Collision (6 page)

“Jesus!” Falcone said. “You sound like a goddamn…”

“Lawyer,” Sprague said. “Which is exactly what you need.”

“The guy had an
automatic weapon
. You make it sound like he was the victim!”

“The autopsy will show that his trigger finger was disabled,” Sprague continued. “Poor fellow. He landed faceup, and, from what I gather from a lobby security man I called, his nose was broken and his face bloody. Looks like you brutally attacked him and deliberately threw him to his death.”

Falcone started to sputter a response. Sprague held up his hand in a traffic-cop gesture and said, “We go with justifiable. You were a hero. You intervened during the commission of a crime. You came to the defense of others. You
prevented more murders.
You were
injured.
When a person commits a justifiable homicide, that person is not guilty of a criminal offense.

“Detective Lieutenant Emmetts does not realize that if the investigating police officer sees the death as justified homicide, he can just sign off, using his own judgment. No prosecutor. No court hearing. No further legal issues. I will get that assurance from Detective Lieutenant Emmetts. There is absolutely no need for you to go to police headquarters now. I'll schedule a time at our convenience.”

“Okay,” Falcone said wearily. “I'm sure you're right. Look, I'm bushed, and—”

“There are only a couple of other issues,” Sprague said. Nodding at Ursula, he opened the office door and handed her the yellow pad, saying, “Thanks so much, Ursula. As usual, you were superb. Go along to the office the police are occupying. I will see you in a moment.”

“What other issues?” Falcone asked as soon as Ursula closed the door.

“You and I are in a client-lawyer situation here, just to remind you. So anything you…”

“Jesus, Paul, I know about client-lawyer privilege.”

“Just being cautious, Sean. I must be absolutely certain that you never saw the gunman, never had anything to do with him or with the guy who escaped.”

“I never saw that bastard before. Or the other guy.”

“Okay. Two other matters. Delicate. First, I must tell you that when I glanced at the yellow pad I borrowed from your desk, I saw notes about SpaceMine and Robert Wentworth Hamilton. Also a note about someone named Taylor.”

“What the hell were you doing snooping on me?” Falcone asked angrily.

“Come on, Sean. It was an accidental discovery. But a lucky one. I'd rather not have Hamilton or SpaceMine dragged into this. And who is Taylor?”

“Dr. Benjamin Franklin Taylor, assistant director of the Air and Space Museum—and a friend. Why the hell should you care?”

“I care because I need to know
everything
about what's going on. This has been a traumatic—potentially disastrous—incident for the firm. As you can imagine—well, it's
unimaginable
—Mr. Hamilton is one of our important clients—if not our
most
important client.”

“I'm well aware of Hamilton's importance, Paul. I was watching that announcement because I was curious. GNN had been promoting a ‘major news break' for the past couple of days. I also figured that SpaceMine or Hamilton might need some ideas about whether the SEC might get involved. Incidentally, SpaceMine wasn't mentioned in that confidential memo about our new client. Does our work for Hamilton include SpaceMine?”

Sprague paused, deciding not to respond to the mention of Hamilton. He then continued his line of questioning. “When you first talked to police, when they put out the description of the second gunman, did you mention that you had been watching the SpaceMine special?”

Falcone thought for a moment. “No. I started out by telling them about walking down the west corridor, seeing the two men in the reception area, and continuing walking to the restroom. No mention of SpaceMine or Hamilton.”

“Fine. Now, what you saw—or
thought
you saw—the second man was carrying. How did you describe what you saw?”

Falcone hesitated before he responded: “I said he was carrying something … but not in his hands. It was slung over a shoulder, like the kind of case you use for a laptop.”

“That's what you saw … what you said? So it looked to you that the man might be carrying a laptop in a case?”

“Yes. For God's sake, Paul, this is getting tiresome. What the hell are you trying to get at?”

“Harold had a desktop in his office and a laptop, both registered as property of Sullivan and Ford, just as you and most of us have. On my way here from my office, I disobeyed Chief Mosley by looking in Hal's office—horrible, horrible. There was no laptop there. That
could
mean that Harold didn't bring the laptop into the office.”

“Or,” Falcone said, “it could mean that Hal did bring it in today and the guy took it.”

“Right. That's what we must assume.”

Sprague rose and drew his chair closer to Falcone's desk. “If necessary, I'll handle your description of the gunman as speedy information, not part of your formal statement, which you will be making in my presence. When you make that formal statement, I suggest that you simply say the man was carrying a briefcase, period. On the other matter, I'll be there in case he strays away from your claim of self-defense in the death of the gunman.”

“And in case I start to say anything that you and Sullivan and Ford don't like,” Falcone snapped.

“Well, you bring up the second—the final—issue. The needs of the firm are paramount to all of us, as are the needs of all our clients. Regarding Hal's laptop, I do not want our clients to learn that a computer containing confidential client information is missing.”

“Hold on, Paul. I said something like ‘the kind of case you carry a computer in.' If Harold was killed so that the killer could get his laptop, that is supremely important to the police investigation.”

“Perhaps, Sean. Perhaps. But at the moment the police are investigating a crime in progress. The second man is at large. I don't want you to harm or thwart the police investigation or withhold vital information. Saying he had a carrying case of some kind is part of describing him. You don't know what was in the case.”

“I was up against guys like you when I was a prosecutor,” Falcone said, shaking his head. “Defense attorneys who were always skating at the edges. I'll follow my conscience, and I will heed the needs of the firm.”

“The firm is facing a crisis, Sean. We can lose clients, big clients. And we can lose personnel, even partners. I don't want to rely on what the police or the media make of this crime. We need our own narrative, Sean. I want you to conduct your own investigation of what happened here and make a confidential report that will be presented to me as managing partner.”

“Will I be allowed to question you?”

“Yes, of course. But … I don't see what I can add. You were the witness, the guy who stopped a massacre.”

“I may have to ask you some questions about Davidson, about his clients.”

“Of course. I'll cooperate in every way, Sean. Now I have to go talk to the detectives.”

“I assume that Ursula is shredding that yellow pad with Hamilton's name on it.”

“Don't make assumptions, Sean. Just ask questions and get answers. But remember, Ursula is my confidential assistant and the firm's rules say she doesn't have to answer to anyone but me.”

 

11

Viktor Yazov saw two
police cars blocking the intersection half a block ahead and decided to take a chance. His black Mercedes-Benz S600 was conspicuous, and if he tried a U-turn, he'd be even more conspicuous. He was not carrying a weapon, but within a hidden compartment in the driver's door was a Sig Sauer P226 that had been stolen from a Navy SEAL during a brawl at a bar in lower Manhattan.

The police-scanning radio was invisible, concealed within the wiring of the regular dashboard radio. He had a New York chauffeur's license in his wallet, a chauffeur's black cap on his head, and a New York registration in the glove compartment. He knew from experience that a routine police-car computer check would not turn up any criminal record for him. The armor and the bulletproof glass were discreet. And these were street cops, not feds nosing around.

He stopped behind a taxi whose driver was giving the cop a hard time. When the taxi was waved through, Viktor moved slowly up to an officer standing at the side of his car. Viktor showed his license and registration, doffed his wraparound sunglasses to show his friendly eyes, and produced a grin gleaming with two gold teeth. He could truthfully say that he had not seen a young man in a black coat. The Mercedes rolled on, turning right at the next intersection.

*   *   *

Viktor had begun his
career in Moscow, when, following in his father's footsteps, he was accepted into a pool of drivers who specialized in providing safe, high-speed service for young oligarchs. They enjoyed the status of a flashy, armored vehicle driven by someone who knew exactly when to offer a bribe and how to make himself invaluable as a guide to the seamier side of Moscow life. One of his clients called the Mercedes his whoremobile.

One night, a client, high on cocaine, began engaging in sexual play with a young woman he had picked up at one of the hottest clubs in Moscow. Viktor was used to having the ample backseat turned into a playground. But this time the play became lethal when the client lost control while experimenting with sexual strangulation. The client was a middle-echelon member of the Foundation for Social Assistance to Athletes, also known as the Orekhovskaya gang, and Viktor realized he was at a crossroad: Call the police or help the client dispose of the body and become a driver for the gang.

He made his choice and became well known as the best driver in the Moscow underworld. Soon he was hired as the principal driver for one of Russia's richest and most powerful oligarchs, Kuri Basayev.

Dukka gone. Now what?
To stay alive in Basayev's organization, you could not make a mistake. Viktor knew Basayev as a man to be feared, a man who killed his enemies, a man who punished mistakes with exile or, sometimes, death sentences. What happened today would not please Basayev.

 

12

While Viktor was in
Washington in a near panic, Kuri Basayev was far away. When what Basayev called “a special operation” was going on, he always was far away—usually somewhere at sea aboard his yacht. Special operations were relatively rare, and Basayev regretted them, especially on American soil. But sometimes they had to happen.

Like other Russian oligarchs, Basayev had acquired a fortune by having the political connections that provided the inside knowledge needed to be at the right place at the right time. Even with that advantage, however, the oligarchs were hit hard by the financial crisis in 2008. Kuri Basayev's investment losses forced him to expand his underworld empire in Russia and in the United States.

On a day about two weeks before the Sullivan & Ford shootings, Basayev had shown that his wealth was ample enough for him to acquire a new residence in New York. Accompanied by the manager of his principal hedge fund, Basayev had appeared twenty minutes late for his meeting with the president of the city's largest real-estate firm. The meeting was in the penthouse atop the eighty-five-story NYNY on Fifth, the latest Manhattan aerie built to provide appropriate New York City shelters for billionaires like Basayev.

The towering palaces were not homes. They were places where foreign visitors could spend a few days and nights enjoying New York and the great wealth that buys the city's splendor. They were not part of the New York society. They never appeared at charity galas, museum fund-raisers, or gallery openings. They tried to play in the shadows, unseen by the eyes of the media.

The realtor reverently greeted Basayev and led him and his trailing advisor to a large, glass-walled room called the library lounge. Its shelved walls already contained dozens of books selected for their jacket colors by the room's designer. They sat in high-winged chairs around a table that was a polished slice of redwood. A slight echo bounced off the twenty-two-foot ceiling as the realtor described the penthouse's panoramic views, its rosewood flooring, and its walls of Italian marble.

“NYNY on Fifth,” he continued, “will become a classic landmark, one that is not eccentric or bizarre, but an intelligent building that is in dialogue with the outstanding cityscape it is entering. In this architectural gem, magnificent but discreetly opulent, you'll discover…”

“I am aware of this building's many virtues,” Basayev interrupted. Swinging his right arm around in an encompassing gesture, he said, “I will buy this place.” He nodded to the advisor, who opened his slim briefcase and extracted a check for $90 million, drawn on a Belgium bank owned by Basayev.

He rose and walked around the room, leaving the advisor and the realtor to go over the details of the purchase contract. He stopped for a few moments before a floor-to-ceiling window that framed Central Park, a skyline silhouette, and a patch of clear blue sky. Then he turned and said, “Fine view. Goodbye.”

Quickening his step, he walked toward the hall that opened to the elevator, where his security men awaited him. One spoke into a cell phone. The two men were both over six feet, unusually tall for Chechens, though they had been shaped by Chechen genes that made them black-haired, black-bearded, broad-shouldered, and barrel-chested. They wore black leather jackets, black jeans, and black Air Jordans.

They followed Basayev into the elevator and flanked him when they emerged and crossed the long, blue-carpeted lobby. At the bronze door that opened onto Fifth Avenue, the two men shouldered aside the doorman and stood for a moment, scanning the sidewalk's swirling currents of people. One of them pointed toward a man standing nearby, looking conspicuous as the only person standing in a flow of people on the go. The bodyguard said something in Chechen and laughed. He nodded to Basayev, and the three men stepped out.