Colt's Crisis

by Tom Carroll

  “Good evening Kang Ji-woo,” said the man. “I am sorry to give you bad news, but you will not be going back to Pyongyang any time soon. I am Director Pang of South Korea’s National Intelligence Service, and you and I are about to get acquainted. Welcome aboard the Hong Beomdo, the newest submarine in South Korea’s Navy!”

  A shocked Ji-woo watched as two well-built sailors moved forward and grabbed her suitcase. She glanced around the submarine’s cramped control room to see the captain and his South Korean crew smiling at her. How could this be happening?

  South Korea’s intelligence chief sat down next to Ji-woo, took a sip from his teacup, and continued. “You are no doubt surprised to find yourself as my guest tonight. You have been under surveillance for some time and, in fact, even the bundles of currency in your suitcase have small electronic devices inserted in them so we merely had to follow the money to track your whereabouts. Once we intercepted the order you received to rendezvous with one of North Korea’s submarines, we simply sent you another message instructing you to leave a day earlier, and this time, we sent one of our submarines instead. I suspect that tomorrow night, your friends will arrive at this precise location with anticipation to meet you, but they will be surprised to find our naval forces waiting for them instead. All in all, it is a rather elegant plan, do you not agree?”

  Russian Military Intelligence HQ, Khodinka Airfield, Moscow, the Russian Federation

  “Comrade Director Orlov, what a pleasure to hear from you, and twice within one week! I hope you continue to have good health?” General Korobov knew when his assistant said Director Orlov was on the line, that the Kremlin was aware of his second failed attempt to assassinate the American secretary of defense. He also knew that Orlov might be using the incident to affect a power shift within the intelligence community.

  “Comrade General Korobov, my health is as good as it was when we last spoke, but how kind of you to ask. I am calling to offer my condolences to you regarding the challenges you are experiencing in the western Pacific. If you recall, I had hoped that you would accept my offer of assistance. Now that your second attempt to eliminate Colton Garrett has gone nowhere, our president has asked me to lead an effort that utilizes all of our resources to produce a more positive outcome to the challenges created by this enemy of Russia.”

  Korobov knew Orlov would try to use the Garrett incident against the GRU. He was astounded, however, at Orlov’s audacity in assuming control of the entire operation and positioning himself in a more powerful role. And now that the Russian president had apparently endorsed Orlov’s move to consolidate power, Korobov felt he needed to be exceptionally careful with what he said next.

  “Of course, the GRU is most willing to participate in any endeavor to remove Mr. Garrett,” said Korobov, “and I believe I have the asset already in place and prepared to make another attempt, should that be the desired course of action.”

  The telephone line went silent, until Director Orlov said, “You say you have another operative in a position to remove Colton Garrett? Who might that be, Comrade General?”

  General Korobov pushed his chair back, lifted his highly polished boots onto his desk, and simply smiled. “I believe you are about to be impressed, Comrade Director!”

  FBI Safe House, 222 Fort Hill Road, Bainbridge Island, Washington

  FBI Special Agent in Charge Clay Taylor was an avid World War II history buff, and that had definitely influenced his decision to lease the old brick residence and turn it into an FBI safe house. Situated on the south end of Bainbridge Island and across the street from Fort Ward, the safe house existed under the plausible cover story that it was a vacation rental for tourists. Neighbors had occasionally noticed guests staying there for several days, and then weeks would go by without any visitors at all. It seemed to the surrounding homeowners that the owners of the old house, who were rumored to be software millionaires from Seattle, didn’t really care if it got rented out or not. Besides, it always seemed to be unavailable when anyone tried to book a reservation. Most just assumed the property had been acquired for investment purposes.

  In the late 1930s, the U.S. Navy discovered that Fort Ward was an exceptional location to intercept communications from the Far East. They took over the fort from the Army and developed Station S as a listening post, manned 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Large antennas were erected on the former military parade ground, which, as Clay Taylor noted with amusement, was now a city park. But Clay knew that the most interesting fact about the fort was that on December 7, 1941, the Navy facility intercepted a message from Japan about breaking off negotiations with the United States, and they forwarded the message to Washington. Unfortunately, administrative errors prevented the message from getting into the right hands until after the Japanese had already attacked Pearl Harbor.

  Clay walked into what had once been a small bedroom in the house and looked through a large, one-way mirror into the adjoining room, where an espionage suspect, Sara Olson, was seated at a table and handcuffed to a steel ring bolted to the table’s center. The alleged Russian GRU officer appeared to be reasonably calm, given what she had just experienced.

  A few hours earlier, Sara had been walking on a dimly lit side street in Bremerton on her way home to her apartment, when she found herself being forcefully shoved into a delivery van by people whose faces she could not see, then blindfolded, bound, and gagged. After riding for several hours in the back of the van, including crossing a bridge of some type, the van stopped, and she was roughly pulled out of the vehicle and led inside a building, into the room where she now was securely restrained. The woman who removed the gag and blindfold had said nothing, despite Sara’s continued and desperate pleading to be set free. She was given food and water, and she was allowed to use the bathroom, but only under the close observation of two guards.

  Since being forced into the van, Sara had tried to determine the identity of her abductors. If they are Americans, she thought, why did they not take me to a federal detention facility? She continued to wonder why she had been taken at all when the door to her interrogation room opened and to reveal the familiar face of Sean, the homeless man from the café she had previously dubbed “Mr. Trench.” Sean came in and sat down in the chair across the table from her.

  “Good evening, Sara. Or do you prefer Captain Yelena Denisovna Ivanova of Russian Military Intelligence?”

  “What?” she responded emphatically. “I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

  “I’m Special Agent Sean Thomas, with the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he continued, “and of course, we have met before.” He offered his credentials: a black leather wallet with an FBI identification card and the famous FBI shield. Sara glared at the man whom she had seen almost daily at the café in Bremerton. His appearance was dramatically different now. His beard was gone, and his worn, smelly clothes were replaced with a crisply pressed white shirt, maroon necktie, and a navy blue wool suit.

  “I apologize for the deception,” he said, “but considering your own, we’re even. Is it okay if I call you Sara? It’s easier for me to pronounce than your Russian name.”

  “What? My Russian name? What in the world are you even talking about? I’m Sara Olson, the barista in Bremerton. You and I have talked before, but you must have me mixed up with someone else!”

  The experienced counterintelligence agent began placing a series of documents in front of Sara detailing the espionage case the FBI had long been developing on her and her activities. Nine hours of denial later, when Special Agent Thomas had left the room to take a break, Sara decided to attempt another tactic. She looked over her shoulder and spoke directly to the large mirror on the opposite wall. “Yes, I am Yelena Denisovna Ivanova, and I formally request that you contact the Russian consulate in San Francisco and inform them I am being held here against my will.”

  The cheers coming from Sean and his colleagues, who were gathered in the adjacent, sound-proof observation room, signaled
that the interrogation had achieved a major objective with Sara’s admission of her real identity. It’s time to move to the next phase, Sean thought to himself as he returned to the interrogation room. He explained to Sara that because she was in the country illegally, the FBI had no obligation to notify the Russian consulate of her predicament. “In fact,” he added, “I suspect that if your consulate became aware that you were in our custody, they would first, disallow your existence and then, if we eventually released you, they would send you back to Russia to be interrogated and likely severely punished — or worse. You would certainly never be trusted again.”

  Sara looked down at her hands and asked quietly, “What are my options?”

  “Well, that’s where I actually have some good news for you, Sara. I‘ve been authorized to offer you a new life. A new name, new city, new job, and a new identity. A whole new start. You would have to agree to spend at least a year cooperating with the FBI and other agencies, revealing everything you can about the Russians’ selection, recruitment, training, tradecraft, communications, and security protocols. In short, everything you know. You also would have to agree to several behavioral evaluations and multiple polygraphs, but once we believed we had everything you could tell us, we would relocate you to somewhere safe, where you would be unknown and could start your life over.”

  “Why am I being offered this opportunity?” Sara asked.

  “Because we have closely observed you for several months, and we believe you’re worth the risk. Based on the most recent conversation you and I had at the café, we decided to give you a chance at another life, if you’re willing to fully cooperate.” As Sean continued to try convincing Sara that she didn’t have another option, Clay had meals brought in for them. Finally, Sara agreed to his terms. “But there is a problem,” she said. “I will never really be safe as long as the GRU thinks I’m still alive. They will never give up until they are sure I am dead.”

  Sean gathered up the national security agreements Sara had just signed. “Yes, we know that, and we’re working on it.”

  Still sitting in the observation room next door, Clay Taylor picked up his cell phone and called his deputy at the Seattle Field Office. “Juan, this is Clay. Don’t you know someone in the coroner’s office? We’re going to need a female cadaver right away!”

  Bremerton National Airport, Bremerton, Washington

  GRU Colonel Dimitri Petrov was careful to keep his small sedan under the posted speed limit so as not to be stopped by the police as he took Washington State Route 3 to the airport. Just twelve hours earlier, he had contacted the small air charter company in Seattle to request a flight from Bremerton to Vancouver, Canada. There, he intended to change identities and then board a commercial flight to Mexico City, where he could easily disappear.

  After the second attempt to assassinate Colton Garrett had failed, Petrov feared it would only be a matter of time before the Americans discovered his role in the operation and his true identity. He executed his escape plan, which included sending a message to Sara to meet him today at the Bremerton National Airport to leave the country with him. He wasn’t surprised when Sara didn’t respond to his note. He assumed she had already gone to ground and was no longer in a position to communicate.

  Petrov took a left turn off Route 3 and arrived at Bremerton’s airport to find a parking space for his Honda right next to the small passenger terminal. He grabbed his backpack from the passenger seat, locked the car, and walked the short distance to the terminal, where he was greeted inside by a young man wearing a white shirt with the four stripes of an airline pilot.

  “Mr. Jordan? I’m Nate Peterson, and I’ll be flying you to Vancouver today. Is that all the luggage you have?”

  “It’s Professor Jordan, and yes, I have only this backpack. I’m just staying overnight and then meeting a colleague to drive back to Seattle together. Has my associate, Ms. Olson, arrived yet?”

  The young airline captain answered, “Not yet, but that’s not a problem. This is your charter, so we’re flexible. I can wait for an hour, and then I’d just have to call the office for approval to delay any longer. But right now, I need to go visit air operations to check the weather.”

  As the pilot walked away, Colonel Petrov sat down in one of the worn, vinyl chairs in the small waiting area. He was growing concerned at Sara’s absence, and he started to wonder if American counterintelligence was already on his trail. After a casual glance around the sleepy passenger terminal and through the dirty windows at the quiet parking lot outside, Petrov saw no evidence of unusual activity, so he opened his small paperback novel to start a new chapter.

  Petrov looked up when the terminal door opened to two deputies from the Kitsap County Sheriff’s Department. Scanning the passenger terminal, they went over and sat down in the terminal’s small coffee shop at the end of the room. Soon, they were joined by another officer, this time a tall man, wearing the blue uniform of the Washington State Patrol. Petrov watched as the trooper scanned the room, just as the deputies had, before sitting down with them in the coffee shop.

  “Professor Jordan, have you heard from Ms. Olson yet?” his charter pilot came over and asked him. “I’m just wondering if I should contact the company about delaying the flight.”

  Petrov looked at his watch and then at the group of law enforcement officers drinking coffee. “It appears that Ms. Olson will not be joining me today,” he said. “In fact, I’m ready to depart as soon as we can.”

  “Great. Just let me check your passport and get you through security screening, and we can be on our way.”

  The pilot led Petrov through a hallway to a TSA checkpoint, where he placed his passenger’s backpack on the conveyor belt that led into an x-ray machine. The metal detector sounded an alarm as Petrov tried to walk through. The TSA officer motioned Petrov over to the side and said, “Sorry, sir, I’ll need to wand you.”

  The officer proceeded to pass a security wand over Petrov’s body, and it, too, beeped several times.

  “Sir, do I have your permission to pat you down?” the TSA officer inquired.

  “Do I have a choice?” Petrov asked with slight annoyance.

  The TSA officer thoroughly patted down Petrov’s body. “Thank you, sir! You should be good to go now.”

  Petrov picked up his backpack and walked through the terminal doorway that opened onto the tarmac toward the waiting business jet, where his young pilot stood on the ground next to the plane’s boarding stairs.

  “Sorry about that, Professor Jordan. They make us go through that same process all the time. Okay, just follow me.”

  The pilot led Petrov up the stairs of the small eight-seater, then stepped aside at the plane’s door to allow his passenger to enter the cabin. Typical in many planes of this size, the cabin had four single passenger seats on each side of a narrow center aisle. Petrov tossed his backpack onto one of the second-row seats, sank happily into the seat opposite it, and reached into his back pocket for his paperback. He had waited a long time for this moment. He savored the idea of having his own flight and his own space. No one I have to make conversation with, he thought with relish.

  He was curious, therefore, when he looked out the window a few minutes later to see three men walking across the tarmac toward his plane. His bewilderment turned to mild apprehension as the men approached the stairs to the plane and began to climb them. They must be mechanics, he thought. The charter company would never add passengers onto a privately chartered flight. They must be boarding to speak with the pilot. But rather than turning left into the cockpit to confer with the pilot, the three men turned right into the passenger cabin.

  “This is a private charter, gentlemen,” Petrov said, loudly and authoritatively. You must be on the wrong plane.” But despite his efforts to dissuade them, the men continued making their way into the seating area of the cabin. Two of them seated themselves in the two first-row seats, and the other, after moving Petrov’s backpack out of the way, took the seat across
the aisle from him. None of them had said a word.

  Petrov saw that he was both surrounded and outnumbered, and he had a sudden realization that these men might not have boarded his plane by mistake. “Hey, Nate!” he called to the pilot, “What the hell’s going on? I paid for a private chartered flight!”

  But when the pilot didn’t respond or appear, Petrov knew something was wrong. With an instant sense of discomfort, he glanced quickly around the cabin, hoping he might be able to spot an easy way to get off the plane to flee. But the only exit was the one the men had just entered through. Whoever they are, he thought, they cannot stop me if I decide I want to get off the plane. This is still my charter. But as he considered standing up from his seat, a fourth man stepped inside the cabin.

  This time, the man was familiar—very familiar, in fact. The last time Petrov had seen him was during a gun battle on the border between Spain and Gibraltar decades ago. The man was much older, now, but seemed to be in good health despite having just survived two failed assassination attempts. This was the man who was supposed to be dead by now.

  “Hello, Colonel Petrov,” said Colt Garrett. “I apologize, as it appears I may be interrupting your travel plans.”

  “Secretary Garrett,” Petrov replied, as though nothing were wrong. “This is, indeed, an honor. Congratulations on your new appointment! Come, find a seat so we can catch up. It has been a long time, hasn’t it?”

  Colt stood where he was, slightly amused by Petrov’s disingenuous pleasantries. “I’m afraid I haven’t got time to chat as I have some travel plans of my own,” he said, gesturing toward the U.S. Army Blackhawk helicopter that was being fueled out on the tarmac. “But first, you and I have some business to discuss. You know why I’m here, do you not?”

  “I believe I do,” said Petrov, as the entire picture became clear to him. He suddenly knew exactly what Colt Garrett was there to do. “I am sure you are aware that I was ordered by Moscow to eliminate you to prevent your harsh, anti-Russian policies from hurting my country. It was a great disappointment for us that our attempts did not succeed.” Petrov paused for a moment to let his last statement sink in. “So, what is next for me now, Garrett? A dramatic arrest at the airport? A lengthy and pointless interrogation with pictures splashed across the newspaper? Must we really go through all that when we both know these incidents involving intelligence officers always just end in an exchange of prisoners?”