Collusion

by Newt Gingrich

  A diagram of the Kamera building was posted on the wall in case of a fire. Four exits. Garrett knew each would be guarded. The one at the rear of the building was the closest. Garrett ripped the map from the wall for them to follow. The building was composed of east-west hallways that connected at each end with two north-west corridors. The corridors ran along the structures’ walls and were how workers moved from one hallway to the next. Garrett and Peter stopped walking when they reached a corner at the back of the building. It was on Garrett’s left. He dropped to his knees and looked around it. Two uniformed guards were protecting the exit. One sitting behind a desk. The other on a chair leaning back against the corridor’s exterior wall. Neither noticed Garrett.

  Garrett backed up and, with Peter, retraced their steps along the east-west hallway. They checked the knobs on each lab door. Three per side, facing each other. Two were unlocked. One lab was next to the north-south corridor that Garrett had peeked around. The other unlocked one was in the opposite direction at the farthest end of the hallway.

  Garrett returned to the corner and opened the unlocked lab there. He led the teen inside. Like the other labs, it had huge windows from the waist up. “Hide under the window so you can’t be seen if someone looks in,” Garrett said. The lights in the lab were turned off. Peter crouched near the interior wall facing the hallway. Garrett intentionally left the door cracked open.

  He hurried down the hallway to the other unlocked lab at the far end and entered it. The room contained four tables, each covered with a wide assortment of glass bottles, test tubes, and other equipment. Garrett slipped off his left shoe, removed his sock, replaced his shoe, and paused at a table that held brass weights used to calibrate scales. He dropped several into his sock, knotting its end. A crude weapon.

  A chemistry chart was hanging nearby on the wall. As a student of Russian history, Garrett knew that Dimitri Bonavich Mendeleev, an eccentric Russian scientist, was the first to compose the periodic table of the elements. He also knew Mendeleev had moved to Germany in the 1860s to work with a scientist named Robert Bunsen, the inventor of the Bunsen burner. There were eight burners in the room, two per lab table. He disconnected all of the rubber hoses that connected them to gas pipes except for the burner nearest the door. He turned on the gas, lit the burner at the door, shut it behind him, and darted along the hallway to the lab where Peter was hiding. He crouched next to the teen.

  Garrett had no idea how long it would take for the methane gas to fill the room and be ignited by the single flame. It didn’t take long.

  The explosion blew off the lab’s closed door and busted its window. Flames shot into the hallway. One of the guards rounded the corner. He stopped as soon as he saw the fire and turned his head to yell back to his partner.

  Garrett leapt into the hallway, swinging his weighted sock like a billy club. It hit the guard with such force that Garrett heard the man’s skull crack. He dropped onto the floor. Garrett bent down, switched the weighted sock to his left hand, and used his right to retrieve the guard’s Makarov 9 mm pistol. He was rising from the body when the second guard rounded the corner and saw him.

  The Russian lunged at Garrett, grabbing his right wrist with both hands, forcing him to raise the pistol upward. Unable to hit the Russian in his face because of his raised arms, Garrett swung the weighed sock with his left hand as hard as he could and smacked it against the Russian’s testicles. It took two more hits before the Russian loosen his grip on Garrett’s hand. Lowering the Makarov, Garrett fired twice directly into the guard’s face.

  “Hurry!” Garrett hollered to Peter. “The others will come.”

  They darted around the corner and out the exit.

  Garrett surveyed the forest encircling them. He had no idea which direction to go, only that they needed to hide.

  Peter grabbed his arm and took the lead. He entered the trees with Garrett behind him. Twenty minutes later, Garrett realized Peter had led them to the edge of Svetogorsk.

  “No,” Garrett said. “Too risky. We need to avoid people.”

  Peter shook his head, disagreeing. He pointed at a five-story, badly weathered apartment complex.

  “No!” Garrett said.

  But Peter continued marching toward the building.

  Garrett hesitated and then followed. No one was in the first-floor hallway. Peter knocked on a door.

  Still holding the Makarov, Garrett nervously glanced to his left and right. This was insanity. Surely someone would wake up and see them.

  The door opened a crack. A woman looked and then swung it open.

  “Peter!” she said in a hushed voice, thrusting her arms around him.

  Garrett followed Peter inside. The woman was kissing the teen on his cheeks and forehead. She began to cry.

  “God has answered my prayer,” she whispered to Peter. “I was there when your parents died in the snow. I prayed over them, but they took you before I could find you. They told me you were in Moscow with your grandfather. Now God has sent you here to me.”

  Peter smiled.

  “We have to cross the border,” Garrett said. “People are after us.”

  She removed a coat from her closet, slipping it over her nightclothes. “My car is outside. There’s a place you can cross without being seen.”

  Thirty-Six

  Thomas Jefferson Kim and Valerie Mayberry were waiting when Brett Garrett landed at Joint Base Andrews, south of Washington, D.C. Garrett had never felt so grateful to be home.

  “What happened to your arm?” he asked when he saw Kim on the tarmac wearing a sling.

  “I got shot. I can still use a keyboard, but I can’t drive.”

  “Thank God,” Garrett said, chuckling.

  Kim’s wife, Rose, was waiting next to the couple’s Mercedes SUV.

  “She’s my new driver,” Kim beamed. “I taught her.”

  Garrett noticed she was wearing a Glock 21 around her waist.

  “She’s my new bodyguard, too,” Kim added. “I taught her to shoot.”

  “Swell,” Garrett said skeptically.

  He addressed Mayberry as the two of them slipped into the SUV’s rear seats. “We meeting Harris?”

  “Nope,” she replied, “he’s still on Capitol Hill trying to save his job.”

  “What’s that about? I’ve been a bit preoccupied,” Garrett replied.

  From the front seat, Kim elaborated, “Senator Stone introduced a motion to officially censure Harris. Vote is tomorrow. Because of Maxi-Leaks—at least that’s the official version. Apparently, Ambassador Duncan told Stone about you being in Moscow and Stone’s furious at Harris for not informing the Senate about Pavel and you.”

  “What’s Maxi-Leaks got to do with any of that?” Garrett asked.

  Mayberry caught him up as Rose Kim wove through the evening rush hour toward IEC’s Tysons Corner building.

  “Marcus Austin was recalled from Moscow,” Mayberry said. “He’s supposed to be on leave pending a disciplinary hearing, but Harris has him handling the three of us—still off the grid—at least for now.”

  “That’s a gutsy move, especially if Stone has my scent,” Garrett noted.

  “And a move that I’m not happy with,” Mayberry added. “It’s time to bring the FBI in on this.”

  “Until you called,” Kim said, abruptly changing subjects, “we thought you were dead. Show him the emailed videos, Valerie.”

  Mayberry used her cell phone to play the recordings that the Magician had sent. Garrett relived watching Pavel being gassed and seeing Peter and himself being held as prisoners.

  “I was planning your funeral,” Rose Kim chirped, as she drove. “No expenses spared, right, husband?”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” Garrett said.

  Kim turned his head so he could face Garrett in the rear seat. “I’m still trying to positively identify the Magician. I know he operates out of Moscow and I’m almost certain he works for GIT because of his computer skills and embassy access.”


  Rose Kim honked at a slow-moving car and darted around it, cursing in Korean. “I taught her to swear,” Kim bragged, grinning.

  “When Gromyko was at the poison factory, he said he was coming to America,” Garrett said.

  “Ivan Sokolov’s private jet landed at Reagan National three days ago, before you surfaced alive,” Mayberry said. “Sokolov only stayed long enough to drop off General Gromyko and a Russian named Boris Petrov, whom we’ve identified as Gromyko’s bodyguard.”

  “Gromyko must have been carrying the poisonous gas—the variant of his perfect Devil’s Breath,” Garrett said. “He and Sokolov talked about it at the Kamera just before Gromyko murdered Pavel.”

  “Which brings me back to my earlier comment. We need to get the FBI involved if Gromyko brought gas in,” Mayberry said. “Gromyko and Petrov used their diplomatic passports, so their luggage wasn’t checked. Fortunately, the bureau routinely follows high-ranking Russians when they enter the country, especially someone such as General Gromyko.”

  “Where’d he go?” Garrett asked. “If he had the poison, he wouldn’t want to hang on to it for long.”

  “Directly to the former Soviet embassy,” Mayberry replied. “It’s right down the street from—”

  “The White House,” Garrett said, completing her sentence.

  “The Russian ambassador just happened to be throwing a party for a who’s who of Russian bootlickers. Lots of cars entering and exiting at the same time. Lots of guests, including this one,” Mayberry said.

  She handed him a photo of a man wearing a long jacket, hat, and sunglasses—even though it was night when the FBI surveillance photo was taken.

  “No one had seen him there before,” Mayberry continued, “so I asked Homeland Security for a background check. Turns out his name is Mirzo Rakhmon, and he entered the United States on the same morning as Gromyko—only in Philadelphia and using a Tajikistan passport. The FBI was able to ID everyone else attending the embassy party.”

  Garrett studied the photo. “There is no Mirzo Rakhmon from Tajikistan,” he said. “He’s shaved his beard and probably cut off his hair under the hat. I’m guessing he’s also done something to his face—maybe a fake nose. But I recognize him from Moscow.”

  “Moscow? Who is he?” Mayberry asked.

  “Krishma Duwar. I met him at the ambassador’s daughter’s birthday party and I’m guessing he’s the Magician who’s been intercepting messages.”

  “So they flew into different cities but met at the embassy party,” Mayberry said. “That’s where Gromyko must have passed the gas to him.”

  Rose Kim laughed loudly, causing Mayberry to pause. “I don’t see what’s funny about that.”

  Her husband said, “You said Gromyko passed gas.”

  Garrett smiled. Mayberry didn’t. “Gromyko wouldn’t have wanted anyone from Antifa coming to the Russian embassy to get the canister,” Mayberry said. “He’d want to cover his tracks.”

  They arrived at the IEC headquarters underground parking garage. On the elevator ride to Kim’s office, Mayberry said, “I don’t think we have a choice now. I’m going to call Marcus Austin. He’s got to alert my bosses at the FBI. If he doesn’t, I will.”

  “Hold on,” Garrett said. “Harris is still in charge, and he won’t like it. Not when he’s lobbying for his job. If Senator Stone finds out what is happening, Harris will be done.”

  “Since when do you care about Harris?” Mayberry asked.

  “I wasn’t thinking about Harris,” Garrett replied. “I was thinking about the three of us. So far, Harris is the only one who knows what we’ve done. He’s betrayed me before, remember? He’ll do it again and blame us if it saves his own neck.”

  “You’re worried he’ll blame you for Pavel’s death, aren’t you?” Mayberry asked.

  “Have you done anything for Harris that would best be kept secret?” he retorted.

  Mayberry thought about the Stonewall Jackson Shrine bombing. Aysan Rivera’s murder.

  “How about this,” Kim interjected. “We tell Austin about Duwar and insist the FBI is told, but make it clear that it’s up to him and Harris to decide what and how much.”

  Kim glanced at Mayberry. “That makes sense,” she said. “You in, Garrett?”

  “Make the call,” he responded. “Duwar entered the country using a fake passport. That’s enough to get him arrested. No need to mention the poison gas and cause a panic.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Mayberry said. “Austin and Harris have to tell the FBI about the gas. They’ll have to know what they’re facing when they catch him.”

  “The only reason you know about the gas is because I saw Gromyko use it and heard him talk about bringing it here. We can’t even be certain Gromyko transported it here and passed it to him,” Garrett said.

  “I’m not going to put Americans’ lives in danger, especially law enforcement,” Mayberry said in a harsh voice. “You have no authority here, Garrett. You’ve completed the mission that Harris gave you. Your only role was to get Pavel and Peter out of Russia. You’re done.”

  “You saying I failed?”

  “I’m saying your job is over. Let me do mine.”

  “I don’t think you have the power to fire me,” he said. “I’ll say when I’m done.”

  Hoping to end their argument, Kim asked, “What about Peter? What did you do with the teen?”

  Garrett turned his gaze away from Mayberry. “The agency’s put him in London for safekeeping.”

  When the elevator doors opened, all of them except Rose moved into Kim’s office. Kim began a computer search for information about Duwar while Mayberry telephoned Marcus Austin. When she finished speaking to him, she said, “Austin will talk to Harris. He agrees that we have to inform the FBI, but he said Harris will only want to disclose that Duwar is a suspected terrorist possibly carrying poison gas. No background.”

  “Duwar is going to need help if he wants to inflict maximum damage releasing the gas,” Garrett said.

  “Makayla Jones,” Mayberry replied. “We know the two of them are working together. Duwar helped her ambush us by sending fake emails.

  “She won’t hesitate to use that gas and, yes, she will want to kill as many Americans as she can.”

  “What’s their target?” Kim asked. “It could be anywhere on the East Coast.”

  “Washington,” Mayberry said. “Either here or Baltimore, another city Makayla apparently knows well.”

  “The Kamera scientists killed Pavel by releasing it in the air,” Garrett said, thinking out loud.

  “Airborne,” Mayberry agreed. “The poison would be most effective in an enclosed area, not FedEx Field or on the National Mall.”

  “MGM’s new casino would be packed with people,” Kim volunteered. “Maybe a Smithsonian museum or maybe the Verizon Center downtown.”

  “The subway. Metro Center,” Mayberry said. “A major hub would hold the gas longer and possibly spread it like blood through veins. Union Station would be a smart choice, too. Easy to access. Lots of people.”

  “What if Gromyko’s priority is not killing numbers but killing prominent targets?” Garrett asked.

  “The White House is too closely guarded,” Mayberry replied.

  “I just pulled up Duwar’s records,” Kim said. “His parents are both respected professors teaching in Islamabad. Duwar is the oldest of five children, all successful—doctors, lawyers, professors. He’s the only one who didn’t return home after getting educated here. He came over on a student visa, did his undergrad work at Stanford in computer science—”

  “Wait,” Mayberry said.

  Kim and Garrett looked at her. “On the night when we were ambushed, you said Makayla Jones’s real name was Nataniela Kalanga, but she’d changed it to Adalene Petit after she slipped into France and then she came to the U.S. on a student visa to attend Stanford.”

  “That’s got to be where they met,” Garrett concluded.

  “Leftist cells have been popula
r on California campuses for decades,” Mayberry said.

  A quick knock. Rose Kim entered the room. “A Delaware state trooper just gave a speeding ticket to a driver in a rental car whose passport identified him as Mirzo Rakhmon,” she said.

  “How’d you know?” Mayberry said. “I doubt if Austin or Harris has had time to tell the FBI to put out an APB.”

  “I added his name to the thousands of databases IEC routinely monitors,” Rose Kim explained. “He was stopped minutes ago driving north.”

  Thomas Jefferson Kim said, “I can pull the car’s license tag off that ticket. Rental cars have tracking devices.”

  “Delaware,” Garrett repeated. “Maybe the target isn’t Washington. Maybe it’s Manhattan.”

  “I’m going after him,” Mayberry said. “My car’s downstairs.”

  Garrett didn’t ask. He simply followed her.

  Thirty-Seven

  “What’d Rose Kim slip you as we were leaving her husband’s office?” Mayberry asked.

  She and Garrett were riding north on Interstate 95, having just passed through Baltimore. He didn’t realize she’d noticed the handoff. The best way to avoid a question was to ask one, especially one that irks your inquisitor.

  “Kim read your medical records,” Garrett said. “Told me you have ADHD.”

  “So much for doctor-patient confidentiality,” she said, clearly irritated.

  “You’re OCD, too,” he said.

  “I’ve never been diagnosed with OCD. That’s not in my medical records.”

  “It’s more of a personal observation.”

  Mayberry tightened her grasp on the Jaguar’s leather-wrapped steering wheel.

  “With those issues, how’d you get into the bureau?” he asked.

  “With your issues, how’d you get into the Navy?” she shot back.

  “Just making small talk.”

  “You must be really fun on first dates.”

  “Nobody wants to date SEALs,” he said. “Not after they find out what the pay and schedules are like.”