He went back to the couch and, after a moment, began speaking rapidly: “My father disappeared from a whale-watching ship off Gloucester. I was seven years old. My mother and I … everyone … we were all on the other side of the ship, looking at a whale. No one saw my father go over the rail. His body was never found. Did he die? Did he stage his death? My mother never recovered from the shock, the unknown.… Well, you probably know all that.”
“No,” Christakos said softly, “I know practically nothing about your life.”
“My mother suddenly became fanatically religious after my father disappeared,” Hamilton went on. “And she started having visions of my father in the water. Many times she beat me with a belt and said I killed him because I was a son of Satan. I screamed when she said that. And then I stopped talking. Just like that. Stopped. She gave me up for adoption right afterward. I was about eight. My first foster parents thought I was mute.”
“I … never knew…,” Christakos began.
“I guess the CIA or the FBI or maybe both—and, who knows? Maybe the Russians, they probably know,” Hamilton continued, his voice wavering. “Well, somehow Dr. Korbin got this information about me. I had gone to a psychiatrist a few years back, and she dredged up some painful memories. I guess Dr. Korbin got her notes. Maybe he works for the CIA. I just don’t care. Whatever he found out, it was as if he was sent by God,” Hamilton said, standing silently for a full minute, his head down, his eyes closed.
“A few years ago I found her,” he went on, almost in a whisper. “My mother. In Arizona. If you have the resources, you can find anybody. She said wild, awful things about Satan. She died right after I saw her, and it came over me that my only choice was to fight Satan, fight my father Satan. And be a Christian—a good Christian. I believed that I had been directed to start SpaceMine. At first, I must confess, I was motivated by greed, by the money I could make and distribute to other good Christians. Scientists who held beliefs consonant with mine. But then when I discovered that my original planned orbit might put the asteroid on a collision path with Earth, I concluded that I’d been chosen to control the instrument that would bring on The End Times. And I told Dr. Korbin that. And do you know what he did? He began signing me.”
“Signing?” Christakos asked.
“You know, American Sign Language,” Hamilton replied. “A teacher I had told me I had to sign. And for a while—during my silent time—that was how I talked: by signing. Sometimes I think it was the bullies in school teasing me that got me talking.”
“Why did Dr. Korbin know signing?” Christakos asked.
“He told me he had learned to sign to converse with a mute patient. He is a remarkable man. He told me that I held the signing so secret it was like the signing was not just in my brain. It was in my soul.”
The room was silent for a full minute before Christakos said, “May I ask Mr. Falcone to come in?”
Hamilton did not speak. He nodded.
* * *
As soon as Christakos brought Falcone into the room and motioned for him to sit down, Hamilton began peppering him with questions about the trip from his suite in the Hotel Baltschug Kempinski to “this odd little building in Cuba.” Throughout the question-and-answer session, Hamilton continued to exude the same strange calm that Korbin and Christakos had seen. When the session ended, Falcone stood and said, “There is one more leg to your trip, Mr. Hamilton. We are now going to get on a plane that will take you to a place where we will finally work together to save the Earth.”
Again, Hamilton simply nodded.
78
Major General Dafoe was at the bottom of the Gulfstream stairway waiting to say farewell. When the passengers lined up to begin boarding, he nodded to Falcone, signaling that he wanted to talk. They stood aside for a moment and Dafoe whispered, “Please tell the President confidentially that I agree with his desire to close Guantanamo.” He then walked over to Hamilton, shook his hand, and handed him an Army camo combat uniform jacket. “You earned this, sir,” Dafoe said, “and you’ll need it now that you’re leaving the tropics.”
Hamilton nodded and smiled.
Falcone and Christakos feared that Hamilton would use the trip as a last chance to change or even withdraw his agreement to reveal the location of Asteroid USA. But he remained silent through the trip, spending most of his time writing—and crossing out—notes on his yellow pad.
Falcone returned to the long New Yorker short story. Christakos dug into his attaché case for a folder about a new case involving an indiscreet congressman. Galafano accepted the chance to snatch a couple of hours of sleep. Korbin was deep in a psychiatric journal. No one wants to talk about anything, Falcone thought.
* * *
The Gulfstream landed at Andrews in the sudden darkness that falls in the early days of winter. As the lighted stairway lowered, three black SUVs appeared. A man stepped out of the lead vehicle and walked up to Korbin. “You will be taken to your embassy, Dr. Korbin,” the man said. Korbin shook hands with Falcone, Christakos, and Galafano. Standing in front of Hamilton, Korbin, in swift moves, raised his open right hand, folded down his fingers, then opened his palm again. He next brought both hands down the length of his face, tilted his head forward slightly, and made a sad face. After making the same gestures, Hamilton hugged Korbin, who disappeared into the SUV.
The other two SUVs, each manned by a driver and a bodyguard, loaded their passengers and started off, Falcone and Galafano in one, Christakos and Hamilton in the other. Thirty-six minutes later, the vehicles turned off a Virginia highway and onto a tree-lined country road. A turnoff to the right put them on the circular driveway of a large stone house. Behind its dark silhouette, a moonlit lake glittered.
The house had belonged to a hedge fund manager who had gone bankrupt and moved to Panama. When the house went on the market, a Realtor mentioned the place to her husband, an officer in what was then called the CIA’s Clandestine Service. He got in touch with the right people and the house began its career as a safe house. Its titular owner was a Washington lawyer who did occasional legal work for the Agency.
The new arrivals were greeted by a man and a woman who acted as host and hostess, but they did not introduce themselves. They took their guests into a formal dining room whose row of windows overlooked about an acre of greensward along the shore of the lake. A buffet was laid out on a sideboard, along with two bottles of wine, one red and one white. The hostess and the host disappeared, as had the SUV crews.
Christakos and Hamilton, each clutching a yellow pad, staked a claim to one end of the table, Falcone and Galafano the other. Christakos filled his plate and poured a generous portion of red wine. He returned to the table followed by Hamilton carrying a bottle of water and a dish containing little more than shards of lettuce. Falcone and Galafano had heaping plates; Galafano, on duty, also chose water.
Galafano nodded toward the end of the table, and asked Falcone between bites, “What do you think the odd couple down there is cooking up?”
“My bet,” Falcone answered, “is that Christakos is working on language for two agreements: what Hamilton has to reveal to the U.S. government and an ironclad non-disclosure agreement that keeps everyone from ever revealing anything about the rendition.”
“Right. And what is Hamilton scribbling? Sure a lot of pages,” Galafano said.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Falcone said. He looked at his watch. “We should be hearing from the White House about now.”
Ten minutes later, his Blackphone rang and he heard Quinlan say, “We’re on our way.”
* * *
At the sound of a helicopter, a frame of lights emerged from the lakeshore lawn. The craft landed in the middle of the frame and Quinlan and two others stepped out. The safe house host and hostess appeared and escorted the passengers inside and into the dining room.
Quinlan introduced himself and then J. B. Patterson, director of the FBI, and Attorney General Jennifer Malcomson, who carried a briefcase
. A short woman with black bangs shielding her forehead, she wore a white sweater and black slacks, and black boots. She doffed a red ski jacket and hung it on the back of her chair in the middle of the table. Patterson sat to her left, Quinlan to her right. She slowly scanned the table as if she were a judge on a bench, projecting the image of a person clearly in charge.
“Good evening,” she said. “I am here at the request of the President. The facts as presented to me by him, augmented by Mr. Quinlan, are these.” She read from a sheet of paper she took from her briefcase.
“One. Dr. Cole Perenchio, an authority on gravitation, was a former NASA engineer employed by SpaceMine, a company owned by Mr. Robert Wentworth Hamilton. Dr. Perenchio learned that SpaceMine was planning to send a spacecraft to an asteroid and move it to an orbit for the purpose of mining it. Dr. Perenchio, using data gathered by NASA, calculated that the orbit planned for the asteroid, called Asteroid USA, would put it on a collision course with Earth in 2037. Dr. Perenchio conveyed this belief to Mr. Hamilton, who scoffed at—”
“Hold on, there Miss Attorney General. What I did—”
“Please do not interrupt, Mr. Hamilton,” Malcomson said, glaring at him.
“… scoffed at the idea,” Malcomson repeated. “Dr. Perenchio thereupon resigned, taking with him a laptop belonging to SpaceMine that contained both proprietary information owned by SpaceMine and a report by Dr. Perenchio on what he believed to be the probability that Asteroid USA would collide with the Earth.
“Two. Dr. Perenchio was murdered by two career criminals, who also killed three others. The killers were in the hire of a Russian national named Kuri Basayev, a secret partner of Mr. Hamilton, who—”
Hamilton stood, drew another glare from Malcomson, and sat down.
“—who,” Malcomson continued, “controlled criminal enterprises in Russia and America. An FBI agent investigating the murder of Dr. Perenchio believed that Mr. Hamilton was somehow connected with the deaths and designated him ‘a person of interest.’
“Three. Mr. Hamilton went to Moscow to meet with Mr. Basayev, but Mr. Basayev was lost at sea.”
Hamilton started to stand again, but slumped back in his chair. The movement caught Falcone’s eye. He wondered whether the arrogant billionaire’s half of the personality had just given way to the mild helper of God.
“Mr. Hamilton wished to leave Moscow, but was prevented from doing so under orders from President Lebed, who believed restricting Mr. Hamilton’s mobility would be tantamount to Russia gaining possession of Asteroid USA.
“Four. Mr. Hamilton also agreed to reveal to U.S. officials the location of Asteroid USA by turning on a transmitter in the spacecraft attached to the asteroid and to provide information on how to control the spacecraft. In exchange for voluntarily providing this information, all charges will be dropped and Mr. Hamilton will be given a presidential grant of immunity.
“Five. An operation, led by Mr. Falcone, was developed to get Mr. Hamilton out of Moscow and return him to the United States.
“Six. We are all here tonight to discuss a way to resolve this matter.”
* * *
Christakos stood and Malcomson nodded toward him. He knew that she was being talked about as the next Supreme Court justice, and tonight he could see why.
“Attorney General Malcomson, Director Patterson, and Mr. Quinlan, thank you for coming here, and please, Mr. Quinlan, thank President Oxley for his efforts to provide my client with an ending to this complex case. Let me begin by saying that my client agrees to provide the President and anyone delegated by him with the location of Asteroid USA by turning on a signal from the spacecraft attached to it and will provide information about the operation of the spacecraft.”
When a ripple of applause ceased, Christakos looked up from a sheaf of yellow lined pages. But he did not read from them. “In exchange,” he began—and paused. He enjoyed the suspense for a long moment and then went on: “Mr. Hamilton demands—and certainly has the right to—a clean slate. He demands the FBI, through Director Patterson, to state unequivocally that Mr. Hamilton is not a person of interest and that the FBI is no longer investigating any case that involves him in any way.
“Regarding the rendition, Mr. Hamilton believes that the operation was highly illegal, was not pre-approved by any legal authority, violated his civil rights, put him in peril, and could result in criminal charges based on Mr. Hamilton’s testimony. However, Mr. Hamilton does not intend to take action against Mr. Falcone, now or at any time in the future, in gratitude to him and his comrades for risking their lives to get him out of Russia.
“Finally…” Again, Christakos savored a moment. “Finally, we desire that everyone in this room sign a non-disclosure agreement and that it be endorsed by Attorney General Malcomson.”
Falcone looked down the table at her and could sense that she was struggling to find a way to accept Christakos’ demand … No, wait. “desire.” Nice touch. You don’t demand something from the attorney general—or a possible future Supreme Court justice.
Patterson, sensing the need to give Malcomson more time to react, stood and, looking grim, said, “The Federal Bureau of Investigation does not believe Mr. Hamilton is a person of interest. And the FBI also does not in any way believe that Mr. Hamilton is a suspect in any crime. I personally wish to apologize for any embarrassment we caused Mr. Hamilton.”
“Thank you, Director Patterson,” Malcomson said. “And Mr. Christakos, I—we—all appreciate your efforts and the efforts of your client. As for the non-disclosure agreement, I certainly can understand—and accept—the desire for attaining silence on this matter via the conventional use of a non-disclosure agreement. But I feel that any agreement that leaves this room as a piece of paper would be an orphan, unprotected by court of law, and even homeless by virtue of the fact that there is no legally acceptable place to file it.”
“I can understand your arguments, Madam Attorney General,” Falcone said. “But how can we guarantee non-disclosure?”
“I go back to the practice endorsed by George Washington. To clearly show that his officers supported the Revolution, he ordered his officers to take an oath of loyalty. An oath was backed by honor, not a piece of paper.” Nodding toward Christakos, Malcomson asked, “Would you and your client accept an oath instead of a non-disclosure agreement? I propose that each of us take a personal oath not to reveal any details of the rendition of Mr. Hamilton or the causes that inspired it.”
Hamilton stood, as did a clearly surprised Christakos. Hamilton raised his right hand, and said, “I’ll give the oath first.”
Malcomson said, “Repeat after me. I, Robert Wentworth Hamilton…”
And so it went, from one to the other around the table. When all oaths had been given, she added, “Now, Mr. Hamilton, there are the questions of the asteroid’s location and control of the spacecraft.”
“I have always closely held the location of Asteroid USA for competitive reasons,” he said. “We are not the only corporation that wants to mine asteroids. Before I left for Moscow, I had George Hopkins, my chief engineer, write down the way to turn on the transmitter in the spacecraft attached to Asteroid USA and put it in his safe. Only he and I know the combination. I am leaving for California tomorrow and will instruct him to turn on the transmitter and provide the necessary information for control of the spacecraft.”
Hamilton went back to his chair and, tapping Christakos on his shoulder, said, “I have asked Mr. Christakos to arrange for delivery of the desired information.”
Malcomson looked down at her paper, looked up, and said, “And control of the spacecraft?”
“That will have to be done at SpaceMine,” Hamilton said. Falcone detected hesitancy in Hamilton’s response.
“Very well,” Malcomson said. She turned her head slightly, “Approved, Mr. Falcone?”
“Approved,” Falcone replied. “Assuming assistance by SpaceMine personnel.”
The meeting was over.
* *
*
After the helicopter flew off with Quinlan, Patterson, and Malcomson, Christakos and Hamilton got into the SUV that had delivered them and sped off. When Falcone and Galafano entered their SUV, Galafano said, “I have to hand it to the AG. The George Washington oath was a great idea.”
“Agreed,” Falcone said. “I’m a great fan of George Washington. He was a gentleman in a time of gentlemen, and a sworn oath was good enough for him, but it so happens that the Continental Congress demanded a signed document confirming that the officers had taken the oath. One of the signers was General Benedict Arnold.”
Galafano smiled and asked, “How long do you think the silence will hold?”
“Not long,” Falcone said. “I wonder about recorders in safe houses. When I see the President tomorrow, I’ll suggest that he order Sam Stone to destroy any tapes that may have been made tonight. And then there’s Philip Dake sniffing around, picking up bits from all his CIA and NSA contacts.”
“Wouldn’t Dake see the point of keeping this all secret?”
“Fat chance. Dake once told me that every morning when he wakes up, the first thing he says to himself is: What are the bastards trying to hide from us today? I know that he’s held back information in the past when he was convinced publishing it in one his columns or books would put us all in jeopardy. But this story is just too big. Besides, even if I could persuade him to hold off, there are others out there who just don’t give a damn.”
“Whew! Sad commentary on where we are today,” Galafano said.
“Right, Joe. I sometimes wonder how we got here.”
* * *
Christakos called the Cosmos Club and reserved a room for Hamilton, who arranged for his corporate Gulfstream to pick him up next morning. After seeing Hamilton off at the Cosmos, Christakos called Falcone and arranged for a meeting at Christakos’ office. “After breakfast this time, please,” Christakos said.
“I hope to be having my breakfast in the employees’ cafeteria at the Air and Space Museum,” Falcone told him. “I’ll see you at ten o’clock.”
Final Strike--A Sean Falcone Novel Page 33