The Midnight House jw-4

by Alex Berenson

  Shafer laughed. A piece of chicken, or some chicken-like substance, flew from his mouth, landing on Wells’s hand. “Good one.”

  “Then could you finish that, so we can go in?”

  “He’s not going anywhere, and we’re not going in until after midnight.”

  “He could go after Murphy before that.”

  “This guy’s careful. He’s not moving until he’s sure.”

  “Then I’m going home for a while, pick up some things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Are you really asking me that? In the middle of a restaurant?”

  “It’s a KFC.”

  “Things we might need.”

  “And it’s finger-licking good.”

  “Do not lose him, Ellis. You lose him, I might use those things on you.”

  “You promise?”

  Wells took the rest of Shafer’s chicken and left.

  THE BUDGET MOTOR INN didn’t have a lobby. It had a waiting room, like a doctor’s office, if the doctor worked in Mogadishu. Wood-grain veneer on the walls and thick bulletproof glass protecting the front desk. A sign taped to the inside of the glass explained, “Credit cards or cash only. No checks. No exceptions.” The guy behind the glass was in his late twenties, black, with a shaved head and Urkel-sized black glasses. He barely looked up from his battered copy of Fight Club as Shafer and Wells walked in.

  “You want one bed or two?”

  “We don’t want a room,” Shafer said. He held up his CIA identification.

  “Lemme see that.”

  Shafer slid the badge under the glass. The guy frowned at it, handed it back.

  “CIA? You expect me to believe that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not allowed to do anything on American soil.”

  “Everybody’s a lawyer.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m hoping to go to law school.”

  Wells pulled out his own CIA identification, held it against the glass.

  “John Wells? Mr. Times Square? Seriously?”

  Wells nodded.

  “Where you been since then?”

  “Hanging out on the beach,” Wells said. “Those fruity drinks with the umbrellas? Mai tais?”

  “For real?”

  “But now he’s back,” Shafer said. “And he’s better than ever. And he and I have business with the guy in room 112. Anything you can tell us about him?”

  “You cannot be serious.”

  Shafer slid two hundred-dollar bills under the glass. “For your college fund.”

  “It’s law school.” The guy pecked at the ancient keyboard on his desk. “You’re gonna be disappointed. He’s registered under the name Michael Jackson.”

  “He show ID?”

  “Doesn’t say here, but probably not. You don’t have to if you pay cash up front and put down a three-hundred-fifty-dollar deposit. More than the whole room’s worth.”

  “We’re going to say hi to him,” Wells said. “All we’re asking is that you ignore him if he calls you when we knock on his door.”

  “What if he calls the cops?”

  “He’s not calling the cops,” Shafer said.

  THE TERCEL SAT in front of room 112, as it had all night, empty spaces to either side. Even with an RV taking up five spaces, the motel’s parking lot was only half full. But New York Avenue was alive with Saturday-night traffic, SUVs cruising by, pumping rap from behind tinted windows. A D.C. police car slowed as it rolled past, the cop inside looking curiously at Wells and Shafer. They ignored him and kept walking, and he disappeared. Wells didn’t want to be here for his next pass.

  The noise from the street covered their approach. Wells loosened his jacket but left his pistol in his shoulder holster. He and Shafer were going in cold. They needed this guy alive. Wells reached 112 first, flattened himself against the wall, two big steps from the door. The window shade was drawn, the room silent and dark, lacking even the glow of a night-light.

  Shafer stood fifty feet away. Wells counted five and nodded at him. Shafer walked noisily to the door, rapped his knuckles against its faded red paint. “Henry! ” he shouted. “That you, Henry?”

  No response.

  Shafer knocked again, harder. “Henry! Come out, you two-timing prick! ”

  “Get lost!”a voice inside yelled back. Wells had heard it before but couldn’t place it.

  Shafer hammered away like a woodpecker on meth. Inside, someone stood up and shuffled to the door. “I’m not Henry,” the voice said, more calmly now. “Please go away.”

  “Henry! I’m gonna call the cops!”

  The door opened a notch, still on the chain. “Henry’s not here.” The tip of a pistol poked through the gap between the door and the frame. “And you need to leave.”

  “I am sorry,” Shafer said. “So, so sorry.” He raised his hands and stepped away.

  The pistol disappeared and the door swung shut—

  But even as Shafer backed off, Wells was moving. He rocketed forward, popped his shoulder into the door, carrying himself back to those crisp fall afternoons at Dartmouth. Two decades gone now. He’d been quick enough then to speed-rush from the outside, tearing past linemen and tight ends on his way to the quarterback. He wasn’t that fast anymore. But he was fast enough.

  His shoulder hit the door and he felt the chain pull taut and then snap loose, the screws that held the fastener popping out of the wall. The door made solid contact with the man inside, and Wells got low and kept pumping his legs—never stop moving your legs, that’s where the power comes from, Coach Parker always said. The guy on the other side of the door grunted and went down, and Wells swung open the door and stepped in.

  THE ROOM WAS DARK, illuminated only by the glow from the parking-lot lights outside. The man inside sprawled in the narrow aisle between the bed and the wooden chest of drawers that sat against the wall. Wells still couldn’t see his face. The man scrabbled back, groped for his pistol.

  Wells leapt down on the man. As he landed, slamming chest against chest, he saw the face of his enemy.

  Steve Callar.

  Wells’s shock was so complete that for the first time in his life he dropped his guard during a fight. Callar took advantage. With his free hand, his left hand, he clubbed Wells twice. Wells sagged but held Callar’s right arm, the one that held the pistol. Callar heaved his body convulsively and tossed Wells off. They lay sideways beside each other, close enough for Wells to see every pore on Callar’s face, smell the sweet-sour whiskey on Callar’s breath. Then Callar rolled on top of Wells. Wells rolled with him, trying to use his momentum to flip Callar another one hundred eighty degrees and put him on his back. But the space between bed and dresser was too cramped and instead they got stuck side by side again.

  Wells chopped at Callar’s face with his right forearm, the trick that had worked on Jim D’Angelo. But he didn’t have the momentum, and anyway Callar was fighting with a rage that Wells couldn’t match. Wells outweighed Callar by at least twenty pounds, all muscle, and yet Callar was giving him everything he could handle—

  Before Wells could finish the thought, Callar twitched sideways and pushed his left leg between Wells’s legs and drove his knee into Wells’s testicles.

  The agony was so enormous that Wells couldn’t move. Tears filled his eyes, and the air came out of his body. Somehow he kept his grip on Callar’s right arm as Callar tried to tug down the pistol. Callar grinned at him, a hard, crazy smile, and began to wrench his arm free. Wells was holding on with his left hand, his weak hand. His strength was ebbing. In a few seconds more, Callar would have him. Callar felt it, too. His grin widened.

  Wells saw the opening.

  He shifted his legs to block Callar from kneeing him again. And he hooked his right thumb into Callar’s mouth and pulled back Callar’s cheek. Callar’s face twisted and he snapped his jaws shut, trying to bite Wells’s thumb. But Wells pushed his thumb in farther and tugged until Callar’s cheek tore—

  Callar scre
amed, a desperate bleat. He thrashed his legs and swung his head sideways and scratched at Wells’s face, long fingernails clawing into Wells’s face, as Wells pulled and Callar’s cheek tore further—

  When he had done as much damage as he could, Wells pulled his thumb out of Callar’s mouth and made a fist and slammed it into Callar’s jaw, a miniature uppercut. He hit Callar once, twice, and a third time, and then shifted his grip to wrap his hand around Callar’s neck, Wells’s superior strength taking over now. He clenched Callar’s neck tighter, tighter. Callar’s face turned red and his eyes rolled up and foam mixed with the blood running from the corner of his mouth and—

  * * *

  THE LIGHTS FLIPPED ON, and someone pounded on Wells. Shafer.

  “Don’t kill him, don’t, don’t.”

  Wells rose to his knees and straddled Callar’s chest and relaxed his grip. Callar’s mouth opened, and the blood burbled out of his torn-up face. Wells and Shafer watched him breathe. Then Shafer grabbed the pistol from his limp right hand. Wells picked him up and put him on the bed. Shafer pulled two sets of cuffs from his jacket and locked Callar’s wrists together and then his ankles. The adrenaline evaporated from Wells, and he sagged against the wall.

  “We need to go.”

  “No,” Shafer said. “Rooms 111 and 113 are empty, and there’s no sirens.”

  “That’s Steve Callar.”

  “Yeah. I’ve seen his picture. He doesn’t look much like it now.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You should go in the bathroom, get yourself cleaned up.”

  WELLS FLICKED ON the fluorescent lights and saw a berserker in the bathroom mirror. A thick, red trail of blood, maybe his own, maybe Callar’s, streaked down under his eye. Spit and phlegm covered his cheeks. Wells turned the tap and dabbed at his face until the wash-cloth was red. Traces of blood lingered, but he looked mostly human. He pulled down his jeans and boxers and winced as he touched his swollen testicles.

  Shafer opened the bathroom door, holding a bottle of peroxide and a box of Band-Aids from the first-aid kit in the car. His jaw slipped open as he saw Wells poking at himself.

  “Now’s really not the time, John.”

  “Funny, Ellis.”

  “Next time wear a cup.” Shafer tossed Wells the bottle and the Band-Aids, grabbed a towel, and left. Wells patched up his face as best he could and pulled his pants back up and walked shakily into the bedroom.

  “He’s gonna need stitches,” Wells said.

  “Stitches? You just gave him a new mouth. He’s gonna need a face transplant, like that French lady.” Shafer pressed at the bloody gash on Callar’s face with the towel.

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “Remind me never to get in a fight with you.”

  “You need reminding of that?” Wells put a hand on Callar’s shoulder. “I still can’t see how he got to his wife.”

  Callar groaned and stirred. Wells stepped away, drew his Glock, tried to keep his hand steady. Callar’s eyes blinked open. He poked his tongue though the hole in his face.

  “You found me.”

  “Saw you cruising the neighborhood,” Wells said.

  “But you didn’t know it was me. Until you got here.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Anybody else know? FBI? Or is it just us chickens?”

  “It’s over now, so why don’t you tell us what happened?” Shafer said. “Why you killed your wife and everyone else. And how you got from Phoenix to San Diego and back without anyone noticing.”

  Callar laughed, a huffing laugh that turned into a vicious cough. Blood and spit exploded from his mouth, and a gob of phlegm landed on the television on the dresser.

  “I’ve been telling you all along, and you still don’t get it,” he said. “My wife killed herself.”

  Then, finally, Wells understood.

  25

  ISLAMABAD. AUGUST 2008

  The video had been shot with what looked like a pinhole, through-the-wall camera. The image quality wasn’t great. But it was good enough.

  On-screen, Jawaruddin bin Zari stood beside another man, tall, in his early fifties, in a neatly tailored suit. A trimmed black beard framed his face. Maggs knew him immediately. They’d met once before, at the embassy. Abdul-Aziz Tafiq, head of the ISI. Arguably the most powerful man in Pakistan.

  Maggs wondered if the video had been spliced or faked. The NSA’s techs would have to check. But to his eyes it seemed authentic. Given the risks of the meeting — for both men — whatever had brought them together must have been crucial, an issue that could only be resolved face-to-face.

  The terrorist and the security chief were in what looked like an empty office. No window or desk or phone, just a table and a couple of chairs. An on-screen clock recorded the date and time: 14 Dec. 2007, 6:23 p.m.

  “Salaam alekeim.”

  “Alekeim salaam,” Tafiq said. “My friend, you asked to see me. Here I am.”

  “I wanted to be sure this message came from you.”

  “It does.” Tafiq paused. “So? Can you?”

  “How many bombs have I set over the years?”

  “You missed the general.”

  “That was more complicated. And Pervez is fortunate.”

  “This won’t be easy. Her car will be armored. Police in front and behind.”

  “Leave it to me. She’ll hardly be moving. Those streets. And she can’t help herself. Waves to the crowds like the woman she is. As long as I have the route.”

  “You’ll have it.”

  “And the details of her security. Whatever you can give me.”

  “Done. She cannot survive.”

  “OH, MAN,” MAGGS SAID to Armstrong, who’d been translating the conversation from Pashto. “You’re sure about this?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Only one she counted in Pakistan. Benazir Bhutto. And she hadn’t survived. No. She’d been assassinated on December 27, 2007, in Rawalpindi, after a rally for her political party, the Pakistan Peoples Party. Another chance for peace in Pakistan destroyed by violence. The killer, or killers, were never caught.

  A murder condoned — not just condoned but set in motion — by the chief of the ISI.

  ON-SCREEN, bin Zari put a friendly hand on Tafiq’s arm. “Don’t worry,” he said. “She won’t.”

  “And your men?”

  “Whoever you like. With connections or no.”

  Meaning, Maggs presumed, that bin Zari was asking Tafiq to decide whether the assassins would be known members of Islamic terrorist groups or sleepers unknown to any intelligence agency.

  “No connections,” Tafiq said. “But make sure they’re expendable. In case there’s pressure from the Americans and we must find them.”

  “Done,” bin Zari said. “As for the money—”

  “You should do it for free. You hate her more than we do.”

  “As for the money.”

  “Half tomorrow. The rest when it’s over.”

  “Done.”

  The two Pakistanis leaned in, hugged. And the screen went black.

  26

  Your wife killed herself,” Wells said. “So you killed everyone else.” “Someone finally gets it.”

  Wells looked around, seeing the room for the first time, eleven feet square, the ceiling barely seven feet high and mottled with brownish stains. A light fixture poked like a pimple from the beige stucco wall behind the bed. Callar must have sat in rooms like this for weeks on end, in San Francisco and New Orleans and Los Angeles, plotting his mad revenge.

  Wells ran a hand over his face and came away with a thin trail of perspiration and blood. Callar watched him with flickering eyes.

  “Nice, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve seen less depressing torture chambers. Really.”

  “It does have HBO.”

  “You stay here when you killed Ken Karp?”

  Callar shook his head. “Down the street. Believe it or not, this is a step up. No bedbugs. W
ho’s your buddy, John? Didn’t do you much good in the fight.”

  “I’m Ellis Shafer. Why don’t you tell us what happened?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Fair enough,” Shafer said. “Stop me when I make a mistake. You didn’t know exactly what happened over there. But it was bad. Hard on your wife. And she wouldn’t quit. You asked her to come home, but she wouldn’t.”

  “She wouldn’t even take her second leave.”

  “Finally, the tour ended. Rachel came back to California. Got even more depressed. Wasn’t working. You couldn’t help her. She wouldn’t talk to you about it. She was the doctor, you were the nurse.”

  “I couldn’t even get her out of bed. She lay there all day. Every day. A couple weeks before she died, I called her folks, asked them to come down from L.A. Didn’t tell them exactly what was wrong, but they knew it had to be something serious or I wouldn’t have called. She’d only seen them once since she had her breakdown in med school. A few minutes before they got to the house, I told her they were coming. She didn’t say a word, just got dressed, put on makeup,” Callar said. “They got to the house and she put on this act, went out to lunch, told them she was fine. She came home and told me if I ever did anything like that again, she’d leave me on the spot. She said her life was her life, she didn’t want anyone to know what was happening, and especially not her parents.”

  “Not a healthy attitude. Especially for a mental-health professional.”

  “I could have tried to have her committed involuntarily. In California we call it a fifty-one fifty. But she would have run rings around the cops. Probably would have wound up having me committed instead.”

  “But you still loved her.”

  “More than anything. You know, I wanted her from the first moment I saw her in the emergency room. It really was like that. And it never went away. The way she held herself, the way she could look at a patient, a sick one, a real crazy, size him up, put him at ease right away, just putting a hand on his shoulder.”