Three days after the final shoot-out in Mindanao, the Third Platoon of SEAL Team Seven was back in quarters in Coronado. It was a Thursday morning when Murdock came over the quarterdeck, paid his respects to Master Chief Petty Officer Gordon MacKenzie, and made it safely into his small office.
When they hit the North Island airfield, Murdock had sent Senior Chief Sadler with the uninjured men directly to the base. He took Lam and DeWitt straight to Balboa Naval Hospital in San Diego’s Balboa Park to check their gunshot wounds. The hospital treated them, checked Lam’s broken leg through the splints, and decided it didn’t need any further medical attention. Told him to stay off it for two weeks, then to come back for a walking cast.
Murdock and DeWitt went to check on Ostercamp. He had been flown to Balboa the day after he was shot. The wound in his upper chest was not as serious as they had feared in Davao, but he was kept in the hospital for observation and would be there another week.
“Nothing strenuous for three months,” the doctor on the floor said. “Then he can begin gradual workouts. I understand he’s a SEAL.”
“He is, Doctor. We want him back in top shape before he’s operational with us.”
Then the two headed home.
Now, in the office, Murdock looked at his personnel chart. He needed two replacements. One would be permanent, one would be temporary for at least five months, and on call after that as a filler for the platoon.
A half hour after Murdock began reviewing replacement candidate files, which MacKenzie had already put on his desk, the phone rang. It was his CO, Commander Masciareli.
“Murdock, I want to see you this second. Get your ass into my office.”
“Yes, sir,” Murdock said. He hadn’t sorted through the stack of paper on his desk, but he knew what it had to be about. Bradford. His trouble with the law.
Three minutes later, Murdock stood stiffly at attention in front of the commander. Dean Masciareli was so furious that his face had turned red and sweat beaded his forehead.
“What the hell were you thinking, taking that man on a mission when the San Diego Police and the district attorney had a warrant for his arrest?”
“I was following Navy procedure. You tell me a dozen times a day that I have to go through the chain of command. I had no orders from you about Bradford. I had nothing that would allow one of my men to be detained. What I did have were orders from you and from the Chief of Naval Operations and the President of the United States ordering my platoon to leave the country. I followed my orders from you to the letter.”
Masciareli frowned. “By God, I never thought about it that way. You’re right. The person who phoned you the day you left had no authority from the Navy to contact you. He should have gone through Navy channels. He didn’t, so it’s his fault and I’ll back you all the way.”
Masciareli sat down, motioned for Murdock to sit. He looked at a sheaf of papers in his hand. “You haven’t seen the charges. The more I go over them the flakier they look. All they have are the words of this one witness, who is the main one facing charges of counterfeiting old-master paintings.”
“Sir, have you seen any of Bradford’s paintings?”
“No.”
“I have. I bought two of them. They are good marine subjects, and fairly well done. But Bradford is by no stretch good enough to fake an old-master painting.”
“Not what the warrant and charges say. They indicate that Bradford is the seller of the paintings to some person up the coast somewhere. He’s charged with concealing a felony, aiding and abetting a felon, and selling illegal goods.
“I’ve scheduled a meeting at 1600 with a Navy lawyer who’s a friend of mine, an assistant DA, and a San Diego Police detective. I want you and Bradford there. Before that, you and I need to talk to Bradford and find out exactly what’s been going on.”
“Bradford will be across the quarterdeck at 0800. I’ll bring him right over here and we’ll get to the bottom of this.”
Back in his office, Murdock tried to puzzle it out. Bradford simply wasn’t the kind of man to take part in an art scam. Not a chance. Murdock had started on the top of the stack of paperwork MacKenzie had left him when Bradford knocked on the door.
“Senior Chief said you wanted to see me, sir.”
“Right, we need to go over to the commander’s office. He says there’s a warrant for your arrest for being part of an operation that sells fake old-master paintings.”
“Oh, damn,” Bradford said.
“Then you do know something about it?”
“Yes, sir. But I had no part in it.”
“That’s what we have to dig into. There’s a meeting at 1600 with a Navy lawyer, an assistant district attorney, and a San Diego Police detective. Before then we need to have all of our answers, and we want to know everything you do about this situation. Hold it until we get to the commander’s office.”
Murdock stood up to go as the phone rang. He hesitated, then picked it up.
“Missed you this morning for breakfast,” a familiar female voice said. “Can I count on you for lunch at your place?”
“Hey, wondered where you were.” Murdock motioned Bradford out of his office. “Yeah, you’re late. I’ve been home almost twenty hours now. What happened?”
Ardith Manchester laughed softly, and Murdock felt that surge of delight at simply hearing her voice. “I knew you were coming, I wasn’t sure when you’d arrive. You’ve been all over the newspapers. This is the first time, since this one was not covert at all. Your platoon has been hailed as heroes in a dozen different countries.”
“Good, but that and a five-dollar bill will get you a double latte at a coffee shop. Great to hear that you’re in town. Lunch at home for sure. I’m in the middle of a big brouhaha with one of my men and the San Diego Police. Trying to get to the bottom of it. Call you later about lunch for sure. Got to go.”
“See you then. I have a surprise for you.”
“Can’t wait.”
They hung up, and Murdock hustled Bradford straight over to the commander’s office. They were shown directly in.
“What the hell is going on, Bradford? I’ve got cops and district attorneys all over me. Take it from the start and tell us what this is all about.”
Bradford gulped once, then twice. “You say there’s a warrant for my arrest? I don’t see how.”
He told them about his painting, how he’d teamed up with the other artists and rented this run-down building almost a year ago. He told them about the other artists in the group.
“Yeah, yeah. But what about this girl Xenia? Doesn’t she have a last name?”
“No last name. A lot of artists do that. She’s good. She sells some. I’ve been selling some, but we hadn’t been making the nut on the rent and utilities. I guess she had been paying the rest of the tab. I didn’t know that. I didn’t ask where the extra money came from.”
“Now you know,” Masciareli said. “You sleeping with her?”
“I don’t see how that—”
“Bradford, it will come out, so you might as well get used to it,” Murdock said.
“Yes, I’m sleeping with her. She’s good at her painting, and I’m learning from her work.”
“You knew she was faking the old masters?”
“Not until two weeks before we left for the Philippines. That’s the first I knew about it. I never sold any of her paintings, never arranged to sell them. I don’t even know that guy in Santa Barbara who evidently is the middleman on the scheme.”
“Then you swear that you didn’t know about this until two weeks before we left for the Philippines, that you never acted as her agent to sell or place any of the paintings, and that you never received any kind of compensation in relation to these fake old-master paintings that she created?” Masciareli asked.