The Enemy

real sorry about that.”
    I said nothing.
    “Anything at your end? You got a name for me yet?”
    I smiled.
You can forget about a name,
I thought.
Bud.
No
quo,
no
quid.
Not that there ever was a name in the first place.
    “I’ll let you know,” I said.

    Summer came back and I told her to take the rest of the night off. Told her to meet me for breakfast in the O Club. At nine o’clock exactly, when Willard’s orders were due. I figured we could have a long leisurely meal, plenty of eggs, plenty of coffee, and we could stroll back over about ten-fifteen.
    “You moved the map,” she said.
    “Willard tore it down. I put it back up.”
    “He’s dangerous.”
    “Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not. Time will tell.”
    She went back to her quarters and I went back to mine. I was in a room in the Bachelor Officers’ row. It was pretty much like a motel. There was a street named after some long-dead Medal of Honor winner and a path branching off from the sidewalk that led to my door. There were posts every twenty yards with streetlights on them. The one nearest my door was out. It was out because it had been busted with a stone. I could see glass on the path. And three guys in the shadows. I walked past the first one. He was the Delta sergeant with the beard and the tan. He tapped the face of his watch with his forefinger. The second guy did the same thing. The third guy just smiled. I got inside and closed my door. Didn’t hear them walk away. I didn’t sleep well.

    They were gone by morning. I made it to the O Club OK. At nine o’clock the dining room was pretty much empty, which was an advantage. The disadvantage was that whatever food remained had been stewing on the buffet for a while. But on balance I thought it was a good situation. I was more of a loner than a gourmet. Summer and I sat across from each other at a small table in the center of the room. Between us we ate almost everything that was left. Summer consumed about a pound of grits and two pounds of biscuits. She was small, but she could eat. That was for damn sure. We took our time with our coffee and walked over to my office at ten-twenty. There was mayhem inside. Every phone was ringing. The Louisiana corporal looked harassed.
    “Don’t answer your phone,” he said. “It’s Colonel Willard. He wanted immediate confirmation that you’d gotten your orders. He’s mad as hell.”
    “What are the orders?”
    He ducked back to his desk and offered me a sheet of fax paper. The phones kept on ringing. I didn’t take the sheet of paper. I just stood there and read it over my corporal’s shoulder. There were two closely spaced paragraphs. Willard was ordering me to examine the quartermaster’s inward delivery note file and his outward distribution log. I was to use them to work out on paper exactly what ought to be there in the on-post warehouse. Then I was to verify my conclusion by means of a practical search. Then I was to compile a list of all missing items and propose a course of action in writing to track down their current whereabouts. I was to execute the order in a prompt and timely fashion. I was to call him to confirm receipt of the order immediately it was in my hand.
    It was a classic make-work punishment. In the bad old days they ordered you to paint coal white or fill sandbags with teaspoons or scrub floors with toothbrushes. This was the modern-day MP equivalent. It was a mindless task that would take two weeks to complete. I smiled.
    The phones were still ringing.
    “The order was never in my hand,” I said. “I’m not here.”
    “Where are you?”
    “Tell him someone dropped a gum wrapper in the flower bed outside the post commander’s office. Tell him I won’t have army real estate abused in that way. Tell him I’ve been on the trail since well before dawn.”
    I led Summer back out onto the sidewalk, away from the ringing phones.
    “Asshole,” I said.
    “You should lay low,” she said. “He’ll be calling all over.”
    I stood still. Looked around. Cold weather. Gray buildings, gray sky.
    “Let’s take the day off,” I said. “Let’s go somewhere.”
    “We’ve got things to do.”
    I nodded.
Carbone. Kramer. Brubaker.
    “Can’t stay here,” I said. “So we can’t do much about Carbone.”
    “Want to go down to Columbia?”
    “Not our case. Nothing we can do that Sanchez isn’t doing.”
    “Too cold for the beach,” Summer said.
    I nodded again. Suddenly wished it wasn’t too cold for the