Mayberry slipped her right hand from her side to the front of her pants. Makayla and her driver had overlooked a concealed weapon. Their mistake had been allowing Mayberry to unfasten her belt, drop her denim jeans to the warehouse’s concrete floor, and step free of them. What neither of her captors had noticed was the stainless-steel woven belt around Mayberry’s waist—held together by a pair of matching three-inch-long powerful magnets. The belt was pencil thin, so it wouldn’t snag on pant loops.
Mayberry gripped the belt’s clasp, separating the magnets.
Now!
She whipped the belt free at the exact moment Makayla inserted the needle into Rivera’s arm. Eric was watching Makayla flag the needle—pulling back on the syringe plunger to draw blood into the hotshot, checking to ensure the needle had hit its intended target.
Mayberry snapped the belt’s magnet tip like a bullwhip, catching him completely off guard. Its silver tip struck with such force that it broke the metal frame of his glasses at the hinge and drove a piece of the frame into his eye, impaling his iris, instantly blinding his left eye. He yelped and instinctively reached for his face to remove the jagged frame, dropping the Ruger LCP at his feet so he could use both hands.
Makayla heard him cry out and looked at Mayberry just as the undercover agent was diving to the floor, scooping up Eric’s discarded Ruger. Now on her back, she fired upward into Eric’s torso. The impact of three rounds sent him stumbling backward. A well-placed fourth caused him to collapse.
Mayberry turned. Makayla, who’d been unarmed, was gone.
Rivera groaned. The half-filled syringe was still dangling from her arm.
Mayberry checked Rivera’s pulse. Weak. Her lips were beginning to turn blue. Her skin felt cold. Mayberry grabbed Rivera’s diamond-encrusted cell phone from the table. Dialed 911.
“I need Narcan! Hurry!”
“What’s your address?”
“A warehouse near the docks.”
“Who has overdosed?”
Mayberry didn’t have time to answer. Most 911 dispatchers can get an approximate location of a cell phone call, but not always.
Makayla and the two men, who had been waiting outside in the van, could return at any moment, only this time Makayla would be armed.
Mayberry glanced left, right. A fire alarm. She pulled it. The electronic drone of the alarm echoed through the warehouse. Emergency lights flashed on. She retrieved her Glock 19 from the waistband of Eric’s corpse. Armed now with a pistol in each hand, she hid between cargo containers and waited for an attack. Nothing.
“Aysan,” she called. “Nod if you can hear me.”
No response.
She emerged and checked Rivera’s pulse again. Barely noticeable. She hurriedly wiped her fingerprints from the Ruger LCP, placed it on the table, grabbed Rivera’s cell phone, and dashed through the cargo containers to where her jacket, socks, and shoes were lying. Dressing quickly, she inched her way to the doorway. She had to be certain Makayla and the other two were gone before she could go back, untie Rivera, and possibly begin CPR. The warehouse door was open. She looked outside but didn’t see the van. She exited the warehouse, searching for the van. She heard sirens. The flashing lights of an approaching ambulance, fire trucks.
No time to go back inside. Instead, she hurried from the warehouse and found a place to disappear in its shadows.
She watched first responders entering the warehouse. No one noticed her. Using Rivera’s phone, Mayberry called Mr. Smith.
“This is Special Agent Valerie Mayberry. I need to see him. My cover has been blown and where in the hell was my backup!”
Twenty-Nine
Yakov Prokofyevich Pavel gazed through the Lada’s dirty passenger window at the darkening evening sky outside the Klin railway station.
“Mr. Garrett,” Pavel said wistfully. “The Russian poet, Fyodor Tyutchev, wrote:
Russia cannot be understood with the mind alone,
No ordinary yardstick can span her greatness:
She stands alone, unique—
In Russia, one can only believe.
It was a pensive moment for the fleeing deputy foreign minister.
“Your beloved Russia is trying to kill you and your grandson,” Garrett reminded him.
“Not Russia,” Pavel bristled. “Gromyko and Kalugin. You may take me to America, but I will always be a Russian.”
They had driven from their dacha hideaway to the Klin railway station without attracting notice. Peter had been sent inside to purchase three tickets to Vyborg via St. Petersburg. Garrett had cut his hair short, military style—a thin disguise. Their plan: purchase the tickets and board a train scheduled to arrive within the next ten minutes.
Garrett’s eyes darted back and forth between the station’s main entrance and his watch.
“What’s taking so long?” he asked. “Do they always demand to see passports?”
“And I should know this, why?” Pavel scoffed. His underlings at the Foreign Ministry had always made his travel arrangements.
A loud whistle. A locomotive pulling into the station. Garrett opened the driver’s door. He and Pavel walked in hurried steps toward the tracks. Passengers were exiting the train cars. Others began boarding. No sign of Peter with their tickets.
Garrett scanned for police.
Peter burst from the station door frantically waving their tickets. They entered a railcar just as its provodnitsa was shutting its door.
“Next time, you will be left,” the stout, older woman attendant scolded. They followed her down a narrow corridor as the train slowly pulled from the station. She stopped at a four-berth kupe—a cramped compartment with two bunk beds facing one another. A middle-aged man inside looked up from the Moskovskiy Komsomolets newspaper.
Pavel stopped at the berth’s doorway. Garrett braced himself for a scene. He suspected Pavel was about to complain about the dingy quarters. He was accustomed to high-speed Sapsan trains that raced between St. Petersburg and Moscow at speeds of 150 mph. Grand Express railcars, lavishly decorated, each with its own television, private toilet, and shower. This was a passazhirsky train, which smelled of human sweat and urine. The blue padding on the berth’s bench seats, which doubled as mattresses, was worn flat. The floor badly stained. A lone bright yellow crocus in a cheap glass vase placed on a steel table under the window was the berth’s only nicety.
“My grandson—he is being treated for tuberculosis,” Pavel said quietly to the woman. “Although a doctor has cleared him for travel, one never knows how contagious he still might be.”
As he spoke, Pavel slipped a five-hundred-ruble note, roughly ten U.S. dollars, into the woman’s pudgy hand.
Peter coughed convincingly.
The provodnitsa gave Pavel a cold look. Another five-hundred-ruble note changed hands. She entered the berth and ordered the lone rider to gather his belongings. He protested, but when she threatened to eject him from her railcar, he threw the newspaper onto the floor and angrily grabbed his bag to follow her to a different berth. As he slipped by Pavel, he cursed him.
“A clever lie and a bribe,” Garrett said approvingly when they were alone.
Pavel sat on the bunk opposite him facing the rear of the train. Peter would sleep in the top bunk above, but plopped down next to Garrett to get settled.
“Isn’t it the same in every country—a threat or a bribe?” Pavel asked. Without waiting for a reply, he said, “Peter, what happened in the station?”
Reaching into his jacket, the teen produced the three CIA doctored passports and returned them to Garrett. He spread his hands apart and rapidly opened and closed his fingers.
“He’s saying there was a long line, many ticket buyers,” Pavel interpreted.
“Ask him if he had to show the passports?” Garrett said.
“You ask him. His hearing is not impaired.”
From his jacket pocket, Peter removed a slip of paper that Pavel had given him. The words: Three tickets. Vyborg. I don’t s
peak were written on the sheet. Someone had scribbled in pencil. Show me your passports.
“They wrote because they assumed he couldn’t hear,” Pavel said. “Just like you.” Pavel laughed. Peter grinned.
“Did you show them?” Garrett asked again, impatiently.
The teen glanced at his grandfather and flashed a mischievous grin.
“I’ve taught my grandson how to get things done,” Pavel said. “Without complications.”
Peter took a wad of thousand-ruble notes from his pocket and handed them to his grandfather, who counted them. “I gave him ten thousand, and there are only eight remaining. This means he had to pay two thousand to purchase our tickets—without producing passports.”
“Why doesn’t he talk?” Garrett asked.
“He must not have anything he wants to say,” Pavel said dismissively.
Garrett picked up the discarded newspaper from the floor. Photos of Pavel and Peter were printed above the front-page fold. Kidnapped after touring the Metro Museum in Moscow. Call local police or the FSB if seen. A knock. Garrett flipped over the newspaper, hiding its pictures. The provodnitsa entered with a tray. A bottle of vodka, two beers. Soda for the teen. Some cut fruit. Crackers. Glasses.
“Come, drink with us,” Pavel told her, turning on the charm. “There is nothing better than Russia vodka and a good Russian woman to pass the time on a train ride!”
“I have nine compartments on my car and I’m past the age when I wished to party with passengers.” Still, she returned his flirtatious glance.
“Such a pity,” he said.
Pavel noticed the beer. “Ah, excellent, beer without vodka is throwing away your money. It is a common Russian saying. And to drink without a woman at your side is truly tragic. But my comrades and I will somehow manage.” He handed the woman another five-hundred-ruble note.
“You need to look at the newspaper,” Garrett said, as soon as she left them.
“What will I learn that I already don’t know? Nothing. Today’s news is written with a pitchfork on flowing water.”
The teen eagerly ate the snacks and downed his soda. Pavel focused on the beer and vodka.
Two hours later, the attendant returned, this time with three plastic sealed packages. Each contained two sheets, a pillowcase, and one towel. She retrieved the food tray, leaving the unfinished vodka on the table, and extended her hand for payment. Pavel glanced at Garrett, implying it was his turn to pay. Garrett handed her a one-hundred-ruble note. Even though it was more than what the average passenger was charged for bedding, she continued to hold out her hand. Pavel chuckled and fetched another five-hundred note from his pocket. Again she smiled at the old man.
Garrett flipped shut a loosely attached interior latch on the door after she was gone. It was supposed to keep the berth secure, but every enterprising thief would know how to slip a coat hanger between the jam and lift it. He took the vodka bottle and placed it against the door so it would be knocked over if opened, sounding an alarm.
Peter obediently made his grandfather’s bed and helped him remove his shirt, shoes, and pants. Within minutes the intoxicated diplomat was snoring loudly. Peter climbed onto the upper bunk above him. Garrett took a blue pill from his gym bag and swallowed it. Ginger Capello had assured him lorcaserin would lessen his cravings, delay withdrawal, but his head was throbbing, and he was wide awake. Jittery.
From his bag, he removed a map of Russia. He noticed his right hand was shaking.
MI-6 had smuggled Oleg Gordievsky into Finland near Vyborg. It was where Garrett assumed the agency would expect him to cross with Pavel and Peter. It was likely that General Gromyko would have extra men waiting there as a precaution. The train ride was seventy-six miles from St. Petersburg to Vyborg, a fishing village. Escaping by boat would be less risky than overland travel, he decided. Once safely in Finland, he could contact Thomas Jefferson Kim.
Garrett traced his forefinger across Vyborg Bay, estimating the shortest course. He suddenly realized Peter was watching him. The teen hopped down from the top berth and shook awake his sleeping grandfather.
“What! What!” the old man grumbled. The teen shook him harder and motioned toward the map. He pointed at the bay.
“My grandson is trying to warn you,” Pavel muttered, “that the islands and shores of Vyborg Bay are strictly guarded by border control. Heavily patrolled. Anyone entering a three-mile zone will be captured.”
The teen slid his finger down the map from Vyborg Bay along the train route toward St. Petersburg, stopping midway at Roshchino Leningrad Oblast. A much smaller village. From there he moved his hand to the Gulf of Finland.
“I get it,” Garrett said. “We’ll get off the train at Roshchino, not Vyborg.”
Satisfied, Peter returned to the top berth. Garrett turned off the light, removed his SIG Sauer. Tucked it next to him under a top sheet and listened to Pavel snoring again.
The berth had no curtains on its window. Garrett rested the back of his head on his raised hands as a pillow, slightly propping up his head. He was watching the berth’s door. Lights and shadows from outside the car danced across it. Only the stars and moon penetrated the darkness when the railcar moved through rural areas, but when the train slowed, the lights from whatever village they’d entered would illuminate the entire berth. He listened to the sounds of passengers boarding and leaving the train. He became familiar with the provodnitsa’s lumbering footsteps as she passed their berth trudging along the corridor. There was only one toilet at the end of the car, three berths away, and either those using it didn’t shut its door tightly, or its latch was broken. Garrett could hear the door banging against the side of the train until either the attendant or the next occupant secured it.
He thought about Russians and Americans and official lies and broken promises. He thought about betrayal and obstacles they still faced. Had Heidi Duncan noticed the missing weight-loss pills that he’d stolen from her embassy desk? Had General Gromyko recognized Capello when she’d exploded the Zil delivery truck they’d used to escape? There hadn’t been any mention of him or possible U.S. involvement in the newspaper’s account.
Unable to sleep, he took another blue pill to calm his nerves and closed his eyes. Twilight sleep. In German: Dammerschlaf. Partial narcosis. Awake enough to be conscious but not fully awake. Was it the pill? Was he high or was it caution that was keeping him half-awake?
There. He saw it. Or was it a dream? A trick of light and shadows. The interior latch rising. The door beginning to open. The quick sound of the vodka bottle being knocked across the berth’s floor.
By the time Garrett realized what was happening it was too late. Hooded men were already inside. One pushed his knee against Garrett’s chest making it difficult for him to breath, pinning him helpless on the lower bunk. He felt hands grabbing his limbs. One man per arm, one per leg. Within seconds, they’d tossed him on the floor, his hands cuffed, legs secured with a plastic cord. Stripped the SIG Sauer from him. He locked his teeth when one of the attackers tried to stuff an object into his mouth. A hard slap against his head. Mouth forced open. Pavel was blissfully snoring during the attack. Peter was also asleep. Dragged out into the corridor, Garrett found himself looking up at a pleased General Gromyko. Behind him, the provodnitsa. Her body had been placed in a sitting position on the floor, her back against the railcar’s side, her neck broken. Lifeless eyes staring forward. Standing nearby was the passenger who’d been in the berth when they’d arrived. The front-page newspaper photographs. Him stopping to stare into Pavel’s face and curse him when he was ejected. It all made sense.
With the toe of his polished boot, Gromyko kicked Garrett along the side of his skull.
Part IV
The Devil’s Breath
Those who serve us with poison will eventually swallow it and poison themselves.
—Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin
Thirty
Two Years Ago
Senator Cormac Stone was one of the most li
beral members of the U.S. Congress and, even before his son’s death in Cameroon, he’d despised the CIA. The senior senator from California claimed it had done more harm than good and he could easily cite its failures.
The Bay of Pigs—a flubbed agency plot to overthrow Fidel Castro. The Cuban Missile Crisis—the agency had declared a month before that the Soviets would never attempt to put a nuclear weapon on the island. The Iranian Revolution—the agency had reported six months before it that the Shah’s reign was secure. The collapse of the USSR—it had never seen it coming.
The impetus for creating the CIA in 1947 had been the Japanese bombing at Pearl Harbor. Yet the agency had not stopped the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks, even though it knew that two of the hijackers were members of al-Qaeda and held valid U.S. visas.
More recently, there was the “weapons of mass destruction” fiasco and finally the CIA-informed Obama administration’s insistence that the Arab Spring would undercut al-Qaeda when, in fact, it had led to the rise of the Islamic State and upheaval in Egypt and Libya.
Now Senator Stone’s only son, Petty Officer 3rd Class Richard Stone, aka “Senator” to his fellow SEALs, had been killed in action during his first CIA-directed operation.
Senator Stone wanted vengeance, and as the ranking minority member of the U.S. Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, he had enough clout to demand a public hearing.
CIA director Harold Harris was his first witness inside the Hart Senate Office Building. In his written statement, he quickly outlined the nonclassified basics. Mission’s purpose: rescue kidnapped NGO worker Elsa Eriksson. Location: terrorists’ camp in Cameroon. Overall success: Eriksson freed, an estimated twenty terrorists killed. Casualties: four Navy SEALs injured. Fatalities: three Nigerian locals, two Navy pilots, and Petty Officer 3rd Class Richard Stone. Cause of deaths: RPG striking rescue helicopter. Survivors of that attack: only one, Chief Petty Officer Brett Garrett.
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