Collision (39 page)

In a few days of cables and phone calls, the U.S. ambassador to Moscow, the Russian ambassador to Washington, and the Turkish ambassadors to both countries had all worked together to make sure that the two presidents would be able to have a private, face-to-face meeting while they were in Istanbul for the G-20 summit. The annual meeting of the finance ministers and central bank governors of the world's twenty leading economies also drew many of the world's leaders.

The plan begun by Oxley put him and Lebed in Mihrabat Grove the day before the summit began. Protected by the U.S. Secret Service, Russia's Federal Security Service, Turkey's National Intelligence Organization, and the Turkish First Commando Brigade, the two presidents found themselves sitting at a table set on a park ridge that overlooked the city, glasses of tea in front of them.

They had met once before, at the annual opening session of the UN General Assembly, but they had not had much of a chance to talk. The U.S. was on a Cold War footing with Russia, after Vladimir Putin had conspired to grab Crimea from Ukraine and prevent Ukraine from ever considering a dalliance with the European Union or NATO. Neither man wanted to risk a political backlash by seeming to dine with their respective devils. From then on, they had kept up by following intelligence reports on each other.

“I'm told,” Lebed said, “that this was your this idea of our speaking man-to-man. I agreed. Good idea.” His English had a slightly rough edge, which Russians never seemed to be able to lose.

“Somebody had to,” Oxley said, adding. “How sure are you that this table isn't bugged?”

“Perhaps by NATO? By the Turks? By NSA? By us? I'm not sure at all,” Lebed replied. “You?”

“I have given orders that we are not to be bugged.”

“And you know that the NSA will obey?”

“Well, of course I hope so. But I do believe that if we walk about thirty feet—ten meters—from this table to an empty piece of lawn we can at least be sure we are not near any object that could have a bug.”

“Very well,” Lebed said, gulping down his tea. “What is it you wish to talk about?”

Oxley, who had only sipped at his tea, followed Lebed down a path that ran across the park hill and did not speak until he felt safely unobserved and unheard. They stood next to each other, their shoes sinking slightly into the freshly cut, freshly watered lawn.

“You seem very conscious of surveillance,” Lebed said.

“Aren't we all?”

“You wish to talk about Basayev.”

“Good guess.”

“Not a guess,” Lebed said, laughing. “You have to be careful of those balls lying around in the rough at the Army Navy Club.”

“I'll be goddamned!” Oxley exclaimed. “Thanks for the warning. I'll be more careful. I guess you realize I'll have to ask for some better sweeping. But thanks.”

“You are welcome. Call it a goodwill gesture.”

“I'm surprised that you feel any goodwill. You must have got an immediate report on what Falcone and I discussed about Basayev.”

“It's all bullshit,” Lebed said. “Kuri Basayev would never be turned.”

“Actually, it's a lot more sweet-smelling,” Oxley laughed. “Our boys got a lot out of your friend. Such as what military equipment and advice Russia has been giving Iran's Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps. He's been singing like Pavarotti.”

“Impossible!” Lebed shouted, all semblance of calm leaving him in an instant.

“I have a report that contains transcripts of his conversations with his CIA handler,” Oxley said, reaching into the inside pocket of his suit coat, taking out a thick envelope, and handing it to Lebed.

Lebed held the envelope in his right hand, striking it against his left for a few moments before he pocketed it and said, “There have been suspicions. Certain ports where his yacht docks, the same man boarding the yacht, staying only a few moments, not looking like a guest. One of my officers insisted that the visitor was CIA. I could not believe it. I was against putting him under deep surveillance. But there
is
a counterintelligence operation going on. When I got a report on your golf talk, I started thinking, started believing…” He pocketed the envelope and patted the pocket. “If this holds up under examination…”

“This is real, Boris, I assure you.”

“That motherfucker!” Lebed muttered.

“Not quite,” Oxley said. “He likes young men. Our folks caught him in a gay bar in Hong Kong. That's how the turning started. The photos are … well … interesting.… And given how your fellow Russians feel about such matters. They don't have the benefit of a London education and enlightenment.…”

Lebed quickly regained his self-control. “So,” he said with a smile. “Maybe I dangled him to see if you would bite and then I used him to feed you shit for information.”

“Don't bullshit a bullshitter, Boris. We know what he is, and if we don't make this deal, the Russian people are going to find out about him—and start asking questions about why you have such a man so close to you.…”

Lebed looked away and did not respond.

“What you do about him is your business,” Oxley continued. “But we don't want him involved in what we feel is a potential danger to our national security.”

“National security? What the hell are you talking about?” Lebed asked.

Oxley told him about Ivan's Hammer and got an incredulous laugh in response.

“Oh, come now, Blake … I can call you that now. That's science fiction.”

“Look it up in your archives. And I'll send you what our files have on asteroids as space weapons. We think Basayev may be going in that direction: take control of SpaceMine, make demands, and stir global panic. You may think Ivan's Hammer is amusing, but I'm sure your scientists will agree on the danger of changing a near-Earth asteroid's orbit. And I think we need to get the UN involved in … well, a scientist I admire has a name for it: ‘defense of the Earth.' I think we could make it a good joint project.”

“I'd like to know more,” Lebed said cautiously. “As for Kuri Basayev, it appears that he is a problem.” He patted the pocket. “I will take care of the problem.”

Oxley saw a waiter emerge from the hilltop restaurant. Someone pulled him back in.

“There's no time to talk much more,” Oxley said. “The security boys are getting nervous. This has been a good little session.”

“I agree. It's good to get to a moment where there's no bullshit.… There's one more thing. I know you get those morning intelligence reports on what the vacuum cleaners picked up. So do I.” Lebed looked down at the Bosporus glittering below. “We—and probably you, too—got a tap that showed your Mr. Hamilton is planning to visit Basayev. In fact, right now Basayev's off there somewhere.” Lebed pointed toward the Black Sea. “And your Mr. Hamilton is in Moscow at this very moment, enjoying the hospitality of one of Russia's finest hotels. It would be unfortunate if his meeting with Basayev takes place.”

“That's right,” Oxley said. “We've been thinking about finding a technical way to stop Hamilton. He might try to become a fugitive. But at the moment he can legally travel.”

“Like Snowden,” Lebed said with a sharp laugh.

Oxley did not respond.

“Seriously,” Lebed resumed, “We'll make sure Hamilton doesn't visit Basayev. It could make matters complicated.”

“Okay,” Oxley said, extending his hand, wondering what was going to happen to Basayev, yet knowing.

“This looks like it might be starting something good,” Lebed said.

“I sure hope so. Putin saw everything as a zero-sum game. Russia wins, America loses. That's back-to-the-future thinking. It won't work. Not in the long run. But we both lose in the meantime.”

“Perhaps when you recognize that Russia is a great country and more worthy of respect than you and your European friends have given us … But enough. Let's talk again another time.”

They shook hands and began walking toward the top of the hill as Turkish commandos and men in suits began appearing.

Oxley began speaking rapidly: “Listen, Boris. This is an opportunity for Russia to finally be serious about wanting to play a leading role on the world stage again and assume the role of a real peacemaker.”

“What kind of a deal are you talking about?” Lebed asked.

“We've got to come to terms about the asteroid that Basayev's involved with. He and Hamilton are putting us—all of us—in danger.”

“What are you proposing?”

“A joint press conference announcing our plan to support asteroid research and bring the UN into space. After all, your country has had an asteroid skim over it.”

“I have advisors. You have advisors. They don't want us to talk. They'll go crazy,” Lebed said, his smile returning. “I assume that pocket of yours also has a draft of a statement about all this.”

“It so happens that you're right,” Oxley said, taking a sheet of paper from his pocket. “It has my cell phone number on it. Take a look, make whatever changes you want. We can bounce it back and forth and have a press conference later today.”

“I'll take a look, as you put it,” Lebed said. “Maybe show it to a couple of my people and get back to you. But there's something we haven't discussed … China.”

“You want to bring the Chinese into this?”

“We don't have a choice. You know that they're working to set up shop on the moon and then use it as launching pad to colonize Mars.”

“They're a long way from doing either,” Oxley said, a touch dismissively.

“Not so far away, I assure you. We've been talking to them. They are going to shock you. Believe me.… They're working on a solar sail to move asteroids as well. We need to meet this afternoon with President Zhang Xing. Otherwise, he'll think this is a plot to contain China's missions in space.”

“But Zhang might tell the world what Hamilton and Basayev have been up to and claim that China's research is for science, peace, and harmony.” Oxley made no attempt to conceal his growing frustration in dealing with an increasingly powerful and not-so-humble China. “And then denounce us as global terrorists!”

“If he does, we'll go public with what we've got on the Chinese military.” Lebed chortled. “Your NSA doesn't know everything, well … at least not anymore. Our FSB may be a little old-school for you, but we still do intelligence the old-fashioned way.” A smile spread across Lebed's broad face, revealing a set of teeth so perfect that Oxley found himself wondering if they were real. “We might even release documents showing how much he and his family have tucked away in Swiss bank accounts and London real estate. All that propaganda about antimaterialism and rooting out corruption … well, it might not play so well on Twitter.”

“Tell me, Boris,” Oxley said, leaning slightly into Lebed's shoulder. “Do you know what a ‘Sabra' is?”

“Of course, it's a Hebrew word for Jews who are born in Israel.”

“Yes, and it also refers to people who are like a desert cactus, a prickly pear, which is tough on the outside but soft and sweet on the inside.”

“Your point being?”

“I know Sabras, Boris,” Oxley said, jabbing Lebed's arm. “And you're no Sabra!”

Taking Oxley's joke as a compliment, Lebed said, “You're right. I am more like what one of your politicians once said about your political caucuses—the pricks are all on the inside.”

With that, both presidents broke into unrestrained and infectious laughter and Lebed said, “It is good, Blake, that we have this talk. We should have more.”

*   *   *

Two motorcades appeared at
the top of the park, near the restaurant. Each president's official photographer had them pose for a handshake before they headed for their cars. When Oxley got into his limousine, he found Ray Quinlan awaiting him in the backseat. He was seething.

“First that goddamn golf course caper,” Quinlan said. “Now this, Mr. President. What the hell are you doing? You could lose a secretary of state over this. She's back in the villa, boiling mod.”

“So are you, Ray,” Oxley said, laughing.

“Again, what the hell are you doing?”

“A walk in the woods. Like Reagan and Gorbachev.”

“Get your facts right, Mr. President. The walkers in the woods were Paul Nitze and a Russian negotiator.”

“Well, anyway, it will go into the memoir,” Oxley said.

“Are you going to wait for the memoir before you tell me what you two talked about?”

“World peace, Ray. What in hell do you think we'd talk about?”

“Fine. But how about a few details? The press is going crazy and we've got to brief them before they start running totally false stories and crazy speculations. Was it a good meeting or a bad one? Nasty or nice? Lebed's a fucking dictator masquerading as a moderate. New bottle, old wine. Stone-cold killer. Come on, Mr. President. Give me something.”

“Okay, Ray, okay. Tell Jimmy to alert the press that Lebed and I will hold a press conference this afternoon to make a major announcement.”

“Just the two of you?”

“Well, there's likely to be one more. President Zhang Xing.”

“What?… What about the Indians, the Japanese…”

“I'm sure that all of them are going to support what we'll say,” Oxley said, free of any self-doubt about what he was about to do. “Come on, Ray. Enough of the negative stuff. ‘
Doveryai, no proveryai
.'”

“Jesus, You really believe that ‘trust but verify' shit?”

“Ray, I said to get on board. We're about to make some history.”

 

73

Kuri Basayev rose from
a night of lovemaking and slipped on a pair of swimming trunks. He moved swiftly from the master bedroom suite without disturbing his companion and climbed to the top deck of the
Aglaya
.