They were taken to a room whose door sign simply said STAFF. Fitzgerald, at the head of a long, polished table, invited everyone to sit and posted one of the escorting soldiers at the door. At her left was a captain whom she did not introduce. Falcone assumed he was her intelligence officer. Slowly forming in his mind was a new reality about how the dark side works. This Army colonel and this Army captain were more savvy about the workings of the dark side than he, a former senator and former adviser to the President.
Fitzgerald looked steadily at Hamilton for a moment and then at Falcone, saying, “I don’t know what this is about, but you came at a very bad time. For three days now, Russian Su-34s have been violating Riga airspace, making this a hot spot for an unexpected aircraft with its transponder turned off.”
You do know what’s going on, Falcone thought. You’re acting out the official side while supporting the dark side. You staged your hostile welcome strictly for the soldiers.
“About two hundred miles from here,” she continued, “along Latvia’s border, Russian troops are bivouacked and building wooden housing units—just as they did when they moved into Syria. Lebed has been encouraging Latvian nationalists who were against Latvia’s connection with NATO and the EU to claim they’re being harassed and discriminated against by government officials. And a lot of people who still consider themselves Russian live on the Latvian side of the border. There aren’t many people in that area—lakes, forests, and deserted Soviet-era factories. So a military move would be pretty easy.”
“Are you expecting some of those Russian green men?” Falcone asked.
“We’re on a special alert and have a joint NATO-Latvian force along the border and another here to defend Riga. Offshore there’s an amphibious assault ship carrying the Twenty-Fourth Marine Expeditionary Unit. I am in direct communication with the Supreme Allied Commander Europe. This is serious stuff. One—”
“I’ve been kidnapped,” Hamilton shouted.
Fitzgerald ignored him and continued: “One of our Latvian allies got trigger-happy at his missile launcher. For the record, he was aiming at the Su-34s, not you guys.” She looked directly at the two Israelis. “We don’t want an incident.”
She paused, giving Falcone a chance to interrupt. “Excuse me, Colonel. But you needn’t worry about a repeat of those missiles,” he said. “We’re out of here. I call your attention to that Gulfstream.” He pointed toward the room’s single window.
“The mystery plane, Livingston,” she said to the captain, who smiled and nodded.
“Officially, I’ll bet, that Gulfstream isn’t here, right?” Falcone said.
Captain Livingston, after looking at Fitzgerald for approval, said, “Okay, Falcone. We want all of you out of here as much as you want to get out. You guys seem to be the reason for a big terrorist alert in Moscow. And you lured the Su-34s here. They were ordered to harass but not harm. Just for the record, I need your passports to see if you’re the guys you’re supposed to be. You had us a bit worried. We were told to expect a DHL aircraft. That’s why the Strykers were greeting you. We’re in an anything-can-happen alert. So we were ready in case you weren’t who we thought you were.”
“Sorry, Captain. Some changes in the plan. As for the passports, we had to leave them behind,” Falcone said. “I can vouch for everyone, including Miss Andrea Mitrovitz.”
“I don’t have her on my list.”
“We can also vouch for her,” the copilot said.
“What about you two?” Livingston asked the copilot.
“We’ll check in with our embassy in Riga,” he replied. “And we have our passports.”
He slid them down the table to Livingston, who opened a file folder, wrote down some words and numbers, then slid the passports back.
“And your aircraft?” Livingston asked.
“We need to check it for damage, but I think we can fly it to Riga International Airport, get fuel and repairs, if needed. And file a legitimate flight plan to Israel—with transponder turned on.”
“I’m being kidnapped,” Hamilton said again.
“Not exactly,” Livingston said, shrugging as he turned to look at Hamilton.
61
Colonel Fitzgerald took them to the officers’ club, a converted barracks with a bar, some tables, chairs, a couple of couches, a pool table, and a large television screen on the wall. Falcone guessed that the garrulous bartender, in white shirt and black slacks, was a master sergeant by day. While her colleagues lined up to order drinks, Rachel entered the no-gender restroom and emerged fifteen minutes later looking like she belonged in a much better bar.
Falcone, a double vodka in his hand, joined Fitzgerald at a table near the bar. There was a white coffee mug in front of her. She was in a combat camouflage uniform and yellow boots. From a khaki belt hung a holstered Beretta M9 pistol. Her blond hair was gathered in a bun. “I remember you from a lecture you gave at the National Defense University,” she said as Falcone sat down.
“About what?” he asked.
“Expansion of NATO,” she said. “The theme, as I remember, was whether NATO could survive the end of the Cold War.”
“Did I think it could?”
“Yes, and—again, as I remember—you felt that as long as there is Russia there will be a need for NATO. So far, you’re right.”
Rachel, carrying a glass of white wine, slipped into a chair next to Falcone. She introduced herself as Andrea Mitrovitz.
Fitzgerald nodded in greeting and asked no questions. Falcone sensed that both women knew the boundaries of acceptable subjects for conversation. He wanted to say, “This is my first rendition. It has to do with the fate of the Earth.” But he knew, of all the possible subjects, rendition was the one that was most prohibited.
“The club is officially closed,” Fitzgerald said, directing her talk to both Falcone and Rachel. “So is the kitchen. I figured you could use drinks and food. I asked the cook to put up some sandwiches and coffee.” She held up her mug. “The Gulfstream crew is in the BOQs—‘bachelor officers quarters,’” she added, turning to Rachel, “and ready to go. They want a night takeoff.”
“I take that as a hint for us to leave,” Falcone said lightly.
“With all due respect, Mr. Falcone,” Fitzgerald said, “your operation is a headache adding to one we already have.”
Reilly, who had appointed himself Hamilton’s minder, chose a corner table. Gregor, on his way to the bar, took their orders: beer for Reilly, water with a slice of lemon and no ice for Hamilton.
Gregor arrived with the drinks and headed to another table. Knowing that Hamilton was from California, Reilly tried to begin a conversation about the San Francisco 49ers.
“Football—professional or collegiate—is of no interest to me,” Hamilton said. “Do you live in California?”
“No. Virginia,” Reilly replied. “Danville, Virginia.”
“So why would you have any interest in a San Francisco team?”
“Well, I knew that you—”
“Yes. Well, thank you for your attempt to pass the time,” Hamilton said, nodding. A minute passed before he spoke again. “I assume you have a cell phone,” he said. “I would greatly appreciate it if you would call my … assistant and tell her—”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hamilton. But I can’t do that.”
“I assume you’re an employee of the federal government,” Hamilton said.
“No, sir. I am working for a contractor.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“No, sir. I’m afraid I can’t,” Reilly said. “I know you must feel confused. But don’t worry. You’ll be getting in another airplane … a much more comfortable one.”
“That Gulfstream I saw when we were leaving the plane?”
“Yes,” Reilly replied, surprised.
“You’re right. A very comfortable—and practical—aircraft. Two Rolls-Royce engines. Range more than 6,750 miles. Got a trophy as the best-in-value business aircraft.”
&nb
sp; “You sure know a lot about the Gulfstream,” Reilly said.
“I should,” Hamilton replied. “I own one.”
* * *
Two men, tall and slim, one black the other white, entered the club from a back door, looked around, and nodded to Falcone. He followed them to the table farthest from the bar. Their khaki slacks, open-collared white shirts, and leather zipper jackets looked like unintended uniforms. He guessed they were ex–Air Force officers who had gone over to the dark side. They did not introduce themselves. The black man, who spoke with a southern accent like Bobby Joe Pickens, asked, “Your folks ready to leave? We’re gassed up and ready to fly.”
As he spoke, someone came through the nearby swinging doors bearing a tray full of sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper.
“Soon as they eat,” Falcone said.
The sandwich man was followed by the coffee man, who carried a large thermos and a wooden box containing mugs, a carton of plastic water bottles, and the standard accessories for dispensing coffee. They set up a food station at an unoccupied table and disappeared into the kitchen.
Pickens was the first at the food table. He scooped up sandwiches and took them first to Rachel, then to Reilly and Hamilton, who turned down a sandwich and asked for more water. Pickens made himself the host, carrying sandwiches, coffee, and bottles of water to the others. In most of the military posts and ships Falcone had cause to visit as a senator or presidential adviser, he had seen instinctive courtesy like this—everyday behavior that translated into lifesaving deeds in battle.
“How long you figure the time to Washington?” Falcone asked.
The two men looked at each other. The black man said, “A few hours. Depends on the weather.”
In a few minutes, Colonel Fitzgerald rose from her chair, signaling departure time. She led her visitors to the door and shepherded them into vehicles, which moved off to the Gulfstream, this time without armed guards.
62
Falcone had traveled long enough and frequently enough in corporate jets to remember the old reliable Gulfstream, ancestor to the aircraft that he sat in now. Globalization of commerce had forced the change of the aircraft’s range and splendor. Gulfstreams once took high-rolling CEOs from corporate headquarters in one American city to customers in another American city. Now Gulfstreams carry billionaires seeking deals or pleasures in flights from one continent to the other.
The takeoff was fast and steep. Looking out a window, he saw the runway lights suddenly go out, returning the night to darkness. That sudden blackout made him realize once again that the rendition was too complex to be clandestine. Presidential deniability has to be imaginary, he thought. How is deniability possible when, besides Drexler and his men, the cast of characters include the Mossad, the CIA, the U.S. Air Force, and probably NATO? Questions still flowing through his mind, he finally fell asleep.
As he slowly awakened, his dreams fading, his mind still buzzing with questions, he had no idea how far they had flown. He was in a half-inclined seat, one of two on each side of the forward cabin. Across the aisle was Rachel, soundly asleep.
After visiting a restroom and continuing his effort to clean up, Falcone walked into the quiet aft cabin, where seats were arranged more closely than in the forward cabin. Jack Beckley was sleeping; next to him was Gregor, under a beam of light and reading a paperback with a garish cover and a title in Russian. He looked up, nodded to Falcone, and resumed reading. In another pair of seats, Reilly sat half turned toward Hamilton, who was sleeping. Falcone pantomimed a needle into the arm and Reilly gave him a smile and a thumbs-up. Bobby Joe Pickens, sitting next to an empty chair, stood, beckoned Falcone to the end of the aft cabin, and pointed to an overhead oval panel.
Imprinted on both sides of the panel was a yellow outline map of the world. A red line marked the beginning of the flight in Latvia and continued across the Baltic Sea and Scandinavia to the North Atlantic. The red line dipped after passing the middle of the ocean and approaching the North American coast.
“I always watch the flight line,” Pickens said. “It makes me feel I’m really moving, and I try to figure the probable speed and estimate the time of arrival.” He paused and added, “I think there’s something wrong.”
“Looks normal to me,” Falcone said, also keeping his voice low amid the sleepers.
“Seems to me we’re heading toward Florida instead of Washington,” Pickens said. As he spoke, Falcone could see the line inch more southward than westward. He guessed where Washington was on the featureless map, and he could see what Pickens meant.
Falcone pressed a button on the console of the nearest empty seat. In a moment the cockpit door opened and the copilot walked down the aisle toward them.
“No flight attendants on this run,” he said sharply. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re wondering about the route,” Falcone said, pointing to the map.
“That’s deceptive, a gimmick,” the copilot said, nodding toward the map. “We’re not flying a straight line. We’re dodging some Atlantic weather. That’s all. No problem.” He turned and walked rapidly toward the cockpit door.
“Thanks for the heads up,” Falcone said to Pickens.
“You’re welcome,” Pickens said, heading back to his seat.
After standing for a moment, looking at the map and the red line pointing south, he returned to the mid-cabin section. Rachel was awake and watching a movie on a dropped-down screen. She took off her earphones and moved over so he could sit next to her.
“How did you do it?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Kill the shooter.”
He briefly told her what happened.
“Well done,” she said, patting his hand.
“I’m honored to have my killing praised by a pro. But, believe me, it was instinct, not skill.”
“It was … a pleasure being with you,” she said, keeping her hand on his. “What happens now?”
“What? Well, I hope—”
The way he said hope made her realize he was asking what would happen next for them. She squelched that hope by saying, “What happens to Hamilton?”
Her question stunned him for a moment. “We take him to a safe house Drexler has in Virginia, and we try to convince him that he has to give us the whereabouts of Asteroid USA.”
“With ‘enhanced interrogation’?”
“Hell, no! We tell him the Russians want to use the asteroid as a weapon. And we remind him that the FBI has labeled him a ‘person of interest’ in a murder investigation.”
“And?”
“And try to make a deal.”
There was nothing more to say about Hamilton. They suddenly had nothing to say to each other. Rachel broke the silence: “One of my favorite films.” She pointed to the screen.
He leaned forward, looked at the screen, and said, “One of my favorites, too.” He put on earphones and joined her to watch The Third Man, wondering who picked the Gulfstream movies for rendition ops.
* * *
“Buffet in the galley,” said a terse voice that Falcone recognized as the copilot’s. The passengers found a bowl of fruit, coffee, soft drinks, various kinds of sandwiches, and small plastic dishes covered in aluminum foil, some containing beef stew, some macaroni and cheese. Pickens brought an apple, banana, and beef stew back to Reilly. Hamilton was still asleep.
Falcone, returning to his seat with sandwiches and coffees, glanced at the red line, which was pointing toward Florida. He was surprised because the flight had been so smooth and thought that the pilot must have bypassed the bad weather.
After finishing the sandwich, he frequently leaned forward and turned to look out the window. Then, in the bright morning light, he saw the unmistakable scythe-shape of Cuba. The Gulfstream banked and began its descent. One word flashed in Falcone’s mind: Guantanamo.
63
“What the hell is going on?” Falcone shouted, startling Rachel, who thought he was overreacting to The Third Man, which
was nearing the end. “Guantanamo!” Falcone exclaimed. “We’re landing at Guantanamo!”
“What?” she asked, looking out the window and seeing the runway rushing up. “How—”
“How? You ask me how?” Falcone said angrily. “You know goddamn well how this happened. The Mossad—”
“Please, Sean. Calm down. This is not the Mossad. Believe me. This is not the Mossad.”
The plane landed and taxied to a stop near a cluster of military vehicles and a high wire-mesh fence topped by coils of razor-wire. On the fence Falcone saw a sign that said HONOR BOUND TO DEFEND FREEDOM. Falcone snapped open his seatbelt and sprinted down the aisle toward the boarding door. It was opening and the stairway was lowering.
Bounding up the steps came four soldiers in camouflage uniforms and black ski masks. They reached the top of the stairs just as Falcone got to the door. “Step back, sir!” one of the soldiers said, holding his M16 rifle diagonally across his body at port arms, inches from Falcone’s chest. “Sit down, sir, and fasten your seatbelt,” he ordered. “You, too, ma’am,” he said to Rachel, who had started to rise.
The other three soldiers hurried past Falcone to the aft cabin. Moments later they returned, two of them with their rifles slung over their right shoulders, pulling along a dazed Hamilton, whose feet dragged behind him. Next came Harry Reilly, Gregor, Jack Beckley, and Bobby Joe Pickens, followed by a soldier with rifle at port. He joined the soldier who had been guarding Falcone and Rachel, and the two of them stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the end of the cabin, both with rifles at port arms, blocking the way to the open door and stairway.
Final Strike--A Sean Falcone Novel Page 27