Collision

by William S. Cohen

  The exception was Falcone, who billed clients by straightforward memos that he sent to Gabe with copies to Sprague. The information flowed daily into Gabe’s databases. Ultimately, complex algorithms transformed the data into invoices that were sent to clients. Incoming payments from the clients were then recorded and deposited into the firm’s bank and stock accounts. From that income pool came the distributions to everyone who worked for Sullivan & Ford.

  “Billings, as you know, are highly confidential,” Gabe said, a trace of shock in his voice. “The memo for the FBI will be along the lines that we have always followed in responding to such requests from law enforcement. The idea is to respond with just enough information to hold off a subpoena and to have it signed by Mr. Sprague, who adds a stern but polite note about client-attorney privilege.”

  “Yes,” Falcone said. “Mr. Sprague can write a great note, I’m sure.”

  “All the FBI gets is a list of names and addresses. No e-mail addresses, no phone numbers. But you, as a senior partner, get whatever you want,” Gabe said with a quick grin. “A useful client list—the kind I believe you need—has to be annotated. For instance, many of Mr. Davidson’s clients are relatively inactive, kept on the list because they pay retainers. The real key to his work is billable hours. The more hours, the more appointments, the more consecutive days, the more likely that you’re looking at an important client, one of the heavyweights.”

  “Exactly. Those are what I want.”

  “Are you investigating Mr. Davidson’s murder?” Gabe asked. “Looking for motives? That sort of thing?”

  “Mr. Sprague has asked me to write a report on the shootings, Gabe. I’m not looking for motives,” Falcone said. “I’m trying to understand what happened. For instance, I have no idea why the Pritchards were killed.”

  “That would be the second Mrs. Pritchard,” Gabe said. “There’s a lot going on with those two. Mr. Crittenden needs all his skills to handle her.”

  Falcone knew that Gabe was a great gossip. He never spread it to outsiders, but he did provide his bosses with chitchat and rumors of scandals that he picked up on the Washington after-hours circuit. He was a middle-aged bachelor with a busy social life, primarily produced by invitations—to embassy receptions, new-book parties, cocktails on Capitol Hill, lectures, charity events—that partners declined to attend. Gossip never appeared on his Facebook page, which celebrated his evening rounds: Enjoyed the celebration of Brunei Independence Day at the Brunei Embassy or Had a good chat with the Indonesian Embassy’s military attaché at the National Defense University reception.

  “Mostly I’m interested in Mr. Davidson’s murder, Gabe,” Falcone replied. “In going over his billing hours, did you get any sense that he was spending a lot of time with any clients lately?”

  “That’s the oddity, Senator. For the past six months his billing shows that he was doing pro bono work for the same client. It was taking so much of his time that he was getting complaints from his paying clients.”

  Falcone well knew that pro bono work—from the Latin “pro bono publico,” “for the public good”—was a contentious issue at most law firms. But Sullivan & Ford, operating under the American Bar Association’s recommended ethical rules, required its lawyers to contribute at least fifty hours of pro bono service each year. And many exceeded the minimum, including Falcone, who focused his pro bono work on the legal issues of veterans and government workers.

  “Who was the pro bono client,” Falcone asked.

  “That’s another oddity, Senator. The pro bono client is not identified on our standard document: name, address, point person of client, and so forth. All that Mr. Davidson wrote was quote ‘client requires anonymity’ unquote. When I politely questioned this, Mr. Davidson referred me to Mr. Sprague. And he allowed this … irregularity.”

  “Did you get any clues about the anonymous client?”

  “Well, one,” Gabe said, and, when Falcone nodded, went on. “As you know, we—that is, our databases—keep track of partners’ whereabouts.”

  “Oh, yes,” Falcone said. “You’re better than the White House switchboard.”

  “Thank you, Senator. Well, as you know, if you are not in your office, the firm wants to know where you are and whether to direct your absence to billable time for a specific client. All it takes is a few words into your desk phone or smartphone and the words are transcribed. Your presence or absence can also be indicated by the security system, which keeps track of the keypad that locks and unlocks your office door. Everyone has a pattern, and if that pattern changes, the system notes it.”

  “I never realized that,” Falcone said. “But I’m not surprised. A lot goes on these days in the name of security. So, about the clue?”

  “Well, Mr. Davidson stopped noting his whereabouts just about six months ago. His comings and goings were not recorded—except for the security system. Incidentally, we have our share of absentminded types. But this was unusual. Mr. Davidson was a meticulous man.”

  “So you attribute this change to his anonymous pro bono client?”

  “Yes. The two seem to coincide. And I believe there is a clue,” Gabe said, putting a special emphasis on “clue.” “On four occasions in the past six months, our town-car database showed Mr. Davidson was being taken to and from Dulles.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a clue to me. We all use the town-car service for the airports.”

  “Well, yes. But … I suppose I am not violating any confidentiality, since Mr. Sprague has commissioned you … and you are asking me…”

  “Okay, Gabe, okay. Just tell me,” Falcone said.

  “Mr. Sprague had some concern about Mr. Davidson’s absences and asked me to get some routine information from the town-car service. The drivers, of course, keep a precise record of where and when they take clients. All of the trips were for boarding or departing on South African Airways. And all were reported billable to the pro bono client.”

  “Complete with flight numbers?”

  “Yes. I assume you want them. I’ll prepare a memo with all we have on this, including absences over the past six months.”

  “Thanks, Gabe. As soon as possible. And one more thing, if you don’t mind.”

  Gabe had his iPad open, fingers jabbing the spectral keyboard.

  “Two names. See if they show up anywhere in your databases. Peter Darrow and Daniel Bruce. And I’d like to see whether there has been any recent billable work for Robert Wentworth Hamilton.”

  Gabe looked up and stopped typing. “Mr. Hamilton is not in our regular databases, Senator.”

  “How do you know?”

  “His name has come up occasionally in the past. He does not appear anywhere. Except…”

  “Except what, Gabe?” Falcone asked, irritation tightening his voice, as it had with Sprague.

  “There is a highly confidential database that I cannot enter. I thought … assumed … you would know about it. That database is controlled by Mr. Sprague. Highly encrypted. Mr. Hamilton’s name may be in that database.”

  When Gabe said “may be,” Falcone heard “is” and said, “Thanks, Gabe. You’ve been a great help.”

  “Anytime, Senator. Anytime.”

  32

  Falcone deleted the outline he had begun. He decided that an outline was too orderly a way to envision the web that had begun—where? He tracked back in time, imagining himself sitting in the office, watching GNN. He wrote down the time sequence: SpaceMine. Robert Wentworth Hamilton. Shootings. Emmetts. Sprague. Davidson’s laptop. Cole Perenchio. FBI takeover.

  The FBI. Maybe he could at least find out something about that.

  Falcone took the Best Buy phone out of his pocket and punched ten numbers to reach J. B. Patterson, director of the FBI. Falcone knew that all of Patterson’s other numbers were answered by someone deep in his labyrinthine organization and then slowly transported upward. The direct line to the console on Patterson’s desk was a number unchanged since the time when Falcone was the P
resident’s national security advisor.

  J. B. Patterson answered. There was a split second of silence as he noted with surprise that the small ID display showed Fergus Quinn. Then Falcone said, “Hello, J.B.”

  “Sean! Or should I say Fergus? How are you? Glad the bad guy missed.”

  “Me, too,” Falcone said, pausing before adding, “I’m wondering if you could drop by my place after work.”

  “Like the old days. Sure, Sean. See you around seven.”

  Falcone’s apartment was just two blocks up Pennsylvania Avenue from FBI headquarters—the big, buff-colored concrete monolith called the J. Edgar Hoover Building. During Falcone’s tenure as advisor, he had used his apartment as a discreet place to meet with Patterson for extremely off-the-record sessions that would not be chronicled in the visitor logs of either the West Wing or the FBI. Since going into private practice, Falcone had called Patterson a few times, always requesting nothing more than information or leads that would ordinarily have taken him weeks to obtain through channels. This would be their first meeting since Falcone left the White House.

  Under the law, the director of the FBI could serve a single term of no longer than ten years, unless the President asked Congress for a special extension. Patterson was midway through his term. At this point, Falcone realized, Patterson probably was not looking beyond his term, but people in high places in Washington always needed friends, and Falcone was a good, proven friend.

  Patterson had been known as J.B. ever since his girlfriend (and future wife) noted that his initials were the name of her favorite play, J.B., by Archibald MacLeish. When Patterson joined the FBI, J. Edgar Hoover insisted on a first-name-plus-initial identification. Agent James B. Patterson finally got his initials when he became Director J. B. Patterson.

  At 6:49, Patterson took the elevator from his twelfth-floor office to the basement garage, where his security men were waiting at a black SUV. He was tall and slim, and rarely smiled. But Falcone knew the man who walked within the FBI armor. Patterson had a sly sense of humor and an inner happiness about wife and family that the widower Falcone envied.

  The SUV pulled up in front of 701 Pennsylvania Avenue and Patterson stepped out. Two members of the security detail followed. As Patterson headed toward the open penthouse elevator awaiting him, he waved them away. They sat in comfortable chairs in a small alcove reserved for guests of the residents. “Just like old times,” one of them said to the other, who had just joined the security detail.

  Falcone met Patterson as he emerged from the elevator, and the two of them walked down the corridor to the foyer of Falcone’s apartment. Following precedent, they walked into the living room. Falcone motioned Patterson to a leather chair that resembled the one off the lobby.

  “Or we could go out on the terrace,” Falcone said, handing Patterson a glass of Balblair single-malt Scotch. Falcone had poured himself a Grey Goose vodka. Carrying a tray with the glasses and bottles, he nodded to Patterson to open the door and they walked out to one of those Washington October nights when summery moments return.

  “So,” Patterson said, his arm sweeping across the terrace, across the Washington view, “this is the reward for a career of faithful service to the nation.”

  “The thanks of a grateful nation,” Falcone said, sitting at one of the wrought-iron chairs at a round, similarly fashioned table. Patterson sat opposite him.

  “First, I wanted you to know that the other shooter—the one who fled—is dead,” Patterson said. “So is the getaway driver. Killed by New Jersey troopers on the turnpike.”

  “How did—”

  “It’s sketchy and, as I said, Sean, it’s complicated. The bureau wasn’t in it, at least directly. But you know about the Joint Terrorism Task Force. Those guys got involved. A lot of solid police work here in DC and New York nailed the car. The driver made the mistake of pulling one gun on two troopers.”

  “Troopers okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nice work,” Falcone said, hoisting his glass. As he lowered it, he asked with a smirk, “So was the other shooter Peter Darrow or Daniel Bruce?”

  Patterson put down his glass and said, “I see you’ve heard of Agent Sarsfield’s interview of Dr. Taylor. The reason Sarsfield tried out those names on Dr. Taylor was because those were two names we were tracking down until we found that their California licenses were very good fakes. Prints from the body show the real name of the guy you wrestled with is Dukka Sadulayev.”

  “Russian?”

  “No. Chechen. The guy has quite a record. You did a public service. He was a pro, the trigger man on probably twelve hits in New York and New Jersey.”

  “And the guy killed in New Jersey?”

  “That was Ahmed Kurpanov, Dukka’s cousin, according to immigration ID prints. No police record yet. But NYPD thinks he was a hit man in training. Both of them were naturalized American citizens. Came here with Kurpanov’s uncle from Chechnya as political refugees. The driver was Russian, worked for Kuri Basayev whenever he needed a driver in New York. The driver was clean enough to have a chauffeur license, but he was probably the driver on a lot of hits.”

  “Basayev?” Falcone said, surprised. “What the hell is he doing with hit men? He’s a multibillionaire, big with the hedge-fund crowd and, I’ve heard, close to Boris Lebed.”

  “He’s the classic Russian oligarch, even though he’s Chechen,” Patterson said. “High politics and big-time crime—everything from stock manipulation to murder. And untouchable. My guys keep an eye on him when he steps off his yacht in New York. Manhattan Pier Ninety. We don’t have anything on him. He pops up here and there. But mostly he keeps on the run by staying at sea.”

  “I’ve certainly heard of him,” Falcone said. “And I just assumed he was Russian.”

  “No. He’s a Chechen, distantly related to a dead terrorist.”

  “I just can’t see him mixed up in a hit on a law firm,” Falcone said. “But you know an awful lot about him.” He pointed to the empty glass. “Another?”

  “Got to go,” Patterson said, rising. “Thanks for the visit.”

  “There’s one more thing, J.B.”

  “Try me.”

  “Why in hell did Ben Taylor get FBI interest? Why was he questioned by an agent?”

  “Agent Sarsfield,” J.B. said with a sigh. “He’s very enterprising, very gung-ho. He was doing a background check on Dr. Taylor—I guess you know about the science-advisor job. Then the field office suddenly got two new cases. The Capitol cops, who don’t do murders, handed us a shooting on the Hill. Sarsfield saw Dr. Taylor’s name in the paperwork. Then we took over the shootings at your law firm, as I just told you. And Sarsfield wondered if the cases were related. He connected the dots—God, how I hate that phrase, as if a criminal or terrorist investigation is like moving from one to two to three—and he sent out national security letters. Then he—”

  “National security letters!” Falcone exclaimed. “Of all the snooping, searching without a warrant, and—”

  “All legal under the Patriot Act, Sean, as you know, and, believe me, I keep an eye on those letters. Well, anyway, Sarsfield got records of the phone calls that Taylor got and made that day, and—”

  “Cole Perenchio,” Falcone said.

  “Right,” Patterson said. “Look, I’ve got—”

  “Well, what about Hal Davidson? Why is the FBI interested in the shooting at the law firm?”

  Patterson sighed, sat down, and held out his glass for a refill. “This is, of course, for you,” he said. “Not for other ears. Usual rules.”

  “Right,” Falcone said, pouring. “I just need to know so I can know some other things.”

  “Well, the complications start with the weapon used. Remember Fast and Furious?” Patterson asked.

  “Hell, yes. The crazy gun-tracking operation that backfired. ATF guys had the bright idea of allowing guns illegally bought in America to cross the border, hoping to trace the guns to the Mexican bad guys.”
r />   “Correct.”

  “And,” Falcone continued, “the ATF geniuses thought they’d get points from Mexico’s cops for nailing those guys, along with the Americans who bought them and sent them into Mexico. But all they found out was that guns kill people, including a Border Patrol agent. And Congress had a field day. The attorney general barely escaped alive.”

  “Very good memory,” Patterson said, putting down his glass. “Well, just when Justice and the ATF thought Operation Fast and Furious was behind them, the issue rises again. The guy you … the guy who went over the railing … was carrying an M16, complete with serial number. The DC cops routinely sent the number into ATF—and, guess what. It was a Fast and Furious gun that had somehow returned to the United States.

  “Well, that bit of news passed up the line pretty damn fast. I got a call from the director of the ATF. I decided for the good of everybody that we take over. One Department of Justice bureau helping out another Department of Justice bureau. We get points for that. I called the DC chief of police and took a mass killing off his hands. He sounded very, very grateful.”

  “You make it seem so simple. But on what grounds did you take over?”

  “The District of Columbia is federal property. Every crime committed there is a potential FBI case,” Patterson said, holding up a hand to stop the comment that Falcone was about to start. “I know what you want to say. Abuse of federal power and so forth. But, as a matter of fact, we have reason to believe there is a national-security matter here.”

  “Mexico–U.S. relations? Slim reed, J.B.”

  “It’s a little more than that, Sean. We believe that the gun came back to the United States not from Mexico but from Idaho.”

  “Idaho?”

  “Check the map. Idaho has a narrow border—about forty-five miles—with Canada. There are small Islamic communities in Idaho—immigrants from Central Asia, places like Chechnya, with ties to Muslim terrorists. We think that the gun came in that way. “