Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

grabbed his jacket.
    “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
    Good thing he remembered their insignia.

    P ETROVIC’S STOMACH BULGED over jeans made for a man twenty years younger. The Hawaiian shirt revealed dark chest hair decorated with a gold chain. His bullet-shaped head was shaved except for a bushy mustache — he was a bruiser who’d gone to seed.
    He stood by the cargo door of the Antonov and supervised a Nepali engineering platoon. Three soldiers pushed a pallet along a track to the rear gate, where a fourth put the pallet on a forklift and took it to a storage tent.
    Vermeulen found the corporal in charge inside the storage tent. The man checked his ID, shrugged, and gestured to the two pallets already unloaded.
    They were wrapped in plastic netting. The freight bill attached to each listed the number of boxes and their contents. Vermeulen checked each bill and counted the items on that pallet. They added up.
    He pulled at the netting of the nearer pallet. It didn’t budge.
    “You want it off ?” the corporal asked.
    “Yes, I need to check the contents.”
    The corporal took a box cutter from his pocket.
    “Get the fuck away from my cargo,” a voice shouted from the entrance.
    Vermeulen and the corporal turned. Petrovic had jumped to the ground and hurried to the tent.
    “You better get the goddamn freight manifest signed before you open anything.”
    “What’s the matter with you, Ranko?” the corporal said, brows raised. “You never gave a rat’s ass about paperwork before.”
    “It’s my cargo until the paper’s signed,” the pilot said. His eyes — the color of dishwater — were cold and menacing, and he had the stare of a street fighter. It reminded Vermeulen of all the bullies he had encountered from grade school on. He took an instant dislike to the pilot.
    “Who the fuck are you?” Petrovic asked.
    “Valentin Vermeulen, OIOS investigator.” He pulled out his ID. “I don’t need a signature. I can investigate anything I like.”
    The pilot stepped closer. At six feet six, Vermeulen towered over Petrovic, but the latter’s bulk made him a formidable obstacle.
    “You ain’t getting near that cargo until the paperwork is signed.”
    “Okay, then let’s get it signed,” Vermeulen said. He turned to the corporal. “Just sign his manifest.”
    “I’m not allowed. The master sergeant does that, but he isn’t here right now.”
    “So I won’t be able to inspect the cargo until he returns?”
    The corporal nodded.
    “When will that be?”
    The corporal hemmed and hawed. “I’m not sure. Probably not today.”
    Vermeulen shook his head. This wasn’t going to be his day after all. He saw the sneer on Petrovic’s face and turned to leave the tent. The corporal followed him.
    Outside, he watched the forklift hoist a large aluminum container — wider and deeper than the pallets — from the plane.
    “What is that?” Vermeulen asked the corporal.
    “A refrigerated unit, sir.”
    “What’s in it?” he asked, realizing too late that it was a dumb question.
    “Perishable food for the troops. Meat, frozen vegetables, and the like.”
    Vermeulen nodded. What was that old saying? An army travels on its stomach. That was also true for UN peacekeepers. The UN could not feed a whole brigade from local resources. Hell, the locals barely had enough to feed themselves.
    Petrovic climbed back into the plane. The white Toyota pickup assigned to Vermeulen waited outside the fence that enclosed the cargo area. He turned to it. Another wasted day on a lousy mission. Time for a drink.
    “To the hotel, monsieur?”
    Walia Lukungu’s arm hung out of the window. He was one of the locals who’d been fortunate enough to snag a job with the UN. His driving skills, though, were questionable. Vermeulen had the feeling of sitting in a Formula One race car every time they went anywhere.
    He was just about to nod when one of the soldiers inside the plane called to the corporal. The corporal answered, then shrugged.
    “Anything the matter?” Vermeulen shouted from the open pickup door.
    “No, sir. It’s just that those chaps in Kampala have trouble counting past three. Now there’s one refrigerated unit more than the cargo manifest says, but one was missing last week. It happens all the time.” The corporal shook his head. “That’s the trouble with contractors.”
    It took a moment before the significance of the corporal’s comment sank in. Once it did, Vermeulen felt a familiar adrenaline