On Edge

by Albert Ashforth

  “I’ve been able to figure out most of it,” she said, forking up the last of a plate of scrambled eggs she’d made for herself. “A few details I’m still not sure about.” The events in Loudon County hadn’t affected her appetite.

  I said, “Wanda did quite a bit of talking. One of the difficulties of pulling off a major swindle, you can’t brag about it to anyone.” When Corley nodded, I said, “She knew pretty quickly why I’d come, but she was too smart to show it. We talked. I already had an idea why she killed Greer.”

  “She’d manipulated Greer, was that it?”

  I nodded. “I imagine. After they’d become lovers, she convinced him to loot the bank, not the other way around. She’d never admit it to me, but Wanda knew the situation at the bank inside and out. I’m sure when Pete was on leave he told her everything. Wanda realized that Greer, with his constant travel to Afghanistan, was the perfect person to set the fraud in motion.”

  “And show the Afghans how to do it?” When I nodded, she said, “If Hamed’s document reveals Greer’s involvement, it will also indicate her involvement.”

  “Wanda was smarter than Greer. She moved her money physically, stacks of euros and dollars. From what I understand, bribing customs officials isn’t that hard to do. She got some advice from an uncle in Europe. It cost her nearly a million in payoffs to move the money out of the country, but when you’re talking about a hundred million that’s reasonable. One conduit was Pamir Airways. She bribed the flight crews. And there were other ways.”

  “A hundred million dollars? That was her share?” When I nodded, she said, “Without a paper trail, there’s no longer any way to connect her with the Kabul Bank—”

  “Or with the missing money.” Corley took a sip of coffee. “Where do you think her money ended up?”

  “I don’t know. She once mentioned an uncle, who was a bank president in Norway. Someone savvy about moving currency around wouldn’t have any difficulty finding a safe haven for her loot.” I stood up to go. “Wherever it landed, I have an idea it’s not coming back. American taxpayers will take the hit.”

  As I was about to leave, Corley said, “A billion dollars is a great deal of money.”

  “Twenty-two guys are in jail. Two other people are dead. None of them is in a position to spend the billion dollars. What does that tell you?”

  “I guess that honesty is the best policy.”

  “Very good,” I said before closing the door behind me. She’d said the words, but I wondered if she believed them.

  * * *

  Two hours later, there was a quiet knock on my apartment door. It was Corley. She appeared to be none the worse for wear. She didn’t waste words.

  “It’s not advisable for you to stay here any longer than necessary. Can you be packed and ready to leave by noon today?” When I said, “Yes, ma’am,” she said, “I was in touch with the official from the National Security Council.”

  “Jerry Shenlee?”

  “Yes. He e-mailed back ten minutes ago. He wants you to be in the lobby of the St. Gregory Hotel at 1030 hours tomorrow. You should be seated and reading a copy of The Financial Times. Do you know the St. Gregory?”

  I said I did.

  “We won’t be seeing each other again. I’m packed, and a taxi will be taking me to the airport in twenty minutes.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m grateful.” She flashed a brief, artificial smile. “We all are.”

  Again I was curious about who “we” was. Who was she working for?

  “Did things work out satisfactorily?”

  She hesitated. “Maybe not with complete satisfaction, but we can live with the present situation.”

  For myself, I had at least been able to track down Pete Hansen’s murderer. Things had certainly worked out differently than I ever thought they would. Wanda’s involvement in the bank fraud and the cold-blooded murder of Doug Greer had come as terrible shocks, shocks I’d be living with for a long time—and for which I’d need a long time to get over.

  And then I’d had to shoot Wanda. Although it was in self-defense, I wondered if I’d ever get beyond it.

  Shortly after midday, I drove out of Addison Heights and into D.C. I booked a room for that evening at the St. Gregory. In the hotel room, I removed the DVR from the camera and plugged the DVR into the television set. The camera was infrared, motion-activated, and trained on the area directly in front of the house.

  The TV picture provided an interesting record. It showed Wanda over and over, entering and leaving. Those pictures were no surprise. Others showed some workmen coming and going on two occasions. Also no surprise. There were pictures of Doug Greer visiting on several occasions. I supposed Wanda’s country place was where they did a lot of talking.

  Finally, I found the pictures I was most interested in. I had a feeling I was in for another surprise, and I wasn’t disappointed.

  I saw a video of everything that had happened, beginning with Wanda and me leaving the house—and me reaching for the rifle barrel, the weapon going off, me scrambling toward the tree, Wanda following, squeezing off one round, then another, then a third.

  But in the picture there was someone else!

  Corley was standing on the far side of the clearing. Then, as she watched, she raised the M4, sighted it—and as I ducked behind the tree, she fired the round that narrowly missed my left cheek.

  I was moving and ducking, making myself a difficult target.

  Then, she again raised her weapon, sighted, and fired. This round smashed into the oak just as I was falling to the ground.

  Wanda was a relatively easy target. Yet neither round came anywhere close to hitting her.

  I was left with only one conclusion: Captain Corley had been trying to shoot me!

  She wanted to shoot me, and she wanted to let Wanda live. Why?

  It was late afternoon, and I spent a couple of quiet hours at the National Mall trying to relax. As I walked around, I continued to think about Captain Leslie Corley. I kept asking myself the same questions: Who was she? And what was it she’d been trying to accomplish?

  And why was she trying to shoot me?

  I didn’t come up with any answers.

  That evening, I called Irmie. “It was wonderful seeing you, honey. I hope my showing up like that was a pleasant surprise.”

  “It was a surprise, Alex.” Irmie knew I was hoping for more than that. After a pause, she said, “I’m very busy at the moment. I just don’t have time to think about . . . things.”

  “The assignment is over, Irmie. I want you to know that.”

  “I’m happy for you. But I don’t want to hear about the assignment. Not now, and probably never.”

  Before I could say anything more, she said, “Good night, Alex.” To her, the news that my op was over seemed a matter of complete indifference.

  CHAPTER 39

  WEDNESDAY, MARCH 13, 2013

  IT’S A REASSURING feeling to be living in a country whose government fulfills its obligations to its citizens, even when it’s hardly necessary, and even when those obligations, like the “black op” that took me to Afghanistan, lie deep within the grayest of gray areas.

  The following day, while seated on a sofa and reading The Financial Times in the lobby of the St. Gregory Hotel, an attractive blond woman in a gray suit took a seat alongside me.

  “Mr. Klear?”

  When I said I was Alex Klear, she removed some papers from a portfolio on her lap.

  She presented me with an invoice for some plumbing work done in a government building. “This is so you know what the payment’s for.” After reading it quickly, I nodded, and she gave me a receipt to sign. Then she handed me an envelope.

  As I placed the envelope in my breast pocket, she said, “Perhaps you should count it.”

  When I shook my head and thanked her, she quickly zipped up her portfolio.

  “Have a nice day.”

  Before I could say “You, too,” she was on her feet and headed across the lobby to th
e exit. As I watched her go, I was struck by the fact that she bore, in a small way, a resemblance to the Wanda Hansen I knew sixteen years ago. I had a feeling that all kinds of things in the coming years would be reminding me of the Wanda Hansen I once knew—and of those happy-go-lucky days when four still-young people were stationed at Fort Bragg with their lives and their futures all before them.

  Wanda was going to be difficult to forget. And the manner in which she died impossible to forget.

  CHAPTER 40

  SATURDAY, APRIL 13, 2013

  “I STILL THOUGHT of you all the time.” Irmie had turned to face me. “Breaking our engagement didn’t help. I couldn’t stop thinking of you.” She extended her hand on the table and I took it.

  It was Saturday evening. Irmie and I were beneath a large umbrella on the deck of her garden apartment, both of us gazing toward the west. A gentle rain was falling, making soothing pat-pat sounds on the umbrella. The rain seemed to add to the coziness of the moment. A candle was burning on the table.

  I opened the wine bottle and poured each of us a glass of Chardonnay.

  “I knew you were worried. That was one reason I came.” I was referring to my unexpected visit to Gröbenzell, which I made only days after she broke our engagement. “I wanted you to know I was all right.”

  “It was a difficult time, Alex.”

  “Let’s hope our difficult times are behind us.” I felt her squeeze my hand when I said that.

  I had flown into Munich five days before, arriving during the early afternoon. After booking a hotel room, I rented a car and, unannounced, drove out to Gröbenzell, the suburb in which Irmie lives. I found it hard to think of Irmie as my ex-fiancée. For Irmie, Monday was a work day, and she had been preparing dinner when I arrived.

  “Alex!” she said when she’d opened the door. She seemed briefly unsure whether she should let me in. I’d had the foresight to bring a mixed bouquet and a bottle of wine.

  When I saw her hesitation, I said, “At least let me give you these before I leave.” She may have flashed a quick smile, I’m not sure. But she did invite me in.

  As she placed the bouquet in a vase, she said, “What brings you to Munich, Alex?”

  “I’ll be here for a while. I just arrived this afternoon.”

  “How long will you be staying?”

  “For a while. I’m not sure how long.” I could have said, “For as long as it takes to again persuade you to marry me.”

  I didn’t stay long on Monday evening. I hadn’t been sure that arriving unannounced was the right thing. But as they say in Leadership School in the military, doing something always beats doing nothing. Even when what you’re doing is totally dumb. I knew that if I called in advance, Irmie would have said, “Don’t come.”

  On Tuesday, I again arrived unexpectedly, but at a later time. She invited me in. We drank tea and spent time discussing a homicide case she was working on. I could see she was under a lot of pressure and was glad to have someone to talk with about it. There was no mention of us and no mention of our future.

  On this evening I asked about coming by on Wednesday.

  “I can’t make it tomorrow evening, Alex. We have a meeting scheduled.” She hesitated. “What are you doing on Thursday?”

  “I have an appointment with the mayor, but I’ll break it.” I’m sure Irmie hadn’t smiled at my lame attempt at humor. “I’ll bring some wine.”

  “You only have to bring your appetite.”

  At the door I gave her a brief kiss, which was all I dared. She hadn’t responded, and I wondered whether Irmie inviting me to dinner wasn’t her polite way of letting me down easy—and of wishing me a final good-bye. Back in my hotel in Munich, I went into the bar and ordered a double scotch. When I’d finished it, I ordered a second.

  On Wednesday, I was away from the hotel for most of the day. When I returned, I received an unpleasant surprise. Irmie had left a message. “I can’t make it tomorrow evening, Alex. There’s just too much going on here. I’m very sorry.”

  Irmie hadn’t said anything more than that, and I had to wonder if she wanted to see me again—ever. I headed again for the hotel bar. I can’t remember how long I remained there. Irmie had sent her engagement ring back to me in America, but I’d brought it with me. I recall standing at the hotel bar and removing the ring from my jacket pocket, fingering it, gazing at the round gold band—and wondering.

  I spent much of Friday still unsure of what I should do. Finally, I decided to do what I’d done on Monday. Just show up. Carrying a bouquet and a bottle of wine, I rang Irmie’s doorbell at a few minutes after seven p.m.

  Without any hesitation, she smiled and invited me in and told me to make myself comfortable. While she worked in the kitchen, I set the table, trying to be useful. I lit some candles, turned down the lights, doing my best to create a romantic atmosphere.

  I can’t remember what we talked about, but I do remember we ate Obatzda, a kind of cheese that had always been one of my favorite Bavarian dishes. Irmie had remembered.

  As we chatted, I realized how much we were enjoying each other’s company.

  When I returned on Saturday afternoon, I brought the engagement ring with me. It was while we were sitting under the big umbrella with the rain coming down that I reached out and took Irmie’s left hand in mine.

  Before I slipped on the ring, I said, “Will you marry me?”

  Irmie nodded, smiled, cried. “Yes, Alex, I will.”

  I held her. This time, I told myself, I’d be careful not to do anything dumb.

  CHAPTER 41

  FRIDAY, MAY 24, 2013

  “WELL, I THINK I know what it is you’re most interested in,” Jerry Shenlee said. “You want to know who Captain Corley is. Am I correct on that?”

  “You’ve read my mind again, Jerry.”

  It was a sunny, breezy Friday, a few minutes after noon, and Jerry and I were seated on a bench in Rock Creek Park. The nice weather had brought out the crowds. As I watched two laughing young women pushing baby carriages, Jerry said, “This is pretty much where it all began, Alex. Right here in the park . . .” Jerry had a handkerchief up to his face. “Aah . . . choo!”

  “God bless you.”

  “Thanks. Damn hay fever! Every May! All this pollen in the air.”

  At Jerry’s suggestion, I’d flown down to D.C. from Saranac for the weekend. Jerry and I hadn’t laid eyes on each other since the cold January afternoon when he’d flown up to Saranac to recruit me for the Afghanistan mission. We still had things to talk about.

  “I’m guessing here to some extent, Alex, but you can maybe help me fill in the blanks . . . Aah . . . choo!” After blowing his nose for about the fifth time, Jerry said, “Captain Corley was already close to Pete Hansen. She immediately suspected it wasn’t a green-on-blue.”

  Jerry paused to watch a teenager doing all kinds of tricks with a soccer ball while never allowing it to touch the ground. “Pete being killed like that made Corley immediately suspicious. So she flew from Kabul to D.C., made some calls, got me involved. I’ll tell you this much, Alex, she knew which buttons to press.” As he recounted his meeting with a woman in the park, Jerry shook his head and took a quick swallow from his bottle of water. “You’re still wondering who she is.” Jerry pulled a large envelope from the briefcase at his feet. “So was I. For a long time.”

  “You’re right, I’m still wondering. There’s quite a bit of other stuff I’m wondering about as well.” Both Jerry and I knew it’s not unusual for a “black op” to end with a lot of unanswered questions. Often, they remain unanswered forever with the participants taking their secrets to the grave.

  As Jerry pulled some papers out of an envelope, I said, “She told me right at the start that Nolda wasn’t the guy who killed Pete. Supposedly, I was working for you, but she was calling all the shots.”

  “You had trouble getting used to that.”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “She was difficult. I could see
that. Now I’m gonna tell you why.” Jerry continued to fuss with his papers.

  I took a long swallow from my own water bottle. I recalled that I’d spent many a pleasant evening here in Rock Creek Park when I was stationed in Fort Belvoir.

  Then I couldn’t help grinning. “Did you ever check out that building in Addison Heights?”

  “I looked up the deed. It’s owned by an Afghan, somebody Hafiz. I don’t know where he lives, but he pays his taxes on time, which is all anyone cares about. The building’s custodian is also an Afghan, a former intelligence agent who came down with dengue fever, so they gave him the job of taking care of their safe house for a while.”

  I supposed he was the guy I occasionally encountered on the stairs. I figured he was dropping by now and then when I was away. I never thanked him for the six-pack he once brought.

  Shenlee had removed some newspaper and magazine clippings from the envelope. “As for the other question, I think I can give you an answer, a partial answer anyway. Captain Corley was as much a mystery to me as she was to you. At least until I saw this.”

  Shenlee handed me some of the clippings, which were from newspapers and magazines. A news story described some personnel changes in Afghanistan’s National Directorate of Security, in other words at the highest level of Afghan Intelligence. I took a quick look. There were two other clippings with pictures, both from news magazines.

  “As you know, the Afghans have a very active intelligence service. Now, look at this.” Jerry pointed to an article, which was accompanied by a picture. The picture showed the intelligence director close-up. He was shaking hands with an assistant director, and standing at attention in the background were half-a-dozen people. Four of the people were men, two were women.

  Shenlee then handed me a magnifying glass. “Take a close look.”

  It took a couple of seconds for me to realize what I was supposed to be looking at. Then I saw it.