He skimmed through, ignoring the numerous bracketed references that cluttered up the story that Stanfield had so darkly imparted. Two Iranians entered the United States from Canada at Detroit, using fake Iraqi passports. They bought one-way tickets for cash, which should have alerted whoever was supposed to watch for such matters, and flew to Boston.
They boarded with legitimate tickets purchased through a Venezuela travel agency. Shortly before the Regal sailed, they were seen entering a “crew only” area that led to a luggage storage hold. When a crewman questioned them, they “accosted” him. He and other crewmen subdued them. The ship captain called the Boston Police, who escorted them off the ship and notified the local Homeland Security office, where an unidentified official ordered them held on charges of immigration violations and possessing fraudulant passports.
No one apparently thought to take off their stowed luggage, just as nobody had spotted the fake passports and the one-way tickets. So there was nothing more sinister than that. Stanfield had stretched a security-breakdown incident into a terrorist attack. Presumably, Ned Winslow would be doing the same on GNN just before President Oxley appeared before Congress.
The report named the Homeland Security official who ordered the men held. Falcone assumed he was a member of The Brethren and had leaked the information to Stanfield, along with the passenger manifest. The FBI was questioning the Iranians and the DHS official.
Falcone called Anna Dabrowski on her cell phone and found her still in the Executive Office Building. “How is it going with Tony Fox?”
“He seems very capable and thinks he can find something more in the images.”
“Good. How long? Any idea?”
“I pressed him. He says a couple of hours. It’s mostly studying the image by framing out a certain section of pixels and then—”
“Okay. Keep him working. If you have to reach me, you may have to use my cell phone.”
“Oh? You will be out of the office?”
“Yes. I have something working. Will tell you later.”
Falcone called in Mae rather than talk to her on the phone. “Mae,” he said. “I have to meet someone privately. I’m going to try to duck my security detail and go home. You can reach me by cell phone. I should be back here in about an hour.”
Mae Prentice nodded, scowling. She obviously did not approve. And she had her suspicions about what was going on. It was so unlike Sean, she thought.
*
FALCONE walked out of his office and headed down a flight to the White House Mess. But instead of following the smell of coffee, he went through a door that led to the tunnel between the West Wing and the Executive Office Building. He found a stairwell and climbed to the EOB ground floor. He walked the polished floor of large black and white diamond-shaped stones to the Seventeenth Street entrance, took the stairs to the street-level security post, showed his VIP White House identification badge, and strode out to the sidewalk. Too tired to walk the few blocks to his condominium, he hailed a cab.
Dake was waiting in the lobby when Falcone’s cab pulled up to the entrance. He nodded to the concierge in the lobby, entered one of the elevators, and used his key to authorize a rise to the penthouse. They did not speak until they were in Falcone’s kitchen, where he began making coffee.
“Phil, glad you could come. A lot is going on.”
“So I’ve heard,” Dake said, perching on a stool. He doffed his tan topcoat on another stool. He wore black slacks, a blue-and-white checkered shirt open at the collar, and a Harris tweed jacket.
“I’m going to unload a story for you,” Falcone said, turning away from the coffeemaker. “Everything I tell you, unless I say otherwise, is deep background and cannot be attributed to me. I’ll answer what questions I can, but, because of the press of time—which is part of the story—I’d like to get through the story uninterrupted. You can take notes or record or both. Understood?”
Dake took an oblong notebook and black Laban pen from one pocket and a silver-colored digital recorder from another. He set the recorder on the counter. “Understood,” he said.
Falcone went through it all: the tsunami error, the Coast Guard helicopter discovering what turned out to be an EMP, the realization that a nuclear device caused the disaster, Lanier’s revelation about the Savannah bomb, the Flanagan digital photos refuting Stanfield’s allegation blaming two Iranians, the FBI report identifying them but not connecting them to the bomb, Falcone’s suspicion that a DHS official leaked the manifest and the report on the Iranians, “and the leaker was probably a member of The Brethren.”
Dake listened, holding back from questioning, processing the narrative, picturing it in print, thinking he was listening to a prosecutor’s opening statement. Mention of The Brethren surprised him.
Falcone poured each of them a second cup of coffee, paused, and said, “Now, you come in.”
Dake looked at him puzzled, but did not speak.
Falcone resumed the story, bringing in The Brethren, the papers he called the Dake Donation—inspiring a quick Dake smile—and his conversation with Rachel Yeager.
“She agreed to give you more information than you got from one of her associates, the Confidential Source—the CS—sprinkled through the Donation. I trust her. She trusts you. She is holding out on one name, apparently a Brethren bankroller with the code name Midas. Otherwise, I think she’s going to give you a lot of material. Good luck. Here’s her cell-phone number. You’re probably going to be meeting her in a safe room in the Israeli Embassy.”
“I’ve been there before,” Dake said, with another smile. “When you began this marvelous story, you said ‘the press of time’ was part of the story. Meaning?”
“The President goes before Congress at eight o’clock. I hope that when he speaks he will have the answer to who did the deed and how they did it.” Falcone said. “I’m convinced, on little more than a hunch, that there is a connection between Parker, The Brethren, and the Savannah bomb. I’m hoping you find it.”
“That’s all?” Dake asked, smiling again.
“That’s all. Good hunting.”
Dake looked down at his notes, then looked up and said, “You mentioned a NEST guy named Lanier and a Boston cop named Flanagan. Can I get phone numbers on them?”
Falcone hesitated before answering, “No. They’re not reachable … except through me.”
“Okay. I’m on it,” Dake said, switching off the recorder and pocketing it. He flicked back to the first page of the notebook, took a cell phone out of another pocket, and, looking at the number Falcone had given him, punched the numbers of Rachel’s cell phone. “Might as well get started. Time is of the essence.”
56
DAKE HAILED a cab outside Falcone’s condo and gave the address of the Israeli Embassy, which was in northern Washington, in an area designated as an international diplomatic quarter. The cab dropped him off at the squat brick gatehouse attached to the wrought-iron fence surrounding the embassy. After he identified himself to the security officer behind a high counter, he surrendered his driver’s license, smartphone, and recorder, the contents of which he had sent, by his smartphone, to a secure Internet storage area. He was given a temporary badge and directed to a bench, where he awaited his escort.
In a few minutes, a short, muscular man in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie arrived and took him through the gatehouse, across a courtyard, and into the embassy, a buff-colored structure with deeply recessed windows topped by arches. He passed through the light and airy entrance atrium to another security checkpoint. He and his silent escort then ascended a staircase to a second-floor hallway. About halfway down the hallway was Rachel Yeager.
“Good morning, Philip,” she said, holding out her right hand. “Good to see you again. Both older, but, I hope, wiser.” She was wearing a gray, knee-length skirt and a ruffled, wine-red silk blouse.
“The years seem to have passed you by,” Dake said as they shook hands. Her grip was as strong as when, some year
s back, he found himself working with her and Falcone to clear the name of a murdered senator. Memories tumbled into his mind. Killer Angel. Saved Falcone’s life. And the .22-caliber semiautomatic Beretta once held in that lovely warm hand.…
They entered a small, windowless room. On a desk in the middle of the room was a laptop computer and a wire-frame rack containing file folders in several colors. Rachel directed him to a chair in front of the computer, which was open, its screen blank. She took a green folder out of the rack and sat down in the chair next to Dake’s.
“Sean asked me to move fast, and that’s what I’m doing,” she said. “I am aware that one of my colleagues gave you some access to our intelligence service’s files on The Brethren. On this desk is far more information, and what I am giving you focuses primarily on transcripts of conversations recorded in the house when General Parker conducted meetings of a special group of Brethren. I have pulled the files that I believe mostly pertain to that special group.
“Sean, as he has probably just told you, believes that this group, known as The Five, has some connection with the Savannah bomb. There are also surveillance reports and transcripts of pertinent telephone calls.
“I will go over the files with you. As I take up a folder, I will give you a file number. You will enter the number on the laptop and the file will appear. You may copy material from the file—but not the file number—to the thumb drive inserted in the computer. If I see something that I do not want you to copy, I will say so.
“In your books, you are scrupulous about indicating sources while withholding actual names. You use such phrases as ‘quote from background interview unquote’ or ‘quote from documents reviewed by the author unquote.’ For purposes of attribution to this material, you may say, ‘quote an Israeli intelligence official unquote.’ All agreed?”
“Agreed,” Dake said, clenching and unclenching his hands, as if he were an athlete preparing for action.
“Good,” Rachel said. “Let us begin.…”
*
FOUR hours later, with a fifteen-minute recess for pastrami sandwiches and coffee, Dake removed a thumb drive that had accumulated hundreds of lines of names, dates, and conversations. Rachel had limited Dake to four hours so that he would have a chance to develop some research that might serve Falcone in his race against time.
“I’d like a lot more time with these jewels, Rachel,” Dake said after standing up, stretching, and pocketing the thumb drive.
“Maybe … someday,” Rachel said. “Not many people have that cell-phone number.”
The remark gave Dake some encouragement. After a hasty goodbye and an escorted exit back through the gatehouse, he found a cab waiting for him. Rachel or someone was speeding him on his way.
After giving the address for his home in McLean, he took out his cell phone, quite sure that Israeli technicians had copied its data—and were disappointed when they found nothing of much value. Well aware of cell phones’ vulnerability to snoopers, he tried to avoid storing sensitive information. He was also sure that the empty recorder had disappointed the snoopers.
He called his researcher in the Book Factory and told him to drop all other projects and be ready for a new one. “The deadline’s seven thirty,” he said. “Yeah, Mark. That’s seven thirty tonight. I’ll have a list of names with some information about them. Get out the file marked BRETHNOTES.”
“The notes you gave to Falcone?” Mark Lassen asked.
“Right. I mentioned a guy named Norman Miller, big contributor to Stanfield’s campaign. Find whatever you can get on him, including his private phone number. I’m pretty sure he lives in Potomac, and I’m going to want to talk to him.”
57
DAKE CAREFULLY hung his topcoat in the hall closet, passed through the center hallway to his bedroom, walked into his closet and carefully hung his sport coat, then retraced his steps and briskly went up two flights of stairs to the Book Factory. Mark Lassen met him at the open door of the room, which took up nearly the entire third floor.
Lassen, six foot three with the carriage of a soldier, was a retired Army intelligence officer who had lost his left leg to an improvised explosive device early in the Iraq War. When Dake interviewed him for the research job, he pointed to the two-story climb as a possible problem. Lassen responded by saying, “I’ve got the best prosthetic leg that a lowest-bid DOD contractor could provide. I’ll race you to the third floor.” Lassen won and, unlike Dake, was not breathing hard. Lassen became Dake’s full-time researcher, supervising two part-timers who were called in when research on a book reached a crucial point.
“What have you got?” Lassen asked, walking over to a table bearing a computer with two monitors. The table was next to an oak rolltop desk.
“We’re going to find out pretty soon,” Dake said, sitting at an oak swivel chair in front of the desk. Dake took a key ring from his pocket, unlocked the desk, and rolled up the top.
The desk and chair had belonged to Dake’s father when he was the editor of a weekly newspaper in a little North Carolina town. The desk had been modernized, a computer tower fitted into what had been the desk’s deep drawers, a monitor and keyboard installed on the desktop, between two sets of pigeonholes stuffed with notepads, envelopes, and scraps of paper that constituted part of Dake’s private filing system.
Lassen maintained the locked filing cabinets that lined two walls. Those paper files were slowly becoming anachronisms, for much of the research that Lassen pursued and managed was arriving in the form of computer files. Lassen’s research was faultless, but Dake often relied upon his instinct, which he sometimes fancied was produced by a journalist gene carried in his DNA.
He switched on the computer, inserted the thumb drive into a port, and copied its contents onto his computer’s hard drive. As the material was being copied, Lassen pointed to one of his monitors, where he had drafted a short profile of Norman Miller.
As you know, Norman Miller founded and still owns True North, a private equity firm. Fortune lists him as among the twenty-five wealthiest men in the country.
Miller made more than $1 billion one year and yet nearly went insane with jealousy when he read that a competitor had made $3.5 billion. His jealousy led him to take bigger risks with his investor’s funds, resort to more leverage, cut more corners.
The SEC accused him of securities fraud and built a strong case against him. But he was able to buy his way out of a conviction and jail sentence by agreeing to pay a $50 million fine and not admit to any wrongdoing.
He and his partners celebrated—and appeared on the front pages of the New York Post, in photos showing them entertaining high-cost prostitutes while sailing the Greek Isles on a 300-foot yacht. Another article followed on Page Six: Miller’s wife of seventeen years had left him … for another woman.
Miller’s life was in a tailspin. He realized he had lost his moral compass and was in great need of a spiritual anchor. Born a Jew, he remained deeply committed to his Jewish roots. His philanthropy for Jewish causes was well known. But Judaism no longer satisfied his needs.
After seeing several prominent Jewish intellectuals and financiers convert to Catholicism, he flirted with the idea of becoming a Catholic. According to his biography Man of Many Paths (unauthorized but accurate), he was intrigued by Catholic rituals and the intricacies of its theology. But he was disgusted by revelations of sex abuse of young boys by priests. He decided to become a nondenominational Christian. As a guest of a leader of The Brethren, he attended the National Prayer Breakfast last year, where he met General Parker.
Miller may have been drawn to The Brethren because he could continue to support the cause of Israel’s security while associating with powerful people who were able to influence world events.
Incidentally, Miller’s biblical namesake, Hosea, seems to have a little joke attached. Hosea, at God’s command, marries a harlot, in what was to be an example of God’s relationship with the unfaithful nation of Israel. Hosea’s harlot wife sleeps
with another man and has a child whose father is unknown. Hosea divorces his wife, then takes her back. Miller had been divorced twice and had a daughter by his first wife. The daughter, Harriet, is now twenty years old and lives in Switzerland.
“Nice job on Miller,” Dake said. “I have a hunch about him. But first let me give you a rundown on what I’ve got and what we have to do. Basically, we have five Brethren names picked up by the Israelis, who knew the five were up to something but didn’t know what.” He told of Falcone’s suspicions that the men were somehow connected to the Savannah disaster and gave him a fast account of how the NEST experts blamed the explosion on a U.S. nuclear bomb.
“Broken arrow,” Lassen said when Dake finished, unsurprised by Lassen’s lack of visible reaction. Lassen digested, absorbed, summarized, and analyzed information, but he never allowed it to migrate from his reasoning brain cells to the cells that registered emotions.
“Broken arrow?” Dake asked.
“That’s what the military calls lost nukes. Just think. There’re enough of them to rate an official code name.”
“Well, this is one arrow that was shot. Our job is to find out who fixed it and how,” Dake said, turning to his keyboard. His fingers moved as swiftly as they did when he sat at a piano and played Chopin’s Revolutionary Étude, one of his favorite pieces. He copied what he had written over to one of Lassen’s monitors and the two of them read in silence:
Norman Miller. Sounds like banker to project. Biblical name Hosea.
Blink of an Eye Page 33