Blow the House Down by Robert Baer Page B

from Beirut and some other notes I’d collected on Mousavi, Iran, and Buckley’s kidnapping. So what? It was a security violation at worst, definitely not a firing offense. Better to worry about where all this was headed, not what was already happening.
    For a start, the public ransacking was loaded with meaning. The seventh floor clearly intended to make the break between me and the Agency as visible as possible—a warning to anyone inclined to help me. The ransacking also told me that the entire system was about to come down on my head, and there was no point in my resisting. If I was going to have any chance of surviving, I absolutely needed to find out one last thing before I was escorted to the front gate. I’d have to kick the dog after all.
    â€œMaggie,” I said, drawing the nickname out as long as I dared, “do you know how much the Gobi desert grew in the last five years?”
    â€œWhat?” She knew she was being set up and didn’t like it.
    â€œTwenty thousand square miles. You know how we know that? We compared the satellite photography from 1994 and 1999.”
    â€œWaller…”
    â€œIt’s only one hundred and fifty miles from Beijing today.”
    She was gripping the table. “If you think we’re here to listen to your—”
    â€œMaggie, I’m talking about an unchallengeable proposition. Facts. That’s supposedly what we trade in. So, why are we pussy-footing around here? Do a financial on me, sift through my credit-card bills, decree one more background investigation, or whatever it is you do to ferret out bad apples. But with the evidence you showed me today, you’ve got shit.”
    Mary Beth leaned forward over the conference table and pointed her finger at me just the way my maternal grandfather used to when he lectured me on the sanctity of preserving principal. Just like Mother’s sainted dad, she also called me by my last name while she delivered her lecture.
    â€œHear…me…well…Waller. When you walked in this room, you had everyone’s sympathy. Now it’s gone. And don’t count on getting any from the Bureau, either. The mood they’re in, they’re going to ram a proctoscope up your ass and bolt it in place. I’m through here.” She picked up her stack of traffic and walked out.
    I still had no idea what shit storm I’d wandered into, but now at least I knew the FBI had been called in, which meant that I was the subject not just of a public humiliation but also of a criminal investigation. I’d worked enough with the Bureau to know they weren’t going to buy a flimsy case like this. Cabrillo and the narco charges were for internal consumption, a way to get me out of the building while they investigated me for something else. But what?
    We all sat there saying nothing until Webber unfolded himself from the far end of the table, waved his slender pimp hand in a little dismissive circle, and started down my way.
    â€œLet me have a minute with Max,” he said in a whisper, taking me by the elbow out into the hall.
    Webber’s breath smelled of cardamom and some other herb I couldn’t identify. Maybe he was using organic toothpaste these days. I wondered what would happen if I ripped his tongue out of his mouth.
    â€œVince, tell me what just went on in there,” I said, forcing a laugh. “Where there’s smoke, there’s bound to be mirrors.”
    He didn’t even smile.
    â€œYou already know,” he said. “Your name was bound to come across someone’s screen eventually.”
    The Rick Ames Doctrine again.
    â€œI know you’re not on anyone’s payroll,” he continued, even though he must have seen I’d lost interest. “And if the same lead had come across my desk five years ago, I would have dismissed it right away. I can’t today. After Ames, Congress is calling the shots. But listen, Max, the Bureau is