Final Strike--A Sean Falcone Novel

by William S. Cohen

  “That’s about all we were given, Sean,” Drexler said.

  “And you code-named me ‘Chamberlain’ because you knew when I heard ‘Chamberlain’ I’d figure that you had a file on me, complete with an old code name. And I’d know something funny was going on.”

  Drexler shrugged, smiled, and said. “Let’s get on with it, Sean. We can lay out a few things now, and tomorrow morning—”

  “So I’m definitely here overnight?”

  “Right,” Drexler said. “You’ll be sleeping in a bedroom that George Washington slept in.”

  “And a tin bathtub?”

  “I believe you’ll find our accommodations quite modern,” Drexler said. “Now, down to business. You’ll run the op from the scene. There will not be any backup.”

  “What about the Agency? Will the Moscow station chief know?”

  “Not my call, Sean. But this is freelance, off the grid. Right?”

  “Right,” Falcone replied, suddenly seeing himself walking into darkness.

  “You’ll be registered in the hotel that Hamilton’s in.”

  “Under my name?”

  “You’re too well known for a cover name.”

  “And why am I in Moscow?”

  “You’ll be attending a conference on behalf of your firm. And three associates are coming, too. But not with you. They’ll be coming, from, say, Los Angeles, Chicago, and New York. They’ll be in other hotels.”

  “And what conference am I attending—along with my associates?”

  “Well, how do you get four American guys into Moscow without arousing suspicion? Annie came up with a brilliant answer. She checked out a Russian online page that lists—in English—conferences and trade shows at Moscow exhibition sites. I mean, there’s even an international tattoo convention next week!”

  “That wouldn’t work, at least not for me,” Falcone said.

  “You’ll be attending the International Conference on Cyber Defense. It’s on next week. A thousand bucks a head. So it’s serious. And—get this. They—”

  “Hold on, Drex. You’ve got to be kidding. Cyber defense? In Russia? The country that has some of the best criminal hackers in the world, guys who drain bank accounts, sell credit card numbers, get into IRS data banks. I can’t—”

  “That’s the point,” Annie Drexler said, softly interrupting. “The guy who set up the conference is a British software developer. He thought he would get more publicity by, as he put it, ‘going into the lion’s den to find out what the lions are up to.’”

  “Where did you get the information on this lion’s den guy? A CIA suggestion?”

  “We’re never connected to—or beholden to—the CIA,” Annie said. “I read about the conference on his blog. One of many that I faithfully read, believe me. And—”

  “Annie’s my research department,” Drexler broke in to say.

  “And, to continue,” Annie said, sounding annoyed at the interruption, “when Dad gave me an idea this morning about what you needed, I … well, I thought of this.”

  “This morning?” Falcone exclaimed. “Come on, Drex. This has been in the works a while.”

  “Look, Sean. You’re wise enough to know that there are a lot of things on the edges of ops like this. Lots of things that—let’s face it—aren’t worth going into. The deal is to get this guy out of Moscow. That’s all we need to talk about. Now, getting back to that, you’ll be working with four of my guys plus a guy in Moscow. His code name is Domino.”

  “He’s not ‘one of your boys’?”

  “Basically, he’s freelance. On a retainer.”

  “Retainer?” Falcone asked. “Who else does he work for? China? Russia?”

  “Come on, Sean. He’s been vetted. He’s okay. Trust me.”

  “You know, Drex, the funny thing is that you say ‘trust me’ exactly at the point when that’s all I can do. Sure. I trust you. Okay. Let’s say that the conference works as a cover for me and my associates,” Falcone said. “What about the op? How do we snatch Hamilton?”

  “You run the op out of your room in the Hotel Baltschug Kempinski.”

  “How the hell do I do that?”

  “Don’t worry, Sean. We’ve had ops like this. We know how to get people out of places they shouldn’t be in. Including Moscow. I just told you. I’ve got a fine asset there.”

  “Tell me about the rest of the team,” Falcone said, rapidly growing suspicious about how much people in the official U.S. government knew about the abduction plans—while knowing that he had passed the point of no return.

  27

  Drexler leaned back, stretched his arms, wriggled his fingers, and twisted in the cold, unyielding chair. He was a man of action trapped at a keyboard in a skiff. He was a man who spent most of his life giving orders, risking lives, thinking fast. But he had also given numerous briefings to men in suits. And through the strength of his will he was a man determined to be as good at that job as he had been when he had stars on his shoulders.

  “Before I tell you about your team, let me tell you about my force,” Drexler said. “We have what I call a Prior Service Corps: battle-tested vets—Navy SEALs, Delta Force, Rangers, Air Force Special Ops. Funny, most of them are Southern boys—rednecks like me. We were taught by our elders—fathers and grandfathers and uncles who had worn the uniform. They taught us to be courteous, taught us how to be kind to strangers, polite to women. And, sure enough, that all comes in handy lots of times on deployment in the Middle East.”

  “I noticed that back in my combat days,” Falcone said. “My best men were usually from the South.”

  Drexler smiled and continued, “A few of my people are on retainer contracts that guarantee a certain number of service days a year. Many have native-speaker language competence. The rest of them are men—and some women—who are willing to sign short-term contracts for planning and carrying out an op.”

  “What about those guys who picked me up?” Falcone asked.

  “They—and the people at the gate, the perimeter security force, and logistics and clerical people—are full-time GSS employees. Most of them rotate through a standby group, ready twenty-four-seven to roll out for a contingency op,” Drexler replied.

  “But they opted out of the service and became contractors.”

  “Right. I guess basically they had enough of life in uniform.”

  “What did they want? Money?” Falcone asked.

  “Each guy has his reason, Sean. We vet them closely, based on their service records, which are a helluva lot more reliable than civilian résumés. An honorable discharge is a must. But we’re a little like the French Foreign Legion. We don’t ask a lot of personal questions. There’s one guy—ex-Delta—who is in the federal witness program. I don’t know why. He has an honorable discharge. That’s good enough for me.”

  Falcone nodded and asked, “And what about security clearance?”

  “When it’s needed for a mission, we find people whose clearance is up to date,” Drexler said. “That covers a lot of my people. And I hire combat vets. They and the other members of the Prior Service Corps are my men and women. A client tells me what’s wanted, we work out an ops plan, and I pick the team because I know what is needed and who can do it. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Falcone said. “I’m sure they’re all good vets with fine service records and medals. But when you get down to it, Drex, they’re mercenaries. That’s what I’ve heard a SEAL call them. And they’re unlawful combatants under the Geneva Convention.”

  “That’s bullshit, Sean,” Drexler said, his voice rising. “They’re warriors, American warriors of a certain kind. They’re risking their necks in ways worse than when they were in the service. A Special Ops soldier fucks up and accidentally kills a couple of Iraqis, the Army does the judging. A contractor soldier makes a mistake and he gets arrested and dragged into a civilian court. Look at what happened to those Blackwater guys. They shoot some Iraqis and are accused of murder. Thirty years to life! Thank God, the sentenc
es were reversed. But you’re off, Sean. Way off. Take my advice and don’t say ‘mercenaries’ around my guys.”

  “Okay,” Falcone conceded. “But I’m still concerned about who is financing this. I guess you know I’m a private citizen and there can’t be any government funds involved in this … event.”

  A frown rippled across Drexler’s brow. “I told you, Sean. Philanthropy. Look it up.” He hammered the keyboard and philanthropy appeared on the monitor, with a definition, compliments of dictionary.com: altruistic concern for human welfare and advancement, usually manifested by donations of money, property, or work.

  “So this is all altruism,” Falcone said. “Pure altruism.”

  “Let’s get to who I picked,” Drexler said.

  “You’re right, Drex. Let’s get to the op,” Falcone said. “Tell me about your guys.”

  Drexler did not look up from the keyboard. He struck a few keys. On the monitor philanthropy was replaced by the round, florid face of a man who looked to be in his forties.

  “This is Gregor Ivanisov,” Drexler said. “Code name Iceman. He’s our house Russian. Speaks it with a Moscow accent. Plays the domra, an old Russian kind of guitar. So he can always cover as a musician.”

  “I thought you said we needed two Russian speakers.”

  “I did. The other one is Domino.”

  “Okay. Back to Iceman,” Falcone said. “Where’s he fit in the plan?”

  “He’s our driver. Knows the city. Can handle a van.”

  “What else do you know about him?” Falcone asked.

  “This is not like you’re picking a jury, Sean,” Drexler said, sounding irritated. “I do the picking. I know these guys inside and out. I don’t hand out résumés.” He felt his irritation heading toward anger and, looking at Annie, said, “Maybe it would be better if we switched to talking about communications.”

  Drexler turned, spun a combination dial on a metal cabinet and opened the heavy door. He took out what looked like a standard black smartphone and handed it to Annie.

  “Looks pretty much like my phone,” Falcone said.

  “Looks are deceiving,” she said. “This is a special kind of phone, called a Blackphone 4. Each member of the ops team will have one. When you speak or text, every word is encrypted by a system that was developed specifically to stymie the NSA, meaning stymie everyone. NSA may be able to crack open iPhones, but not this baby,” she said, holding the phone up like a trophy. “You can also press this All button and talk to everyone in a conference call. You will be in a very private network, using what’s called peer-to-peer encryption, based on algorithms that constantly change.”

  She pointed to an app button incised with a white outline of a skull. “This will be only on your phone. The Remote Wipe button,” she said. “If you press this twice, the phone deletes all its data and all the data in your peer-to-peer network. Then it powers down to zero. All phones die and cannot be brought back to life.” She handed it back to Drexler, who returned it to the cabinet.

  He then stood and stretched, ending the skiff session. “How about a walk?” he said. “Sometimes outdoors is a better skiff than a skiff is.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Falcone replied.

  The two men followed Annie, who locked the skiff behind them and headed for Drexler’s office. He led Falcone into the front hallway, at the foot of a double staircase. “I’ll show you to your room. You brought a heavy jacket, right?” Falcone nodded and followed Drexler.

  “They call it a horseshoe staircase,” Drexler said, stepping on the first red-carpeted stair and gesturing. The stairs ascended to the landing, which was graced by a multi-paned window that framed a landscape rolling toward the York River. The stairway here rose to the left and the right. Falcone followed Drexler to the left and to his room.

  Someone had already taken Falcone’s overnight bag to the room. He wondered if it had been opened and examined. The room was slope-ceilinged, its cream walls and narrow roof bathed in light from a lamp at the side of the bed. Falcone wondered if there was an outlet where he could charge his phone. Then he remembered that he had turned in his phone.

  He put on a leather, fleece-lined jacket and joined Drexler at the bottom of the stairs. They walked down the central hall to a back door. “The idea,” Drexler said, “was to air-condition the place by channeling the river breeze through the back door to the front. Smart guys back then.”

  A worn path wound down about a hundred yards to a gazebo that overlooked the river. Drexler and Falcone sat on a bench in a long silence, broken finally by Drexler. “As I’m sure you guessed,” he said, “I’ve been briefed—well, I think, partially briefed. All I know is that the President wants Hamilton out of Russia for some good and sufficient reason. And I suppose you know the reason.”

  Falcone did not respond.

  “Okay. Maybe this is a super-important op, Sean. But I don’t like it,” Drexler continued. “And I don’t like that deniability bullshit. Somehow, this will come out. Kidnapping. It will drive Lebed nuts. We could be back in the Cold War in an instant.”

  Falcone nodded but again did not speak.

  “What I want most of all,” Drexler said, “is to keep Annie out of this. She loves all the electronic stuff, but she doesn’t know how things get twisted, how a guy goes on a mission expecting to be a hero and winds up on a YouTube video pissing on a guy he just killed. And that’s what gets remembered.”

  “The President thinks he’s saving the world. But he’s got to wonder whether it’s worth it.”

  Drexler nodded, signaling the end of their conversation. “Let’s go to work,” he said.

  28

  Within sight of the main house was a former stable next to a white-fenced corral that two women and a man were using as a running track. They obviously saw Drexler and Falcone approach, but did not show any notice of them. Falcone sensed that invisibility was a requirement for anyone walking these grounds.

  All of the stalls but one had been removed, creating enough space for a gym, showers, and a couple of motel-like rooms for anyone who stayed overnight. In the gym, a dozen or so men and women were in a grunting whirl of motion at rowing machines, stationary bikes, and treadmills. The remaining stall had been converted into an office, which the two men entered. There was a faint scent of horses.

  Sitting on the edge of a table scarred with generations of initials was a man Falcone recognized as the house Russian, Gregor Ivanisov, arms folded across his massive chest.

  “All here?” Drexler asked, taking an old wooden chair behind the table. He motioned Falcone to a folding chair against the wall. Falcone unfolded it and sat down.

  “All here,” Ivanisov echoed.

  “Round ’em up,” Drexler ordered. Ivanisov left, closing the door behind him. He had not acknowledged Falcone.

  Ivanisov quickly returned with three men, all in black sweat suits and sneakers. Each one dipped his head as Drexler called his name—“Jack Beckley.… Harry Reilly.… Bobby Joe Pickens”—and then said, “Grab a chair.”

  They unfolded chairs similar to Falcone’s and sat before him and Drexler.

  “The op is an extraction,” Drexler said. “The man who will be running it is Sean Falcone.” Drexler nodded at Falcone. “I’ve known him for many years. Way back in Vietnam time, he was a Ranger. Wounded. Captured. And—you’re too young to remember—three years in a Vietnam hellhole of a prison. That’s right, North Vietnam, when there were two Vietnams. A lot of tourists go there now.”

  Drexler paused and added, “Falcone. He’s one of us.”

  Falcone felt he had to say something. “Good morning,” he began, not quite knowing where he was going next. “There’s an American in Moscow. He needs to be in the United States for reasons I can’t explain. I’ll do my best to help you get him out.”

  Drexler clapped a hand on Falcone’s back and said, “Good man!” His voice subtly changing to the cadence of command, he looked at his men and said, “The person being extracted
is someone you may have heard of. Robert Wentworth Hamilton. The billionaire. He probably will resist and will need to be sedated and restrained. This op will necessitate the use of your real passports. And you’ll have cover-story jobs.”

  “What kind of jobs, General?” Pickens asked. He had the build of a linebacker.

  “Lawyers.”

  “Lawyers, General?” Reilly asked. “Can I keep my beard?” A thick black beard and curly black hair framed his face.

  “Lots of lawyers these days have beards,” Falcone said, then added, “well-kept beards.”

  “Get a trim,” Drexler said. “And that goes for the rest of you. When you pack, remember: Lawyers. Suits. Ties. Shined shoes. Everyone okay with that wardrobe?”

  They looked at each other, shrugged almost in unison, then mutely looked back at Drexler.

  “Come on, guys,” Drexler said. “Just think you’re going to a buddy’s wedding. Or a funeral. You think you need anything, let me know. Like a decent suitcase. No backpacks.”

  “Maybe Annie would…,” Reilly began.

  “Annie’s out of this. Absolutely out of this,” Drexler said harshly. “Period.”

  “How long will we be in-country, sir?” Beckley asked. He was the shortest of the three, wiry with close-trimmed blond hair.

  “Figure you leave from three airports three days from today,” Drexler said. “A travel day. One day of acclimation in Moscow. Allow two days for the op and return.”

  “Where in Moscow, sir?” Ivanisov asked.

  “The subject is in the Hotel Baltschug Kempinski,” Drexler answered.

  Ivanisov whistled softly and said, “Five-star. Lot of security cameras.”

  “They’ll be taken care of,” Drexler reassured him. “Remember that op at the Moscow Marriott? We’ll be using Domino again.”

  “That’s good news, General,” Ivanisov said.

  “There’s a Marriott in Moscow? So that was a Moscow op?” Falcone asked.

  “Just a friendly reminder, Sean,” Drexler said, looking at Falcone face-to-face. “We don’t talk about what we do.”