Middle Man (5 page)

A
fter an elaborate exchange of good-evenings, the maître d' led us to a table at Chez Martine. It was still early in the evening and the place was not crowded. The walls were striped in yellow and white, and the leather banquettes along the right wall were reddish brown. The paintings on the walls were modern with bright colors. Major Hensel looked at the table, between two others that were occupied by couples, and said, “We'd like to sit in the back room, please.”

The maître d' tilted his head to one side and shook it and closed his eyes for a moment as if the Major had asked if they served tacos. We stood there between those two tables for about a week while the Major and the Frenchman went back and forth in calm, quiet voices. Finally, the maître d' turned up his hands and shrugged his shoulders. A classic gesture: Take it or leave it. I thought the maître d' held the strong hand and I was interested to see whether the Major would choose retreat or surrender. But Major Hensel spoke in French, one short sentence, and stared right into the eyes of the startled maître d'. Time froze. Then the maître d' nodded and ushered us to the back room.

“I love French restaurants. They serve so much more than food and wine,” the Major said after we were settled.

“What did you say to him?”

“I said that if any of the other guests overheard our conversation, their lives would be in danger.”

Coming from someone with muscles or a rough presence, it might have been taken for an aggressive, nasty, call-the-police kind of threat. But this pudgy man with glasses and a quiet voice made the arrogant headman want to cooperate. The punch was well timed and well placed.

The table was full of glasses and silverware and small plates and large plates. If I had wanted to put my elbows on the table, I would have had to move some of that stuff to the floor.

“How is Will Panos?”

“He'll be fine. He's spending a little time in Havre. He can deal with the locals while recuperating.”

“He'll like that. He has an eye for the widow.”

The Major squinted as he tried to picture the match. “He's a very methodical person. I give him a good chance. The ammunition in Montana and in Wisconsin was M118 Long Range. The FBI should be able to determine where it was purchased.”

“Or stolen,” I said. The M118 was most often military sniper ordnance. The waiter hovered between rooms until he caught the Major's eye and was beckoned forth. He had been warned by the maître d'. The Major ordered wine and appetizers, and fish for himself. “Do you like lamb?” he asked.

“Sure.”

He ordered lamb for me. “It'll be better than whatever you ate at Frank Godwin's place,” he said.

“Dan used to take me to a French place, Bistro Arletty, when I was ten years old. There were business associates who needed to know that Dan was a family man. He taught me how to handle it. ‘Act like you're considering buying the place, but you need to be convinced,' he said.”

Major Hensel told me a story about how he once invested in a restaurant and came to hate eating there because he knew too much about the behind-scenes operation. He missed the pleasure of the surprise.

One waiter approached cautiously with appetizers, and another to dance the wine tango with Major Hensel. When the waiters went away, the Major said, “The FBI has no license plates, no witnesses seeing someone fleeing the scene, other than you, of course.” He was the only senior officer I ever met who could say that without accusation in his voice. “Someone hit one grave on Frank's list. Ran into the local police. There was a firefight. One policeman was killed.” He paused. He knew my question. “The coffin did not get opened and I have not taken steps yet, so I don't know if there is money or a body inside. They also hit one on your fake list. Dug up with shovels. Left the body beside the coffin.”

“I wonder which list he gave up first.”

The Major looked at me sharply, then said, “They would have killed him whether he gave them your list, the real list, or no list. He was a loose end.”

“How did they know we had identified Godwin?”

“Only three of us had that information: me, Will, and you,” the Major said without sounding defensive.

“Maybe they're just smart.”

“Do you want the rest of the graves on the list dug up?”

“Be best to guard them. I'd like to know if anyone else tries to dig them up,” I said.

“But you don't think they will.” I shrugged. I didn't know. “What's your next move?”

“I lost a man. I'm going to find who shot him.”

“You can do that. The FBI will let you work with them.”

He made it sound as if I had requested a demotion. I stared at him while he turned all his attention to his food.

Bearing a full pack, wearing combat boots, toting my rifle, I stepped into quicksand during basic training, lured there by the sergeant. I wriggled and writhed and fought and made things worse while the rest of the platoon cheered and taunted me. I was in up to my hips by the time the jeers made me stop moving. That stopped the sinking. I seemed to be suspended on a submerged platform and I looked with satisfaction to the sergeant. But the lesson was not over. The sergeant ordered the platoon to move out. All he said to me before marching away was “Don't let go of your weapon.”

Don't fight, don't argue, you'll sink deeper. Taste the appetizer. I had not told Major Hensel about looking into the eyes of the killer, about his challenge to me, and now I could not tell him because he would take that as an answer and send me back to the FBI agents.

The main course was served.

The Major seemed to be able to time my thoughts. “You don't want to work with the FBI, but, if you're searching for the shooter, the FBI will follow you at the very least. And they'll get involved in the money. Things will get more complicated. Don't you like your lamb?”

I had pushed it away and now I felt like a petulant child pouting for chicken fingers. Was he subtle enough to have manipulated me into that? I cut a piece and put it on his plate.

“Basam Karkukli. Ever hear of him?” He did not wait for my answer. “He calls himself the King of Kurdistan.”

“Does anyone believe him?”

“I've interviewed a dozen of the plotters. No one had the full picture, but here's what I pieced together. As you know, the graves contained seed money, enough to get the revolution started in Iraqi Kurdistan. Taking over the oil fields would finance the rest. A few mentioned that they understood the plan called for Karkukli to be installed on the throne and have him lead a cooperative government. No one met him. And no one knows whose plan it was.”

“Sounds like Karkukli's plan,” I said, offering a simpleton's solution because I wanted this discussion to be over so I could return my attention to the Mask Man staring down at me.

“He's been around, mostly in Europe, dining on the name and the supposed title. Fortunately for him, the Iranians tried to assassinate him about fifteen years ago in Berlin. That bestowed international cachet and gave him entrée to the deposed royalty circuit.”

His cadence had the careful measurement I had heard only when being let down in a way that somebody else imagined was easy.

Don't squirm. Don't struggle. Breathe. I sipped my wine. You only sink if you try not to. And there was Dan, delighted, sitting next to me in one of his best suits, saying, “
Why would you struggle or resist? You're about to get an offer
.” He spoke the last word as if it were the key to nirvana.

“He's holding court now at an estate in Houston. Had a parade of former officers come through, but now the traffic has shifted to oilmen. He's telling them his takeover is imminent and if they want the oil concession, they have to start paying now.”

He waited. I waited. A few thousand questions scrolled in front of me. I chose one. “Whose plan is it?”

He ignored that. “I had someone on it. He died. Ran his car into a tree. I think someone helped him do that, but we can't prove it. He was working from the outside. Watching. Listening. I don't know how they found him out. If you decide to do this, you would have to take a different approach.”

“Who was he?”

He told me the dead soldier's name. But I never knew him. He was Army, a major.

For a moment, I longed to be a Marine in a war zone again, a world with clear comprehensible commands like “search and destroy,” “engage the enemy,” “take and hold.” But I knew I didn't mean it. I was now a confirmed citizen of the fog, more spy than soldier; the clarity would confuse me. I would mistrust it. And that would probably get me killed. I asked the dreaded question, knowing the answer would hardly help.

“What is the mission?”

The Major smiled to let me know I chose the right question. “He's a puppet who thinks he's a king. He was a puppet when McColl was alive and planning to put him on the throne, and he's still a puppet. I don't care who ends up controlling the oil. They have to sell it to someone. I don't care if Iraq and Turkey and Iran team up against the Kurds or go to war with each other. It's more than all that. It's more than the money. I want the puppet master. I want the guy who put this plot together.” He waited and his expression hardened in a way I had never seen. His right hand tightened on his knife. The waiter paused at the partition and turned away quickly. “If he's military, we'll deal with him. If he's civilian, we'll turn him over. Find him, get something on him. I'm pretty sure that along the way, you'll find the shooters, too.”

“What are the rules of engagement?”

“Consider yourself as operating in a war zone. I want him alive. If possible. I want you alive more.”

We stared at each other for a while. I could not summon the same passion for the mysterious puppet master. My thoughts were on the Mask Man. Our paths were going to cross. Wartime rules of engagement suited me very well.

“If you don't want to find him, just say so,” the Major said. “Someone else will. You can chase the shooters and maybe you'll find them, but that won't mean you solved anything and it won't mean you closed this out the way I think you want to. Maybe the way you need to.”

He put the knife down and picked up his fork and ate a piece of his fish, then put the fork down. Finished.

He did not speak again until after desert and coffee had been served. “They're getting desperate. I can sense it. The countdown began when they opened that first grave, the one Dan looted. Without the cash, they'll lose their recruits. This is the time. Find the guy pulling the strings.” He signaled for the check.

I reached across and tasted his dessert, something like pudding. “So what are the suits for?”

“I'll explain,”
said Dan.

T
he first press release said I had left Argos Capital to start my own fund with two hundred million in initial capital. My area of expertise was energy. The release also mentioned my MBA from Columbia. Two articles from energy industry blogs came up that mentioned the degree. One hinted that my biggest backers were Russian. The other mentioned my recent visit to China. Three years later, I closed the fund, having returned an annual average of 18 percent to the investors, and began another fund, a limited partnership specializing in energy investments. One blogger mentioned my undergraduate degree, also from Columbia, in geology. He interviewed me last year and one of the things I told him was “My philosophy is to look for energy efficiency at the source, and at the production stages, to give us leeway as market prices fluctuate.” I thought the quote could have used some opaque terms like “aggregation covenants” or “asymmetric volatility,” “diffusion process,” and “autocorrelation.” Major Hensel said he avoided that kind of stuff because someone might ask me to explain what I meant. The important quote was “It is time for new horizons, new approaches, new partners.” And I declined to name the partners so everyone would assume it was the Russians or the Chinese.

I had a company credit card and I could write a check for two million dollars on the spot and it would clear.

The plane to Houston was delayed, which suited me fine. I could have read up on the financial details of oil exploration deals or on the latest geological detection methods or the extraction technology, but time was better spent understanding my alter ego, Robert Hewitt. Did he work through college? Was he always thinking about getting rich or did it come as a result of his interest in science? Did he have manners? Did he rise when a woman got up from the table or was he like the slobs at the bar the Major took me to? Where did his family vacation? He needed a hobby, someplace he was wasting his riches, a subject on which he could hold forth when someone became too inquisitive. Posing as a Muslim was easy compared with this. I sat in the bar to map out a plan. Nothing felt comfortable.

Somehow Dan made it through security.
“These things can take a while. Meeting the King, getting in on the bidding game, transferring money, pinpointing his weaknesses. You'll have to make him betray his benefactor.”

“Unless he is already doing that.”

“That's worse. You'd have to get in on it. You want to stand out. As it is, you're going to be perceived as a minor player, someone bidding the prices up against the big boys. If you were in this for the money, that would be fine. Someone could be convinced to buy you off. There is another way, though.”

“I'm listening.”
It was as if he were relaxing by my side, reeling me in slowly because he owned time now, and always knew how to stretch it and knead it.

“You're on the wrong side of the transaction. Too much competition. The other buyers can crowd you out. Remember, you don't have to own what you're selling.”

I almost spit my drink out. There was the motto on the gates at the entrance to Danland.

“Compete with the King. That'll grab his attention and the attention of the guy you're really after. If he actually exists.”

“I'm set up to be a buyer. The background, the Web stories.”

“Better. You already bought. Now you're looking for partners. You'll be offered some delicious bribes.”

“Can't take bribes.”

“You don't want to. You want the word to be that you're the most serious guy in the great state of Texas.”

Dan had given me a good idea. But I was not done with him.
“I'm not doing this for you,”
I said.

“Don't see why you should.”

“I killed the people who killed you.”

“That you did. You did that for yourself, right? I was dead.”

“Whoever I'm going after now did not know who you were, or that you existed.”

It was best to duck after directing that kind of cruelty at Dan. He knew how to transform it to his advantage, though not to get you to say you were sorry. How could that benefit him? He would target the vulnerability you had revealed and rub salve in the wound until you believed he just might be your savior.

“There's nothing wrong with taking orders,”
he said.

Salve in the wound. I did not say thank you. The mission was clearly defined: Find the puppet master; deliver him, if possible. Following orders was just part of life as a Marine no matter where you were.

Dan said,
“It's the fog at the beginning that makes you wonder. Just point yourself in the right direction.”

He was right. Finding Dan, killing McColl and his men, tying them to General Remington, finding the money—all that was a personal mission. It was a compulsion. Nothing could stop me carrying it on to the end. It didn't matter if I was good enough. This time I was not sure what I was getting into. I was not compelled. I was ordered. I was not sure I was good enough.

I checked with Major Hensel about the Kurdish rebels, the PKK, sometimes called Kongra-Gel. “They're led by a man named Diyar, we think. He might be real. He might be mythical. No one around here knows. Officially, we wouldn't be having any contact with them.”

“If I worked for the government, you mean.”

______

Dan used a lawyer named Jaman when we lived in Phoenix. I think his first name was John, and now I wonder if his real name might have been John J. Mann and my ears just turned it into Jaman, but either way, he was a dirty guy who was always exploring his nose or his ears or his crotch and I had to be careful not to sit across from him because he would load up on food before he started talking and some of it was always flying out. Dan said he was unpolished but smart and good-natured. He stared at Dan, followed his every gesture, would move his hands the way Dan did, hold his head the way Dan did, but he could not hold the pose; soon his hand would sneak, like some uncontrollable pet, down to his crotch and nudge it affectionately in one direction or another.

Jaman wrote contracts for Dan, and letters demanding payment and promising payment. Sometimes Dan would let him negotiate for a few minutes, then interrupt and appear to give in to the other party over Jaman's objections. Jaman always had his legal secretary, Betsy, by his side; she brought the laptop and typed everything. Betsy was pretty, though she, too, was unpolished. The heart tattoo on her smooth, milky thigh was seared into my eyeballs from intense hours of staring. Jaman would catch me longing and smile and point to his chest with pride and say something like “Someday you'll get your own. This one is mine.” Then the same finger would be drawn, as if by invisible magnets, to his nose or ear.

Betsy was Dan's, too, of course. I could hear them from almost anywhere in the small house where we were living. I could never understand how Jaman did not know about Dan and Betsy. How could he think she would not prefer Dan? How could he think Dan would not seduce her? How could Jaman read my thoughts so easily and not have a clue about Dan's? More than once I heard Betsy ask Dan when he thought Jaman would “pull the trigger” or “pull up his pants.” Once she said she was sure he had bought a ring. And Dan always reassured her that Jaman was on the verge of proposing.

One day, Dan handed me an envelope and told me to deliver it to Jaman's office, which was not far away. It was number 303, with no name on the door. I went into the waiting room and I could hear the argument going on in the inner office.

Jaman said, “No, I don't blame him. I blame you.”

Betsy yelled, “You said you were gonna marry me. You promised.”

“I'll never marry you. You're a slut. Put that away.”

“I let you paw me for years for what? You pig . . .”

That went on for a little while. I could not move, could not bear the thought of missing one mean comment, one insult. And just as Jaman said, “Oh, get out of here,” and “How do I open this damn computer?” the shot was fired. He groaned. I was still standing there when the door opened. Jaman was slumped at his desk with one hand on the laptop. Betsy held the gun.

“Tell him he'll have to find someone else to service him,” she said, so calmly that it made me think she knew I was out there all along.

I ran. I was about one flight down the stairs when I heard another shot. At home, I reported to Dan. He shook his head, then came close and gently took the envelope from me. “You brought those back. Good boy.” Then he drove me to the apartment where one of his girlfriends lived and I did not see him for over six months.

I never found out who received that second shot and that was the only time I had ever been in an attorney's office until I walked into the law offices of Kelekian and White of Houston, Texas. They did have their names on the door. The air was cold in the office and so was the atmosphere. Outside, through the tinted windows, the sun struggled to shine and the city looked dimmed and dusty like an alien, harsh, and desolate colony on a nasty planet, a place of danger and disease to be avoided.

It was no surprise that Darrell White was in the final stages of a really big case, his firm's biggest in years, which he really could not talk about, so he could only give me a few minutes. He was a big man in his fifties, developing a gut but still handsome, with a lot of brown hair carefully shaped into a point resembling the prow of a ship. His jacket hung on a valet stand in the corner. A holster, empty, hung next to the jacket. I guessed the gun was in a desk drawer. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up, but his tie was firmly in place. The office was roomy and neat and the view expansive. Pictures of Darrell White with tennis players, golfers, ballerinas, and hockey players decorated the walls. Maybe one of the pictures was of the King of Kurdistan; Darrell White specialized in immigration and had helped the King's entourage get visas.

“Recognize anyone?” he said.

“You're the big guy, right?”

“Some of those ballerinas were tiny as matchsticks. But I love watching them dance. Love it. Now you said oil business, the financial side, yes? Usually, we have a lot of success helping financial people get work visas because no one understands what they do, so they must be essential. The only problem comes when it's a really attractive woman, then no one believes she could be essential for her brains. You're not importing a girlfriend, are you? You don't look the type.” He had the gift of being able to seem to give his full attention, which was probably a valuable skill when dealing with all his stars and artists.

“Not a girlfriend. Business associates. From Iraq. They're not financial types. They're representing my new partners. You've handled visas for Iraqis?”

“Of course. I've helped bring an Iraqi soccer team over here for training and a series of games. A cricket team, too. Actors. Not a lot of financial people, but I don't see why that would be a problem. Who are your guys? Why are they essential to your business?”

“Well, y'see, we negotiated some oil rights and these men represent, as I said, our partners and they have to . . . the people we're going to do business with here in the States are going to want to meet them. That's why they're essential.” I hemmed and hawed enough for a deaf man to tell I was avoiding the truth.

“They don't need work visas to do a meet-and-greet. I can get them two-week tourist visas for that,” he said with a forced friendliness, as if it were going to be a favor.

“That'd be great. That'd do just fine.”

“But first, before I can do that, you have to stop bullshitting around and tell me who they are.” He smiled with his lips closed and his eyes narrowed. It was his “I'm on to you” look.

I waited a few moments, as if I were getting up the nerve to tell the truth. “We secured oil rights—”

“You already told me that.”

“We're working on securing oil rights from the regional Kurdish government in the case of independence and we already have them from the PKK, also known as the Kurdistan Workers' Party, also known as Kongra-Gel. Unfortunately, they are also known as terrorists in some places.”

He did not show surprise or any acknowledgment that he had ever heard of Kurdistan. I pulled out my checkbook and a pen.

“I can give you a retainer right now.” I wrote a check and tore it off and slid it across the desk. The check was for ten thousand dollars. If he accepted it, I had wasted my time because it would mean he did not give a damn about Kurdish oil rights and did not know anyone who did care. I wanted to know if he was going to alert the King to my presence and my claims. “I don't know if you have many oil business contacts, but if you do, I might like to get to know some of them. We're going to be lining up drilling operations, have our ducks in a row for when the time comes.”

“What time is that?” He said it like he was inquiring about a dinner invitation.

“We feel we have a good chance that either the Regional Government or the PKK will be able to move forward as the definitive authority in the area soon. In the next couple of years. Do you know anything about Kurdistan? Fascinating place. Energetic people, great environment to do business.”

The check remained on the desk between us. He took his eyes off me to look at it and again he smiled. He shook his head. “Politics always makes the world difficult, doesn't it? That means this is going to require some delicate maneuvering. Quite time consuming. If it can be accomplished at all. I can't make any guarantees,” he said.

“What would it take?”

“This is a tough one, and you want introductions as well. About ten times that.”

That sounded high to me, but it made me happy. It meant he wanted to see if I was for real before he started alerting the King. I tore up the first check and wrote one for one hundred thousand dollars and stood up and told him I was staying at the St. Regis. He stood up and shook my hand and said he knew some “folks” at the State Department and would get on it as soon as I got him the names and copies of the passports. “And, if it's okay with you, I'll ask around about who might like to get some of your business.”