Several men and women said hello to Falcone as he wended his way past their tables to his favorite, which was alongside a window that looked out upon a small garden. Ordinarily he would have stopped for a few words, but today he looked grim and merely nodded. At one of the tables, everyone stood. That idea spread throughout the room. Then, in a rare breach of decorum, the quiet of a Cosmos lunch was shattered by a wave of applause. Falcone, uncharacteristically taken aback, waved and nodded in acceptance.
As he was about to take his seat, Ben Taylor appeared. “A hero’s welcome,” he said, shaking Falcone’s hand.
Falcone shook his head. “‘Being a hero,’ Will Rogers said, ‘is the shortest-lived profession on Earth.’ Glad—very glad—to see you, Ben.”
By long tradition no one can do business at the Cosmos Club. No one may open a briefcase and spread papers on the immaculate linen tablecloths. And certainly no one may make or receive a cell-phone call or consult any other electronic device. But business and the promise of business flows through the quiet talk, and meetings are noted by members and guests who casually glance around the room to pick up clues to deals in the making.
There was a National Geographic editor talking to his guest, a bearded photographer who wore a flowery tie and an ill-fitting suit jacket supplied by the club. There were a pharmaceutical lobbyist and a fellow member, a potential Nobelist from the National Institutes of Health. And, Falcone wryly thought, Enough lawyers to fill a couple of jury boxes.
In an exercise that took him back to his days as national security advisor, Falcone had been deciding what to say and what, if necessary, he should withhold, temporarily or permanently. After they ordered—skewered fried shrimp for Falcone, butternut squash soup for Taylor—Falcone said, “I heard from the White House. Ray Quinlan called it a courtesy call. Sometimes he thinks he’s an assistant president instead of chief of staff. He told me that the science advisor job is on hold.”
“I’m not surprised,” Taylor said. “I think I also heard from the White House. Well, indirectly.” He told Falcone about finding Cole Perenchio’s body, about the Capitol Police session, about the Sarsfield interview and the agent’s parting remark. Falcone asked only a couple of questions, not wanting to interrupt Taylor’s smooth-flowing narrative.
When Taylor finished, Falcone said, “So, I killed a gunman and you found a guy with a bullet hole in his head. It’s a brutal time, a city and a country full of guns. These are just shootings that just happened to happen within a few hours of each other.”
“One big difference, though,” Taylor said, tightly smiling. “Your guys were on the front page. My guy was on the bottom of an inside page in the Post’s Metro section. A two-paragraph story with a one-column headline, ‘Killing on Capitol Hill.’ No mention of me or the FBI.”
“I never read Metro,” Falcone said. “There’s usually nothing much there that interests me. Even the obituaries. I don’t need the Post to tell me if someone I know dies. To the Post, murders in Metro are just happenings in the invisible black city of Prince George’s County or Anacostia. This one gets two paragraphs even though it’s on the Hill because the Hill cops told a reporter it looks like nothing more than a black-on-black street crime. Did the story identify Cole Perenchio?”
“No. Just said ‘a Virginia man.’ I remember that Detective Seymour had Cole’s wallet in his hands. That’s probably where ‘Virginia’ came from.”
“But why didn’t Cole’s name appear in the Post story? Why just ‘Virginia man’?” Falcone asked.
“The story said that police were withholding his name until next of kin are notified.”
“That’s bullshit. Police put out victims’ names all the time, hoping to get witnesses or information about the crime.”
“So why didn’t the Post name him?”
“Because, I bet, the cops asked the reporter not to. And the reporter did it to stay on the right side of the cops. So the question is why withhold his name? And why no further information about him? Or even a short obituary? He’s from the area. Used to work at Goddard, right? He told you he was consulting, like just about everybody in this town. Was he consulting for NASA?”
“NASA is like the Pentagon,” Taylor replied. “Loves consultants. I haven’t seen Cole for a while, but I think if he were consulting for NASA he would have said so. My instinct tells me SpaceMine. Asteroids were among his interests at Goddard, and, from what I know, SpaceMine demands pretty tough confidentiality agreements. And it’s pretty secretive. I’ll try to track down Cole’s activities in the space community.”
“Good,” Falcone said. “But don’t call me about that information or any other information. No e-mails either.”
“Oh, God, Sean. So you’ve become one of those guys who are paranoid about cyberwar.”
“You bet I am. And about the nosy NSA and its vacuum-cleaner sweeps of phones, e-mails, the Internet—and God knows what else. Our firm has a guy who does nothing else but try to keep our computers from getting hit or snooped. And until I get a better grasp about what’s going on, I want to keep in touch this way, face-to-face. Not here. Too many know us. You live near the Folger. Let’s plan to meet there at, say, three o’clock on Monday. Okay?”
“Okay,” Taylor said. “If you want to play it this way, I’ll go along. But I’m a guy who is a ‘person of interest.’ All I want to know is why the FBI stepped in and connected the shootings.”
“I don’t know what to make of it, Ben. Obviously they think they’ve found something. What were those names Sarsfield asked about?”
“Peter Darrow and Daniel Bruce. I don’t have any idea who they are,” Taylor said. “It gets me hopping just thinking about it. Where did they get those names? And what’s the FBI doing in this anyway?”
Falcone paused to memorize the names; he did not want to pull out a paper and pen and violate the Cosmos rules. “The most probable answer,” he said, “is that the Capitol cops are not capable of handling a murder case but can claim that the FBI was called in because it’s Capitol Hill—federal property. However, Sarsfield’s questioning of you sounds like something deeper. An agent investigating a shooting on Capitol Hill shouldn’t know about your being in line for a White House job. Unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Well, he mentioned budget cuts. It’s true that the FBI is feeling the pinch and agents are getting bigger caseloads. Maybe it was just a coincidence, getting the same agent doing a background check on you. That could mean that you were very close to becoming science advisor.”
“‘Coincidence’? Come on, Sean. This is Washington.”
“Let’s stay with what we know,” Falcone said. A waiter appeared and both men ordered coffee. As soon as the waiter glided away, Falcone continued. “Sarsfield interviews you. And I get a call saying the science advisor job is on hold. The Capitol cops and Sarsfield should have accepted your story. Something brought in the FBI, and I don’t think it was just because the Capitol cops don’t do murders.”
“Then what was it?”
“I don’t know. Let me do some sniffing around. See you Monday. Meanwhile, you keep busy.”
“Oh, don’t worry. Between you and Darlene I won’t get a chance to brood about my fate.”
The lunch ended with Taylor’s mention of the PBS show he was working on. “I want to ride on the SpaceMine publicity and the curiosity about asteroids. A NOVA producer has okayed it and found funding. If I’m lucky, I can get it finished in two or three weeks.”
They said goodbye on the steps of the entrance. Taylor headed for Dupont Circle to board a Metro subway train and return to the museum. Falcone hailed a taxi and gave the Sullivan & Ford address.
“Where that shooting was,” the driver said.
“Right,” Falcone answered. He pulled out one of the three-by-five cards he always carried and scribbled “Peter Darrow” and “Daniel Bruce.” He also wrote “S&F/Ben,” envisioning lists for what he had to find out for his inquiry and what he had to fi
nd out for Ben Taylor. He knew he had to keep the two investigations separate. Then, remembering Sprague and the yellow pad, he wrote “Hamilton” and “laptop,” reminding himself that there was a third investigation: his own, which might contain information he would keep to himself until he knew what to do with it.
On impulse, Falcone told the driver to stop two blocks from the Sullivan & Ford Building. He walked into a Best Buy, where he bought a cheap noncontract cell phone for cash and had it activated in the name of Fergus Quinn, a character he remembered from a le Carré novel.
31
A few minutes after Falcone entered his office, Sprague knocked, opened the door, and stuck his head in, as was his habit. “Some news,” he said. “Can you please drop by my office?”
Falcone turned quickly, hiding with his body the bag emblazoned Best Buy. “Be right with you,” he said, dropping the bag into a desk drawer as Sprague withdrew his head and closed the door. Falcone fished in the drawer for a rarely used key, turned the lock, and pocketed the key. He realized he was acting paranoid, and he did not want his new obsession to be noticeable. But here he was hiding a package and locking a drawer.
Outside Sprague’s door, Falcone nodded to Ursula Breitsprecher, who was leaving her small office. Sprague opened his door and pointed Falcone toward one of the three leather armchairs arranged around a knee-high glass table. Ursula just set up the recording device in the planter next to the table, Falcone thought, angrily trying to push the thought away.
Sprague sat across from Falcone. The latest issue of the Economist was lying open on the table, next to a pile of file holders, the top two or three red, which was the law firm’s code color for files that were to be handled with particular care.
“I’ve just been notified,” Sprague said, “that the investigation of the shooting is now in the hands of the FBI.”
“FBI?” Falcone exclaimed. “On what grounds?”
“Elementary, my dear Falcone,” Sprague said. “All crimes committed in the District of Columbia are technically federal crimes and are prosecuted by a U.S. attorney.”
“Sure. But these are local murders. DC cops got the case.”
“I don’t have any idea about why the FBI is coming into this,” Sprague said. “But I do know that the FBI can get far more intrusive than local police. National security letters, for instance.”
“I don’t see any national-security involvement in the shootings,” Falcone said.
“Well, perhaps the FBI does. That’s all they need. Suspicion. I just looked it up. USA Patriot Act Section five oh five. The letters are served like subpoenas on phone companies and communications systems providers. But, of course, they aren’t subpoenas. There’s no judicial review.”
“I know,” Falcone said, sounding irritable at being forced to listen to a Sprague law lecture. “I have no idea how the hell it’s been held up in the courts. It’s patently unconstitutional.”
“Perhaps so. But we’re not going to test it. We can’t afford to antagonize the FBI. So be careful with your inquiry.”
“I’m always careful, Paul.”
Sprague turned, gazing toward the window, although all he could see was a vista of buildings full of offices and people like him. As he slowly swiveled around to face Falcone again, he replied, “Of course, of course. But I want you to think less of it as an ‘inquiry’ and something more like a piece of corporate history. You like history, Sean. So do I. The kind of history based on facts, not theories. I want a … narrative from you. Let’s not call it an ‘inquiry.’ Leave sleuthing to the professionals.”
“But I have a theory, as I told you. Hal was targeted,” Falcone said. He waited a moment for Sprague’s response. When there was none, Falcone continued. “Those guys had an agenda.”
“As I said when you first mentioned this, you may have something here,” Sprague said, stroking his chin. He stood and added, “Apparently the FBI has a similar theory. They’ve put in a request for Harold’s client list and recent billings.”
“Jesus! What the hell is the FBI fishing for? Did you demand a subpoena?”
“I saw no reason not to simply cooperate. Cooperation defangs them. And you know that a subpoena often generates leaks and publicity. Anyway, Sean, we’re talking about the inquiry. I want you to simply lay out what happened. On a practical level, we do need to think about … liability.”
“Like those two people who were killed on the couch,” Falcone said, standing. “You’re worried about a suit.”
“Yes. Their … deaths could obviously lead to civil actions against the firm. Also, if the FBI begins looking around, it frightens clients. We could even lose some.”
“Well, we already lost two.”
Sprague winced. “Yes. Mr. and Mrs. Pritchard. I doubt that they were targets of anyone.” Sprague handed the red folder to Falcone, stood up, and said, “Take a look. You’ll see they were here on a routine legal matter.”
“What about the stolen laptop? Did you tell the FBI about that?”
“Let’s table that for right now, Sean.”
“Table it? You tell me that we don’t want to scare off clients and you don’t give a damn if a laptop full of confidential information was stolen?” Falcone pointed to the red folders. “I get the impression that you’re trying to figure out what was in Harold’s missing laptop.” Falcone refrained from making a remark about Sprague keeping Robert Wentworth Hamilton’s name out of the conversation.
“Sean, calm down,” Sprague said with a theatrical sigh. “Yes, I am taking a potential damage assessment. I hope all goes well with the laptop investigation. But it is out of our hands.”
In his office, Falcone took his personal computer out of a drawer, started it, and typed in his password. The screen remained blank until he took a cigarette-lighter-size device out of his pocket and pressed a button, generating a five-digit number that appeared on a small screen on the device. He typed in the numbers, which changed every twenty seconds. The computer’s security system accepted the numbers. The next image on the monitor was a request for his fingerprint. A scanner approved his right thumb, and finally the laptop was ready for use.
Falcone next cut off the computer from the wireless network. Theoretically, the computer was now utterly secure and hacker-proof, but he knew that even disconnecting from a network could be an illusion. He read every book and article he could find about hacking and computer security. What it all came down to, he realized, was that you can never achieve complete security, but you have to keep trying.
With the red folder open on his desk, he began reading and taking notes, which he typed into an outline template. Until he started working in the White House, he had taken notes and composed on his lawyerly yellow pads. But in the high-speed, memo-prone Oxley White House, a yellow pad was as out of date as a mimeograph machine. Falcone switched from yellow pad to gray computer and slowly became an early acquirer. He was the possessor of a cell phone, an iPad, an iPod, a smartphone, two laptops (firm’s and private), a desktop computer (firm’s), and an electronic notebook.
He went through the red file, document by document, and then typed
“Stranger” Victims (based on copies of contents of purse and wallet, respectively)
Mary Ann Pritchard
• 28 years old, Bethesda, MD
• Purse contents: driver’s license, VISA card, $97, cell phone
Walter R. Pritchard
• 63 years old, same Bethesda address
• Wallet and pocket contents: driver’s license, VISA card, $32, cell phone, key chain, eyeglass case, receipt for the basement parking, pocket calendar containing entry for 11 a.m. appointment with George Crittenden
Falcone dialed Crittenden’s number. His office assistant answered and said Crittenden would not be coming in today. Falcone knew that Crittenden, a senior partner in his seventies, more or less specialized in wills and estates. He represented some of the firm’s longest-served clients. And Crittenden had taken the Pritchard dea
ths very hard. He had not been in the office since the shootings. There were rumors that he intended to retire shortly.
Falcone was convinced that the Pritchards were innocent bystanders, props for a staged mass killing. So their deaths were, to use a Pentagon term, collateral damage. His next move was a talk with Gabe, the firm’s finance director, who never missed a day’s work.
Gabe’s real name was Hugh Berger, but the name of his father, Gabe, seemed to go with the job and Hugh accepted Gabe as an honorific. The first Gabe had retired a few years back and had been succeeded by Hugh, who had been with the firm since the day he became a CPA and, after his father retired, accepted the practice of being called Gabe. He skillfully and quietly managed a finance staff whose cubicles and offices occupied most of the fifth floor.
Gabe always answered on the first ring. Falcone asked to make an appointment to talk to him. “I’m having an easy day, Senator,” Gabe said, observing the Washington protocol that preserves rank unto death. “I’ll be up right away.”
“What can I do for you, Senator?” Gabe said when he entered Falcone’s office. He was slim and balding, black strands striping his shiny pate. He wore a gray suit complete with vest. His tightly knotted tie was light blue. Gabe put his unopened iPad in his lap and used it as a platform for his folded hands. He looked up in surprise when Falcone told him he needed Harold Davidson’s client list and billing records for the past year.
“I’m already preparing a memo for the FBI. Mr. Sprague approved,” he said.
“What about billing? Will you include billings?” Falcone asked.
Billing, Falcone knew, was the heart of the multimillion-dollar, finance-managing department that Gabe ran. Lawyers accounted for their time in billable hours, which varied from a typical $800 an hour to variations somewhat above and somewhat below that. At the end of each day, lawyers, paralegals, and billing managers all submitted data about their billable time: hours spent on researching, analyzing, preparing, and producing legal documents; expenses for travel and commissioning consultants; court appearances, phone calls, appointments, conferences, e-mails—all the work that had been performed that day on specific matters for specific clients.
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