Final Strike--A Sean Falcone Novel

by William S. Cohen

  “For the record, Colonel,” Galafano said stiffly, “I am carrying out the orders of the President, who was reacting to a specific message from General Dafoe asking for a National Command Authority response.”

  “Another way to put it,” Falcone said, “is this: Your general’s absence will be noted by his commander-in-chief, particularly when the general’s name comes up for a third star.”

  Young, eyes forward, did not react. As Falcone followed Young to a van, he noted a group of naval officers waiting to board a nearby Navy aircraft. The gold oak leaf insignias on their sleeve stripes showed that the departing officers belonged to the Navy Medical Corps. Falcone wondered if that meant another hunger strike had ended.

  75

  The van stopped at the base’s main gate, and each person was asked for identification, which was checked against a list on a Marine’s clipboard. Christakos, a crusader against unwarranted collection of personal data, handed over a business card, which a guard gruffly turned down. Too polite to trouble the others, Christakos pulled his driver’s license from his wallet with a flourish and the van passed through the maze of fencing.

  The van turned onto a two-lane paved road to another checkpoint, then drove on, paralleling the razor-wire-topped fence that enclosed the Detention Center Zone and its clusters of low buildings. After about two miles on the highway, the van turned off the highway onto a dirt road for a few hundred yards, finally pulling up to one of several yellow-brick cottages.

  On the cement patio, in a green plastic chair, sat a barefooted man in khaki shorts and a white T-shirt. When the van door slid open, he removed a cigar from his mouth, stood, and said, “I’m Dr. Ishmael Korbin. Welcome to Penny Lane.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Young, the first to emerge, nodded to Korbin and turned to the three other passengers who followed him out. “Mr. Hamilton,” he said, “is inside. I am assuming that your … business here will take about an hour. I will return at that time, Major, to take your … party … back to the air station.”

  “Perhaps your general will be there to see us off,” Falcone said.

  “Perhaps,” Young said, getting into the van, which turned around and started down the road.

  “Penny Lane?” Christakos asked.

  “An odd little CIA gag,” Korbin said, advancing to shake hands. “You are Sean Falcone. I’ve seen photos of you.” In Mossad files, Falcone thought.

  “And Akis Christakos, I assume,” Korbin continued. “From what your General Carlton has told me, you two have your own legal business with Mr. Hamilton.” After Galafano introduced himself, Korbin snuffed out his cigar in an ashtray on an arm of the chair and said, “Well, now, shall we all go in?”

  They entered a small foyer that opened to a set of stairs and to doors on the left and right. Falcone noted that the stout wooden doors with Yale locks had been fitted into what originally had been open doorways. He imagined Navy Seabees rushing here to install the doors and CIA specialists setting up hidden surveillance systems. He wondered if they were still in place.

  The three men followed Korbin into the room to the right. Along one wall sat a worn brown corduroy couch with a spindly table at each end. In the center of the room were four wooden chairs at a long table. Falcone and Christakos chose the couch, Galafano one of the chairs. While waiting for Korbin to return, Falcone explained the “Penny Lane” reference to Christakos, whose response was, “Oh, so clever.”

  Korbin had gone through a doorway to what looked like a vintage kitchen. He quickly returned with a tray carrying a pitcher and glasses. “Strongest drink we have here,” he said, beginning to dole out lemonade. He took a seat at the long table and beckoned Falcone and Christakos from the couch. “Well, should we get started?”

  * * *

  All that Falcone knew about Ishmael Korbin came from a two-page profile that Galafano had handed him on the plane. When Falcone asked about the source of the profile, Galafano told him about Oxley’s puzzling order—“Bring back the shrink, too.” Galafano said he had decided to use his status as a Marine officer on a presidential mission to get some CIA information on Korbin. “It’s amazing what you can get using the President’s name,” Galafano had said, and Falcone remembered another Marine officer’s similar discovery, which led to the Iran-Contra scandal.

  After reading the profile, Falcone found it was hard to decide whether Ishmael Korbin was a rabbinical scholar or professional interrogator, perhaps because he was both.

  He was born in Kibbutz Amir in northern Israel, the only son of Yehuda and Rebecca Korbin, survivors of the Holocaust. At an early age, he not only mastered the Torah but also began dabbling with what he believed to be a biblical code that unlocked the secrets of the universe. While he earned the praise of his parents for his devotion to religious studies, they also saw in him an unusual talent. He seemed able to look behind the masks that people wore for others and see their strengths and vulnerabilities.

  Brainwashing and distant mind-control fascinated him, and he frequently tried to hypnotize his playmates. His favorite bar mitzvah gift had been a package containing the book and DVD versions of The Manchurian Candidate.

  Like most able-bodied Israelis, Korbin was obliged to serve for three years in the IDF, the Israeli Defense Force. During most of his service he was in combat, against Hezbollah in Lebanon and in clashes with the Palestine Liberation Front. Because he spoke Arabic and had a gift for extracting useful information speedily and without torture, he often was called upon to interrogate prisoners. Mossad officers marked him for future recruitment.

  After his military service, Korbin went to America and entered Brandeis University. After graduating summa cum laude, he went on to Columbia for a doctorate in psychiatry. His thesis, based on his own youthful obsession, assessed the persistent belief in biblical codes.

  Soon after his return to Israel, he was asked to examine a Mossad officer, who was accused of spying for Iran. The man claimed he desperately needed money for treatment of a daughter addicted to heroin. Korbin questioned him sympathetically, promised to get the daughter into a treatment center, and in two hours had a confession. Korbin did as he promised, because he believed honesty could be a valuable tool in the deceptive world of espionage. He became the service’s prime interrogator.

  Falcone was especially taken by the profile’s analysis of his attitude toward torture:

  He despises torture on a practical basis because he believes that brute force does not produce reliable information. He does not profess to read minds, but, as he said in a lecture to Mossad officers, “I believe I have the ability to visualize the hidden currents that run through the dark interiors that others cannot see.” As an example, he told of successfully getting valuable information from a Hezbollah assassin “by simply empathizing with the subject’s sense of loss, rather than by a sense of vengeance. This was manifested in his memory by the smell of cedar trees that Israelis had uprooted on his father’s land. He began answering my questions, and I saw that, subconsciously, he had associated the wrongness of the trees’ death with the wrongness of Israeli deaths.”

  76

  Korbin presided over the table, dark-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose, hands constantly in motion, head pivoting from Falcone to Christakos. He smiled at Galafano occasionally but saw no reason to speak directly to him. He had a slight, elusive accent that came and went, acting as a kind of accelerator as his words rose and fell.

  “I’m afraid that I’m responsible for your being here,” he began, addressing Falcone. “As you know, I had been called by your General Carlton to interrogate a certain Pakistan man on a very serious matter. Because of what many people might call coincidence, I was here with the Pakistan subject when the rendition—I love that euphemism—began. General Carlton asked me to stay and I, of course, agreed.”

  Korbin paused and Falcone sprung into the gap: “Two questions, Doctor. Is Mr. Hamilton here in this house? Is he cooperating?”

  “Yes and yes. I know you both a
re anxious to see him. And he is certainly anxious to see you, especially Mr. Christakos. But before you meet with him, he agreed that I would first give you a briefing. First, remember, this was a man who believed he was being accused of involvement in the murders of four Americans. He also—”

  “Hold on, Dr. Korbin,” Christakos said. “My client is nothing more than a quote ‘person of interest’ unquote, so labeled by the FBI. I would like—”

  “One interruption deserves another,” Korbin parried. “I said he believed he was actually accused. Whether he was or not accused is of no importance, Mr. Christakos. What is important—as told me by General Carlton—is that Mr. Hamilton holds a secret that can possibly destroy the Earth. Now, going on.…

  “When I first met Mr. Hamilton, he was amazingly calm, considering what he had just gone through. I soon learned why he was so eerily tranquil: He had a growing obsession that he is an instrument of God, called upon to bring on what he called The End Times. He had a Bible he had found in the cottage. Lots of slips of paper were sticking out of it. He quoted many passages. His favorite was from the Book of Joel: quote, ‘the day of the Lord is near in the valley of decision,’ unquote.

  “Joel also has God say, quote, ‘I will gather all the nations and bring them down to the Valley of Jehoshaphat,’ unquote. In modern times, that’s the name given to the valley between Jerusalem and the Mount of Olives—sort of between a sacred place for Jews and Muslims and a sacred place for Christians, the place where Jesus forecasts The End Times, saying, quote, ‘there will not be left one stone upon another that will not be thrown down,’ unquote.

  “Joel—a minor prophet, according to most biblical scholars—says that when he gets everybody to Jehoshaphat, quote, ‘I will enter into judgment with them there, on behalf of my people and my heritage Israel,’ unquote.”

  “Israel keeps popping up,” Falcone said irritably.

  “You’re right. In his mind the biblical Israel and modern Israel are one and the same—a frequent convergence belief of fundamentalist Christians. But in his case it is so deep-seated that it becomes reality. He is mentally ill. The broad label for this illness is narcissistic personality disorder. Picture a personality split down the middle. Part of his ego is a billionaire’s feelings of superiority and entitlement, and part of his ego is his obsession about helping God end the world.”

  “I seem to have only seen his billionaire side,” Christakos said dryly.

  “That may be because, with you, he chose to be in the real world we see and live in. I have no doubt that there is a deeper world that he sometimes lives in. The then-and-now Israel is part of his belief system. When I realized his interest in Israel, I told him a little about my background.”

  “Namely that you are both a psychiatrist and a biblical scholar?” Falcone asked.

  “I see you have been doing your homework. Yes, I mentioned my interest in the Bible, and he told me he believes that God has placed the fate of the Earth in his hands. And he believes the ‘decision’ mentioned in Joel is a forecast of Hamilton’s decision about what he does with the asteroid.”

  “Well, wouldn’t that mean he would not give accurate information about the location of Asteroid USA?” Christakos asked.

  “Good question,” Korbin responded. “Early in our conversation—I never use the word interrogation—he told me he believed that by withholding information about the location of Asteroid USA he was carrying out the will of God. That’s a very big idea to dislodge from a person’s mind.”

  Korbin paused for a sip of lemonade, and Falcone again leaped in, saying, “Have you dislodged that idea, Doctor?”

  “I don’t think so. He has the notion that he is an instrument of God, who, for some reason, wants to destroy the world.”

  A memory flashed through Falcone’s mind: Carlton had told him about a CIA profile of Hamilton that had contained an odd note: A source, remarking on Hamilton’s demeanor, said he had evil eyes. The source, Carlton had said, was a Russian bishop who compared Hamilton’s eyes to those of a man he had walked to his execution—a serial killer.

  Christakos raised his hand and asked, “And so, Doctor, you have not achieved your goal?”

  “You’re obviously—but obliquely—questioning my methodology,” Korbin said, smiling for the first time. “But, in fact, for some people, coincidence—synchronicity, if you will—is a significant psychic element. With Hamilton, for instance, there was his father lost at sea and a business associate lost at sea on a ship that Hamilton was to have boarded. Incidentally, he thought your name was one of the coincidences—a sign of Christ’s blessing.”

  “I’m touched,” Christakos said sarcastically.

  “And you seem full of questions,” Korbin said. “For the record, Mr. Christakos—and for your peace of mind—I had been provided with information that the Mossad and the CIA have developed, undoubtedly by secretly copying records of Hamilton’s psychiatrist. I must say the information was helpful. But I cannot, of course, share it with you. What I can say is that Mr. Hamilton had a difficult childhood and overcame many obstacles to become what he is today.”

  “A self-described self-made man,” Christakos said. “I’ve met a lot of them.”

  Korbin, ignoring Christakos, continued, “I concluded my conversations by urging him to accept his role as a savior of the Earth, not as an executioner. I believe I successfully persuaded him that God does not want the planet destroyed but wants it saved and wants him to be the savior. As a Christian, that word—savior—has deep meaning for him. He is in the other room, waiting to talk to you both. In his mind—indeed, in his soul—he believes that dealing with the fate of the Earth is why he is here.”

  “My relationship with Mr. Hamilton does not involve his psyche,” Christakos said coolly. “I am simply a lawyer who wants to get him out of the clutches of the FBI.”

  “I told him you were coming today. He is eager to talk to you both,” Korbin said.

  “You clearly have the right to be the first to talk to him, Counselor,” Falcone said, turning to Christakos. “Godspeed.”

  77

  Christakos, smiling, waved a goodbye and headed for the other room, which was a near-duplicate of the first room, complete to a copy of an amateurish seascape hanging over the couch. “Thank you for coming all the way down here, Mr. Christakos,” Hamilton said as Christakos entered the room. He sat in the middle of the couch, which was not quite as shabby as the one in the first room. He wore the products of an escorted visit to the base commissary: khaki slacks, canvas-topped sneakers, and a white shirt, open at the neck and sleeves rolled up. He looked like a man who was taking some time off in a tropical hideaway—except that he held a Bible, festooned with yellow slips.

  Christakos pulled up a chair and put down his attaché case. “Very glad to see you again, Mr. Hamilton,” he said. “I’m sorry you had to go through such a … challenging trip.”

  “The trip? Life is a trip, Mr. Christakos,” Hamilton said in a soft voice. “And our meeting here, rather than at any other place, was destined.” He put down the Bible, picked up a yellow pad and scrawled a few words.

  “Yes. I’m glad you feel that way,” Christakos said, stifling his surprise at Hamilton’s tranquility. “Now, going back to our meeting with Agent Sarsfield at FBI headquarters, what was true then is also true now: Neither Sarsfield nor anyone else in the FBI has a shred of evidence against you. It may be possible for the FBI to claim that you withheld evidence, and—”

  “Nonsense,” Hamilton said, suddenly looking and sounding indignant. “I merely deleted a file on a laptop owned by my firm. If that is a crime…”

  “Considering that the previous tenant of this cottage was the CIA, Mr. Hamilton, I urge you to be cautious about what you say.”

  “Oh, that ‘Penny Lane’ business,” Hamilton said with a dismissing wave. “You believe the place is bugged?”

  “Nothing wrong with being prudent.”

  “Glad to be dealing with a prude
nt man,” Hamilton said, smiling.

  Christakos continued to be amazed at Hamilton’s serene air. He wondered whether Korbin had so manipulated Hamilton that he was basking in his link with divinity. But, Christakos also wondered, without daring to ask the question: Does he believe he is carrying God’s plan by saving the Earth or by destroying it?

  Christakos took a folder from his attaché case, scanned it, and said, “Your very capable chief operations officer told me that you wanted all charges dropped and a presidential grant of immunity.”

  “That’s right.”

  “First of all, Mr. Hamilton, there are no charges to be dropped. And there is no need for a presidential grant of immunity because you did nothing that warrants immunity. You are an American citizen who was hounded by an obstinate FBI agent. No one has formally accused you of anything. To plead for a presidential grant of immunity is to suggest you need to be pardoned or excused.”

  Frowning, Hamilton said, “I’d like an apology.”

  “Allow me to be frank, Mr. Hamilton. You are looking at two matters: the misbehavior of Agent Sarsfield and the need to provide the U.S. government with some vital information. I am counseling you on both matters. Mr. Sean Falcone, who is representing President Oxley, is in the next room. I strongly urge you to meet with him now. Tell him the location of Asteroid USA, which, I understand, can be determined by a signal transmitted from the spacecraft that SpaceMine sent to the asteroid. He should also be told how to control the spacecraft. And then this whole matter is done.”

  Hamilton stood and walked to a screened window. He stared for a moment at the endless scrubland. “If you look out this window long enough, as I have,” he said, slowing his tempo to a drawl, “you see a tree struggling to grow in the cactus and brush.” He turned to face Christakos. “Dr. Korbin pointed it out to me,” he continued. “I had only known him maybe fifteen minutes. And when we both looked at that tree we somehow were close, spiritually close.”