“Back to Yakov Pavel,” Garrett said. “Your guy leaves the signal tonight. Pavel leaves Bolshoi tickets for your guy tomorrow night with the pickup location and time.”
“That’s right, brother, and you get him the very next. Then it’s up to you to smuggle him out of Russia alive. Him and the kid. If everything goes right, you won’t be here in Moscow long enough to take a satisfying crap.”
Austin stood, opened a safe near his desk, and removed a red envelope, which he tossed to Garrett.
“Your extraction plan, brother. The name Gordievsky ring a bell?”
“Colonel Oleg Antonovich Gordievsky, former KGB now living in England.”
“MI-6 was working him when someone ratted him out. Told Moscow. But the KGB needed evidence, so it ordered him home. Interrogated him for five hours. Drugged him. The works. But Gordievsky didn’t crack. They released him but kept watching, hoping he’d panic and screw up. Instead, he goes out for a morning jog. Loses his KGB tail, hops on a train to the Finnish border, where he meets a British embassy car. Crawls into a hiding spot between the backseat and trunk and the Brits get him across the border into Finland. Langley wants you to do the same. Only you aren’t going via train or Finland.”
“Where and how?”
“A Zil 5301 Bychok—a small commercial truck built during the Soviet era before Zil stopped making vehicles because they were pieces of junk.”
“That’s hardly reassuring.”
Austin chuckled. He was enjoying himself. “Got you one from 1996—and I’ve made modifications. Thick metal plates inside the doors and engine compartment. Should stop most rounds if they start shooting.”
“The windows?”
“Sorry, brother, couldn’t get bullet-resistant glass on short notice. You wouldn’t want it too easy, right?”
“How fast does this Zil go?”
“With the added armor, possibly sixty.”
“Where do I delivery Pavel and the kid?”
“Ukraine border.”
“What? Ukraine? Ambassador Thorpe was just assassinated there.”
“Last place they’ll think you’ll drive.” Austin eyed the envelope he’d tossed Garrett. “Fake passports, visas, documents about the vehicle you’ll be taking, rubles, and maps of Russian roadways.”
“You get this in the dip pouch?” Garrett asked suspiciously.
“No, brother, Harris didn’t want to risk it since someone’s reading our communications with Langley. Hand delivered to me.”
“Whose hands?”
For the first time since they’d begun talking, Austin frowned and let out a sigh. “Ambassador Edward Todd Duncan. He and his wife brought the packet back after Thorpe’s D.C. funeral. They’d stayed behind in Washington for a few days of R-and-R so Harris used Duncan as his courier.”
Garrett noticed that the seal on the red envelope was broken.
Austin came from behind his desk and leaned his butt against it, so he was now standing directly in front of Garrett. “The answer is Ambassador Duncan opened it before delivering it to me.”
“Why?”
“He wasn’t supposed to, brother. Director Harris screwed up trusting him, but nobody is going to say anything.”
Garrett didn’t like it. Not a bit. Now another possible breach—if Ambassador Duncan blabbed something about its contents.
“So why’d Duncan open a top secret, hand-delivered packet that Director Harris gave him? He must’ve told the ambassador not to open it.”
“Because Harris and I believe Duncan’s wife is cheating on him with a Russian. Full name is Ivan Yovovich Sokolov. I’m assuming Duncan opened it to make certain Harris and I weren’t going behind his back, talking about his wife.”
“Huh? You want to repeat that for me?”
“Life’s full of twists, brother. Duncan gets himself appointed because he’s a billionaire donor. Ran an international conglomerate before deciding he wanted to become an ambassador.”
“Don’t most donors choose Paris or London?” Garrett asked. “Who wants to come to Moscow?”
“Duncan’s grandmother’s family had some Russian ties. His wife, Heidi, she’s half his age and still very attractive. Was a Vegas showgirl when they met. Do I need to fill in the blanks about this marriage?”
“And you think she’s cheating with a Russian.”
“Not any Russian, brother. Ivan Sokolov. Son of a Russian oligarch with close ties to Kalugin. I see Kalugin’s fingers all over this.”
“You got proof?”
“Of Kalugin sending Sokolov to get in her pants?” Austin asked.
“No, of this alleged affair.”
“One of my people spotted him chatting her up at reception a few months back. Good-looking guy, superrich. Next we know, she’s trying to lose her protective detail. Insisting she go out shopping unaccompanied by security to Russian stores. You tell me, what billionaire’s wife goes shopping in Moscow? We let her go but tailed her. Met Sokolov at a hotel. We got photos and some juicy recordings.”
“What did her husband say—assuming you told him?”
“I did. He got huffy, denied it, complained to the president, and blamed me. Said his wife doesn’t know anything. No foul, no harm. I was told to back off.”
“What are the chances Duncan told her about me?” Garrett asked. “Worse, that she tipped off Ivan Sokolov?”
Austin let out a sigh. “Wish I knew, brother. Wish I knew.” He walked back around his desk to his safe and removed a second package. This one was still sealed.
“A friend of yours,” Austin said, handing it to him.
It contained Garrett’s SIG Sauer P226 pistol with extra ammo.
“Glad to have it.”
“I gotta believe Duncan didn’t tell his wife,” Austin continued. “I gotta believe he was just checking to see if we were communicating about her.”
“Yeah, but I’m sure he read it. Curiosity and all.”
Austin nodded. “I agree, but reading and telling someone are two different things. Look, brother, we got a good plan. You pick up Pavel and the kid two days from now. You spend maybe ten, twelve hours driving to Ukraine. Then you’re done. Besides, if it goes bad and you get snatched, Harris will get you out.”
Garrett wished he believed that. “I don’t have diplomatic immunity like you do—brother,” he said.
“Go grab a shower,” Austin said. “Duncan’s throwing a birthday party for his daughter tonight. I want you there.”
“For a kids’ birthday inside the embassy?”
“I invited two or three other IEC security guards to make it look legit. The Russians need to see you working as a guard and two guests will be of special interest to you. Ivan Sokolov and General Gromyko. Besides, it’s a birthday party. Cake, ice cream.”
“Do I have to sing?”
Twenty
“You bring your pepper spray?” Aysan Rivera asked.
Valerie Mayberry plucked a red spray canister from the right pocket of her J.Crew military-inspired wax-cotton jacket to show Rivera.
“Never leave home without it,” Mayberry said, smiling. “Where we heading?”
They had parked their cars earlier at the Tysons Galleria and were now riding in a rented Ford Fusion hybrid traveling south on the Capitol Beltway, a sixty-four-mile major thoroughfare encircling Washington, D.C.
“Guinea Station,” Rivera said, momentarily taking her eyes off the always-jammed expressway to smile at her passenger. “They’re honoring a Confederate general there today.”
Mayberry typed the words “Guinea Station” into her smartphone. She wanted to double-check what she remembered from books she’d read about Virginia history and the Civil War.
“We alone or is someone else meeting us there?” Mayberry asked.
“A half dozen of us, including Makayla.”
“Makayla?”
“Do you remember how you mentioned Antifa when we were having drinks? She’s an Antifa organizer. She calls us when there�
�s a rally or protest or what we’re going to today. A ceremony honoring a racist slaveholder.”
“Where’s she from?”
“Some friendly advice. Don’t ask too many questions,” Rivera said. “I vouched for you, but you’ll have to prove yourself today. All of us had to. Ask too many questions and everyone will think you’re a cop.”
“Me, a cop? How many cops you know who wear Christian Louboutins? What sort of proof?”
“Makayla will tell you.”
Mayberry focused on her phone. Guinea Station was the location of the Thomas Jonathan “Stonewall” Jackson Shrine, a national military park. The railway house there had been a critical supply hub for the Confederacy. Nearly all of General Robert E. Lee’s troops had passed through it for supplies during the war. In April 1863, Union general Joseph “Fighting Joe” Hooker had launched a campaign to capture the Confederacy’s capital city—Richmond. To do that, Hooker needed to first seize the rail station, cutting off rebel supply lines. The Battle of Chancellorsville became one of the bloodiest in the Civil War. Historians would later call it “General Lee’s perfect battle.” Hugely outnumbered, General Lee divided his troops in half, a highly risky move, and used them to outflank the larger Union forces being led by a more timid General Hooker. Some 24,000 soldiers on both sides died during that battle. The South’s biggest loss was Stonewall Jackson, arguably Lee’s best general. He was mistakenly shot by his own men at night and transported with thousands of other wounded soldiers to a plantation near Guinea Station. He survived his wound, but died eight days later from pneumonia.
Mayberry pulled up pictures of Stonewall Jackson’s Shrine.
A plain, one-story rectangular house painted white where Jackson had succumbed.
She started to explain what she had read, but Rivera dismissed her after the first few sentences.
“I don’t care about historical stuff,” Rivera said. “Germans don’t put up shrines honoring Nazis. The U.S. shouldn’t be honoring racists.”
“Who’s honoring Jackson today?” Mayberry asked.
“Like I said, Makayla will tell you. And remember, not so many questions. Just go with it.”
Mayberry didn’t respond and Rivera intentionally changed subjects. “Have you ever heard of Ovelia Transtoto? Her latest line is dazzling.”
The two women talked couture until they reached the Interstate 95 exit to the Jackson Shrine. About four miles from the park’s entrance, Rivera turned onto the road’s shoulder, where a windowless black van and two other rented cars were waiting.
“Let’s go,” Rivera said, leading the way.
Mayberry counted eight crowded inside the van around a woman whom Mayberry immediately recognized. She had led the Smithmyer College protest. She’d been the one yelling through a bullhorn.
“This is Makayla,” Rivera said proudly after closing the van’s door behind them.
“I’m Valerie,” Mayberry said, extending her hand.
Makayla looked at it but didn’t shake it. “You’re here because Aysan vouched for you and showed me the Internet video of you confronting that Republican bigot, but you get no respect from me until I see you doing business.”
“Fair enough,” Mayberry said.
Makayla turned her face away and began issuing instructions to the Antifa members, who were affixing shin guards and shoulder pads over their street clothes. Finally, Makayla spoke to Mayberry.
“We’ll learn today what you’re made of,” she said.
“Short of murder,” Mayberry replied, “I’m in.”
“Oh, we’d never kill anyone,” Rivera interjected. “We’re here to fight the Nazis and fascists and protect peaceful protestors.”
Mayberry noticed that Makayla didn’t comment. Instead the Antifa leader handed a photo to Mayberry. A thirty-something man with red hair, white shirt, light blue tie. “This is your target. I want you to pepper-spray him when we get there,” Makayla said. She studied Mayberry’s face for some betraying glance, a hesitation.
“Who is he?” Mayberry asked.
“Does that matter to you?” Makayla asked.
Rivera said, “He’s the principal at a local high school.”
“Stonewall Jackson High School,” a man near Makayla volunteered.
“All she needs to know is he’s a racist,” Makayla said.
“We tried to reason with him,” the man said, undeterred, “and the local school board. Emails, letters demanding the school’s name be changed. They shouldn’t be honoring a slave owner and American traitor by naming a school after him. But they refused.”
“They were warned,” Rivera added.
The man continued: “The principal’s response was predictable. The same old crap about how Stonewall Jackson is part of Virginia’s history.”
“Rednecks,” another Antifa member in the van interjected.
“This wreath-laying ceremony is an annual tradition at the high school,” the first man who’d spoken explained. “They claim it’s history but it’s all about reminding people of color to stay in their place. Honoring Jackson is meant to intimidate. It’s an act of aggression and violence.”
“How do black students at the school feel?” Mayberry asked.
“They’ve been oppressed so long, they don’t even know it,” he replied.
“We’ll wake them up today,” Makayla added, retaking control of the conversation. “As for you, Valerie Mayberry, all you need to do is get close enough to smell this principal’s stink and gas him. Aim for his eyes. Now, you just said, anything short of murder. You got a problem with actually using that Mace you brought or is it just for appearances?”
“Nobody calls it Mace anymore,” Mayberry said, correcting her. She noticed Makayla’s eyes narrow.
“Answer my question?” Makayla said.
“Right in his face,” Mayberry replied.
Rivera and the others grinned.
“The rest of us will create a diversion for you,” Makayla said. “After you gas him, look for this black van. If you miss it, we’re not waiting.”
“Yeah, you’ll have to call an Uber,” the man next to her said, laughing.
“Local television will be there,” Makayla said. “And a newspaper reporter too. I tipped them off. So you need to hide your faces, otherwise the cops will come after us.”
The man offered Mayberry a hockey goalie’s mask. But Makayla pushed his hand aside.
“She can’t get close to him wearing that,” Makayla said. She thrust out her hand. She was holding a blue scarf. “Pull this up around your mouth moments before you spray him.” Next she offered Mayberry a Washington Redskins cap. “They will assume you are one of them if you wear this. Remember, when the black van comes, we go. And I’ll be watching you. All of us will. You don’t come with us if you don’t spray him good.”
Rivera slid open the parked van’s side door. Everyone but its driver exited. Back inside the Ford rental, Rivera slipped a black stocking cap onto her head and drove the car onto the roadway.
“Makayla doesn’t like me,” Mayberry said.
“She treats everyone like that. She doesn’t like to get close to people.”
“Where’s she from? I picked up a bit of a foreign accent.”
“No questions, remember?”
About a mile from the shrine, Rivera said, “Makayla has one of our people already there. He’s live-streaming so we’ll know exactly when to hit ’em.”
Rivera handed her phone to Mayberry. The principal was speaking in front of the shrine’s white building where Jackson had died. Next to him was a wreath made of gray and white carnations designed to resemble Stonewall Jackson’s bearded face.
“There’s been much in the news lately about Confederate monuments,” the principal could be heard saying over the phone’s live stream. “Let me be clear. As Americans, we all condemn neo-Nazis, the KKK, and racism and bigotry in all of its forms. It is wrong. Period. There is no debate. The question that you students need to ask yourselv
es is this: ‘Is acknowledging and honoring our southern history and our heritage offensive? Or is it part of our history and do we need to learn and understand it?’”
The principal was using the wreath-laying ceremony as a teachable moment. “In the eyes of the political far left, anyone who opposes the removal of a statue commemorating Confederate soldiers automatically is classified as a bigot, anti-Semitic, and any other harsh emotional condemnation that they can throw on you. However, Condoleezza Rice, the first African American woman to serve as secretary of state, held a somewhat different view than this. When asked about removing Confederate statues, she said, ‘When you start wiping out your history, sanitizing your history to make you feel better, it’s a bad thing.’”
Continuing: “You students need to think seriously about what would happen if we begin sanitizing Virginia’s past and discrediting every one of our forefathers by judging them by today’s standards and attitudes rather than those that existed during their own time periods. If we remove statues to Confederate soldiers, should we also tear down monuments to George Washington and Thomas Jefferson in our nation’s capital because both owned slaves? Where do you draw a sensible line? Is it reasonable to keep such monuments and explain their context with informational placards, or must they be destroyed?”
“Let’s have a show of hands,” he said. “How many of you have visited Mount Rushmore?”
About two dozen hands shot into the air.
“What should we do about Teddy Roosevelt? He referred to the white race, and I will quote him here, as the ‘forward race,’ whose responsibility it was to raise the status of minorities through training the ‘backward race[s] in industrial efficiency, political capacity and domestic morality.’ He declared that whites were responsible for preserving the ‘high civilization wrought out by (our nation’s) forefathers.’ Does that mean we’ll need to sandblast his face from Mount Rushmore for words that he was speaking that he believed would be helpful to minorities? Which brings us to Abraham Lincoln. Surely, he deserves to stay on Mount Rushmore. After all, Lincoln issued a declaration emancipating all slaves. But did you know that as a lawyer, Lincoln represented a slaveholder in court who was seeking to remand his slave, Jane Bryant, and her four children back to slavery?”
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