I went back to the office and exchanged my battle dress for the uniform Imelda had sewed new insignia on. My new nametag and rank declared me to be Sergeant Hufnagel. Harold, I decided; I would be Sergeant Harold Hufnagel. Say that ten times real fast and see what happens.
Specialist Hufnagel was the legal clerk who looked a bit like a saber-toothed tiger. I figured I couldn’t get her or me into any trouble by borrowing her name. If someone took undue interest in me, they could turn this base inside out looking for a male sergeant named Harold Hufnagel, and we’d both be safe and clear.
I left and walked over to the supply room Imelda had staked out as her unofficial communications center. I asked if I could borrow the phone. The private on duty said sure. I called the Tenth Group’s information office. A sergeant named Jarvis answered.
I said, “Sergeant, this is Barry McCloud at the day desk of the Washington Herald. You got any of my reporters out there?”
“Right, sir,” he very politely said. “Two to be exact.”
“I’m trying to get hold of them. We had their numbers here, but some dumbshit on the night shift misplaced them. Would you do me the kindness of telling me where they’re staying, and what number I need to use to get hold of them?”
“Uh, sure,” he said. I heard him tapping some computer keys, and assumed he was accessing some file. “Got ’em right here,” he announced.
“Great, I’m ready to copy,” I said.
“Gee”-he chuckled-“that’s exactly how we say it in the Army. Ready to copy.”
I wanted to kick myself. “Uh, yeah, sure. I’m an old vet myself.”
“Oh really? Who were you with?” he asked. He was a really friendly sort of guy.
“You know, here and there. You got those numbers yet?”
“Yeah, sure. Okay, Clyde Sterner’s in room 201. You can reach him at 232-6440. Janice Warner’s in room 106, same number, only put a three at the end. Dial the same extension you used to get Tuzla.”
“Great, thanks,” I said, then hung up.
Let’s see, which one should I call? Sterner or Warner? I flipped a coin and it came down heads. Clyde Sterner it was. Then I dialed the number for Janice Warner’s room. Like I was going to call a Clyde over a Janice.
An intriguingly soft voice answered, “Janice Warner.”
“Hi, Miss… uh, is that Miss or Mrs. Warner?” I very slickly asked.
“It’s Miss. What can I do for you?”
“Name’s Sergeant Harold Hufnagel. Harry, to my friends. I knew Jeremy Berkowitz.”
“That’s nice, Sergeant. I knew Jeremy, too.”
“Yeah, well, he was a swell guy. A real sweet guy. Damn shame what happened.”
“No, Jeremy was not a swell guy. Nor was he a sweet guy. He was a rotten prick, but you’re right about it being a damned shame what happened. Is there some reason you called?”
I liked this girl. “Yeah, actually. I might know something about what got him killed.”
There was this long pause before she finally said, “It sounds like you and I should get together.”
“Yeah, I’d like to,” I said, “I really would. But there’s complications.”
“I’m sure we can find some way to work around them.”
The hook was in. “See, Miss Warner, the thing is, the Army doesn’t like buck sergeants talking to reporters. Especially about sensitive stuff like murder.”
“I see your point,” she said.
“We’d have to meet in secret.”
“Why don’t you just come to the Visiting Journalists’ Quarters? I’ll sneak you in.”
“Uh-uh. They got guards on your building. They might catch us. Then they’ll take my name and I’ll be in front of the colonel’s desk within an hour.”
“Okay, then, what’s your idea?”
“Meet me tonight. Nine o’clock, by the entrance of the mess hall. And come alone, or you’ll never see me.”
She said, “Okay. Oh, and Sergeant Hufnagel, I’ll be armed. I’m a really good shot, too. Get my drift?”
“Yes, ma’am. Farthest thing from my mind.”
Her voice might’ve sounded soft and pleasant, but she sure as hell didn’t sound soft. I had this sense that Miss Warner was going to be an interesting package. If she showed up wearing one of those duck-shooting vests, I was going to blow my brains out.
There were two more hours before we were supposed to meet. For want of anything better to do, I returned to my hiding place across from the NSA building. I stood there and watched for over an hour. A few of the nerds I’d seen earlier in the conference room passed in and out, but there was no sign of Mr. Tretorne or Miss Smith.
I was just getting ready to call it quits, when who should walk out of the entrance but that unmistakably tall and handsome hero, General Murphy. A Special Forces captain held the door, then fell in to walk beside him. His aide-de-camp, I guessed. Murphy had to have been inside the building at least an hour and a half. Now what would draw him to this facility, much less keep him inside that long?
Maybe he was there to view satellite films and radio transcripts. Not likely, though. Lieutenants and captains do that kind of scut work, not brigadier generals. Much more likely, that bastard was in there meeting with Tretorne. Maybe he was there picking up new lists of people to be sanctioned. Or maybe they were talking about me. Hell, maybe I was on the list to be sanctioned.
But that would really be stupid. I mean, how would the Army and CIA explain the murder of the chief investigating officer of the Kosovo massacre? Were they that stupid? Worse, were they that desperate? No, I decided. Right now they thought they had me right where they wanted me. Well, except for the threats I’d made to Jones. But would they try to kill me for that? Anyway, there was no more time to ponder those lofty questions because it was time to go meet Janice and see if her voice was the only interesting thing about her.
I jogged and got there twenty minutes before nine. I found a spot about three buildings away, where I could safely observe. I watched the cooks file out and lock up the mess hall at 8:45 P.M. as they did every night. This left the building entirely abandoned, which was precisely why I chose this time and place. It made it easier to see if Miss Warner was bringing company. Maybe I was being overly scrupulous, but I didn’t want to join Jeremy Berkowitz, stuffed in a container of dry ice on the back of a C-130.
At nine o’clock exactly, I saw a slender woman dressed in civilian attire stroll leisurely toward the entrance of the mess hall. No sway to her walk, just a straight, unassuming gait. She stopped under a light and leaned against the wall. Her hair looked long and black. She wore jeans with a short leather jacket. I was so glad she didn’t have one of those vests. Now I didn’t have to shoot myself.
I began doing a complete circuit around the mess hall, checking the alleys and sneaking around to see if anyone was watching. Nobody. Then I walked to the corner of a building located about forty yards from the mess hall.
“Miss Warner!” I yelled.
She glanced over and I meandered slowly to the nearest street. She followed me. When she finally caught up, I started walking and she fell in beside me.
“What was that about?” she asked.
“Can’t be too careful these days.”
“Do you have something to be afraid of?”
“Well, you never know.”
“Where are we going?”
“I thought we’d just walk. Good for the health,” I said, inspecting her face for the first time. Sharp, perceptive eyes. Pronounced cheekbones. Wide lips. A thin, willowy body. She looked like that girl in your high school class who got straight A’s, but was too detached and intellectually sophisticated to go out with a jock. I’d never gotten to know that type well.
She said, “Where are you taking me?”
“Nowhere special. This your first time at Tuzla?”
“Yes. This isn’t my beat.”
“What is your beat?” I asked.
“West European politics and economics.”
“Um-hum, but you’re here to cover Berkowitz’s murder?”
“Partly. Clyde Sterner and I have been thrown into the breach to cover what Berkowitz was working on, at least until the paper can get a replacement out here.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Yes, actually.”
Well, in a few moments, I intended to make it even more interesting. I said, “Do I take it you and Jeremy weren’t friends?”
“Let’s just say we had different philosophies on reporting.”
This sounded interesting. “What’s yours?” I asked.
She studied me with those perceptive eyes for a few seconds. “I don’t believe in paying my sources. If that’s your game, you’ve got the wrong reporter. Try Sterner. He’s got an expense account just like Berkowitz.”
“Actually that’s not what I’m asking for.”
“Then what are you asking for, Sergeant?” she asked with an indulgent look.
“I’d like the same deal I had with Berkowitz.”
“Which was?”
“We traded information,” I said. I didn’t think it necessary to admit that this only happened once or that I’d lied and tried to set him up. Why bore her with small details?
She stopped walking and eyed me even more suspiciously. “Why would a sergeant be interested in information? Who do you work for, Hufnagel?”
Miss Janice Warner had a very quick mind, and this was exactly the deduction I’d hoped she would draw. I gave her a big, broad smile. “Look, we’re not at that point yet. Are you ready to talk the deal or not?”
“What if I’m not?”
“Then I find myself another reporter. The smell of a corpse has brought fresh new flocks. There’s scads of ’em around here these days.”
She considered that a moment, but from the expression on her face I wouldn’t say she was fully committed. At least, not yet.
“Okay, continue,” she said.
“The way this works is you’re going to give me a little information. Then I’m gonna give you a little information. Play me right, and I’ll give you a story that stops hearts.”
“I’m nobody’s dupe, Stupnagel.”
“Hufnagel. Harold Hufnagel,” I said. I loved the way that rolled off my tongue. “But you can call me Harry.”
“Are you an MP?”
“Ah-ahh! You’re not allowed to probe.”
“How do I know the info you have on Berkowitz’s death is legit?”
“Because I was one of Jeremy’s inside sources. I gave him a big story, then he got garroted.”
She was nodding as I spoke. “That it?” she asked, somewhat dubiously.
Give her credit for trying. “Come on, Miss Warner. In or out?”
She stopped and examined my face. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Like I said, she had these real perceptive eyes, which meant they took a lot in, but emitted nothing.
“All right, we’ll try it,” she said. “You give me one piece of information, and I’ll give you one piece. Right?”
This reminded me of the game little boys and girls always like to play. You show me yours and I’ll show you mine. I’d tried it once. When I was six. Only this little girl talked me into showing mine first, then she laughed and ran away and told all her little friends what a stupid dunce I was.
“Nope, you first,” I insisted, still smarting from that old memory.
“Is there some specific area you’re interested in?”
“In fact there is. I happen to know that Berkowitz was on to something big. Why wasn’t there any hint of that in his final story?”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about. Berkowitz was working several different story lines.”
“Come on. Don’t be cute. The Kosovo massacre.”
She seemed genuinely bewildered. “He sent a dispatch back to the paper the night he died.”
“That’s right,” I said. “But the next day’s story was an empty puff piece. Last time he and I talked, he told me he was going to break something big.”
She seemed to be reappraising me, as though our discussion had just taken an unexpected turn and ended up on uncertain ground. “Was that where you were helping Berkowitz? The Kosovo massacre?”
“Maybe,” I said.
She canted her head sideways. “I don’t know what happened,” she said. Then she added, “Let me check with the paper on Berkowitz’s last dispatch. Sometimes the editors cut a lot out.”
I shook my head like I wasn’t buying it. “Your editors wouldn’t take a pass on something that big.”
“You never know,” she said. “Editors can be maddeningly arbitrary. Maybe they didn’t think his sources were complete or reputable enough. Berkowitz had a reputation for hip-shooting.”
“Okay, you do that,” I said. “But do it quickly.”
“Why? Are you in some kind of hurry?”
“I have my reasons. Now, my turn. Berkowitz believed there was some kind of conspiracy here. Now I’m gonna give you a name. Jack Tretorne. Ever hear of him?”
She shook her head, and her luxuriant black hair shook all around, catching flecks of light. “Can’t say I have,” she said.
“He’s a big muckety-muck with the CIA. He’s been spending a lot of time here at Tuzla working directly with the Green Berets.”
“And this is supposed to have something to do with Berkowitz’s murder?”
“It’s related,” I assured her.
“And what am I supposed to do?”
“Maybe shake the trees to find out a little more about Tretorne and what he’s up to. Be careful when you shake, though. You know what they say about shaking trees with gorillas in the branches.”
“That it?” she asked, eyeing me speculatively.
“For now, yes. I’ll get hold of you again tomorrow morning. When I call, I’ll say I’m Mike Jackson and your order is ready. I’ll give you a time to pick it up, which means meet me at the mess hall entrance at that time. Got that?”
“Sure, fine,” she said, but the way she said it, she evidently thought I was maybe a little weird or extravagant with my secret passwords and clandestine meeting places. Well, she didn’t know what I knew.
We were only a block from the reporters’ compound, so I left her there and headed back to my tent. I was beginning to get my traction. I now had an unwitting ally-the best kind of ally for this kind of fight. The CIA thrives on secrecy. Its worst enemy is the threat of public exposure. A guy like Jack Tretorne would shrivel up and die if he was yanked out of the shadows. I’d just sicced Janice Warner and her paper on his trail, which was bound to make his life a little more miserable. Hopefully a lot more miserable.
I really was curious to learn why Berkowitz had never filed the story I gave him. It had to be a key piece in the puzzle. The plot that was taking shape in the back of my mind went something like this: Tretorne somehow learned that Berkowitz was on the verge of breaking the conspiracy story. Maybe Tretorne got tipped because the Washington Herald filed an inquiry with the CIA back at Langley. I’m no expert in the ways of modern journalism, but I am under the impression that newspapers generally offer the chance of rebuttal or comment to someone before they slice ’n’ dice them on the front page. Or maybe Tretorne had NSA eavesdropping on Berkowitz’s electronic transmissions, maybe even his computer, and learned of it that way. Anyway, Tretorne then had Berkowitz “sanctioned,” and faxed the Herald a planted story under Berkowitz’s name.
The only thing that confused me was that Janice Warner sounded completely clueless about what was happening around here. When I mentioned the Kosovo massacre, she seemed genuinely confused. Maybe Tretorne had succeeded in throwing her paper off track. Since Berkowitz never got his real dispatch filed, the Herald had no idea what he’d discovered.
When I got back to my tent, I noticed that my possessions had been rifled through. The CID guys had been benevolent enough to try to put everything back where they found it, but a few things were out of place. Also, my running shoes were gone. Such are the terrific inconveniences I had to work with.