He paused and then said, “My point is that racism is and has been an ugly stain on our history, but should it be the single and only ethical standard we use in judging our forebears? Before you answer, ask yourself, do you want to be judged by the standards of today? Or by the standards that will be acceptable, whatever they might be, in two hundred years by people looking backward at you? As students, you should form your own opinions. As for me, when I read about a historical figure such as Stonewall Jackson, I see him as a whole person—a dynamic figure during his age, a product of the South who played a significant role at a pivotal time in our nation’s history. We cannot and should not obliterate his name and banish him from our history books. This is why we have come together today to educate ourselves about the Civil War, the bloody Battle of Chancellorsville, his crucial role in it, and the pivotal role Jackson played in Virginia history. Like him or not, he is a historical figure of importance.”
Mayberry handed back Rivera’s cell phone. Rivera said, “Remember, you need to stay in this car when the caravan gets there. Scrunch down, and let us draw attention away from you.”
Within moments, the three rental cars entered the shrine’s parking lot. Everyone but Mayberry bolted from them. They hollered and waved handmade signs—END BIGOTRY. FIGHT RACISM.
The masked protestors formed a wedge, driving themselves into the center of the crowd from its right edge. As instructed, Mayberry hung back before slipping from the car and walking calmly around the crowd’s left edge. More than two hundred were attending the ceremony. Nearly all were white, except for several dozen black, Latino, and Asian students. Among the adults were teachers and a handful of gray-haired grandmothers. Daughters of the Confederacy. A few elderly men, one with a walker. Many of the students were wearing sports clothing imprinted with the Stonewall Jackson High School mascot—a horse on its hind legs with a Stars and Bars flag behind it. The horse was Little Sorrel. Stonewall Jackson’s favorite mount. So beloved in Dixie that when the animal died, a taxidermist mounted it. Now on permanent display at the Virginia Military Institute Museum in Lexington, the oldest state-funded military school in the nation.
The school principal had been in the midst of explaining how Jackson had received his nickname “Stonewall” at the First Battle of Bull Run when the protestors appeared.
“Everyone stay calm!” he exclaimed into the microphone he was holding.
“Racists! Racists!” protesters chanted. The Antifa members began shoving students, teachers—anyone in their path. Tempers flared. An elderly Daughters of the Confederacy onlooker refused to move, was pushed and fell backward onto the grass, crying out in pain. A protester lowered his shoulder and thrust himself into a male teacher who happened to be the school’s football coach. Several of his players ran to his side. One threw a punch and the melee began.
Mayberry continued unnoticed along the crowd’s outer perimeter, reaching the white clapboard house, now ten feet away from the principal, who was looking in the opposite direction from her, desperately trying to get his students to return to three yellow school buses parked in the lot.
“Don’t fight!” he hollered.
Mayberry spotted the television cameraman filming the disruption happening in the center of the crowd. A woman with a Nikon—a local reporter, no doubt—also was snapping shots. No one was watching Mayberry. That’s when Mayberry noticed Makayla. Standing away from the others, watching her. Their eyes locked. Mayberry raised the scarf that Makayla had given her, lowered her cap’s lid, and drew the pepper-spray canister from her jacket pocket.
Her first thought was to intentionally miss the principal. She could claim bad aim. But would Makayla believe her? Out of the corner of his eye, the principal noticed her, saw her arm raised, turned, and faced her. She pressed the spray’s trigger. He tried to protect his face but the oleoresin capsaicin pepper extraction, tinted with red dye, splashed onto his cheeks and mouth. The dye made it appear as if he were bleeding. He screamed from the burning sensation now stinging his skin and began spitting.
The cameraman noticed, spun around, and began filming the temporarily blinded principal. Makayla had disappeared from Mayberry’s sight. She turned her head and retreated. Hoping to avoid being filmed.
The black van raced into the parking lot. Its horn blaring, causing students to scamper out of its way. Mayberry reached the lot just as the van came to a stop.
She was less than ten yards from it. That is when it happened.
A deafening explosion. The wooden walls of the Jackson Shrine blew in all directions. Splintered wooden planks hewed before the Civil War became deadly projectiles. One struck Mayberry in the back of her head, knocking her onto the blacktop. Confused, she reached backward, feeling the rear of her skull. Blood. She could hear others moaning, screaming for help. She tried to stand but fell.
Glancing forward, she saw Rivera and her fellow demonstrators about to shut the van’s sliding door and flee. They were leaving her behind.
Mayberry felt a hand grab her jacket and jerk her onto her feet.
“I’m not leaving anyone behind this time,” Makayla declared, dragging her into the van.
Twenty-One
Brett Garrett searched his backpack. Where was it? Panic. Each pocket unzipped. Bag shaken. Held upside down. Contents tumbling out, scattering onto the floor of his IEC quarters. Dropping to his knees, Garrett combed through each item. The packet wasn’t there. The Russians. Airport. They must have taken it when they searched his bag. One had distracted him asking a series of robotic questions. Typical harassment, he’d assumed. He’d surprised them answering in Russian. Still, he had missed their theft.
Suboxone. How easy it must have been to palm. Garrett’s doctor had warned him against going cold turkey. His body needed it. It was chemically dependent on it. Otherwise, withdrawal would kick in. The first seventy-two hours would be the worst. Garrett had read about how dangerous it was to just stop. Nausea. Vomiting. Insomnia. Indigestion. Anxiety. Irritability. Cravings. Fever. Chills. Sweating. Most frightening, difficulty concentrating. Lack of focus at a time when he would need it the most. After seventy-two hours would come feelings of despair, depression, and intense cravings for the drug.
He returned his possessions to his backpack and immediately realized that he was sweating. Was withdrawal beginning or was it psychological?
He showered, dressed in a navy-blue polo shirt, gray slacks, and gray blazer—the formal dress for an IEC security guard—and took a deep breath. He’d never known of an IEC employee being invited to a kid’s birthday party. Their job was to remain out of sight, only seen when diplomats and their families needed protection and only then when they traveled outside the compound.
Only recently had the State Department hired private guards in Russia. Before President Kalugin and General Gromyko there had been no need. The harassment had begun with embassy employees being detained at airports. Next, stopped by police when driving. The wife of a senior diplomat had been assaulted in front of her two young children while on a stroll in Gorky Park. Hooligans, the Moscow police had declared. But CIA chief of station Austin knew better. Two American teenagers beaten when they emerged from a Moscow ice cream shop. Both hospitalized, one with a broken leg, the other a fractured nose. Austin had wanted to strike back. Director Harris had said no.
Instead, State had hired Thomas Jefferson Kim’s IEC company to provide private security. At first, the Russians refused to let them be armed, arguing the embassy should hire Russian bodyguards. There were plenty. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, kidnapping and killing had become cheaper than negotiating a business deal or settling a squabble in court. Nearly 2 percent of Russia’s working population were licensed as security guards. That was 1.5 million Russians. It only took the equivalent of $200 to buy a license. Pay another $200 and you could carry a concealed weapon.
Garrett tried to steady his nerves as he stepped out of his room.
“You,” a voice hollered.
&nb
sp; Gilbert Hardin had come ready to fight. Revenge for the sucker punch during the airport ride. He’d brought two buddies.
“Stand down,” Garrett said. “I got somewhere to be.”
“Oh, I forgot. You’re special. Off to a little kiddies’ birthday party,” Hardin taunted. “The business between us won’t take long.”
“Later, I said.”
Hardin and his buddies blocked the hallway.
“Say please,” Hardin said.
“Really?” Garrett said. “Are we in third grade or had you already dropped out by then?”
“Smart mouth, Garrett. But this is more than just that sucker punch you landed. Cameroon. Some of us knew your men there. We don’t trust you.”
Garrett let out a loud sigh. “You had that punch coming. Even more. But I’ll play your game. Now please let me pass,” he said.
Hardin clenched his fists. Eager to throw a punch. “Say ‘please with sugar on top.’”
Garrett shook his head in disgust. He didn’t have time for this.
“After the party,” he said. “You, me, and your pals. We can settle this. But for now, get out of my way.”
“No. Say ‘pretty please.’ I want to hear it,” Hardin repeated.
Garrett fought his urge to engage. It wasn’t the right time. “Pretty please may I pass.”
Hardin grinned at his pals. “Okay, boys, let’s let Mr. Tough Guy go to his kiddie party.”
Neither the U.S. Marines stationed at the door nor the State Department security detail asked for an ID when Garrett entered the embassy. An older woman wearing an equally old blue wool business suit greeted him from behind a table positioned in the center hallway where she was directing traffic. Adults to her left, children to her right.
“Mr. Garrett,” she said, “my name is Miss Gloria Whitworth, personal assistant to the ambassador’s wife, Mrs. Heidi Duncan.” Her formality and stature reminded him of his fifth-grade teacher. That teacher had not liked him. Nor had he liked her.
“No name tags tonight,” she said, “but you can wear one of these.” She glanced down to the table at a display of cheap-jeweled tiaras, pink-and-blue paper cones with elastic neckbands, and bright red top hats with HAPPY BIRTHDAY inscribed on their brims.
“I’m not much for hats,” Garrett said.
“The ambassador and his wife are wearing them.”
So was Miss Whitworth—a cardboard gold crown.
Garrett glanced to his left into the open doorway of the children’s party. A disco ball. Painted-face clown with giant orange feet. A magician in a cape. A gaggle of squealing tweens in sequin-embellished, multilayered tulle party skirts and boys uncomfortable in suits and ties, awkwardly waiting at a self-serve ice cream machine.
Garrett shifted his glance to the adult room. Cocktails. Chamber music. Lots of evening wear. Adults in party hats chitchatting.
“The kid’s party looks more fun,” he said dryly, “and I don’t like kids.”
“Which hat would you prefer?” she asked.
“I’ll pass.”
Ambassador Duncan and Heidi Duncan were situated near the entrance. Garrett moved to skip by them but a hand grabbed his upper arm, guiding him back into the receiving line.
“I’m your date tonight,” the woman holding him said.
Midforties. Black hair worn short. Black glasses. A pleasing face, but not someone who would draw stares when entering a room. Dressed professionally. Physically fit. He’d never seen her before but assumed she worked for Austin and was, therefore, CIA.
“Mr. Ambassador and Ms. Duncan,” she announced, “let me introduce our newest arrival, Mr. Brett Garrett with IEC.”
“Ah, the man from Kiev,” the ambassador said, extending his hand. Forced smile. “Nasty place, Ukraine. I didn’t really know Ambassador Thorpe—he was career, unlike me. But I heard great things about him after he was murdered. Went to his funeral, of course. Just returned.”
Ambassador Duncan was in his early seventies. Silver, slicked-back hair. Thin. Tall. A gold wedding band on his left, silver Harvard signet ring on his right. Tailored Italian suit. Standing beside him, his wife. Heidi looked like a woman fighting middle age. Cosmetic surgery. Birdlike diet. Carefully coiffed brunette. Glistening white teeth. Soft, dainty hand. Multiple-carat diamond wedding ring.
“I remember you from television,” she said. “The congressional hearings. What was the name of that country where that senator’s son died?”
Garrett suspected she already knew. What he didn’t know was if she also had been told about the reason he had come to Moscow.
“Thanks for inviting me to your party,” he replied.
“Don’t thank me, thank my husband. I don’t really believe we need a security guard here, especially you.”
Garrett had met her type before. He’d always found it curious that women born of privilege felt little need to prove themselves, but those who had climbed the social ladder nearly always were blatant snobs, eager to belittle those whom they saw as beneath them.
“Let’s get a drink,” the woman still clutching his arm said, guiding him toward a corner bar.
“How’s Marcus Austin as a boss,” he asked her.
“I don’t work for Austin. I’m on Mrs. Duncan’s personal staff. You met my boss in the hallway.”
“The ice queen wearing the gold crown?”
“Miss Whitworth tends to be a bit stuffy,” the woman said, smiling. “But she’s old-fashioned in her ways. What are you drinking?”
“Miss Whitworth,” he said, puckering his lips and raising his voice, mocking her, “would not approve. I’m on duty.”
“No, you’re on display.”
She ordered him a Klinskoye Svetloe. “It’s Russian, similar to Yuengling,” she explained. “You’re a curiosity because of your reputation. On display, so smile.”
He didn’t but he did follow her eyes as they both surveyed the ballroom. About a hundred guests. He spotted a familiar face and grimaced. A network news reporter who’d covered the Cameroon congressional hearings apparently now working in Moscow.
“I thought it was you,” the correspondent said as he approached.
Without warning, the woman next to Garrett stumbled forward, splashing her pinot noir against the reporter’s chest.
“I’m so, so sorry,” she said loudly. “New heels.”
She dabbed her napkin on his now-stained shirt. “A men’s room is just down the hall. Remember to blot; don’t rub or you’ll never get it out.”
Garrett saw a flash of anger as the reporter hurried away.
“You sure you don’t work for Austin?” he asked.
She gave him a sly grin. “Let me get a real drink now. The truth is I don’t care much for red wine.” She ordered a scotch neat and led him to an open space next to a large photograph of President Ronald Reagan and General Secretary Mikhail Gorbachev.
“This was taken at their first meeting in 1985,” she explained. “The Geneva Summit. Sadly, most of his countrymen today consider Gorbachev a traitor.”
She nudged him. “You’re about to be replaced as the object of everyone’s curiosity.” She nodded toward a tall, athletic man in his late twenties who’d entered. He was wearing bright red cowboy boots. “That’s Ivan Yovovich Sokolov.”
Garrett watched as Heidi Duncan smiled flirtatiously when shaking his hand. No reaction from her ambassador husband. Masks in a pageant.
“He wears those god-awful boots because he bought a Texas franchise—something with a red mascot,” she said.
“What sort of team?”
“Do I look like I read the sports page?”
Another nudge to his side. “Ah, now the real star of the party has arrived.”
Garrett recognized him from photos. Edged by two bodyguards, General Andre Gromyko strutted into the room, parading directly to the ambassador and his wife, forcing the others in line to stand aside.
In cinema, villains wear their villainy. Black cowboy hat. Scarred fa
ce. Permanent sneer. An outer ugliness that reflects an inner ruthlessness. Not so in real life. General Andre Gromyko was a pudgy Russian in his late fifties. Salt-and-pepper full beard. Thinning hair. Round pie face. Completely ordinary. The banality of evil.
“No general’s uniform tonight,” she said. “Probably didn’t want to be confused for one of the clowns at the kids’ party with all the medals and ribbons he’s awarded himself.” She chuckled at her own joke and when Gromyko looked their way, she raised her drink in salute, a gesture that he ignored.
Instead, Gromyko was studying Garrett. The look of a predator assessing a foe. Neither man blinked. Mano a mano. A hateful stare. Gromyko slowly looked away. What exactly the general knew about Garrett was unclear. What was clear is that both understood what sort of men they were and that if they met, how each would react. Natural-born enemies.
Garrett felt nauseous and it wasn’t from his Russian beer.
The woman noticed. “You starting withdrawal? Austin said the Russians confiscated your Suboxone at the airport.”
“I thought you didn’t work for Austin. And does anyone keep anything secret around here?”
She chuckled. “I can help.”
“You can get my meds back?”
“No, they’re long gone. How about lorcaserin?”
“Never heard of it.”
“A weight-loss drug but some claim it works better than Suboxone. You’ll need something to stay focused.”
“You the residential Dr. FeelGood?”
“There’s a prescription bottle of lorcaserin in Heidi Duncan’s office desk upstairs.”
Garrett looked across the room. Heidi Duncan was still chatting with her husband and Solokov. She noticed Garrett’s glance and glared at him.
Collusion Page 12
