No Man's Land

43

THE GRUNT WAS already three-quarters full, but Puller had little difficulty finding the woman. She was at the bar with a drink already in hand.

Over the next hour he watched her work the room. Flirting, drinking, dancing, flirting some more. Finally she ended up in a corner with a guy who had his hand on her butt and his tongue down her throat. And in a show of equality, she was returning the favor.

Around ten, Puller’s gaze shifted to the front door when a group came in led by a tall young man dressed in what looked to Puller to be a suit that maybe cost more than his Army-issued Malibu, kicking in the government discount. He and his group walked past a security guard and up the stairs. They passed through another door and it closed behind them. The security guard moved his bulk back in front of the staircase.

Puller assumed that no one else was going to be allowed up.

A good-looking woman passed in front of his field of vision. She was dressed professionally, unlike most of the other women here, and seemed closer to Puller’s age than the rest of the clientele. He watched as she had a word with one of the bartenders and then went over and checked the till. Owner or manager or both, thought Puller.

He checked the woman he was following. She was still lip-locked in the corner.

He walked over to the bar where the woman was just closing up the cash register.

“Looks like you got a gold mine here,” he said.

She stared up at him and smiled. Then she saw his empty hands.

“But you’re not contributing to the gold,” she said. “Won’t you have a drink?”

“Sure. I can get it from the bartender.”

“No, I’ll pour it for you. On the house.”

“Not much gold in freebies.”

“One good deed, you know.”

She drew the pint and handed it to him.

“I’m Helen, Helen Myers.”

“John Puller.”

“You’re a bit…”

He looked around and grinned. “Older than your usual clientele.”

“That’s very delicately put.”

He took a sip of his beer. “Is this your place?”

“What makes you say that?”

“You look like a lady in charge.”

“Well, I am as a matter of fact.”

“Good for you.”

“How about you? What’s your line of work?”

“Uncle Sam.”

“You look military. What branch?”

“Army.”

“My father was in the 82nd Airborne.”

“Hell of a division.”

“That’s what he said, right up to the day he died. He was career military. That’s where I got the idea for the Grunt. He was enlisted. Guy in the trenches.”

“Me too. I’m sorry I had to pull a couple grunts out of line. They had fake IDs.”

She frowned. “I know. I hate that. You’d think if you’re old enough to fight and die for your country, you’re old enough to buy and drink a beer. It’s stupid.”

“Preaching to the choir.”

“Then you probably saw our bouncer, Paul.”

“I did. He looks like he can take care of himself.”

“Oh yes he can. Have a second beer. On the house.”

He raised his glass. “No, that one I’ll pay for.”

She smiled, walked across the room, and went past the security guard and up the stairs, passing through the door, which she closed behind her.

Puller watched all of this and then turned his attention back to the woman. Her “friend” had left her and she was fumbling with something in her purse.

He walked over to her.

“Got a minute?”

“Excuse me?”

She glanced up at him as she pulled out her lipstick and redid her mouth. Puller figured most of what had been on her lips had ended up on the guy’s face or down his throat.

“I’d like to talk to you.”

“You can talk. And you can also buy me a drink. That’s the price.”

He pulled out his CID shield and held it up. “Let’s talk. And you can buy your own drink, though I think you’ve had enough, so make it a Coke.”

She froze with her lipstick poised a centimeter from her mouth. “You’re an Army cop?”

“Yes I am. Building Q?”

“W-what about it?”

Gripping her arm, he said, “Over here, please.”

He led her around a corner and down a hall that led to the kitchen. It was probably the quietest part of the place right now. Most people were drinking, not eating.

Puller said, “You work at Building Q?”

“What if I do?”

“Highly classified work. And yet here you are, getting drunk and letting young punks paw you? Where the hell is your brain?”

Her face flushed. “Where do you get off-”

Puller held up his badge again. “This is where I get off. You’re under the jurisdiction of the Department of Defense. Your work is directly related to the United States Army. And my job is to protect the United States Army.”

Puller didn’t know if the Army was paying her salary, but the Army was by far the largest component of the military and it had its fingers in pretty much all pies. “And the national security interests of this country,” he added.

“I-I know that. I’m not doing anything wrong.”

“Your contract has a morals clause, correct? And listed behavior that you can and cannot do. One of those prohibited activities is putting yourself in situations where you could be blackmailed.” He looked down at her. “Do you think if someone took pictures of you dressed like this with a guy’s tongue down your throat and his hands on your ass, that you could be compromised?”

“Who the hell would do that?”

“Let me see some ID.” He barked, “Now!” when she seemed to hesitate.

She produced her driver’s license.

“Anne Shepard?”

“Yes.”

“Confirm for me your employer’s name. Unless you’re too drunk.”

He shot a hand out and steadied her as she rocked back and forth on her stilettos. Her lip trembling, she said, “Atalanta Group.”

“That’s right,” said Puller, who up to that point had never heard of Atalanta Group. “And are you aware that your being here places you in a position to be blackmailed by enemies of this country?”

“But I’m just here having fun. I work twelve-hour days, pretty much every day. I’m just here to blow off some steam.”

“There are smart ways to do that. This is not one of them. The guy with his tongue down your throat?”

“He’s just some guy.”

“That some guy will be arrested when he leaves here. He’s an American-born spy in the employ of the Chinese looking to steal DoD secrets.”

“Oh shit! That guy! You’re kidding, right? He just wanted sex, like all guys.”

“What did you tell him? Did he ask about work?”

“No, I mean-” She stopped, flustered. “I mean, he asked what I did.”

“And what did you tell him?”

Shepard started to breathe heavily. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“The restroom is down that hall. I’ll be here when you come out.”

It didn’t make Puller feel good that he was doing this to the young woman, although there were strict rules about what such folks should and should not do in their off hours. And this bar, filled with military and presumably private contractors, actually would be a great place for a spy to operate. He told himself he was teaching her a tough lesson.

He pulled out his phone, did a search on Atalanta Group, and came up with exactly nothing. How was that possible? Every company these days had an online identity.

He didn’t even know if Atalanta Group was in business in the 1980s. Or ran the project that was currently being conducted in Building Q. This could all be a wild-goose chase, but somehow Puller didn’t think so.

Vincent DiRenzo, the former CID agent, had talked about gut feelings being part of any investigation. Well, Puller’s gut was burning right now. He was getting warm. He just needed to keep going.

When Shepard came out a few minutes later, she looked green.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” said Puller.