Banquo's Ghosts (54 page)

Yossi took his chin off his hand. The spymaster had his attention. Here Banquo paused to hit the intercom button on a phone on a small table between him and Wallets: “Bring him in.”

Bryce escorted in a very pale, ashen-faced Deputy Executive Director Trevor Andover looking as though he missed at least one night’s sleep, his suit rumpled. He clutched a Vitamin water bottle, labeled “Rescue Green Tea.” He didn’t make eye contact with anyone but sat in the chair Bryce pulled out for him and took a slug of his drink. A scared man. And easy to scare. It wasn’t even fair.

Banquo looked from Andover the conniving bureaucrat to Yossi the thug—an unlikely match. But somehow it fit. Then he continued, demanding of Yossi, “Why in heaven’s name would you ever, ever leak anything from this office to this man? What unlikely promises did he make you?” but didn’t wait for an answer. Irrelevant now. Then to DEADKEY.

“Trevor,” Banquo said, “I want you to read the confidentiality agreement you signed with the Agency once again. You’re not the Director; you don’t get a free pass, a Medal of Freedom. Or a brass plaque on the wall of a conference room. You’re a hired soldier, like Wallets. Like me. You have to be competent and, failing that, at least loyal. And interrupting satellite feeds when my people are in jeopardy in Iran doesn’t count as either.”

DEADKEY’s eyes clouded, then glazed over. Banquo’s voice kept on: “Come now, that wasn’t so long ago. Our team’s in the safe house
tracing Nantanz nukes and working their escape. Suddenly there’s no satellite feed, the laptop blanks out—they’re trapped; they’re blind. That
was you,
no? Betray them; make them bolt in panic; maybe even get them caught?” Banquo’s voice took on a kind of sadness.

“For what price? To what end? To disembowel my operation? Or was it simply a matter of non-concur? A principled difference in policy?”

Trevor Andover shrugged, as if to say
all of the above. Whatever you like.
Banquo’s eyes fell on the sad gray man drinking tea in the chair, and Andover kept staring at the floor.

A tired voice. “That’s about it, Stewart.”

“In addition, I have here on speed dial”—Banquo’s voice slowed down as he pushed a few buttons on his cell phone and then held it up for Andover to see—“Ruth Lipsky. 202 334 9532. I’m sure the
Washington Post
would be eager to do a follow-up on the suspect CIA Deputy Director who just resigned ‘amid criticisms.’ You know how the press can get when there’s blood in the water.”

The pale DEADKEY nodded silently but made no remark. Another sip of Rescue Green Tea.

With everyone in a proper frame of mind, Banquo prepared to begin the questions in earnest, and Bryce switched on the recording equipment. The sad gray man in the chair just stared at the floor.

Banquo turned once again to Yossi. “Sometimes you worked with our office and sometimes against us. You had more than one master. The Israelis first. Then me. Iranian Intelligence was another. And the Deputy Executive Director, at least your fourth. So we need to know at which points you, Yossi-Djjal-Deceiver, worked with whom and for what reason. We have lots of time, so we can start from the beginning, when Wallets met you for the first time in 2001, in Istanbul, just after the Mossad sprang you from the Yemeni prison—

“But, before you answer,” Banquo said, letting it hang in the air a bit, “I should make one last stipulation, Yossi. After this, if you’re straight with us, I’m sure we can get that immigration situation squared away . . . Provided you continue to do us occasional favors. We’ll need your help getting close to one of your contacts in Iran.”

Wallets smiled to himself, glancing at his boss—always focused five moves ahead on the board, returning from the dead so many times, both literally and career-wise, relentless in serving The Cause. Banquo had just set the predicate for another Grand Panjandrum somewhere in Iran to experience a very unfortunate event.

Johnson rented a movie to watch with Giselle as was his wont lately. Harmless fare—
The Pursuit of Happyness
with Will Smith. But when Giselle came out of her room, it was obvious she wasn’t going to stay home and watch a movie. Shortish black skirt, a heart pendant her stepmom Elizabeth Richards had given her, tall heels. She saw his look. “Dad, I have a date.”

He shrugged. Even though he wanted to let loose with a torrent of overprotective warnings, he checked the urge. She added, quietly, “I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

That pushed him over the edge, “What do you mean? Where are you meeting him?”

“I’m not. He’s picking me up here. He’s very . . . traditional.”

Oh crap, Johnson thought. His imagination immediately settled on a Saudi. He no sooner had gotten the Iranians out of his hair than now he’d have to deal with a Saudi prince, who would have her pregnant and back in the Kingdom before he knew it, minus a driver’s license and a passport. “Look, honey, I love you and want you to be happy, but there are so many nice boys in this city. Can’t you find one of them?”

She seemed nervous and popped into the bathroom for a final look at her hair, before she answered him. “Don’t worry, Dad; he’s American.”

The doorbell rang. Johnson beat her to the door and opened it to see—gray eyes, looking sheepish. First time he’d ever seen them sheepish.

“Oh! I didn’t expect you. Come on in. What’s going on? Something up?” Clueless.

Wallets didn’t move from the hallway. Giselle came out staring through the open door. “Hi.” Very shy.

“Hey there,” Wallets said. More shy than her. Then to Johnson, “I won’t keep her out late.”

Johnson stood there speechless but managed to croak, “Okay.”

He closed the door slowly and padded back toward the couch. Put his feet on the coffee table and threw his hands behind his head, still stunned. Then laughed out loud. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered. Wallets would be good to his word—nothing to worry about. He looked out his big window at the glimmering Manhattan skyline. He breathed in its beauty for a long time with a dumb smile on his lips and thanked God to be alive.

Jo von H’s Party Day arrived. Johnson walked from his apartment down to the corner of Henry and Montague to look for a cab. A dark feeling had grown on him all day after he noticed a limo parked downstairs—parked for hours. You didn’t see many limos in this neighborhood, and this long black Cadillac 2009 limousine was so shiny it looked as though the driver stopped at every other intersection to get out and polish it. The rear window descended, and Johnson felt like he was in a rerun of a bad movie he’d seen too many times.

“Mr. Jon-sohn, Mr. Jon-sohn,” the guy in back called to him. Impossible to ignore him—too ridiculous. So he stopped and came over to the car. The Asian gentleman, in a grey suit, crisp white shirt, and red power tie, didn’t look very threatening. “Can I give you a ride, Mr. Jon-sohn?”

“Upper West Side?” Johnson asked, conscious that he was acting as though he were negotiating with a gypsy-cab driver.

“Anywheh,” the man said, and Johnson climbed in, his nostrils filled with a scent he had known before—new limo smell. A razor-thin Asian man in a tuxedo slid over the couch, making room, gave a sharp head-bow in greeting, and asked, “Drink?” Johnson looked at a bar that took up most of one side of the vehicle, bristling with multicolored bottles and glasses of all kinds. He could get used to this—at least until they hit Central Park West in the 70s.

Johnson settled with his bourbon into the back seat next to his mystery host and did everything he could not to demand,
What the hell?

The man began, “A Mr. Anjo from Bank Ruxonburg recommended I get in touch with you . . .” And Johnson’s mouth stayed agape for most of the rest of the ride. Turned out there really was a Japanese industrialist—sitting right there. Turned out he did want to bid on New York real estate. Turned out he did need someone to do some quiet banking on the side for him to keep his name, Yoshimi Matsui—printed on a two-sided Japanese-English business card—out of the transaction.

Turned out, in short, that Johnson’s belief that the Iranians had wanted to funnel money into the West through him, of all people, had been a fantasy based on inference. He enjoyed his bourbon and some conversation about the vagaries of commercial real estate and, as they got near Jo von H’s place, began to consider the possibilities. Yet another unusual financial transaction? The industrialist offered him a carrying fee,
naturally.
So could he really turn the man down? No one was asking him to do anything criminal. Just helpful and deceptive.

He gave a crisp head-bow of his own to Mr. Matsui and declined an offer to take the bourbon glass and all for the road. Stepped out onto the street, saying politely, “Let me consider it.” And thinking for the second time in two days,
Sonofabitch.
Then took a deep breath and girded himself for what was ahead.

The long mile down Josephine von Hildebrand’s vanity hallway seemed to last an hour, as if the hallway itself extended geometrically at each weary step Johnson took. The stale
Crusader
covers marched by in silence. Neville Poore at his elbow talked an incessant stream, excruciating in his familiarity. Johnson tried to listen, his boredom competing with his contempt. Even the thought of a good bourbon at Hallway’s End held no allure. He’d drink one anyway.

Now behind
The Crusader
podium his Hostess with the Mostest sal-lied forth. In a fantastic moment Johnson saw her growing directly from the podium base, part of her, her true anchor. After she was done talking, they’d unplug her and wheel her out. Yet a new Lancelot looked on with admiration.

“In an age of fear and aggression, Peter Johnson offers us understanding and peace,” Jo von H said.

“Peter has not only talked the talk, he has walked the walk. He was put in jeopardy on assignment recently by the recklessness and lies of our own government. And we almost lost him. But now he’s come back for good.”

“. . . So please welcome the ultimate crusader, Peter Johnson.”

The clapping and bravos washed over him and offended his ears. He climbed the first step of Josephine’s spiraling staircase, avoiding the podium, and looked at the crowd, the mass smiling, inching forward in anticipation of the knowing and sneering putdowns Johnson would inevitably deliver against all the people and things they hated. Time to feed the beast. Neville Poore winked at him, and Johnson pretended not to see.

“Thank you, thank you very much,” he began. “I can tell you I’ve learned a lot about the nature of Iran, about how our government works, and—especially—who my
real
friends are.”

A titter of laughter rippled through the crowd. Johnson raised his glass and, way off in the back of the room, met Robert Wallets’ sober gray eyes.

Copyright © 2009 by Rich Lowry and Keith Korman

 

 

Published by Vanguard Press
A Member of the Perseus Books Group