“You will all take a seat and fasten your seatbelts,” one of the soldiers ordered. The four GSS men obeyed. No need to struggle. Our mission is over. We snatched Hamilton from Moscow. And he winds up here. Someone changed the destination. Ours not to reason why.
The two soldiers who had taken Hamilton away hauled him down the stairway and walked him to the unmarked vehicle. They pushed him into someone’s black-gloved hands. The vehicle looked like an ambulance—except for its barred rear window and the men wearing black gloves. In the moment when the vehicle’s door was open, Falcone could see two figures in black wearing black ski masks.
Falcone pulled out his Blackphone and, ignoring rendition secrecy rules, punched in the direct-line number to Frank Carlton. There’s a chance this is a mistake, Falcone thought, even though, deeper in his mind, he believed that the delivery of Hamilton to Guantanamo, rather than to Washington, had to have been ordered by someone at a high level.
Instead of a ringtone, Falcone heard a repeated two-word message in a woman’s voice: “Call forbidden. Call forbidden.…”
Falcone knew that Guantanamo was nothing more than a federal prison, though the prisoners were called “detainees” because as “prisoners” they would be subject to the terms of the Geneva Convention governing the treatment of prisoners. Guantanamo was operated by a military-and-political entity called the Joint Task Force, under command of a two-star general or admiral answerable to the secretary of defense and ultimately to the commander-in-chief.
Throwing down the Blackphone, Falcone stood and turned to the nearest soldier. “I demand that I be taken to your commanding officer,” he shouted.
“Please be seated, sir,” the soldier said, moving a step closer, putting his weapon closer.
Falcone felt a rising rage. He was a prisoner again, looking at his guard in the Hanoi Hilton. He slugged the soldier in the jaw, sending him reeling into a chair. The soldier instinctively raised his rifle. Then discipline took over. He stood and resumed port arms, glaring at Falcone.
The cockpit door opened. Falcone turned and saw the pilot, who must have heard the scuffle. He took three steps forward and said, “Please, gentlemen—and miss. Please. I am the pilot of this aircraft and responsible for the safety of my passengers. I must ask you to accept that you are passengers on a flight that took an unexpected detour. And you will not be allowed to deplane. I ask you that you work out your issues only when this flight is over. We are having our tanks topped off. This will take about forty minutes. The Immediate Reaction Force soldiers will depart. We will then fly to our destination, Dulles Airport. Please relax and accept that we have had a detour. That’s all. A detour.” He did not mention that the flight plan required for a landing at Dulles would show that the flight originated in Miami, Florida.
It took Falcone several minutes to calm down. “‘A detour,’” he said to Rachel. “He called it ‘a detour.’ Let’s say that’s true. Let’s say that someone decided Gitmo was a good place to question Hamilton and ordered a detour. How? The goddamn Mossad. It’s—”
“Let’s get one thing straight, Sean,” Rachel said sharply. “This is not the Mossad. We left the Mossad behind in Latvia. You must realize that this aircraft is controlled by the United States national-security apparatus. Someone made a decision in Washington and modified the plan.”
“Modified!?” Falcone said. “You call this modified?”
“Please, Sean. Calm down and think. Somebody did something behind your back. You’re supposed to be running a black op, a kidnapping. Well, it looks like someone else took over.”
“But Gitmo? This is insane.”
“Insane?” Rachel asked and made a sweeping gesture. “Is anything about this sane? Your job was to get Hamilton out of Moscow. And you did that.”
“I took the job because I knew that the world—the world—was threatened and Hamilton had information that could save the world. Now someone has detoured him and thinks that he will talk here. Gitmo. Hell. Full of hatred. No good can happen here.”
“Who did it? That’s what you must do next: Find out who did this.”
“Don’t worry. I will,” Falcone said grimly. He had a couple of suspects.
* * *
Falcone had done pro bono work in a case involving a Guantanamo prisoner. Among the legal documents he had seen was a deposition taken by another lawyer in the case. The witness, an Egyptian, had worked at one of the “black-site” prisons that the CIA had set up soon after 9/11 as a place for “enhanced interrogation” of suspected terrorists.
The witness told how the suspect, after being questioned and tortured in Egypt for days, was delivered to captivity by a Gulfstream known as the Guantanamo Express. He was already shackled and handcuffed when the witness saw his captors preparing him for his trip. After cutting away his clothing, one of them inserted a suppository, presumably containing a sedative, into his anus, and put a diaper on him because he would not be allowed to go to a restroom during the flight. Finally, he donned orange coveralls, was blindfolded and hooded and placed in a seat harness rigged in the aircraft. It stopped for refueling at Shannon Airport in Ireland. Irish plane-spotters tracked the U.S. registration numbers on the Gulfstream’s tail to a transport service in Massachusetts. Owners and operators of the service had what the CIA calls “sterile identities”—names not found in any corporate, residential, or employment databases.
Falcone had been an associate counsel in the case and had not gone to Guantanamo. But he knew attorneys who had to fight their way through the prison’s military rules to aid their clients. The lawyers had trouble establishing trust with their clients because Gitmo guards had told them that their lawyers were Jews or homosexuals. Some interrogators had posed as lawyers to get the prisoners to divulge information they had not revealed to their interrogators.
Guantanamo was supposed to house only non-Americans. However, in the early days, a man captured in Afghanistan had been briefly held there because his captors did not believe he was an American. He was repatriated to Saudi Arabia, on condition that he deny his American citizenship. (John Walker Lindh, an American captured during the U.S. invasion of Afghanistan in 2001, was not taken to Guantanamo. He pleaded guilty to two charges and was sentenced to twenty years in a federal prison.)
Hamilton’s citizenship was beyond question. Yet, there he was, “detoured” to Guantanamo. The first and only American to be imprisoned at Gitmo.
Hamilton had been hauled away by members of the Immediate Reaction Force. Falcone knew about that, too. As mustered early in Gitmo’s history, they wore what they called Darth Vader suits: black helmet, black goggles, black hoods. According to a declassified copy of the Standard Operating Procedures, used in the case that Falcone worked on, “The IRF team is intended to be used primarily as a forced-extraction team, specializing in the extraction of a detainee who is combative, resistive, or if the possibility of a weapon is in the cell at the time of the extraction.… The IRF team is authorized to spray the detainee in the face with mace twice before entering the cell.”
Falcone’s experience as a prisoner in a North Vietnam hellhole had inspired him to do pro bono work on Gitmo prisoner cases. Details of cases flooded his mind. Then one fact stood out and lingered: The Supreme Court had ruled that Guantanamo prisoners had the right to counsel and the right to challenge their detention.
“Hamilton needs a lawyer,” Falcone told Rachel. “And he’s going to get two.”
64
When the plane landed near the private-aircraft terminal of Dulles, Falcone grasped Rachel’s hand, smiled, and said, “I’ll never forget that moment in the hotel when I met Andrea Mitrovitz.” She smiled back.
“I’ll be getting a car,” he said. “Can we share it? I assume you’ll be going directly to your embassy.… And then, perhaps dinner tonight?”
“I … I must check in first,” she said, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain. She took her Blackphone from her purse. “Would you mind…”
Falcone nodded and left his seat to say goodbye to Gregor Ivanisov and the others. Gregor was on the phone, but interrupted his conversation to say, “It was a pleasure to serve with you, Sean,” beginning a round of handshakes and fist bumps. “It’s the General,” he said, pointing to the phone. “He’s lining up transportation for us.”
Falcone knew he should have been glad not to report to anybody, not to check in with anybody. But he felt empty, pointless. He took out his phone and arranged for a town car, then headed back toward his seat. Rachel was already in the aisle and was not holding her phone.
“Car’s on the way,” Falcone said, sounding more chipper than he felt. “There’s a lounge where we can wait.”
Gregor and the others filed past him, hurrying toward the stairway.
“I … I’m afraid the embassy booked me on an El Al flight,” Rachel said, beginning to walk down the aisle. “It leaves in less than an hour. And they insisted I have a security guy. He’s meeting me at the lounge here and taking me through TSA to the El Al lounge. Complicated.”
“As usual,” Falcone said, following her.
At the bottom of the plane’s stairway, they embraced. She raised her face to his and they kissed. “This is goodbye—at least for now,” she said, stepping away. “Next time I hope we’ll have more time, more peaceful time.”
A black Mercedes sedan pulled up at the lounge and out of it stepped a broad-shouldered young man in a blue blazer and khaki slacks. He and Rachel walked toward each other. The young man said something in Hebrew, and escorted her to the car.
Falcone walked on, more alone than he had felt in a long time.
65
About the time the Gulfstream landed at Dulles, President Oxley was informed that he was about to receive a call from President Lebed. The advice came through the White House communication system, not from Oxley’s National Security Adviser, Frank Carlton, who usually set up upcoming important calls with his counterpart elsewhere. But this Lebed call was apparently spontaneous. Nevertheless, Oxley hit the button for Carlton, who quickly appeared in the Oval Office clutching a yellow pad.
“Frank, what the hell is going on? I’ve just been told that Lebed is about to call me.”
“I don’t know, sir. I haven’t heard a word. Usually, the Russian ambassador would pave the way. Or their foreign minister. At least you won’t need an interpreter.”
“What about—?”
“Recording? I’m afraid it’s too late to stop it. I will—”
Carlton sat next to the president’s desk, poised to take notes.
Oxley’s phone rang.
“This is Boris Lebed, Blake.”
“Well, Boris, this is quite a surprise.”
“Yes. I hope things are well with you.”
“And with you … Boris.”
“We seem to have had a problem here,” Lebed said, his voice tightening.
“What is the problem? How can I help?” Oxley asked. He and Carlton exchanged puzzled glances.
“An American who was touring our country appears to have disappeared. Would you have any knowledge of his whereabouts?”
Oxley instantly recalled what Carlton had said about Robert Hamilton: “We have to bring him back, Mr. President.” And Oxley recalled the unspoken word in that conversation: deniability. It’s happened, he thought. And I can’t know.
“I’m afraid I can’t be of any help, Boris,” Oxley said. “I’m personally not aware of Americans who are touring Russia. As I’m sure you know, this is not something I would be aware of.”
“Of course. I realize that,” Lebed said, softening his tone. “I just wanted to be sure, as we take the safety of all who visit our great country very seriously. We had received some reports that this individual was last seen near the border of Latvia. As you know, this is a very dangerous area at the moment and we are concerned about the welfare of Latvians—and Russian citizens—who live in that area, especially along our border. We, of course, have the right to protect our borders. We wouldn’t want to take any action that would put civilian lives in danger.”
“I’m sure that the NATO countries are very safe and secure,” Oxley said confidently. “You needn’t worry, Boris. If necessary, we’re prepared to send military forces to prevent any unrest or instability along the Latvian border. I truly hope that won’t be necessary because we don’t want to see what happened in Ukraine repeated.”
“Attempts to look into the future, my friend, are always futile and often dangerous. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” Oxley responded, adding “until we meet again”—a direct, and in this conversation, an ominous translation of do svidaniya.
Carlton spoke the moment Oxley hung up: “Mr. President, please do not bother to be disturbed by what Lebed may be alluding to.”
“I am not disturbed, Frank. But I am damn curious. Now, I’d like you to stay on. Rita is due to give me a rundown on China selling off U.S. debt. I assume it’s a spinoff from the aggressive moves aimed at Japan.”
Oxley pressed a button and Rita Oliphant, secretary of the Treasury, entered. Carlton stood and held out his hand—an awkward moment of greeting, for it showed how long a time since the two had been in the same room, let alone in the Oval Office. She handled the moment more gracefully than Carlton, who did not have China on his mind.
Carlton knew who Lebed’s “missing American” was and so did the President. But Oxley could not officially know. Carlton also knew that Oxley had no knowledge—yet—of why Hamilton was in Guantanamo and how he got there. “Deniability” was a tricky concept for all the deniers involved.
Carlton retained the chair next to Oxley’s desk, but the President was on his feet and gestured to one of the two brown sofas flanking a long narrow table. Rita Oliphant, in black slacks and suit coat over a white turtleneck, sat across from Oxley and, in a bit of West Wing choreography, Carlton left his chair to sit next to the President.
“There seems to be a shift in Chinese policy about selling off the U.S. debt, Mr. President. We—that is, my China experts and I—believe that China is not merely selling off to squeeze the U.S. economy but also to pay for the oil whose prices have just spiked. Ironically, the price surge was triggered by the turmoil that China has caused. We also believe…”
Carlton had stopped listening. He had to get to his office as soon as possible and somehow work the deniability problem as news of Hamilton’s rendition spilled out of Gitmo and spread through the Pentagon.
Oxley was listening … China … oil … Then Lebed … Hamilton! That had to be what Lebed was talking about. China … oil.… The asteroid threat and Ivan’s Hammer slipped to the back of his mind.
66
The encrypted, top-secret, top-priority message was labeled IMMEDIATE (O). It went directly from Commander, Joint Task Force Guantanamo, to two offices in the E Ring, the power center of the Pentagon’s five rings. One office belonged to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; the other to the Secretary of Defense. The message said: ROBERT WENTWORTH HAMILTON ARRIVES VIA EXTRAORDINARY RENDITION. BEING PROCESSED. URGENTLY REQUEST NATIONAL COMMAND AUTHORIZATION.
When General Hector Amador, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, saw the IMMEDIATE (O) message, he exclaimed, “Jesus H Christ!” and for a moment wondered what to do next, for the (O) meant “operational.” And that meant “Do something immediately.” But “National Command Authority” comprises the President and the Secretary of Defense as the ultimate source of military orders. And in the next moment General Amador realized he did not have to do anything. (O) had been kicked all the way upstairs to the commander-in-chief and Secretary of Defense George Winthrop.
At almost the same moment, a military aide burst into Winthrop’s office, centerpiece of a warren of deputy secretaries, under secretaries, assistant secretaries, and directors, each with a staff. Winthrop read the message and said, “What in God’s name is this about?”
“I don’t have the foggiest idea, sir,” the aide said. He did an abo
ut-face and rapidly returned to the SecDef communications room, leaving Winthrop sitting behind his massive desk and staring into space. His instinct was to pick up the direct line to the President. But it would be better to first learn what is known and what is unknown, as a former secretary of defense might put it.
Winthrop was a disciple of the ultimate-rule that one of his predecessor’s had learned as a young Navy pilot: If you are lost: climb, conserve, and confess. “Climb” meant gain altitude to see a greater distance and get your bearings. “Conserve” meant reduce airspeed and save fuel. “Confess” meant get on the radio and admit, “I’m lost and need help.”
Climb. Winthrop picked up the direct phone to General Hector Amador. As the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, he was America’s highest-ranking military officer.
Conserve. Without a hello, Winthrop said, “Hector, what the hell is this?”
“General Bob Dafoe, the CO at Gitmo, is reporting an unusual situation, sir. As I am sure you know, an ‘extraordinary rendition’ is the CIA’s description of an … abduction. General Dafoe is right to inform me. But NCA, not me, has to tell him what to do. And he’s damn right about that, sir.”
Confess. “That’s the problem, Hector. I’m just an old Oakie who finds himself running the whole damn American military machine, which, lucky for me, does a great job of running itself. But this is a fuckin’ kidnapping of a billionaire American citizen. Hector, I don’t know what to do.”
“All I can suggest, sir, is that you head across the river as fast as you can and start talking to the President. He and you, sir, have to tell Bob Dafoe what to do. It looks to me, Mr. Secretary, that Hamilton was just sort of dumped in the general’s lap. And now the balloon’s gone up, sir.”
67
By the time Falcone reached his Pennsylvania Avenue penthouse, he had put Rachel in that part of his memory where love lives on, despite death, despite fate. She was not gone. He always proudly believed that he had a disciplined, compartmented mind. When Rachel was put in the memory part, he opened another compartment, where his hatred of Guantanamo raged.
Final Strike--A Sean Falcone Novel Page 28