Collision

by William S. Cohen

  “Who is someone that your friend Dake has been talking about,” Oxley interrupted. “He’s calling it a rogue operation out at the agency, right?” Oxley said.

  Falcone nodded.

  “How long did you work with me?” Oxley said. “Do you really think I didn’t know about or approve the plan to develop a Russian asset, one that is so close to the Russian president?”

  “Wait!” Falcone exclaimed. “You’re telling me that this is an authorized operation? That making it seem ‘rogue’ was a cover to give you deniability in case it became known?”

  “It’s a little more ambiguous than that,” Oxley said, poking in the high grass with a seven iron.

  “One who could turn out to be a double and turn the sword on you?”

  “Come on, Sean. You still think I’m an intelligence ingenue? Don’t know how to play chess with the big boys?”

  Falcone did not reply.

  “The NSA routinely intercepted and decrypted the calls between Hamilton and Basayev,” Oxley continued. “Basayev’s been an intel target for a long time. We knew that Basayev had muscled his way into SpaceMine, and the agency believed he had a hand in the shootings.”

  “So that’s why you ordered J.B. to have his FBI take over the hit on the firm?”

  “I didn’t order J.B. But after a conference—NSA, CIA, FBI, God, even Homeland Security—that’s what we came up with.”

  “What about the Fast and Furious gun? Suppose it comes out that a gun blessed by the U.S. Department of Justice killed five Americans?”

  “I’ll handle it if Fast and Furious comes up. I’ll worry about it when I have to.”

  “So let’s say that temporarily stays under the rug. But why hasn’t the FBI arrested Sprague and Hamilton?”

  “On what charge? The evidence was too thin. Hard to show a direct murder link based on what was said over the phone. We needed time to let it play out. Hell, you were a prosecutor once. Think you could convict on circumstantial evidence?”

  Falcone stooped and picked up his ball. “Mine. Where’s yours?”

  “I give up. I’ll take the new-ball penalty.”

  “I will, too,” Falcone said, pocketing his ball. “But what about Hamilton’s plan to move the asteroid? You haven’t done anything to stop what Hamilton is doing.”

  “Come on, you know the answer. The Hill would see it as a phony excuse to burn the Silicon Valley boys. Lot of campaign money there, and not just Hamilton’s. If Justice moves against Hamilton, it has to be airtight,” Oxley said, looking toward the fairway. “We’d better get back.” Oxley headed toward the cart.

  Falcone did not move. “Sometimes, Mr. President, you have to hear the truth unvarnished,” he said. “Isn’t the real reason the White House—Quinlan, that is—is keeping this bottled up is so it doesn’t get out that you—not your administration but you—have been running an operation with a Russian thug who murdered five Americans? A thug who just might take over control of an asteroid from Hamilton and put it on a collision course with Earth. Or use it as a weapon against us or against China. Did it occur to your team that Basayev could become one of the greatest extortionists in history?”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Sean?”

  “Basayev may be using a commercial activity as a cover for a covert operation of his own—controlling an asteroid that could be a weapon, using it to demand tribute from the U.S. or face annihilation … Or maybe it’s Lebed who has been running Basayev all along. Maybe Lebed, Russia’s new Vladimir Putin, is managing a new charm offensive while plotting to take advantage of U.S. technology and our stupid decision to slash our defense and space budgets.”

  Oxley climbed into the cart and started it up. “You were always good at seeing the things that aren’t here yet,” he said, smiling. “So what do you suggest I do?”

  “Meet with Ben Taylor and me tomorrow.”

  “Taylor? The Air and Space guy? Quinlan dropped him as science advisor.”

  “As usual, Quinlan is being a horse’s ass.”

  “I’ll let that pass. What do you propose about the asteroid? I admit we’re in the dark. There’s some encrypted message that NSA’s working on. I heard about that. Something about the asteroid. Yes, I want to know about that.”

  “Taylor decrypted that message. He’ll tell you what Hamilton’s been doing and why it’s incredibly dangerous. Think Carl Sagan. And think the end of the world.”

  “Okay. I’ll get Betty to set up a three-for-lunch without telling Quinlan. I like getting him mad. It makes him smarter.” He gunned the cart and made a sharp turn. “Now let’s get this awful game over with.”

  66

  As soon as he returned to the White House, President Oxley called FBI director Patterson, reaching him at his home in McLean, Virginia. When the special phone rang, Patterson was reading a letter from his daughter, who was in her second year at Tufts. Like her mother, she preferred to write letters on paper and send the letters via the U.S. Postal Service.

  The direct line from the White House to Patterson’s home had been declared secure by the NSA. But both the President and Patterson were wary of NSA declarations. So the conversation was cryptic.

  “J.B.,” Oxley said. “Hope you’re having a quiet Sunday. Talked to a very knowledgeable mutual friend you recently visited. Let’s sweat the man with the thumb drive. Tell Sarsfield to invite him in for a talk and a look at Sarsfield’s dog-and-pony show. See what that stirs up.”

  *

  Paul Sprague was in his study, looking westward toward the mountains. The sun had nearly set. A yellow band of clouds glowed in a sky yielding to the first stars of night. We bought this place for moments like this, Sprague thought, Well, no longer.… He was alone, as usual ending a weekend at Sprague Farm—his Shangri-la, as he called his house and fourteen acres in Middleburg, Virginia.

  His wife, Sarah, preferred Washington. From the beginning she had despised the farm as feeling and looking like a B&B, and she despised Middleburg as horsy and snooty. Now she did not even feign an excuse for not coming here. Sprague had thought of selling the farm. But he cherished the feeling of landed gentry. And besides, how can I sell? The place is mortgaged more than it’s worth. He poured himself another glass of bourbon. Sarah thought it was hilarious that his favorite bourbon was Virginia Gentleman.

  The landline phone rang, startling him from his reverie. He had turned off his cell phone, and the landline number was known to few people. Maybe Sarah. He walked from the leather chair at the bay window to his reproduced-antique desk, which had a gold-toothed leather top and carved reeded corner posts. The phone looked out of place on that fine desk. He decided he would move it to the table next to the leather chair.

  “Paul Sprague here,” he answered briskly. “Who is this?”

  “Special Agent Patrick Sarsfield of the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” said a voice that instantly conjured up in Sprague’s mind thoughts of phone taps, surveillance—and, suddenly topping the other fearful thoughts, a raging panic about Hamilton and Basayev. He suppressed a mad urge to shout their names.

  “And what is the purpose of this Sunday phone call, Agent Sarsfield?” Sprague asked, confident that he sounded calm.

  “Sir, I have been tasked by the director to ask you to come to headquarters on Monday morning to—”

  “What … what is the reason?”

  “I am sorry, sir. But I am unable to discuss this matter on the phone. I will meet you at the Pennsylvania Avenue entrance at ten a.m. Monday.”

  “And if I fail to appear?”

  “I would not advise that, sir. There is a stigma associated with a subpoena, as you, a member of the bar, surely know. Director Patterson wishes to avoid that, sir. As you know, the bureau would be forced to apply in court for a subpoena, and that application would make certain matters public.”

  After a short pause, Sprague said. “I will appear tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sprague. Would you wish to be accompanied by y
our lawyer?”

  “As you know, I am a lawyer. I will come alone.”

  “Very well, Mr. Sprague. Goodbye.”

  Sprague returned to the leather chair and stared into the twilight. Bring a lawyer? With the shootings and Falcone’s exit, the firm’s in enough of a mess. There’s no way I can shop for a criminal lawyer without the whole town knowing.… He tried to come up with a plan. He could not call Hamilton from here. He had to leave for Washington immediately. He could not assume that the FBI or the NSA had not been able to not tap the special Hamilton phone locked in a drawer of his desk at Sullivan & Ford. But he had to call, had to take the chance.

  “Tasked by the director…” He could not drive the phrase from his panicking mind. “Tasked by the director…”

  67

  “For God’s sake, Paul. What now? Why a Sunday call? Sundays are special to me. A day of worship. What can’t keep till Monday?” Hamilton said, his voice distorted as much by anger as by electronics. He had answered the phone in his apartment, which spread along a small arc of the second floor of the SpaceMine building. The two-story, glass-and-shiny-metal structure lay like a giant halo that had been tossed onto Palo Alto’s greensward of lawns and walkways.

  “It’s the FBI,” Sprague said. “I’ve been invited to talk to an agent there. There’s good reason to believe they’ll be wanting to talk to you next.”

  “Invited? What the hell kind of lawyer are you? And why would they call you?”

  “I think … I think it’s because they know about the deletion of data on the computer.” Sprague’s thin, halting voice revealed a panic that he fought to control.

  “So what?” Hamilton said. “I simply retrieved my property, which was stolen.”

  “Yeah, and O. J. Simpson was simply retrieving his football memorabilia,” Sprague said, surprised at his sudden flare-up of anger. “Well, O.J. is still doing hard time. What worries me is that you interfered with a criminal investigation. And now—”

  “Let’s end this conversation right here, Paul. The fact is I have also been asked by the FBI to pay a little visit to their shop. I received a call two days ago to appear Monday. I’m flying out tonight.”

  “What? Why didn’t you tell me? Why—”

  “I’m no fool, Paul. From what I have learned about Washington, if a lawyer gets in trouble, his clients are well advised to treat him as a leper.”

  “You were told I was summoned?”

  “‘Invited,’ Paul. That’s your word, ‘invited.’”

  “We should talk,” Sprague said desperately.

  “I think not, Paul.”

  “But I’m your lawyer. You need—”

  “You’re not my lawyer anymore, Paul. Be sure to send me an e-mail today. I want you not to be my lawyer tomorrow.”

  “God damn it, Robert! Don’t you see? You will need a lawyer.”

  “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain, Paul. I have a lawyer. He’s just not you. And he will be with me if it turns out that I must honor the invitation. I think there is no more to say, Paul. Goodbye.”

  Hamilton immediately called Senator Collinsworth, reaching him on the cell phone that Collinsworth reserved for calls to and from Hamilton and four other major contributors. After Hamilton told him about the invitation from the FBI, Collinsworth promised to join with Senator Anderson and demand a meeting with Director Patterson.

  68

  Sarsfield escorted Sprague to the same room where Falcone had viewed the car and laptop timelines. The only others in the room were the two forensic experts, who had arrived via helicopter from Quantico an hour before.

  As soon as the image of the laptop appeared on the wall screen and the forensic expert began her technical narration, Sprague knew, beyond any doubt, that he had been betrayed by Ursula. He recalled, in exhaustive detail, the way she manipulated the two thumb drives, and could only nod when Sarsfield asked, “Is it true, Mr. Sprague, that you were not able to operate the computer under Mr. Hamilton’s directions?”

  After a pause, Sarsfield added, “Let the record show that Mr. Sprague nodded in assertion.

  “And is it true, Mr. Sprague, that your executive assistant, Miss Ursula Breitsprecher, aided in the transfer of data from the computer to two thumb drives?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And is one of those thumb drives in your possession, Mr. Sprague?”

  Sprague nodded again.

  “Were you aware, Mr. Sprague, that you went tampering with evidence in a criminal investigation?”

  “You have gone to the edge, Agent Sarsfield,” Sprague replied sharply, feeling a defense-lawyer surge of confidence. “I will not answer any more questions.”

  “Very well, Mr. Sprague. This preliminary inquiry of Paul Sprague is completed,” Sarsfield said. He turned to look at Sprague eye-to-eye. “As part of an investigation under way, I wish to obtain that thumb drive. With your agreement, I will accompany you to your office, obtain the thumb drive, and provide a receipt.” He paused as Sprague nodded. “The U.S. Attorney’s Office for the District of Columbia,” Sarsfield continued, “is examining the probability of empaneling a grand jury to seek indictments in the matter of homicides at Sullivan and Ford. I urge you again to obtain legal counsel.”

  Sprague nodded and Sarsfield escorted him, in silence, from the building and walked Sprague to his office. There, with little conversation, Sarsfield obtained the thumb drive from Ursula, placed it in an evidence bag, signed a receipt for it, and left.

  Sprague and Ursula stood for a moment, each looking at the other to begin the ceremony.

  Sprague finally broke the silence, saying, “You will give me the firm’s cell phone and laptop, your identification badge, your elevator card key, your Sullivan and Ford credit card.… Your health insurance will continue through the end of the month. You will then be required to obtain your own insurance under the Affordable Care Act.…”

  *

  An hour after Sprague walked out of the FBI conference room, Hamilton walked in, accompanied by Akis Christakos, whom Sarsfield recognized as one of Washington’s most expensive and most successful criminal lawyers. Early in the presentation of the car and laptop timelines, Christakos interrupted. Soon, however, he merely sat next to Hamilton and scrawled notes on page after page of yellow-lined paper. After summaries of Ursula’s and Sprague’s statements were handed to Christakos, he whispered to his client.

  Tight-lipped, Hamilton was escorted out of the room by Sarsfield. Christakos remained behind to spend a few minutes talking to Assistant Attorney General Cosgrove.

  69

  Patterson had expected that Sarsfield’s call to Sprague would create a chain reaction. So he was not surprised on Monday when he received a call from Collinsworth, who ignored the protocol of the FBI’s Office of Congressional Relations and used Patterson’s private number to reach him directly “because this is an urgent security matter.”

  Patterson juggled his schedule to squeeze in a meeting that afternoon with Collinsworth and Anderson. At their request, the meeting would be held in the basement Hart Senate Office Building room assigned to the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. Officially a “sensitive compartmented information facility” (SCIF, pronounced “skiff”), it was sealed off from the Washington tell-me-a-secret games. Under the committee’s rules, no one could take notes in the room and no one could remove any document seen in the room.

  Patterson sat at the room’s principal piece of furniture, a long, highly polished table flanked with chairs. Collinsworth put him at one end of the table and took the chair to Patterson’s left. Anderson sat at Patterson’s right.

  His entwined hands resting on the table, Patterson listened patiently as each senator made his request that the FBI drop its interest in Robert Wentworth Hamilton “and his great work for this nation.”

  “I fail to see where national security is involved, Senators,” Patterson said. “That was your reason for meeting here.”

  “Well, Director Pat
terson,” Collinsworth said, smiling, “I am sure you understand that Mr. Hamilton, as one of America’s great innovators, is a national resource that deserves protection.”

  “No, Senator,” Patterson said. “With all due respect I do not see any need to look upon Mr. Hamilton or his corporate doings as matters that would in any way influence bureau decisions regarding an important homicide case.”

  At the word “homicide,” Anderson winced, turned toward Collinsworth, looking to him for further arguments. When Collinsworth failed to speak, Anderson leaned forward and said, “J.B., all we ask is that you step carefully when dealing with Mr. Hamilton.”

  “Step carefully, Senator?”

  Collinsworth glared at Anderson for a moment. He did not like “J.B.” and he did not like “step carefully.”

  “I believe,” Patterson continued, “that it is you and your colleague who should be stepping carefully. Are you aware, Senators, that your request constitutes an interference with a criminal investigation into the murder of five innocent people?”

  The two senators looked at each other, then at Patterson.

  “What?” Collinsworth asked, as if an answer to that one word would somehow answer many of the questions that were roiling through his mind.

  “I am sure you remember the Keating Five,” Patterson said, pausing to let that remark sink in; even the most junior senator knew about the Keating Five. “It’s necessary for me to file a report on this meeting to the Department of Justice. The report will be available to any reporter who files a Freedom of Information Act request. I will also file with the attorney general a recommendation that he consider filing criminal complaints against both of you.

  “At the very least, once this meeting becomes the subject of public discussion, Senate leaders will want to refer the matter to the Senate Ethics Committee to determine what action should be taken to condemn your action or possibly even expel you from the Senate. Again, I refer you to the Keating Five. Thank you, I must now return to my office.”