Collusion

by Newt Gingrich

  “Russian defectors always hold their best card back,” Mayberry added. “Use it as leverage.”

  “He could be bluffing,” Garrett said.

  “It’s a risk we can’t take,” Harris answered. “The attack in Kiev was orchestrated by the Kremlin but was carried out by a European-based Antifa cell. We suspect they’ll do the same here.”

  “Antifa?” Kim said. “Aren’t they the good guys—the ones who protest against white supremacists? Hate Nazis. Why would they be shills for the Kremlin?”

  “I can answer that,” Mayberry said. “Radical Antifa members are predominantly far left and militant left. That’s a wide swath. Self-described anarchists, socialists, and communists—lots of communists. There have been efforts in Congress to label Antifa as domestic terrorists but they’ve failed because a majority of Antifa members are naïve college kids recruited under the guise that their members fight racism, sexism, and Nazis. They use hashtags like #PunchANazi. The political left sees Antifa members as vigilante heroes, but the movement is deeply rooted in anticapitalism and socialist/communist teachings.”

  “You’re correct,” Harris said approvingly. “Its most radical members want to destroy our democratic and capitalistic system. During the 2017 presidential inauguration, anarchists dressed in black and wearing masks torched a limousine and vandalized four businesses in Washington, D.C. When a right-leaning commentator was scheduled to speak at UC Berkeley, Antifa protestors hurled Molotov cocktails into a campus building and attempted to light the student union on fire with people in it.”

  “I’m not certain how we run an intelligence operation on the right part of Antifa,” Mayberry continued. “They’re pretty unstructured—just showing up at rallies mostly to attack the alt-right. It’s not like they hold weekly meetings.”

  “We have evidence that Moscow financially supports several Antifa organizers who are paid to stir up dissent,” Harris said. “That’s not information generally known by the gullible students whom they enlist for rallies. Gerald de Depardieu was an Antifa recruiter in Paris before he turned terrorist gunman in Kiev. He recruited Asyan Rivera. She’s your in.”

  An aha look washed across Mayberry’s face. “I get it. You need an FBI agent to do this because it’s illegal for the CIA to carry out covert actions on U.S. soil. And you know I’ve already been asked to befriend her. But this is more than getting close enough to answer a few questions. You want me to join Antifa, don’t you?”

  “The bureau has done this sort of infiltration before,” Harris replied.

  “COINTELPRO,” Mayberry replied, “and the bureau was heavily criticized. It infiltrated the Black Panthers, anti–Vietnam War protestors, and the American Indian Movement. Agents lost their jobs.”

  “Be cautious, Agent Mayberry; the director here is good at having others take a fall for him.” Garrett’s voice said he was kidding, but his eyes were not.

  Harris said, “COINTELPRO happened before Timothy McVeigh drove a truck bomb into Oklahoma City murdering a hundred and sixty-eight Americans in an act of domestic terrorism. Before he slaughtered fifteen children. The bureau monitors hate groups. Infiltrating radical leftists who believe in destroying capitalism and our government is no different from infiltrating a radical Islamic cell.”

  “Asyan Rivera wasn’t in Europe when Kiev was attacked,” Mayberry noted. “She could be just another naïve recruit.”

  “She came home six months before Ambassador Thorpe was murdered,” Harris said. “We aren’t sure why. Maybe De Depardieu actually loved her and wanted to protect her. Or maybe he sent her home to prepare for an attack here using Kamera-produced poison. If Garrett gets Pavel out, he’ll tell us who, where, and when. If not, you have less than two weeks to find out.”

  Harris glanced at his watch. “If you need to get in touch with me, you can do it through Jack, but only tell him that we need to meet.” Harris stood but decided to give a rah-rah closing speech. “Each of you has a specific assignment. Your country is depending on you. I can’t stress that enough. We can’t have Russians using poisons to kill Americans on our soil.”

  Harris exited. Jack reappeared to return the items that they had surrendered earlier.

  “It would be best if you waited five minutes, until the director departs. Please stay in this room. This house is currently for sale. Better to not touch anything.”

  The moment Kim saw Director Harris’s motorcade pulling away, he did a Google search to check the house’s price.

  Garrett’s mind was elsewhere. “Left wing, right wing, chicken wing—it’s all the same thing to the bureau, isn’t that right, Mayberry?”

  Part II

  Escape from Moscow

  Nobody ever did, or ever will, escape the consequences of his choices.

  —Alfred A. Montapert

  Fourteen

  Two Years Earlier

  A simple plan. Enter the Boko Haram camp before dawn where Elsa Eriksson was being held captive for ransom while the terrorists were sleeping. Counting Brett Garrett, fourteen SEALs. Intel put the number of jihadists at twenty. The Americans were better trained, better armed. Grab and go. Minimum engagement. Garrett felt confident.

  The eight huts formed a C from a bird’s view. No electricity. In the C’s center a fire pit. Primitive. A half-dozen motorbikes leaning next to the mud-walled, thatched-roof dwellings. Patched together with so many spare parts their original manufacturers were unidentifiable. Two vehicles. Most menacing: a Toyota Tacoma pickup with a Soviet-made Z KPVT heavy machine gun mounted on its bed—parked near the fire. A World War II–vintage deuce-and-a-half cargo truck steps outside the camp.

  From the darkness, Garrett took stock. No dogs, chickens, or ducks to sound an alarm. Team’s sniper, Big Mac, and spotter, Curly, found high ground. A rock-covered hill on the camp’s western edge. The others spread out strategically. Eyes on every entrance. Capable of killing anyone who emerged. They were ready.

  Garrett, Senator, Sweet Tooth, and Bear moved forward. Silent. Two sentries outside the hostage hut—designated Alpha-1. Both unaware. Their Kalashnikov assault rifles leaning against the hut’s walls. Teenagers chewing khat, a local leaf stimulant.

  Garrett and Bear were the most skilled with knives. Garrett insisted his men carry two fixed blades. No folding ones. Right-side blade with a forward grip on the vest. Left side with a reverse grip. Immediate to unsheathe.

  Garrett, Bear, Sweet Tooth, and Senator paired up when they reached the back of Alpha-1; each pair moved simultaneously in the opposite direction around it. A startled look on each target’s face. Open mouths but no time to yell. Death. Sweet Tooth and Senator grabbed the bodies while Garrett and Bear slipped around the heavy blanket covering the hut’s entrance.

  Garrett’s knife had been replaced by his SIG Sauer P226. Gunfire noise comes from gases popping from behind a bullet, similar to a car backfiring or opening a bottle of bubbly. Garrett’s pistol was fitted with a suppressor that gave those gases a quieter place to go.

  The guard inside was half-asleep, his back propped against the interior wall. His assault rifle on his lap. A lone candle burning next to him illuminated the interior. Garrett fired. A muffled thud. Another thud. Two rounds directly into the guard’s chest. Known as a double tap. Another to the head if the target was wearing body armor. This dead jihadist wasn’t.

  Bear held the blanket open so the Senator and Sweet Tooth could drag the two dead sentries inside. They dropped them next to their freshly executed buddy.

  The hooded figure curled up on the floor was trembling. Garrett had a passport photo for positive ID. He dropped to his knees. Checked her hands. They were white. “Elsa Eriksson,” he whispered. “Don’t scream. Don’t speak. Navy SEALs. Nod if you understand.”

  The hood moved.

  “I’m removing your hood. Don’t freak on me.”

  He slipped it from her head and compared it to the photo. A match.

  Garrett’s ballistic helmet, outfitted with a flashlight, i
nfrared strobe (used when signaling helicopters), and four tubes that allowed better peripheral vision than the standard two-lens night-vision goggles, seemed to confuse her. He lifted his helmet. Smiled.

  “Relax. Nod if you can walk. Don’t speak.”

  Senator cut the bindings holding her wrists. Garrett and Senator helped her stand. She was wobbly. Dehydration. Weak. Most likely unsure whether this was real or her dream.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” she muttered.

  Garrett couldn’t resist. “Not Jesus, ma’am. Navy SEALs.”

  In the candlelight she saw the three dead terrorists sprawled on the dirt floor and gasped.

  Garrett covered her mouth, afraid she might squeal. “Ma’am, you must be quiet. Do you understand? They’re still out there.”

  She had not fully understood that the other Boko Haram kidnappers were alive. Still outside the hut. Senator slipped behind her. Bear and Sweet Tooth on each side. Garrett took the lead. He peered outside. Through his headset: “Ready to move the package. We clear?”

  “It’s a go,” Curly said. Everyone was in place.

  “The C-4,” Garrett asked.

  “In place.” A precaution. C-4 placed on the Boko Haram vehicles.

  All they needed to do was to exit the hut, disappear into the darkness, rendezvous with the helicopters. Mission accomplished.

  “Let’s move!” Garrett said, drawing back the blanket covering. Eriksson touched his shoulder.

  “Abidemi,” she muttered in a hoarse whisper. “Do you have her?”

  Garrett released the blanket, sealing them back inside the hut.

  “Who?”

  “My friend. They kidnapped us. I heard her screaming a few hours ago. She’s in a different hut.”

  “American? Swedish? NGO?” he asked, although he suspected he knew the answer.

  “Nigerian.”

  “Ma’am, we have to go.”

  “No,” Eriksson said. “She’s a Christian. She’s only fourteen!”

  “Ma’am, we must go. No time.”

  “No!” she repeated, this time more insistent. “They’ll kill her.”

  “Ma’am, calm down. I’ll ask.”

  All conversations between Garrett and his SEAL team were being monitored in Langley and at the Pentagon. Tactically designed military helmet cameras broadcast visuals. CIA director Harris was overseeing the rescue operation and already had overheard Eriksson’s demand.

  “We have an issue,” Garrett said.

  While those in Washington could hear all chatter between the SEALs, only Garrett could hear Director Harris. The other SEALs couldn’t hear Harris, either.

  “Yes, sir,” Garrett replied. “I understand.”

  Eriksson was staring at him with hope-filled eyes.

  “Ma’am, my orders are to get you and my men out of this camp immediately.” He lowered his night-vision goggles.

  “I won’t leave without her,” she said.

  “Ma’am,” Garrett replied, “come with us and once you’re safe we’ll determine which hut your friend is in.”

  Eriksson hesitated. “I don’t believe you.”

  From outside the camp’s perimeter, Curly interrupted. “Chief, you got company.”

  “Talk to me.”

  “On your left.”

  Peering out, Garrett spotted him. “You got eyes on target, Big Mac?”

  “Affirmative,” the sniper replied. “He’s taking a piss.”

  Against the side of his hut. A slim thirty-something terrorist now twisting his head side to side. Stretching his neck.

  The fire in the camp’s center glowed red, creating minimal lighting but enough for the urinating terrorist to notice the sentries were not at their posts outside Alpha-1—if he looked.

  “Orders?” Big Mac asked.

  “Only if necessary.”

  Big Mac’s sniper’s rifle had a suppressor but the sound of the bullet’s wake, like a miniature sonic boom, would be loud enough for others to hear.

  Sweat beaded through Garrett’s camouflage makeup. How long could one man pee?

  “He’s done,” Big Mac reported.

  Garrett checked. The terrorist was walking toward a different hut from the one that he’d exited. He’d not noticed the missing sentries.

  “Where the hell’s he going?” Garrett asked.

  Big Mac tracked him across the camp, watched him lift a hut flap and go inside.

  “You’re clear,” Curly reported.

  “Ma’am,” Garrett said, “you’re putting yourself, my men, and me at great risk. People will die, including your friend if we don’t leave right now. Do you understand?”

  “We can’t leave her. She’s just a child.”

  A scream. The cries of a child.

  “Abidemi!” Eriksson gasped. “He’s hurting her!”

  Fifteen

  Current Day

  The day after Yakov Prokofyevich Pavel returned to Moscow, he awoke a traitor. He’d always loved Mother Russia, having been taught from childbirth about collective patriotism, loyalty, sacrifice, and honor. How could Pavel live with himself now?

  His decision to contact the Americans had not been impulsive. As a deputy foreign minister, Pavel never made life-changing decisions on a whim. The deaths of his daughter and son-in-law had been the tipping point, but his unhappiness already had been deeply rooted. The seeds had germinated with each power-grabbing move by President Kalugin. He’d discredited, arrested, imprisoned, or killed his opponents. He’d gleefully deconstructed a classless Marxist society, spinning it into a corrupt autocracy. A short, middle-aged narcissist, Kalugin lived in a world of moral weightlessness.

  Pavel had rationalized his choice by convincing himself that he was not betraying Mother Russia. Its corrupt president had betrayed him and all Russians. Kalugin was the actual traitor.

  Pavel needed to stick to his daily routine and wait for a signal from his newly chosen friends. He dressed and ate a light breakfast while sitting across the table from his mute grandson. He noticed the time and glanced outside expecting to see Dmitri Fedorovich Dusko, his driver, and his ministry-provided car.

  Dusko hadn’t yet arrived.

  Pavel kissed Peter on the top of his head and stood at the window. Five, ten, fifteen minutes. Pavel telephoned the Foreign Ministry.

  “I apologize, Deputy Minister,” the head of motor cars said. “Your driver fell ill last night. He’s been taken to the hospital. Whoever failed to send a substitute driver this morning will be punished.”

  “What hospital?” Pavel replied angrily.

  “City Clinical Hospital number sixty-four on Vavilova.”

  Pavel called its chief medical officer and was immediately put through. His diplomatic rank mattered.

  “Dmitri Fedorovich Dusko and his wife entered our facility suffering from debilitating diarrhea and vomiting,” the medical officer reported. “Neither could walk without support and both were hallucinating.”

  “Are they better now?”

  “Unfortunately, Deputy Minister, they are not. Both are unconscious and on life support. May I ask a few inquiries that might help us better understand what caused their illness? Did you see either of them last night?”

  “Of course I saw my driver. You should already know this. Dusko picked me up at the airport near ten o’clock and drove me home. He appeared to be in excellent health when he unloaded my bags and left. How can this possibly be helpful?”

  “Were you ill this morning?”

  “Would I be speaking to you on the telephone if I were?”

  “Yes, Deputy Minister. Only a few more questions. Do you know if Dmitri Dusko and his wife are heavy drinkers or did he happen to mention what he might be having, say, for dinner or a treat, later that night, shellfish, possibly?”

  “I’m not in the habit of discussing my driver’s drinking habits with him or his choice of cuisine or at what time he and his wife eat,” Pavel snapped.

  “Certainly, Deputy Minister. I asked only
because their sudden illness is most likely related to gastrointestinal disturbances that typically result in excessive vomiting and diarrhea. I suspect your driver and his wife might be having an allergic reaction to some bacterial agent, perhaps ingested while eating contaminated shellfish.”

  Pavel hesitated, his mind remembering the ride home. “When were they admitted to your hospital?” he asked.

  “Shortly before one a.m.,” the doctor said, “about two hours after you observed Dusko in good health unloading your car.”

  “Unless you have further questions,” Pavel said, “I have been as helpful as I can and have business to attend to.”

  “Thank you, Deputy Minister, for your time.”

  Pavel put down the phone receiver. He pictured General Gromyko.

  “I brought you candies as a welcoming home gift . . . your grandson.”

  The general playfully wagging a pointed finger.

  “Only six candies . . . superior quality. I take no responsibility if you yourself become tempted, but they are for the child.”

  Pavel had dropped the box of chocolates into the limousine’s front seat for his driver.

  A car from the ministry arrived. Pavel hurried outside from his five-room apartment on Leontyevski in the center of Moscow’s historic houses. Pavel had inherited his apartment from his well-connected father, a high-ranking member of the Communist Party. It occupied the entire floor of what had been a late-nineteenth-century aristocrat’s mansion. That was before the October Revolution ended the czarist reign and gave birth to the Soviet Union. His flat was only a five-minute walk from the Arbat Tverskaya metro stop, but Pavel had not used Moscow’s famed underground since childhood. He’d depended completely on his government driver.

  In his video flash drive, Pavel had left instructions. Paint a red X on the shell of an already graffiti-covered sidewalk public telephone on New Arbat Avenue. Pavel’s morning commute to Smolenskaya Sennaya Square passed by the phone.

  “Have you heard?” his substitute driver asked Pavel as they rode. Without waiting for an answer, he said, “The Americans arrested a spy. They claim he worked for us. NSA.”