“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?