Final Strike--A Sean Falcone Novel

by William S. Cohen

  “You’re the client. You’re what gives your President deniability.… I assumed you knew that,” she coolly added.

  Falcone waited a moment before responding: “I’m here as an alibi?”

  “You play an important role.”

  “Jesus.… So what happens next?”

  “Back to Plan A—van in the alley, and—”

  “Except in the alley is a fake police van, supplied by the Israeli Embassy.”

  “Correct. And the original plan continues.”

  “But I still don’t understand the Israeli involvement,” Falcone said. “That makes it an official act of your government.”

  “It’s not official. I’m helping out GSS, not the United States,” Rachel said, not sounding convinced herself.

  “I don’t like it.”

  “There’s a Hebrew phrase that answers your objection, Sean,” she said, rising from the bench and, tight-lipped, looked down on Falcone. “Ein bererah.”

  “Which means?” Falcone asked.

  “‘There is no choice.’ Shall we find a taxi? It’s getting late.”

  50

  The taxi took them to a road curving along the Moskva River, where it flowed near the Kremlin walls. When Rachel gave instructions to the driver, he stopped but looked puzzled and mumbled something as she and Falcone got out. The taxi slowly followed them as they walked along the river, Rachel, grasping Falcone’s arm. “It was here, you know, where Boris Nemtsov was murdered,” she said. Nemtsov, a former deputy prime minister and courageous critic of Lebed’s predecessor, Vladimir Putin, was gunned down by assassins “in the shadow of the Kremlin,” as the New York Times reported.

  “I wanted you to come to this place because I wanted to remind you about what you’re up against. Russia is a totalitarian state. Think murder by government thugs. Think Stalin. Think even Hitler. Think anti-Semitism. And think that if things go wrong on this operation, people could die.”

  “Rachel, I don’t need a history lesson. Lebed is no choir boy, but he—”

  “Lebed—the man your naïve President tries to work with—almost certainly murdered Putin. The official cause of Putin’s death was a stroke caused by microscopic clots that formed in the small blood vessels throughout his body. There’s a scientific name for it. TTP. Also called Moschcowitz’s syndrome. A disorder named after a Jew. Ironic. No? There are suspicions about that diagnosis.”

  “Why?” Falcone asked.

  “TTP is a disease that can be successfully treated through blood transfusions. If it was the cause of death, why wasn’t it detected? Carelessness? Unlikely. No. This was a highly sophisticated murder. Like Litvinenko’s.”

  Former FSB officer Alexander Litvinenko died of polonium poisoning in a London hospital in 2006. Falcone knew that both the CIA and Scotland Yard suspected that he was the victim of a state-sponsored execution.

  “Assassination of Putin by Lebed. Is that the Mossad verdict?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Sounds like that puts you at a high Israeli level. So you’re still very much a Mossad operative. Last I heard, you had quit.”

  “You might put my status as ‘on call.’ And sometimes I do some consulting.”

  “And sometimes the consulting takes you to Drexler?” Falcone asked with a bitter laugh. “What we’re supposed to do tomorrow is a hell of a lot more than consulting. Aren’t you personally worried about being involved in what Lebed will see as an American op?”

  “It will do your President good if Lebed does see it as an American op. Lebed will be surprised that your president is doing something. Oxley is said to be brilliant and that he thinks he’s always the smartest man in the room. Isn’t that right?”

  “Fair to say he has a high opinion of himself,” Falcone conceded.

  “Perhaps. But he’s naïve. Thinks nice thoughts about world peace. Makes nice with Lebed.”

  “So, you believe diplomacy is naïve, obsolete?”

  “The laurel may come in one hand as long as there’s a sword in the other,” Rachel said. “The U.S. looks foolish and weak. Russia invaded Crimea and you did nothing. Wouldn’t even give the Ukrainians anti-tank weapons and night-vision goggles to take on Russians tanks. Putin shoved you out of Syria. Told you to go home and let a real man run the show. All of Oxley’s posturing about peace and diplomacy shook your allies. They—we—lost confidence in your leadership. Your dithering.”

  “So we should have gone to war with Russia over Syria?”

  “You should have set up a safe haven on the Syrian border for the rebels who were being barrel-bombed to death. And told Putin that if he attacked them, his pilots should expect a few missiles to fly up their tails. Do just what the Turks did when he violated their airspace. Instead, you turned your back on the ones you had encouraged to fight. Now Lebed comes, a bear in sheep’s clothing, and you—”

  “Oxley knows Lebed’s not looking for the Nobel Peace Prize,” Falcone said, making a dutiful defense of Oxley. “But you can’t just bomb everybody into submission.”

  “When you don’t act, others see fear, smell weakness…”

  Falcone didn’t disagree with Rachel on this point, but was unwilling to make any concessions. “Always great for others to sit on the sidelines of a fight and hold the coats … and by the way, if you’re such a great ally, why didn’t Mossad share information with us about Lebed poisoning Putin?”

  “Because you have too many leaks. You can’t be trusted.”

  “So why are you telling me this now?”

  “Because I trust you. I know that you will tell this to the right people in your government—and not to Rolling Stone. It’s a card your President might wish to play at some point.”

  “Thanks, Rachel. Good to know I have your vote of confidence.” Falcone’s words were hard and flat.

  “Trust is no longer the basis of the so-called special relationship between your country and mine,” Rachel replied.

  “Trust is still part of governing, at least person-to-person trust,” Falcone said. “I believe you. And I trust you. I also worry about your getting involved in this.”

  “I’m not worried. I’m not engaged in discernible espionage. I’m the owner and operator of a legally registered firm in St. Petersburg. I employ a couple of dozen Russians. I pay Russian taxes—which a lot of my business colleagues do not do.”

  “But if you get caught, you won’t just get kicked out of the country. You’ll get tossed into jail.” He turned to look at her and added, “Or maybe worse. You’re Domino Two.”

  “Don’t worry. I have a safe house in St. Petersburg, where we have a consulate. And I’m seventeen minutes away from a secure place if I have to hop on the Moscow Metro.”

  “The Israeli Embassy?”

  “Exactly,” she said, stopping and looking across the river at the Baltschug Kempinski, bathed in light. She signaled to the taxi, which pulled alongside them, and told the driver to drop Falcone at the Baltschug Kempinski and then take her to the Metropol.

  In the taxi, she took Falcone’s hand in hers and said, “This is my last mission, Sean. I’m really getting out this time.”

  “Why did you take it on? Why not just close shop in St. Petersburg? Assuming there’s a real company there.”

  “Oh, it’s real all right. And, as it turns out, I was invited to be on a panel at the conference. And I might learn something that will help my business.”

  “Which business?”

  “Both,” she replied, laughing.

  “Drexler told me it was his daughter who thought that the conference would serve as a cover for the op. It was you, wasn’t it?” Falcone asked.

  “I do try to keep up,” she said, turning away and shrugging. To Falcone that was a telltale gesture signifying something like I prefer silence to outright lying. “When I told Annie I was going to the conference—that I would even be on a panel—we agreed that it would work as a great cover.”

  “So you ‘happened’ to be going to a con
ference.”

  “Yes. I became interested in the digital world a while ago. I’m good at languages. Information technology is mostly just another language. I found I was good at it. And IT is highly portable. After this operation is over, I won’t be able to work in Russia. I’m about to close down my company. I’ll be taking it to Israel.”

  On an ornamental street lamp across the road Falcone saw a security camera swing on its mounting. Rachel also saw it. “We’re being watched,” Falcone whispered.

  “People often get that feeling in Moscow,” she whispered back. “See you at the conference.”

  51

  Falcone went into the hotel’s lounge, picked up a copy of the Moscow Times, sat down, and began reading a front-page story about Lebed’s recent visit to the Cathedral of Christ the Savior, an Orthodox church near the Kremlin. He told a reporter he had gone there to light candles for people who had been injured or who had given up their lives defending “Novorossia.” The story explained that Novorossia “means not only Ukraine but also all the Russian lands lost since the nineteenth century.”

  And this is the guy who likes Ivan’s Hammer, Falcone thought. He turned the page and while appearing to continue reading, he was trying to organize his thoughts, coolly, as if he were laying out a brief. But Rachel kept interrupting.

  Never mind how Rachel became part of this. We’re going to pull off a kidnap in the heart of Moscow and the Israelis not only know about it, but are part of it. If we’re successful, Prime Minister Avi Weisman can claim at least partial credit, infuriating Oxley, who never wanted to be beholden to Israel.… She’s a direct pipeline to Mossad and Weisman. Maybe more than a pipeline. She was—maybe still is—Weisman’s mistress.

  This operation will give Weisman a way to put Oxley in a corner and force him do what Israel wants. Drexler should have known what Oxley would do if he knew that an Israeli agent was part of the rendition team. But maybe Drexler knew exactly what he was doing. Maybe he thought Oxley was straying too far away from Israel and doing damage to the only country that was willing to take out Iran’s nuclear plants.

  Falcone was not opposed to rendition operations. He had supported grabbing several jihadis when he was national security adviser. But an American citizen? Different kettle of fish. And there was no way to call it off. No way to get out of Moscow if things went south. And if the op is botched, the blame comes down on me.

  I can just see Oxley in the White House press room: “I had no knowledge of any such plan to kidnap an American citizen living in Moscow of his own free will. This contravenes and goes against the grain of everything I hold dear as an American and as your commander-in-chief. This is just the kind of activity that I thought was abandoned long ago. I’m absolutely stunned that a former close friend and associate of mine would conceive of such a blatant disregard for the law.…”

  Well, too late now.

  Falcone knew they were on their own. The original Domino dead. No CIA resources available. Beginning with Putin and continuing under Lebed, the Russians had rolled up most of the CIA’s Russian assets. He had heard that from Drexler. And in ops like this one, there always had to be a well thought-out Plan B. But nada. Nothing.

  A man walking toward the bar at the end of the lounge stopped at the plush couch where Falcone was sitting. “I couldn’t help noticing what you were reading,” he said. “Interesting story. Mind if I sit down?” His voice was mid-Atlantic and slightly commanding. He could have been American or British, possibly ex-military.

  “I’m a friend of Sam Stone and Aaron Zwerdling,” he said, casually naming the director of the CIA and the director of National Intelligence. He could be anybody, Falcone thought. Including the FSB. As national security adviser, Falcone had been thoroughly briefed on the FSB, a combined spy agency and security service. An FSB guy would know who I am.

  “I’m afraid I’m not acquainted with those gentlemen,” Falcone said, looking back at the newspaper.

  “Of course,” the man said, smiling. “But how do I know that your code name is Chamberlain? All I want to tell you is that Sam and Aaron know you’re here and what you’re planning to do. If you think the thing is going bad, dial five-five-five on that special phone of yours and we’ll get you to the embassy. But only you. You know too much to wind up in a Russkie jail. Don’t follow me.”

  The man, still smiling, stood and resumed his way to the bar.

  Falcone put down the paper and once more found himself staring through a window’s reflective scrim at the silhouette of the Kremlin. Who knows what? Who sent Mr. Smiley? CIA? Mossad? FSB? Why can’t I pull the plug on this thing? He remembered that disaster during the Iran hostage crisis when President Carter ordered a military rescue. Things started to go wrong. Carter aborted the mission. It ended with an accident killing eight of the would-be rescuers. This time the whole damn Earth is the hostage. How can Oxley stop this one? He doesn’t even know it’s happening. Or does he?

  Someone in the White House has to know. And gave approval to Drexler. So, was Oxley trying to throw a kiss to Weisman after screwing Israel over on the Iranian nuclear deal?

  Falcone knew that Washington buzzed about relations with the Israeli prime minister being as bad as anyone had ever seen. Weisman had more sway with Congress than Oxley. Members liked the way Weisman told Oxley off, not in any classified diplomatic cables but in his face and in public. Oxley was furious with Weisman for publicly trying to undermine and humiliate him. In retaliation, he put issues of importance to Israel on ice. But maybe Oxley had had a change of heart. Maybe he decided to warm up the relationship to room temperature, thinking that he didn’t want to put his successor into a deeper hole than the one that existed. It was hard to know.

  Few Israelis believed that the Iranians hadn’t taken Oxley to the cleaners. And Israeli watchers knew that the Iranians had been cheating on International Atomic Energy inspections. “On any day,” an Israeli official had said in a GNN interview, “the mullahs could be just a few months away from being able to stick a nuclear-tipped message into the Western Wall in Jerusalem.”

  Falcone at first could not make any sense of the Israeli decision to aid the United States. Then he remembered that the Russians had gone through with the sale to Iran of anti-aircraft missiles, one of the world’s most advanced air-defense weapons. The reason could be an Israeli payback, but, he realized, that would only serve to hit the Bear in the nose with a small stick: not enough to hurt it; just enough to make it mad. And Russia could respond with, “You want to play, Jew boys? How about we sell Supreme Leader Khamenei our S-400s, which can travel at 10,500 miles per hour, faster than any aircraft anywhere? The same ones we stuck in Syria. Would you like to play that game?”

  Just doesn’t add up. I’m on the stage in the theater of the absurd.

  52

  Morning came too early for Falcone. Jet lag, dinner, drinks, Rachel as the new Domino—all had combined to take a large toll. He had slept fitfully, slipping into a dreamscape only to be jarred awake by harsh memories that he could not suppress. A slice of sunlight cut through curtains that he had failed to close fully. Angry with the morning that had come too soon, he rose from the bed, snapped the brocaded drapes tightly together, and flopped back into bed. Falcone tried to fight his way back to sleep, switching his body to the right, then minutes later, tugging and reshaping the pillows, and tumbling back to the left. It was useless.

  His mind, though weighted with fatigue, rejected entry into the comfort of spiritual calm. Reluctantly, he sat up and surveyed the room, unsure at that moment, exactly where he was. Finally, his eyes settled on a large Samsung television monitor suspended over a modern cabinet that contained a minibar and condiments.

  He located the remote control and snapped on the TV. A local morning show, hosted by a perky couple, who looked like rejects from Fox News, flooded the room with light and sound. They chirped happily away in Russian. He switched channels rapidly, looking for GNN but discovering that it was being blocked. The
only English-speaking channels he could find were CNBC and Bloomberg.

  No good news on either one. Middle East still stuck in blood feuds by people who were determined to dig fresh graves rather than heal old wounds. Continuing threat of war in North and East Asia. Water scarcity throughout the Western United States. China’s economy underperforming.…

  The hotel’s gym wasn’t open this early. For one mad moment he was tempted to knock on Hamilton’s door, a floor above. Instead, he slipped on a blue running suit he had packed, along with a pair of Air Jordans. He pulled a wool watch cap down over his ears and headed for the elevator.

  Out on the street, he stretched his leg muscles briefly and started to jog along the sidewalk, not heading in any particular direction.

  The cold air snapped his senses to full alert. Without turning his head, he scanned the street ahead, looking left to right. Traffic was almost non-existent: a few trucks and night-shift workers heading home.

  He decided to cross the street and use the move as an excuse to look behind to see if anyone was following him. No one.

  Moscow had never been high on Falcone’s list of garden spots. Sure, there was the eye-catching beauty of St. Basil’s Cathedral and the forbidding Kremlin, surrounded by stay-away walls. And there were newly minted, gleaming high-rise buildings constructed in the city’s quest to look relevant to the twenty-first century.

  But no amount of steel and glass could compensate for the grimness in the faces of the Russian people. However high their ballerinas and astronauts could soar, however profound their Dostoyevskys, Nabokovs, and Pasternaks, there hovered about them—no, within them—a crowd of sorrows. Perhaps it was just the tug of history, of having achieved greatness and then losing it time and again to czars, Great Wars, communists, oligarchs, and now crony capitalists. Whatever the reason, there was within them a boorishness and pride, a romanticism and cynicism, the foreknowledge that their demand for respect would go unfulfilled.