I was on the couch, watching India packing, when there was a knock on the door. "Service," a muffled voice said.
I looked at India. She shrugged her shoulders to tell me she hadn't ordered anything. It couldn't be the Swiss police. It was too soon for them to have figured out what happened.
"Service, s'il vous plait.'"
"Un instant," I said.
I motioned for India to go into the bathroom and close the door. Then I turned off the lights and drew the curtains. I knew the interior. I was betting whoever was in the hall didn't. I crouched low beside the door and threw the latch. As soon as I turned the knob, the door flew open with a hard kick and someone threw himself into the room. I swung my leg around in an arc and caught him in the shins. His momentum carried him across the room. I could hear the crack of a chair leg breaking over by the
windows. I was on him, my foot in his crotch, by the time he recovered and tried to scramble to his feet. One downward thrust, and he lay still on the floor, panting. The door to the hall must have banged against the wall so hard it closed again. The room was still too dark for me to see who I'd pinned to the floor.
"Was she a good fuck?" Raspy, through clenched teeth, but I'd know Frank Beckman's voice anywhere. He must have already been in Geneva when he got the call from Michelle. How he found India and me so quickly I had no idea.
I stepped hard on his crotch. This time he screamed until I eased up.
"I said. Was she a good fuck?" He was breathing hard, gasping.
"Frank, I just want to know one thing: Did you know why you were buying airline puts in 1994?"
The puts were a hunch. Until I had the time to go through the documents from Michelle's safe, I wouldn't know for sure Frank was into them. Still, it was a bluff that couldn't hurt.
"Fuck you."
"You don't care that you have blood on your hands," I said.
"Let me up."
"Let's try another question…"
"Fuck you."
"What is it now, tankers, refineries?"
"Let me the fuck up."
I stepped harder on his crotch. He screamed again.
"Who's running Khalid Sheikh Muhammad, you or Channing?" I yelled.
Frank didn't respond this time.
"You got Webber to frame me. You knew I was getting close with the photo, that one day I'd find out KSM took it, that he was your inside guy."
I was talking mostly to myself by then. Maybe I'd been doing that all along. Frank had passed out somewhere along the way. He wasn't making a noise. I took my foot off him. A few minutes later he started to stir, groaning. It was clear he wasn't going to talk. I bent over him, patted him down. I was thinking of that Beretta he'd bought to kill India's stepfather
with. I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd brought it with him on this trip, too. What else are private jets for?
"I thought about it," he said, reading my mind. His body was limp, jelly.
"You'd be better off thinking what your next move is. One is: Don't think about going to the Swiss police. I'll lay it out right here. I've already e-mailed Danny Pearl at the Wall Street Journal with half the story. I get rolled up and he gets the rest. Move two, you stop whatever is going down: airplanes, refineries. If you don't, it'll be a cinch tying you to it with the paper I got."
When I was through, I pulled him up, half carried him to the door, and pushed him out into the hall.
Then I opened the door to the bathroom. India lay curled on the floor, sobbing.