Collision (41 page)

“Freak of nature or our doing?” Falcone asked.

“Now don't get me started on climate change or you're going to ruin a good night.”

“Just curious,” Falcone laughed, knowing how outraged Taylor was about the way Earthlings were plundering the planet.

“What a spectacular view out here,” Taylor mused as he blew smoke into the night air.

“I have a Chinese friend who told me that you can't eat a view, and that beauty outside a home was not nearly as important as the beauty inside.”

“That's because your Chinese friend can't see through Beijing's smog and never stood out here. Just look at the sweep of history you can see standing here. The Capitol looks like a brilliant diamond set off against a sheet of black velvet tonight.… You know, Sean, whenever I look up and see that magnificent dome—”

“You think about some of the cretins running around under it,” Falcone said to lighten the touch of melancholy that had made its way into Taylor's voice.

“No … well yes, that too. But they come and go. Some are bad, but I think most come here to do good. Then they get tied up in knots by all the lobbyists until they forget why they came in the first place. And then they keep running just to hold on to their jobs.”

“So what were you thinking?”

“I look at that dome and I keep thinking how it was built mostly by my ancestors for little or no pay. It's probably the greatest symbol of liberty anywhere in the world, and it was built on the backs of my folks. And that Statue of Freedom? A slave helped make it, the first bronze statue ever cast in America.”

Falcone could see that Taylor's eyes were starting to tear up.

“And right down there,” Taylor pointed with the tip of his cigar, to the corner of Seventh Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, “right near that Starbucks that you like so much, that was one of the most prominent slave markets in the city. Think about it. They were selling my shackled brothers and sisters to the highest bidders right under the gaze of the Statue of Freedom that stands on top of that dome.”

“History has its cunning passages and contrived corridors,” Falcone said, thinking how hollow the poet's words sounded when weighed against the enormity of past crimes.

“Yeah, and after it's illuminated for everyone to see, we're asked to forgive.”

“Have you?” Falcone asked, knowing that a state of grace would never be his to enjoy. Out of an incurable habit, Falcone's eyes shifted downward and stared at the statue of the Lone Sailor, his collar upturned against an imagined wind, standing astride a large globe etched in the glazed stone plaza below. Falcone could never detect whether the sailor was about to ship off on a long voyage or was just returning from one. But always, the sailor seemed to be world-weary and sad. Maybe the sailor was just a one-way mirror inside Falcone's mind.

“Oh, I still see the dark side of our history,” Taylor said. “But when I look at that dome, it still gives me hope. And when Blake Oxley was elected, I thought, man, the American Dream had just been ratified. Anything is possible in America. Anything.… But hey, this is getting way too serious. Here's to you,” Taylor said.

The men raised their glasses to toast each other and hailed Falcone's birthday.

“So what's the magic number now, Sean?” Taylor asked.

“I stopped counting a long time ago. I just figure every day I'm on this side of the grass is a good day.”

Pointing to the starry sky, Taylor said, “I've got to believe that there's something more out there.”

“You? I thought you were a scientist who…”

“Who believes there's god in everything that's alive, that moves.”

“Stars move,” Falcone said, refilling the glasses.

“You know what I mean. Everything that's organic. Everything that breathes, grows, thinks, is…”

“So, you're coming back as a goat?”

“Man,” Taylor said, “you're really dark.”

“Just the Irish coming out,” Falcone said, laughing, a touch sadly, picking up his glass. “‘Forgive, O Lord, my little jokes on Thee…'”

“‘And I'll forgive Thy great big joke on me.'”

“Jesus!” Falcone said. “Is there anything you don't know?”

“Not much, my brother from another mother,” Taylor said, taking a long drag on the Cubano.

“Is it at this point where we fist-bump and I call you bro?”

Taylor broke into a belly laugh, then choked on the smoke that he had not meant to inhale.

“So, bro, how come you decided to walk away from being Oxley's science advisor?”

“Many reasons. I gave it a lot of thought,” Taylor said. He leaned on the railing, again looking at the night sky. “The title's nice, but I'd have to go through the hassle of giving up my show, my wonderful job, and most of my personal investments. And pay a fortune to lawyers like you to make sure I haven't omitted anything that would get your boy, J. B. Patterson, on my ass. Not worth it, and Darlene agrees.”

“You know I'd have covered you pro bono.”

“Actually, I was counting on you to do just that,” Taylor said, a smile sliding across his lips. “But, there was still the
Grudge Report
smear hanging over me, and I just couldn't bear the thought of having to deal with some of those … ‘cretins,' as you called them, up on the Hill. The ones ‘who refuse to look at the new moon out of loyalty to the old.' Don't know who said that, but half of the tea baggers insist the Earth was created in six days and that evolution is just a theory.”

“Well, there'll be two less of them soon. You no doubt heard that Senators Collinsworth and Anderson have announced their retirement.”

“Yeah. Two years before their terms are up.… Must be something pretty bad when two powerful chairmen decide to hang it up.”

“I think J.B. gave them some friendly advice.”

“They cut a deal?”

“I don't know the details. All I know is it's amazing how fast a house of cards collapses when there's a little wind.”

“You mean Paul Sprague? Heard he has agreed to plead guilty to obstruction of justice.”

“You must have good sources. It's not public yet.”

“You're not the only one who's wired in this town,” Taylor said, tipping the ash off his cigar.

“Yeah, well, he's getting off pretty easy, given what he did. Three years in a federal penitentiary, with time off for good behavior. Loses his license to practice law forever, of course. Sprague's wife's decided to divorce him. She's moving to New Mexico. And she gets what's left after he sells his estate in Middleburg, the place in Palm Beach, and the condo at the Ritz and pays off a settlement package he signed with the families of all who were killed at the firm.”

“And what's the deal with Hamilton? What's going to happen to him?”

“Don't know. Last I heard he was still in Moscow.”

“Doing what? Jesus, don't tell me he's defected!”

“No idea, Ben. Maybe he's insisting on a deal for immunity. No jail time like Sprague's getting.”

“Why wouldn't Oxley give him whatever he wants? He may be in the best position to help avoid a global calamity.”

“You'd think so,” Falcone conceded, “but maybe Hamilton doesn't want any deal. He's a very strange dude. J.B. gave me a little briefing…”

“J.B.? I thought you were a ‘person of interest,'” Taylor said, flexing his eyebrows in Groucho Marx fashion.

“FBI thinks I'm just an interesting person now. Just like…”

“I know. Just like you've always been,” Taylor interjected, completing Falcone's flippant attempt at immodesty.

“In any event,” Falcone continued, “it seems that while Hamilton was waiting for Basayev to transport him to the
Aglaya
, he took a tour of Saint Basil's museum.”

“Nothing too strange about that. I did the same thing when I was in Moscow. It really is something special. Incredible architecture. You know the legend about Ivan the Terrible?”

“Doesn't everyone?” Falcone said, smiling and shrugging.

Taylor sighed theatrically and said, “Ivan had the architect blinded so he'd never be able to create anything so beautiful again.”

“Just a myth from what I'm told. Russians love it, though. Tragic fuckers that they are.” Falcone chuckled. “But that's not what I meant about Hamilton. Soon after he left the museum, he had a car drive him out to Krasnogorsk to visit a Russian Orthodox church.”

“Why Krasnogorsk?” Taylor asked.

“I don't know. J.B. speculated that maybe he wanted to see the icon of Jesus on the brick wall of a chapel there. Son of God complex, maybe. Who the hell knows? But it turns out that he met with Bishop Nikoli Vosnesenski while he was there. The visit lasted more than an hour and when Hamilton left, he was carrying a Bible that was written in Russian, a gift from the bishop.”

“I still don't get it, Sean. So Hamilton is a fundamentalist who still believes that you and I are going to roast in Hell. Maybe he just wanted to make sure that our fate didn't get lost in the Russian translation,” Taylor quipped.

“What's interesting is that Hamilton specifically wanted to examine those passages in the Book of Revelation that contained predictions of the end of life on Earth.”

“How do we know that, Sean?”

“Not at liberty to say, Ben,” Falcone said. “But I'm told that what struck Vosnesenski the most were Hamilton's eyes. They were as cold and unblinking as a snake's. Apparently he had seen eyes like that only once before, in a Russian psychopath.”

“Well, as you said, a strange dude. But who's to say that if we keep on with what we're doing, maybe the Bible has it about right?” Taylor drank deeply from his glass of cognac. “By the way, I heard you're going back to the law firm. How come?”

“By popular demand. Seems the partners still think I'm something of a hero.”

“Boy, are those lawyers fucked up!” Taylor chuckled, clinking glasses with Falcone. “You giving any odds that this whole business about Janus and the possibility that someday we're going to get hit won't make it to GNN and the rest of the media?”

“I'm not a betting man, but I'd say the chances aren't great. We have a free press, remember. And…”

Before Falcone could finish, his cell phone's annoying buzz interrupted him.

“Senator Falcone … I'm sorry to call you at home. It's Philip Dake. He's been practically stalking me. Another call from him tonight. At home. He's says it's important, murderously important, he said to tell you.”

“Ursula, you just call Mr. Dake and tell him your boss is away from the office. Better yet, whatever he's calling about, just say that I'll talk to him … in the fullness of time.”

 

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. All of the people and events are imaginary. The fictional asteroids mentioned in the novel are, however, based on several real asteroids, including asteroid (29075) 1950 DA. The source of Cole Perenchio's smuggled report about Janus, beginning
here
, is based in part on an article, “Asteroid 1950 DA's Encounter with Earth in 2880: Physical Limits of Collision Probability Prediction,” published in
Science
on April 5, 2002.

Asteroid (29075) 1950 DA was discovered in February 1950 and observed for seventeen days. It was then lost. But on New Year's Eve in 2000, a newly discovered asteroid, after having been given the designation 2000 YK66, was found to be the long-lost 1950 DA.

Constantly updated information on near-Earth objects, including discovery statistics, close-to-Earth approaches, and impact probabilities, is available at
http://neo.jpl.nasa.gov
. For information about NASA's search for extraterrestrial life, see
http://history.nasa.gov/garber.pdf
.

 

 

1

A dark-windowed SUV roared
through the southwest gates of the White House and pulled to a rough stop at the lower-level entrance to the West Wing. Frank Carlton, a retired four-star Air Force general, stepped from the vehicle's rear seat, and, accompanied by two burly security agents, walked under the canopy-covered entrance located directly across from the Executive Office Building.

Carlton, short and compact, had once been a military man and maintained the erect bearing of that profession. His chiseled face and close-cropped dark hair were just starting to gray, however. The burdens of his office were taking their toll on him.

Carlton was President Blake Oxley's national security adviser. It was his job to oversee the entire galaxy of all that the American government did to protect the nation and all it did to advance its interests around the world. This was a task that would short out the circuits of almost anyone.

Sean Falcone, Carlton's predecessor, had somehow managed to stick it out for six years. In his farewell advice to Oxley, Falcone had urged that Oxley appoint Carlton, who was then the Director of National Intelligence. Falcone especially admired Carlton's skillful handling of the endless cacophony of the seventeen agencies that make up what was hopefully called the intelligence community.