* * *
After the formal protocol of saluting the President and standing at iron-spine attention until told to sit down, Komov took a red folder from a blotched brown briefcase that had served him almost as long as he had served the Motherland.
“Proceed,” Lebed said solemnly, entertained, as usual, by Komov’s antiquated manners.
“Eighteen minutes after arriving in his suite at the hotel,” Komov began, “subject Hamilton made a telephone call to his subordinate, a woman, at his office in California. We are going through the American identification files that the FSB has obtained to see what we have on her. But, as you know, the procured Office of Personnel Management digital files are extensive—about twenty-one million files on federal workers, military personnel, and contractor employees. And so—”
“Yes. Yes,” Lebed said irritably. “You have frequently told me about the great FSB coup of hacking into American government files. However, the director of the SVR tells me that the credit for that belongs to his agency. And Americans say the Chinese did it. Please come to the point of the conversation.”
“Yes, sir. After an exchange with the subordinate, he boasted that you, sir, want to place a substitute for Basayev into secret partnership of SpaceMine. But he also said”—Komov read from a document to find the exact words—“We can use the deal with Lebed as ‘leverage.’”
Komov looked up and said, “Our American translators say that this is an analogue of a lever, pivoting so as to influence people and thus—”
“My God, Komov! I know that. Give me the essentials.”
Komov, accustomed to dealing with an impatient, irritated superior, went on as if he had not been interrupted, looked down at the document and repeated, “We can use the deal with Lebed as ‘leverage’ to gain a deal with Oxley. Then—”
“One moment, Colonel. What is the ‘deal with Oxley’?”
“As you know, sir, from many sources, sir, we have learned that Hamilton is being investigated for possible criminal activity. Basayev…”
“Why must I hear anything more about Kuri Basayev?” Lebed demanded. “He’s dead.”
“I am well aware of his death, sir. A terrible accident … but there is unfinished business about Basayev.”
“Unfinished? Meaning what?”
“It is imperative, sir. As you know from our daily Presidential Intelligence Summaries we had the traitor Basayev under total surveillance and learned that he had become a CIA spy. As spillover, we also learned much about Hamilton.”
“Continue,” Lebed said, putting down the paper he was supposedly reading. He had a sixth sense about Komov, tuning into him when he spoke with a certain assertive cadence.
“A SpaceMine engineer threatened to reveal that the SpaceMine asteroid might be on a collision course with Earth. To protect Hamilton and SpaceMine, Basayev ordered his gunmen to kill the engineer. As so often happens in badly planned assassinations, things went wrong. They killed four other people. The gunmen themselves were killed by American police.”
“And?”
“Oxley’s lawyers—in his department that prosecutes criminals—believe that Hamilton is complicit in the murders ordered by Basayev. Hamilton said he will return to America—or attempt to return, I should say—when all legal matters are resolved.”
“So Hamilton is using another form of ‘leverage’ as you noted?” Lebed asked, arching his eyebrows.
“Clearing his record would be very attractive to Hamilton. And there may be good reason for the Americans to make a deal with Hamilton so that he leaves Russia.”
“What are you suggesting, Colonel?”
“It is imperative, sir. Hamilton must remain in Russia.”
“And why do you dare to say ‘must’ to me, Komov?”
“You perhaps have heard of Ivan’s Hammer, sir?”
“Yes, yes. I heard my father mention it. Some scientist of your era having a crazy dream.”
“With respect, sir. Not a dream.”
“You have perhaps become a space scientist?”
“Hamilton controls an asteroid,” Komov said. “It can become a weapon. He cannot be allowed to return to America. Not until we know where the asteroid is located. You cannot allow the Americans to take control of that asteroid and allow them to use it as a weapon—as Ivan’s Hammer. We need to send our cosmonauts to that asteroid so that it becomes a Russian weapon, not an American one.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Colonel. Even if the Americans wanted to threaten us, how credible would it be to threaten the entire planet with extinction? Oxley tells me to get out of Georgia, the Ukraine, Syria or what? That he will destroy Mother Earth? Ridiculous.”
“You make light of the circumstances, sir. We don’t know what asteroid Hamilton has moved. Now that Basayev is dead, Hamilton is the only person who has information about the asteroid. He could be exaggerating its size to increase its value to investors. It might be a much smaller asteroid than Hamilton expected. One that could be manipulated to hit us. They could—”
“Only if one of the lunatics that keep running for President of America was ever elected. And what do you think we would do in response to such a threat? Surrender? Did we fight the Great War to surrender to idle threats? We would send our own threats that our nuclear weapons would be released well in advance of any giant rock. We would make a mutual suicide pact,” Lebed said.
“But, sir, they have a defensive shield against our missiles.”
“Colonel, you have been a valuable asset to our country. But you are overly paranoid. You are looking for bombs under every bed.”
“It is my duty to be paranoid, sir. At least let me see if I can persuade Hamilton to divulge the technical information that our scientists can use to—”
“No, Colonel. It is too early for your techniques. We have time enough for that should it become necessary. For the time being he has no interest in returning to America. He is our partner. We will treat him as a guest. Continue to make sure that Hamilton remains in the Hotel Baltschug Kempinski. It is a fine place to be. Meanwhile, just to ease your fears, I’ll explore whether we should prepare our cosmonauts to take control of Hamilton’s asteroid.” Lebed’s clipped tone signaled that he had tired of the briefing. The time had come for Komov to leave.
“Anything else, Colonel?” Lebed asked.
Komov looked up from the transcript and said, “Nothing significant, sir.”
“Did Hamilton make any more calls?”
“I listened to the electronic version—even before I got a transcript. I have ordered that he not be allowed to make or receive any phone calls.”
“As usual, Komov, you have exceeded your authority. But I reluctantly agree … for now. That will be all,” Lebed said, picking up a paper from his desk.
5
Akis Christakos finished eating his usual breakfast—pineapple juice, eggs Benedict, black coffee—at the usual place, the restaurant at The Hay-Adams, a landmark hotel on Lafayette Square. From the hotel’s rooftop terrace and through the windows of many of its rooms, there was a clear view of the White House, a fact well known to the window-watching Secret Service marksmen on the White House roof.
As he left, Christakos nodded to someone he recognized but did not wish to chitchat with. At the pillared street entrance, he and the doorman greeted each other in Greek. Then he turned left and began walking several blocks to his office on L Street. A chill was in the air today, and Christakos was glad he remembered to bring the monogrammed scarf he had purchased earlier in the week in London’s fashionable men’s store, Turnbull & Asser.
Christakos was something of an oddity in Washington’s legal community. He was a “sole practitioner,” unheard of in a city where lawyers congregated by the hundreds in the high-rise office buildings that bore the names of their firms’ founding fathers.
“Eagles don’t flock,” he would say, teasing those who needed the company and competency of others. He didn’t begrudge any who chose the grinding, decade-l
ong climb from associate to partner status in the mega-firms that had metastasized in the nation’s capital. But the thought of measuring out his life in coffee spoons or six-minute billable segments was something he simply couldn’t do. And he didn’t have to.
Christakos, son of immigrant Greeks, was called “Christo” by his friends, who had trouble pronouncing “Akis.” Was it “A Kiss”? “A Kees”? They were never quite sure. Christo was so much easier, and conveyed a sense of flair that captured the man, the “Anointed One.”
He had one of the best legal minds in town. And he was the lawyer to call when the FBI or the U.S. Attorney’s office or publicity-hound politicians were trying to drag you to an interrogation or a televised congressional hearing.
Tall, thin, as telegenic as a movie star, and dressed as well as any Washington diplomat, Christakos would sit calmly beside his client until he sensed that a threshold was about to be crossed. At that point, his demeanor changed quickly from a gentle golden retriever to an attacking Rottweiler. And it was not just a matter of bluster. The charm or menace, depending upon the circumstance, masked a tough legal mind, which seemed to anticipate every misstep by an adversary before it was made. He would then move to exploit the error with the swiftness of a samurai warrior.
Rarely was a Christakos client convicted, and the few who were would get only a token jail sentence. His success was the product of his obsession for preparation. No aspect of a case escaped scrutiny. No rumor or whisper was discounted. No investigator’s or prosecutor’s life, however private, went unexamined. And Christakos’ many media friends made sure that no victory in the courtroom or in the halls of Congress went unheralded.
As he made his way along L Street, he glanced at his antique Patek Philippe watch—worth more, he often mused, than his father had ever earned during his life as a plumber in every borough of New York City. Sometimes he wondered if his remembrance of his father and his tools was the reason he had vowed to eschew every convenience that modern technology had to offer.
He rebuffed the allure of a smartphone and refused to connect to the Internet except on the computer in his office. Email and texting were not part of his vocabulary. Anyone searching for his office website, Facebook, or Twitter account would come up empty-handed. But those who really needed his services—and could afford them—knew how to find him.
He was running behind schedule this morning, having dallied too long over breakfast. Being late for a meeting was unacceptable. His personal mantra was, “If you’re on time, you’re already late.”
His day was launched by a call from a member of Congress who was being investigated for misuse of campaign funds.
“Christo, I called to say I’ve decided to resign my seat,” the Congressman said. “I do this with a heavy heart, and I—”
“Don’t be crazy, Ted. And don’t give me any more bullshit about a heavy heart. All that’s involved here is a tangle of irregularities in your congressional spending accounts and a prosecutor who’s looking for a couple of headlines to propel him out of the U.S. Attorney’s Office and into a law firm. This is a media circus over a Post story about so-called lavish spending and flights on a constituent’s private jet. All the Post has is a vengeful staffer who handed a reporter some spreadsheets full of simple arithmetic errors.”
“But I’ve made up my mind.”
“No you haven’t. I’ll be damned to let you and your heavy heart make that mistake. Let’s get together Tuesday in my office—ten a.m. Okay? You bring your accountant and press secretary and I’ll bring my consultant, who used to work for the Office of Congressional Ethics. We’ll draft a statement of innocence and betrayal that will bring tears to the eyes of that half-assed prosecutor.”
“Okay, Christo. You know best.”
“You bet I do, Ted. See you Tuesday.”
Christakos called his office manager, Vicki Butera, into his private office, gave her the details of his Tuesday meeting with the Congressman, and began going through the day’s upcoming appointments. “No calls for the next two hours, Vicki,” he said, picking up a thick file folder from a neat pile on his desk.
As he worked over the briefs and other documents, his curt and bristling manner gave way to calm and concentration. He was working, and he enjoyed working more than anything else in his life, mostly because that work took place in the sanctum of his private office, which exuded old-world luxury. Persian carpets covered chocolate-dark hardwood floors. Rosewood paneled walls with built-in bookcases. The shelves contained a couple dozen books and many framed photographs of celebrity clients. Several shelves held museum-quality ancient artifacts that he had collected during his numerous visits to Greece over the years. Daily newspapers neatly rested on a deep-seated leather couch next to a coffee table. On it were stacked law books whose pages bristled with yellow page markers.
Less than an hour into Christakos’ two-hour phone-call embargo, Butera entered his office. He looked up frowning. Before he could remind her about the embargo, she said, “It’s the COO of SpaceMine. About Hamilton. She says she has to speak to you urgently. She said ‘urgently’ twice.”
Still frowning, Christakos put down the file folder and picked up his phone. As usual, Butera had judged right; anything about such an important client as SpaceMine’s CEO warranted an immediate response.
“I am Sandra Vanderlang,” the caller said. “Chief operating officer of SpaceMine. Our CEO, Robert Wentworth Hamilton, is in Moscow and says he will stay there until you get … ‘a grant of complete immunity.’” Her voice had a slight echo, which Christakos recognized as the product of a scrambler phone.
“Did you just read those words from notes you took during a telephone conversation you had with Mr. Hamilton?”
“Yes,” she replied, sounding surprised. “I—”
“Destroy those notes immediately. I will wait.”
After hearing the sound of a shredder, Christakos said, “Good. Now, tell me about that conversation.”
“But … why—”
“All conversations with me are covered by client-attorney privilege,” Christakos replied. “I assume you are calling as a client? Mr. Hamilton, as you know, is already a client.”
“Well, I didn’t exactly know he was your client. He told me to call … to call ‘the Greek’ and spelled your name. Yes, I see the point. I am a client.”
“Thanks for the clarity,” Christakos said, laughing. “Yes, I am ‘the Greek.’ Now let’s go over the conversation you had with Mr. Hamilton.”
As she recounted what Hamilton had said, Christakos asked a few questions and then said, “So you assume that Mr. Hamilton made this secretive meeting with Mr. Basayev to arrange for further investment funds for SpaceMine. Is that correct?”
“Correct.”
“But did he say that he was staying in Moscow because he feared some kind of criminal indictment, not because he was searching for a source of further funding?”
“I have told you all he said. He told me to call you. He gave me the name of the hotel. I looked it up on Google.” She spelled out Baltschug Kempinski. “He said he wanted you to call him.”
“I’ll do so immediately,” Christakos said.
“Fine, and I will see you immediately,” Vanderlang said.
“Is that necessary?” Christakos asked.
“Yes. Obviously, his decision to stay in Moscow is somehow connected with the matter you helped him with. I think it’s best for me to talk to you about this in person. I’ll be in your office tomorrow morning.”
6
As soon as the call ended, Butera, slim and quick-moving, entered Christakos’ office and handed him a thick folder. It contained a neatly tabbed collection of information about Robert Wentworth Hamilton. “Nothing new here since the FBI session,” she said. “Except a gossip note in the Star saying Philip Dake is on leave from the Post and is rumored to be writing a book about Hamilton. And there’s this.”
She opened the folder and pointed to a clipping of a New
York Times business section piece headlined BANKING ON AN ASTEROID, illustrated by a NASA photograph of an asteroid that looked like a gray potato.
“And it says?” Christakos asked. He relied on her not only to find important haystacks but also to reach in and find the needle.
“Basically, the mining of asteroids has run into some legal problems because of questions rising about who owns what in space. There’s a UN outer space treaty that raises legal questions about ownership and something called ‘protection from interference.’ Three companies are specifically mentioned. One of them is SpaceMine.”
“No mention of Hamilton or the FBI visit?”
“No. Looks like you convinced Patterson to keep the lid on.” She was referring to J. B. Patterson, Director of the FBI.
Christakos shrugged. “Luckily, J.B. doesn’t have much love for publicity.”
“Especially publicity about a case going nowhere.”
“Exactly. So why is Hamilton saying he wants a grant of immunity? Now that would produce publicity.” He hefted the folder. “You found all that was findable. What do you think of this guy?”
“Brilliant. Very rich. And a little queer.”
“Queer? Meaning…?”
“Nothing like that.… Strange. Driven. Aloof. A real loner…”
“Nothing so strange in that,” Christakos said, dipping his chin to his chest. “Mmm?”
“And the religious stuff,” she said, shaking her head. “Like that award for ‘Christian Science.’”
“Yes,” Christakos said, smiling. “The Christian Scientist who proved—what was it? That God had created the universe less than ten thousand years ago? Not so strange to others. Ever talk to our cleaning lady? She believes Steve Jobs is the Antichrist and points to the Apple-with-a-bite symbol as proof. Lot of odd believers out there, walking around, holding down jobs … and voting.”
Final Strike--A Sean Falcone Novel Page 3