Alex Berenson - The Midnight House

The guard stopped six feet away. He had shiny black eyes and a long narrow chin and a halo from the spotlight behind him. He reminded Wells of a Jesuit priest in a seventeenth-century Spanish painting.

“What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to Brant.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“I’ve got no gun,” Wells said. “If I’d wanted to hurt him, believe me, this isn’t how I’d go about it. I’ve got a message for him, and it’s urgent. Frisk me and tell him I’m here to see him. Please.”

The guard glanced up at the house. “Stand up and raise your shirt.” Wells did. “Over to the van. Slowly. When you get there, put your hands against the passenger door.”

At the van, the guard frisked Wells, slowly and expertly, squeezing his legs, working down from thigh to ankle and then back up. Wells hoped the guard wouldn’t go too high. He was still throbbing from Callar’s knee.

“Sit down.”

“Tell him his life is at risk,” Wells said. “And that he shouldn’t call anyone until he talks to me.”

The guard walked up the driveway.

TWO MINUTES LATER, Murphy emerged, holding a flashlight. The guard stood beside him, his pistol trained on Wells’s chest.

“I should have you brought in right now,” Murphy said.

“Good news. Shafer and I, we know who’s after you.”

“Prove it.”

“Give me five minutes.”

“Come on, then.” Murphy stepped back up the driveway.

“It’s better if we do this outside.”

They walked side by side down the empty street, the van trailing, in what was without doubt the strangest meeting ever held in Kings Park West.

“What happened to your face?” Murphy said.

“The guy, the killer, he’s in custody. Not far from here.”

“You’re full of shit, John.”

“I’m completely serious.”

“How come I haven’t heard, then? When was he arrested?” Murphy stopped, put a hand on Wells’s arm. “Who has him in custody?”

“At the moment, Ellis Shafer.”

“You personally found the killer.”

“Ellis and I, tonight, yes.”

“And have him.”

“Ellis does. The guy was casing your house. You were next on the list.”

“You are going to be very sorry you woke me up at two thirty in the morning for this.”

“Look at me.” Wells waited until he had Murphy’s attention. “It’s no joke. So, the good news, we have him. There’s bad news, too. The bad news is this is very personal for him, and he’s willing to die. And you, Poland was as close as you ever got to the front lines, so you don’t know what it’s like, that mind-set. But I’m telling you that a man who’s willing to die is unstoppable. Especially if he’s patient. I mean, if you’re the President and you have an unlimited budget and a thousand Secret Service officers and you never go anywhere that hasn’t been vetted first, maybe you have a chance. But you’re not the President, Brant. This is all the protection you’re going to get. In a year or two, you’ll have less. The agency’ll take it away bit by bit. It’s expensive. People forget. But this guy, he won’t forget. He’ll wait and wait. Then he’ll hit you. I wouldn’t bet against him.”

“I’m calling Whitby right now. Have you brought in.”

“Sure. Only one problem.” They were at the crux. “You do that, Shafer’s gonna let him go.”

“You wouldn’t.” Murphy grabbed Wells’s arm, leaned in close. He looked around, side to side, his eyes darting, as if the killer might even now be lurking behind a tree or under a car.

Behind them, the van stopped. The Jesuit guard opened his door. “There a problem, Mr. Murphy?”

“No problem,” Murphy said. He hissed at Wells, “You’d let him go? Knowing that he’s killed Americans? Soldiers? Our operatives? You’ll be an accessory to murder, spend the rest of your life in jail. You’ll—”

“Shafer can’t help it if this guy overpowers him.”

“I’ll tell everyone what you said.”

“And I’ll deny it.”

Murphy stopped. The only sound was the low grumble of the Ford’s engine.

“So let him go. We’ll find him. The FBI—”

“Hasn’t had much luck so far.”

“This is gutless,” Murphy said. “ You’re gutless. Hiding behind this man. You want to threaten me, threaten me yourself. Not this.”

The words stung. Wells had never been called gutless before. And he’d never had cause to think of himself that way. But tonight he did. Because Murphy was right. Wells should never have let Shafer use Callar this way.

But Wells had come too far to back off now.

“I guess I must not like you much,” Wells said.

Murphy rubbed his face and squeezed his eyes shut. He opened them, as if he hoped to find himself back in his bed, this nightmare over. But Wells stood in front of him. “Just tell me what you want,” he said.

“The truth. About the missing detainees. About what happened at the Midnight House. Ten days ago, Whitby showed us this incredible intel. The location of every nuclear weapon in Pakistan. That’s a coup. He said it came from you, from your squad. So, how come no one will give us a straight answer about what happened over there? How come the IG’s investigation got zapped? How come Jerry Williams’s wife says he wasn’t the same after he got back?”

“That’s all.”

“That is all. No notes, no tapes. Just the truth. Then we hand this guy over for whatever justice the people of the United States of America see fit to dispense.”

“Even if I tell you, it won’t do you any good.”

“Maybe it’ll do you some good, Brant. Maybe it’ll set you free.”

“You’re quoting me the lobby?” When the original CIA headquarters was completed in 1961, the chief at the time, Allen Dulles, had inscribed a proverb on a wall in the lobby, John 8:23. “Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.”

“Look, you must have killed them, those two detainees, otherwise you wouldn’t have paid D’Angelo to zap their records. That was a big mistake, and you knew it was risky, but you did it anyway. And the only explanation is that you had to have them gone because they were dead. So, why don’t you just come clean? I swear, Brant, I’m not wearing a wire. Your guys frisked me.”

“You think that’s what happened? You think we killed our prisoners. Got what we needed from them and disposed of them. War crimes.”

“Maybe it was an accident.”

“You know what, John? I’m gonna tell you after all. Outside of Whitby and Terreri and me, you’ll be the only one who knows the truth. And then you can decide who to blame.”

By the time Rachel Callar walked into Terreri’s office, the rest of the squad was there. The room stank of cigar smoke. Eight men, eight cigars. Even Jerry Williams, normally a health nut, was puffing away.

“Major.”

“Colonel. I see you have a fire drill planned.”

“A pleasure as always,” Terreri said, waving his cigar at her. “Can I offer you one?” He nodded at the wooden box on his desk. “Cubans. From this store in Warsaw. I’m picking up a few dozen before we go home.”

“Congratulations. Who’s watching Jawaruddin and Mohammed? ”

“Fatty and crazy aren’t going anywhere,” Murphy said. “We figured they could use some time alone.”

Callar knew Murphy wanted to rile her. Yet she could hardly resist the bait, putting a finger in his chest and telling him to shut up, that those were human beings downstairs and she didn’t care if Jawaruddin had given them the keys to Fort Knox and Osama bin Laden, too, and—