had been taken away and the cabinets and desk drawers were empty.
Carrying the cardboard box, she left without saying a word. At the end of the hallway a civilian employee met her and took her to personnel, where she was officially cleared from the Pentagon and received her new orders. Outside the personnel office General Clarke’s aide caught up with her at the elevators. A congenial man by nature, he seemed morose, almost despondent, when he asked if she had a few minutes to meet with the general.
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.