would guess he’ll be somewhere around the third hole by now. And good luck. I hope he doesn’t hit you with his mashie niblick.’
General Hardy W. Bourke was built like a footlocker standing on end and had the face of an angry eagle. Sharky was leaning against a tree at the edge of the third tee when he rolled up in his golf cart and stepped out, a tough little man with pure white hair cut an inch long.
Sharky walked across the trim green tee as the boxy little man leaned over and placed his ball.
Excuse me, sir. Are you General Bourke?’
The general glared at him.
‘Yes. What is it?’
Sharky showed him his buzzer. ‘My name’s Sharky. Atlanta PD.’
The General looked at the badge, then at Sharky’s hair and snorted. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong? Has something happened?’
His partner, a tall, thin man whose fatigue cap covered a bald pate stepped up beside Bourke. ‘Something I can handle, General?’ he said.
‘It’s all right, Jesse. Something to do with the police.’
‘The police?’
‘I’m sorry to interrupt your game like this, sir, but it is important. We’re investigating a murder case and —‘
‘Murder! Good God, sir, one of my men?’
‘No, sir. No, not at all. Thing is, it relates to a military operation in Italy during the war and —,
‘Ah,’ Bourke said, obviously relieved. ‘Well, can’t this wait, young man? We should be back at the clubhouse in a few hours. We’re backed up here, as you can see.’ He pointed back to the number two green. A foursome was just putting out.
Bourke stepped up and planted his feet firmly in the grass, addressing the ball as if it were one of his junior officers.
‘Time’s pressing, sir,’ Sharky said.
Bourke sighted down his club. ‘If it’s waited for thirty years, it can wait until I tee off,’ he snapped. His club whipped back and slashed the air. The ball cracked off the tee, soared out about thirty yards, and hooked drastically, plunging into the rough a hundred or so yards away. Bourke turned towards Sharky, staring at him, his face contorted with disgust.
‘Did you see that?’ he bellowed.
‘Sorry, sir, I —,
‘Goddamnit to hell!’ the general screamed. He stared at
his club for a full thirty seconds, his face turning the colour of a carrot. Finally he threw it down in disgust.
‘All right,’ he snapped. ‘You’ve got two minutes. Get in the cart. You can help me find that goddamn ball. You can walk down there, Jesse.’
The cart purred down the fairway.
‘All right,’ Bourke said. ‘Now, what’s this all about?’
‘We’re interested in a military operation that occurred in December, 1944, near —,
‘What kind of operation?’ Bourke growled.
‘OSS, sir. It was —
‘Young man, I was a command officer assigned to Omar
Bradley. I don’t remember some goddamn spy operation that occurred thirty years ago. What do you think I am, a military encyclopaedia?’
‘No sir, but —,
‘There were probably a hundred OSS operations during the time I was in Italy. Quite frankly, I was too busy trying to win the war to be bothered with those spooks.’
‘Yes, sir. Perhaps if I told you —‘
‘Eureka! There it is. Right beside the fairway. What luck.’ He pulled up and got out of the cart and looked down the fairway towards the green. ‘A straight shot to the pin. Look at that. Bloody good shot after all.’ He looked at Sharky and winked. ‘Have to take that club over to Ordnance and have the boys take that hook out of it, eh? Heh, heh.’
‘General, is there anybody on this base who might remember the incident?’
Bourke looked at him for a few moments more, then turned to the caddy. ‘Gimme that five iron, caddy,’ he said. He held out his hand and waited for the caddy to put the club in it. ‘Martland, Martland’s your man. if anybody can help you, it’d be Martland.’
‘Martland?’
‘Colonel Martland. A bird colonel waiting for his star so he can retire. He was in intelligence and he was in Italy during the war. I believe be lives on K Street.’
‘Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.’
