On Edge

by Albert Ashforth

  I said, “Undersecretary Douglas Greer lives here. He and I have business to discuss. That’s why I’m here.”

  A fleeting look of uncertainty flashed across the older policeman’s face. “What kind of business is that?”

  “Government business.”

  “What kind of government business?”

  “Mr. Greer is Undersecretary for International Development. We both just got back from Afghanistan.” I raised my voice. “Confidential government business.”

  The older cop shook his head. “That doesn’t mean—”

  I pulled out a pad of my own. “Can I have your names? This is a government matter. We expect cooperation. I don’t feel I’m getting any.” I found a pen. “I’m not getting cooperation.” I peered first at the older cop’s face, then looked down at his name tag, began to write.

  “He locked himself in his garage, turned on his car engine,” the policeman said. “That’s about it.”

  I did my best to conceal my astonishment.

  I put away my pen and paper. When I asked if there was any chance of talking with someone in charge, the older cop told me that some of the waiting group were reporters and I could wait with them. Ten minutes later a detective in civvies carrying an umbrella called over the reporters. I joined them.

  The detective introduced himself as Lieutenant McCormack and said he worked homicide for Montgomery County. Then, reading from a piece of paper he identified the dead man as Undersecretary Douglas Greer.

  “Mr. Greer has taken his own life—check that—appears to have taken his own life. He was found in his car, which was parked in his garage, with the motor running. Mr. Greer is Undersecretary for Development.” He paused. “That’s International Development.”

  “Who found him, Lieutenant?”

  “A landscaper came around to the rear of the house, where he always collects the monthly bill. No one answered the bell. While he was waiting, he thought he smelled something. Thought it might be coming from the garage. He opened the door, saw the exhaust. Then he called a neighbor. The neighbor notified the police. Let’s see, that was just an hour ago. Maybe a little more.”

  “What kind of car was it, Lieutenant?” a reporter asked.

  “An Infiniti, 2013, I believe.”

  “Color?”

  “Green, dark green.”

  “Did he leave a note?”

  “If he did, we haven’t found it.”

  The reporters asked a few more questions, but the policeman said there wasn’t much he could add to what he’d already said.

  The group broke up and the reporters began talking into their cell phones. As Lieutenant McCormack walked back toward the rear, I caught up with him. I asked him if it would be possible to have a look inside the house.

  “I can tell you now. There ain’t nothing to see.”

  “Doug had invited me over this evening. For dinner. We had business to discuss.”

  “You work with him? Are you with the government, too?”

  I nodded, pulled out some ID. “We were together in Afghanistan. We just got back.”

  “You and him were in Afghanistan?” He hesitated. “I don’t think I—”

  “This is starting to sound like a cover-up, Lieutenant. I just showed you my ID. If you want, call my boss.” I pulled out my phone as though I was about to hand it to him. “You can—”

  “We’re not supposed to—”

  “If there’s anything in the house that’s not the way it should be, I can point it out for you. A quick look should do it.”

  After hesitating briefly, he said, “Well, okay. That makes sense. But the forensic people are inside now. Be careful. They’re gathering stuff up, not that there’s anything much to find, but you never know. I went through the whole place, upstairs and down. It seems like the guy took his own life.” McCormack shrugged.

  At the back of the house I saw the open garage and the car still inside. Someone had killed the engine. Two paramedics, both dressed in reflective gear, were standing and talking.

  We entered through the building’s rear door, which led up a small stairway into the kitchen, which had a lettuce leaf and some crumbs on the linoleum. On the kitchen counter lay a knife, a bowl holding three tomatoes, three peeled potatoes. I took a quick look in the refrigerator, which was filled with food. Toward the front, I saw a package of strawberries.

  We walked through the dining room into the living room, where a woman and a man were kneeling on the rug and working with small brushes. Except for some newspapers on the sofa, everything appeared in reasonably good order. Either Greer was a good housekeeper or had a cleaning lady. I suspected the latter.

  Upstairs, I checked out his bedroom, which seemed to be where he watched TV. The bed was made. In another room, which was obviously an office, there was clutter, mostly papers, magazines, and books. On the desk was a computer, and next to the desk a large file cabinet. When I pulled it open, I saw lots of manila folders, all jammed together. He was the record-keeping type, but I tended to doubt he’d have anything here that would link him to the bank fraud. Then we headed back downstairs.

  In the basement, I saw shelves on which were laid cans of food and some oranges. Greer had seemingly bought the ingredients for the meal that he had planned to prepare and food for the rest of the week.

  “You were right,” I told McCormack. “Not much to see.”

  “High up in the government and making a mint. And still he took his own life.” McCormack’s tone was heavy with disgust. He shook his head. “For whatever reason.” When I only shrugged, he said, “He ain’t the first. With these government guys, you never know.”

  Back in my car, I punched in Corley’s number. Before I could say anything, she said, “I’ve got the TV on and just heard the news.” After a brief pause during which I could hear a commentator, she said, “Can you hang around out there, see what’s going on?”

  “I think so. The scene’s still pretty chaotic.”

  “Do that.”

  Two minutes later two black limousines arrived and disgorged a woman and four men. They all wore suits, and I had an idea they were from either the government or the FBI.

  The ambulance carrying Greer’s lifeless body backed off the apron a short time later, then headed back in the direction of the East-West Highway. More police arrived, some of whom fanned out to talk with neighbors. I remained in the car, watching. After another hour, I got a call from Corley.

  When I said things had quieted down, she said, “Stay a little longer anyway.”

  Five minutes later, a team of people came out carrying the file cabinets I’d seen upstairs. One of the government guys ordered them to be put into the trunks of two limousines.

  A car filled with military people in uniform arrived and headed toward the rear.

  Greer was a helluva important guy!

  The next time Corley called she said, “I think you can leave now. I’ll talk with you tomorrow.”

  “Not tonight?”

  “Tomorrow. Not too early. I have to send e-mails.”

  I wondered who she was sending them to.

  CHAPTER 35

  SUNDAY, MARCH 10, 2013

  “IT’S A SHAME, a damned shame,” Corley said. She shook her head. “Dammit. It’s already in the papers.” She pointed at a copy of the Washington Post. “This is really upsetting.”

  It was Sunday morning and we were in her apartment. When I’d arrived a few minutes before, she led me back to one of the bedrooms, which was furnished as an office. While she finished up some work on the computer, which seemed to consist of reading and sending e-mails, I sat down and watched.

  As she tapped the keys, I filled her in on some of the details regarding Greer’s suicide.

  “What did you tell him at lunch the other day?”

  “About what you told me to say. I said we’d been in Dubai and talked with Hamed.”

  “You didn’t threaten him or try to scare him.”

  “No, of course
not. He was a trifle nervous, maybe.”

  “Nervous?”

  “He wanted to know about the trip to Dubai. Who I had spoken with.”

  “He was worried about what we found out in Dubai. That makes sense.”

  “I mentioned that Hamed knew things that the auditors had missed. I didn’t go into detail. As we ate, he ordered a couple more martinis. He invited me over on Saturday. He said he wanted to talk.”

  ‘“He wanted to find out in more detail what you picked up from Hamed.”

  Corley was wearing a man’s flannel shirt, shorts, and house shoes with some kind of fur. After typing for a few minutes, she swiveled around to face me. Even if his marriage to Wanda was on the rocks, I couldn’t imagine Pete falling for Corley. She was attractive, but she lacked . . . something . . . and Pete would have picked up on it.

  What was it she lacked? I couldn’t figure it out myself.

  When she’d finished on the computer, we headed into the kitchen. She put some water on to boil and started fussing with tea tins.

  “What do we know? Let’s start from the beginning.”

  “We know Doug Greer is dead. The police think he killed himself.”

  As she opened a tin of cookies, she said, “Do you think he committed suicide?”

  I hesitated briefly. “I don’t know.”

  “That’s not a helpful answer.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it. In fact I had trouble falling asleep running it over in my mind.”

  “You say he seemed nervous. Okay, he realized his role in the bank failure would eventually become public knowledge. He’d be disgraced. The future appeared so dismal he took his own life. Doesn’t that sound logical?”

  “Yes, but maybe too logical.” When she asked what I meant, I said, “Just because someone’s depressed doesn’t mean they commit suicide.”

  “In other words, we shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

  I said, “You’re right that he had a reason to be worried. But would that lead him to take his own life?”

  “He could eventually go to prison. That’s frightening.”

  “Yes, but Greer wasn’t someone easily frightened. Or intimidated. He joined the Marines as a kid, and he did all right. Later on, he went to college on a scholarship. He was fast on his feet. He could turn on the charm when necessary. He scrambled all the way to the top of the government bureaucracy. He did what he had to do. He was a politician, experienced, a tough, savvy guy.”

  “Being tough and savvy is nice, but when you’re up against the United States government, you’re overmatched.”

  “Yes, but Greer had the government backed into a corner. It would have done its best to avoid a trial. The Afghans were tried in an Afghan court, but an American official would be tried in an American court.”

  “A trial would reveal the government’s lack of oversight in handling a billion dollars of taxpayers’ money.”

  “Because the government didn’t want to reveal the extent of the fraud, the first reports said the sum was only around 230 million. Then it jumped to 350 million. Then 535 million, then 700 million. Then the estimates went to 735 million. Then it was 800 million.”

  “In other words, Greer had a good negotiating position. The government didn’t want to admit just how much money was involved. Plus, it wouldn’t have wanted to bring charges against an American government official.”

  “Not when it could shove all the guilt onto a bunch of corrupt Afghans. Greer could have figured that right from the start. Which is why he was willing to take the risk.”

  “Okay, it could cause quite a shake-up if numbers like that were to reach the public.”

  “Greer could have negotiated a backroom deal. He wouldn’t have given up easily—and taken his own life.”

  She touched a hand to her hair, the kind of gesture Audrey Hepburn made in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. “Still, that doesn’t mean that someone murdered him.”

  “No, it doesn’t. But I noticed some things while I was in the house. He’d been preparing dinner. Greer invited me over, said to arrive between seven and seven thirty. Cooking was a hobby. When I passed through the kitchen I saw chicken breasts on the cutting board. Alongside was a box of rice. There was butter and ginger powder. Also a bottle of white wine.”

  “Sounds like he was preparing chicken breasts in ginger sauce with rice. I make it myself except I like curry sauce instead of ginger.”

  “There was broccoli on the counter as well. When I peeked in the refrigerator, I saw strawberries. He’d asked if I liked strawberries.”

  “Strawberries were for dessert?” When I nodded, she said, “It seems he’d already gone to a lot of trouble.”

  “He might have started preparing during the early afternoon. What could have happened, he was interrupted by someone.” I paused. “Someone who wanted to kill him.”

  “And this someone wanted to make it appear like suicide.”

  “Everything would fit together—that is, if Greer had taken money from the Kabul Bank, the government would have the perfect scapegoat. Or if Greer’s murderer was the coconspirator, that person would be home free.”

  “Someone might not have wanted Greer talking to you because of what he might say.”

  “He liked booze, obviously. He might have had a glass of wine too many—and might have revealed something that might have made me suspicious.”

  Corley stared at me for a long minute, putting the pieces together in her mind. “All right, let’s assume he was murdered. How could it have been accomplished?”

  I thought about that for a minute, then said, “The person might have made him unconscious for a short time.”

  “How would he do that?”

  “Any number of ways. A Russian woman in East Berlin once tried to put me out with a mixture of chloral hydrate and alcohol.”

  “Did she succeed?”

  “I don’t remember.” Ignoring Corley’s smirk, I said, “The perpetrator would only need to get Greer into the garage, which wasn’t far from the rear door of the house.”

  “It makes a kind of sense. It doesn’t seem likely that someone as tough as Greer would kill himself. Not at this point.”

  “And it’s not likely that someone who intended to commit suicide would bother to go food shopping and then go to the trouble of preparing a meal.”

  A minute went by during which neither of us said anything. Then, with the conversation at a standstill, I said something that had been on my mind for a while.

  “Has anyone ever said you look a great deal like Audrey Hepburn?”

  Corley took a sip of tea. “As a matter of fact, yes, a number of times. But I’m six inches taller and probably twenty-five pounds heavier.” She paused. “We’re different types.”

  “Audrey Hepburn had charm and innocence. That’s why people loved her.”

  “But I don’t have charm and innocence? Is that it?” Before I could come up with an answer, she said, “I have other qualities. One of them is, I’m logical.” She paused. “I think we’ve reasoned our way to the conclusion that the Undersecretary didn’t kill himself.”

  “Figuring out who killed him will be much more difficult.”

  “Yes, let me think how we proceed from here.”

  The truth was, I didn’t care how she wanted to proceed from here. Until this op was over, I intended to handle things in my own way.

  * * *

  “It began with some forged passports,” Corley said. She was seated on my sofa. I had just made her a drink, scotch over ice, which she continued to glance at but hadn’t touched.

  “We had someone watching the airport in Islamabad.”

  “Who had someone watching the airport at Islamabad?”

  Ignoring my question, Corley said, “This person recognized Greer and wondered why he flew in. But when we checked with Immigration, we learned he’d flown to Pakistan on a forged American passport.”

  Again I would like to have asked who “we” was.

 
; “The question was: Why would the Undersecretary use a forged passport?”

  “That’s easy. Because he wasn’t there on government business.”

  “I thought that, too. Any further thoughts?” When I shook my head, she said, “He wanted to make contact with Abdul Sakhi, who at this time was in Quetta. In North Waziristan.”

  “I suppose you were at Camp Chapman.”

  “Yes, I was—and in a perfect position to observe Abdul Sakhi, who was, of course, known to us by reputation. He couldn’t light a cigarette in Quetta without SOG knowing it. I wondered why the Undersecretary would want to do business with Abdul Sakhi. Two weeks later, when Colonel Hansen was killed, I thought I might have the answer. After the FBI photo showed Abdul Sakhi had been in ISAF Headquarters, I was 90 percent sure.”

  “But you lacked proof.”

  She nodded. “I flew immediately to Washington. When I spoke with your boss, I said I wanted him to send someone who could figure out what was going on. And who would be able to understand financial fraud.”

  I nodded, remembering that Jerry emphasized banking and fraud when we spoke in January.

  Corley said, “Let’s assume we’re correct that someone murdered Greer and that the reason was to prevent him from speaking with you. That might mean the person was a coconspirator in the fraud.”

  “It would have to be someone he spoke with after having lunch with me.”

  I recalled Greer climbing into a taxi on Dupont Circle. An hour later, when I called his office, I got the impression he never made it back to work after his four-martini lunch.

  “Can we find out who Greer spoke with after talking with you?”

  “Difficult, if not impossible.”

  “Maybe he spoke to a colleague, a fellow worker.”

  “I hope you’re not suggesting the American government sent someone around to kill Undersecretary Greer.”

  “The American government is not a bunch of angels.”

  “No, it’s not. Although I admit such a thing is a possibility, I don’t think that happened. I tend to believe it was an individual, some person close to Greer.” I paused. “Was he married?”

  “Divorced. His ‘ex’ lives on the Coast.”