Collision (40 page)

While not obsessively narcissistic, Basayev was proud of how his body looked. He was lean, muscular, and tanned. Worthy of an
Esquire
magazine cover, he mused. Well, only if he was a publicity-seeking hound, which he clearly was not.

Women were drawn magnetically to him. On occasion, he would be seen in the company of a beautiful woman, but his interests lay elsewhere. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy the company of women. Actually, he found them to be both interesting and entertaining. But whenever he sensed they were moving a bit too close to intimacy, he diplomatically eschewed their romantic advances by intimating that his heart belonged to others.

Those “others” required extreme discretion. He could not afford to have rumors floated about his sexuality. Not in today's Russia. Maybe not in any Russia.

Nikolay, his latest love, had been carefully vetted—and forewarned. His relationship with Basayev was to remain private. Failure to abide by the rules would have grave consequences. Nikolay had little trouble understanding the message.

*   *   *

Today was picture-perfect in
every way. The sun had surfaced miraculously from behind the horizon, mystical in its illusion of cylindrical perfection. So close, you could dive into its very center and emerge as a god on fire.

The giant red ball had burned off the earlier morning haze, revealing a sky so blue that it convinced Basayev that there really was a heaven on Earth.

“Another shitty day in paradise,” Basayev joked to his two steroid-buffed-up bodyguards.

“Right, boss,” Andre Margelov, the taller of the two, responded. “Better enjoy it. Weather is supposed to shift tomorrow.”

Basayev dove into the saltwater pool that ran nearly the length of the
Aglaya
. He swam with long, leisurely strokes for nearly thirty minutes. Invigorated, he concluded a final lap and then hoisted himself out of the pool. An eager servant handed him a large Egyptian cotton towel emblazoned with the letters “KB” and placed a freshly brewed cup of coffee at a table nestled between two teakwood deck chairs.

As Basayev toweled off and slipped into one of the padded chairs, he picked up the book he had skimmed the previous evening before turning his attention to Nikolay.

The book had a clever title, which had caught Basayev's eye. The author of
The Geography of Bliss
had traveled to a number of countries in an effort to determine which people deemed themselves happy, and which did not—and the reasons that accounted for their state of mind.

In some countries where the people were dirt poor, the writer had found that the people were generally satisfied with their lives. Yet in other, more wealthy nations, he discovered palpable discontent and unhappiness. The answer seemed to be that those who were happy had trust in their leaders and fellow citizens. They believed that whatever their economic status, others saw them as people and truly cared for their well-being.

“What horseshit! Pure psychobabble,” Basayev laughed, and tossed the book into a large straw wastebasket. “I'm happy,” he proclaimed to his two musclemen, who had no idea what prompted him to blurt out his feelings at that moment.

I'm about to dump that sniveling coward Hamilton,
Basayev thought.
That loser who pissed his pants at the thought of having to meet with the FBI, a bunch of law-school rejects who think they can still ride on a reputation they no longer deserve—if they ever did.… Soon, I'll be one of the richest men in the world and I'll hold the keys to the future in my hands. And I won't have to worry about the law because in Russia, Boris Lebed is the law, and his law is all that matters!

Basayev rose from his chair and started for the gym below, where he planned to lift weights and then spar with his black-belt martial-arts instructor.

A soft whine in the sky above caught his attention. He glanced up and saw what looked like a large bird, silhouetted against the sun, circling overhead. He surmised it was at least ten to fifteen thousand feet above them. It couldn't be a bird. He had never heard a bird make such a sound.

“Andre,” Basayev shouted, “what in hell is that … thing?”

Margelov, placing his left hand over the brow of his forehead, squinted at the object Basayev was pointing to. “Don't know, boss. Looks like some kind of small plane,” he said, hitting the call button of his walkie-talkie.

“Captain, there's a plane circling above us. Can you get a call through and tell the pilot to fuck off? And I mean now!”

Several minutes passed as the plane continued to circle overhead. Finally, the
Aglaya
's captain said, “Sorry, I can't get through to the pilot. I must have the wrong transmission code or he simply refuses to acknowledge the call.”

Without further warning, Margelov whipped off the automatic rifle slung across his shoulder, slammed the bolt of his weapon back, and fired a burst of twenty rounds in the direction of the plane. It was a foolish and futile act. The bullets had no chance of hitting the aircraft.

Almost in anticipation of Margelov's action, the plane above peeled away to the right, and then swung behind the
Aglaya
's stern, releasing two smoking arrows that headed straight for the boat.

“Holy fuck, boss. Get below. Quick! That son of a bitch is going to…” Margelov's warning died in his throat. The aircraft was Russia's latest entry into its drone arsenal.

It was the Altius-M, developed at, and operated out of, the Sokol design bureau in Tatarstan. It was patterned after the American-designed MQ-9 Reaper and was two years ahead of what the CIA had predicted for its production schedule.

Unlike the Reaper, it carried only two Hellfire-type missiles and not fourteen. But two missiles were more than enough to sink the
Aglaya
.

Each of the laser-guided missiles weighed over a hundred pounds, including a twenty-pound warhead, and traveled at a speed of 950 miles per hour. One of the missiles carried a thermobaric warhead, which penetrated the surface of the
Aglaya
and collapsed the lungs of all personnel on board before burning them to a crisp.

The second missile carried an armor-piercing warhead and locked on to the
Aglaya
's large fuel tanks, which had been refilled the previous day.

In a matter of a few seconds, the
Aglaya
was shredded into a thousand pieces and reduced to a smoldering burnt-out carcass of a sea myth, bobbing on the surface of the Black Sea.

 

74

Two days after the
G-20 summit, GNN's Ned Wilson, nearly hyperventilating, broke through an afternoon soap opera to make an unscheduled news announcement.

“This just in,” he said, as an image of a white yacht came on screen. “Turkey is reporting the apparent sinking of the yacht
Aglaya
, owned by multibillionaire Kuri Basayev, the Russian financier who is one of the richest men in the world. He is believed to have been on board, along with an undisclosed number of friends and crew members.”

In the right-hand corner of the screen appeared an officer in a white uniform, standing in front of a map of Turkey. A caption identified him as Captain
Ö
mer Ozsecen of the Turkish navy.

As Ozsecen spoke, an interpreter translated: “A fisherman reported hearing a very loud explosion and seeing flames twenty or thirty meters high this morning.” The officer pointed to the map, and the interpreter continued. “The spot was about sixty kilometers off Sinop. A destroyer sent to the area discovered evidence of wreckage identified as the
Aglaya
. No survivors were found.
…”

*   *   *

Upon learning of the
sinking of the
Aglaya
, Ray Quinlan quickly directed that all members of President Oxley's national security team meet with Oxley for a briefing in the Situation Room. The greetings and normal preliminaries were dispensed with as President Oxley made it clear that he was in no mood for business as usual.

“Frank,” the President said, directing his question to Frank Carlton, the director of national intelligence. “How many goddamn times does GNN have to beat the CIA to the news when it involves something as important as the sinking of Kuri Basayev's boat? Jesus!”

“I don't have a good answer for you, Mr. President,” Carlton said sheepishly.

“And don't tell me it's because Congress has crippled the NSA! We're supposed to be tracking every movement, every conversation that President Lebed and his military chiefs have. When did that stop?”

“It hasn't stopped, but…”

“Never mind, just tell me what in hell happened. Was it an accident as GNN is reporting?”

Carlton shook his head. “No. It went down off Sinop. There used to be a Turkish naval base there. Now it's a university. But luckily, one of our destroyers happened to be in the area and picked up a radar trail. Here are several photos our boys took. Take a look.”

Oxley did so, and saw a ghostly red trail arching across the Black Sea. In a corner of the photo was an inset photo of a drone.

“The Russians call it the Altius-M, their new long-range attack UAV. It looks to be a knockoff of our Reaper,” Carlton said.

“I thought our intelligence people said the Russians were two years away from building drones,” Oxley queried, clearly angry and worried about this revelation.

“Well, the Russians have been getting some help from the Israelis on design work and the Iranians gave them access to the RQ-170 that we lost over the border of Afghanistan, and the Russian scientists are no slouches when it comes to technology and the budget of ten billion dollars that President Lebed is pouring into their UAV program…”

“Okay. Okay,” Oxley said, anxious to get on with the briefing, while signaling that it was anything but okay with him.

“But we shouldn't overstate what the Russians have,” Carlton offered, trying to ease Oxley's concerns. “They're still at least ten years behind us on drone technology and their video jet jockeys are no match for our guys.…”

“Try telling that to Basayev,” Oxley snapped. “Never mind. Just get on with what we know.”

“We believe that the drone took off from a small Russian airport at Sochi, as the map shows. The Altius-M we believe was armed with only two Hellfire-type missiles, but those beauties roasted the
Aglaya
like it was a marshmallow.”

“Reuters says the Turks call it an apparent accidental explosion,” Oxley said.

“Yes, sir. The Turks figure it's none of their business.”

“And the passengers on board?”

“Regular crew and bodyguard. About sixty, all Chechens. Basayev and a couple of relatives and friends. No Americans that we're aware of. We zeroed in on that, sir. NSA says Robert Hamilton was scheduled to meet Basayev, but we don't believe he ever made it to his yacht. He was last seen at a hotel in Moscow. Probably canceled a flight to Turkey after hearing the news.”

“Coincidence, Frank?”

“My guess, sir—and it's a guess—is that Lebed's boys wanted to pull this off when our American friend was not on board. Courtesy gesture that can never be revealed or confirmed.”

“Thanks, Frank. I agree. Hate to think that we owe any favors to the Russians, though. They'll double down on us at some point. But we need to get Hamilton back here. We've got to have an important discussion about what he's been up to with Basayev.”

Oxley hesitated to say anything specific about the nature of that discussion. He had to get Hamilton back because one of Silicon Valley's golden boys was an accessory to the murder of five innocent Americans. And that was the least of it. He was the only one who knew where Asteroid USA was located.

But there was no immediate rush, Oxley reasoned. Even assuming that Cole Perenchio had been right about his calculations—and Oxley was not entirely convinced that he was—they still had twenty years to figure out a solution. It wasn't as if there was going to be a collision tomorrow.

“Yes, Sir, Mr. President. We'll find a way to get him back even if the Russians grant him asylum like they did with Snowden.”

“You think Lebed would do that?” Oxley asked, startled by the thought.

“I think Boris Lebed is a Russian and he'll do whatever he can get away with. Remember, Putin was his mentor.”

Oxley simply nodded, his thoughts drifting back to his moments with Lebed at Mihrabat Grove in Turkey. The shoulder hugs, the repartee, the goodwill banter.
“Oh, come now, Blake, I can call you that now.”
Perhaps he'd been a fool to think that Lebed would be a friend he could work with
.

“Don't worry, we'll get him back. Right now, Mr. President,” Carlton said solemnly, handing a folder marked
TOP SECRET
to Oxley, “the North Koreans are at it again, threatening to test another nuclear bomb and long-range missile, one that can hit our heartland. And the CIA confirmed this morning that Al Qaeda has had some of its recruits in Yemen infect themselves with a deadly virus they've developed and are arranging for them to travel throughout Europe and the United States.”

“Ebola?”

“No, Sir. Something that CDC has never seen before.”

“Jesus, Frank, now it's virus bombs? Is it ever going to end?”

“I don't think so, Mr. President. No, Sir.”

 

EPILOGUE

Two weeks after the
sinking of the
Aglaya
, Falcone and Taylor were on Falcone's terrace, their suit jackets off, smoking Falcone's Cubano cigars, the tips of which had been dipped in cognac.

“Damn, Sean. What a spectacular day it's been.” Although it was late November, the temperature in Washington had held steady at seventy degrees for nearly a week.