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?”
