Collision

by William S. Cohen

  “Come on, Sean,” Dake said. “You must know a lot about this guy already. What’s up?”

  “He looks younger than I thought he’d look,” Falcone said.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Dake said, sounding irritated.

  “I’ll tell you what I can tell you in the fullness of time.”

  “Oh, God. Your favorite put-off phrase.”

  Falcone ignored the remark. “What puzzles me about Basayev is that he’s Chechen,” Falcone said, refilling their glasses. “Russians are supposed to hate Chechens. The Chechen-Russian civil war. That horrible school massacre. Hundreds of kids killed by Chechen Islamists. The theater where the Chechens held the audience hostage, killing I don’t know how many. The Moscow subway bomb. They’re heartless bastards.”

  “The Russians hate the Chechens—and they fear them,” Dake said. “You say ‘Chechen’ to Russians, and they get an image of that school or that theater. The monster behind both of those atrocities was a terrorist named Shamil Basayev. And in some cousin-of-cousin way, Kuri Basayev is related to Shamil Basayev.”

  “Shamil’s dead, right?”

  “Right. Targeted assassination by Russia’s Federal Security Service. What the KGB used to call a wet job. In 2006, as I remember. So Shamil’s dead. And Lebed is so popular, so good at being charismatic, that he convinced Russians that Kuri Basayev is a good guy, a Lebed guy. But, from what I’m told by people who watch Chechen-brand terrorists, Kuri is on a hit list.”

  “Russian?”

  “Nope. Chechen.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “It’s the yacht.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Basayev’s father was a pal of Vladimir Putin, who reached out … carefully … to a few chosen Chechens, all sinfully rich. The elder Basayev was portrayed in Russian media as an okay Chechen. And he flaunted his wealth in an acceptable Russian way: beautiful women, night clubs, being driven around in big foreign cars. He was a flashy Muscovite, part of the city scene.” Dake turned off the laptop and closed it. “Chechens took offense.

  “Young Basayev,” Dake continued, “hasn’t set foot in Chechnya in a couple of years. But he’s a member of Lebed’s brain trust, and totally protected by him.”

  Falcone reported what he had read in the Wikipedia entries and said, “I didn’t see any of that information in there.”

  “Those entries are all dry-cleaned,” Dake said. “Basayev’s says that, after getting all of his fancy college degrees, he was in the Russian Foreign Service. But he really was under diplomatic cover working for the Federal Security Service, the new and improved KGB. He was a Putin protégé. Then, he became one of the money men behind Boris Lebed’s election. And that stuff about Kuri’s father in an automobile accident? It was a hit-and-run in broad daylight in Moscow. The rumor is that the Chechen underground handed Kuri a warning by killing his father.”

  “Why? What was behind it?” Falcone asked. He began making coffee.

  “They consider Kuri a traitor. He’s not just making money through bribes and extortion in the accepted oligarch business model. He’s stepped way over the line. He’s been getting into big-time crime, taking over the Afghan heroin express to Russia and trying to get a piece of Mexico narcotics.

  “He tried to take over the Chechen crime syndicate and killed a couple of their warlords. So the syndicate killed his father. Then he helped the Russian police find his father’s killers.

  “Now killing Kuri is a matter of Chechen honor.”

  63

  Falcone’s cell phone rang. He tried to ignore it. But he never could avoid looking at the ID panel. When he saw that the caller was US GOVERNMENT, he went into the living room and answered with a crisp “Falcone here.”

  “This is Agent Sarsfield. With the resources available at this time, we are unable to decrypt the laptop contents.”

  “Why is that?”

  Falcone could hear Sarsfield sigh and say, “As you undoubtedly know, the file in question was encrypted. I am calling to determine whether you have decrypted it. This could save us time and—”

  “No. I did not decrypt it. How could I? The thumb drive is in the possession of the FBI.”

  “Surely, Mr. Falcone, you have a copy.”

  “No. I do not.”

  “Are you aware, Mr. Falcone, it is a federal crime to make a false statement to an FBI agent or any other federal investigator?”

  “I am quite aware of that, Agent Sarsfield. I repeat: I do not have in my possession a copy of the thumb drive.”

  “Very well. It may become necessary for me to obtain a search warrant.”

  “Give my regards to the judge. Goodbye.”

  64

  When Falcone returned to the kitchen, Dake asked, “What was that all about?”

  “My favorite FBI agent. Let’s go back to Basayev.”

  Dake looked wary, deciding whether to press Falcone about the call. Falcone smiled inwardly, realizing what was going on in Dake’s brain.

  As national security advisor, he had seen dozens of profiles like the one he was getting from Dake. The profiles came from CIA analysts whose job was to piece together bits of information about people the White House wanted to know about. The profiles were almost always highly readable and often provided insights that Falcone found useful. Dake’s sketch of Basayev convinced Falcone that Dake had got most of his information directly from a top-secret CIA profile. The thought was not far-fetched, given the authoritative tone of Dake’s Post articles and books.

  Dake finished his sandwich and poured himself another glass of wine. “Okay, Sean. Now tell me what the hell this is all about. Why the sudden interest in this guy?”

  During Dake’s commentary on Basayev, Falcone had been awaiting the inevitable question and was mentally framing an answer. He wanted Dake on his side, and so he had to tell him the truth, but it had to be a limited truth. Falcone’s basic formula was Facts plus Opinion minus Sources.

  “Basayev is a silent partner in SpaceMine,” he began. “We—Ben Taylor and I—believe that Hal Davidson was essentially a Basayev-ordered mob hit, and the other Sullivan and Ford victims were killed as a coverup.”

  Dake nodded and did not seem surprised. “You get this from your old pal J. B. Patterson?”

  “I’m not going to tell you who told me about anything that I’m going to tell you,” Falcone said. He then described the way he got the SpaceMine laptop, how the FBI took over the case, and what happened when he and Ursula went to the FBI. He also sketched what Patterson told him, including the discovery of the Fast and Furious gun.

  Now Dake did look surprised. He seemed to be wandering through some thoughts for a moment, and then he asked, “Why do you think the FBI was so eager to take over the shooting of Perenchio and the people at your former law firm? And why hasn’t Director Patterson jumped all over the case and put Sprague in handcuffs?”

  “Good questions. My answer: Because the Justice Department doesn’t want to get roasted again over that stupid Fast and Furious operation.”

  “I don’t think so,” Dake said. “Patterson had an assistant attorney general at his side when you and Ursula were there. James Cosgrove, right?”

  Falcone nodded and, with a hint of exasperation, said, “And I suppose you know him.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. And I know he’s a heavyweight. His specialty is keeping the AG out of trouble. He was not sitting there just because of the Fast and Furious angle, Basayev and the shootings. Serious as they are.”

  “You sound as if you already know some of this. So why didn’t you write about it? Or write about it now? Saving it for a book?”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. There’s a rogue CIA cell that has been using Basayev to get into the Russian Defense Ministry, which has been supplying advanced rocket technology to Iran’s Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps.”

  “Basayev is an agent for us? Phil, you’ve got to be shitting me!”

  “I
wish I were. But it looks true, especially in light of what a couple of CIA analysts did in running that poor old retired FBI agent in Iran. None of the bosses knew about that one either, until his family blew a whistle. And my story sounds as if it comes from the same playbook.”

  “Jesus! Won’t those by-the-book dicks ever learn?”

  “Apparently not. The recruiter was also a former FBI agent. He had been stationed in Moscow as part of the bureau’s counternarcotics operation. Spoke fluent Russian. Son of Russian émigrés. Educated at Brandeis. Did graduate work at London School of Economics. Retired two years ago. He’s been living in Dubai, where there are a lot of oligarchs playing in the sand.”

  “How the hell could they get away with it?

  “Same way the other guys did. They came upon a juicy piece of intel and knew that the only way to keep it going was to keep their big boss totally in the dark. None of the big brass knows about the operation.”

  “So the DCI is blind on this?”

  “Yep. So is the secretary of defense. And the director of national intelligence.”

  “How the hell could that happen?”

  “The NSA kicked it off inadvertently by picking up calls between Hamilton and Basayev. Not just length and time, the so-called metadata, but actual conversations that they were able to decrypt.”

  “Conversations? For that the NSA needs a warrant.”

  “No warrant. The CIA is essentially blackmailing the NSA because if this got out, the NSA gets more trouble for breaking the law.”

  “But this is basically pointless,” Falcone said, shaking his head. “The conversations would be fruit from a poison tree if the U.S. tried to prosecute on that evidence.”

  “Right. But in one conversation it looks like Basayev is trying to link up with Hamilton to take advantage of SpaceMine technology and ultimately gain control of the palladium market, which would cut into the Russian economy. The rogues think they can turn Basayev by threatening to reveal his back-office deal with Hamilton to his pal Lebed.”

  “But at this point neither Oxley nor Lebed has a clue about what’s going on. And that means if this comes out Oxley will be shown doing business with a billionaire mobster who’s murdered at least five American citizens and has helped put our planet in jeopardy!”

  “Well put. Looks like you jumped Oxley’s ship at the right time,” Dake said. He poured himself a cup of coffee and proffered the carafe to Falcone, who held up his cup to be filled.

  “Christ, if I were still there I wouldn’t have had any knowledge about this insane operation,” Falcone said.

  “No, but you might have been taken down just the same. That’s the way fall-on-my-sword usually works.”

  “When do you think you’ll be blowing this wide open?”

  “Right now I have only one source. A good agency source. But, as with most good sources, this one has an ax to grind. I need at least two more sources before I can think about going with this. The public already knows that a U.S. immigration agent was killed by one of the guns the ATF allowed to be sold to Mexican drug gangs. Just think what the reaction will be that another ATF gun ended up in the hands of Chechens who killed all those folks at Sullivan and Ford. Someone’s head would be sure to roll. Maybe Patterson’s. Maybe the attorney general’s.”

  “Well, you’ve caused heads to roll before, Phil.”

  “Yeah. But this one scares me. The SpaceMine-Basayev connection could start a global panic. Suppose Basayev is using the cover of this joint project with Hamilton in order to take over the operational control of Asteroid USA? Maybe under the direction of someone in Moscow leading a coup.”

  “Come on, Phil! That’s a stretch even for you.”

  “Maybe. But it certainly would be possible for Russia to have a monopoly on precious minerals well into the future and cause havoc all over the world. And just one tweet by a conspiracy nut—a claim, say, that the Russians are threatening to aim the asteroid toward us—would be all over the Internet in minutes. Run on the banks. Stock markets crashing. That’s why I think I need to hold back on this.”

  “Okay. But if you do hold back, the thing still goes on,” Falcone said. “There’s only one way to stop Hamilton. I’m going to take it all directly to President Oxley, one-on-one. No one else in the Oval Office. No one taking notes. No one hiding in the corner.”

  “That might work. But then Oxley would have to turn to the CIA, the FBI, the whole apparatus that keeps lids on things. Would he want to lift the lid?”

  “I’ll find out,” Falcone said. “And you will never know what I found out, maybe even when it happens.”

  65

  As Falcone well knew, it was almost impossible to meet one-on-one with President Oxley. He was protected from assassins by a cordon of Secret Service agents and from outside influence by Ray Quinlan, the President’s chief of staff and guardian of the presidential clock and calendar. Quinlan made it a firing offense if a White House staffer allowed someone to meet with the President without the presence or authorization of Quinlan.

  When Falcone was national security advisor, he had often clashed with Quinlan over unrestrained access to the President, especially when President Oxley politely asked Quinlan to leave him alone with Falcone. Now, as a former advisor who was still loathed by Quinlan, Falcone knew there was no way he could directly reach President Oxley by any of the regular routes.

  But there was a place they could meet. As soon as Dake left, Falcone called Betty LeGarde, once a young staffer in his Senate office. She now held a job that Falcone had helped to arrange: the President’s personal secretary.

  “Thanks for the flowers, Sean,” she said, noting the name on her phone console. “You never miss my birthday.”

  “You’re welcome, Betty. It’s been a while.”

  “What can I do for you?” she asked in a voice somehow both warm and efficient.

  “You can call your boss and tell him that tomorrow would be a good day for golf.”

  “The President had planned to take the day off with the family. You know what Marcie will say.”

  Falcone also knew what the White House press corps would do with another presidential golf game. The reporters and pundits analyzed the President’s every word and every move, focused on every minute that the President was not working, or, as the press corps called it, carrying out his official duties. Even a rare night out with his wife at the Kennedy Center counted as nonworking time. And golf was chalked up as recreation even if his foursome included the Speaker and the Senate minority leader. So suggesting a round of golf was setting up a chance for the media to review the number of the President’s golf dates, inspiring dozens of snarky tweets, blogs, and TV commentaries.

  “Tell him we’ll just do nine holes,” Falcone said. “Right after church. He can be home by four o’clock and have the rest of the day with Marcie and the kids. Tell him it’s important to get some relaxation. He’ll know what I mean.”

  “Relaxation” was a code word between them, dating back to a three a.m. call from Falcone about a flaring crisis in the Middle East. After giving the President the details, Falcone had said, “Just look upon this as a kind of relaxation. You can toss away the day’s schedule of boring meetings and get down to real stuff in the Situation Room.” After that, Oxley always responded to Falcone’s crisis calls as a summons to “relaxation.”

  *

  Falcone’s call set in motion the machinery that delivers the President from the citadel of the White House to the perils of the outside world, which today was the Army Navy Country Club across the Potomac, a twelve-minute trip by presidential motorcade. The club is on a Virginia ridge where a Union fort stood during the Civil War. Golfers can still see the fort’s parapets and ditches around one of the greens. But those bits of the past are usually noticed only by golfers who shank or hook an approach shot to that tricky green.

  The club’s three courses are for playing golf, not dwelling on history. But a kind of secret history is made here, woven
from the conversations between golfers whose jobs, from the President on down, involve governing the nation. The club’s members are retired and active-duty officers, along with civilians who are “bound together by the fraternal and patriotic spirit of serving the best interests and efficiency of the National Defense,” and the industrial-military complex.

  A Secret Service agent called Falcone and told him which of the courses had been selected, along with the tee time, and said that a car would pick him up in twenty minutes. When Falcone arrived at the first tee, he was assigned the presidential golf cart. “The President will be at the wheel,” an agent told Falcone, grinning. Falcone knew that meant pedal-to-the-floor.

  Standing alongside another cart and offering hearty handshakes to Falcone were the governor of Maryland and the secretary of commerce, the rest of the foursome. Falcone imagined the surprise White House phone calls that had informed them of the President’s unexpected invitations.

  The President teed off first, a powerful drive that landed on the edge of the green. Falcone and the others landed far from the green. The President finished off with two putts. The rest of the foursome proved themselves duffers, and Oxley was looking displeased, whether for the poor competition or for the delay in hearing Falcone’s relaxation report.

  At the second tee, Oxley whispered to Falcone, “Into the rough.” His tee drive was weak and hooked into a long, wide stretch of brush and trees that appeared a third of the way to the green. Falcone followed with a similar drooping drive. The others managed to stay on the fairway. As they headed toward their balls, Oxley sped his cart toward the rough. One of the Secret Service carts tailed them but kept at a discreet distance.

  Oxley and Falcone left the cart and plunged into the rough. “Mind the poison ivy,” Oxley said, pointing to a patch between two pines. “This better be good. Marcie’s barely speaking to me.”

  Falcone gave a SitRoom-style point-by-point summary of what he knew about Hamilton’s connection to the shootings and his secret partnership with Kuri Basayev. He ended with, “As for the SpaceMine asteroid, if it’s moved for mining, it puts the Earth in danger. And adding to the danger is Basayev, who…”