The Enemy

crowbar clutched together in his right hand, an empty yogurt pot in his left, stumbling in the dark, nearing a destination, looking down, seeing the pot, hurling it into the undergrowth, putting the knife in his pocket, slipping the crowbar under his coat.
    “We should look for the container,” I said.
    Summer said nothing.
    “He’ll have ditched it,” I said. “Not close to the scene, but not far from it either.”
    “Will it help us?”
    “It’ll have some kind of a product code on it. Maybe a
best before
date. Stuff like that. It might lead us to where it was bought.”
    Then I paused.
    “And it might have prints on it,” I said.
    “He’ll have worn gloves.”
    I shook my head. “I’ve seen people opening yogurt containers. But I’ve never seen anyone do it with gloves on. There’s a foil closure. With a tiny little tab to pull.”
    “We’re on a hundred thousand acres here.”
    I nodded.
Square one.
Normally a couple of phone calls would get me all the grunts on the post lined up a yard apart on their knees, crawling slowly across the terrain like a giant human comb, staring down at the ground and parting every blade of grass by hand. And then doing it again the next day, and the next, until one of them found what we were looking for. With manpower like the army has, you can find a needle in a haystack. You can find both halves of a broken needle. You can find the tiny chip of chrome that flaked off the break.
    Summer looked at the clock on the wall.
    “Our thirty minutes are up,” she said.

    We used the Humvee to get over to Psy-Ops and parked in a slot that was probably reserved for someone else. It was nine o’clock. Summer killed the motor and we opened the doors and slipped out into the cold.
    I took Kramer’s briefcase with me.
    We walked through the old tiled corridors and came to Norton’s door. Her light was on. I knocked and we went in. Norton was behind her desk. All her textbooks were back on her shelves. There were no legal pads on view. No pens or pencils. Her desktop was clear. The pool of light from her lamp was a perfect circle on the empty wood.
    She had three visitor’s chairs. She waved us toward them. Summer sat on the right. I sat on the left. I propped Kramer’s briefcase on the center chair, facing Norton, like a ghost at the feast. She didn’t look at it.
    “How can I help you?” she said.
    I made a point of adjusting the briefcase’s position so that it was completely upright on the chair.
    “Tell us about the dinner party last night,” I said.
    “What dinner party?”
    “You ate with some Armored staffers who were visiting.”
    She nodded.
    “Vassell and Coomer,” she said. “So?”
    “They worked for General Kramer.”
    She nodded again. “So I believe.”
    “Tell us about the meal.”
    “The food?”
    “The atmosphere,” I said. “The conversation. The mood.”
    “It was just dinner in the O Club,” she said.
    “Someone gave Vassell and Coomer a briefcase.”
    “Did they? What, like a present?”
    I said nothing.
    “I don’t remember that,” Norton said. “When?”
    “During dinner,” I said. “Or as they were leaving.”
    Nobody spoke.
    “A briefcase?” Norton said.
    “Was it you?” Summer asked.
    Norton looked at her, blankly. She was either genuinely puzzled, or she was a superb actress. “Was it me what?”
    “Who gave them the briefcase.”
    “Why would I give them a briefcase? I hardly knew them.”
    “How well did you know them?”
    “I met them once or twice, years ago.”
    “At Irwin?”
    “I believe so.”
    “Why did you eat with them?”
    “I was in the bar. They asked me. It would have been rude to decline.”
    “Did you know they were coming?” I asked.
    “No,” she said. “I had no idea. I was surprised they weren’t in Germany.”
    “So you knew them well enough to know where they’re based.”
    “Kramer was an Armored Branch commander in Europe. They were his staffers. I wouldn’t expect to find them based in Hawaii.”
    Nobody spoke. I watched Norton’s eyes. She hadn’t looked at Kramer’s briefcase longer than about half a second. Just long enough to figure I was some guy who carried a briefcase, and then to forget all about it.
    “What’s going on here?” she said.
    I didn’t answer.
    “Tell me.”
    I pointed to the briefcase. “This is General Kramer’s. He lost it on New Year’s Eve and it showed up again today. We’re trying to figure out where it’s been.”
    “Where