Collision (35 page)

“I want to talk about him with you,” Falcone said. “Can you come over, have some phone-in food, and give me a bit of Basayev?”

“Glad to. Because I'm familiar with your phone-in cuisine, I'll bring some decent sandwiches. What's the rush?”

“Something has come up,” Falcone answered. “I'll tell you when you get here.” The game had begun.
How much can I tell him?

“Okay. I'll pull together some bits on Basayev and drop by in an hour or so.”

*   *   *

Falcone envisioned Dake's Georgetown
home office. Filing cabinets lined the walls. In the cabinets were file folders bulging with information from precomputer days. And nearby were two or three computers, where Dake and his assistant typed away, putting facts into hard drives instead of filing cabinets.

Dake had a passion for finding information where nobody else could find it. And no one had ever successfully challenged him on any substantial fact, but his conclusions and accusations created controversies—and made his books into best sellers. In a book describing the administration that preceded Oxley's, for example, Dake once accused a high-ranking Pentagon official of getting kickbacks from defense contractors. Sued for libel, Dake triumphed, and the official went off to eight years in a federal prison.

While waiting for Dake, Falcone went into his office and turned on the PC standing on his mahogany desk and brought up Kuri Basayev on Wikipedia. He was described as the son of one of the few Chechens to reach the zenith of riches and power in postcommunist Russia. The Wikipedia entry, as usual, bristled with what appeared to be facts but refrained from analysis.
How the hell did a Chechen become an oligarch?

Falcone went on to read that Kuri “was a brilliant student at the elite Moscow State Institute of International Relations, the diplomatic school for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. An avid linguist, he became proficient in German, English, and Sesotho, three of the fifty-six languages taught at the institute. He spent three years as a cultural affairs officer at the Russian Embassy in Pretoria, South Africa.

“Kuri Basayev's diplomatic career ended after his father's death in an automobile accident in Moscow. He took over the family's holdings and added interests in mines in South Africa. Basayev's immense wealth came from oil, natural gas, and the mining of palladium, a relatively rare metal that was becoming an important ingredient in electronics and catalytic converters.”

*   *   *

Falcone was still wondering
about Basayev's curious career when the concierge called to say that Dake had arrived. Falcone met him at the entrance hall. Dake was carrying a cloth bag containing sandwiches and wine. Slung over his shoulder was a laptop bag.
God! Another laptop,
Falcone thought as he stood at the doorway.

At the kitchen counter they unpacked the sandwiches and filled their wineglasses. After a sip and a smile of appreciation, Dake opened his laptop, turned it on, and said, “To talk about Kuri Basayev, you begin with his yacht. She's a target for the paparazzi whenever she finds a yacht basin that's big enough to accommodate her.”

On the screen appeared a frozen-video image of a sleek white ship with layers of multiwindowed covered decks. “This is a video taken at Antibes on the French Riviera,” Dake said. “The spot is known as the Millionaire Quay, a quaint name that ought to be updated to Billionaire Quay.

“Superrich guys seem to compete for who has the biggest yacht. This is Basayev's entry. She's five hundred and thirty-two feet long, has four topside decks, and is second only to the five-hundred-and-ninety-footer owned by the president of U.A.E. Basayev's
Aglaya—
it means ‘splendor' in Russian—has two helicopter pads, two swimming pools, and accommodations for a couple of dozen guests.

“Because Basayev has so many enemies he's rightfully paranoid. The yacht's bridge and his private suite are protected with armor plating and bulletproof glass.
Aglaya
also has a laser shield that detects and sizzles electronic devices, particularly cameras. Watch this.”

Dake turned on the video. The image of
Aglaya
changed from bows-on to a starboard view as the video camera began circling the yacht. Suddenly there was a blast of light and the screen went blank.

“Bingo!” Dake exclaimed. “Basayev doesn't like being photographed. And he has teams of experts working to keep him as invisible as possible. For the past couple of years, he has mostly lived aboard
Aglaya
, rarely coming ashore. Folks trying to keep an eye on
Aglaya—
such as the NSA or Russia's Federal Security Service—find she's hard to track. I'm told that she sails a course based on handoffs from one communications satellite to another. Not going anywhere in particular, favoring areas where satellite signals are spotty.”

Dake pulled up the image of Basayev and the bodyguard that had appeared in the
New York Post
. “He's usually surrounded by big, tough-looking Chechens,” Dake went on. “And they flatten the photographer along with his camera.” Then he noticed the credit:
GOOGLE
GLASS
IMAGE
. “Modern technology. No camera but he still gets a couple of kicks. I'll bet he is on his way to the
Aglaya
, which is—”

“Docked at Pier Ninety,” Falcone said, laughing at Dake's surprise.

“Come on, Sean,” Dake said. “You must know a lot about this guy already. What's up?”

“He looks younger than I thought he'd look,” Falcone said.

“You didn't answer my question,” Dake said, sounding irritated.

“I'll tell you what I can tell you in the fullness of time.”

“Oh, God. Your favorite put-off phrase.”

Falcone ignored the remark. “What puzzles me about Basayev is that he's Chechen,” Falcone said, refilling their glasses. “Russians are supposed to hate Chechens. The Chechen-Russian civil war. That horrible school massacre. Hundreds of kids killed by Chechen Islamists. The theater where the Chechens held the audience hostage, killing I don't know how many. The Moscow subway bomb. They're heartless bastards.”

“The Russians hate the Chechens—and they fear them,” Dake said. “You say ‘Chechen' to Russians, and they get an image of that school or that theater. The monster behind both of those atrocities was a terrorist named Shamil Basayev. And in some cousin-of-cousin way, Kuri Basayev is related to Shamil Basayev.”

“Shamil's dead, right?”

“Right. Targeted assassination by Russia's Federal Security Service. What the KGB used to call a wet job. In 2006, as I remember. So Shamil's dead. And Lebed is so popular, so good at being charismatic, that he convinced Russians that Kuri Basayev is a good guy, a Lebed guy. But, from what I'm told by people who watch Chechen-brand terrorists, Kuri is on a hit list.”

“Russian?”

“Nope. Chechen.”

“I don't get it.”

“It's the yacht.”

“What do you mean?”

“Basayev's father was a pal of Vladimir Putin, who reached out … carefully … to a few chosen Chechens, all sinfully rich. The elder Basayev was portrayed in Russian media as an okay Chechen. And he flaunted his wealth in an acceptable Russian way: beautiful women, night clubs, being driven around in big foreign cars. He was a flashy Muscovite, part of the city scene.” Dake turned off the laptop and closed it. “Chechens took offense.

“Young Basayev,” Dake continued, “hasn't set foot in Chechnya in a couple of years. But he's a member of Lebed's brain trust, and totally protected by him.”

Falcone reported what he had read in the Wikipedia entries and said, “I didn't see any of that information in there.”

“Those entries are all dry-cleaned,” Dake said. “Basayev's says that, after getting all of his fancy college degrees, he was in the Russian Foreign Service. But he really was under diplomatic cover working for the Federal Security Service, the new and improved KGB. He was a Putin prot
é
g
é
. Then, he became one of the money men behind Boris Lebed's election. And that stuff about Kuri's father in an automobile accident? It was a hit-and-run in broad daylight in Moscow. The rumor is that the Chechen underground handed Kuri a warning by killing his father.”

“Why? What was behind it?” Falcone asked. He began making coffee.

“They consider Kuri a traitor. He's not just making money through bribes and extortion in the accepted oligarch business model. He's stepped way over the line. He's been getting into big-time crime, taking over the Afghan heroin express to Russia and trying to get a piece of Mexico narcotics.

“He tried to take over the Chechen crime syndicate and killed a couple of their warlords. So the syndicate killed his father. Then he helped the Russian police find his father's killers.

“Now killing Kuri is a matter of Chechen honor.”

 

63

Falcone's cell phone rang
.
He tried to ignore it. But he never could avoid looking at the ID panel. When he saw that the caller was
US
GOVERNMENT
, he went into the living room and answered with a crisp “Falcone here.”

“This is Agent Sarsfield. With the resources available at this time, we are unable to decrypt the laptop contents.”

“Why is that?”

Falcone could hear Sarsfield sigh and say, “As you undoubtedly know, the file in question was encrypted. I am calling to determine whether you have decrypted it. This could save us time and—”

“No. I did not decrypt it. How could I? The thumb drive is in the possession of the FBI.”

“Surely, Mr. Falcone, you have a copy.”

“No. I do not.”

“Are you aware, Mr. Falcone, it is a federal crime to make a false statement to an FBI agent or any other federal investigator?”

“I am quite aware of that, Agent Sarsfield. I repeat: I do not have in my possession a copy of the thumb drive.”

“Very well. It may become necessary for me to obtain a search warrant.”

“Give my regards to the judge. Goodbye.”

 

64

When Falcone returned to
the kitchen, Dake asked, “What was that all about?”

“My favorite FBI agent. Let's go back to Basayev.”

Dake looked wary, deciding whether to press Falcone about the call. Falcone smiled inwardly, realizing what was going on in Dake's brain.

As national security advisor, he had seen dozens of profiles like the one he was getting from Dake. The profiles came from CIA analysts whose job was to piece together bits of information about people the White House wanted to know about. The profiles were almost always highly readable and often provided insights that Falcone found useful. Dake's sketch of Basayev convinced Falcone that Dake had got most of his information directly from a top-secret CIA profile. The thought was not far-fetched, given the authoritative tone of Dake's
Post
articles and books.

Dake finished his sandwich and poured himself another glass of wine. “Okay, Sean. Now tell me what the hell this is all about. Why the sudden interest in this guy?”

During Dake's commentary on Basayev, Falcone had been awaiting the inevitable question and was mentally framing an answer. He wanted Dake on his side, and so he had to tell him the truth, but it had to be a limited truth. Falcone's basic formula was Facts plus Opinion minus Sources.

“Basayev is a silent partner in SpaceMine,” he began. “We—Ben Taylor and I—believe that Hal Davidson was essentially a Basayev-ordered mob hit, and the other Sullivan and Ford victims were killed as a coverup.”

Dake nodded and did not seem surprised. “You get this from your old pal J. B. Patterson?”

“I'm not going to tell you who told me about anything that I'm going to tell you,” Falcone said. He then described the way he got the SpaceMine laptop, how the FBI took over the case, and what happened when he and Ursula went to the FBI. He also sketched what Patterson told him, including the discovery of the Fast and Furious gun.

Now Dake did look surprised. He seemed to be wandering through some thoughts for a moment, and then he asked, “Why do you think the FBI was so eager to take over the shooting of Perenchio and the people at your former law firm? And why hasn't Director Patterson jumped all over the case and put Sprague in handcuffs?”

“Good questions. My answer: Because the Justice Department doesn't want to get roasted again over that stupid Fast and Furious operation.”

“I don't think so,” Dake said. “Patterson had an assistant attorney general at his side when you and Ursula were there. James Cosgrove, right?”

Falcone nodded and, with a hint of exasperation, said, “And I suppose you know him.”

“As a matter of fact, I do. And I know he's a heavyweight. His specialty is keeping the AG out of trouble. He was not sitting there just because of the Fast and Furious angle, Basayev and the shootings. Serious as they are.”

“You sound as if you already know some of this. So why didn't you write about it? Or write about it now? Saving it for a book?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. There's a rogue CIA cell that has been using Basayev to get into the Russian Defense Ministry, which has been supplying advanced rocket technology to Iran's Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps.”

“Basayev is an agent for us? Phil, you've got to be shitting me!”

“I wish I were. But it looks true, especially in light of what a couple of CIA analysts did in running that poor old retired FBI agent in Iran. None of the bosses knew about that one either, until his family blew a whistle. And my story sounds as if it comes from the same playbook.”