Blow the House Down

by Robert Baer

  “Look, Max, I want this shit out of my life. The sooner, the better. In fact, don’t come up here. I don’t want to be seen with you. Give me an address and I’ll FedEx the shit—no, better yet, find some Kinko’s down there that’ll let a crazy fuck like you hang by the fax machine for thirty minutes, call me first thing in the morning with the number, and—”

  “No fax. No FedEx. I come get it, you understand. If I have to, I’ll duct-tape it to my body and swim back to Washington.”

  There was a long sigh at the other end, a swallow.

  “Who’s bothering you, John? The Bureau?”

  “My old comrades in arms. They came to see me this afternoon. More shit. This time it’s about some money I borrowed while I was still in. All aboveboard but that’s not stopping them.”

  “John—”

  “It’s you, Max. Don’t you get it? You’re toxic. I tried, right? But everything that touches you turns into fucking melanomas. I’m not going down with you on this one. I’ve got a new life.”

  I could hear a woman saying they were late, something about reservations, purring in his other ear.

  “Okay. Okay,” he finally said. “When?”

  “Seven-thirty.”

  “Eight-fifteen in my office. And I mean it. If you’re not there by nine, I burn it. The chimes start ringing and I light the fire.”

  “John!” I could tell he was about to hang up.

  “What, for crissake?”

  “Don’t blow me off.”

  “I don’t understand why you don’t just come up tonight. Maybe one last drink.”

  “I got one thing to take care of first.”

  CHAPTER 47

  BUT, SIR, THE TABLE IS FOR ONLY TWO,” the maître d’ sniffed.

  “Someone must have made a mistake,” I said. “If you wouldn’t mind adding a place.”

  The maître d’ swept his hand around the dining room of the Four Seasons, inviting me to take a look for myself. He was right; the place was packed. It was lucky Sherley had made a reservation. It was even luckier that I knew Sherley would go sniveling to Channing about my blackmail threat. And it was just as lucky that I remembered India telling me that David Channing would eat only at the Four Seasons when he was in Washington.

  I spotted a single empty chair in the far corner, off by a service station, and pointed it out to the maître d’, who summoned a waiter to move it.

  I settled myself in one of a pair of matching wing chairs near the entrance, grabbed a magazine someone had left on the table between them, and held it half over my face as I waited. Not for long. Sherley came racing down the steps just over my shoulder, neck craned like some demented ostrich, until he spotted a man who looked as if he might actually own the Four Seasons. The two of them blew right past the front station, heading for what had to be a regular table. I arrived just as they were summoning the maître d’ over to ask about the third place setting.

  Sherley bounced to his feet, napkin clutched in his right hand, as I pulled out the extra chair and sat down. I thought he was going to pick up his water glass and throw it at me. His dinner companion, though, was unruffled. He took one look at me, one look at Sherley, then rose himself, put a hand on Sherley’s shoulder, turned him so he pointed toward the lobby, and gave him a little pat on the shoulder.

  “I think the two of us will be fine, Donald. Just fine. Surely you have more important matters to attend to in your new exalted position.”

  Sherley looked almost stricken as the man patted him again, harder this time, then gave him a shove in the small of the back. Go.

  “David Channing,” he said, extending his hand as Sherley began to trudge back up the stairs. Oliver Wendell’s son in the flesh. Not quite the massive brow. Not quite the massive presence. Not half the money, either, if O’Neill was right.

  “Would you care to join me?”

  I nodded. “Only so you don’t have to dine alone.”

  He ignored me.

  “A glass of wine?” he asked. “White?”

  Before I could answer, he summoned the waiter over and ordered a Bienvenue Bâtard Montrachet. “René, be sure it’s either a 1995 or ’97.”

  This guy was very good. Why not sit back and enjoy the performance.

  “I understand you just returned from Beirut, Mr. Waller,” Channing said. “It’s always good to hear the perspective from the ground.”

  “Trust me, it hasn’t changed. The same clans run the place.”

  He looked at the bruise on the side of my head but didn’t say anything.

  “We hear that Syria’s grip on Lebanon is faltering. It would take only a nudge to loosen it completely. They’re itching to make a deal with us, don’t you think?”

  “The Syrians don’t really talk.”

  Channing signaled the waiter again, this time to order pâté and caviar.

  “Well, of course, you’ve stopped seeing the reporting. We think that some fillip in the Middle East will bring them around. Offered the right deal, they’d close down Hizballah, don’t you think, Mr. Waller?”

  “What do you mean, a fillip? Something like Israel complying with U.N. Resolution 242?”

  Channing threw up his hands, palms up. “I’m not so knowledgeable as you, of course, but maybe U.S. boots on the ground in the Middle East. The big stick. Make the rats scurry back into their holes.”

  “Invade Iraq?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not that dire. But who knows.”

  “I met a guy not long ago who met your father.”

  “Dear Dad knew everyone.” He said it the way someone might describe a fish he’d just bought for dinner.

  “He liked your father. Said that he was smart, that he read and thought about things. Perfect Arabic and Farsi…”

  “All that and five bucks gets you a cup of coffee at this place.” He was sweeping his hand grandly around the dining room. “My father was a romantic. What did he retire out of the Agency as? A GS-13? Not that he needed the money, of course, but I never could figure—”

  “Mr. Channing?”

  “Mr. Waller?” A smile was on his face.

  “Perhaps we could cut the shit.”

  “At the Four Seasons? But let’s do. Tell me why you invited yourself to dinner.”

  He held a hand up as he said it. René had brought the wine. Channing took the bottle to look at the label. “It’s a Chevalier Montrachet.”

  “Mr. Channing, unfortunately, we’ve run short on the Bienvenue Bâtard.”

  A blaze of anger ran through Channing’s eyes. I thought for a moment he was going to smash the bottle on the floor. Instead, he waited until René had filled our glasses, then dismissed him with a quick twist of his hand and turned his attention back to me.

  “You were saying?”

  “Not saying. About to say. There’s a difference.” I waited a beat before going on. I wanted to see if I could throw him off his stride. “You know the myth that Brzezinski turned Karol Wojtyla into Pope John Paul II and brought the Soviet Union down?” Channing nodded as he spread his caviar. “People actually believe it because they believe that people can make history. I thought you were one of them.”

  “Thought?” For a trim man, he was eating the hors d’oeuvres greedily.

  “That’s the point. You didn’t. I was wrong. It’s only about money.”

  “Here’s what I’ll tell you, Mr. Waller.” He took a sip of his wine, let it linger on his tongue before swallowing, then dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “I was wrong, too. I thought the Lone Wolf was cunning. But he’s not. You believed you could take me, but you don’t have the sense, the pieces, anything else. You’re not connected to the machine. Too bad I won’t be able to see you again and ask what the ride down was like.”

  Channing pushed his chair back, stood up, and turned to leave. As he did, I instinctively palmed the caviar knife, slid it up my sleeve, and followed him out. What was I going to do with a knife? Cut Channing’s throat and declare I’d done a public service? He w
as on the third stair back up to the lobby when I threw an arm over his shoulder like any old friend. He looked over at my hand and saw the knife.

  “I think we missed a couple points,” I told him.

  I turned him around, and we walked down the steps and into the bathroom tucked underneath them. Some guy in his eighties—cashmere blazer, pink turtleneck—was dowsing himself with perfume in front of the mirror.

  “My friend enjoyed his Montrachet too much,” I explained. “If you would give us a minute.”

  As soon as the man was out the door, I let Channing go and crammed the caviar knife into the crack between the door and the jamb, hard enough so that someone would need to give the door a good kick to open it. Channing looked at me, trying to measure just how crazy I was.

  “You know, maybe I should kill you right now,” I said, shoving him into a stall.

  I could see Channing looking at the door and then at me. Would I retrieve the caviar knife and plunge it into his throat?

  “You don’t have shit,” he said, calling my bluff.

  “Wrong. I know about BT Trading. I know about the calls on oil. As soon as the refinery gets hit, the Saudi gas-oil separation towers, the tankers, or whatever it is, you’re nailed. Cold. Done.”

  “You can’t—” Channing barked.

  “You don’t care if we invade Syria or Iraq or remake the Middle East. You don’t give a shit about history. You just want to blow the house down so you can pick up the pieces.”

  “You don’t—”

  “I do. I have the evidence, understand? The bright, shining dots any idiot will be able to connect. The only way you get out of this is if you call it off.”

  There was a pounding at the door. Channing looked in its direction, for the first time sure I wasn’t going to kill him.

  “One question. Are all the dead just unfortunate collateral in paying off your G-5?”

  Channing straightened up, smoothed down his hair, adjusted the knot of his tie. “You have the paper, you say? Fine. Use it.”

  I pulled the knife from the doorjamb and walked out.

  CHAPTER 48

  A QUEUE OF CABS WAITED OUT IN FRONT of the Four Seasons. I climbed in the first one, gave the driver the address of the Amble Inn, and sat back while he hit the lock switch.

  We rode in silence until we passed through the blinking stoplight at 18th and Rhode Island Avenue and I saw the swirl of red, white, and blue lights from the two D.C. fire trucks pulled up in front of the inn. Smoke poured from my bathroom window. A ladder stood propped against the wall, a fire hose snaking up beside it.

  I could see it all unfolding in my mind’s eye: the lock popped out in the hall or the hasp just ripped off the jamb, the room tumbled, finally a gloved hand (no prints) flicks on the bathroom light and opens the door just as the bulb explodes and burning embers tumble into the little pool of gas in the sink below. Was the gloved hand surprised? I wondered. Did it try to grab the envelope off the Gideon Bible in that fraction of a second before it realized its flesh would melt if it tried? Did it have any idea the paper inside was blank? No, it would have happened too fast. I still had surprise on my side.

  But the point was, only two people knew where I was staying, India and Willie, and between them, it was no choice at all.

  “Change of plans,” I told the driver. “Tuttle Place.”

  CHAPTER 49

  THE LIGHTS AT 2501 TUTTLE PLACE were all on, blazing. Frank was entertaining. I walked past the house and turned down the side street, along the brick wall that surrounded the garden. You couldn’t see it from the street, but I knew on the other side was the swimming pool, beyond the flagstone patio with the frolicking Henry Moore bronze. It was where Frank liked to eat when the weather was good. I could hear music coming from the patio. Patsy Cline.

  I pushed through the rosebushes that ran against the wall, found a chipped brick for a foothold, and hoisted myself up until I could throw a leg over the wall. The closed-circuit camera was staring right at me, the red light blinking. I was counting on no one monitoring it. Everyone would be helping with dinner. They could watch the tape the next morning, after it was too late.

  I paused on top of the wall to listen. Someone was telling a joke—a male voice I didn’t recognize. A woman laughed. India.

  The music was too loud for anyone to hear me drop down onto the other side of the wall into the azalea bushes. I paused again to listen. The granite pool gave off a muted, shimmering light. I could smell citronella torches.

  I stepped out of the azaleas and heard a sound you can never mistake: the chambering of a shotgun shell.

  “I wouldn’t go any further.”

  I half turned to see Frank sitting in a wrought-iron pool chair with a short-barreled twelve-gauge riot gun across his knees. Going by what he was wearing—a black cashmere blazer, chinos, and a bow tie—I’d interrupted dinner. Someone had been monitoring the cameras after all.

  “Don’t you think you’ve gotten yourself in enough trouble without breaking and entering? If I cut you in half, the FBI would throw a party.”

  “I’m sure.” I made one small step back, edging toward the wall.

  “Far enough.” I heard the safety click on and off. “Why don’t you take a load off your feet, Max. Sorry there’s no chair. Sit on the edge of the pool. The light’s better.”

  Frank raised the riot gun at my head.

  I went over and sat down on the edge of the pool. The underwater lights were enough to light me but not Frank. I couldn’t see him now.

  “You know, I thought you were a lot smarter,” Frank said.

  “Me, too. I misread you by a mile.”

  “Did you?” he snorted.

  “Was this place worth it, the pool, the Modigliani?” I said.

  “What did you find in Michelle’s safe?”

  I heard laughter from the patio, this time loud: India’s voice again, then a man laughing at what she’d said. I wondered if she knew I was sitting there. Odds were she did.

  “I asked what you found in Geneva.”

  “Enough to nail you.”

  “Have you been through the papers you stole?”

  “Not yet. I will, though. They’re perfectly safe.”

  “Any fool would keep it in a safe place. But frankly, you’ve been sloppy, Max. For a start, I can’t believe you never wondered about the coincidence of that Nicaraguan wiring money to the Nauru account every time you happened to show up in Geneva. Did you ask Webber to see the transfers? Just to put your mind at rest: There were transfers. Each time you came to Geneva, I managed to paper it with a fake transfer from Cabrillo’s account to Nauru.”

  I was starting to lose my footing. Right now Frank should have been on the phone to the FBI to come get me, not confessing how he’d framed me.

  “Cute,” I said. “But I was never on Cabrillo’s payroll. It was a dumb ploy.”

  “They served my purposes; they were enough for Webber to pry you out of the place.”

  Shit. He’s going to shoot me, I thought. Why else the confession?

  I tried swallowing, but my mouth felt like it had been swabbed with cotton. Frank would say it was self-defense. Not even a manslaughter charge. I looked at the water glimmering at my side and wondered if I could roll into it without getting shot, swim to the bottom of the pool, and then I don’t know what. Lie there until I drowned? Never mind, I’d be dead before I hit the water.

  “It was easy.”

  “What?”

  “Framing you. Michelle knew Cabrillo’s banker, who for a consideration ginned up the fake transfers. No money got sent anywhere, but it was good enough for DEA to call Webber.”

  I looked at Frank, still wondering why he was telling me all this. Wasting words, gloating over having beat me—this wasn’t his style.

  He started to laugh as if he was really enjoying himself. He stood up, keeping the riot gun on me, and moved his chair closer to where I was sitting. He was in the light of the pool now.

&nb
sp; “Maxie, we haven’t been at a cotillion dance all these years.”

  Frank flipped the safety back on and put the riot gun down at his side against the chair.

  “Max, don’t you see? The photo, Millis’s brains on the wall of the Breezeway Motel, my imminent fall, India’s trip out to Lebanon—you fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.”

  “What are you talking about?” I stammered.

  “The photo you carried around the world, obsessively believing it was the key to Buckley’s murder. Ever wonder how you got it?”

  “I dug it out of Archives.”

  “Did you ever see the 201 file that went with it?”

  “Lost.”

  “Wrong. The 201 never existed. That was mistake two. You never checked around to confirm if it was a real 201. You wanted it to be Murtaza Ali Mousavi’s picture so bad, you never confirmed anything. All you cared about was moving an inch closer to your grail. You wore it on your sleeve.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “It was me who found the photo and cut out the head. I had someone fiddle with the records and insert the photo into the system for you to find. Bait.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Wait a second,” he said. He left the shotgun resting on the chair. He had more trust in me than I had in him.

  Frank was back in five minutes. He handed me the Peshawar photo, but here the headless man in the salwar chemise had a face—Oliver Wendell Channing’s.

  Frank had sat back down. He was smiling, no doubt amused by my confusion.

  “Why?”

  “Because the only way to stop Channing was from the outside.”

  The shock of what Frank was saying must have drained the blood from my face, but suddenly it fell into place. I’d been manipulated, lied to, seduced, betrayed, and set up—the same thing I’d done day to day for the last twenty-five years.

  CHAPTER 50

  I WAS TRYING TO PUT IT ALL TOGETHER in my head when Frank put his hand on my shoulder. “Let’s have a drink.”

  We moved to the table next to the Henry Moore, and Simon brought us a pair of Bas Armagnacs.