Collision (22 page)

Falcone sat down and pounded the arm of the couch. “‘Coincidentally'? What the hell does that mean? That Ben is in trouble and needs a lawyer? And how the hell does
Grudge
know that I'm Ben's attorney?”

“Keep on reading and scrolling,” Dake said.

Falcone did, silently fuming:

Taylor's nomination as Presidential Science Adviser—officially, director of the Office of Science and Technology Policy—had been a well-kept White House secret. Falcone, who still maintains ties with the Oxley White House, allegedly put Taylor's name forward. When Taylor had his encounter with police, Falcone and his powerful friends are believed to have managed to convince police to keep Taylor's case unpublicized.

However, FBI agents, doing a confidential background check on Taylor, learned of the alleged Capitol Hill cover-up, questioned Taylor and made him “a person of interest.” Word of this reached the White House, where, a spokesman said yesterday, Taylor's nomination is “under review.”

Falcone kept scrolling down and reading silently. He was barely able to keep from exploding.

Two paragraphs were devoted to the time when Perenchio and Taylor worked together at Goddard, quoting an unnamed former NASA employee as saying, “Cole was an engineer and Ben was a scientist. Scientists like Ben told us what they want, and engineers like Cole worked until the scientists were happy. Sure, there would be disagreements between an engineer and a scientist. But those two guys, they got along okay most of the time.”

The story concluded with a description of Taylor's “sensational and fear-inducing” show, noting that Falcone was in the audience. He resumed reading aloud:

“‘PBS officials told the
Grudge Report
that they are “discussing the scheduled
NOVA
broadcast of Taylor's show.”'”

“And you know what that means,” Falcone said. “No show. And I'll bet that Smithsonian officials are discussing Ben's museum job. Jesus! This is character assassination.”

Falcone picked up his snifter for his first swallow. “I've got to call Ben,” he said. “But first tell me your theory.”

“First of all,” Dake said, “there's no indication of sources or of its provenance. It probably went through a hell of a lot of writers and edits—and undoubtedly a few lawyers. Also, I get the feeling that there was someone powerful hovering over this, pushing for information, exploiting sources.”

“And who could that be?” Falcone asked.

“Somebody who is very pissed off at Taylor. My guess is that it starts with the Capitol Hill Police. Note that you get the name of the cop who questioned Taylor and brought him in. What's his name?”

“Willard Seymour.”

“Yeah. Seymour. And then you get the name of the high-ranking cop who let him go. My bet is that Seymour had what could be a big-publicity pinch and the perp gets snatched away.”

“That's good for a start,” Falcone said. “But the ‘person of interest' had to come from the FBI. That bothers me a lot.”

“Why?”

“I knew about it, Taylor of course knew about it, and the FBI knew about it. The FBI has to be the source that gave the
Grudge
that ‘person of interest' label. Nobody else—unless Taylor told somebody, which doesn't make sense.”

“Okay,” Dake said. “So the FBI leaked something. For God's sake how long have you been in this town? When the FBI wants something known, it leaks it.”

“Yeah. You're talking about more or less authorized leaks, the kind you get sometimes,” Falcone said. “But I think this is deeper, bigger. Take a look at the span of the story—a mass shooting, three black guys, FBI, and the White House. It's a hatchet-job story. Somebody obviously is out to get him.”

“I think I know who,” Dake said.

“Who?” Falcone asked. He stood, pressed a button, and the screen went blank.

“Come on, Sean. It's got to be Hamilton. And get this: For a little while when the Three Black Musketeers were in Cambridge, Hamilton was, too. Funny the story didn't mention it.”

“You're kidding.”

“I never kid about stories. For about two years, while Ben and Cole were in MIT and Harold Davidson was in Harvard Law School, Hamilton was in the Harvard Business School. The business boys and girls—many boys, few girls—divide into sections for studying. Hamilton's was called Section X, composed of very wealthy students who were there mostly to study how to manage their family fortunes. I doubt if he spent much time making friends at MIT or Harvard Law. The Section X students stuck together, went on spring-break trips together, like to Dubai or Hong Kong.”

“Fascinating,” Falcone said. “Sounds like your Hamilton book is progressing. I'd like to hear more. But right now I have to talk to my client. And so, good night,” Falcone said, motioning in the direction of the entrance-hall door.

 

40

Darlene sleepily looked at
the clock beside her bed.
A 1:27 a.m. call never brings happy news.
Her heart was pounding when she picked up the phone, which was oddly heavy in a hand used to speaking into a cell phone.

“I've got to talk to your father,” Sean said flatly.

“Oh, Sean. What's—”

“Is he up?”

“I'll wake him.”

“Okay. Tell him I'll be there in about ten minutes. I've got to talk to him right away. And, please, Darlene, make some coffee.”

Falcone hung up, pressed a button on the phone console, asked the night watchman to call a cab, and walked into his bedroom to exchange slippers for sneaks. He grabbed a windbreaker out of the closet and put it on over his sweatpants and Celtics sweatshirt. He picked up his wallet and keys from the top of his bureau and walked out the hall door.

Falcone could hear the phone ringing in Taylor's home as he closed the taxi door and sprinted up the front walk. At the edge of his vision he saw a white truck with a satellite dish coming up the street.
I'm not the only one who saw the
Grudge Report
tonight.

Darlene stood in the lighted doorway.

“Don't answer that phone,” Falcone said as he entered. “And don't answer the doorbell.”

Darlene nodded and closed the door.

“Where's your dad?” Falcone asked.

“He's still upstairs. It's been a rough couple of days.”

“What happened?”

“You know how impatient he is.…”

“I think you mean what a hothead he can be.”

“Well, he decided to drive out to Goddard to find out about what Cole Perenchio had been doing there.”

“And?” Falcone asked, worry in his voice.

“He was on the Cabin John Bridge. You know, the one where only one line of traffic can pass at one time.”

“Know it well.”

“It was dark. Raining. And he saw headlights coming toward him. And he thought someone was trying to run him off the road. And he saw it was a pickup truck barreling right at him. There was no place he could move to. Nothing he could do.”

“So what happened?” Falcone was getting impatient and he was not known for having a very long fuse.

“The truck hit Dad's car dead-on … well, head-on.”

“Was he hurt? Is he okay?”

“He's fine. Just a little banged up from the air bag that went off.”

“Was it…?”

“Intentional?” Darlene finished Falcone's question. “Police don't think so. The kid driving was from Hicksville and high on weed. Jesus, I hope they never legalize that stuff around here. They arrested him for DWI.”

“Your dad get medical treatment?”

“Sean, are you kidding? He's scared to death of doctors. Figures they'll always find something wrong with him.”

Ben Taylor slowly came down the stairs a bit unsteadily and stood behind Darlene. He wore a red and gray bathrobe over blue pajamas. His feet were bare.

“Christ, Ben, you look like hell. Darlene told me what happened. The accident. You okay?”

“Yeah. Headache and sore arm from those damn air bags.”

“You're sure it was an accident?”

Taylor nodded and said, “Pretty sure. At first I thought I was about to become the next man on the hit list. But no. The kid was a stoner. Had one too many bongs. Nothing more sinister.… So tell me, Sean. What the hell's going on?”

“Bad stuff, rotten stuff, Ben. Where's your iPad?”

Darlene picked up her iPad from a kitchen counter. “He never knows where his is,” she said. “What's up?”

“Bring up the
Grudge Report
.”

“What? I never look at…”

On the iPad appeared the three photos and the headline “Three Black Musketeers.” Darlene clicked the headline and the story came up, surrounded by advertisements and pointers to other stories.

Taylor stared at the iPad on the kitchen table and silently began reading, with Darlene looking over his shoulder, now and then exclaiming “My God!” and “Good Lord!” The doorbell rang three times, followed by heavy pounding. They heard the sound of a vehicle starting and moving away.

Falcone walked over to the coffeemaker. When the light went on, he poured three cups, added milk to Darlene's coffee, brought them to the table, and sat down. Neither Taylor nor Darlene said a word until Taylor finished reading and switched off the iPad.

“Quite a piece,” he said quietly. “Three Black Musketeers. Brings back memories. Actually, we just called ourselves the Three Musketeers. Anyone could see we were black.”

“That's all you've got to say?” Darlene exclaimed. “The goddamn
Grudge Report
is crucifying you. You've got to sue him.”

“‘Crucifying' is a bit strong, Darlene,” Taylor said. “But it certainly doesn't make me look good.”

“There's really nothing to sue over, Darlene,” Falcone said. “No libel suit. No defamation of character suit. Not on my advice anyway. There's a lot of nasty stuff, but as far as I can see, there's no absolutely false statement—and sometimes even that's not enough. Anybody who tries to sue over anything like this gets hit between the eyes by the First Amendment. But, if the Smithsonian or PBS moves against your father, we have a lot of choices.”

“Like what?” Taylor asked.

“Like breach of contract for starters.”

“You think they'll fire me?”

“I think PBS will cave by taking something like the White House line and saying the show is ‘under review' and is no longer on the schedule. The Smithsonian will probably choose putting you on ‘administrative leave' with pay.”

“Like they do with cops who shoot somebody,” Darlene said. “‘Administrative leave' gives people the idea that maybe you're guilty of something. Guilty until proven innocent.”

“So be it,” Falcone said. “We've got a bigger issue: Who set this up? My candidate is Robert Wentworth Hamilton. But why is he going after you? And what will he do next? Get serious, Ben. Two of the Musketeers are dead.”

“Well, I told you I did have that run-in with Hamilton,” Taylor replied, speaking calmly, as if nothing serious had happened. “It was over the letter from scientists. We were protesting his selection of an anti-global-warming guy for a scientist award. But I'd think that was ancient history by now.”

“Not ancient, Dad,” Darlene said. “You're exasperating! Don't you know what happened yesterday? Somebody at PBS got all excited about the show and put out a tweet that used the words ‘asteroid' and ‘collision.' The
Huffington Post
picked it up and, of course, mentioned the SpaceMine announcement about Asteroid USA. Then the tweet went viral and—”

“What?” Falcone interrupted. “I did see
Street Speak
mention something about what this might mean for SpaceMine. But I didn't know that a PBS tweet was involved.”

“There's a big new Twitter world out there, Sean. Just like the wild Internet world and its
Grudge Report
world,” Darlene said. “And the old world doesn't know anything about it.”

“Look, Sean. I agree that this is serious,” Taylor said. “And there's a lot that the old world doesn't know. A lot.”

*   *   *

Outrageous as it was,
the
Grudge
Report
on the Musketeers stirred a sudden memory for Taylor. Back in 1967, an MIT professor had lectured about a mile-wide asteroid named Icarus, after the mythological daredevil who flew too close to the sun. Asteroid Icarus would pass relatively close to Earth in 1968. The professor told his students to assume that Icarus was on a collision course with Earth—and they had to save the planet. They decided to pummel Icarus with thermonuclear bombs borne on Saturn V rockets.

The Icarus project inspired the 1979 science-fiction film
Meteor
, which Taylor saw as a teenager. He came out of the theater determined to learn all he could about asteroids, not realizing that he was putting himself on the path to MIT.

 

41

Besides being chairman of
the Senate Committee on Appropriations, Senator Kenneth Collinsworth was also a member of the Senate Committee on Commerce, Science, and Transportation (CST), which had jurisdiction over highway safety, inland waterways, ocean navigation, marine fisheries, weather and atmospheric activities, the Merchant Marine, the Panama Canal, and space sciences, among other matters. After several hysterical calls from Hamilton, in a rage about Taylor, Collinsworth decided to place a call to Senator Frank Anderson, the Oklahoman who chaired CST.

After an exchange of pleasantries, Collinsworth plunged into his reason for the call: “Frank, it seems that this guy Dr. Taylor has stirred up a firestorm with his TV appearances and documentary about the need to change the Outer Space Treaty and get the damn feds involved in a place where it has no business to be. I think I'll need a little help to put this fella in his place.”