Blow the House Down by Robert Baer Page B

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.
    â€œCome 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.
    â€œYou heard about this?” Frank asked. He had a look of absolute contentment on his face.
    â€œThey couldn’t talk about anything else for days out at headquarters.”
    â€œSo 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.
    â€œIndia.”
    â€œAmazing, 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.
    â€œListen, 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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œHe’s looking for someone to hand-hold some Middle Eastern clients. With Arabic and Farsi, you’re a lock.”
    â€œHe’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.”
    â€œAnd 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.
    â€œIt’s an eat-what-you-kill deal,” he continued. “Rousset will carry you initially, but you’ve got to bring in new clients.”
    â€œWhy would anybody want to park his money with me? If someone’s already got it, he’s already got someone to watch it.”
    â€œWhere 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.”
    â€œThat’s not the way