Final Strike--A Sean Falcone Novel

by William S. Cohen

  “Such as?”

  “Right now, with a spacecraft attached to Asteroid USA, we’re focused on the future—the nuts-and-bolts of robotic mining. So I am developing potential customers, working on a business plan, analyzing operational costs.”

  “From what I know from following Wall Street news, some of your potential competitors have lost interest in space mining.”

  “It’s a high-risk industry. Long lead times. You need to be tough,” Vanderlang said. She had waited a beat before responding and had moved slightly in her chair. Christakos swiftly appraised her behavior and asked quietly, “SpaceMine is in financial trouble, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.…”

  “Is it possible that he panicked and absconded?”

  “Oh, no! He would never panic. And … well, I am confident that no … funds … no irregularities…”

  “All right, let’s eliminate absconding,” Christakos continued. “Does he have a phone log? Or a visitor log?”

  “No way,” she replied. “He essentially doesn’t want to tell anybody anything.”

  “I’m beginning to see the picture,” Christakos said, shaking his head and making a note. “So, do you have any clues about his mysterious trip?”

  “The day after I last saw him, my assistant received a call from our travel office. It was someone at Lufthansa in San Francisco who said she was in passenger security. She said that Mr. Hamilton had bought a one-way ticket to Moscow. For cash. She said that it was necessary to report such travel arrangements to Homeland Security, and she wanted to assure SpaceMine that such reports were routine.”

  “Moscow! One way?” Christakos exclaimed. “Didn’t that get you curious?”

  “He traveled to Russia frequently in the months before we launched the spacecraft. As you may know—it came out in a congressional hearing—the launching was from a facility in Russia.”

  Christakos flipped through the Hamilton folder and scanned one of the pages. “So Asteroid USA, as he named it, did not lift off from U.S. soil. But the launch was some time ago. Why would Mr. Hamilton go to Russia now? Are you planning another launch?”

  “As far as I know, no.”

  “Dr. Vanderlang, do you mean to say that, as COO—second in command—you wouldn’t know whether SpaceMine was going to send up another spacecraft? Forgive me. I don’t know much about corporate organization. But this sounds very strange.”

  “I agree,” Vanderlang said, shifting in the chair. “There are many ways to be a COO.”

  “How did you become one?”

  “My field is computer science. I enjoy finding interesting problems and feeding them to a computer. I was teaching at Stanford when about a year ago I was approached by an employment counselor hired by Mr. Hamilton. I didn’t know exactly what the job would be. But the pay sounded very good, and I agreed to an interview.

  “Mr. Hamilton had my doctoral thesis on his desk. ‘Principles of knowledge engineering,’ he said, reading from a copy of my doctoral thesis. He looked up and asked me if I thought an engineering-based knowledge system could be installed at SpaceMine. I told him that knowledge engineering was mostly just a concept, a model. ‘So,’ he said, ‘not practical in the real world?’”

  She did her signature shrug and continued: “Well, this went on for about half an hour—a discussion of my thesis that took me back to when I had defended it. I didn’t know where he was going until he said, ‘I need a chief operating officer—a COO. Never had one. Didn’t think I needed one. Now I think you’re the one. You’ll keep an eye on knowledge here and report directly to me.’ And that’s the job he gave me.”

  “Strange world out there where commerce meets science,” Christakos said. “So it’s perfectly possible that he might just decide one day to fly off to Moscow without letting you into his plans.”

  “For him, that’s very possible. But this trip was odd, very odd. He never flies commercial. He always uses the company jet. And he always travels with a security team. And paying cash? It’s as if he didn’t want to leave a trail.”

  “Or maybe someone else didn’t want him to leave a trail,” Christakos said, leaning forward and tapping his pen on a page in the Hamilton folder. “Isn’t it possible that the one-way ticket for cash was the idea of Kuri Basayev?”

  “Why would he do that?” Vanderlang exclaimed.

  “What do you know about him?” Christakos asked, a noticeable edge in his voice. He suspected that his new client suffered from a convenient lack of curiosity.

  “Not much.”

  “Well, you do know he is presumed dead. Right?” Again Christakos’ tone changed, this time to staccato. “You know Basayev’s yacht sank—presumably with him on board. And you know it sank when Mr. Hamilton was in Russia. Come now, Dr. Vanderlang. You had to know all this. And yet you sit there and keep that information from me. Why?”

  “I … I thought … I thought that if I brought up Basayev, you might think I was paranoid. I held back because I wanted to hear it first from you.”

  “Hear what, Dr. Vanderlang?” Christakos said, deliberately sounding exasperated.

  “Hear whether you saw a connection between Basayev and Mr. Hamilton’s decision to stay in Moscow.”

  Christakos stood, theatrically took a deep breath and said, “There certainly could be a connection. But what was Basayev’s association with SpaceMine?”

  “He owned forty percent of SpaceMine. I suspect that he wanted control and he wanted SpaceMine to be a Russian corporation. He did not want there to be an IPO. Mr. Hamilton did.”

  Christakos looked down at Vanderlang. “So,” he said, “there were fundamental disagreements between them.”

  “Yes,” she said, looking up at Christakos. She started to fidget in her chair, her composure suddenly less authoritative.

  “You knew Basayev was a bad character,” Christakos continued. “So did you fear that he might … do away with Mr. Hamilton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is Mr. Hamilton’s next of kin?”

  “To my knowledge, he doesn’t have any. No siblings. Both parents dead.”

  “If Mr. Hamilton died, what would happen to SpaceMine?”

  “Basayev would probably be able to leverage a buyout,” Vanderlang said.

  “So SpaceMine and Asteroid USA would wind up being Russian. And if Basayev died?”

  “My guess is that SpaceMine will wind up in the hands of one of Lebed’s pals.”

  “So Lebed would be able to turn Asteroid USA into Asteroid Russia,” Christakos said. There was a long silence. Then he tapped his pen on his yellow pad. “Are you familiar with the name Cole Perenchio?”

  Vanderlang looked startled and did not immediately respond. “I … I knew … He was an engineer. He … left the company.”

  “Yes. And then he was murdered, as I am sure you know and did not feel the need to mention.” Christakos was tempted to terminate the meeting and send his new client on her way back to Silicon Valley. “Look, Doctor. If I’m going to represent you, you need to put everything on the table. Pretty as your teeth are, I’m not interested in pulling them out.”

  “I’m sorry.… I just don’t know what I should say…”

  “I think you’re right to be worried about Mr. Hamilton. You need to trust me. I’m going to get him back to America.”

  8

  Sandra Vanderlang did not devote much time to social graces. As she left Christakos’ office, he followed her and invited her to lunch. “No thanks. Must fly back,” she said. She took her phone from her bag and called her pilot at Dulles. With a nod to Butera, Vanderlang said, “Thanks for the coffee,” then breezed out the door as swiftly as she had entered.

  “Well, then, take me to lunch,” Butera said to Christakos. “I hear the Metropolitan Club’s crab cakes are divine.”

  “No way. It’s downstairs to the food truck for you.”

  “And yogurt at your desk for you.”

  “Correct,” Christakos said. “But first I need to
make a couple of calls.”

  He returned to his office, sat at his desk, and scrawled a page full of notes. A case was taking shape in his mind. As he saw, there were two issues that he had to keep compartmentalized: One was Hamilton’s desire for a grant of immunity; the other was the possibility that he was being held against his will. The immunity request was real and had to be pursued; the status of his stay in Moscow was unknown and had to be confirmed.

  Christakos unlocked a desk drawer and took out a small notebook that contained his most confidential numbers. Using his landline phone, he punched the digits of the private number of J. B. Patterson, the director of the FBI.

  Christakos pictured Patterson’s twelfth-floor suite and imagined a computer recording the origin, time, and duration of the call, but not their conversation. Patterson was not the NSA. He played by the rules.

  “Christo!” Patterson exclaimed. “I’ve got to get this phone number changed.”

  “Before you do, J.B., please remember that I rarely call.”

  “True. You may be a lawyer, but you’re not a pest. What’s up?”

  “Robert Wentworth Hamilton,” Christo said.

  There was a moment of silence, which Christo translated as Say nothing.

  “What about him?” Patterson asked.

  “He’s a client … in Moscow … and I’m not able to communicate with him.”

  Again Patterson paused before saying, “I don’t know what I can do about that. Thanks for calling. Keep in touch.”

  “Please hold on for a minute, J.B. Is Robert Hamilton still a person of interest?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “On what basis?” Christakos asked.

  “I assume you’d know that. Possible accessory to murder and obstruction of justice. In fact we need to see him again.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.”

  “And why is that?” Patterson asked, his voice tightening.

  “Because, as I just told you, he happens to be in Moscow.”

  “Seems to be a popular vacation spot for lawbreakers these days.”

  “My client’s broken no laws.”

  “Maybe the Department of Justice will just spell it out in an indictment.”

  “And what?” Christakos asked. “Seek to extradite him from Russia? Good luck.”

  “Well, if he likes Russia so much, I hope he enjoys the Bolshoi—or maybe there’s a Russian prosecutor who’ll put him in a cell in Siberia. Gotta go, Christo.”

  “Please hold on for a minute, J.B. I have reason to believe that Mr. Hamilton is being held incommunicado. If the Oxley administration doesn’t want to do something about it, I think I have to put up a kind of Amber Alert.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning the media,” Christakos replied.

  “I’m not part of the Oxley administration, Christo. I’m an employee of the Department of Justice. And if you want to tell the media something, that’s your privilege. Sorry. Gotta go.”

  Patterson’s remark about “not being part of the Oxley administration” convinced Christakos that Patterson’s first reaction would be to contact the White House and warn them.

  Christakos looked up the confidential cell phone number of Ray Quinlan, President Oxley’s chief of staff. Then Christakos went to an antique lowboy chest that held a miniature refrigerator and a tray of white plastic spoons. He returned to his desk to consume his regular lunch of plain yogurt, giving Patterson time to alert the White House.

  For his next call, Christakos again used his landline. He didn’t trust cell phones, although he was compelled to have one because he had clients who did not like landlines. He pictured a great cloud full of words that rained down on the NSA Data Center, code named Bumblehive, in Bluffdale, Utah. A lawyer involved in a privacy case, knowing Christakos’ obsession about the NSA, had sent Christakos a snapshot—by cell phone, of course—showing the sign outside Bumblehive’s front door: WELCOME TO THE UTAH DATA CENTER. IF YOU HAVE NOTHING TO HIDE, YOU HAVE NOTHING TO FEAR.

  * * *

  Quinlan was notoriously snappish, especially to the media. But, seeing Christakos’ ID on his phone, he answered with a rapid-fire of goodwill: “Christo! Long time no see. What can I do for you?”

  “Thanks for taking my call, Ray. What you can do for me is help me get my client, Robert Wentworth Hamilton, out of Moscow. Mr. Hamilton plans to stay there unless all charges are dropped and he receives a presidential grant of immunity.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. In fact, I don’t know who your client is,” Quinlan said.

  “Then you’ve been living on some other planet. He’s the billionaire who is going to bring an asteroid into a close orbit so it can be mined.”

  “What’s this got to do with immunity?” Quinlan asked, his usual cantankerous tone suddenly returning.

  “The FBI has been harassing him about the murders that took place at Sean Falcone’s law firm. They say Mr. Hamilton is a person of interest and may be charged as an accessory to murder and obstructing justice. They are defaming my client and I’m going to sue the government for millions and—”

  “You’re sucking wind, Christo. I’m no lawyer, but I know the king can do no wrong and there’s a thing called governmental immunity. That’s the only immunity that you should be talking about.”

  “I think you’d better check with White House counsel on that. Better yet, check with your boss.”

  “Your client’s got a problem with the law,” Quinlan snarled. “You work it out with the FBI or Justice. The President doesn’t get involved with that shit.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll just call Philip Dake. He’s writing a book about my client. He might be interested to know why another American citizen has to seek asylum in Russia.”

  Christakos knew that just saying the word Dake instilled panic and inspired fear or murderous thoughts. For many years, people in the White House, the Pentagon, and the intelligence community had opened the day’s edition of the Post and found Dake’s byline over a story that exposed government secrets, officials’ shoddy behavior, or fraud and theft involving millions of government or political funds.

  “Yeah. Well, be my guest with that prick, Dake,” Quinlan yelled, calming slightly to add, “Maybe the American people will be sympathetic with a billionaire who wants to have a bunk bed with Edward Snowden. Make a real nice story.”

  Quinlan, as usual, ended the call without a goodbye.

  9

  A dark-windowed SUV roared through the southwest gates of the White House and pulled to a rough stop at the lower-level entrance to the West Wing. Frank Carlton, a retired four-star Air Force general, stepped from the vehicle’s rear seat, and, accompanied by two burly security agents, walked under the canopy-covered entrance located directly across from the old Eisenhower Executive Office Building.

  Carlton, a short and compact onetime military man, maintained the erect bearing of that profession. He wore black-rimmed glasses that added a stern look to his chiseled face. His close-cropped dark hair was just starting to gray. He rarely smiled.

  Carlton was President Blake Oxley’s national security adviser. It was his job to oversee the entire galaxy of all that the American government did to protect the nation and all it did to advance its interests around the world. This was a task that would short out the circuits of almost anyone.

  Carlton’s predecessor, Sean Falcone, had managed to stick it out for six years. In his farewell advice to Oxley, Falcone had urged that Oxley appoint Carlton, who was the director of National Intelligence when Oxley made him national security adviser. Falcone especially admired Carlton’s skillful handling of the endless cacophony of the seventeen agencies made up of what was hopefully called the intelligence community.

  On paper, as national security adviser, Carlton was just a West Wing aide to the President. He had no direct power over the Department of State, the Department of Defense, or the intelligence community. His power came from two indisputable fact
s: He occupied a corner office in the White House; and Blake Oxley trusted him.

  Oxley knew that Carlton could withstand the thunderous assault of Washington’s bureaucracies, and he knew that his advice would be objective and independent. Lately, Carlton had focused on the National Security Agency, whose massive surveillance apparatus was penetrating the phones and computers of ordinary citizens—and foreign leaders.

  Carlton had to advise the President on how best to make sure that the homeland was protected against all enemies, foreign and domestic. Included in that advice was Carlton’s assessment on how the NSA and counterintelligence officials were gathering all the information they needed—while not trampling on citizens’ rights or stepping on the toes of egotistical members of Congress. When he was serving as director of National Intelligence, Carlton had cracked that the American people demanded the “immaculate selection” of intelligence.

  Well, the crack did not make Carlton smile today.

  Out of long habit, Carlton snapped a quick salute to the two guards as he passed through a set of doors and entered a small vestibule and second set of doors. He skipped stopping at his office upstairs, turned right and quickly descended a short set of stairs. At the base of the stairs, he turned right again and dropped his cell phone into the hands of a Navy lieutenant commander who motioned for the Marine guard to open the door to the Situation Room.

  If there was a room that was completely protected against any form of electronic penetration, it was this. To the unknowing public, the room was perceived to be as large as a football field filled with giant LED monitors that gave the President and his national security team a window into any place on the planet, day and night. From here they could monitor SEAL teams taking down Islamist leaders or send a Hellfire missile into the lair of a jihadist before he could lop off the head of an American soldier.

  In truth, the room was only big enough to accommodate a dozen or more people. Most corporate boardrooms would dwarf the President’s security quarters, but then, of course, virtually everything said in the corporate rooms of splendor could be monitored by cyber spies among competitors or in other countries. Size doesn’t always have its privileges.