“I think we should talk, Dake. Where are you?”
Dake gave his address, thought for a moment about calling Falcone, and decided to wait until he heard what Miller had to say.
*
LANIER’S e-mail arrived about twenty minutes after Falcone spoke to him:
A couple of years ago, an enormous wildfire came dangerously close to the Los Alamos National Laboratory, which was evacuated. Afterward, officials discovered the disappearance of a hard drive that was being created for NEST. The hard drive reappeared about two weeks later. In the DOT investigation that followed, several staff members were either involuntarily retired or transferred. Schiller was transferred to DOT Washington. Nothing negative appeared on his record. He’s 63 years old and about to retire. He is expected to become a vice president of a Washington-based trade organization called Nuclear Renaissance.
Falcone immediately called Lanier. “Thanks much, Rube,” Falcone said. “I have only one question: What was on that hard drive?”
Lanier took a moment to answer. “All I can tell you,” he said, speaking slowly, “is that one of our tools is a continually updated hard drive that contains everything known about disarming various nuclear weapons.”
“Would reverse engineering be possible?”
“You said one question. My answer to your second question is, Yes, probably. Schiller has that kind of knowledge. Even saying that over the phone could put me in Leavenworth. Anything more on that will have to be in a highly secure environment. Now, about that photo with the big flash.…”
“Yes?”
“Liz couldn’t get anything meaningful about the light spectrum in that flash. Anecdotally, it looks like what you think it is. But here’s one fact for you: The time stamp is within the minute that we calculate it happened. Don’t forget. We deal in nanoseconds and the image time stamp deals in hours and minutes. So we don’t have anything definitive. There’s nothing forensic here.”
“Understood. Thanks,” Falcone said, about to hang up.
“One thing more. Remember I told you that all we have on surface water blasts is some reports from a test back in the forties? I looked an image from that test. In the mushroom cloud are bits of the ships that it blew sky-high. In the image you sent me I thought I could see … I don’t know … something. Maybe debris.”
Falcone scribbled a few lines on a yellow pad and handed that and a printout of Lanier’s email to Anna Dabrowski, who had given herself the task of preparing a rough draft of what Falcone called The Narrative.
*
FALCONE had given J. B. Patterson a deadline of 5:30. Patterson called at 5:20. “Here’s what we have,” he said. “Two agents assigned to putting together a time line noted that the Regal would need a pilot. They found the port’s chief pilot, Craig Reynolds, on Tybee Island. He was on the side of the island that was not hit as hard as the part near the mouth of the river. His son Michael was the Regal’s pilot and is presumed lost. Reynolds says that he had noted a ship anchored off the river mouth for about a week. He worried about it maybe interfering with navigation. And—get this—he reported it to the Coast Guard. Its name was Jamaica Star.”
“Great stuff, J. B.,” Falcone said. “What do we know about the ship?”
“We’re working that very hard, Sean. The Coast Guard station was wiped out, but Reynold’s query produced a report that got copied to Coast Guard headquarters in DC. Essentially it says the captain of the ship, a Jamaican, had an underwater archaeology permit to search for a Civil War submarine—the Alligator, lost while it was being towed in 1863. The day before the explosion, the Coast Guard, suspecting some kind of drug deal, started an investigation of the ship. It seems that the Alligator did not go down anywhere near Savannah.”
“The ship is registered in Jamaica?”
“Yes. But have you ever tried to find the owner of a merchant ship? We’re in phase one of that. There are corporations within corporations, documents scattered all over the place.”
“Understood. Thanks, J. B. Thanks much.”
61
DAKE WAS on the phone. “I need you to come out to my house immediately,” he told Falcone. “I have something … someone you need to talk with…”
“One of The Five?”
“Maybe the biggest interview I have ever had. He knows a lot—a helluva lot—about Savannah … I can’t say more … You need to talk to him.”
“Jesus, Phil. You sure about this guy? I’ve got—”
“I don’t deal with fools or flakes. You know that. He’s real, Senator, and … he’s got answers.”
Falcone caught Senator. Dake was calling him Senator again. Meaning, as he said before, that Dake was still dealing with how Falcone was running the world, overseeing matters of life and death.…
“Okay, I’ll be there in twenty to twenty five minutes. But this better be good. I don’t have much time.”
“Come alone,” Dake said. “This guy is real spooked and he doesn’t want any witnesses. Not until he gets what he wants.”
“Which is?”
“Just come alone, Senator. And hurry.”
Falcone went to the square table in the center of his office and said to Dabrowski, “I need to talk to you, Anna. I need to slip out of here and I have to move fast.”
“You’ve been pushing yourself awfully hard, Sean. When a man is in a hurry, the devil is happy.”
“I’ve heard that one from you many times. But, believe me, the devil is not going to be happy if I get what I think I’m going to get. I need your car. In the secure lot?”
“Yes. Here are the keys. It’s a 1996 Pontiac Firebird Convertible. You can work a six-speed stick shift?”
“Yes, Anna. And I promise to drive carefully.”
Falcone called his security detail and asked for a stand-down while he dealt with a personal emergency. He found Anna’s Firebird in the West Wing parking area, made his way to Constitution Avenue, crossed the Potomac on the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge, headed north to the Capital Beltway, and, enjoying the speed and ride of the Firebird, took the exit to Georgetown Pike and, relying on Dake’s hurried directions, managed to find the McLean cul-de-sac where Dake lived.
Dake opened the door and brought Falcone into the living room. Norman Miller sat in a brown leather chair, a wineglass in his right hand. He looked calm and haughty—the stone face that had launched countless deals negotiated at the edge of the law. He put the wineglass down on an end table, taking care to place it on a coaster that bore a compass rose. He reached out his hand, but Falcone did not take it.
Falcone took a recorder out of a suit-coat pocket, placed it on the end table next to Miller’s chair, and said, “Talk.”
“Oh, not again,” Miller said. “I’ve just poured it all out to Dake. That’s why he called you. He’s got a recorder, too.”
“Talk,” Falcone repeated.
“Very well,” Miller said. He looked toward Dake, who picked up a bottle and poured another drink.
“Thank you,” Miller said to Dake, then looked up to Falcone. “It was called Operation Cyrus. The plan was to pull up the ’58 bomb, put it aboard the ship, and sail it through the Straits of Hormuz to Bandar Abbas, a port that is the main base of the Iranian Navy. Parker said that the Brethren higher-up directing him had Iranian connections and shipping connections, and we’d be able to dock without any trouble.
“The captain would claim that the ship had engine trouble and request aid. It was all supposed to be fixed. The captain and crew—all Jamaicans—would slip off the ship at night, along with Schiller, Morton, and Hudson. They’d be driven to Tehran. Next morning, the bomb would explode, destroying the port. The Iranians would blame either Israel or the United States—or both. And Armageddon would begin. This is very good wine.”
“Did you really think this would work?” Falcone asked. He felt an urge to strangle Miller.
“You know, I had the same doubt,” Miller replied. “Then I pictured Osama bin Laden planning nine-eleven and being asked t
he same thing.”
“What went wrong?” Falcone asked.
“A lot depended upon Schiller. He was, I think, even more of a fanatic than Parker. Schiller said he had figured out how to rearm the Savannah bomb. He had been a weapons developer and—”
“Schiller stole a hard drive from Los Alamos,” Falcone said. “Is that the start of it? Does he have any other plans to use his expertise?”
“I don’t have any information about Schiller. I was strictly the banker, running money to finance the operation.”
“Your money?”
“My God, no!” Miller smirked.
“Well, whose money then?
“I … I can’t tell you that.”
“Because you want to hold out one big negotiating point?”
“No. Because I can’t. Let’s table that for the moment.”
“‘Table,’ as in negotiations?” Falcone asked.
Miller did not respond to the question. But he talked on, telling how Morton, with his Navy and Pentagon connections, chartered the Jamaica Star, implying in his dealings that he was a contractor for a highly sensitive U.S. government operation. The ship, with Morton, Ed Hudson, Schiller, and the crew and captain on board, had spent a week in Chesapeake Bay, about an hour’s drive from Washington. Off Solomons Island, in a secluded cove, they practiced retrieving, hitching, and raising the bomb.
“Parker made at least one visit to Solomons, I think,” Miller said. “He thought that using a place named Solomons was part of God’s plan.”
“Did you go to Solomons Island? Did you board the ship?”
“Yes. Once. Parker had us all meet there, on the ship. About a week before … before—”
“Tell me about the meeting on the ship.”
“Not much to tell. Schiller said that the tests had been successful. He said they were able to replicate what they would have to do in Savannah. He said that the bomb—the real bomb—was buried in silt at a depth of about forty feet. He knew an awful lot about that bomb. I got the impression that he had had access to very secret information. For the practice in the bay, for instance, they used a model built to Schiller’s specifications.”
“Who built the model?” Falcone asked. “Where is it?”
“I don’t know the answers to either question. Don’t forget, The Brethren has members and resources far beyond The Five, as Parker called us.”
“So, Morton and Hudson were on the ship when it went down?”
“I assume so. Morton, Hudson, and Schiller were to transport the bomb. But Schiller, as I understand it, was about to get a lobbying job in Washington and didn’t want to spend time away. And he didn’t like being on the ship in Chesapeake Bay. Almost a phobia, I guess. So he was not going to board the ship until it was about to sail to Iran.”
“How was he going to get to Savannah?” Falcone asked.
For the first time since the questioning began, Miller did not respond promptly. Falcone repeated the question.
“He was to fly down on my aircraft.”
“The Gulfstream jet?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it right now?”
“In a hangar at Manassas Regional Airport.”
“Just outside the aerial exclusion zone around Washington.”
“Also, a lot cheaper rental than a hangar at Dulles,” Miller said, affecting a smile.
“Let’s get back to Schiller. Tell me more about Schiller,” Falcone said.
“Odd duck. Genius, I guess. He said he had prepared a device that replicated what he called the arming capsule. Theoretically, there was no arming capsule in the bomb when it was jettisoned.”
“That’s the official U.S. Air Force story,” Dake said to Falcone. He sat down in a chair next to the fireplace and motioned Falcone to another. But Falcone remained standing, glaring down at Miller.
“So the plan was to haul up the bomb and insert Schiller’s device?” Falcone asked.
“Yes, as I understand. As I told you—”
“Was Schiller to bring the device to Savannah on your Gulfstream?”
“No. Too risky. I assume it was loaded onto the ship at Solomons.”
“We have information that the ship was off Savannah for a while, at least a week. Do you know why?” Falcone asked.
“No. Schiller was very guarded. But he did mention the detector he had put together for Hudson to use when he was looking for the bomb. Schiller claimed he knew the location within a few meters but needed a diver on the bottom to pinpoint the spot.”
“Do you have any idea about what went wrong?”
“No. Except—”
“Except what?”
“All I could think of was electronics gone wrong. I tinker with cars. Imagine trying to hook up a twenty-first-century automotive computer to, say, a ’58 Chevy Impala. If you didn’t do it right, you might blow up the Chevy. In retrospect, that seemed to me the kind of risk that Schiller was taking.”
“You never saw a drawing? Never saw anything on a piece of paper?”
“Correct,” Miller said. “Now don’t forget that Parker was an old hand at what he called black ops. Everything was need-to-know. I didn’t need to know anything more than where to pick up and deliver the money. Lots of money. The bomb model alone cost two hundred thousand dollars. I put the money, in hundred-dollar bills, in a brown paper bag and took it to a seafood joint in Solomons. I watched a waterman pick it up and I left. I never saw the delivery of the model. Everything was compartmentalized. That’s the way it worked.”
“Ever hear of an archaeological cover for the operation?”
“Parker did mention that he and Morton had arranged a cover with the help of a Brethren member in archaeology. That’s all I know about that.”
“How about Stanfield?” Falcone asked. “How much did he know?”
“He knew nothing about the bomb. After it went off, I was told that there was a Plan B and—”
“Who told you?”
“Isaiah, the invisible head man. That was his code name.”
“The name you refuse to give me.”
“Correct. As usual,” Miller continued, “a messenger delivered me a briefcase and a note telling me to deliver it to Parker. That was the system. A briefcase full of hundred-dollar bills delivered to me by a messenger, counted by me, and delivered by me to Parker or to a drop Parker sent me to. But this time the briefcase was locked. That seemed strange.
“The briefcase was easily opened. Inside, I saw a cell phone and two envelopes, one marked Amos—Parker’s code name—and the other marked confidential. I steamed open the envelopes. The one for Amos told him to call a certain number, where someone would direct him to the person the confidential envelope was meant for. I later tried the number, which had been disconnected.
“The papers in the envelope were the Regal’s passenger manifest and a report on the removal of two Iranians from the ship. There was also some kind of report to the FBI about Muslims on the ship. When I saw Stanfield on television, I realized the purpose of the documents: make it appear the bomb had been on the Regal. He was duped into promoting Plan B.”
Falcone had been taking notes. He looked down on the notes and started to speak when his cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and irritably said, “Falcone here.”
“This is … Rachel. The Parker tap is still being monitored. I just got called about it. Apparently someone named Micah called Parker and said he had just been called by Dake. Micah said everything was coming apart and he couldn’t live with what had been done. Then there was what sounded like a gunshot.”
“Thanks, Rachel,” Falcone said.
Stunned, Falcone gestured to Dake, who rose and joined Falcone in the hallway. “Schiller’s probably dead,” Falcone said. “I need to get the FBI there right away. You’ve got his address?”
“Mark—my researcher—has everything upstairs.”
“Run up, get the address—and give it to Anna. Here’s her number.” Dake, never without a
notebook and pen, jotted it down. “Tell her to have Patterson hit that address fast and seize every computer and communication device. Also, Miller’s Gulfstream in Manassas. And, on my authority, have her tell Patterson to get a very broad, classified search warrant for Miller’s house in Potomac.”
Dake went up the stairs two at a time.
62
WHEN FALCONE returned to the living room, Miller was pouring himself another glass of wine. “Well, that’s about it,” Miller said, stretching out his legs as if to check the tassels on his Gucci loafers. “I had started making plans to permanently disappear. Then I got the call from Dake, and I realized that it was over … that the Oxley administration was putting pressure on me, figuring that I could be the unindicted co-conspirator. So that is why I am here.”
“What exactly do you want, Mr. Miller?”
“My life—personal, professional—is falling apart,” Miller said softly. “I had genuinely thought The Brethren could save me. I believed, truly believed, Mr. Falcone. Armageddon! I was ready to start Armageddon!
“About all I have, Mr. Falcone, is a lot of money and a daughter. I want to live where she is. Raise bees or something. Lay low with a new identity and never be seen in the United States again.”
Falcone held up his cell phone and shook it, angrily saying, “I can get FBI agents here in ten minutes to arrest you for—”
“For what, Mr. Falcone? Conspiracy? You must know as well as I do that a conspiracy charge is very, very hard to even get an indictment for.”
“You want to walk away as if you did not take part in a mass murder? How about three thousand counts of murder?”
“I have long respected you, Mr. Falcone. I’m surprised you’d engage in fantasy. All you have is whatever is in that recorder. I doubt that it will hold up in court all by itself. You are not a law-enforcement officer. I am not being formally interrogated.”
Miller reached over, picked up the recorder, and switched it off. His arrogance returned as suddenly as it had momentarily disappeared.
“What I want, Mr. Falcone,” Miller said, “is a document, signed by the President, allowing me to leave the country. I will have that in my pocket when I make the necessary arrangements to fly away, develop my new identity, and never return.”
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