Final Strike--A Sean Falcone Novel

by William S. Cohen

  Falcone had met Mikhail Gorbachev years ago and had admired his courage in trying to turn Russia to face the future instead of sulking over paradise lost. He had watched Boris Yeltsin clown his way to the presidency only to fritter it away at the bottom of a bottle. Initially, Falcone was intrigued by Yeltsin’s selection of Vladimir Putin as his successor. Putin was a KGB operative who bristled with resentment toward the Western world, particularly the United States, which he considered arrogant, debauched, and disrespectful. Putin bare-chested his way to popularity by intimidating the media, jailing his critics, beating up on gays, breaking the borders of Georgia and Ukraine, and choosing to help Assad slaughter his own people rather than help to negotiate an end to the carnage.

  Putin had stirred the souls of the Russian people and stoked fear in the hearts of his European neighbors. Then, suddenly, once again, the promise of greatness slipped away. Putin had died of a rare blood disease—Well, that’s not what the Mossad thinks.

  It had happened so quickly. There had been no notice, no preparation for such an assault on their pride and hopefulness. Something was not quite right but no one was sure. Rachel’s crew had apparently solved the mystery, and Boris Lebed was the killer.

  Lebed promised that he would carry the torch of pride and prosperity forward but would do so with a different style. He would wrap Putin’s fist of iron in his velvet glove. Old wine had been poured into a new bottle that was labeled and marketed as “light and smooth.”

  * * *

  Falcone’s random jogging route ended at a Starbucks near the hotel. Except for the Cyrillic words on the posted menu, he could have been in the Starbucks near his office building in downtown Washington. People were drifting in and forming lines—men in suits and topcoats or in coveralls and hard yellow hats, women in stylish office clothing, college kids tossing backpacks onto chairs before heading for a line, assorted laptop users enjoying free wi-fi.

  Falcone ordered a latte—and responded to a question in Russian by saying “Falcone,” knowing “Sean” probably wouldn’t work. When the slim blond woman at the cash register looked up expectantly, he realized that he did not have a kopek in his pocket. As he tried to explain in pantomime, a man stepped out of the line and said, “Allow me.” He handed the young woman a few rubles and deposited the change in a jar on the counter. He was wearing an inconspicuous gray running suit. He was the same man who had promised Falcone embassy sanctuary if he needed it.

  “Thanks,” Falcone said. “Surprised to see you again.”

  “Oh, I get around,” the man said, going to the end of the line as Falcone picked up his cup—his last name was written in English letters as Falcon—and sat at an empty table, wondering what other surprises lay ahead.

  53

  While the doorman whistled for a taxi to the Hotel Metropol, Falcone stood under the marquee suppressing anger and marshaling questions he wanted to ask Rachel. He was on edge, trying to get to the level of calm he needed today. But, as the doorman waved in a taxi, he felt a surge of panic: suppose the driver was an FSB operative who would whisk him off to an interrogation room somewhere?

  The taxi crawled into the morning traffic. A heavy rain, borne on a high wind and speckled with snow, added another question: What if weather grounded the getaway aircraft? He shook his head as if the movement would help to dislodge the doubt that had settled on his mind like a cawing raven.

  The massive Hotel Metropol finally appeared, shimmering in the rain. Balconies and bas-relief carvings jutted from its walls. Rooftop banners stiffened in the chill wind. Huge mosaic panels portrayed a folktale heroine, the Princess of Dreams. The gray building covered much of a long block. As the taxi pulled into the porte-cochere, a doorman attired like a czar’s Cossack guard stepped forward, opened the door, and offered his arm to Falcone.

  Under a glittering lobby’s huge chandelier, signs in Russian and English directed Falcone to the International Conference on Cyber Defense. He joined a line of people registering in a hall whose stained-glass ceiling and towering walls evoked the grandeur of czarist days. He spotted Rachel in the hall beyond the registration lines but did not nod at her. Registering under his real name, he hesitated for a moment. Suddenly thinking like the prosecutor he had been long ago, he added the registration to the paper trail that could be built against him.

  He headed toward booths that were clustered on the far side of the hall. Most booth banners touted defenses against cyber crime and anti-virus technologies. But Falcone had spotted the nearest and largest, the Apple hospitality booth whose banner said Coffee Welcome in English and Russian.

  On a long table were coffee urns, disposable cups bearing the Apple trademark, and the usual array of milk, sugar, and plastic spoons. Nearby were three small tables with folding chairs. Falcone filled a cup and sat down at an empty table. Rachel followed, pausing to add milk and sugar.

  “I’m aborting the operation,” Falcone said. “Right now.”

  If the announcement surprised Rachel, she did not show it. She took a sip from her cup and said, “I can understand your anger. And frustration. But, in fact, you cannot abort. We had this discussion last night.”

  “Bullshit!” Falcone swore, slamming down his cup, which erupted, adding its stain to the white tablecloth. “I’m in charge. I’m more than a goddamn alibi!”

  “That’s not so, Sean,” Rachel said calmly. “This is an operation. And … well, you’re not an operator.”

  The words hit Falcone in the chest with all of the subtlety of a bullet fired from a sniper’s rifle.

  Before he could respond, Rachel continued: “You’re heroic. Brave. You can sense the moment, and react swiftly. I’ve seen you do that.… But operators don’t react. They do what they have planned to do. And adjust plans when circumstances change.”

  “Sounds to me like you’re ‘reacting swiftly.’ How’s that make you an operator?”

  “Be realistic, Sean. In Vietnam, you were tough and courageous. You killed men trying to kill you. You were a warrior. But you were not an operator.”

  I led my men into an ambush, Falcone thought. My war was more prisoner than warrior. He remained silent, sorting through the scale of his emotions: anger, resentment, and finally resignation.

  As soon as her words slipped out with such directness and hardness, Rachel saw the pain sweep across Falcone’s face. She leaned forward, touching his arm. “You cannot—we cannot—abort,” she said. Then in a softer voice, hoping to persuade Falcone that she had only spoken the truth, however rudely, she said, “Please, listen to me. Give me”—she checked the time—“five minutes. Exactly five min—”

  “Hold on, Rachel. Let’s start with where you got that damn phone.”

  “From Drexler, of course,” she replied, an edge returning to her voice.

  “So just how long have you worked for him?”

  “That’s not important,” she said dismissively.

  “Maybe—just maybe—it’s important to me,” he said angrily.

  “I asked for five minutes. And I think it would be safer for us to walk around while we talk.”

  She stood and headed toward the rest of the booths. Stubbornly, Falcone continued to sit for a moment. Then, realizing there was no point in not hearing her out, he quickly caught up with her. She looked at her watch again.

  “Now begins my five minutes, okay?”

  Falcone nodded.

  “I’m sure you know about the so-called periphery doctrine that goes all the way back to David Ben-Gurion.”

  “So you’re using up your time with another history lesson,” he said, biting off the words, his anger growing.

  Rachel did not respond. They walked past a couple of booths when Falcone suddenly stopped. “Time out,” he said. They were in front of a booth with a banner offering software and counseling on POST-HACKED ETHICAL DUTIES OF LAW FIRMS. He picked up a pamphlet. “Interesting issue. If I ever get back to practicing law.” He turned to Rachel and, with a tight smile, said, “You’re
back on the clock.”

  Rachel, returning his forced smile, resumed. “The periphery doctrine has been the prime, the fundamental dogma of the Mossad, which developed close operational ties between Israeli and non-Arab intelligence services in the Middle East and Africa. Whatever came from that intel alliance was shared with the U.S. Right?”

  “Right.” Falcone was not convinced the sharing of information came unfiltered, but thought it best not to contest the point.

  “The Mossad,” she continued, “found that its best peripheral intelligence ties were with religious or ethnic minorities in the Middle East, including the Kurds in Iraq and Syria. There were also signed agreements with the intelligence services of some nasty countries. Like Iran and Uganda.”

  “I don’t know where this is going,” Falcone said. “Sometimes partners turn out to be villains. Shit happens, right?” He was having trouble holding back his sense of having been betrayed, reduced to a capon.

  “But you keep insisting that you want to know why Israel wanted to get into this.”

  “Okay. You’re still on the clock.”

  “One of our intelligence agreements was between us, Turkey, and Iran. America welcomed the alliance, which was known as Trident in the United States.”

  “I know about Trident,” Falcone snapped. “Ancient history. It even provided for twice-a-year meetings, in Israel, of the spy chiefs of the three countries. We even paid for the building that housed the Trident headquarters in Israel.”

  “Trident got more complicated in the 1980s,” Rachel said, “when Israel got involved in arms deals with Iran to fight their mutual enemy, Iraq. And—”

  “Christ,” Falcone said, “so we’re back to Iran-Contra. Israel and the United States sell arms to Iran, and Reagan then uses the money to arm the Contras in Nicaragua. Iran shows its gratitude by aiding the release of American hostages being held in Lebanon. Okay, Rachel. I know we and Israel have a history as secret pals. So what?”

  “Israel is living in a different world, Sean, and America isn’t in it. Look around you.” She swept her hand as if encompassing the entire hall. “The digital world. Your country is losing the cyber war. Chinese hackers took over your government’s personnel files and now know the identities of people seeking and getting security clearance. They even have their fingerprints! By now they know agents’ names and may be turning them in. The Chinese and the Russians have raided your health files, your pension files. No one in your government has any idea how many other agencies have been hacked.

  “And now,” Rachel continued, exasperation in her voice, “with the Earth facing a catastrophe twenty years in the future, your country keeps the news secret and joins with China and Russia to defend the Earth. China and Russia! The leading villains of the digital world!” Pausing, Rachel spoke more slowly. “To consort with those who are not your friends, and exclude those who are, is a breach of faith. Still, we agreed to help you because we know that it’s better for us for Hamilton to be in the U.S., not in Russia.”

  From discreetly hidden loudspeakers came a polite voice, speaking first in Russian, then in English, asking attendees to take seats in the adjoining auditorium.

  “And so? You’re saying that I should not cancel this insane operation out of respect for the long relationship that used to exist between my country and yours? Or maybe you’re just saying for the long relationship between you and me.”

  “Yes,” Rachel said. “On both counts. More importantly—for my five-minute speech—you know that what you are doing is for far more than Israel and the United States.”

  “So,” Falcone said, shaking his head and smiling grimly, “it’s all part of saving the world.”

  “Yes. You just ended my speech for me.” She handed him her key card and walked toward the stage, where the moderator and other members of her panel were assembling.

  54

  The program for the International Conference on Cyber Defense listed Rachel—that is, Andrea Mitrovitz, CEO of ITAccess—as a member of the panel on “Where Are the Watchers?” The three other members of the panel were male executives of private companies. Falcone wondered if the head of the Russian company on the panel had a sideline job in the FSB.

  The moderator, an official of the European Electronic Crime Task Force, went to the heart of the panel’s theme. “There are not enough watchers,” he said, in English with a slight Italian accent. “The task force has repeatedly discovered a lack of vigilance, a failure of politicians to finance even fundamental defenses, such as a harassment assault by amateur hackers on a company’s emails. As for a warlike attack by an aggressive nation, the unseen foe can so cripple military and civilian organizations that the government can lose control of the country. We call that the Apocalyptic Attack.”

  As the moderator went on, vividly describing a cyber catastrophe, Apocalyptic resounded in Falcone’s mind, substituting Ivan’s Hammer as the foe. The thought brought him back to the mission.

  By the time Ms. Mitrovitz spent a few of her fifteen minutes on her thesis—“Security systems have not kept up with the cyber foe’s tactics and capabilities”—Falcone was convinced that Rachel was right. He had no choice but to continue.

  As soon as Rachel and the other panelists finished the question-and-answer windup of the session, another panel began to materialize on stage. Falcone watched her as she walked over to the side of the hall, where members of the audience lined up to speak to her. Among them he spotted Gregor Ivanisov … then Jack Beckley … and Harry Reilly. Falcone looked around for Bobby Joe Pickens, whose code name—Pepper—reflected his behavior. Falcone remembered him in the GSS stable, always in motion, never in a chair. But even when he was going through a rehearsal with the others he seemed to be by himself. Falcone’s thoughts flashed back to Hennessey, his leading sergeant, who acted dependably and spoke rarely. An operator.

  Sure enough, there was Pepper, standing alone in an eddy of the crowd, leafing through some pamphlet he had picked up. Falcone walked over to him and said, “Bobby Joe. Good to see you. I think we’re headed for the same place.”

  Pickens nodded and followed Falcone to the elevator. Falcone entered first. As they ascended, he turned to Pickens and said, “Have a good flight?” Pickens was about the same height as Falcone. So he could answer by looking at Falcone eye-to-eye and nodding, ending Falcone’s attempt at small talk.

  For the next twenty minutes, Falcone and Pickens sat in silence, occupying two green easy chairs in the lounge of Rachel’s suite. Jack Beckley entered next, accompanying Rachel. Sharp-eyed, head swiveling, he looked like a bodyguard, a role he naturally assumed. At the doorway, he paused to scan the room, momentarily blocking Rachel. Then he stepped aside and nodded to her, signaling she was safe. She responded with a grin and patted Beckley on the back.

  After nodding a greeting to Falcone and Pickens, she went into the bedroom and emerged with what looked like a flashlight. She silently pointed it at every object—chairs, lamps, tables, phone, doorknob, curtains, paintings. She wielded it like a paintbrush along the walls, then like a broom along the floor. During her sweep, bearded Harry Reilly walked in, looking like a Viking in a suit.

  The room was silent. Falcone was morbidly reminded of how mourners remain mute as they stand in line moving toward the coffin in a funeral home. Rachel broke the silence by speaking low and fast into her Blackphone 4, summoning Gregor Ivanisov. She had assigned him the task of using his skills—and instinct—to watch for tails on the men who preceded him to her room.

  When he arrived, he did a thumbs-up and locked the door. She stood in the center of the room, looked around, and said, “We have all worked together one way or another—yes, including Sean and me.… Those were times in life’s travels that didn’t include the rest of you. And now here we are, about to begin another ‘piece of cake.’” The GSS men laughed at their inside joke. “You’re here using your real names. So I’ll use mine: Rachel.”

  Falcone look surprised. He had seen her many al
iases in intel archives, and had just seen her latest, Andrea Mitrovitz, in print. But she was suddenly Rachel, truly Rachel. Maybe she really was going to quit.

  “I am not Domino,” she continued. “As you know, Domino—Leonid Danshov—is dead. Murdered. I am honored to replace him. Let us think of him for a moment.” The men lowered their heads. She began to say a barely audible Mourner’s Kaddish; no one else prayed aloud.

  She went into the bedroom and returned pushing a cart piled high with sandwiches, plates, cups, bottles of soft drinks, and a large coffee pitcher. “Compliments of ITAccess,” she said. “That’s what it says on the room-service bill. Eat up. Your next meal will be on the plane to Washington. And that probably means more sandwiches.”

  As the men found chairs and ate and drank with varying levels of enthusiasm, she chose a straight-backed chair strategically placed in the middle of the room. “Any questions?” she asked, laughing when they looked at one another, deciding who would ask first.

  After a moment she broke the silence again. “I’m bringing you a modified plan,” she said. “It picks up most of what you learned as Plan A. You enter Hamilton’s suite just as you rehearsed. I have the key card to his suite and the elevator.” She handed it to Gregor, who put down his cup and slipped the card into a suit coat pocket.

  “Domino was supposed to knock out the lights and wi-fi, with the help of a hotel employee. We have to assume that Domino’s arrest compromised his assets. This time, the lights will be on. And, Harry, you probably won’t need to give your lullaby injection to Hamilton, at least until we get into the van.”

  Reilly smiled and patted his suit coat pocket.

  “… and Gregor will be impersonating an FSB officer,” Rachel added. She gave him a black leather folder containing a laminated identification card. He put down his sandwich so he could examine the card.

  “Not bad,” Gregor said, not showing any surprise that she—or a Mossad employee at the Israeli Embassy—had access to an up-to-date photo of him. “I guess you got it off my passport.”