That's right. It was slow going around here. And on a rainy night, like the night the BARs were stolen, how far could you drive? I reminded myself to check out a map and estimate the maximum distance, and compare that with where the truck was found. If it was at the outside distance, then they transferred the BARs right there. If not, they could have done it elsewhere and then dumped the truck. But why? Close to someone's home? Or did they have another car nearby? It was worth looking into.
I drove into Lurgan, which was a sizable town with cramped, sooty brick buildings hooded by gray slate roofs. It looked like it needed a good rain to wash the grime away. Past the town center, the buildings thinned out and I followed a sign for U.S. Army Corps HQ, taking a right and driving along a road with a tall, black wrought-iron fence pacing me on the left. I slowed and turned at a gate in the fence, which was decorated with all sorts of curlicues. The monstrosity in front of me had to be Brownlow House. The sun bathed the brown stone with yellow light, turning it almost golden. It was topped by a single large turret, something out of Aladdin and the Magic Lamp. Surrounding the turret was a forest of chimneys, set at every height the house had to offer. It looked like every room had one, which meant they were probably the only source of heat.
I pulled the jeep over behind a line of others, grabbed my case of whiskey, and walked up to one of the snowdrops guarding the main entrance.
'Hey, pal,' I said, 'Where's the G-1's office?'
'Whaddya got there, Lieutenant?' The MP asked. Apparently the word BUSHMILLS, printed in three-inch letters, white on black, didn't mean anything to him.
'You a teetotaler?' I asked him. His buddy snorted a quick laugh, and then looked away.
'No, I ain't,' he said, fast and loud enough to tell me he'd rather be pegged as illiterate than as a nondrinker. 'I just can't let you walk in here without checking, that's all.' He opened the case as I held it. 'You're missing one,' he said as he closed it back up.
'Thanks. Must be a crime wave. So where's the G-1 and what's his name?'
'That'd be Colonel Warrenton. Go up the main stairs and ask at the duty desk. This place is a maze.'
He was right. At the top of a staircase wide enough for a squad to march abreast, a duty officer guided me down two hallways and pointed to a door. As I walked up to it, I glanced into the office across the hall. The door was open, and the chair at the desk was empty. A tall, wiry officer in a jeep coat stood with his back to me, smoking as he stared out an open window. I turned away and knocked on the closed door with G-1 stenciled on it.
'Come,' an abrupt voice sounded out.
'Colonel Warrenton?' I asked as I shut the door with my foot.
'Who the hell are you?' Warrenton sat with his back to the window, a broad green lawn stretching out into the distance. My first thought was that I'd turn the desk around and look at that instead of a wooden door. 'Come on, man, I don't have all day,' he snapped.
'Lieutenant Boyle, sir. Major Thornton told me drop by and give you this, with his compliments.' As I looked for a place to set the case down I realized why Warrenton hadn't turned the desk around. Every square inch of it as well as the table beside it were filled with stacks of files, forms, and carbon copies of what were probably the same forms. I doubted he'd ever have a chance to look at the door, never mind the lawn.
'Major who?' he said, eyeing me as he spoke. He had a sallow, square face, his jowls starting to drape, probably from bending his head over a desk full of papers all day and half the night. His eyes darted back and forth, looking at anything but me. He was a lousy liar.
'Colonel, there's nothing to hide. Don't worry, this is only a gift. I'll put it down here,' I said, placing the case at the side of his desk. 'Major Thornton hopes that you can bring me along with him, if his transfer works out.'
'Sit down, Lieutenant, and tell me what you're talking about,' Warrenton said. As I did, he leaned over and flipped open the case. 'There's one missing,' he said as his head came up.
'One what?' I asked in mock ignorance. I waited while silence filled the space between us. Finally, he laughed.
'Very good, Lieutenant-what was it?'
'Boyle, sir. William Boyle.'
He wrote the name on a piece of paper, folded it, and opened a drawer, carefully placing it in an envelope. 'How long have you worked for Major Thornton?'
'Not long. I got transferred from North Africa. Too hot for my taste.'
'Things might get hot for you again in a few months. Scuttlebutt says the division is training for the big invasion. You have any ordnance experience?' He'd gone from 'Major who?' to acknowledging he knew Thornton and the assignment he wanted, in less time than it would have taken to open one of those bottles.
'None, Colonel. I'm what you might call a supply specialist. You need a supply of something, I make a special effort to get it. Like this whiskey.'
'You said it was from Thornton.'
'Well, in a way it was. It was his. Now it's yours. You see, everything that he's been organizing for you, well that was me doing all the work. I figured he probably didn't mention that, so I thought I'd bring you the last case by myself.'
'He said there wasn't any more.'
'Well, goes to show, know what I mean?'
'Lieutenant Boyle, I think we can use someone with your initiative at corps, I really do. Thanks for stopping by for a visit.'
'Don't mention it, sir.'
'Don't you mention it, Boyle. To anyone-understood?'
'Not even the major?'
'Major who?'
Now it was my turn to laugh. Before I was on my feet, his head was buried in his papers again, rearranging folders, assigning personnel to wherever his whim dictated or wherever the payoffs led. Like a councilman back home, he had the power to grant favors, but his were of the life-or-death variety. You, to a rifle squad. You, with the whiskey and hams, over to HQ. Maybe he thought that since people were going to die anyway, he ought to get fat off it. Or rich. I shut the door behind me and walked into the office opposite.
'Well?' Heck asked as he flicked a cigarette out the window. His Adam's apple bobbed in that scrawny throat.
'I was right. Thornton's paying him off for a transfer to corps. Probably others too; he seemed like a smooth operator. Check the second drawer to his left, he put my name in an envelope there.'
'OK, Boyle, I can break him. I'll tell him we just picked up you and Thornton, and that the only way he can save his hide is to tell all. Good work.' He placed a thick envelope in my hand and brushed past me, into Warrenton's office. I shut the door behind him, sat down at the empty desk, and opened it. Out spilled his side of the bargain.
I'd made a deal with Heck. I'd promised him it would make him look good, and that I'd stay out of the limelight. I figured he'd been on the trail of whoever was shorting supplies being delivered to the division- why else would he be looking through all those shipping invoices and bills of lading? He might have been trying to make a connection between the weapons theft and the supply pilferage, but I doubted he'd gotten anywhere with that.
The key was to find someone who would turn on Thornton. I didn't think Brennan would, for a lot of reasons. He'd gotten what he'd wanted from Thornton, and anyway I didn't want to interfere with whatever he felt he had to do. It had to be someone else, preferably a higher-ranking someone else, who'd be happy to let all the shit roll downhill in Thornton's direction. The gamble I took was that Thornton was trying to bribe the corps G-1, the personnel officer who could approve his transfer to the corps ordnance unit, which would be about as far to the rear as you could get and still claim to be in the shooting war. It all fit, though, with the lies about Brennan and the story about wanting to get a combat command with the heavy weapons company. I'd figured the worst thing that could happen was that Heck would get even madder at me, which hardly seemed possible, and that an innocent G-1 would get a free case of Irish whiskey.
In return, Heck agreed to hand over his file on the BAR case and give me free rein, plus any manpower I needed. All I had to do was share the glory with him if I found anything. Glory was the last thing I wanted. All that did was create the notion that I was the guy to call on when things were really tough, like Cosgrove had for this job.
