Nothing But Trouble

Chapter Ten

With the Sapphire anchored off the coast of Llanddwyn Island just south of Holyhead, George Spalding was spending a lovely morning after. As always, Victoria Hopkins had been a delight. In her early thirties, she was tall with long dark-blond hair, classy features, naturally perfect breasts, and a slender, fit body.

The evening before, after several hours belowdeck, they had lolled on the flybridge, sipping wine and watching terns fishing in the bay and sandpipers wading along the rolling dunes sprinkled with spiky beach grass at the edge of the rocky coastline. At the topside barbecue Spalding had fixed Victoria a dinner of grilled marinated chicken and chard, spinach, and beetroot leaves wilted to perfection in olive oil with a touch of garlic. They talked until a chill in the air forced them once again belowdeck, where Victoria gave him a long kiss and told him to wait for her in the master cabin. A few minutes later she came out of the head dressed as a provocative schoolgirl, wearing an unbuttoned white shirt that exposed a good deal of her breasts, a tie loosened at the collar, a short plaid skirt, and white stockings with a touch of lace that showed at her thighs. With her hair in braids and a pout on her mouth, she told Spalding she had been a bad girl who needed a spanking. It had been a memorable after-dinner treat.

Whenever Spalding availed himself of Victoria’s services, he always specified the schoolgirl role-play as part of the package. It was a total turn-on, in and of itself well worth the thousand euros a day, plus expenses, Victoria charged for her services. But aside from the naughty, playful sex Spalding also appreciated Victoria’s charm and sophistication. She was university educated, well read, conversant in the arts, and an excellent companion.

She was still asleep in the master cabin when Spalding went on deck. Dawn had yet to break on the horizon, the night sky shimmered with stars, and a pale quarter moon hung above him. He’d awakened from a sound sleep much earlier than usual, prompted by his eagerness to see his villa again. For far too long he’d lived as a transient in ratty furnished flats and apartments, moving from place to place across Europe until he was sure the U.S. Army and the Canadian cops were no longer actively looking for him.

He’d carefully kept a low profile while he invented a new identity, had been cautious with how he used his money to avoid drawing attention to himself, and had exhaustively researched where he wanted to settle down and start anew. It had all been worth the effort. Now the time was drawing near when he could once again have a normal life, come and go as he pleased on the Continent, travel the seas, and enjoy himself to the fullest.

The boat rocked gently in the tidal current as Spalding sat in the cockpit and looked out the windscreen. For a moment he thought back to his time in Vietnam, the Tan Son Nhut mortuary, and the smuggling ring he’d put together. All of the guys in the ring, including Tom Carrier, had been patsies, only interested in having ready cash waiting for them so they could buy new cars, chase skirts, or keep getting high once they got back to the States. They’d accepted without question his accounting of the profits, never realizing that Spalding’s father was the Stateside “gem dealer” in the scheme who skimmed fifty percent of the proceeds off the top. In a few short years he and his father had become rich men.

Spalding heard footsteps and swiveled in the pilot’s chair to find Victoria, with her hair still in braids, standing a few feet away wrapped in his terry-cloth robe.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked with a smile.

Spalding shook his head. “You must have energized me.”

“Turn on the lights.”

Spalding flipped a dashboard switch and the cockpit lights flickered on. Slowly, Victoria opened the robe. She was naked except for the black seamed nylon stockings and the garter belt he’d given her as a present.

“Isn’t it lovely?” she asked.

“You’re a bad girl to wear such naughty things,” Spalding said sternly.

“I know.” She let the robe drop to her feet. “I shan’t do it again.”

“Turn around.”

She handed him an unwrapped condom. “Are you going to punish me?”

“Mind your elders and turn around.”

Shivering slightly in the cool air, Victoria turned and bent over to be spanked.

Ten minutes before Sara was due to meet Fitzmaurice outside the hotel, a knock came at her door. She opened up to find two men, one of whom flashed a Department of State special agent shield.

“Colonel Brannon,” the man said, “I’m Daniel Withers, with the Bureau of Diplomatic Security assigned to the American embassy, and this is Major Stedman, assistant military attache. You are to come with us.”

“What’s this about?” Sara asked, eyeing the two men. Withers, a man nearing thirty with a receding hairline and a dimpled chin, nodded at the major, who wore civvies.

Stedman stepped forward and handed Sara a paper. “The deputy secretary of defense has ordered your immediate return to the Pentagon, Colonel. You are to cease all current activity and accompany us to the airport for a flight to Washington.”

Sara read the order. It was original and authentic, most likely delivered overnight by courier. She looked at the major. No older than Withers, he had an intelligent face and close-set, baby-blue eyes that gave nothing away.

“Let me see some identification, Major,” Sara said.

Stedman fished out his military ID and gave it to Sara. He was a Marine officer, but what else? She guessed he was with the Defense Intelligence Agency, which routinely assigned personnel to embassy duty.

“May we come in, Colonel?” Stedman asked, smiling affably.

Sara handed him back the DEPSEC order and his ID. “I see nothing in the order that authorizes you to take me into custody, Major.”

“No, ma’am,” Stedman replied. “Our orders are to see you safely on your way home.”

“Very good, Major,” Sara said, “then you can wait in the hall while I pack.”

“We have orders to stay with you until your departure, ma’am,” Stedman said, pushing his way into the room. Withers followed, closed the door, and stood in front of it with his arms crossed.

So much for not being in custody, Sara thought grimly. She kept her composure in front of the two men and started packing. She passed by the window, hoping to spy Fitzmaurice on the quay waiting for her, but he wasn’t there. She wondered if some senior foreign service officer from the U.S. embassy was sitting in the Garda commissioner’s office at that very moment, arranging to have the Spalding investigation disappear completely.

While Stedman and Withers watched, she pulled clothes off hangers and stuffed them into her bag, emptied her toiletries from the bathroom into her kit, and dumped papers into her briefcase, her mind racing. The orders from DEPSEC had apparently left General Clarke out of the loop. She was to report directly upon her return to Thatcher’s boss, the provost marshal general, who also commanded army CID. That meant Clarke hadn’t shut down the operation and quite possibly didn’t even know it had been canceled.

How had the mission been compromised? Had she made a mistake by telling Fitzmaurice about Carrier? Outside of General Clarke he alone knew that Thomas Loring Carrier was a target.

Sara took another quick look out the window. There was still no sign of Fitzmaurice. She decided to trust her instincts; there was absolutely nothing duplicitous about the man. That left General Thatcher, her petty, childish tyrant of a boss, who was Carrier’s good friend and second cousin of a powerful senator.

She stood at the desk, blocking Stedman’s line of sight as she packed up her laptop. She knew that as soon as she walked out the door, the room would be searched and cleaned by experts, who would leave nothing behind. When Withers glanced away, she slipped the disk containing Spalding’s file under the waistband of her slacks. Somehow she had to get it to Fitzmaurice and hope that the Garda bosses would let him do his job in spite of any pressure from Washington.

“It’s time to go, Colonel,” Stedman said.

“I’m ready,” Sara said as she put the laptop in her soft leather briefcase and picked up her room key.

“You can leave the key here,” Withers said as he opened the door. “We’ve already checked you out of the hotel.”

“How very thoughtful,” Sara said. No doubt Stedman’s cleaners would return the key to reception after removing any trace of her from the room.

As she stepped outside the hotel with Stedman in the lead and Withers following behind, Sara spotted Fitzmaurice rolling to a stop at the curb. Perhaps he hadn’t been ordered to stand down by his superiors after all. She caught his eye and nodded slightly at a black, right-hand-drive Jeep Grand Cherokee with Diplomatic Corps plates. He glanced at the vehicle and gave Sara a quick nod in return.

Stedman and Withers hustled Sara into the car and drove her away. To avoid telegraphing the tail she didn’t dare look back to see if Fitzmaurice was following. Instead she spent the time during the short drive to the airport trying to figure out a way to pass Fitzmaurice the Spalding disk without arousing attention.

At the airport Stedman parked in a restricted zone next to the terminal, and the two men walked her to a check-in area on the upper level, where Withers gave her a ticket. Their diplomatic passports allowed them to bypass security, and they entered a long, wide corridor filled with shops, eateries, and stores that led to the departure gates.

Sara stopped in her tracks and looked at the flight information on the ticket. She had an hour before boarding time. Stedman touched her elbow as she glanced around, hoping to spot Fitzmaurice.

“We’ll take you through U.S. Customs now,” he said.

“What’s the hurry, Major?” Sara replied. U.S. Customs ran a pre-clearance operation at the airport, and once she stepped across the line, she would technically be on American soil, which meant Fitzmaurice would be unable to easily follow.

“No hurry, ma’am,” Stedman replied.

“Would you mind if I bought a book to read on the flight?” Stedman glanced at Withers, who shrugged in reply. “Go right ahead, Colonel.”

In a nearby bookstore crowded with travelers buying newspapers, magazines, and paperbacks, Sara browsed while her watchers stood at the entrance and kept her in view. At the new release section she picked up a copy of Brendan Coughlan’s latest novel, The Dory Shed, which he’d read from at O’Reilly Hall, and placed the Spalding disk inside it. With the book under her arm she paged through other fiction titles, including a recently reissued edition of The Year of the French, by Thomas Flanagan, the writer Fitzmaurice’s son, Sean, had so highly praised. Mentally, she counted off the minutes, and was about to lose hope that Fitzmaurice would show, when a man jostled past her in the narrow aisle.

“Excuse me,” Fitzmaurice said, in a normal speaking voice.

“No harm done,” Sara replied with a smile, as she very deliberately put the Coughlan novel back on the shelf face out.

Fitzmaurice reached for it. “Is it not a good book then?”

“Not my cup of tea,” Sara replied. “It’s about some Irishmen living in some dreary place in Nova Scotia.”

She turned away, went to the counter, and paid for the Flanagan book. Fitzmaurice stepped up behind her with The Dory Shed in his hand.

“Have a safe flight,” he said with a smile as she was about to leave.

“Smooth sailing to you,” Sara replied.

Just west of Dublin, within the confines of an eleven-kilometer wall, is the largest enclosed city park in Europe. Fitzmaurice had played in it as a child and, as an adolescent, had courted comely lasses under its trees and on the greens.

Seven hundred hectares in size, Phoenix Park, once a hunting preserve of a duke, was a popular destination for Dubliners seeking relief from the crowded streets, the noisy traffic, and the tourists that inundated the city from May to September. Aside from a zoo and flower garden the park also contained the official residence of the Irish president, the residence of the United States ambassador, and Garda Headquarters.

Called in by Deputy Commissioner Noel Clancy, Hugh Fitzmaurice settled into a chair in front of Clancy’s desk and smiled at his old friend.

“Am I here to be caned for some misdeed, Commissioner?” he asked.

“Nothing like that, Hugh,” Clancy replied with a laugh.

Almost totally bald and with a round, chubby face, Clancy had just celebrated his thirty-ninth year with the Garda. Twenty-five years ago, as a sergeant in the Criminal Investigation Bureau, he’d taken Fitzmaurice, then a new detective with five years in uniform service, under his wing and had shown him the ropes. For the next fifteen years Fitzmaurice, who was perfectly content to remain a detective, had worked for Clancy until he’d been promoted out of criminal investigations into upper management.

“You won’t be too long with me, then, will you?” Fitzmaurice said, glancing at his watch. He had two hours to get to Dun Laoghaire before George Spalding was due at the villa.

Clancy shook his head. “An American diplomat paid the commissioner a visit this morning, asking if we’d be so kind, should we happen upon him, to quietly turn over to them this George Spalding fellow you’ve been searching for.”

“Was any reason given?” Fitzmaurice asked.

“Supposedly, it’s a matter concerning their national security and thus very hush-hush.”

“I very much doubt that is the case,” Fitzmaurice replied.

Clancy lifted his head and stared down his nose at Fitzmaurice. “Explain your reasoning.”

Fitzmaurice gave Commissioner Clancy a quick summary of the investigation, including the information about Thomas Loring Carrier on the computer disk Sara Brannon had passed to him at the airport bookstore before being whisked away by the two American embassy staff members for a flight to the States.

“I did my own computer search on Carrier last night,” he added. “He is a well-connected, staunch supporter of current American foreign policy and a saber rattler for the war on terrorism. Revealing him to be a member of a smuggling ring during his service in Vietnam would be an embarrassment to both the Pentagon and the White House.”

“International affairs of state do not fall under our purview, Hugh,” Clancy said.

“No, sir, but arresting criminals does.”

Clancy leaned back in his chair. “Indeed. But is there sufficient reason to believe that the allegation about Carrier is well founded?”

“I have no reason to doubt Colonel Brannon,” Fitzmaurice replied. “Am I to do as the Yanks ask, and help them clean up their sticky little mess?”

“I see no need for that,” Clancy said. “We have to consider the Canadian authorities, after all. They have as great a claim on Spalding as the Americans. Take Spalding into custody, interrogate him, but do not charge him without my authorization.”

Fitzmaurice smiled as he pulled himself out of the chair.

“Find a way if you can,” Clancy added, “to make it appear that circumstances beyond our control made us unable to comply with the wishes of the Americans.”

“I’ll make it so.”

Fitzmaurice left Garda Headquarters in a hurry and headed down the motorway to Dun Laoghaire. When he arrived at the villa, the officer on station reported the Coast Guard had spotted Spalding’s boat forty-five minutes out. Fitzmaurice took a deep breath and relaxed. It gave him just enough time to put into play the scheme he’d worked up after leaving Clancy’s office. He sent the officer down to the slip along the beachfront to keep watch for Spalding, called the Canadian embassy, and spoke to Ronald Weber, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police liaison officer.

“Surely you’re acquainted with the George Spalding case,” Fitzmaurice said.

“I am,” replied Weber. “An American army officer requested our assistance in gathering information regarding one of his known associates.”

“Well, I’ve a bit of a sticky situation. Apparently, the Yanks now want us to seize up Spalding and surreptitiously turn him over to them.”

“Do you know where Spalding is?” Weber asked.

“We not only know where he is, we know where he’s hidden the vast fortune of ill-gotten gains your government would very much like to recover. It occurred to me that if the Americans spirit Spalding away, you may never hear of him again.”

“That would be unacceptable,” Weber said.

“However, if you were to participate in the arrest, I think it would be impossible for us to comply with their wishes.”

“Where are you now?” Weber asked.

“Close by,” Fitzmaurice replied. “But first, would you be willing to disavow any knowledge of what I’ve just told you?”

“You’ve told me nothing.”

“Excellent,” Fitzmaurice said. He gave Weber directions to the villa and said, “Be here in thirty minutes.”

After he rang off, Fitzmaurice stood on the cliff and scanned the bay with binoculars. The balmy late-summer day had drawn a vast number of boaters to the water, and leisure craft of every imaginable type were cutting through the gentle waves.

Not at all sure what type of boat he was looking for, he lowered the glasses and thought about Lieutenant Colonel Sara Brannon. He feared that only trouble awaited her upon her return to the States.

George Spalding cut the engines and swung the wheel to turn the boat. When Sapphire eased against the slip and came to a full stop, he moored the yacht fore and aft. For a long moment he stared up at the pale-blue villa and the steep, terraced gardens that stepped down to the narrow spit of shore. From dockside it was hard to imagine that Dublin was so close at hand. Here he’d have seclusion, quick access to the city, and, as George McGuire, the freedom to roam throughout the European Union as he pleased without fear of discovery.

He imagined a very good life ahead. When the house was ready, he’d apply for membership at the yacht club, buy a sweet racing dinghy, and, starting next year, spend his summers sailing in the bay. But in the short term, after he qualified for his final sea master’s certificate, he’d be busy with the house.

The builder had promised it done by the time the gloomy Irish winter set in, and Spalding planned to furnish it with the best that money could buy. He walked up the stone steps to the seaside entrance and unlocked the door. Inside, the musty smell of neglect greeted him. The previous owner had lived in it for fifty years without modernizing the interior. The bare wooden floorboards were scuffed and nicked, the large windows that faced the bay were covered with grime, and faded strips of wallpaper hung loosely below the crown molding that bordered the ceilings.

Spalding passed through the rooms, making mental notes of what kind of furnishings to look for, thinking it might be wise to hire an interior decorator after he returned from his qualifying cruise around Ireland. He heard footsteps on the staircase and turned to see a friendly-looking, smiling man reach the landing.

“Mr. McGuire,” the man said, “a moment of your time, if you please.”

“Who are you?” Spalding demanded, as a second man came up the stairs.

“Detective Inspector Fitzmaurice. And this is Inspector Weber of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Walk slowly in my direction with your hands in plain view.”

Spalding didn’t move. He could feel his stomach twist into a knot, his hands get clammy.

“There are police officers outside,” Fitzmaurice said. “It would be foolish not to do as I say.”

“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.

“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 that 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.

“Jesus,” Kerney said, taking her hand.

“I asked to resign my commission or be allowed to retire,” Sara said, reading the anger in Kerney’s eyes, “but my requests were disallowed. They’ve got me for the duration, Kerney, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I could be court-martialed for telling you all of this.”

His jaw tight, Kerney lapsed into silence. Finally he said, “This is ludicrous.”

“I know.”

“These guys deserve to be brought down.”

“There’s still a slight chance that could happen,” Sara said.

“How?” Kerney asked.

Sara thought about Hugh Fitzmaurice. Although she’d been able to pass him a copy of the Spalding file, there was no guarantee he’d be able to use it to expose the cover-up. “It’s best if you don’t know.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve told you too much already.” Sara leaned close to Kerney and stroked his cheek. “Let it go. I’m not going to slink around with my tail between my legs. I fell apart yesterday, but except for wanting to inflict great bodily harm on a few people, I’m okay now. I’ll pull my tour of duty, come back home, and you can get me pregnant again.”

“Are you serious?”

Sara nodded. “I’ve been dreaming about a daughter. She’s a sweet, lovely little girl.”

Patrick’s arrival in the kitchen ended the conversation, but from the grin on Kerney’s face Sara could tell that her suggestion of adding to the family had been met with enthusiastic approval.

By the end of the weekend they’d made decisions to sell the house, move what Sara wanted to keep to the Santa Fe ranch, donate everything else to a local charity, and dispose of her vehicle. During the week that followed, Sara and Kerney did their best to keep the family rituals intact. After reporting to Fort Belvoir, Sara had been granted permission to commute, so during the day Kerney took care of Patrick, did the household chores, and made all the necessary arrangements.

Not surprisingly, the pending changes did not sit well with Patrick, in spite of their repeated attempts to reassure him that while Mommy had to go away again, they would all be together soon. As the days passed, he became more grumpy, bossy, and whiny, and one night after dinner he refused to take his bath. When Kerney picked him up to carry him off to the tub, Patrick hit him with his fist and burst into tears.

That night they talked about Patrick, and Sara suggested it might be best to send him to stay with her brother and his wife on the ranch in Montana until she returned from Iraq.

“He’d have his older cousins to play with, and his grandparents nearby,” she said.

“What kind of father would I be if I let that happen?” Kerney replied hotly. “I’ve shortchanged him enough as it is. Up to now our ranch has been a place where he comes to visit Daddy, ride horses, and take family vacations.” He stabbed his finger at the floor. “This has been his only true home, here with you. Now that’s about to permanently change. I won’t have him shunted off to relatives.”

Sara took in the raw look of self-recrimination on Kerney’s face. For some reason he’d put himself under a microscope and come up sorely lacking as a parent. “What happened in Santa Fe, Kerney?”

“Patrick got pushed around by a bully at the preschool. When I got there, the worst of it was over, but all he wanted was you, his real home, and his real friends.”

“Oh, Kerney, of course he would want his mother,” Sara said. “He’s only three.”

Kerney shook his head. “It can’t be that easily rationalized, and I can’t stand the thought of you in Iraq and Patrick in Montana. I’d feel terrible. He stays with me. I’ll call Johnny Jordan in the morning and tell him I won’t be going to the Bootheel to work on the movie.”

“Maybe the two of you should go,” Sara said.

Kerney looked away and stared stubbornly out the living room window.

“It might help the both of you keep your minds off things,” she added.

“Not possible. Besides, who’d care for him while I’m working?”

“I’m sure the film company provides tutors for the child actors and nannies for the children of the stars. I’d be a lot happier knowing the two of you were off having some fun. Do it for me.”

He switched his gaze from the window to Sara. “You can’t be serious.”

She met his stubborn blue eyes with a smile. “I am. And when you get back from the Bootheel, buy Patrick his pony.”

Kerney’s eyes softened. “Are those my orders?”

“If you please.”

The week ended in a rush. Movers came to pack and box, the realtor showed the house to prospective buyers, and a charity sent a truck for the donations. Kerney sold Sara’s SUV to a dealer and rented a car for their last two days together. On Friday morning they got up early and Kerney drove her to Fort Belvoir, where he and Patrick spent a hour with her at the hospitality center before she had to leave for her final block of instruction and then a flight to Baghdad.

He watched her crisply walk away, smile over her shoulder, throw a kiss, and wave. He threw a kiss back, smiling as brightly as he could, holding on tightly to Patrick’s hand to keep him from running after her. He thought about roadside bombs, mortars, rocket-propelled grenades, snipers, and shrapnel, and prayed that no harm would come to her.

Patrick cried and tugged to free himself from Kerney’s grasp. He picked him up, wiped the tears away, and hugged him tightly. “It’s just you and me again, sport,” he whispered in his son’s ear as Sara disappeared from view.

Patrick sniffled and wrapped his arms tightly around Kerney’s neck.