The Enemy

last night. That would prove they were looking for it, which puts them in the frame for Mrs. Kramer.”
    “They made no calls from the hotel, and they didn’t have time to get down there themselves. So I don’t see how we can put them in the frame. What else can we get?”
    “We can be certain about what happened to the agenda. We can know that Vassell and Coomer got it back. Then at least the army can relax because we’ll know for sure it isn’t going to wind up on some public trash pile for a journalist to find.”
    I nodded. Said nothing.
    “And maybe Norton saw it,” Summer said. “Maybe she read it. Maybe she could tell us what all this fuss is about.”
    “That’s tempting.”
    “It sure is.”
    “Can we just walk in and ask her?”
    “You’re from the 110th. You can ask anyone anything.”
    “I have to stay under Willard’s radar.”
    “She doesn’t know he warned you off.”
    “She does. He spoke to her after the Carbone thing.”
    “I think we have to talk to her.”
    “Difficult kind of a talk to have,” I said. “She’s likely to get offended.”
    “Only if we do it wrong.”
    “What are the chances of doing it right?”
    “We might be able to manipulate the situation. There’ll be an embarrassment factor. She won’t want it broadcast.”
    “We can’t push her to the point where she calls Willard.”
    “You scared of him?”
    “I’m scared of what he can do to us bureaucratically. Doesn’t help anyone if we both get transferred to Alaska.”
    “Your call.”
    I was quiet for a long moment. Thought back to Kramer’s hardcover book. This was like July thirteenth, 1943, the pivotal day of the Battle of Kursk. We were like Alexander Vasilevsky, the Soviet general. If we attacked now, this minute, we had to keep on and on attacking until the enemy was run off his feet and the war was won. If we bogged down or paused for breath even for a second, we would be overrun again.
    “OK,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

    We found Andrea Norton in the O Club lounge and I asked her if she would spare us a minute in her office. I could see she was puzzled as to why. I told her it was a confidential matter. She stayed puzzled. Willard had told her that Carbone was a closed case, and she couldn’t see what else we would have to talk to her about. But she agreed. She told us she would meet us there in thirty minutes.

    Summer and I spent the thirty minutes in my office with her list of who was on-post and who wasn’t at Carbone’s time of death. She had yards of computer paper neatly folded into a large concertina about an inch thick. There was a name, rank, and number printed on each line with pale dot-matrix ink. Almost every name had a check mark next to it.
    “What are the marks?” I asked her. “Here or not here?”
    “Here,” she said.
    I nodded. I was afraid of that. I riffed through the concertina with my thumb.
    “How many?” I asked.
    “Nearly twelve hundred.”
    I nodded again. There was nothing intrinsically difficult about boiling down twelve hundred names and finding one sole perpetrator. Police files everywhere are full of larger suspect pools. There had been cases in Korea where the entire U.S. military strength had been the suspect pool. But cases like that require unlimited manpower, big staffs, and endless resources. And they require everybody’s total cooperation. They can’t be handled behind a CO’s back, in secret, by two people acting alone.
    “Impossible,” I said.
    “Nothing’s impossible,” Summer said.
    “We have to go at it a different way.”
    “How?”
    “What did he take to the scene?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Wrong,” I said. “He took himself.”
    Summer shrugged. Dragged her fingers up the folded edges of her paper. The stack thickened and then thinned back down as the air sighed out from between the pages.
    “Pick a name,” she said.
    “He took a K-bar,” I said.
    “Twelve hundred names, twelve hundred K-bars.”
    “He took a tire iron or a crowbar.”
    She nodded.
    “And he took yogurt,” I said.
    She said nothing.
    “Four things,” I said. “Himself, a K-bar, a blunt instrument, and yogurt. Where did the yogurt come from?”
    “His refrigerator in his quarters,” Summer said. “Or one of the mess kitchens, or one of the mess buffets, or the commissary, or a supermarket or a deli or a grocery store somewhere off-post.”
    I pictured a man breathing hard, walking fast, maybe sweating, a bloodstained knife and a