Collision (28 page)

Not ready to yield the issue, Senator Lawrence retorted, “Mr. Chairman, there is all too much secrecy, too much ambiguity surrounding this ‘venture,' as you describe it. There are serious national-security implications involved in moving asteroids around in space, and we need to—”

“We need to desist, Senator Lawrence. Perhaps you can take your concerns up in your own committee. We need to move on and the clerk advises me that your time has expired.”

“My God!” Taylor whispered to Darlene. “I think that Hamilton's messing with Janus! He wouldn't answer her question. If he's not familiar with mythology, how did he know Janus was a mythical figure? Janus! That's what Cole must have wanted to tell me! It's Janus!”

With one pound of his gavel, Anderson ignored Lawrence's attempt to raise a final question. “This hearing,” he declared, “is hereby adjourned.”

 

50

Sprague and Hamilton slipped
out of the hearing room through a side door, avoiding a scrum of reporters and cameras at the main door. They hurried down the corridor, Sprague leading the way, the phalanx of lawyers trailing behind. Atop the broad stairs at the entrance to the Russell Building, the lawyers went off on their own. Sprague and Hamilton walked down the steps into a shadowy Capitol Hill bathed in the warm light of a lowering sun.

Sprague's Lincoln Town Car was the first in a line of black limousines parked along the curb. The driver pulled up directly in front of Sprague and stepped out to open the passenger door. Sprague motioned Hamilton to enter, then followed. At luxurious moments like this he secretly relished the idea that a boy who had been so poor could become a man who was so rich.

The car cut smoothly through Capitol Hill traffic, heading down Constitution Avenue. As the car passed the National Art Gallery, Hamilton said, “Fusty old place full of fusty old masters.” He looked at the black face of his Rolex and asked, “How long will this take?”

“Not long,” Sprague said, too quickly, too defensively. He had never found a way to get to a comfortable level with Hamilton. Sprague knew that Hamilton regarded him as just another person paid to help get Hamilton through life.

“I think things went well today. Taylor discredited. Your firm presentation. Glad that's behind us.”

“I want to call my pilot as soon as possible and give him an estimated time,” Hamilton said in the weary tone he sometimes affected. “It has been a long and tiring day. Yes, I thought it went well.”

They made the rest of the trip to Georgetown in silence. When the car pulled into the driveway of the Ritz-Carlton, a doorman in blue livery opened the door and said, “Fine day, Mr. Sprague.” He nodded and stepped back for Hamilton to enter first. Inside, Sprague awkwardly passed Hamilton so he could lead him to the elevator, which took them to the fourth floor.

Sprague punched the buttons on the number pad, opened the door, and stepped back, allowing Hamilton to enter first into the marble-floored entrance to a starkly white room—white walls, white high ceiling, white carpet, long white sofa, and white armchairs. Through white sheer curtains could be seen a terrace and a view of the Potomac, gray under darkening clouds. Sprague paused to share the view with Hamilton. But he looked toward a hallway. “I've got to hit the head,” he said. “It there one down here?”

“Yes, second door to the left.”

Sprague was still standing on the spot when Hamilton returned. “Clouding up,” Sprague said, walking to the fireplace, an oblong slot in a marble wall, under a wide inset television screen. With a flick of a switch, two rows of gas flames rose. Sprague pointed Hamilton to an armchair at the left of the fireplace.

On the wall to his right were shelves containing mementos of Sprague's Foreign Service days—a dozen Japanese netsukes, most of them mildly pornographic; two Javanese shadow puppets; miniature Taiwanese paintings full of eerie, brightly colored faces; a piece of jadeite carved into the shape of a Chinese cabbage with a locust within its leaves.

“It's … how shall I say it … curiously interesting, but I give little notice to non-Christian art,” Hamilton said, turning away from the artifacts. “I prefer Biblical art, particularly paintings and sculptures that attempt to lead the viewer toward God's word, such as Gustave Dor
é
's illustrations for the Book of Revelation. Are you familiar with those works?”

“I know who Dor
é
is. But I don't know much about the Book of Revelation.”

“It is more than a book, far more than a book,” Hamilton said. “‘Revelation' means exactly that. Its words show us ‘things which must shortly come to pass.' It is a guide to direct us to the Final Days.'”

“Hmm. Interesting,” Sprague said awkwardly, at a loss for an honest response.

“Some of my collection is in the Getty Villa in Los Angeles. I assume you've been there.”

“I'll make it a stop on my next trip to LA,” Sprague said. Knowing Hamilton did not drink alcohol or soft drinks of any kind, he asked, “Can I make you a cup of tea?”

“I'd like a glass of water—tap water—and no ice cubes. Where is it?”

Heading toward the kitchen, Sprague stopped and asked, “Where is what?”

“The thumb drive. I assume it's here or we would have gone to your office.”

“I think this place is safer than my office,” Sprague said. “I have a wall safe in my—in the master—bedroom. I'll get it.”

Sprague detoured to a bar in the library, poured himself a Scotch, and carried it into a large bedroom with off-white walls and ceiling and a television screen positioned for viewing from the oversized bed. He finished the Scotch and put the glass on a table near the bed. Then he removed from the wall a high-grade print of a Winslow Homer landscape, opened the safe that it had concealed, and took out a small lacquered wooden box. It was decorated in pale red and yellow stripes. On the top was a copy of an eighteenth-century portrait of a long-faced Japanese courtesan.

Detouring to the kitchen and filling a glass, he walked back to the living room with the glass in one hand and the box in the other. He proffered both to Hamilton, who was back in the chair. Sprague took the chair opposite Hamilton, who drank the water and put the glass on the table between them. Hamilton examined the box, which did not appear to have a lid.

“How the hell do I open this?” he asked.

“It's a Japanese puzzle box. A curiosity. To open it, turn it over and press the fourth red stripe from your left.”

Hamilton tried to follow directions, said, “I hate puzzles,” and tossed it to Sprague. He quickly opened it, took out the thumb drive, and handed it to Hamilton, who put it in his suit coat's inner pocket.

“It's yours,” Sprague said, pointing to the box he had placed on the table. “I have one that takes seventy-eight moves to open.”

“Thank you, Paul. But it's not my type of thing.… I guess it's more like your type of thing: complicated, tricky.”

“That doesn't sound like a compliment.”

“Wasn't meant to be, Paul. I'm still angry about your tone in that nutty phone call you made after the shooting.”

“Maybe my tone wasn't to your liking, Robert. Sorry about the tone. But don't forget: That was your lawyer talking. This is serious.”

“How serious?”

“I hate to admit that I don't know. All I know is that I got a call from Hal Davidson, late on the night of October second. He said he had to speak to me the next morning. When I asked him why he was sounding so excited and why was this so urgent, he said it involved the firm's most important client. That, of course, would be you.”

“Yes, that would be me.”

“I believed him. He was a sound attorney, very precise. But I felt I had to stall so I could call you and get an idea about what was going on.”

“Yes, yes. I remember the call. And I remember saying that I thought I knew what this was about and would take care of it.”

“I must know, Robert. Exactly
how
did you take care of it?”

“I called Basayev.”

“Basayev? What in hell … Robert. Why call him? I have warned you that—”

“You are my lawyer, Paul. Not my nanny. I called him and told him that a disgruntled employee had walked out and had taken information that could be embarrassing to him, to me, and to SpaceMine. I think that is exactly the way I put it.”

“And then did you—”

“You're straining my patience, Paul. I'm not going to submit to a deposition.”

“I must know, Robert. For my own understanding, as your lawyer. Our conversations are protected by—”

“Oh, come off it, Paul. When I mentioned that this employee had turned a computer over to Hal Davidson, Basayev cursed in Russian. I don't know exactly the words he used, but he seemed to know about Hal. And just from his tone, it was clear he didn't like him.

“Then Basayev said—these are the exact words—he said, ‘Don't worry, little bushkin. I'll take care of everything. There will be no loose ends.' I was surprised when he said this that he had only a slight accent.”

“Loose ends?” Sprague repeated, his face paling.

Hamilton took his smartphone out of his pocket and hit a button. Looking at Sprague, he said, “Excuse me.” He then spoke into the phone and said, “Mike. Hold on.”

He looked at Sprague again. “I assume I can take your car to Dulles?”

Sprague nodded slowly, as if in a trance, and said, “I'll call. It will be here when you want it.”

“Okay, Mike,” Hamilton said. “I figure I'll be leaving for Dulles in less than half an hour.” He pocketed the phone and turned back to face Sprague.

“Yes, you said you'd take care of it,” Sprague said. “Loose ends. And then Hal Davidson was shot to death, along with three innocent—”

“Paul!” Hamilton shouted, leaning closer to Sprague. “Shut up! Shut up about that shooting.”

Sprague's heart began pounding. He felt light-headed. Hamilton had that look in his eyes that was stone-cold and threatening, sending a chill right through him. He had never seen eyes quite like Hamilton's. They were eyes that never seemed to blink.

Sprague shifted in his chair, then, getting face-to-face to Hamilton, said, “I
can't
shut up. I am your attorney. The police have Hal's cell phone. They will—”

“The police do not have the case. It's in the hands of the FBI,” Hamilton said, leaning back.

“For God's sake, Robert. That obviously makes it worse. The FBI is going to find Hal called me and—”

“And was shot? So what? Where is the connection to me?” Hamilton said. He leaned back, paused, and resumed speaking calmly. “Let me tell you something, counselor. Collinsworth and Anderson are my connections. They are powerful senators, even more powerful than the FBI. They control the bureau's budget! They're both up for reelection next year. And my money and my resources will reelect them. That's
connections.
”

“I wouldn't count on controlling the Justice Department or the FBI if I were you. Your ‘connections' just might one day find themselves on the other side of a subpoena.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that you'd better walk a little more humbly. I know that you and some private investigators on your payroll can make life tough for Ben Taylor. And you can get his show canceled, maybe even get him fired. All that is politics, political power. This is
crime
, a crime being investigated by the FBI. Don't you realize the FBI will track your connection with your Russian partner? Don't you realize that the NSA has to be eavesdropping on him—and, as a result, on you?”

“Again, so what? He's always being investigated. He and I have a legitimate business relationship.”

“You realize I have to take your word for that. You have never let me see your contracts with him.”

“You know all you have to know, Paul. I needed a Russian partner—associate, really—to get a launch of Asteroid USA.”

“You can't keep up this secrecy, Robert. When SpaceMine announces its IPO it has to make a regulatory filing. You'll have to open your books. The SEC will be looking at your dealings with your Russian associate.”

“There's something called a stealthy IPO, Paul. I take it you know that! Lots of high-tech companies are doing it. In any event Basayev and I are soon to have a meeting, Paul. We'll discuss the IPO. As I said when you called me about—what's his name? Davidson?—I will take care of it.”

“And that item in your pocket?”

“It's like your artifacts,” Hamilton said, gesturing toward the shelves next to him. “It is interesting and it is now mine.” He seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then he looked at his Rolex and said, “You'd better call for the car.”

 

51

When Falcone walked into
the lobby of the Sullivan & Ford Building, for an instant he thought that he saw blood on the floor.
A trick of the shadows,
he thought
.
He inserted his keycard into the express elevator slot. The card was spat out, and
DENIED
flashed in a narrow window above the slot. Falcone tried a second time, got the same message, and realized that Sprague had transformed his resignation into a firing, complete with the humiliating ritual that was the modern corporation's version of giving an employee the bum's rush.

He took the regular elevator, got off at the top floor, and stepped onto the new carpeting in front of an eerie restoration of Ellen's cubicle, complete with a new blue ceramic vase containing a spray of yellow flowers that he could not identify. At the reception desk sat a young woman he vaguely recognized. She looked up, embarrassed and confused.

“Mr.… Mr. Falcone…”

“Good afternoon,” he said, turning toward his office and trying to look as if he did not know what was going on.