Collision (36 page)

“Jesus! Won't those by-the-book dicks ever learn?”

“Apparently not. The recruiter was also a former FBI agent. He had been stationed in Moscow as part of the bureau's counternarcotics operation. Spoke fluent Russian. Son of Russian
é
migr
é
s. Educated at Brandeis. Did graduate work at London School of Economics. Retired two years ago. He's been living in Dubai, where there are a lot of oligarchs playing in the sand.”

“How the hell could they get away with it?

“Same way the other guys did. They came upon a juicy piece of intel and knew that the only way to keep it going was to keep their big boss totally in the dark. None of the big brass knows about the operation.”

“So the DCI is blind on this?”

“Yep. So is the secretary of defense. And the director of national intelligence.”

“How the hell could that happen?”

“The NSA kicked it off inadvertently by picking up calls between Hamilton and Basayev. Not just length and time, the so-called metadata, but actual conversations that they were able to decrypt.”

“Conversations? For that the NSA needs a warrant.”

“No warrant. The CIA is essentially blackmailing the NSA because if this got out, the NSA gets more trouble for breaking the law.”

“But this is basically pointless,” Falcone said, shaking his head. “The conversations would be fruit from a poison tree if the U.S. tried to prosecute on that evidence.”

“Right. But in one conversation it looks like Basayev is trying to link up with Hamilton to take advantage of SpaceMine technology and ultimately gain control of the palladium market, which would cut into the Russian economy. The rogues think they can turn Basayev by threatening to reveal his back-office deal with Hamilton to his pal Lebed.”

“But at this point neither Oxley nor Lebed has a clue about what's going on. And that means if this comes out Oxley will be shown doing business with a billionaire mobster who's murdered at least five American citizens and has helped put our planet in jeopardy!”

“Well put. Looks like you jumped Oxley's ship at the right time,” Dake said. He poured himself a cup of coffee and proffered the carafe to Falcone, who held up his cup to be filled.

“Christ, if I were still there I wouldn't have had any knowledge about this insane operation,” Falcone said.

“No, but you might have been taken down just the same. That's the way fall-on-my-sword usually works.”

“When do you think you'll be blowing this wide open?”

“Right now I have only one source. A good agency source. But, as with most good sources, this one has an ax to grind. I need at least two more sources before I can think about going with this. The public already knows that a U.S. immigration agent was killed by one of the guns the ATF allowed to be sold to Mexican drug gangs. Just think what the reaction will be that another ATF gun ended up in the hands of Chechens who killed all those folks at Sullivan and Ford. Someone's head would be sure to roll. Maybe Patterson's. Maybe the attorney general's.”

“Well, you've caused heads to roll before, Phil.”

“Yeah. But this one scares me. The SpaceMine-Basayev connection could start a global panic. Suppose Basayev is using the cover of this joint project with Hamilton in order to take over the operational control of Asteroid USA? Maybe under the direction of someone in Moscow leading a coup.”

“Come on, Phil! That's a stretch even for you.”

“Maybe. But it certainly would be possible for Russia to have a monopoly on precious minerals well into the future and cause havoc all over the world. And just one tweet by a conspiracy nut—a claim, say, that the Russians are threatening to aim the asteroid toward us—would be all over the Internet in minutes. Run on the banks. Stock markets crashing. That's why I think I need to hold back on this.”

“Okay. But if you do hold back, the thing still goes on,” Falcone said. “There's only one way to stop Hamilton. I'm going to take it all directly to President Oxley, one-on-one. No one else in the Oval Office. No one taking notes. No one hiding in the corner.”

“That might work. But then Oxley would have to turn to the CIA, the FBI, the whole apparatus that keeps lids on things. Would he want to lift the lid?”

“I'll find out,” Falcone said. “And you will never know what I found out, maybe even when it happens.”

 

65

As Falcone well knew,
it was almost impossible to meet one-on-one with President Oxley. He was protected from assassins by a cordon of Secret Service agents and from outside influence by Ray Quinlan, the President's chief of staff and guardian of the presidential clock and calendar. Quinlan made it a firing offense if a White House staffer allowed someone to meet with the President without the presence or authorization of Quinlan.

When Falcone was national security advisor, he had often clashed with Quinlan over unrestrained access to the President, especially when President Oxley politely asked Quinlan to leave him alone with Falcone. Now, as a former advisor who was still loathed by Quinlan, Falcone knew there was no way he could directly reach President Oxley by any of the regular routes.

But there was a place they could meet. As soon as Dake left, Falcone called Betty LeGarde, once a young staffer in his Senate office. She now held a job that Falcone had helped to arrange: the President's personal secretary.

“Thanks for the flowers, Sean,” she said, noting the name on her phone console. “You never miss my birthday.”

“You're welcome, Betty. It's been a while.”

“What can I do for you?” she asked in a voice somehow both warm and efficient.

“You can call your boss and tell him that tomorrow would be a good day for golf.”

“The President had planned to take the day off with the family. You know what Marcie will say.”

Falcone also knew what the White House press corps would do with another presidential golf game. The reporters and pundits analyzed the President's every word and every move, focused on every minute that the President was not working, or, as the press corps called it, carrying out his official duties. Even a rare night out with his wife at the Kennedy Center counted as nonworking time. And golf was chalked up as recreation even if his foursome included the Speaker and the Senate minority leader. So suggesting a round of golf was setting up a chance for the media to review the number of the President's golf dates, inspiring dozens of snarky tweets, blogs, and TV commentaries.

“Tell him we'll just do nine holes,” Falcone said. “Right after church. He can be home by four o'clock and have the rest of the day with Marcie and the kids. Tell him it's important to get some relaxation. He'll know what I mean.”

“Relaxation” was a code word between them, dating back to a three a.m. call from Falcone about a flaring crisis in the Middle East. After giving the President the details, Falcone had said, “Just look upon this as a kind of relaxation. You can toss away the day's schedule of boring meetings and get down to real stuff in the Situation Room.” After that, Oxley always responded to Falcone's crisis calls as a summons to “relaxation.”

*   *   *

Falcone's call set in
motion the machinery that delivers the President from the citadel of the White House to the perils of the outside world, which today was the Army Navy Country Club across the Potomac, a twelve-minute trip by presidential motorcade. The club is on a Virginia ridge where a Union fort stood during the Civil War. Golfers can still see the fort's parapets and ditches around one of the greens. But those bits of the past are usually noticed only by golfers who shank or hook an approach shot to that tricky green.

The club's three courses are for playing golf, not dwelling on history. But a kind of secret history is made here, woven from the conversations between golfers whose jobs, from the President on down, involve governing the nation. The club's members are retired and active-duty officers, along with civilians who are “bound together by the fraternal and patriotic spirit of serving the best interests and efficiency of the National Defense,” and the industrial-military complex.

A Secret Service agent called Falcone and told him which of the courses had been selected, along with the tee time, and said that a car would pick him up in twenty minutes. When Falcone arrived at the first tee, he was assigned the presidential golf cart. “The President will be at the wheel,” an agent told Falcone, grinning. Falcone knew that meant pedal-to-the-floor.

Standing alongside another cart and offering hearty handshakes to Falcone were the governor of Maryland and the secretary of commerce, the rest of the foursome. Falcone imagined the surprise White House phone calls that had informed them of the President's unexpected invitations.

The President teed off first, a powerful drive that landed on the edge of the green. Falcone and the others landed far from the green. The President finished off with two putts. The rest of the foursome proved themselves duffers, and Oxley was looking displeased, whether for the poor competition or for the delay in hearing Falcone's relaxation report.

At the second tee, Oxley whispered to Falcone, “Into the rough.” His tee drive was weak and hooked into a long, wide stretch of brush and trees that appeared a third of the way to the green. Falcone followed with a similar drooping drive. The others managed to stay on the fairway. As they headed toward their balls, Oxley sped his cart toward the rough. One of the Secret Service carts tailed them but kept at a discreet distance.

Oxley and Falcone left the cart and plunged into the rough. “Mind the poison ivy,” Oxley said, pointing to a patch between two pines. “This better be good. Marcie's barely speaking to me.”

Falcone gave a SitRoom-style point-by-point summary of what he knew about Hamilton's connection to the shootings and his secret partnership with Kuri Basayev. He ended with, “As for the SpaceMine asteroid, if it's moved for mining, it puts the Earth in danger. And adding to the danger is Basayev, who…”

“Who is someone that your friend Dake has been talking about,” Oxley interrupted. “He's calling it a rogue operation out at the agency, right?” Oxley said.

Falcone nodded.

“How long did you work with me?” Oxley said. “Do you really think I didn't know about or approve the plan to develop a Russian asset, one that is so close to the Russian president?”

“Wait!” Falcone exclaimed. “You're telling me that this is an authorized operation? That making it seem ‘rogue' was a cover to give you deniability in case it became known?”

“It's a little more ambiguous than that,” Oxley said, poking in the high grass with a seven iron.

“One who could turn out to be a double and turn the sword on you?”

“Come on, Sean. You still think I'm an intelligence ingenue? Don't know how to play chess with the big boys?”

Falcone did not reply.

“The NSA routinely intercepted and decrypted the calls between Hamilton and Basayev,” Oxley continued. “Basayev's been an intel target for a long time. We knew that Basayev had muscled his way into SpaceMine, and the agency believed he had a hand in the shootings.”

“So that's why you ordered J.B. to have his FBI take over the hit on the firm?”

“I didn't order J.B. But after a conference—NSA, CIA, FBI, God, even Homeland Security—that's what we came up with.”

“What about the Fast and Furious gun? Suppose it comes out that a gun blessed by the U.S. Department of Justice killed five Americans?”

“I'll handle it if Fast and Furious comes up. I'll worry about it when I have to.”

“So let's say that temporarily stays under the rug. But why hasn't the FBI arrested Sprague and Hamilton?”

“On what charge? The evidence was too thin. Hard to show a direct murder link based on what was said over the phone. We needed time to let it play out. Hell, you were a prosecutor once. Think you could convict on circumstantial evidence?”

Falcone stooped and picked up his ball. “Mine. Where's yours?”

“I give up. I'll take the new-ball penalty.”

“I will, too,” Falcone said, pocketing his ball. “But what about Hamilton's plan to move the asteroid? You haven't done anything to stop what Hamilton is doing.”

“Come on, you know the answer. The Hill would see it as a phony excuse to burn the Silicon Valley boys. Lot of campaign money there, and not just Hamilton's. If Justice moves against Hamilton, it has to be airtight,” Oxley said, looking toward the fairway. “We'd better get back.” Oxley headed toward the cart.

Falcone did not move. “Sometimes, Mr. President, you have to hear the truth unvarnished,” he said. “Isn't the real reason the White House—Quinlan, that is—is keeping this bottled up is so it doesn't get out that you—not your administration but you—have been running an operation with a Russian thug who murdered five Americans? A thug who just might take over control of an asteroid from Hamilton and put it on a collision course with Earth. Or use it as a weapon against us or against China. Did it occur to your team that Basayev could become one of the greatest extortionists in history?”

“What the hell are you talking about, Sean?”

“Basayev may be using a commercial activity as a cover for a covert operation of his own—controlling an asteroid that could be a weapon, using it to demand tribute from the U.S. or face annihilation … Or maybe it's Lebed who has been running Basayev all along. Maybe Lebed, Russia's new Vladimir Putin, is managing a new charm offensive while plotting to take advantage of U.S. technology and our stupid decision to slash our defense and space budgets.”

Oxley climbed into the cart and started it up. “You were always good at seeing the things that aren't here yet,” he said, smiling. “So what do you suggest I do?”