Collusion

by Newt Gingrich

  ¶ 60))85;;]8*;:‡*8†83(88)5*†;46(;88*96 *?;8)*‡(;485);5*†2:*‡(;4956*2(5*—4)8

  ¶ 8*;4069285);)6†8)4‡‡;1(‡9;48081;8:8‡1;48†85;4)485†528806*81(‡9;48;(88;4

  (‡?34;48)4‡;161;:188;‡?;

  Continuing, Lopez said, “If you decipher the first sentence of Poe’s cryptogram correctly, it reads: ‘A good glass in the bishop’s hostel in the devil’s seat.’”

  “That’s the exact phrase Pavel said!” President Fitzgerald exclaimed. “See if the cryptogram’s first line works.”

  Lopez typed:

  53‡‡†305))6*;4826)4‡.)4‡);806*;48†8 ¶60))85;

  The flash drive opened, revealing a single file. “Only for the eyes of President Randle Fitzgerald” was marked on it.

  “Great work, Oscar,” Harris said. “You can wait outside now.” Addressing the president, he added, “Do you want to open this file alone or should I stay here.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You stay. Now let’s see what these Russian bastards are up to.”

  He clicked on the file, and a video recording of Pavel appeared.

  Eleven

  Yakov Prokofyevich Pavel exited the Tupolev Tu-134 twin-engine jet aircraft minutes after it landed at Ostafyevo International Airport, on the southern outskirts of Moscow. The 1960s-era airplane was nicknamed “Crusty” when it first appeared in the West. An aeronautical insult because it was considered substandard. After a 2011 crash killed forty-seven, the Kremlin said all remaining Crusty planes would be grounded. Russia, being Russia, still used them, although they were generally assigned to transport lower-level government officials, not someone of Pavel’s status.

  General Andre Borsovich Gromyko had arranged for the Tu-134 to carry Pavel to Washington, D.C., for Ambassador Thorpe’s funeral. It was an obvious slight. Pavel had been in line to become Russia’s foreign minister, but that was before Gromyko had targeted him. Gromyko was orchestrating a power takeover. Most of Pavel’s peers already had been forced out. Pavel had stubbornly stayed. He still had important connections, but for how long. The general was merely dancing on Russian president Vyachesian Kalugin’s strings.

  Pavel had detested Kalugin since his arrival in Moscow from St. Petersburg. It was contempt at first sight. An uncouth personality. Extreme grandiosity. A Visigoth had become president and Pavel had watched it happen and, more important, understood why.

  After the Soviet Union had been broken into fifteen separate countries, Russia had been viewed as a failed nation. Its people had been humbled. Kalugin had restored Russia’s pride. He’d reminded the Russian people that their country still was a world player, if for no other reason than it controlled large numbers of nuclear missiles. Kalugin was loved by the Russian people—not because of what he did—but because of his carefully crafted image as a strongman willing to thumb his nose at a seemingly all-powerful America.

  The United States had foolishly underestimated Kalugin. Pavel had not. The seasoned diplomat had recognized that Kalugin posed a threat, not only to the West, but to the entire world. The president’s ultimate goal was the reunification of the old Soviet empire—and then, perhaps a bit more. Crimea had been his tiptoe into international waters. No one had stopped him.

  A student of history, Pavel had seen a troubling similarity reemerging from the past. After World War I, Germany had been hit with punitive territorial, military, and economic penalties outlined in the 1919 Treaty of Versailles. It had been stripped of 13 percent of its land, including territories with names that few today would recognize. France had reclaimed Alsace-Lorraine, Belgium had taken control of Eupen and Malmedy, Denmark had gobbled up Northern Schleswig, Poland had taken parts of West Prussia and Silesia, Czechoslovakia won the Hultschin District, and Lithuania had been awarded Memel, a small strip in East Prussia along the Baltic Sea. In total, one-tenth of Germany’s population, nearly seven million Germans living in 27,000 square miles, suddenly found themselves under what they considered foreign rule and reduced to second-class citizenship.

  That land grabbing had left deep-rooted bitterness. Years later, when Adolf Hitler launched his first Nazi military attacks, he’d assured the West that he was only reacquiring what had been unfairly stripped from Germany after the first war. Many Germans in those forfeited regions welcomed the Third Reich’s arrival.

  In Pavel’s eyes, Kalugin was adopting that same playbook. The old Communist Party loyalists were still alive in the former Soviet republics—waiting for reunification.

  While the Americans had been preoccupied with Islamic terrorism and endless, unwinnable wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, Russia had quietly reasserted its international power. Ukraine, Crimea, Syria. Iran. Chechnya. Even Turkey.

  Russian president Kalugin understood that the trick to defeating America was not a suicidal nuclear war—but a strategy to destroy the United States from within. Undermine its core democratic principles. Destroy its moral bedrock. Divide its people. Fuel hatred and distrust. Spread fear. Cause enough havoc and its own citizens would eat themselves.

  A car from the Foreign Ministry was waiting for Pavel on the airport’s tarmac. As he descended the portable stairs from the jet, he spotted his grandson, Peter, in the rear seat. Before Pavel’s shoes touched the ground, three vehicles suddenly appeared.

  General Gromyko. The cars blocked Pavel’s ride. One of Gromyko’s goons directed Pavel to the general’s Mercedes-Benz, where Gromyko was smoking a Belomorkanal, an odd choice of cigarette given the general’s preference for Western products. However, Belomorkanal cigarettes didn’t have filters. Instead, each had a papirosa—a hollow cardboard tube at its base that served as a disposable cigarette holder—a sign of aristocracy and Russian pride in Gromyko’s eyes.

  “Yakov Prokofyevich,” Gromyko said. “I’m ready to hear your report about the funeral.”

  “It was an American funeral like all other American funerals,” Pavel replied. “I will be submitting my written account tomorrow when I return to my office.”

  “Deputy Minister, I am here now.”

  “Morale at our embassy is good. All details will be in my report tomorrow.”

  “Was there mention of Kiev? Do the Americans suspect us?”

  “The Americans always suspect us. There was nothing to concern you.”

  “Do not presume to know what concerns me,” Gromyko replied, slightly raising his voice.

  Pavel nodded toward the Tu-134 aircraft. “I was under the impression these airplanes had been discontinued, but it was quite capable and very comfortable. Thank you for arranging it for me.” A sarcastic comment slightly masked as a compliment.

  Gromyko took a long drag. “Yakov Prokofyevich, what was said between you and the United States president after the funeral service? Your exact words.”

  For a moment, Pavel wondered if the general knew about the flash drive and password. In those same seconds, he concluded it was impossible. He’d been too careful. Gromyko was fishing.

  “Ah, yes, the funeral reception,” Pavel said. “I extended the appropriate regrets to the American president as instructed by our foreign minister.”

  “Did he ask you about Kiev?”

  “No. I mentioned it to him.”

  “You mentioned it?” Gromyko repeated, clearly surprised.

  “Yes, of course. I was instructed by the foreign minister to mention it. A slight provocation to help us learn the Americans’ thinking. Certainly, you were aware of the foreign minister’s order.”

  Clearly, he wasn’t, which greatly pleased Pavel. He decided to taunt the general. “I presumed you had approved the script that I was instructed to say to the Americans.”

  Gromyko quietly smashed out what was left of his cigarette in an armrest ashtray.

  Pavel continued: “Since it appears you were not aware, General, let me elaborate. I was told to inform President Fitzgerald that I had been in attendance at the Kiev news conference when the shooting began. I was instructed to say that I had escaped unharmed. I was f
urther told to listen carefully to the American president’s reaction.”

  “And what was his reaction?”

  “The American president’s exact words, which I will be putting in my report tomorrow for the foreign minister, were ‘Clearly you weren’t a target.’”

  “Are you certain that was all the American president said?”

  Pavel raised a bushy eyebrow and turned his head to the side in a gesture meant to express bewilderment. “General Gromyko, you asked what I said to the president and how he responded. I have reported exactly what he said.”

  “Nothing more to your exchange when you were observed leaning in close to him shaking hands. Whispering.”

  So, Gromyko’s spies had been watching. Pavel had anticipated it. Five junior diplomats had accompanied him to Washington. Which one had been the informant? Most likely, all of them.

  “That whispering was when I said the words that the foreign minister had instructed me to say. I’m certain the foreign minister will provide you with the exact script that I was given to whisper. Now, if you do not have any other questions, I am tired and would like to return to my home.”

  Gromyko studied the diplomat’s face, searching for some indication that he was holding back information. Pavel proved impossible to read. Lying was a well-regarded diplomatic skill, but all Russians raised during the Soviet period had become skilled at it. If there had been no bread in the stores, it was not because of failed crops; it was because of the Americans or the Jews, or some other explanation, even though everyone knew the truth. They simply were afraid to say it. Lies became like breathing, done effortlessly without thought. Telling the truth was what had been difficult.

  Gromyko lit another Belomorkanal. “You don’t smoke, do you Yakov Prokofyevich?”

  “I tried it as a child and didn’t prefer it.”

  “Yakov Prokofyevich, have you given any more thought to our discussion about your retirement?”

  “I prefer to continue serving our country. Those who retire become easily bored.”

  “You are currently responsible for relations with European countries, European cooperation, interaction with the EU, NATO, and the Council of Europe,” Gromyko said. “It is the president’s wish that these tasks now be overseen by a different deputy minister who can better represent Russian interests abroad.”

  “If this is what the president wishes—”

  “I have just told you it is.”

  “May I ask what my new responsibilities will be?”

  “Still to be determined. Report to your office tomorrow, file a detailed report about your trip, and arrange to transfer your files to your replacement.”

  “As you wish.”

  Gromyko nodded toward Peter, whom the general could see waiting for Pavel. “Your grandson is deaf and dumb, is he not?”

  “His diagnosis is selective mutism.”

  “Selective mutism?”

  “I’m not certain how my grandson’s medical condition is of concern to your duties.”

  “Would you prefer I ask him?”

  “It is a disorder in which a person who is normally capable of speech cannot speak in specific situations or to specific people. It usually coexists with shyness and social anxiety.”

  “He can hear, and he can speak, but chooses not to,” Gromyko summarized. “What has he told you about his parents’ work and their deaths?”

  “My grandson has not spoken to anyone for several years, including his own parents.”

  “You cannot be certain of this, can you? Many teenagers are talkative, yet you wish for me to believe your grandson has said nothing about his parents’ laboratory work. Not a single question, nor has he shown the slightest curiosity about the accident that killed them. His parents worked in an important laboratory.”

  “My grandson knows nothing,” Pavel said firmly. “He is under the care of our best doctors. You could speak to them about him. They believe the best course is to not pressure him, driving him deeper into his illness.”

  “Yakov Prokofyevich,” Gromyko said, suddenly grinning. “You think me cruel when, in fact, my actions are done for the protection of Russia.” He retrieved a white box with a red ribbon tied around it. A small sticker: Крупской, one of Russia’s most famous chocolatiers. “I brought you candies for your grandson. You see, I am not as much a villain as you make me.”

  “Thank you, General. This is most thoughtful.”

  Gromyko playfully wagged a finger at Pavel. “There are only six candies in this box. They are of superior quality. I take no responsibility if you yourself become tempted, but they are for the child.”

  Pavel watched Gromyko and his entourage depart. He kissed his grandson’s cheeks. The teen was lanky, rail thin, much like his father. His brown eyes reminded Pavel the most of his only daughter. “Dancing eyes” is what Pavel had called them when she was young. Always darting back and forth, absorbing every sight, wide when happy, narrow when cross, much more revealing than words.

  “Chocolates,” Pavel said, holding up the white box.

  Peter took the box.

  “A gift from General Gromyko.”

  The teen handed the box back to his grandfather.

  Pavel nodded approvingly. “You know about him then. You know he was in charge of the laboratory where your parents died. Your parents talked about him, didn’t they? His cruelty.”

  He looked into the boy’s eyes and tousled the teen’s hair.

  “Yes, with your dancing eyes, you see more than most of us, don’t you? Good.”

  Reaching forward, he dropped the box over the front seat next to the driver.

  Twelve

  Brett Garrett tugged the brim of his Washington Nationals baseball cap downward as he entered the Church of the Resurrection about two miles from his condo. Five steps down into a basement meeting room illuminated by rows of old fluorescent bulbs. Jacket collar turned up. Sunglasses even though it was evening. His attempt to conceal his face was nothing new to the two dozen gathered there. Most first-timers did it. A bearded man with a watermelon belly and dyed, thinning black hair said loudly, “My turn’s tonight. Let’s get started.” The few still pouring coffee at a side table settled into the metal folding chairs. Garrett slipped into one closest to the exit.

  “My name is Ray and I am an addict,” the man said.

  “Hello, Ray,” everyone but Garrett replied.

  “My addiction cost me a good job, my friends, my wife, my kids, and caused me to do things I’d never thought I’d do. If you’re here tonight, you know what I’m saying.”

  Ray began reading from a worn handbook. “Best to pray. Spiritual strength is usually accompanied by a sense of calm. More than most people, we need to remind ourselves that God is the real worker of miracles here. At best, we are but instruments of our Higher Power.”

  Garrett thought about leaving, and thought about not leaving.

  Ray continued: “Narcotics Anonymous is the spiritual moment that an addict discovers within themselves—the strength to stay clean one more day. When we share this with even one other addict, we activate the spirit of Narcotics Anonymous. This moment is what we share together in recovery and it is the heart of our program.”

  Closing the text, Ray said: “Jail, yep been there. More than once. I think they kept a cell reserved just for me.”

  A few knowing chuckles.

  “Homeless, damn right. Waking up in my own vomit and waste. Yep. I’ve been spit on, called a bum. Lost all respect. But now, now I’m doing great. Five years clean. Every day’s a new challenge but also a new opportunity. You got to take them one day at a time, it helps. God is my North Star. I’ve even started dating a good woman.”

  Spontaneous applause. Turning, he picked up a government pamphlet. “According to this, more than sixty thousand Americans are dying each year taking opioids.” He paused and scanned their faces. “The cravings crawl up inside you like that monster in that movie Alien. You need more and more to feel normal
and then you need more to prevent withdrawal, and then the real kick in the ass happens. No matter how much you take, the depression is still there.”

  Ray’s eyes began to glisten. “Look at us. We’re all good, decent Americans. None of us woke up one morning and said, ‘I want to become an addict.’ All of us have hated ourselves because of our own manipulative behaviors, lying, our irresponsibility. How can we allow a little chemical pill to ruin our lives? That’s why you are here. One day at a time. Helping each other. Seeking God’s help.”

  During the next hour, others volunteered to speak. One discussed how she was struggling. She’d relapsed. Taken drugs. Blamed stress at home. The attendees sympathized and encouraged her. Another announced he was two years clean. Applause. Garrett slipped out just as the meeting was wrapping up. He wanted to avoid the closing circle that he’d seen on a YouTube video about NA—when everyone held hands and chanted “One More Day!” like football players pumping themselves up before a big game.

  Rather than Uber, he walked. Medical-assisted treatment. His primary doctor had told him, “It’s your best shot to get off opioids. Buprenorphine and naloxone sublingual film tabs.” Had that doctor ever taken them? First came the vomiting, then constipation, inability to sleep, irritability. Even worse, he still felt the cravings.

  The walk helped. He emptied his mind but when he reached the door of his condo, he snapped to attention. A real estate sales pamphlet that he’d tucked between the door and its frame was now lying on the hallway floor. A one-cent coin near it. He drew his SIG Sauer from under his jacket and tested the doorknob. Unlocked. Whoever had entered or whoever was still inside didn’t care that Garrett knew. He entered barrel first.

  “An evening stroll?” a voice said.

  “I should shoot you,” Garrett replied.

  CIA director Harold Harris nodded at the gun still pointing at him. “If you’re not going to shoot, point that somewhere else.” He was sitting on Garrett’s gravel-gray, midcentury-modern sofa with honey walnut legs. It had been left behind by the former condo’s owner as part of an “all furniture included” sale.