Final Strike--A Sean Falcone Novel

by William S. Cohen

  Drexler turned back to the others and continued: “Okay. Let’s reassemble at the skiff in an hour and go over details. We’ll have walk-through rehearsals with Sean tomorrow, starting at o-eight-hundred. Any questions?”

  “No, sir,” Ivanisov said. “Sounds like a piece of cake.”

  That was the chronic GSS joke line. Everyone but Falcone laughed.

  * * *

  On the way back to the house, Falcone said to Drexler, “I’ll need their passports to get the visas. Russian visas are very detailed. And what about the TSA? I assume that sometimes these guys travel under aliases.”

  “We don’t talk about that,” Drexler answered, slowing his pace. “All I can tell you is that usually—not always—they use their real passports. But information about destination, flights, and passport numbers don’t show up in TSA databases.”

  “Why not?” Falcone asked.

  “Because we don’t trust the fuckin’ Transportation Security Administration and its whacky No-Fly List,” Drexler answered. “We’ve had our people slowed down by bullshit at the gate, questioned by the FBI, threatened with arrest. And some of our people travel with weapons. They have to. So we managed to make some arrangements at a higher level.”

  “I just got another suspicion about your being a so-called private citizen,” Falcone quipped.

  Drexler smiled, but did not respond.

  “Okay,” Falcone said resignedly. “No sense going into that.”

  “You’re right,” Drexler said, stopping for a moment, looking as if he were about to speak. But he remained silent.

  29

  In the crowded skiff, Drexler spun the dial on the combination metal cabinet, took out a wooden box, opened it, and selected four passports. He returned the box to the cabinet, closed it, and spun the dial again.

  Handing the passports to Falcone, he said, “The cover is they’re your associates, from Sullivan and Ford offices in other places. We’ll arrange for the team to fly to Moscow from different U.S. airports—Boston for Gregor, New York for Jack, Los Angeles for Bobby Joe, Chicago for Harry. You can use a stopover in Frankfurt to go over last-minute details of the snatch. You won’t be able to have secure conversations once you hit Russian soil. Not that anyone checking passports here or in Moscow is going to be looking for job information. But it’s better for your cover if you think of yourselves as lawyers, hard as that may be.”

  “A lot of personal information has to go on the visas,” Falcone said. “I’ll need that to get the visas.”

  “Right,” Drexler said. “And Russian visas are damn tough visas.”

  “It’s complicated. Even the best visa service takes a lot of time,” Falcone said.

  “You’ve got a lot of time,” Drexler said, with a hint of a growl. “The conference opens in ten days.”

  “Ten days? For getting a Russian visa, that’s practically overnight,” Falcone said. “You know how complicated it is. Besides, certainly Gregor is known from previous jobs.”

  “Last time we had other names,” Gregor said. “We didn’t use our real passports. I had a beard. And some money passed hands at Sheremetyevo.” He laughed and added, “Don’t worry about us getting into Russia.”

  “Are these names real?” Falcone asked, holding up one of the passports. Gregor and the other three men all smiled.

  “We all have lots of names,” Drexler told Falcone. “These are real.”

  Drexler focused on the three other men. “Remember,” he said. “We’re not just getting out a drunk CEO who roughed up a whore. We’ve never done an extraction op this tough. Hamilton doesn’t want to leave, and it looks like Lebed wants to keep him, like Snowden. It’s a real rendition. Also, real names mean these guys are blown for any future ops in Russia.”

  Falcone looked up after closely examining the passports and said, “I worry about the visas. I’m sure you’ve used fake visas before. Why do you need new ones for this op?”

  “All I can tell you, Sean, is that we cannot have any connection with Langley.”

  “So I have to get real visas? With all those damn questions on the visa applications? I’m chief executive partner at Sullivan and Ford. The firm’s name will go on those applications. There’ll be a paper trail.”

  Drexler thought for a moment and said, “Let’s table the visa issue for a while.”

  He handed out floor plans of the Hotel Baltschug Kempinski’s executive suite and said, “We just got these from Domino. As you can see, there are four rooms, two really big, around nine hundred square feet. He could be anywhere when we start the op. And there could be a Russian security goon nearby. Domino’s working on that. We’ll walk through the op tomorrow. See you at the stable. O-eight-hundred.”

  As everyone began filing out of the skiff, Drexler tapped Falcone on the shoulder and said, “Let’s talk for a minute.” He closed the door behind the others and sat down next to Falcone.

  “I can see why you’re going to need deniability,” Drexler said. “White House deniability.”

  “It looks to me that Carlton gave you a pretty thorough briefing. To say I’m surprised is putting it mildly.”

  “I can hear your resentment, Sean. In fact, he told me Hamilton had to get out as a matter of national security. And he did give me the distinct impression that if the extraction goes public, you’d be the fall guy.”

  “That’s not a surprise. It’s the way he set it up, and I bought it. That’s the reason I’m here, talking to a retired general who is a ‘private citizen’ running an outfit that has amazing connections to the dark side of the U.S. government.”

  “GSS is as far as private can go on the black ops spectrum, Sean. After us comes the CIA. You know damn well that Sam Stone would love a chance to kick Lebed in the balls. But then goodbye deniability. And hello Iran-Contra.”

  “And hello impeachment, Drex. Reagan wasn’t hit, but with this Congress Oxley doesn’t stand a chance. They’d nail him.”

  “World of difference from Iran-Contra in this op,” Drexler said. “You know that better than anybody. We’re not diverting funds for a covert operation to destabilize another government. We’re simply trying to extract an American citizen out of the claws of the Russian Bear.”

  “And if this goes south?”

  “You know the drill, Sean. ‘We had no knowledge.…’”

  “Sure,” Falcone said. “‘President totally blindsided by a rogue operation conducted by an adviser he had to let go because he started getting wacky. A long-delayed PTSD case from his experience in combat and as a POW during the Vietnam War. Manchurian Candidate.…’”

  “Not bad, Sean. You’ve got your own insanity plea. But seriously, why the hell is this going on? Why is this so damn important? What the hell is this? Snatching Snowden I can understand. But Hamilton? Why?”

  “All I can tell you, Drex, is that it has to be done.”

  “Okay. So do it. Figure a way to get those visas.”

  30

  Dinner for Drexler, Annie, and Falcone was in a restored eighteenth-century dining room, softly lit by bulbs shaped to look like candles in a chandelier and wall sconces. The wine was Madeira—“Washington’s favorite,” Drexler said, smiling proudly. And, just as proudly, he said “Williamsburg caterer” when a woman in black blouse and slacks appeared with platters of roast beef, hominy, and mashed potatoes. Plates of mince tarts followed. Drexler himself served what he called small beer brewed according to a George Washington recipe.

  Pointing to the wallpaper painting of palm trees and peaceful Indians, Annie began talking about the restoration. “They really loved looking at scenic views while they ate,” she said. “This wallpaper is copied from what Thomas Jefferson used in Monticello.”

  As soon as Annie concluded her architectural and décor lectures, Drexler began his view of the Battle of Williamsburg, the first firefight of the Peninsula campaign. Falcone looked intent but thoughts of Moscow crowded out the Civil War.…

  “… Longstreet threatened
the Yankees’ left flank until Kearny’s division arrived and…” As soon as the battle ended, Annie slipped away.

  Drexler poured glasses of whiskey “made and casked at Washington’s restored distillery at Mount Vernon.” Then he opened a leather-covered humidor bearing the winged-sword emblem of the Air Force Special Operations Command, and extracted two Cohiba Cuban cigars. After lighting them, Drexler raised his glass and said, “To success.” Instead of a toast, Falcone, with Iran-Contra on his mind, asked Drexler, “Which U.S. President toasted ‘the people of Bolivia’ at a White House dinner honoring the president of Brazil?”

  “Carter,” Drexler said.

  “Nope. Reagan,” Falcone said, raising his glass. “Here’s to secret success.” With those words he excused himself with a forced smile.

  He had barely managed to get through the dinner because he’d understood immediately that any talk about the op was forbidden. Jesus! Drexler has put me in a time machine! All he had on his mind, and wanted to—needed to—talk about was getting Hamilton out of Moscow.

  He went up to his room, got his jacket, and headed for the front door. Outside, he found himself drawn toward the stable. Glad to see a light, he hurried toward it.

  He found Gregor Ivanisov at a speed bag, his fists a blur as he rhythmically and rapidly punched away. Falcone, who no longer worked out on a speed bag, admired Ivanisov’s style but remained silent, realizing Ivanisov was on a roll. When he stopped, he looked toward Falcone and smiled. In swift, smooth motions he peeled off his weighted gloves, grabbed a towel, wiped off the sweat, and fished in a cooler for two water bottles. He tossed one to Falcone and nodded toward a bench.

  “Nice rhythm,” Falcone said. “And you always hit with your knuckles.”

  “Yeah. If you hit with the back or side of your hand, that’s what your movement memory remembers. And that could mean that’s what you subconsciously do when, all of a sudden, you want to throw a real punch.”

  “Ever in the ring?”

  “Just in the Marines. Battalion middleweight champion.”

  “How’d you get from Marines to GSS?”

  “I was a Marine sniper attached to SEAL Team Five. Four years of hairy times. I burned out. Then a couple years at Cornell. I was getting fat and lazy. I heard about GSS and signed up. They liked that I speak Russian. My father and mother left for America when I was five, part of the Jewish exodus. I’ve been to a few places. Got some action. Between you and me, this is my last job.”

  “And what’s around the corner for you?”

  “Back to Cornell. Marry my girlfriend. Get a job, maybe on Wall Street.”

  “Any particular reason for leaving GSS?”

  “Not really. You know, in the SEALs there was always something behind the mission, something that your country wanted you to do.”

  “If it will make you feel any better about it, there is a good reason—a very important reason—to get Hamilton out of Russia. Some day you’ll find out why. And you’ll be glad you helped get that son of a bitch onto U.S. soil.”

  “You sure sound like you think it will work.”

  “I do. And you?”

  “Probability. I give it fair probability.”

  “Probability? Doesn’t sound like you really think the plan will work.”

  “I know Russia. I know Russians. They—at least the kind of Russian working in a fancy hotel—don’t want trouble. But there is something else, something outside the plan.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Look. I know who you are, what your job was. This is big. Has to be.”

  “Okay. Suppose it is.”

  “The other Russians, the ones who get paid to get Lebed what he wants. If those guys nail us…” Ivanisov’s voice trailed off.

  “They won’t,” Falcone said as confidently as he could.

  “If they do,” Ivanisov continued, “we’ll never see America again. Well, maybe you will, after a while. You have connections. But us? The smash-and-grab guys? We’ll be lucky to be alive. And me? To those bastards, a Russian is always a Russian. They’ll treat me like a traitor. A bullet to the back of the head.”

  “Maybe you should back out. Right now.”

  “Hell no, Sean! No. No. I can’t do that. Never. Semper Fi! But when this op is wrapped up, I’ll be out of this business.”

  “Call when you start back to the real world. I mean it.”

  “Yeah. Thanks. I will,” Ivanisov said. “Good night.”

  He went off toward the overnight rooms, and Falcone, feeling lighter, decided to sprint back to the house.

  * * *

  Falcone stood by the window in the little room. The fog was rolling in from the river, blurring the moon and shutting the old house off from time. His mind drifted from thoughts of Washington and Moscow … to Kipling. He had seen the name on the spines of those books in the library, but this was coming from deeper memories.

  He went to bed, and as he struggled to find ever-evasive sleep, he was remembering his father’s lined composition book, passed out to night school students learning English. His father was the son of an Italian immigrant who married the daughter of a second-generation Irish immigrant. In that night school class he wrote down words and phrases he wanted to learn by heart and, later, wanted his son to learn. Falcone cherished the composition book. And now, in this room that George Washington had slept in—How my father would have loved that!—he searched his memory for words in the composition book, words from Kipling. He couldn’t remember some of the words; it was something about trying to be your own man. But he remembered the heart of the quote, word-for-word: “No price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself.”

  He finally found sleep.

  PART TWO

  Out here between a million moons and sanded spheres

  of layered rock and molten cores, I race through

  the darkness of interstellar space, determined to steer

  a course beyond the sultry lure of gravity.

  In lonely epicycles I cruise anonymously

  through neighborhoods where families struggle

  in war and peace; a wanderer amid

  whorls of violence, solar winds and energy.

  It’s no place for aliens or their scouts

  that scan the void with eyes that never blink;

  for voyeurs that look with lust at our anatomy,

  to take the measure of our girth and density.

  Still they come, first in wonder, then I think, to plunder.

  31

  When Falcone arrived at the stable the next morning, a CLOSED sign hung on the door. Ivanisov answered Falcone’s knock and led him to a corner of the gym. Ivanisov and Drexler had laid out a real-life version of the Hamilton suite’s floor plan with strips of black tape. On a table was a large monitor showing a slide show of images on the Hotel Baltschug Kempinski website—the grand old hotel glowing at night, a view of the Kremlin across the river, the gym, the spa, the marble-floored lobby, the guest rooms with gold damask drapes, and, room by room, the executive suite where Hamilton lived.

  Exactly at 8:00 a.m., Falcone heard the door open. Beckley, Reilly, and Pickens walked in. Falcone noticed that Reilly pocketed a key and surmised that in the team’s unacknowledged pecking order Ivanisov was number one and Reilly number two.

  “Good sleep, Sean?” Drexler asked.

  “George couldn’t have wanted better,” Falcone answered.

  “Coffee?”

  Falcone nodded and followed Drexler to the office stall. There was a coffeemaker and a bowl of muffins. “Annie’s,” Drexler said, handing the bowl to Falcone. “You should watch the walk-through of the op. But when the real thing happens, you won’t be seeing the action. You’ll be in another room one floor down, near the elevator.” He took an envelope out of his back pocket and, seeing Falcone’s hands were occupied, put the plain white envelope on the table.

  Falcone put down the coffee, picked up the envelope and put it in his jacket pocket. />
  “What you need to know is all written down,” Drexler said. “Read it in the vehicle that will be taking you out of here. Read it as many times as you need to remember everything. Then put it through the shredder that’ll be in the lockbox on the floor next to your feet. There’s a key in it. After you shred and lock the box, give the key to the driver.”

  “Okay. But if I have questions—”

  “You won’t,” Drexler said.

  “So I don’t come back here after today?” Falcone asked.

  “Right,” Drexler replied. “You’ll see the walk-through here a couple of times and then you’ll be driven back home. Then all you need to do is get those visas.”

  “That’s all. Piece of cake, right?”

  “Right,” Drexler replied with a hint of a smile. “I’m assuming you’ll get them by the day after tomorrow. If you can’t get them … if you find it’s impossible, call me immediately. The clock is already clicking. Domino is already on the job. There’s no turning back.”

  “Right,” Falcone responded.

  “Okay. When you get them, call me—remember, you’re Chamberlain. Always use that code name. When you get the visas, I’ll arrange for the flights to Moscow for you and the team. I work with a friendly—and very reliable—travel agent. One of my boys will pick up the passports and visas from you. I’ll handle delivery of them and the plane tickets. Yours will be Dulles-Frankfurt-Moscow.”

  “I prefer a direct flight,” Falcone said.

  “You and Gregor will have flights with two-hour Frankfurt layovers that are about half an hour apart. In Frankfurt you and Gregor will be directed to a private meeting room in the VIP lounge.”

  “Why is that necessary?” Falcone asked.

  “A last-minute meet,” Drexler replied. “There may be a need for some adjustments in the op, or a Plan B, or an abort. Also, it’s a place I can reach you in case anything critical comes in from Domino at the last minute.”

  “And how do we find Domino in Moscow?”

  “Don’t worry,” Drexler said reassuringly. “Domino will find you. Let’s go back and watch the run-through.”