Final Strike--A Sean Falcone Novel

by William S. Cohen

  The G-550 flies nonstop to the private-aircraft area of Dulles, where Falcone hands Hamilton over to Frank Carlton. And then what? As the mental scenario of the op ended, Falcone was left with that question. His mind gave him an answer: Get the location of Asteroid USA. And Turn the whole damn thing over to Frank Carlton. But he knew that he was fooling himself. Even when this was over he would still be involved in figuring out how to defend the Earth. Twenty years. Wonder who will be alive. Who will be President … He drifted off with a short, hazy dream about wandering in the dark inside a building without windows.

  * * *

  Deep sleep kept eluding Falcone. It didn’t help that the pilot seemed determined to fly at an altitude that was one long stream of turbulence. During one particular moment when the 787 Dreamliner tossed about violently, Falcone noticed a nearby passenger pull out a Bible and quietly start to pray.

  His thoughts turned cynical. “Don’t bother,” he was tempted to tell the man with the Bible. No one is out there. Why would you think that a divine force exists or cares about you or anyone else? You think your life is more worthy than anyone else’s? That you are more decent, more moral—and deserving of heavenly protection?

  No sooner did these dark thoughts pass behind his eyes than Falcone wished that he could find the peace or solace that believers did. Or seemed to.

  Philosophers had long argued that the purpose of mankind was to perfect itself, to achieve a level of enlightenment that brings us closer to the divine. Adolf Hitler thought about perfection, too. Eliminating all he deemed to be of impure blood. Jews, gypsies, blacks, didn’t make the cut for purity and were turned to ash in his ovens.

  Maybe there were intelligent beings in the universe. Maybe we’d have to wait until a collection of star dust burst into existence and set in motion the creation of a new class of morally superior beings. He was convinced that that place wasn’t going to be called Earth.

  Falcone didn’t always think like this. He was raised as a good Catholic and believed that God’s son was sent to cleanse the hearts and souls of man. But that was before he held a gun and killed young men in a land far away from Boston’s Little Italy. Before he was tortured by Bug and Prick and begged God to rescue him and his band of beaten brothers.

  Rescue came not with the hand of God but by a bunch of sellouts in Congress who cut off money for the war. And by Richard Nixon knowing he had to fold ’em, sanctimoniously declaring he had achieved a “peace with honor.” What horseshit.…

  A baby’s cry from somewhere in the cabin jolted him, pulling him back from the edge of melancholia.

  42

  Falcone managed to get some sleep before the plane landed in Frankfurt. The young woman in the VIP lounge directed him to a door marked PRIVATE at the back of the lounge and said, “Your colleague has arrived.”

  Gregor Ivanisov was sitting in a yellow club chair next to a low table. From his expression, Falcone sensed that he had news that was not going to be good. But he held up a champagne flute, prompting in Falcone’s mind a moment of guilty remembrance of his meeting with Fedotov. On the table was an ice bucket sprouting a bottle of champagne.

  “Good to see you,” Ivanisov said. “You got the news, I assume.”

  “What?” Falcone asked, filling his flute.

  “Domino is dead. Killed by a hit-and-run.”

  “Jesus! So we abort?”

  “No. The General says no abort. He has a new Domino.”

  “So he gets to decide whether we abort?”

  “Yes. Once we’re in the field. That’s the way it works.”

  “We’re not there yet.” Falcone thought back to Jimmy Carter’s botched attempt to rescue the American hostages in Iran. No one knew who was in charge. “I may have to make a call to clear up who can abort. Why didn’t I find out about Domino? And how the hell did you hear?”

  “Paged at Logan, just as I was boarding. I assumed you knew, too.”

  “No. This is the first I’ve heard. I guess I’ve been blacked out. What do you know?”

  “The General was brief. Like he usually is. He just said they got word Domino was killed in an accident in Moscow. Lot of crazy or drunk drivers in Moscow. ‘Hit-and-run’ happens a lot. But it isn’t always an accident. Some of them involve oligarch warfare and are unofficially known as ‘business-related.’”

  “So I’ve heard,” Falcone said. “But this sounds like it’s more official. Sounds like the FSB is onto us.”

  “I thought of that, too,” Ivanisov replied. “It’s possible. But it’s also possible that the FSB isn’t going to connect the dots. Somebody brings in Domino for some reason—maybe he’s got a big mouth, maybe a girlfriend squealed on him. Somebody roughs him up a bit during questioning and he dies. So they set up a phony accident and make it look like a hit-and-run.”

  “Sounds like you know a lot about how the FSB operates,” Falcone said.

  “I have friends in Russia. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “Okay. So maybe the FSB isn’t tracking us down. How the hell can a new guy slip into being Domino at this point?”

  “We’ve got to trust the General. It’s what we do.”

  Falcone nodded, unable to speak for a moment, feeling the fear and the unknown. Trust the General, Falcone thought. Yes, that’s what we do, what we soldiers of the state have done for centuries.

  “I wish I had your faith,” Falcone said. “I read somewhere that when a plan meets the real world, the real world always wins. Drexler surely knows that.”

  Ivanisov poured himself another glass of champagne and said, “Domino was a lot of help in Yemen.”

  “Yemen? What the hell…?”

  “Knew his way around. Real good with languages. Spoke perfect Arabic, Hebrew, Russian too, but with a slight Ukrainian accent. Smart as hell. I think he might have been ex-CIA. He knew where all the electrical switches were. Things like that. Had a sense of humor, too. I got the idea that he ran a string of assets, like maybe a concierge.”

  “And he was a freelancer? That’s what Drexler told me,” Falcone said. He could not call him “the General.”

  “I thought—well, this’ll sound funny—but I thought that maybe being freelance was his cover.”

  “You’re saying that he was CIA? I thought GSS didn’t work with the CIA.”

  “I’m saying that his cover was not being CIA.”

  “Damn!” Falcone said. “I need the real world.” He reached for the bottle. “Where is it?”

  “Somewhere around the corner,” Ivanisov said, filling his glass and laughing.

  “I try not to look around the corner,” Falcone said.

  “Good idea, Sean. But you must know this kind of fuck up happens all the time.”

  “Right. But Domino. What exactly did he do in that Yemen snatch?”

  “I don’t talk about my travels,” Ivanisov said. “But let me say that it went off pretty well. All we had to do was grab Abu Saif Ramadi, stuff him into a bag and get to the coast, a couple of miles or less. Then we had a sub pick us up and haul ass outta there. Yemenis didn’t raise much of a fuss. Ramadi was attracting too many drone strikes. And they were happy to get rid of him without looking like they sold one of their bros out. This op is a lot different. Sounds like Lebed personally wants Hamilton in Russia.”

  “Where’d you take Ramadi? Guantanamo?” Falcone hated the thought of Gitmo. He had spent too many days dealing with Congress to get them to shut the place down.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Or won’t say?”

  Ivanisov shrugged his shoulders and remained silent.

  “I appreciate your knowing how to keep your mouth shut,” Falcone said. “Lots of people don’t. But can you tell me how Drexler heard about Domino’s death?”

  “I’d guess Annie. She’s glued to her computer every minute we’re planning and going on an op. She got a lot from her online reading of the Moscow Times. Lots of stories about the hit-and-run. Big news when an American gets killed. The
Russkies really love to hate us, you know.”

  “It’s an English-language paper, right?”

  “Yeah. And no big supporter of Lebed, but they have to be careful how far they can go or one of their editors will disappear.”

  “So you’re figuring Annie saw online that an American was killed in a hit-and-run, and, when she saw his name she knew it was Domino.”

  “Sounds about right. And, you know what? I still give us a fair chance of pulling this off. But win or lose, either way, this is my last op. I’ve danced with the devil too many times.

  Short, Falcone thought, remembering the young guy in his company who had “Don’t Shoot Me. I’m Short” written on his helmet. Short meant “short-timer,” someone with a month or so to go in Vietnam before going home. Maybe Gregor is thinking short. Falcone tried not to remember that the kid with the Short sign didn’t make it home.

  “Like I said. Call me when you’re back,” Falcone said. “I’m serious”

  “Roger that,” Ivanisov said, looking at his watch. “Look. I’ve got to get going. I fly Aeroflot from here to Berlin, then from there, on Germanwings, to Moscow. And—”

  “Germanwings? That’s the outfit whose plane—”

  “Yeah. The one that had the crazy copilot that crashed into the mountain. Well, he won’t be driving on my flight.”

  “Why the odd flight to Berlin?”

  “The idea was to find a way for me to land at Vnukovo. You and everybody else are landing at Sheremetyevo and heading for downtown Moscow hotels. I’ll be at the airport hotel at Vnukovo.”

  “Why Vnukovo?”

  “Moscow has three major airports. Sheremetyevo gets most U.S. flights. Vnukovo is busy, with passengers and cargo, and it’s a little closer to the hotel.” He leaned in and lowered his voice, though they were the only people in the room. “It’s also where we exit. I get a chance for a last-minute recon.”

  Ivanisov picked up his carry-on and headed for the door. “See you soon,” he said. “And don’t say ‘good luck.’ I don’t believe in luck.”

  43

  As soon as Ivanisov left, Falcone took out his Blackphone 4 and called Ursula, knowing that, no matter the time, she would be no farther than two rings from her cell phone.

  “Yes?” she said cautiously. The ID panel was blank, and she did not immediately know the caller was Falcone.

  “First, no names. All’s well. I just want you to do something.”

  “Yes?” she repeated.

  “Online, find the Moscow Times for the last few days. Look for any stories about hit-and-run accidents, especially any about an American.” A thought flashed in his mind: Iceman for Ivanisov, Buggy for Beckley, Rambo for Reilly, Pepper for Pickens.… “Probably the American’s name will begin with the letter D.”

  “D as in—”

  “… As in Domino. Hold on to that information until I ask for it. Do not attempt to call me. Okay?”

  “Yes. You … you’re all right?”

  “Yes. Fine. See you soon. Goodbye.”

  * * *

  The last time Falcone arrived in Moscow he was aboard Air Force One with Oxley, who was going to Lebed’s inauguration. The presidential plane, Falcone remembered, landed at Vnukovo Airport, not Sheremetyevo. Vnukovo had a VIP lounge and VIP hall, both adorned with Russian flags and huge impressionistic murals. VIPs don’t go through baggage, customs, or security. They all passed directly from the VIP hall to the airport’s exit road and the highway to Moscow. Vnukovo had been mentioned in Drexler’s briefing, but Falcone had not appreciated its potential virtues as a getaway site.

  Falcone’s mind returned to the present as he handed over his passport, with stapled visa, to a stern-faced woman in a blue uniform with a blue cap perched on a stack of shiny black hair. She took one look at the visa, raised her head, and suddenly smiled and nodded. A diplomatic visa opens doors and inspires feigned good manners.

  As Falcone passed through Passport Control, a porter appeared and led him to baggage claim. Then, carrying the single bag, the porter whisked Falcone to an exit door that opened to noise and confusion, except for several welcoming drivers who stood silently in a semicircle, holding signs. Falcone and the porter headed toward the one that said FALCONE and words in Cyrillic that he assumed said Hotel Baltschug Kempinski.

  An hour later, he was in his large sixth-floor corner room, directly below Hamilton’s executive suite. He collapsed on a king-size bed without unpacking, took a short nap, and left the room to board the elevator (just where Domino said it would be) to the lobby floor. He took a seat at a table in the lounge and saw the Kremlin skyline, etched by the gathering night. He ordered a Regalia vodka on the rocks, perhaps, he thought, in homage to Ambassador Fedotov.

  He wanted to relax, but his mind beckoned, forcing him to run through the schedule. Tomorrow, Tuesday, he was scheduled to appear at the Metropol Hotel, the site of the International Conference on Cyber Defense. If the FSB wanted to move on us, that would be the day. And diplomatically they could keep this quiet; they could just round us up and deport us without publicity.

  So maybe the plan would be aborted by the FSB on Tuesday. But if nothing happened on Tuesday, it could mean that the FSB was either allowing the op to go on—or they were planning to catch us red-handed.

  The plan called for the snatching of Hamilton to take place on Wednesday. So there was nothing to do right now, nothing except drive from his mind how many things could go wrong. Hit-and-run. When is a coincidence not a coincidence?

  He would meet the reassembled team at the conference. And they would go through the motions of greeting each other openly because their cover was that they were colleagues in the same law firm. Now he tried to imagine them and link them with their real names and code names. Because neither they nor he had anything on paper, it would be a feat of memory.

  He could easily remember their faces; the challenge was to link names with faces and then place them in their roles during the taking of Hamilton. As he was doing this, his thoughts suddenly turned to the day that he, a brand-new second lieutenant, stood before his first command, a platoon: fourteen men, two of them sergeants. The “point of the spear,” an instructor at officer training school called this basic infantry unit. He was determined to not only learn their names but also to really get to know them and their aspirations. Three were killed before he had memorized their names.

  But GSS was not the U.S. Army. Identities were fake or guarded; unit cohesion lasted only as long as the op; the operatives, in his mind no matter what Drexler said, were mercenaries, not patriots or draftees. Still, he was the leader of this very small unit, and he began working his brain cells. Gregor Ivanisov, Iceman, of course was easy to recollect. Next, the square-jawed face of Jack Beckley, who was Buggy. Then the only guy with a beard: Harry Reilly, Rambo. Bobby Joe Pickens—hard-eyed, grim-faced, who was Pepper … And Domino—no real name, no face. Drexler had said Domino would find him. Well, here I am.

  Falcone sensed that the meeting would happen soon. He cautiously checked the lounge without turning his head by scanning the room’s reflection in the window before him. The lounge appeared as a faint image overlying the glowing Kremlin and the dark Moskva River. He could see the reflections of two women chatting amiably on stools at one end of the bar and three men sitting separately along the rest of it. He was trying to pick which man was probably the new Domino when another person walked into the lounge and into the reflection.

  Startled by her image, he turned his head. Rachel! As the woman neared his table he called out her name: “Rachel!”

  She was Rachel. She had to be. The way she carried herself. Confident of her feminism and sexual allure. Strong. Capable of undoing a man with her sea-green eyes or a garrote that was never far from her hands. And, he realized, she had to be Domino.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said coolly, looking straight into his face. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else.” She wore an embroidered, high neckline blue dress that ended jus
t above her knees. Blue, he remembered, was her favorite color. Israeli-flag blue, she called it.

  In that instant he recognized her crisp voice. Her hair is different. Raven, not blond. And her eyes are brown when they should be green. But who the hell knows? She’s a chameleon. And now the eyes—Rachel’s eyes—told him to be careful.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” Falcone said, standing, His knees were shaky, his heart skipping. “But your resemblance is uncanny … to a fine, wonderful woman I knew.”

  “I can see the bewilderment in your face,” she said, smiling.

  “You could erase my bewilderment by joining me for a drink,” Falcone said.

  The woman sat. Looking at her close up, he had no doubt that she was Rachel. And Rachel was the new Domino. What the hell is she doing? She’s Israeli, a former Mossad assassin. Maybe not former.

  “What brings you to Moscow?” he asked.

  “Perhaps the same thing that brings you,” she said, smiling.

  Falcone was momentarily perplexed by the ambiguity of the woman’s response. A waiter was heading for the table. She obviously timed her next words so that the waiter would hear them. “I run a high-tech security firm in St. Petersburg. I’m on a panel at the cyber security conference.”

  “Wonderful coincidence! I’m also here for the conference. And some men from my firm.… The conference is being held at the Metropol,” Falcone said, and, with a tone of malice in his voice, decided to test her cover, asking, “What brings you to the Kempinski?”

  Smiling, she answered, “Meeting with a software salesman who makes so much money he can stay here. Would you like his name?”