Collision

by William S. Cohen

  “So the shooters were Chechens and had a Fast and Furious gun that came in from Canada? Jesus!”

  “Right.… A complicated case.… Look, I’ve got to go,” Patterson said, rising again.

  “One more question,” Falcone said, walking Patterson down the hallway to the foyer. Before pressing the elevator button, he asked, “Was Harold Davidson a deliberate hit, not random?”

  “I can’t say anything about that, Sean.”

  “National security?”

  “Can’t say,” Patterson replied, pressing the elevator button. “But I will tell you this. We’re retrieving the getaway car from the New Jersey police and we expect it will give us some answers. Stay tuned.”

  33

  By Monday, when Falcone was to meet Taylor, the shootings had passed from media view. The memory remained only in the circle of people directly touched. At Sullivan & Ford, the FBI crime-scene technicians had been replaced by the crime-scene-repair technicians—the carpenters, the glaziers, the plasterers, the people who specialize in removing bloodstains and signs of death. Blood gone, bullet holes erased, windows restored, pierced and splattered books gone.

  Falcone was the first to enter the Great Hall of the Folger Library, the block-long Capitol Hill home of the world’s largest collection of Shakespeare documents and artifacts. He watched Taylor enter from the farther entrance, his steps echoing as he walked past the gift store and the first of a dozen glass display cases containing an exhibit on the writing and history of the King James Bible, beginning with Anglo-Saxon biblical poems of the tenth century.

  Taylor stopped at the Folger’s first edition of the Bible, and opened to Genesis 8:22: “While the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease.”

  Falcone was seated on one of the high-backed chairs drawn up in front of an audio display. As Taylor approached, Falcone stood and pressed a button. They listened for a few moments to the voices of the Apollo 8 astronauts reading verses from Genesis on Christmas Eve, 1968, as they orbited the moon.

  “Sometimes, Sean, you amaze me,” Taylor said softly, sitting down next to Falcone. “I was ten years old when I heard that and decided to be an astronaut.”

  “Coincidence, Ben. Absolute coincidence. I had no idea this was here.”

  “One of my fellow grad students was a Jesuit,” Taylor said. “And he told me once that every coincidence traces back to an inevitability. I’ve seen enough coincidences to believe that Jesuit was right. Did you see the verse the Bible is open to? Genesis. The life of the Earth.”

  “I haven’t looked at the exhibit,” Falcone said. “It just seemed like a quiet place to talk.”

  “Well, I’d like to start with a hypothetical question—as a client,” Taylor said. Falcone, looking surprised, nodded. “If someone happens to have a copy of an accidentally recorded phone conversation, can he listen to it?”

  “Well, I guess if someone handed him a tape and as he listened he realized it was a phone conversation that he took part in, he—the listener—would not be breaking any phone-privacy laws. But I’m sure you know that nothing from that recording can be used in court. I assume you’re talking about your telephone conversation with that FBI agent, Sarsfield.”

  “Right.”

  “I assume that your loyal office mate—Molly is it?—thought she was doing the right thing. Delete the recording and tell her to forget about the accident. The good thing is we know the names he asked you about. And I have some information about those names.”

  After Falcone recounted what he had learned from Patterson, Taylor asked, “How the hell do you know all that?”

  “I’m a good lawyer. I have open ears and a closed mouth, especially the names of confidential sources.”

  “Okay. I’ll leave it at that. But what does it mean to me?”

  “I’m not sure what it means to you. But I can guess. Once a national security letter gets into the picture, you have to accept the reality that the FBI knows just about all there is to know about you—and probably some of your friends.”

  “Like what?”

  “I had a State Department employee as a pro bono client. She blew a whistle about corruption in Afghanistan and was demoted. She fought it. The FBI got her credit record, her bank records, her Internet provider, the address of every Web server she communicated with, the identities of people she e-mailed and got e-mails from—and, it turned out, some of those people got calls from the FBI. I finally got her reinstated, but my attempt to stop national security letters went nowhere.”

  “Whatever they know is okay with me,” Taylor said. “It’s what they think about me that bothers me right now. ‘Person of interest.’ What can I do about that?”

  “Don’t worry. Sarsfield was just poking, just looking for some way to connect the shootings at my law firm with the shooting of Cole Perenchio.”

  “What? How the hell can he do that? Except that they’re both black. Who knows, maybe I’ll be the third dead black guy.”

  “Keep your paranoia to yourself, Ben,” Falcone said, smiling. “I’ve got enough for both of us. Right now, all the FBI has is a theory. Nothing more. But I do feel a little like Sarsfield. I’d also like to know what you think Cole wanted to tell you.”

  Taylor did not immediately respond. He shook his head and said, “He did not tell me anything. But I have a hunch that he wanted to tell me something about Janus.”

  “About what?”

  “Janus. It’s a big asteroid. And an attractive site for Hamilton because it appears to be a heavyweight full of ore.”

  “And it has a name?”

  “When an asteroid is discovered, it’s given a temporary label based on the order of its discovery. So asteroid 2014 AB would be the second—B—asteroid discovered during the first half month—A—of 2014. Later, when astronomers feel it has had enough observations, it gets a permanent number. And then the discoverer can add a name that is approved by the International Astronomical Union. The asteroid’s name is Janus. In Roman mythology, Janus is the double-faced god of gates and doors, beginnings and endings. It’s the ending that worries me.”

  “Any other candidate?”

  “Dozens. Every day the asteroid-watchers find a new one and record it, putting it in the catalogue, giving it its anonymity. But, as I said, sometimes astronomers can’t resist giving one a name. There’s even one named after Thomas Pynchon.”

  “Gravity’s Rainbow,” Falcone said. “It gave me one of my favorite quotations: ‘If they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don’t have to worry about answers.…’ Janus … How did Janus get that name?”

  “Because it has an odd shape. Well, odd even for an asteroid,” Taylor said. “Some radar images of it look like two profiles joined together—one looking to the past and the other to the future. It may have had a little moon once and they merged.”

  “What makes you concerned about Janus?”

  “A lot,” Taylor said, nodding toward an image of Earth taken from a spaceship. Below were the words of Archibald MacLeish: To see the earth as it truly is, small and blue and beautiful in that eternal silence where it floats, is to see ourselves as riders on the earth together.…

  “Some scientists—and I’m one of them—believe that Janus’s orbit makes it a possible threat to Earth. I say possible, because I think it’s a threat in the remote future. But I think it was one of those inevitability coincidences that Cole called me so soon after that SpaceMine announcement about their rocket reaching an asteroid that Hamilton named USA. I went to the star charts, to that spot where Hamilton pointed the laser beam toward Cassiopeia, and I got this hunch. I think Cole was going to tell me that SpaceMine had selected Janus as its mining site.”

  “So you think someone killed the messenger?”

  “Maybe. But, anyway, I’m going public with Janus.”

  “How?”

  “Ever watch Street Speak?”

  “Occasionally,” Fa
lcone replied. He had appeared several times on Bloomberg’s premarket morning news and talk show, giving his opinions, especially about Wall Street and government regulations.

  After a moment Falcone added, “Are you sure going on Street Speak is a good idea?”

  “I got invited, and I see no reason not to go on. Television is what I do a lot of. As for Janus, I figure I’ll throw out the name and see what happens.”

  “Be careful, Ben. Take my advice. Don’t mention Janus. You’d only be speculating, and, if you’re wrong, you’ll lose credibility.”

  “Don’t worry, Sean. I’m always careful. And I have a mind that keeps things compartmentalized. You won’t see me for a while. I have to put the finishing touches on my show. When I’m working on a show, Darlene calls it going into space. Well, that’s where I’m going.”

  34

  Jerry Quentin, the Street Speak anchor, made his show popular by linking the financial world to everyday life. Through his wisecracks and irreverent observations, viewers got a perspective that went far beyond the daily litany of Wall Street numbers. To him, SpaceMine was not about rocketing into the cosmos but was simply an earthly venture that like so many ventures involved not just dollars but also risk.

  Quentin began his interview by noting that Taylor was the first astrophysicist to appear on the show. “Usually,” he said, “we talk to people who handle really difficult subjects, like greed and staying out of jail. Space exploration ought to be easy. But let’s start with greed anyway. What are the chances of making a lot of money by mining an asteroid?”

  “Well, we didn’t get many details from that SpaceMine announcement,” Taylor said. “We don’t know the location of the so-called Asteroid USA.”

  “‘So-called’? Why do you say that?” Quentin asked.

  “You can’t just pull a name out of a hat. There are rules about astronomical names.”

  “Well, those miners are going to need a name for the place they go to work, right?”

  “I think we can assume that there won’t be any human miners involved, Jerry.”

  “Robot mining?”

  “Right. SpaceMine won’t have to worry about the kind of miners’ strikes that have been closing mines in Africa. But I worry that there are no regulations to establish rules for all of the commercial activity that’s under way these days in space.”

  “What kind of rules are you talking about?”

  “The United States is a signatory to an outer-space treaty that specifically says space should not be ‘subject to national appropriation.’”

  “Meaning what?” Quentin asked.

  “Meaning no country can claim sovereignty over any heavenly bodies or asteroids. And if a country can’t do that, I don’t see how anybody can just plant a corporate flag in a large space rock and say you own it.”

  Quentin was stunned. “You mean private enterprise puts up all the money, takes all the risk, and they don’t own what’s in it or on it? Whoa! Isn’t this socialism at its worst?”

  “All I’m saying is that it’s unclear. I think the treaty needs to be amended to take into account all of the scientific progress we’ve seen since it was ratified back in 1967. There are other issues that need to be examined. If something goes wrong up there, according to the treaty, the private companies—or their government sponsors—could be held liable for any damage they cause to other countries or companies.”

  “What do you mean ‘if something goes wrong’?” Quentin pressed, clearly unhappy with the thought that Taylor was calling for international regulations in the very area where American enterprise had a technological lead.

  “Hypothetically, if the mining involves changing an asteroid’s orbit without proper controls in place, there could be problems.”

  “Such as?” Quentin asked.

  “We don’t know precisely what the unintended consequences might be. The worst result could be setting up a collision course with Earth.”

  “Oh, so we just get hit by an asteroid. Nothing to lose sleep about,” Quentin said with an uneasy laugh.

  “I’m not suggesting that the sky is falling. I just want us to learn about asteroids.”

  “Okay. Let’s start off by learning this: What are the chances of an asteroid hitting Earth?”

  “There’s no way to accurately calculate those chances. But an asteroid about, say, fifty meters in diameter, hits about once every thousand years or so on average. An asteroid large enough to cause global problems—one that’s bigger than a kilometer in diameter—well, one like that hits about every seven hundred thousand years.”

  “‘Global problems’? Like, ‘goodbye planet’?”

  Taylor did not respond. Quentin waited a beat and asked, “So, is this the thousandth year or the seven hundred thousandth?”

  “I didn’t mean to post odds, Jerry. Don’t tell your viewers to rush out and buy any asteroid insurance just yet,” Taylor answered with a laugh, his eyes dancing with playful mischief. “I’m no expert on just what scares investors. But I think we’re safe for another few years.” Taylor couldn’t contain a wide smile from breaking like a wave across his face.

  “So there’s nothing to worry about,” Quentin said.

  “I didn’t say that,” Taylor responded, losing the grin. “There are dangers.”

  “Yeah, every thousand years.”

  “No. Right now,” Taylor responded. “The danger involves what asteroids are selected for mining.”

  “Oh, Ben, you are such a gloomy one!” Quentin said.

  “It’s not gloom, Jerry,” Taylor said. “It’s common sense.”

  “Let’s get back to the financial angle,” Quentin said, taking control of the interview. “The SpaceMine guys mentioned one asteroid that is supposed to contain eight trillion dollars’ worth of platinum. Any idea what asteroid that would be?”

  “Robert Wentworth Hamilton gave some asteroid his commercial name—the so-called Asteroid USA. But he didn’t give us a clue about what astronomically recorded asteroid it actually is. There are more than one million near-Earth objects that are big enough to destroy a city. And we only know where about one percent of them are at any given time. Those near-Earth objects—NEOs—that have been studied appear to contain a lot of different metals. Tons of platinum is certainly possible, even on a very small asteroid.”

  “Right now,” Quentin said, “platinum is trading close to the same rate as gold. But what happens if you dump eight trillion dollars’ worth of platinum onto the Earth market?”

  “You’re the business expert, Jerry,” Taylor said. “Think about it. We’re going to keep adding people to the planet, and they’ll likely be making bigger demands for platinum, palladium, and other metals. Especially for hydrogen fuel cells to power cars. Right now, the bulk of the platinum and palladium comes from Russia and from mines in South Africa where rotten conditions cause some bloody strikes. So it looks to me that SpaceMine would break up the Russian and South African duopoly and own a piece of real estate worth eight trillion dollars. No wonder so many people seem eager to sign up for the IPO when it’s announced. It looks like another gold rush, just as Hamilton says.”

  “It doesn’t take much to get people to flock to an IPO these days,” Quentin said.

  “There’s something else, Jerry. IPOs get regulated—maybe not as much as some people would want. But they get watched over by the SEC. There’s nobody watching over space. Imagine what oil prospecting in the Gulf of Mexico would be like with absolutely no regulations. I just hope that the SpaceMine hoopla will get our politicians to start thinking about space law and the UN space treaty that’s been around for years.”

  “A lot of people would chip in to send the UN into outer space,” Quentin said. “Thanks, Dr. Taylor, for taking us out of the world.”

  35

  Taylor’s Street Speak appearance produced a flurry of e-mails—requests from Jon Stewart’s Daily Show and other first-tier television shows, colleagues congratulating him for raising the dange
rs of unregulated asteroid mining, and the inevitable zealots who feared or welcomed the end of the world. He left them all unanswered because he was deep in space, day and night, plugging away at his NOVA show.

  Two days after his Folger meeting with Falcone, Ben Taylor was driven to the Virginia studios of WETA, Washington’s flagship public broadcasting station. He knew the place well, because this was where his monthly Your Universe show was produced. Now he was here to watch over a final run-through of “An Asteroid Closely Watched.”

  Near the end of the day, his NOVA coproducer convinced him to shave off one minute and nineteen seconds. When that was done, they then pronounced the show ready for prime time, and Taylor, carrying a digital copy of the show, was driven back to the Air and Space Museum. He had returned to Earth.

  He went directly to the planetarium, handed the show disks to the operations manager, and then took the elevator to his office. As he left, his booming voice could be faintly heard on the recording of the day’s final scheduled museum show, “Reaching for the Stars: A Trip to Our Nearest Neighbor.” As soon as the show ended and the audience exited, staffers began transforming the planetarium into a theater. There a select audience would see a preview of the NOVA show.

  When Taylor entered his office, Molly greeted him with the news that he was to call Agent Sarsfield.

  “When did he call?” Taylor asked.

  “About twenty minutes ago?”

  Taylor looked at his watch and said, half to himself, “Just about when I got to the museum.”

  “You think they’re following you?” Molly asked, instinctively looking toward the door.

  “Maybe, Molly. Maybe. I’m going to call him. And,” he added, “as I told you, no more accidents.”

  Taylor went to his desk, took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then called Sarsfield, who answered on the second ring.

  “Taylor here, responding to your call. How may I help you?” He spoke calmly, proud of his voice control.