Collusion

by Newt Gingrich

  Gromyko found the eighteen-foot-long fishing boat moored at an inlet on the opposite side of the trees where Petrov had said it would be. He climbed aboard and called to Petrov.

  “Hurry or I’ll leave you!”

  The shell-shocked, bloody bodyguard came aboard. The general started the outboard and headed toward Chesapeake Bay.

  * * *

  Thomas Jefferson Kim had been knocked out by the assassin’s punches, but he regained consciousness within seconds after the nurses took charge. They checked his heart rate and helped him into the lounge chair where Rose Kim had been sleeping only minutes earlier.

  “I shot him just like you showed me,” Rose Kim declared.

  The FBI agent searched the dead man for identification. Nothing. He unbuttoned the man’s shirt. A bullet-resistant vest. Three of Rose’s shots were blocked there. The fourth had hit above the vest, ripping through the man’s right carotid artery where it was connected to his brachiocephalic trunk.

  Despite the melee, Brett Garrett remained unaware in his drug-induced sleep. If he had been semiconscious, what had transpired would have seemed to him much like a bad dream.

  Forty-Four

  The Day After

  “The man who attempted to kill Brett Garrett appears to be Eastern European, but we have no other information about him,” FBI director Archibald Davidson said. “No fingerprint matches, no facial recognition, nothing yet to identify him.”

  “Any idea how he entered the country?” President Randle Fitzgerald asked.

  “None.”

  “What about Agent Mayberry?”

  “She’s still alive but has been put in an induced coma while doctors continue to try different levels of the antidote,” Davidson said. He withdrew several photographs from a folder and handed them to Fitzgerald, who was seated behind his desk in the Oval Office.

  “These were taken by the Queen Anne Sheriff’s Department after gunshots and explosions were heard earlier this morning at the Russians’ Pioneer Pointe retreat,” Davidson explained. “The Russians refused to allow deputies or local Centreville Police Department officers to enter the compound. The enterprising sheriff used a drone to take these photos.”

  “What exactly am I looking at?” the president asked.

  “A burning vehicle stopped inside the compound behind another luxury car with its doors open. General Andre Gromyko was staying at the property. The private aircraft that brought him to the U.S.—a jet owned by Ivan Sokolov—had flown in earlier from Texas apparently to transport the general back to Moscow. That plane left without him about an hour after these photos were taken.”

  “Texas?”

  “Sokolov owns a basketball team based there,” Davidson said.

  “Your best guess?”

  “Sokolov was getting out of the country to avoid us detaining him and the general for questioning.” Davidson paused. “We’ve got no clue if he is still at that compound or even if he is still alive.”

  President Fitzgerald returned the photos to him. “What time were those aerial photos taken?”

  “Shortly before six a.m.”

  “At eight this morning,” the president said, “I received a telephone call from Russian president Kalugin. He immediately expressed his concern about the Senate attack. He then told me quite a story. He claimed a group of radicals had attempted to use poison gas to murder members of the State Duma in Moscow yesterday. He said his security people stopped them.”

  “I’ve not seen any reports about this. Has the agency or State confirmed the Moscow attack?”

  “No. President Kalugin said he’d decided to keep it secret until after a thorough investigation. He then told me that he suspects General Gromyko was behind the attack in Moscow. In his words, Gromyko is a lunatic whose aim was to undermine both of our governments and cause us to go to war. He apologized for the general’s actions but insisted that he had no idea about what Gromyko was doing.”

  “Sounds convenient. How did you respond?” Davidson asked.

  “I said we were investigating the attack. That we took it extremely seriously and would take the appropriate action after we had gathered and evaluated all of the facts,” Fitzgerald said.

  “You believe Gromyko acted alone?”

  “No, and the fact Kalugin called makes me think he knew and approved of yesterday’s attempt. He’s never admitted anything before about Russian poisoning. I’d say he is desperate to shift the blame and undermine any response we might make in retaliation. It wouldn’t surprise me if he arrests some of his own people today and holds a show trial to convince the world the Russian Duma was threatened by Gromyko.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. President,” Davidson said, “but it would be helpful if Director Harris would share his intelligence about Gromyko with the bureau and tell us what the hell he had Agent Mayberry and Brett Garrett doing for him. Garrett regained consciousness this morning, but he’s refusing to answer any of Sally North’s questions, claiming national security concerns. He just keeps saying, ‘Ask Harris.’”

  “I’ll deal with Director Harris. Meanwhile, we need to know more about Senator Stone’s legislative aide—the one who brought the poison in—and the woman in Antifa who was trying to take that case away from Agent Mayberry and release the gas. Were they sleeper agents? Can you find definite proof that this gas was made in Russia?”

  “We’ll get the facts, sir.”

  Moments later, as Davidson was leaving, he encountered Harris in a White House hallway.

  “You’ve finished your briefing, I see,” Harris said in a guarded voice. “Now it’s my turn.”

  “Harris,” Davidson said, “I’ve told the president that you’ve not been forthcoming with us. You’re holding back information. I wanted to tell you that to your face. I wanted him to know that you have not been cooperative with us.”

  “If the president mentions it,” Harris said coldly, “I’ll respond.” He stepped by Davidson.

  Harris found the president waiting, still seated behind his desk. President Fitzgerald did not stand to greet him, nor did he respond when Harris said, “Good morning, sir!” Instead he nodded toward a chair across from his desk.

  “What in the hell have you done?” Fitzgerald snapped.

  “My agency has just helped prevent a catastrophe,” Harris replied. “With assistance from Agent Mayberry and Brett Garrett, I stopped a mass murder.”

  “Davidson just told me that you’ve been holding back information and I know it’s true because you’ve not told me a damn thing, either,” Fitzgerald said. “You know that you’re obligated by law to keep both me and Congress informed—something that you clearly have chosen not to do.”

  “I haven’t disclosed information purely for national security reasons,” Harris said.

  “Where in the law does it say that you get to make that final decision? From the few facts that I’ve been able to glean, you used Agent Mayberry and Brett Garrett to operate an off-the-books covert operation. You went rogue, and you hid it from all of us.”

  “It was the only way to protect Yakov Pavel,” Harris replied. “If I’d told Congress, it would have leaked out. Surely you know that.”

  “Again, that’s not a choice—not your decision to make. You can’t arbitrarily decide what to tell and what not to tell, especially to me. You may be in charge of the CIA, but you still answer to the president and Congress.”

  “I was protecting you by going off the grid.”

  Fitzgerald leaned forward and glared at Harris. “No, you were not! You let your ego and your mistrust of Congress impair your judgment, and now you are self-rationalizing and self-justifying your actions by blaming others. Don’t you dare try to claim that you were concerned about me. What you have done has undermined my administration.”

  Harris bristled but President Fitzgerald wasn’t done.

  “Harris, you’re a liar,” he said bluntly. He pressed a button on his phone that connected him to his secretary. “Please send in my guests
.”

  Harris turned his head and saw a man and woman enter the Oval Office. She was modestly dressed. Her blond hair was pulled back tightly in a bun. He was wearing a Capitol Police officer’s uniform.

  Harris didn’t recognize either of them.

  “My name is Elsa Eriksson,” the woman said.

  “I’m Jack Strong, but when I was a SEAL, everyone called me Bear.”

  President Fitzgerald said, “They have been telling me what really happened in Cameroon when Senator Stone’s son was killed by terrorists. They’ve told me how Garrett and his fellow SEALs rescued a young girl named Abidemi who was being gang-raped, how those ‘locals’ who you described in your Senate hearing testimony were actually young girls. Mr. Strong—Bear—has relayed a conversation to me that he had with Brett Garrett that happened that night—about your granddaughter and how you had assured Garrett that you would have his back if he decided to rescue the children. You didn’t, though, did you—have his back? Instead, you lied.”

  Harris remained stone-faced.

  “Because you accused Brett Garrett of insubordination—of not obeying direct orders—he spent eighteen months in Leavenworth prison. He was dishonorably discharged. His career and reputation were destroyed. You did that!”

  “I gave him a chance to redeem himself,” Harris replied.

  “Redeem himself? You’re the one who needs redemption. Your hiding information from me has put my administration and me in a precarious situation. There are going to be investigations into everything that has happened.”

  “That’s classified material,” Harris said.

  “Not for long. What you’ve done is illegal. I am not going to ask for your resignation. I am firing you because you deserve to be fired.”

  “You can’t do that. You need me to deal with what happened in the Senate.”

  “I don’t need you. I need to replace you with someone who is honest. And you—you need to hire yourself a team of really good lawyers.”

  Forty-Five

  Three Months Later

  Brett Garrett felt uneasy.

  A taxi had dropped him at a gatehouse in the Round Hill neighborhood of North Greenwich, Connecticut, where a uniformed guard checked to ensure that Garrett was on Valerie Mayberry’s visitors’ list. Garrett was holding a bouquet of pink roses and alstroemeria that he’d bought at a grocery store.

  Another officer in a golf cart drove him through meticulously groomed lawns along a winding driveway to the entrance of a fifty-room stone mansion built in 1909 on the fifty-acre estate. From its front stoop, he could see Long Island Sound.

  “I’m Hannah Clements,” a forty-something woman said after he’d entered the center hall, which had a Bourgogne limestone floor and grand curved staircase and was decorated with Victorian-era furniture. She led him through French doors outside to a spacious terrace.

  “Valerie’s parents entrusted her recovery to us as soon as she was stable enough to leave the hospital,” Clements said. “We are quite proud of our rehabilitation facility. We only accept fifteen patients so we can focus on individual needs and we’ve been rated one of the most successful in the world. This is your first visit, is it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Her parents are very protective and have not allowed many guests. Unless I’m mistaken, you may be the first nonfamily visitor. May I ask how you know Valerie?”

  “We worked together before she was poisoned.”

  “Ah, so you are that Brett Garrett, the one I read about in the newspapers, just as I suspected.” She nodded toward a woman sitting with her back to them, facing a formal English garden. “There’s our lady.”

  He flinched. Garrett had not been warned that Mayberry would be in a wheelchair.

  Clements noticed. “The chair is temporary,” she said. “Actually, Valerie is making amazing progress. She is very determined.”

  “Yeah, you could say that,” he replied, slightly smiling.

  “I must warn you that Valerie still has difficulty speaking and she also becomes tired easily, especially after her morning sessions, so I must insist that your visit last no more than ten minutes.

  He thanked her and walked over, taking a seat on the brick waist-high wall that edged the terrace so that he was facing Mayberry.

  “Agent Mayberry,” he said cheerfully.

  Garrett handed her the flowers. She took them with her left hand, and he noticed her right was knotted awkwardly in a fist and lying on her lap.

  “They said you’re doing great with your rehabilitation. Very determined. I don’t think they’ll be able to keep you here for long, which is good news, because the bureau needs you back. Still lots of rabbits in the world for you to protect.”

  He grinned. She gave him a curious look. He wasn’t certain she remembered her reason for joining the FBI.

  She looked out over the gardens. He did, too. For several minutes. Peaceful. Silence.

  “I never got to thank you,” he said quietly. “You stopped a mass murder. Jumping into the Senate like you did, screaming about a bomb, blocking that hole with your finger. Brilliant. I probably would have been poisoned, too, if Makayla had wrestled that briefcase from you. Naturally, I deserve credit as well for throwing the gas mask to you. Probably the best pitch of my life.”

  He struggled to think of something else to say.

  “Don’t know if you realize how famous you are,” he said. “Della has taped news articles about you on the wall right next to the ‘Cash Tip’s Pleas’ sign in Baltimore. You’re a real celebrity. I suggested they name an omelet after you.” He laughed.

  She continued looking out at the garden.

  “Listen, Mayberry,” he said standing. “My ten minutes is up, but I came to tell you that I’m going to get the bastard responsible and I wanted you to know something. Something I need to tell you. It’s just not the bureau that wants you back. We’re a good team, even if you do have a lot of really irritating habits. I’d like you back.”

  He reached down and gently placed his hand on her left shoulder.

  “Thank you, Brett.” Her words came out with a stutter. He realized that she’d never called him by his first name before. Glancing down at her lap, she added, “Your flowers suck.”

  She looked up at him and was smiling.

  * * *

  Thirty hours later, Garrett stepped from one of Kim’s IEC jets onto the tarmac at the Bissau Airport in the African Republic of Guinea-Bissau. Thomas Jefferson Kim was waiting behind the wheel of a Range Rover.

  “Welcome to one of the world’s most dangerous and utterly corrupt countries,” Kim said. “Not many places to live when you’re a Russian general hiding from the International Criminal Court and U.S. authorities.”

  “Gromyko isn’t worried about being put on trial,” Garrett replied. “He’s looking over his shoulder for Russian Zasion forces. How’d you find him when no one else can?”

  “I’m better than everyone else at tracking people,” Kim replied as they drove from the airport.

  “Have the other members of my team arrived?” Garrett asked.

  “Brought them in yesterday. This nation is a haven for international drug smugglers, so cargo planes fly in and out daily without anyone paying attention. Everyone I’ve met here takes bribes.”

  He reached behind the front seats for a package that he handed to Garrett. “A little present I picked up for you.” It was a SIG Sauer semi-auto with extra ammunition. “I know you lost the last one.”

  “I didn’t lose it. Gromyko’s goons stole it from me when I was ambushed on the train with Pavel and Peter.”

  The black oxide-coated handgun felt good in his grip.

  “I want to remind you that Gromyko is living under the protection of a local warlord who helped lead a coup d’état against the last government,” Kim said. “You have a limited amount of time to kill him. Otherwise, he’ll call in reinforcements.”

  “It will be a piece of cake.”

  “I’m not a
fan of cake,” Kim replied.

  “How reliable is your information about tomorrow?” Garrett asked.

  Kim shrugged. “I paid a lot for it to a reliable source, but Gromyko could change his mind in the morning and cancel his trip.”

  “Between nine and ten o’clock. That’s when he’ll be on the move, right?”

  “That’s what I’ve been told. Get this: he’ll be in a Mercedes-Maybach S650 that he bought off a local drug smuggler. In this hellhole,” Kim said. “Tomorrow’s our best chance to hit him. If he stays in his compound, you’d have to kill your way through a hundred mercenaries.”

  “How many bullets did you bring?”

  It took them several hours to reach the remote area where Gromyko was hiding. The flat land they entered was barren at points, with only a few scraggly bushes surviving on the brown, dry dirt. Kim pulled off the one-lane road onto a dry creek bed, which they followed for several miles until they came to a more lush area with trees and overgrown bushes. He parked the four-wheeler in a grove of cashew trees, and they continued on foot, using a navigational GPS connected to an IEC satellite to guide them. They eventually reached a clearing about half the size of a football field in the African forest.

  “Cost me a fortune to drop your teammates here last night,” Kim said.

  “Next time use Amazon Prime,” Garrett replied.

  “Funny,” Kim grunted.

  “You still got lots of money,” Garrett said. “Stop crying poor.”

  They began unstrapping two pallets connected to parachutes. “Now the fun begins,” Kim said. “Time to fire up MUTT-ONE.”

  Using a portable computer linked to his satellite, Kim started the engine of a robotic Multi-Utility Tactical Transport, called MUTT by the U.S. military, that he’d customized. It resembled an ATV but had been cut to about half that size. Kim had armed it with a DShKM, a new version of a heavy machine gun first manufactured by the Soviets in 1938 but still being used today by the Russian military.

  “I’ve added remote-controlled laser-guided computer sights, GPS mapping, and gyroscopic stabilization,” Kim said proudly. “Now some people mistakenly believe this weapon can fire U.S./NATO .50-caliber ammunition, but that’s not true. The Russian military manual describes its rounds as being .51 caliber, just enough to prevent them from being interchangeable.” He was enjoying showing off his customized weaponry. “I was able to get the records from the company that armored Gromyko’s Maybach. His car was designed to withstand standard 7.62 mm NATO rounds, and a blast from two DM51 hand grenades detonated together. This Russian machine gun’s ammunition will penetrate up to three-fourths of an inch High Hard Armor. Plus, MUTT-ONE will be positioned about fifty yards from the target. At such a close distance, the computer should be able to fire multiple rounds in such a compact grouping that if the first round doesn’t do the trick, the following ones will be enough to penetrate and stop the Maybach’s 621 horsepower V-12 engine.”