City of War (40 page)

“Can you get me a limo?” I asked.

“How soon?”

“Forty-five minutes. But I’ll meet him at the hotel.”

Pradeep didn’t seem to care one way or the other, which could have been that he was used to odd requests or bored or both.

Fortunately, the guy in my foyer wasn’t a bleeder. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the kneecapping, there would have been very little at all. I went through the corpse’s pockets and found what I expected—nothing. There wasn’t even a label in his suit, and his gun, a German Korth, had the serial number filed off. Not surprisingly, the suppressor was professional grade. I left the weapon on his chest and stuck a note between his teeth.

Archer had already packed her few things, and I did the same. I had two messages on my phone. The first was from Bert to call him.

The second was from Carl Noon. “The name you want is Bastet Nazarak. She was the ramp agent that night. Family runs a commercial nursery outside Alexandria. She was there as of yesterday. Steer clear of chanting pilots, buddy. Cheers.”

I called Eddie and told him to meet me at the Northeast Philadelphia Airport the day after tomorrow. And to be well rested with the fuel tanks topped off.

“Where we goin’, boss?”

“Chart us to Reykjavík, and we’ll take it from there.”

“Ice bunnies, nice.”

Though it probably wasn’t necessary, I wiped my land
lord’s gun and suppressor clean of prints and put them back in the safe, taking back my Beretta in the process. The guy was probably going to notice that his gun had been fired and wonder what happened. It would just have to be one of those unsolved mysteries of life.

I pried seventeen slugs out of the windows and six out of the mattress and flushed them down the toilet. I probably missed a couple, but I wasn’t going to take the time to look. Then I fished Wandette Hope Radcliffe’s welcome card out of the kitchen wastebasket. She answered like she was poised over the phone.

“Wandie. Your tenant at the Watergate, Rail Black.”

“Oh, my God!” she shrieked. “
The
Rail Black. You know I used every trick in the book to drag your name out of Jhanya, but she wouldn’t even give me a hint. Lord, you’re not only rich, you’re like the most handsome man on the planet.”

Who was going to argue with that?

“Look, Wandie…may I call you Wandie?”

“I’d rather you nudged me for breakfast, but absolutely.”

She had a great laugh, but somehow I didn’t think Archer would be impressed. “Wandie, I’m leaving this evening for a couple of weeks, and I’m embarrassed. I had a few drinks too many last night and got carried away.”

“Don’t you worry about a thing,” she purred. “The man who owns that place runs a game reserve in Zimbabwe and almost never comes to Washington. So whatever it is, we’ll handle it, and he’ll never know. Let me guess, you tried to throw that god-awful warthog from the balcony to the pool.”

“I wish I’d thought of that. No, I got out a couple of my guns and kinda shot up the place.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone. But only for a second. And then the question wasn’t what I expected. “Do I need to come bail you out of jail?”

I laughed. “No, nobody heard anything. At least if they did, they didn’t report it. But you’re going to need a good glass guy and a new mattress.”

“Shit, I can do that with my eyes closed.”

“Great. Say, when I get back, how would you feel about dinner?”

“Hell, I’ll pay. Then when I wrestle you in the door later, I’ll feel I’m owed.” She laughed.

I did too. “Good, I’ll be in touch. In the meantime, tell Jhanya to have Jake Praxis call you about getting paid. And don’t cut any corners. I don’t want the Great White Hunter looking to put me next to the warthog.”

When I hung up, I realized what a lame explanation I’d come up with. But she seemed to have bought it. Besides, everybody knows rich people are loons. I left a voice mail for Jake to be ready for Wandie. And to call Jengo Mutumbo. I also made it clear I wanted him to handle the guy like he’d saved my life.

33

Greedy Lobbyists and Dreamy Eyes

The limo took us to Dulles Airport, where we got out, took the escalator downstairs and caught a cab back to Georgetown. It might have been an unnecessary exercise, but there was no way to know, so it’s what you do.

As was to be expected, Archer had a lot of questions, most of which I didn’t know the answers to. All I could offer was a ticket home, where it probably wasn’t any safer. It didn’t matter, she said. She wasn’t going anyway.

Freddie Rochelle’s place was just off M Street in a tree-lined neighborhood where every house was a slice of history. Freddie’s was one of the most lovingly restored, which contrasted nicely with the schmuck who owned it. But like I said before: You need a friend you can buy, find a lobbyist.

I hadn’t called, because there was always somebody there, and they’d know how to reach him. I heard the dogs when I rang the bell. They’re a pissy pair of miniature dachshunds named AK and 47 with no charm. Freddie opened the door himself wearing a pair of white silk pajamas and matching robe, his bald head pink as a flamingo’s ass. He was carrying a large martini glass with something yellow and frothy in it.
The dogs made a snarling beeline for me, saw my stare and thought better of it.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, shoot me on sight. If it isn’t the mad Brit himself. My God, Rail, it’s been for fucking ever.” He hugged me, then noticed Archer. “Oh, I’m sooo sorry, miss. My God, Rail, are my eyes playing tricks, or did you bring me Archer Cayne? She’s even more gorgeous than her pictures. Come in, you two maaaaaarvelous people…come right in.”

How the hell he knew who Archer was I couldn’t guess, but then he made his living knowing things. Archer stepped forward and took his hand, and he led her into the house. I followed and heard him call out. “Leon, Leon. Look who’s here. Whip up another batch of Banana Banshees, doll, and don’t skimp on the banshee.” He and Archer both thought that was funny as hell. I was already wishing the Russians had been better shots.

You only have to see Freddie at home to know he’s gay, but in his business life, he plays it straight as a Presbyterian preacher. Office full of cowboy art, antique guns and his real passion, Thoroughbreds. He owns pieces of some of the best bloodlines in the world and is rumored to have made millions advising Saudi royals on racehorses. Knowing Freddie, the information he gets in return retails for more than the nags.

Leon, his longtime companion, is roughly Freddie’s age and a really nice guy. He’s an architect with a platinum client list, and he has the same beef with his housemate that I do. Everybody in town knows Freddie’s gay, and nobody cares. They afford him his charade like they should. But like everything with Freddie, he’s not happy unless he’s manipulating, and he overdoes the sales job. Cuban-heeled boots with his Savile Row suits. Mirrored aviator sunglasses. Death’s head signet ring. And a flashy Rolex on the same wrist as a thick gold bracelet he calls his Bay of Pigs Memory Band. Nobody gave out bling for fucking up the Bay of Pigs, and
even if they had, Freddie was still riding a tricycle when the operation went down.

But he doesn’t stop there. There are constant suggestions about dark ops in deep jungles when the closest he’s ever been to physical danger is getting his jaw broken by a Boston prostitute after refusing to pay the guy. My personal favorite, though, is watching him tongue kiss every woman he meets. Nobody knows why he does it, it’s just part of his MO. The less charitable like to say Freddie’s been slapped more times than Bill Clinton but wouldn’t know what to do with a pair of tits. I wanted to be there if he tried to slip his Gene Simmons between Archer’s lips.

Leon met us in the tastefully decorated living room with a pitcher of something too thick to tempt me, but Archer was game. The dogs took over a sofa, and Freddie didn’t waste any time getting down to business. He suggested I join him in his office.

There are dozens of examples of Freddie’s greed and moral vacancy. One that comes immediately to mind is the married European diplomat who discovered his Chevy Chase girlfriend was seeing somebody else. So naturally, he tied her to a tree and burned down her house. Freddie arranged to get the guy out of the country before the cops could find him. His fee: $2 million. His defense: “Heavens, I haven’t watched TV or read a newspaper for days.”

Freddie skated. The girlfriend wasn’t so lucky. She committed suicide.

I disliked him, but I needed him. We took seats in a small sitting area opposite a rolltop desk Freddie brags belonged to Jesse James. I doubt it. Jesse wasn’t much of a desk-sitter. He grinned at me like a skinner eyeing a plump hide. If there are any disadvantages to being wealthy, this is one. “Whatever can I do for you, Rail?”

“I need visas into Egypt for Archer, myself and my two pilots. We’ll be arriving day after tomorrow.”

“Oh, you’re staying over. Delightful. We just redid the
guest room. And why don’t you ask for something hard? Egypt? Sounds intriguing. Do tell me.”

“Not a chance. And it’s not that easy. My pilots aren’t in town yet, and Archer and I can’t leave the house. You’ll have to do it on charm.”

His grin got wider. “You know the old saying: you can get more with a kind word and a gun than just a kind word. I’ve got some juice with an embassy guy who likes to…”

I held up my hand. “Not something I need or want to hear.”

Freddie laughed. “Anything else?”

“I want to be able to land my plane without the whole world knowing. Maybe a small airfield up north.”

“Alexandria.”

“Yes, but not Borg Al-Arab International. I’ve got a history with that place.”

“Now there’s a story I’ll bet I could make some hay with. How long will you be in-country?”

“Just a few hours. One meeting and out.”

“So you’ll probably need to get around some. I’ve got a friend up that way who leases cars. What say we get you into a new Maybach. Maybe a driver too. Egypt’s not an easy place to find your way. Dangerous too.”

What he meant was, how about letting me add a spy. “No driver, just the car.”

“That it?”

“Archer and I could use somebody to do some shopping for us. We’re both a little low on clothes.”

Freddie clapped his hands with genuine joy. “Terrific. I’ve got just the guy. Vittorio. He’s got the best taste.”

“I’m not interested in his taste, only his ability to follow instructions.”

Freddie shook his head. “Still a goddamn fashion dud. I’ll bet your lady friend will be more receptive to a little adventure.”

“If she wants to trust you, that’s up to her. But I should
warn you, the lady can shoot. Okay, Freddie, time for your favorite question. How much? And don’t use Chevy Chase arsonists as a benchmark.” I couldn’t resist the jab, but Freddie was impervious.

He looked off into space like he was calculating. If he was, it was how big a number he could throw out without having me grab him by the neck. “What say I do it out of friendship?”

I was ready for him. “Then be on the hook for something down the road? Not a chance. I was on the receiving end of that once before, remember? It cost me about five times what the original favor was worth, not to mention the respect of a really good man.”

Freddie frowned. “That guy was a fucking asshole. You’re better off.”

“How much, Freddie?”

“Let’s say a quarter.”

“A quarter of what?”

“Don’t be coy.”

“For four visas and a landing permit? That yellow crap you’re drinking must be LSD.”

“You ever hear the one about Mike the Butcher?”

“If you think it’s worth two hundred and fifty grand, knock yourself out.”

Freddie leaned toward me. “Lady comes in and asks Mike, how much are pork chops? Five ninety-nine a pound, he tells her. Jesus Christ, she says, Lenny down the street sells them for three ninety-nine. Then buy them from Lenny. The broad gets upset and says, I can’t, he’s sold out. So Mike leans across the counter and says, I should be sold out, you can have them for three ninety-nine.”

“A hundred grand, not a penny more.”

“Go see Lenny,” Freddie said. “Price of pork chops here is a quarter million.”

The prick had me, and we both knew it. I sighed. “For that I get your car too.”

“My Bentley? Not a fucking chance. It’s worth that much all by itself.”

“I don’t want to buy it, Freddie. Just use it. When I’m on my way, I’ll call, and you can send somebody to pick it up.”

“Why not just let me drive you to whatever airport you’re using?” he asked. “What damage could I do?”

“It’s the other way around, Freddie. Being seen with me right now has nothing but downside.”

The coward in him told him not to press. “Okay, but only if you promise to park it indoors.”

“Done.”

My cell phone rang. I looked at the screen. Bert.

“Jesus Christ, Rail, why didn’t you call me back?”

“I’ve been a little busy.”

“What the fuck is going on?” he said.

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Haven’t you seen the news?” he asked, his voice rising.

“No.”

“Well, get to a television. Fast. Then call me back.”

I started to point to the television across the room, but my professional eavesdropper already had a picture coming up. The reporter on CNN was standing in front of the Pentagon.

“In an eerie parallel to Admiral Boorda’s 1996 suicide, Army Chief of Staff General Marlon R. Hood evidently shot himself in his office early this morning. He was found by his secretary, and last rites were administered before he was transported to Walter Reed Medical Center, where he was pronounced dead.

“The president has been notified and will make a statement at four o’clock this afternoon. The general’s widow has gone into seclusion, and some members of Congress are saying that he should not be permitted to be buried at Arlington until there is a full investigation.

“Several colleagues of General Hood said they saw no indication of any problems, but there is an unverified report
that a coworker had recently noticed a pistol on Hood’s desk, and when he asked about it, the general said it was a gift, and he was just waiting for a display case he’d ordered.