Robert Baer - Blow the house down

"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."

But, sir, the table is for only two," the maitre d' sniffed. "Someone must have made a mistake," I said. "If you wouldn't mind adding a place."

The maitre 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 maitre 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 maitre 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 Bi-envenue Batard Montrachet. "Rene, 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 pate 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. Rene 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 Batard."

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 Rene 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 was 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."