Robert Baer - Blow the house down

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.

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."

The lights at Z501 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.

"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?"