In 1987, during the nation’s savings-and-loan-associations crisis, five senators met with federal banking regulators on behalf of banker Charles H. Keating, Jr. He had made a total of $1.3 million in campaign contributions to the senators. The connection between the meetings and the campaign funds triggered a scandal known as the Keating Five. A Senate ethics investigation produced twenty-six days of televised hearings and set off an FBI investigation into possible criminal actions by Keating and the five senators. Keating eventually spent five years in prison. The Senate censured one senator and reprimanded the others for their “poor judgment.” The scandal, said the New York Times, was “an embarrassment for the entire Senate, shining a light onto the ways in which campaign donors sought and often received favors.”
And now, Patterson had walked into what could have become the “Hamilton Two.” When he walked out of the Hart Building, he felt, for the first time in years, that he and his FBI were on the side of the angels.
70
Collinsworth and Anderson, too shaken to return to their offices, walked two blocks from the Hart Building to the Monocle Restaurant, their favorite spot for hatching plans. Unhatching a plan was much more difficult, they discovered after a few minutes over their first martinis. Finally, Anderson decided that it would not be prudent to call Hamilton. Collinsworth nodded assent, saying, “For his own good. We’re doing him a favor not dragging him into this.”
They agreed to tell their chiefs of staff to send carefully worded e-mails to Hamilton. “The e-mails shouldn’t be identical, of course,” Collinsworth said. “But they should politely advise him that the matter he raised—no need to be specific—is under Department of Justice review at this time.”
“Exactly,” Anderson agreed. He looked both ways and leaned in, half whispering, “Butner. In North Carolina. Know anything about the place?”
“It’s a medium fed prison. Couple of congressmen sent there,” Collinsworth replied. “And that’s where Bernie Madoff went. Not so bad, I heard. Just white-collar inmates.”
“Right. Well, I don’t want to go there, Ken,” Anderson said. “So you be sure that you get that goddamn e-mail off. No more contact with Hamilton. Period.”
Collinsworth raised his glass. “Agreed.”
*
Hamilton did not get many e-mails. He ran SpaceMine with the aid of a half-dozen subordinates, and he preferred to hear about solutions—not problems, solutions—directly from whomever was handling the operation. No need for paper trails. And none of his aides used e-mails. They communicated either directly through cell phones or through texting.
The two e-mails from Washington arrived within minutes of each other. They were handed to Hamilton by an administrator who acted as if he were holding pieces of papyrus bearing messages in hieroglyphics.
“Just got these, Mr. Hamilton,” the aide said. “Odd ones. Looks like they’re telling you they struck out about something.”
“Can’t seem to get good help these days,” Hamilton said, grimly smiling. He put them into a recycling container next to the glass-topped table that served as his desk. “I’ve got to make a call.” The aide left.
He dialed 1-877-555-4151 on his encrypting phone, waited thirty seconds, and hung up. In a few minutes the phone rang. The caller did not identify himself, but Hamilton knew it was Kuri Basayev. Hamilton had met him only once, at night, at a dock in New York, aboard Aglaya. Two big and taciturn men picked up Hamilton at his hotel, drove him to the dock, and took him up the gangway. The meeting had only lasted about twenty minutes. It ended with a champagne toast, celebrating the legal conversion of Basayev’s extortion into a contract making him owner of a forty-percent share of SpaceMine. The men reappeared and took Hamilton back to his hotel.
They had spoken on their theoretically secure phones a few times since then. Basayev had indicated that he was aboard the Aglaya, but he had not said where the yacht was. The private investigators hired by Hamilton tried to keep track of Basayev and the Aglaya. For the past couple of months the yacht was said to be in the Black Sea.
“My friend, Robert,” Basayev said. “What is the news?”
“The news is not good news, Kuri. Certain authorities—high authorities—are asking questions that do not have good answers. I think it is time that I buy you out of your forty percent.”
After a short silence, Basayev spoke, hardening his voice. “Perhaps it is time for me to buy you out, Robert. I think it is time to talk. Your troubles have to go away. You will enjoy a few days on Aglaya.”
“I’m willing to meet you, willing to talk, willing to compromise. But ‘a few days’ is impossible.”
“Very well. Two days. One day to talk, one day to enjoy Aglaya. All you have to do is fly to Moscow and wait there. Check into the Baltschug Kempinski. Beautiful hotel directly across the river from the Kremlin. Wait there until I make arrangements to have you flown to a port on the coast of Turkey. You will be contacted. I have a special aircraft that will take you to the Aglaya, where we can talk in comfort and security. Just let me know a few days in advance. I promise you an enjoyable visit.”
71
A White House car picked up Falcone and Taylor and took them to the East Wing entrance, where an agent handed them visitor identification tags and escorted them to a small room off the Oval Office. President Oxley entered a couple of minutes after they did, and all three sat at a round table that looked big enough for no more than four people.
After a steward served them grilled chicken salad, cornbread, and coffee, Falcone formally introduced Ben Taylor as assistant director of the Air and Space Museum and added, “He’s also a writer and a documentary producer.”
“I don’t need an introduction, Sean,” Oxley said. “When I told my kids I was meeting with Ben Taylor, they were real exited. They’re great fans. What’s the documentary about?”
“Asteroids, Mr. President,” Taylor replied.
“But somebody talked PBS into not showing it,” Falcone interjected. Oxley looked up quizzically as Falcone added, “And I think I know who.”
The three men began lunch in silence, Taylor and Falcone waiting for Oxley to speak first. He buttered a piece of cornbread, took a bite, and said, “Okay, Ben. Tell me about the asteroid that’s worrying you.”
“I’ll try to make this fast, Mr. President. First of all, we have no idea where SpaceMine’s asteroid is. Hamilton told us that his so-called Asteroid USA would send a message from space. That has not happened. He is tightly holding all information about that asteroid. Second, it’s possible to change an asteroid’s orbit, and if you change it in a reckless way—which many scientists believe SpaceMine is doing—you can put the Earth in danger. My murdered friend Cole Perenchio, a genius about gravity, using calculations gathered by NASA, calculated that the new orbit planned for Asteroid USA puts it on a collision course with Earth in 2035.”
“Okay. Assuming what you’re telling me is scientifically sound, what can we do about it? Blow it up with a nuclear bomb?”
“No, Mr. President. All a bomb would do is create big chucks of rock that would hit the Earth in several places. I have a friend, a former astronaut, who put it this way: ‘If you have a big rock on a hill above your house, you don’t want to blow it up and just hope that one of the pieces doesn’t hit you.’”
“So what do we do?” Oxley asked, showing more interest.
“The best idea, I think, is to use a spacecraft to nudge the asteroid off its collision course.”
“And then what will happen?” Oxley asked. “Suppose it goes off on another orbit that’s just as dangerous?”
“Good question, Mr. President. It would depend upon where the nudge were applied. If it were heading say, for the northern Atlantic, and the nudge struck the asteroid one way, it would move across the UK, northern Europe, and Russia and if it were hit another way, its pass would go across the United States and Canada.”
“And suppose things didn’t happen exactly the way the nudgers hoped
?”
“Then some place on Earth would be hit,” Taylor said.
“And somebody would be blamed.”
“That’s exactly it,” Falcone blurted and getting a nod from Taylor. “We need global cooperation to save the Earth—and to accept responsibility on a global level. If something goes wrong, it would not be because one nation did something wrong.”
“You’re back to the UN space treaty,” the President said, shaking his head wearily. He looked toward Taylor. “And you’re talking about something that’s going to face world leaders decades from now. You’re both taking me down roads that haven’t even been made yet, roads that cost a lot of money.”
“Defense of the Earth is a good investment,” Taylor said. “To build and launch an infrared, asteroid-hunting telescope would cost about three percent of NASA’s budget.”
“Is any of this in that documentary you made? What’s its name?” Oxley asked.
“‘An Asteroid Closely Watched,’ Mr. President.”
“Please send me a CD of it, if that’s possible,” Oxley said to Taylor. “I’d very much like to see it.” Then, turning to Falcone, he added, “Get me a memo, through Betty per usual, about how and why PBS didn’t broadcast the show. After I see it I may try to see if those PBS folks will change their minds.”
Oxley stood, signaling the lunch was over and bringing the others to their feet. He shook hands with both and said to Taylor, “Thanks for the eye-opener, Ben. I’ll be thinking about asteroids and what we might be doing down the road.”
“There’s something that you can do right away,” Falcone said. “You can talk to President Lebed about Kuri Basayev.” At the mention of the name, Oxley and Falcone exchanged swift, furtive glances.
“About who?” Oxley asked, as if he had not heard the name before.
“Basayev is the silent partner in SpaceMine,” Taylor said. “He made the arrangements for launching the SpaceMine spacecraft from Russia.”
“And what could I tell President Lebed to do about Basayev, Sean?” Oxley asked, a glint in his eyes.
Falcone turned to Taylor. “Tell the President about Ivan’s Hammer,” Falcone said.
“It’s pretty wild,” Taylor said. “But Carl Sagan thought it was feasible. He wrote that in the nineteen-eighties the Soviet Union might use man-directed small asteroids as first-strike weapons. The Soviet plan, he said, was called Ivan’s Hammer. RAND made a study of it for the U.S. government.”
The President looked surprised, then frowned.
“Maybe Ivan’s Hammer is reason enough to suggest that Lebed make sure Basayev doesn’t get access to Russian space resources anymore,” Falcone said. “It makes him a dangerous man. And you could get Lebed to join you in developing a United Nations system for defense of the Earth. It could make the two of you visionaries, maybe Nobel candidates.”
“I’ll be seeing Lebed at the G-20 Summit next week in Istanbul,” Oxley said. “The Russians haven’t been kicked out of the G-20 yet. Basayev might turn into an interesting topic, Sean. A very interesting topic.”
*
President Oxley left the small room and entered the Oval Office. A moment later Ray Quinlan entered, his face red and tight with rage.
“What the hell was that about—” Quinlan asked, pausing a moment before sullenly adding, “Mr. President?”
“I wanted to have a private lunch to catch up with Falcone and Dr. Taylor to discuss some space issues,” Oxley answered.
“It was not on your calendar.” Again a pause before “Mr. President.”
By now Oxley was seated behind the majesty of his desk. “You know, Ray,” he said softly, “lately you’ve been wearing my stars, strutting around like a little ‘Mr. President.’ I’d like you to stop that.”
Ray, his face still contorted, his breathing heavy, “Better still, Mr. President, maybe I should resign.”
Oxley picked up a pen and held it as if he were about to hand it to Quinlan. Then he put it down and said, “I think you had better think about it overnight, Ray.”
72
Under the six minarets of Istanbul’s Blue Mosque, while craning his neck to look at thousands of coolly beautiful blue tiles, President Oxley was asked by the Turkish prime minister if there was any other treasure he would like to visit. Oxley said he wanted to walk in Mihrabat Grove, a hillside park with a spectacular view of the city.
A few hours later, while Oxley was in a heavily guarded villa being briefed on the G-20 summit’s upcoming schedule, Russian president Boris Lebed was being shown the Blue Mosque. When he was asked the same question, he gave the same answer. The prime minister nodded; he had done his work for this particular little diplomatic matter.
In a few days of cables and phone calls, the U.S. ambassador to Moscow, the Russian ambassador to Washington, and the Turkish ambassadors to both countries had all worked together to make sure that the two presidents would be able to have a private, face-to-face meeting while they were in Istanbul for the G-20 summit. The annual meeting of the finance ministers and central bank governors of the world’s twenty leading economies also drew many of the world’s leaders.
The plan begun by Oxley put him and Lebed in Mihrabat Grove the day before the summit began. Protected by the U.S. Secret Service, Russia’s Federal Security Service, Turkey’s National Intelligence Organization, and the Turkish First Commando Brigade, the two presidents found themselves sitting at a table set on a park ridge that overlooked the city, glasses of tea in front of them.
They had met once before, at the annual opening session of the UN General Assembly, but they had not had much of a chance to talk. The U.S. was on a Cold War footing with Russia, after Vladimir Putin had conspired to grab Crimea from Ukraine and prevent Ukraine from ever considering a dalliance with the European Union or NATO. Neither man wanted to risk a political backlash by seeming to dine with their respective devils. From then on, they had kept up by following intelligence reports on each other.
“I’m told,” Lebed said, “that this was your this idea of our speaking man-to-man. I agreed. Good idea.” His English had a slightly rough edge, which Russians never seemed to be able to lose.
“Somebody had to,” Oxley said, adding. “How sure are you that this table isn’t bugged?”
“Perhaps by NATO? By the Turks? By NSA? By us? I’m not sure at all,” Lebed replied. “You?”
“I have given orders that we are not to be bugged.”
“And you know that the NSA will obey?”
“Well, of course I hope so. But I do believe that if we walk about thirty feet—ten meters—from this table to an empty piece of lawn we can at least be sure we are not near any object that could have a bug.”
“Very well,” Lebed said, gulping down his tea. “What is it you wish to talk about?”
Oxley, who had only sipped at his tea, followed Lebed down a path that ran across the park hill and did not speak until he felt safely unobserved and unheard. They stood next to each other, their shoes sinking slightly into the freshly cut, freshly watered lawn.
“You seem very conscious of surveillance,” Lebed said.
“Aren’t we all?”
“You wish to talk about Basayev.”
“Good guess.”
“Not a guess,” Lebed said, laughing. “You have to be careful of those balls lying around in the rough at the Army Navy Club.”
“I’ll be goddamned!” Oxley exclaimed. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll be more careful. I guess you realize I’ll have to ask for some better sweeping. But thanks.”
“You are welcome. Call it a goodwill gesture.”
“I’m surprised that you feel any goodwill. You must have got an immediate report on what Falcone and I discussed about Basayev.”
“It’s all bullshit,” Lebed said. “Kuri Basayev would never be turned.”
“Actually, it’s a lot more sweet-smelling,” Oxley laughed. “Our boys got a lot out of your friend. Such as what military equipment and advice Russia has bee
n giving Iran’s Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps. He’s been singing like Pavarotti.”
“Impossible!” Lebed shouted, all semblance of calm leaving him in an instant.
“I have a report that contains transcripts of his conversations with his CIA handler,” Oxley said, reaching into the inside pocket of his suit coat, taking out a thick envelope, and handing it to Lebed.
Lebed held the envelope in his right hand, striking it against his left for a few moments before he pocketed it and said, “There have been suspicions. Certain ports where his yacht docks, the same man boarding the yacht, staying only a few moments, not looking like a guest. One of my officers insisted that the visitor was CIA. I could not believe it. I was against putting him under deep surveillance. But there is a counterintelligence operation going on. When I got a report on your golf talk, I started thinking, started believing…” He pocketed the envelope and patted the pocket. “If this holds up under examination…”
“This is real, Boris, I assure you.”
“That motherfucker!” Lebed muttered.
“Not quite,” Oxley said. “He likes young men. Our folks caught him in a gay bar in Hong Kong. That’s how the turning started. The photos are … well … interesting.… And given how your fellow Russians feel about such matters. They don’t have the benefit of a London education and enlightenment.…”
Lebed quickly regained his self-control. “So,” he said with a smile. “Maybe I dangled him to see if you would bite and then I used him to feed you shit for information.”
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Boris. We know what he is, and if we don’t make this deal, the Russian people are going to find out about him—and start asking questions about why you have such a man so close to you.…”
Lebed looked away and did not respond.
“What you do about him is your business,” Oxley continued. “But we don’t want him involved in what we feel is a potential danger to our national security.”
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