Collusion

by Newt Gingrich

  “Here’s where you get out,” Hardin said.

  Grabbing his gear, Garrett considered goading him, saying thanks for the ride. But decided against it. Hardin was just the first. He knew there were others itching to get a piece of him. Some with yellow badges, others with green.

  Eighteen

  Through a FISA-authorized wiretap, Agent Valerie Mayberry overheard Aysan Rivera arranging to meet a friend, Basak Kaya. Drinks. The Fogo de Chao Brazilian Steak House. Shopping afterward at the Galleria at Tysons II in Northern Virginia. Mayberry knew the mall. The Galleria was recognized worldwide for selling luxury brands at cheaper prices than could be found in London, Paris, or Dubai. A Washington, D.C., newspaper claimed the ultrarich would fly into nearby Dulles Airport in their private jets, take limos to the mall, and return home after staying only long enough to shop. Gucci, Ferragamo, Louis Vuitton, Prada, Saint Laurent, Cartier. Even billionaires liked bargains.

  Rivera’s friend had dozens of unpaid parking tickets. The Fairfax County police were happy to help. Basak Kaya was intercepted on Virginia Route 7 after leaving her parents’ Great Falls mansion. A guaranteed three-hour delay. Three hours without her cell phone.

  Mayberry arrived at the steakhouse bar ten minutes after Basak Kaya was supposed to be there. As before, Rivera was easy to spot. A jet-black Versace fringe cowboy silk blouse with Swarovski crystals. High-waisted, skinny-fit Versace leather-insert jeans. Christian Louboutin black velvet Italian-made pumps decorated with a rainbow of crystals.

  Mayberry had chosen equally expensive wear. A black silk georgette slip dress by Gucci with an Ivory Lace stripe and trim under a black Gucci wool coat. Like Rivera’s, Mayberry’s suede shoes were Louboutin—ankle boots that might have appeared clunky with such a clinging dress, except the combination looked quirky-cool on her slim figure. It was Mayberry’s choice of a clutch purse that she knew would guarantee Rivera’s attention. Mayberry entered the restaurant shouldering a Hermès Grey Ostrich Leather Silver Hardware Birkin 35 bag that retailed at $63,000.

  As Mayberry made her way to the bar, she felt a sense of joy for the first time in a long while. A false persona. An escape from the shroud of Noah’s death. Easier to be someone else than herself.

  In the old days, creating a legend had been rather simple. Not now. The Internet had changed everything. The bureau had been forced to adapt. Instead of erasing the past, Mayberry had chosen to conceal her lie under layers and layers of truth. A risky move. She was using her maiden name. She’d made no attempt to keep her privileged upbringing secret. The silver spoon. The elitist private schools. No need to hide her short marriage to her do-gooder, dead-journalist husband. The only lie was her employment. FBI. Her name on government records was her married name. She was fortunate. Having worked undercover previously there already was a thin veil. Minor tweaking. An instant Internet background check would reveal Mayberry was a high-end real estate agent, finding luxurious homes for 1 percent of the world’s 1 percent. A job that required no advertising because of the natural desire for privacy among her elite clientele.

  Mayberry sat two bar stools away from her target and considered how best to approach Rivera, who was texting on her phone, no doubt trying to reach her missing lunch guest. A man approached Rivera—close enough for Mayberry to overhear. Rivera was blunt: “Get lost!”

  For a moment, Mayberry considered an approach. Moving closer to her. Saying something clever about how it might be easier for them to avoid the men in the bar if they sat together. They both were wearing Louboutins—another possible icebreaking line. Or she could bring up the Smithmyer protest, mention that she had been there. But none of those approaches felt entirely right.

  Rivera walked into the ladies’ room.

  Mayberry heard a booming voice and men laughing. Her eyes followed the ruckus. A man, most likely in his fifties, moving from table to table, shaking hands, chatting with customers. A twenty-something younger man trailing him and handing out what appeared to be political campaign brochures. It took a moment for Mayberry to recognize him. One of Virginia’s most conservative Republican congressmen. She spotted Rivera exiting the restroom, returning to the bar. This was Mayberry’s chance.

  “Good afternoon, young lady,” Representative Keith Bennett said, flashing a row of perfectly capped teeth at Mayberry. “A beautiful rose among the thorns in this fine establishment.”

  “How dare you objectify me!” Mayberry exclaimed, slipping from her bar stool and confronting him.

  “Ma’am, I was just paying you a compliment.”

  “You were patronizing me,” she complained loudly, purposely drawing attention. “You’re exactly what’s wrong with Republicans and our government.”

  “What specifically have I done in Congress that has made you so upset?” he asked calmly, foolishly opening the door. He seemed confident that he could win her over. “Reasonable people can disagree.”

  “Not when it comes to issues that really matter. You’re xenophobic, wanting to build a wall, close our borders.”

  “I’m the son of immigrants, but we can’t let people come here illegally. There’s a process.” He was speaking louder, assuming that those listening around him would agree with his explanation. A man at a nearby table clapped.

  “That’s code for keeping everyone but white Europeans out,” she snapped back. “You bigot.”

  “I’m certainly not,” he answered, clearly surprised by her anger.

  “That’s what all racists say.”

  “I’m not a racist because I want to stop pregnant Chinese women from flying into California so their babies can automatically become U.S. citizens and go on welfare. It’s called ‘birth tourism.’”

  “Where’d you hear about that? Fox fake News?”

  “I’m just trying to have a logical debate,” he said, smirking.

  “The idea that there is an objective truth is what men say to women to shut them up,” Mayberry shouted.

  “Ma’am, I grew up poor in southwest Virginia, and from the looks of it, a lot poorer than you’ve ever been. My parents owned a small tobacco farm. I planted it, pulled suckers, topped plants, and harvested it. I started working at age twelve. No one ever gave me anything that I didn’t work hard to earn.”

  “Stop calling me ma’am and stop objectifying me by my appearance. Your sappy story has nothing to do with white privilege and if you had half a brain you’d realize how stupid you sound. You got an invisible package of unearned assets and privileges the moment you dropped out of your mother’s womb because you are white and you have a penis. If you can’t own up to that, you’re aiding the oppression of women and minorities. If you really cared about equality you would step aside and let a woman or someone of color take your job.”

  He began to step away, but he feared it might be perceived as defeat. A man at the bar was recording them with his phone from a stool in the corner behind Mayberry.

  “No one ever gave me anything,” he said, trying to keep his voice even-tempered. “I paid my way through college, joined the military to serve our country, fought in the Gulf War, worked two jobs and attended night school to earn my law degree and decided to enter politics because I wanted to serve others—how dare you tell me I’m privileged simply because I have white skin. You’re the bigot, judging me by my skin color.”

  “Oh my God,” Mayberry shrieked. “Your ignorance is exactly why we need a revolution! We need to tear down the elite. We need to end capitalism and Wall Street exploitation of the poor! Free college, free medicine, birth-to-grave benefits and protections. That’s what government should be.”

  Bennett’s aide stepped from behind them. “The congressman has spent more than enough time listening to your rude comments,” he said in a low voice. His move was meant as a buffer. Instead, he’d played right into her plan.

  “Don’t threaten me,” she screeched as she pulled a canister of pepper spray from her bag.

  Bennett stepped backward so suddenly he bumped into a t
able. Unsteady, he reached for its edge, missed it, and fell onto the floor. A look of horror appeared on his aide’s face when Mayberry aimed the canister at him.

  She didn’t shoot. Instead she dashed from the bar, shielding her face.

  Her outburst worked. Aysan Rivera caught up with her in the parking lot.

  “That was frickin’ awesome,” Rivera gushed. “You almost pepper-sprayed a congressman.”

  “I’m just lucky there were no cops around. They would have shot me.”

  Rivera glanced nervously at the restaurant’s entrance. “You need to get going. Hey, I was supposed to meet a friend, but she never showed. You want to go to Georgetown and grab a drink?”

  Fifty minutes later they were sitting inside the Rye Bar at the swanky Rosewood Hotel.

  “Where’d you get the courage to do that?” Rivera asked.

  “It’s in my blood. I’m related to the Astors.”

  “Sorry, I’m not from here. I’m Turkish.”

  “America went through a period called the ‘gilded age’ when robber barons ran America—you know, the Rockefellers, Mellons, Carnegies, J. P. Morgans, Vanderbilts.”

  The blank look on Rivera’s face showed she didn’t recognize the names so she added, “They were the Bill Gates, Warren Buffetts, and Mark Zuckerbergs of today. Superrich and powerful. Mrs. William B. Astor drew up a list of four hundred New Yorkers—it was everyone who she said mattered in society.”

  “Talk about elitism,” Rivera said.

  “I know, right? And they were all white, of course. Get this, she chose four hundred because that’s how many could fit in her Manhattan ballroom. The list was based on the husbands’ wealth because women didn’t work when the family had money. They were all rich, white Manhattan snobs.”

  Rivera covered her mouth. She’d taken a sip of her cocktail and started to laugh, nearly spitting it.

  “What’s so funny?” Mayberry asked.

  “We’re drinking Manhattans!”

  “What’s really funny is Mrs. Astor used her list, wealth, and connections to quietly undermine the men on it. She pushed the suffragette movement to get women the right to vote. I think she would have been proud of me today fighting the system.”

  “And you’re related to her?”

  “A distant relative, but my family was on that four hundred list and I can tell you, my relatives are all rich and a bunch of white oppressors. They’re blind to the signs of late-stage capitalism. I sometimes think I was born in the wrong generation. I would have loved the nineteen sixties.” She laughed. “America is so far gone—you can’t trust the police because they’re part of the problem—revolution is the only solution.”

  Mayberry decided to make a risky move. “Have you ever heard of Antifa? Its motto is ‘we go where the right-wingers go.’ In Berkeley, they threw Molotov cocktails and smashed windows when an alt-right speaker appeared on campus. In New York, they forced a local community to cancel a local rose parade because Republicans were participating. When I saw that pompous Republican creep soliciting votes today, I decided I had to get into his face. I had to go where the right-wingers go.”

  For a moment, Mayberry wondered if she had tipped her hand. Rivera was clearly distracted. She stood from their table—and waved her hand.

  “It’s my friend,” Rivera explained. “I finally reached her by text—but let’s not talk politics. I’ve known her since we were kids and she won’t understand.”

  Twelve hours later, Mayberry crawled into bed and gazed at the spinning ceiling above her. It had been a long time since she’d had so much to drink and been such a flirt.

  She was still hungover in the morning when she met Director Harris in the backseat of his Cadillac near her condo.

  “There’s a video going viral showing a deranged woman running out of a restaurant after threatening a Virginia congressman,” he said. “You’re damn lucky it doesn’t show your face.”

  Mayberry handed him a wad of receipts. “You’ll have to cover these. The bureau’s bean-counters would go into shock.”

  Harris put on half-glasses. “What the hell!” he exclaimed.

  “It’s only thirty thousand dollars,” she said. “You don’t get out much with this wealthy, younger set, do you? A single Cristal worth drinking is eighteen grand.”

  “And what do I get for your wild evening at taxpayers’ expense?”

  Her cell rang. She checked the caller ID and raised her right index finger to her lips to hush Harris, whose face turned flush with anger.

  “That was Aysan,” Mayberry said, putting down her phone. “Pay the bill. I’m in.”

  Nineteen

  CIA station chief Marcus Austin didn’t fit the mold of a State Department cultural attaché—his diplomatic cover. Early forties. Broad shoulders, thick neck. Someone who hit the free weights each morning and most likely at night, too. Wearing a too-snug short-sleeve dress shirt that accented his muscles on muscles. Shaved head. Loose necktie. Intimidating stare. There was a time in U.S. intelligence when station chiefs modeled themselves after George Smiley, the urbane intellectual who thought ten moves ahead. That was before the CIA became the tip of the spear in combating terrorism, when outmatching wits became less important than being capable of dropping alone into the mountains of Afghanistan to deliver bags of cash to a local warlord as an incentive to kill his Taliban kinsman. A man of Austin’s physique was most likely ex-military—and ex-military at the State Department generally meant CIA.

  “Brother, here’s the skinny,” Austin said from behind his desk inside the embassy. “One of my guys will go black tonight and spray-paint a signal on a telephone booth.”

  “Moscow still has phone booths?” Garrett replied.

  “Pavel is old-school,” Austin said, “which explains why he’s using the same commo we used forty years ago. My guy paints a signal. Pavel sees it tomorrow morning while he’s being driven to work. He knows we’re ready to play. Tomorrow night, one of my guys takes his wife to the Bolshoi.” He paused. “You like the ballet?”

  “Sure, I go all the time,” Garrett replied dryly.

  Austin laughed too loudly. “Pavel will leave ballet tickets for my guy under the name Fred Thomas. On the back of the tickets are a series of numbers. One is a pickup time, but the actual time is four hours earlier than what’s written. The other numbers are the coordinates, but they’re reversed. Old-school, brother. We’re talking Cold War. No electronics, no computers. No wireless bursts. Coded numbers on the back of a ballet ticket.”

  “If it works, why change, right?”

  “More than that, brother. Russians fear change, especially the older types. How much do you know about this country?”

  Austin didn’t wait for Garrett to answer. “Brother,” he said, “I’ve studied the Russians all my life and they may look like us, but they’re not. A Russian who expects the absolute worst is an optimist. They were brought up being told to keep their heads down. Question authority and you were sent to Siberia or worse. Now that Kalugin is in charge, it’s worse. A beating or a bullet.”

  “Or poison.”

  “You understand, brother. Let me tell you the truth about why the Soviet empire failed. There was no free enterprise. Everyone got paid by the state. Fifty rubles a month. Didn’t matter if you were a brain surgeon or a ditch digger. That was socialism, brother. All one giant classless collective. Everyone equal. But it was total bullshit. There was no incentive. Taxi drivers got paid whether they picked up passengers or not. Why bother? Here’s the crème de la crème. The biggest glass factory in the entire empire was just outside Moscow. You got no profit-or-loss statement because that’s capitalism—so how do you know if the plant is doing good?”

  Garrett hated being asked questions like this, trying to guess what the speaker expected as an answer. He stayed silent and looked at Austin.

  “I’ll tell you. You measured production. How many meters of glass is the plant turning out. Sounds right, huh? Until the geniuses running
the plant realized they could turn out more meters if they dialed down the machines, making the glass thinner and thinner. Productivity increased, the Kremlin was happy, but the glass was so razor thin it broke as soon as it came off the assembly line. Completely worthless. But, hey, that didn’t bother the plant manager because he ordered the broken pieces melted down and put back on the production line, causing productivity to increase even more. Everyone was as happy as a pig in mud and the plant never had a single truck make a delivery. That’s communism, brother.”

  Austin chuckled.

  “Here’s the deal though, Garrett,” he continued. “The system was stupid, but not its people. Only a fool underestimates bastards like Kalugin and Gromyko. Stone-cold killers just like Papa Stalin. Got another quick story for you, brother. A history lesson. Stalin’s advisors tell him a certain percentage of Russians will turn against him. Traitors. For illustration purposes, let’s say five percent. Stalin tells all the Communist Party chiefs in every village to identify those five percent and execute them. So what did they do?”

  Austin hesitated, but Garrett again didn’t bite.

  “The secret police chief in each village,” Austin continued, “tried to better each other to impress Stalin. ‘Oh, Comrade Stalin, we found ten percent of our village so we killed them.’ ‘Papa Stalin, we found fifteen percent.’ Do you think Stalin cared? He let them kill as many as they wanted. My point, brother, is that killing means nothing to people like Kalugin and Gromyko.”