By the time Falcone reached his Pennsylvania Avenue penthouse, he had put Rachel in that part of his memory where love lives on, despite death, despite fate. She was not gone. He always proudly believed that he had a disciplined, compartmented mind. When Rachel was put in the memory part, he opened another compartment, where his hatred of Guantanamo raged.
He gave himself the luxury of a shower and a glass of vodka before he wrapped himself in a bathrobe and put in a call to Ray Quinlan. Surprisingly, he picked up.
“You son of a bitch,” Falcone said.
“Nicest thing you’ve ever called me, Sean. What’s your problem?”
“Not my problem. It’s yours and Oxley’s. He wants a legacy? How about, ‘Hypocrite-in-Chief’? ‘Candidate Who Promised to Close Guantanamo Has Increased Its Population.’”
“You writing headlines now?”
“No, but Phil Dake might.”
“You making a threat?”
“You bet.”
“Sean, what the hell are you talking about?”
“I am talking about this: How did you possibly believe you and Oxley could get away with putting Robert Hamilton in Guantanamo?”
“What?! Jesus, Sean! Are you telling me the truth? You’re not having a crazy spell?”
Falcone hesitated, lowered his voice, and asked, “You didn’t order the detour to Gitmo? That’s what the Gulfstream pilot called it. ‘A detour.’”
“What?!” Quinlan exclaimed again. This time his voice was touched with panic. “If Hamilton is in Guantanamo, Sean, something awfully wrong has happened. First of all, the President is still determined to close Guantanamo. Congress is totally opposed and—”
“Okay. So he seems sincere about closing. But—”
“Sean. The President wants me. Gotta go. I’ll call you back.”
Carlton. The name shot into Falcone’s mind. But he did not—could not—call Carlton. He had to be the one who had set up the detour—with Drexler, and probably Sam Stone and the CIA. Falcone remembered talking to Drexler about what would happen if the rendition became known: Falcone had to take responsibility and claim he was suffering from PTSD by his long imprisonment during the Vietnam War.
He made a quick call to Ursula Breitsprecher, telling her to destroy his letter of resignation from the firm.
“Oh, Sean. So glad you are back,” she said. “I worried so.”
“I had some worries, too. It was some flight home! Will see you when I can. Hope it’ll be tomorrow. ’Bye.”
“Wait. I looked up the Moscow Times. There was a story about an American being killed in a hit-and-run. And his name did begin with the letter D. His name was Leonid Danshov.”
“Okay. Thanks much, Ursula. See what you can find on him. ’Bye again.”
Falcone’s next call was to Akis Christakos. Falcone remembered that he had turned over the Sullivan & Ford files on Hamilton to Christakos. Hamilton’s previous lawyer was Paul Sprague, who had resigned in the wake of a shooting of a lawyer and three others at the law firm. Some of the files had been missing because they were in the possession of the FBI, which was investigating possible ties of SpaceMine and Hamilton to the shootings.
His call to Christakos was short:
“Christo, this is Sean Falcone. We need to talk, but not on the phone.”
“Breakfast tomorrow at The Hay-Adams?”
“Too public.”
“Metropolitan Club?”
“Too public. How about your office?”
“As a client?”
“No. As a co-counsel on a very hot case.”
“You have my attention, Sean. See you at eight a.m.”
Falcone had no doubt that Christakos expected to be discussing Hamilton tomorrow morning.