Blow the House Down (9 page)

“Norton—it was a goddamn Norton Commando! Vintage.”

“A thousand apologies. Your Norton. Your Commando. Your vintage. Mea culpa.”

“I need to know why Webber and this guy Scott or whatever the hell his real name is are after me, Frank. The truth.”

“Max, the truth never set a table or put a roof over anyone's head.” Something chirped in the room. An ice-blue light flashed on the phone on the desk. Frank was out of his chair in a flash. He didn't turn on the receiver until he was safely on the other side of the library doors.

“Your highness,” he said again. I had no way of knowing if it was the same one. He was talking softer this time, running off a string of numbers from a sheet he'd snatched off the desk along with the phone. None of it meant a thing to me.

While I waited for Frank to return, I studied the photos hanging on the wall behind his desk: Frank with George W. Bush, taken at what looked to be the Breakers in Palm Beach. Bush had his arm around Frank's shoulder. Karl Rove and Jeb Bush were standing off to the side, talking. The White House had changed hands only six months earlier, but a photo of Frank with Bill Clinton and Al Gore that used to fill this spot was already gone, banished with the Florida vote and three-day-old fish. Next to the Bush photo was one of Frank with Saudi King Fahd at the Yamama palace. Fahd had his hand out, backside up, beckoning Frank to kiss it. Below that, Frank was cradling a hunting rifle next to Vladimir Putin, probably somewhere on the Russian steppe. Frank had been in Berlin when Putin was a young KGB officer there. They'd met a couple times at cocktail parties, had dinner once together that I knew of. Clearly, Frank had rewarmed their acquaintance. There were plenty of others: Frank and Musharraf, Frank and Tenet, Frank and on and on.

I'd seen variations of the same brag wall in dozens upon dozens of Washington offices: ex-secretaries of state; ex–directors of this and that, including the CIA that I was so recently ex-of. The Carlyle Group offices on Pennsylvania Avenue Northwest were wall to wall with them. Frank's was no different. He'd been chief of station in a half dozen high-profile haunts in the twelve years between Brazzaville and his summons home to the seventh floor, most of them along the crescent of oil that runs from Central Asia down to Iran and back along the Arab side of the Gulf. He knew the people who counted: presidents, intel chiefs, the royals; their corrupt off-spring, too, the grease that keeps the wheels turning. Their home numbers were in his Rolodex. All the walls said the same thing:
I know the people you need to know, I can tie up the deal or fuck it. Don't even think about ignoring me.

I tried to imagine my own brag wall: terrorists, con artists, pimps, assassins, pedophiles.
Don't ignore me,
to be sure, but not exactly the kind of people to cash out on.

Frank walked back into the library, finished his Armagnac in a quick sip, put his glass down on the desk, and took mine—not quite finished—and set it down beside his.

“Come with me.”

We walked across the house, through the living room, until we were standing directly in front of the Modigliani. Like the frieze, it was lit to perfection: a raw, sensual nude recumbent on a daybed, meat-red pillows behind her.

“You heard about this?” Frank asked. He had a look of absolute contentment on his face.

“They couldn't talk about anything else for days out at headquarters.”

“So I gathered. See anyone you know in that painting?”

I saw it immediately: the curve of the neck; eyes like little sky-blue diamonds; the button mouth, knowing, ironic, and kind.

“India.”

“Amazing, isn't it? I don't particularly like Modigliani, but when this came up on the block I had to have it.”

We stood there a moment in silence. Behind us, Simon was busying himself in the hallway.

“Listen, Max, here's what I learned in Brazzaville way back when. You can go for truth, you can go for duty, or you can go for money. I went for the money, and this is what it got me.”

He swept his hand around the room: the nude, the frieze, the everything.

“You can, too.”

He pulled two business cards out of his billfold and handed me one of them: Marc Rousset, Bonnet et Cie, 27 Bahnhoff Strasse, Zurich, Schweiz.

“He's looking for someone to hand-hold some Middle Eastern clients. With Arabic and Farsi, you're a lock.”

“He's a slimy fuck, and that's it. You know it, Frank. Everyone does. Didn't Rousset come within an inch of being indicted in France? Bangkok, too.”

“And do you think you're going to land a job with Northrop or Boeing now that Webber's lifted your security clearance? Forget it. You're black-balled from coast to coast.”

We'd gotten to the heart of the evening. I'd sat through the same thing a dozen times when Frank was on the seventh floor, simultaneously lecturing me and extricating me from some flap. He'd even once hung up on an assistant secretary of state who wanted me fired.

“It's an eat-what-you-kill deal,” he continued. “Rousset will carry you initially, but you've got to bring in new clients.”

“Why would anybody want to park his money with me? If someone's already got it, he's already got someone to watch it.”

“Where do you think I got all this?” Frank said. “I used my Rolodex. The day I retired, I called every contact I'd made during the past thirty-two years. And trust me, more than one panned out.”

“That's not the way it's supposed to work.”

“Cut out the Boy Scout bullshit, Max. I need someone I trust to handle a couple new clients. One's a Saudi billionaire. He's needy and will suck out your lifeblood. But it's a good place for you to start.”

Frank handed me the other card, engraved with the name Michelle A. Zwanzig. In the bottom corner was a Geneva number.

“Michelle's my Swiss fiduciary. Call her in the morning—her morning, not ours. When you get to Zurich, you'll drop down to Geneva and she'll arrange for you to meet the Saudi. Pretend to be obsequious and you'll do just fine.”

“It's not going to work. They'll say I'm running. Bailing to Zurich is all the proof Webber will need to make real whatever they've trumped up against me.”

“For crissake, Max, no one said you couldn't leave the country. You're not going to ground. Call Webber every day if you want to, make him your pen pal, send fan mail. He used to work for me. I know what makes him tick. He'll be thrilled. You're throwing your hands up in surrender, moving to Zurich. Get off his screen, and this all goes away.”

“But the Agency—”

“Don't you get it? The place is over, done with. It's not the Agency you and I joined. You might as well be flipping burgers at McDonald's. Flush every memory of the place you have.”

Frank paused a moment and continued. “Grow up, Max. Stop trying to belong. They never liked you, anyhow. You're the lone wolf. The pack hates it when one of their own isn't running along with it.”

Frank was picking at scabs, trying to recruit me into his little business empire, whatever that was. He must have seen my face cloud over because he stopped and flicked off the lights on the Modigliani.

“We're still on the truth, are we?” he said, switching tactics. “Haven't you heard the news? People prefer a bad case of the clap to the truth. The polis cut Socrates's throat because he wouldn't lay off it.”

“He was poisoned.”

“As I was saying.”

Frank put his arm over my shoulder, backing me out of the living room, edging me toward the front door. He gave my arm one last squeeze and turned back up the hall.

“It's a lot easier to make enough money to buy a world-class portrait of your daughter than it is to find an honest man,” he said from the bottom of the staircase. “Just think about it, okay? You've got the numbers. And, Max, by the way”—the third time's the charm—“trot out the paranoia bullshit, your hunt for Buckley's killer, or your
truth
in front of the Saudi, and he'll drop you like a steaming turd. Copy?”

“Got it.”

He had his back to me now, heading up the stairs.

“There are a lot of crazy people out on the streets who look more together than you, Maxie boy.”

And with that, he rounded the landing and was gone. Simon had run my Levi's jacket, sneakers, and socks through the drier, my watch cap also. The wool was warm, tight against my scalp. He stood with his hands clasped behind him as I pulled my shoes on.

“Cheerio,” I said as I opened the door. He was probably holding a .38 behind his back in case I decided to clarify one more point with his master. He slammed the door behind me and double-locked it before I'd hit the first step. I could hear the camera whirring again above me, recording my exit.

 

I crossed the street, walked east for a few houses until I was half hidden by the trunk of an ancient gingko tree, then turned back to have a look at Frank's house. A light was on in the bedroom above the library. It threw a shadow against the curtain, too thin for Frank, too tall for Simon. I thought I saw a corner of the curtain move, a hand wave. For a moment I had the impression of one of those fairy-tale princesses trapped in the top of a golden tower. Something scuttled in the ivy behind me. I saw a tail darting for cover. When I looked back up at the window over the library, the shadow was gone, the light out.

The rain was over. Stars had come out. It had turned cool while I was inside. To the north a mile or so, at the zoo, some creature let out a horrible, night-rending bellow. An elephant, maybe. Or a rhino or hippo. Some major quadrapod. It was the weirdest thing about living in this part of D.C.: Africa roared all night just around the corner.

I checked my watch. I'd asked Willie to call me in two hours. It was a half hour past that now. I found a pay phone that actually worked at Connecticut and Florida avenues and dialed him. The phone rang and rang. I hung up and punched in his number again. He finally answered.

“You didn't call.” It wasn't like Willie.

“Couldn't,” he said. “A funny thing happened. I stopped by a place I know on Fifteenth Street on the way home for a piece of pie and a cup of—”

“Willie.”

“Bottom line, when I came back out, the front passenger window was smashed and your phone number gone. Who breaks into a cab to steal a goddamn phone number?”

Now I had to assume two things: I didn't have a sterile phone and, two, I was still of interest to someone.

CHAPTER 10

I
 
RETURNED TO MY APARTMENT
the same way I'd left it. The El Salvadoran kid was slumped by the Dumpster, asleep or dead. I held a finger under his nostril until I felt him breathe. God knows what he'd been given to desert his post across the street, but he seemed to have swallowed it or smoked it or snorted it all at once. Next door, inside the Dumpster, the rats were jammin'.

The basement was quiet. So were my three rooms. I looked for signs that someone had tossed the place while I was away but found none.

“Per normal,” I said to no one in particular. “I've got no idea what I'm doing.”

I sorted through the yellow pages, found a number for Air France, and called to book passage to Paris: Flight 19 out of Newark at 7:45 the next evening. I'd take Amtrak up. I was about to book all the way to Zurich but changed my mind. Why make it easy on them? I'd make the last leg from Paris to Zurich by train.

Did I want to travel light or take part of my previous life with me? It took all of a minute to decide. I grabbed a steak knife, slit the couch across the back, reached in and removed two stolen passports along with twenty thousand dollars American and another three thousand in mixed pounds, francs, and marks. I'd bought the passports—Irish and German—in Macau from pickpockets. A tech friend had substituted my picture for the owners' and put in U.S. entry stamps. I was sure I'd be just fine with my own passport in my own name, but hauling along the stolen passports couldn't hurt. It was sort of like taking two credit cards on a date so you're not embarrassed if one's rejected.
In omnia paratus
—prepared in all things, a motto for Boy Scouts and ex–CIA officers on the lam.

Out in the hallway, the utility room door was still ajar. I slipped inside, retrieved the alligator clips from the top of the interface terminal, and again availed myself of the ménage à trois's line to dial a number on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. I didn't care who knew I was heading for Europe, but I wasn't about to burn an asset. I had this feeling I'd be needing every one of them.

“O'Neill.” The voice was full of sandpaper. He'd been pulled from a deep sleep.

“John, it's me. Max. Waller.”

“What the—”

“Meet me at Newark Airport tomorrow at five
P
.
M
. The Air France counter.”

“Why?”

“Just do.”

I unclipped the wires, relocked the door this time, and went back to my apartment. I had enough bottles and cans in my recycle bin to build a three-foot tower just inside the door. All the windows were barred against the practical reality of living on the ground floor in the inner city. My pants were dry enough to sleep in. I slid the passports and money in my jacket pocket and curled up under the blankets. For good measure, I kept the steak knife with me under the pillow. I would have slept better with a mini Uzi at my side, but it was field expediency all the way.

As I lay there listening to the night noises—each muffler pop sounding like a small explosive, each noise on the street like bangers closing in—the one thing that kept rolling through my mind was this: Do I take the Peshawar photo with me, or do I destroy it and give up the score-keeping like Frank told me to do? The answer seemed obvious. Destroying it would lift a rock off me. It would give me part of my life back. I also knew that if I did destroy it, the part of my life that kept me going would be missing.

I got up in the dark in case anyone was keeping watch, made it to the kitchen in a low crouch, and felt behind the refrigerator until I found the envelope I'd taped there. Inside was the photo. I folded it carefully into fourths and put it in my pocket next to the passports. Now I could sleep.