Collusion

by Newt Gingrich

  “I’m trying to decide.”

  “So much drama,” Harris said.

  Garrett lowered his pistol.

  “The penny trick,” Harris said, “a bit old-school isn’t it?”

  He was referring to the leaflet and one-cent coin lying in the hallway. When Garrett had left his apartment, he’d inserted a penny inside the ten-page pamphlet before inserting it between the door and its frame. To a passerby, it looked like an ad left by a Realtor seeking business. It was actually a warning device. An intruder would need to remove the leaflet and then replace it to cover his tracks. But as soon as he tugged loose the pamphlet, gravity would cause the penny to slip from its pages. Even if the intruder noticed the penny drop, he would not know which pages it had been hidden between, tipping off Garrett.

  “Jack unlocked the door,” Harris said. “You remember him.”

  Jack Moore was Director Harris’s personal bodyguard and a former field operative who’d cut his teeth in Berlin back when there was still a wall there.

  “He’s ancient.”

  “He’s outside in the car. There was a time when you would have spotted him.”

  Garrett sat down facing Harris. “Five minutes. I wouldn’t want to keep you and your artifact babysitter from your next B-and-E.”

  Harris gazed at Garrett. “Still playing the victim.”

  “Playing? I am a victim—your victim. You lied to Congress about Cameroon.”

  “Have anything to drink around here?” Harris asked.

  “Absolutely. You want a plate of sugar cookies, too?”

  “Macallan neat.”

  “I got Old Crow. Naw, since you appreciate the truth, I’ve got nothing but water.”

  Harris let out a sigh.

  “You got maybe two minutes left,” Garrett said.

  “The president asked me to thank you for delivering the flash drive from Kiev.”

  “He should have come himself. I would have served him Macallan.”

  Harris seemed much older to Garrett than the last time they’d been together. A Senate hearing. The sixty-some-year-old director probably had makeup on, knowing the cameras would be there. Now he looked spent. Too many late nights working. Too much stress. Being the keeper of the nation’s secrets took a physical toll. Garrett tried to feel empathy but couldn’t.

  There had always been uneasiness between them long before Cameroon. Garrett suspected Harris wanted it that way. They had little in common. Harold Harris was a lawyer by training and a Washington bureaucrat by choice. He’d never been out in the cold.

  When Langley had first wooed Garrett, he’d been intimidated by Harris. The director had reminded him of an old Navajo woman operating a loom he’d seen in Window Rock as a teen on a rare family vacation. She’d expertly twisted multiple strains, creating a design only she knew. People were Harris’s threads. Expertly manipulated for the country’s good. Or so Garrett had thought. Not until he had been betrayed had he seen the Machiavellian pattern.

  “I need you to go to Moscow for me,” Harris said.

  For a moment, Garrett wondered if he was hallucinating. The medication. Some Freudian delusion.

  “You what?”

  “You in or out?”

  “Just like that?” Garrett grunted. “The last time you asked, I lost my career, my reputation, and, oh yeah, nearly my life.”

  Harris waved his hand. “Crying doesn’t become you.”

  Garrett reconsidered shooting him.

  “I’m offering you an opportunity to get back in the game,” Harris said. “Senator Stone’s hearing was inconvenient, but you aren’t homeless. Your buddy T. J. Kim hired you.”

  “Inconvenient?” Garrett said slowly, letting the word linger. “You lied to Congress about me and you lied to me. You betrayed me. Because of you, I went to prison. Because of you, I have a dishonorable discharge. And his name is Thomas Jefferson Kim, not T.J.”

  Harris shrugged. “Tell me, Garrett, how many Americans died in the bloodiest battle ever fought during a war?”

  Garrett watched him, brows furrowed.

  “Most people answer Gettysburg—when Americans on both sides died fighting each other. But it’s not the battle that claimed the most American lives. Nor was it the Battle of the Bulge in World War Two or D-Day, when our boys were slaughtered on the beaches.”

  “I don’t need a history lesson from you,” Garrett said.

  “The most Americans to die in a single battle was at Argonne Forest. World War One. More than twenty-six thousand Americans killed in that monthlong confrontation, another hundred thousand Americans wounded. Horrific carnage. But necessary.”

  “Expendable?”

  “Sometimes a leader makes choices that require people to die. Do you believe for a moment any one of those men wanted to die? They were sacrificed for a greater good. Just like you were.”

  “What greater good? What did we get in return for sticking a knife in my back?”

  “Senator Stone is a powerful man who’s been trying to restrict the agency’s powers for decades. Sometimes you feed an attacking dog. Besides, you weren’t worth the fight. You ultimately made a choice, a wrong one.”

  “You promised to support my choice, to have my back. Get out.”

  Harris stood to leave. “I misjudged you, Garrett. I believed you really cared about our country.”

  “Guilt? You’re trying to shame me into working for you? Okay, what’s in Moscow that’s so important to our country?”

  “I need you to bring out two packages.”

  “Who?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “To me, yes.”

  “A potential asset and a teenager. The most important Russian asset to ever come over. You’re his best chance of getting out alive with the kid. I’m putting together a team.”

  “What do I get out of all this?”

  “Redemption. Isn’t that what you want, Garrett?”

  “You’re the one in need of redemption.”

  Harris half-smiled. “I’ve given up on that years ago. Look in the mirror. Who are you trying to fool, Garrett? Suboxone. Yes, I know. I know everything. The midnight runs on your rebuilt British motorcycle. The faces of those who died in Cameroon. They died because of you, not me. I’m offering you a chance.”

  Garrett offered him an obscene gesture.

  “The last refuge for someone who has no intelligent reply,” Harris said, mocking him. He took an envelope from his jacket pocket and tossed it at Garrett’s feet. “You want to hear more? Come tomorrow. Get back in the game. If not, sit here and feel sorry for yourself. Blame everyone. Everyone but yourself.”

  Thirteen

  Valerie Mayberry wasn’t certain what was happening. She was being loaned to the CIA for an indefinite period. Her boss, Sally North, had informed her when she arrived at work. FBI director Archibald Davidson had personally approved the detail. Moments later, Mayberry had received a telephone call. A woman’s voice. An address in rural Virginia. A time. “Don’t be late.”

  Mayberry had worked with her CIA counterintelligence counterparts before and never once enjoyed it. There was a long history of bad blood between the agency and bureau. Some dated to when the FBI director had grabbed headlines bragging about how the bureau had caught CIA traitor Aldrich Ames. Seven years later, the agency had caught FBI Agent Robert Hanssen spying. A publicity punch here, a jab there.

  A voice coming from her Jaguar’s GPS warned of an upcoming left turn as she drove northeast on Virginia Route 15. She spotted two black SUVs parked near a gravel road ahead before the GPS told her to turn.

  “Driver’s license and FBI credentials please, Ms. Mayberry,” the CIA Protective Service officer said. Another used a mirror to sweep under her Jaguar. “Nice ride.” She pulled away in second gear to avoid spitting gravel back at them. A half mile later, she topped a slight rise and saw the main house. Mayberry was used to great wealth, but this countryside estate startled her.

  From the darker color
of its graying stone, Mayberry guessed the two-story Georgian Revival was the original before matching stone additions had been added on each side. Most likely the 1770s. The locals called them “telescope houses” because of the added wings. Off to the house’s right wing was a swimming pool as big as the community pools found in most suburbs. Off to its left was an equestrian arena with a grandstand and stables. The house, pool, and riding ring created a huge U from above with an ornate fountain anchored in its circular driveway.

  Mayberry counted six vehicles parked there. Four matched the SUVs at the entrance. Obviously CIA. The next was an extended Cadillac sedan. Government issued. Armored. Someone important. Finally, a Mercedes-Benz SUV with a personalized tag: IEC BOSS.

  Two officers were stationed outside the front door. They checked her ID again before letting her pass. An older man welcomed her inside.

  “My name is Jack. May I please have your cell phone and any other electronic devices that you brought with you? Also, your personal weapon.” Another guard appeared and took them.

  “Thank you,” Jack said. “Please, this way.”

  The modest entryway had aged wood-plank flooring typical of the period, but when Jack slid open two walnut pocket doors to Mayberry’s right, she found herself entering an ornate ballroom with gold fixtures, a massive stone fireplace, and a highly polished black-and-white marble floor. The room was empty except for four chairs arranged in a circle. Thomas Jefferson Kim and Brett Garrett were seated in two of them.

  “You’re the last to arrive,” Jack said.

  Kim stood and chirped, “Good to see you again.”

  Garrett nodded from his chair.

  Mayberry sat next to Kim.

  “Can I offer anyone water, coffee, tea?” Jack asked. “Unfortunately, the director is on a call and might be a while.”

  “I’ll take a coffee,” Kim said. Garrett shook his head. “Oolong tea—black dragon—if you have it,” Mayberry said.

  Jack fetched their drinks and left them. No small talk. Kim and Mayberry sipped from china cups. Garrett, arms folded across his chest, stared straight ahead. Fifteen minutes later, CIA director Harris entered along with Jack, offering neither an apology nor explanation.

  “You will each need to sign the document Jack is distributing,” Harris said.

  “Excuse me,” Kim said, “I generally don’t sign anything without running it by my lawyer.”

  “Then you have a decision to make, don’t you? Sign it or leave knowing that your departure could impact IEC’s current and future government contracts.”

  Jack said, “It’s a standard federal nondisclosure agreement. Pretty much boilerplate, with one exception that you will find on page seven, paragraph three.”

  Garrett was the first to find it. Stripped of legalese, it stated the signatory would be charged with espionage, not treason, if he or she violated the NDA.

  “Espionage is punishable by death,” Jack elaborated. “Treason isn’t.”

  Mayberry signed. Kim grimaced and signed. Garrett glared at Harris and, with obvious reluctance, scribbled his name.

  “Good,” Harris said, as Jack collected the paperwork and left the ballroom. “The flash drive that Mr. Garrett brought from Kiev contained a videotaped message from Yakov Prokofyevich Pavel, the current number three in charge at the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He’s willing to defect along with his grandson if we meet his conditions.”

  “Has anyone that high up ever defected?” Kim asked.

  “No,” Harris said.

  “What conditions?” Mayberry asked.

  “First, we have to get him and his grandson out of Russia alive, which will not be easy. That will be your job, Mr. Garrett.” The three of them looked at Garrett, who didn’t react.

  “Because of who he is, Pavel can’t simply go to an airport and purchase two tickets,” the director continued. “He and his grandson would need permission and only would be allowed to travel outside Russia with a security detail. The Kremlin also maintains an old Soviet custom—making high government officials leave one family member behind when they go overseas.”

  Turning to Kim, Harris said, “We’ll need your company to transfer Mr. Garrett to the U.S. embassy in Moscow as an IEC employee—a security guard—to make this work.”

  “No problem,” Kim said. “That is, if Garrett wants to go.”

  “Why bother getting Pavel out?” Garrett asked. “If you have a flash drive of him offering to betray his country, just blackmail him in place, squeeze him dry. That’s more your style, isn’t it?”

  “A bit shortsighted,” Harris replied. “Pavel isn’t stupid. He’s holding back—including information about a national threat that he says is imminent.”

  “What kind of national threat?” Garrett asked.

  “I’ll get to that.”

  “How do you know this isn’t a Russian provocation?” Mayberry asked.

  “First, it’s unlikely the Kremlin would risk sending us someone so high up as a dangle. He knows too many secrets. Second, Pavel’s told us the name of an American government official recruited by Russian intelligence two years ago. A mole—to prove his bona fides.”

  “Pavel wants us to kill the rat before the rat can squeal on him in Moscow,” Garrett said.

  “Who’s the mole?” Mayberry asked.

  “Until he is arrested, that’s not a question I should be answering.”

  “We just signed an NDA that says you will execute us if we repeat anything that’s said here,” Garrett replied sarcastically. “And you still don’t trust us? How do we know this mole won’t tell the Russians about the three of us?”

  “He works at the NSA,” Harris said. “He’s not a threat to any of you. However, Pavel claims there is a second mole. Someone who can hurt you. There’s a breach. A traitor who appears able to read all of our message traffic between Langley and Moscow.”

  Garrett grunted, unhappy.

  “That’s why we’re meeting here,” said Kim.

  “Exactly,” Harris replied. “It’s also why I’ve invited you to be part of the team. Your company, IEC, operates its own communication satellites.”

  “Yes, three of them, and better, I might add, than the ones the government uses.”

  Leapfrogging ahead, Mayberry said, “You want Kim to keep in contact with Garrett while he’s in Russia.”

  “Yes,” Harris said. “No cable traffic. Also, only the four of us in this room and one additional person in Moscow will know about Pavel.”

  “Wait,” Garrett said. “Who in Moscow?”

  “Marcus Austin.”

  Garrett knew him. They’d worked together in Morocco before Austin became Moscow chief of station.

  “Did he sign an NDA?” Garrett asked. “And aren’t you forgetting your security team outside and Jack?”

  “You, Mr. Kim, Agent Mayberry, Marcus Austin, and me,” Harris said firmly, “are the only ones besides President Fitzgerald who know about Pavel’s plea. I have not even told the president about how I intend to get Pavel out—about me bringing the three of you together. Despite your cynicism, this operation is being highly compartmentalized.”

  “What about this imminent threat?” Mayberry said.

  “Yes, it’s why you’re part of this team, Agent Mayberry. I assume you are familiar with Kamera?”

  Of course she was. In 1921, Vladimir Lenin ordered scientists to create poisons that would be completely undetected for use in political assassinations. Their secret lab was called “Kamera,” which means “the Chamber” in Russian. Stalin tested poisons on Soviet prisoners, frequently dissidents, often causing excruciatingly painful deaths. The Kremlin assured the West in 1953 that the Chamber had been closed, but twenty-five years later, a Bulgarian defector named Georgi Markov was assassinated waiting at a London bus stop. A pellet containing the poison ricin was jabbed into Markov’s leg through a KGB designed umbrella tip. It was quite ingenious. The killer poked him while he was waiting for a bus. The ricin was i
nside a tiny steel pellet coated with wax. When Markov’s natural body temperature heated the wax, the poison entered his system. It took him days to die.

  Twenty-eight years after Markov’s death, another Kremlin critic, Alexander Litvinenko, was poisoned in London with radioactive-laced tea. Russia only got a slap on the hand and that emboldened the Kremlin. Six years after Litvinenko, Russian whistle-blower Alexander Perepilichny was poisoned in London with a toxic substance made from a little-known Chinese flower, gelsemium.

  “In March 2018, former Russian army officer Sergei Skripal, who’d been spying for the British, and his daughter Yulia were poisoned in England,” Harris reminded them. “They used Novichok, the deadliest nerve agent ever created—to date.”

  Harris leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees while clasping his hands together. “By our count, more than thirty-eight prominent Russians have died under suspicious circumstances in recent years, many caused by exotic poisons.”

  “Let me guess,” Garrett said. “Pavel told you Stalin’s so-called Kamera operations were never really shut down and now Kalugin is using them to kill his enemies.”

  “It’s exactly what he said,” Harris acknowledged.

  “Why has Pavel suddenly become so chatty? Why’s he suddenly so eager to jump ship?” Garrett asked.

  “His grandson, Peter. The teenager’s parents were killed in Svetogorsk, Russia. Both were chemists working at a Kamera lab under the direct supervision of General Gromyko.” He paused and glanced at each of them separately before continuing. “Pavel said Gromyko has developed a poison that he plans to use here in the U.S. That’s the imminent threat.”

  “He wouldn’t dare, would he?” Mayberry said.

  “The Russians are growing more and more bold,” Harris said. “Using social media to sow discord and interfere in elections both here and in Europe. Poisoning defectors. And we suspect they were behind the terrorist attack in Kiev. They use shills, straw men, to protect themselves.”

  “Who are they planning on poisoning in the U.S. and when?” Kim asked.

  “Pavel knows but won’t say. We need to get him out within two weeks, he said, or it will be too late.”