Collusion

by Newt Gingrich

  The first bottle was now empty. Pavel opened the second.

  “You Americans suffer but it is from infantile stupidity. You think I am a drunkard uttering nonsense, but these cretins—Gromyko and Kalugin—they are your creations. Your Alice in Wonderland view of the world gave them birth.”

  Pavel stared at the glass before him, as if it had become a crystal ball.

  “Tonight’s lecture will be about American foreign policy,” he loudly declared in his well-lubricated voice. “After our great Soviet Union became ashes, your leaders called for a ‘new world order.’ The mighty United States and its like-minded Western countries would forever solve all problems with diplomacy instead of brute force.”

  “You’re a diplomat,” Garrett said, daring to interrupt. “You must believe in diplomacy.”

  “I’m a realist. You Americans believe all people are good and decent. You believe if you can only teach your Jeffersonian democracy and your Statue of Liberty ideals, why then, everyone will become like you, embrace your ideals, and the world’s problems will end.”

  His words were being spat out like tiny spears tipped in sarcasm. “What happened to this magnificent new world order of your creation? Your Alice in Wonderland adventure?”

  Leaning forward, he wagged a forefinger in Garrett’s face. “Your naïve Alice met radical Islamists who want to kill everyone who doesn’t accept their beliefs. They don’t give a damn about your democratic principles. Your Alice met Hamas and Hezbollah, who have pledged to destroy Israel and kill all Jews. They don’t give a damn about your Judeo-Christian morals. Your Alice met North Korea and Iran and politely asked them to stop building nuclear weapons. Ha. Shall I go on? The Taliban in Afghanistan. China with its arms buildup, and most of all, your stupid Alice was seduced and is being played the fool by Mother Russia.”

  His sarcasm had become contempt. “Your new world order has made the world worse because you have shown weakness, and the scent of weakness is like a bleeding animal to vultures such as Vyachesian Leninovich Kalugin. Do you not understand that a man like him will do whatever is necessary to stay in power? Do you not understand that the billions he has stolen and the oligarchs who have helped him will never peacefully relinquish their power? He and his comrades are men who eat and eat and eat and instead of filling their stomachs, they demand for themselves more and more and more.”

  With a shaking hand, he poured, splashing most onto the tabletop.

  “I will now share with you Kalugin’s new world order. Destroy NATO. Cause chaos in Europe. Undercut U.S. democracy. Crimea was his first nibble. This man is conducting hybrid warfare and you don’t even understand the term.”

  “Hybrid warfare?” Garrett said. “You are correct. I don’t understand that term.”

  Pavel paused, collecting his thoughts. “Think of a series of dials for various levels of aggression. He can spin them up and down as needed. You think I’m drunk, but I am telling you a truth.” He took a deep breath, focused, and said, in a quick cadence as if he were afraid to speak it slowly and forget it, “Kalugin is creating a multilayered, nonlinear system of strife that is nearly impossible for traditional defense and foreign policy doctrines to analyze and counter.” He smiled at himself, clearly delighted that he could utter such a sentence in his inebriated condition.

  His eyelids drooped. His voice became a mumble. His grandson slid back from the table and took the old man’s left arm, helping him stand.

  “My history lesson must end,” Pavel declared. “Death is not found behind the mountains but behind our shoulders. Ready to pounce.”

  Peter led his grandfather to the bed and removed the old man’s coat and shoes. He lay down next to him. Within seconds the old man was snoring. Still seated at the table, Garrett noticed the teen wiping his eyes. He was crying. Garrett stepped outside. It was cold. He took one of the stolen pills that he’d kept in his pants pocket.

  The next morning, Garrett examined the Lada. The old car would draw less attention than a BMW. Squirrels had nested under its hood, so he removed the debris. Chewed through wires. But the split rubber fuel line to the carburetor was the biggest problem. He was searching for some sort of tape when Pavel and Peter appeared.

  “Squirrels ate through the rubber fuel line,” he said. “This car’s in horrible shape.”

  “These cars were in horrible shape when brand new,” Pavel replied. “Peter, fetch me a knife.”

  The boy did as told and watched as Pavel reached down and cut the Lada’s rubber brake line, removing enough of it to replace the fuel line.

  “Problem solved,” he declared.

  “You just ruined the brakes.”

  “We need to drive forward. Not stop. Do you not know how to downshift?”

  Garrett already had siphoned enough gas from the BMW to see if the engine would turn over. Swapped batteries. The tired old engine coughed, spit, died. A second try. Smoke blew from its exhaust. Incredibly, it was running, but without brakes.

  “Here is what we shall do,” Pavel announced, clearly feeling empowered. “We wait until nightfall. By then Gromyko will be under intense pressure to end the roadblocks on all major roads. Traffic will be so bottlenecked, he will face a riot if he doesn’t. The police will not bother us for bribes, because in this car, it’s obvious we have no money to pay them. We drive to Klin and take the train to St. Petersburg to cross into Finland.”

  Garrett didn’t reply. He’d never told Pavel the escape route. Pavel noticed the curious look on the American’s face. He said, “Mr. Garrett, are you not following the same escape route as Oleg Gordievsky?”

  “How did you know that?”

  Pavel laughed. “Everyone knows the story. Everyone will assume, including General Gromyko.”

  Twenty-Eight

  “I need to see you!”

  Aysan Rivera’s voice sounded panicked.

  “Are you okay?” Valerie Mayberry asked. “Where are you?”

  “Meet me tonight. Eight o’clock. James Joyce Irish Pub near my condo. One of my bodyguards—he’s named Eric—will be there.”

  Rivera ended the call.

  Mayberry texted a follow-up. Waited. No reply.

  She called Mr. Smith, the go-between between Director Harris and her.

  “I need to speak to him. It’s important.”

  “He’s in meetings.”

  “Tell him Aysan resurfaced and wants to meet me. Now.”

  Ten minutes later, her phone rang.

  “I’ll send backup,” Director Harris said.

  “If she sees anyone but me, she’ll run.”

  “No one will see them, including you, unless they need to be seen.”

  The pub was crowded, and Mayberry was afraid that her contact, Eric, might not be able to find her, so she sat outside at a patio table. It was chilly and the only others near her were two men smoking. She was wearing a leather bomber jacket. It helped conceal her Glock 19. She hadn’t planned on eating but suspected it might look strange if she didn’t order. A Guinness and homemade Irish brown bread—the pub’s specialty. She nursed both and wondered: What did Rivera want? Had she changed her mind about surrendering to the bureau? If so, Mayberry would have to come clean to her FBI bosses about the unsuspecting role that she’d played at the Stonewall Jackson Shrine bombing. Or did Rivera want to meet because she’d decided to reveal the final digits to Makayla’s phone number? Either way, Mayberry had no reason to believe her cover had been blown. If she could continue to worm her way deeper into Makayla’s Antifa cell, she could discover where the pending Russian attack would happen. All thoughts while waiting.

  Eight p.m. Nothing. Eight fifteen still no contact. Eight thirty the bread and beer were consumed. Eight forty-five—a thirty-something white man wearing a cap stepped out from inside the pub, casually lit a cigarette, looked at Mayberry, finished his smoke, and walked to her table.

  “I’m Eric,” he said. He offered her a navy-blue raincoat and matching cap. They were identical to what he
was wearing. “It’s not haute couture, but please. A disguise of sorts.”

  She put the raincoat over her bomber jacket and pulled the cap down tightly on her head, shielding her face.

  “Button the jacket, please,” he said.

  She hesitated, knowing if she buttoned it, she would lose immediate access to her Glock.

  “I apologize for making you wait so long out here,” he continued. “A security precaution for everyone’s safety.”

  She put him at six foot two, guessed he was about 240 pounds. Blue eyes behind wire glasses. A bit of unshaven scruff. A disarming smile.

  “I wasn’t followed,” she said. She still hadn’t buttoned the raincoat.

  He raised his right cuff and spoke into a hidden microphone. A couple emerged from the pub. They were wearing raincoats and caps that were identical to the ones he and Mayberry had on. Four identically dressed figures.

  “We’ve buttoned our raincoats,” he said.

  Mayberry buttoned hers.

  They exited the pub’s patio as a single unit with the couple moving between them to confuse anyone watching from a distance. When they’d gone about a block, the couple broke away, taking a side street while Eric and Mayberry continued to the nearby National Katyn Memorial Fountain.

  The monument, which commemorated the mass executions by the Soviet secret police of some 22,000 Polish intellectuals in 1940, was in the center of a traffic circle. Mayberry stuck next to Eric, neither of them speaking, moving counterclockwise around the monument. Without warning, he stopped, spun around, and walked clockwise, retracing the steps they’d just taken.

  She understood. He was checking to see if anyone was trailing them. It was an elementary but effective detection technique. He led her onto Aliceanna Street, one of four avenues that fed into the circle. After walking east for four blocks, he reversed course, returning to the circle. Next he entered Lancaster Street, where they performed the same ritual. Mayberry assumed another one of Aysan’s bodyguards was positioned somewhere near the circle at a vantage point that allowed him or her to see if someone was going up and down the same side streets as them, always returning to the circle. It would be a dead giveaway. She began to worry. What if they spotted the CIA surveillance team Harris had sent to shadow her? She casually checked their surroundings. No sign of anyone following them. Harris said they would be ghosts.

  They had just entered the fourth side street emanating from the circle when a windowless white van slowed next to them. This was an especially dark avenue. The van’s sliding door opened and a man leapt out. He was aiming his handgun at Mayberry. She glanced at Eric. She’d not seen him draw a Ruger LCP subcompact pistol from his raincoat.

  “Get in the van,” Eric ordered.

  Mayberry was outmatched. Two armed men with their guns drawn and no way for her to draw her Glock.

  Where was her backup?

  From the van’s front passenger seat, she heard a familiar voice.

  “Get in or we kill you here,” Makayla Jones said.

  Eric shoved her toward the van.

  No one was coming to rescue her. She stepped inside, followed by both men.

  “Makayla, why are you doing this to me?” she asked in her most innocent-sounding voice.

  The driver turned up the volume on the radio, making it impossible for anyone to hear any conversation, and checked the side mirrors while accelerating.

  They exited Baltimore, traveling south on Interstate 95 toward Washington, but after several miles, the driver exited and reversed his route, heading back into the city toward the Port of Baltimore. For an hour, they rode through side streets, doubling back, turning onto alleys, traveling on one-way streets. When they reached a warehouse near its docks, the driver stopped, then Eric opened the side door and stepped outside. Makayla joined him.

  “You two stay in the van,” she ordered the driver and the other armed man. “In case uninvited guests show up.”

  With Eric nudging her forward, Mayberry followed Makayla toward the warehouse. She glanced around. Still no backup. Makayla shut the door behind them and said, “Give me your pepper spray.”

  “I didn’t bring it. I thought I was meeting friends.”

  Eric handed Makayla his Ruger LCP so he could frisk Mayberry. He unbuttoned her raincoat, reached inside, and confiscated her Glock 19.

  “This is how you greet your friends?” he grunted. He tucked the pistol into the waistband of his pants and continued frisking her.

  “Where is Aysan?” Mayberry asked.

  Eric discovered Mayberry’s cell phone in her jacket pocket. He handed it to Makayla and reclaimed his Ruger LCP from her, which he pointed at Mayberry.

  “That’s everything,” he announced.

  “We should have frisked her in the van.” Makayla peeled apart Mayberry’s cell phone, plucking the SID card from it. She threw the card away, dropped the phone onto the concrete floor, and stomped it several times with her heel.

  Nodding at Mayberry, she said, “Get undressed.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Do it!” Eric snapped.

  Mayberry let the raincoat fall onto the floor.

  “Is this really necessary?” she protested.

  “Want Eric to help you?” Makayla asked.

  He smirked.

  “Let’s all calm down,” Mayberry said as she removed her bomber jacket, which she tossed onto the floor. She bent down to untie her shoes and remove her socks. Rising, she unhooked her belt and shimmied, causing her denim jeans to slide down around her feet. Stepping from them, she unbuttoned and removed her blouse.

  “Happy now?” she asked sarcastically, wearing only a bra and underwear. “I’m not wearing a wire.”

  “Turn around,” Makayla ordered, carefully inspecting her. Satisfied, she said, “Get your pants and blouse back on. Leave the shoes, socks, and jacket on the floor.”

  Mayberry did as told.

  “Follow me,” Makayla ordered. They walked through a maze of bright red cargo containers until they reached a lighted corner of the warehouse.

  Aysan Rivera. No glitz, no glamour, no designer clothing. She had been stripped to her underwear and was bound to a heavy wooden chair with gray duct tape wrapped around her wrists and ankles. No makeup, hair tangled, puffed red face from being repeatedly struck. Eyes closed. Badly swollen. Chin leaning down against her chest. Drool from her mouth. Next to her a table. A syringe. Prescription bottles. A tablespoon and cigarette lighter.

  Mayberry noticed another item on the table. Rivera’s cell phone. She recognized its diamond-encrusted case. Rivera must have been beaten and drugged after she had called Mayberry, luring her into this trap.

  “Wake up, Aysan!” Makayla ordered.

  No response. Makayla slapped Rivera against her left cheek. Rivera stirred. Another harsh slap. This one caused her to squint. She managed to raise her chin. Her drug-induced fog was lifting.

  Makayla addressed Mayberry, who was standing about ten feet away from her. “This little bird has been singing about you.”

  Eric, who was standing next to Mayberry, turned so that he could watch Makayla and Rivera, but also keep his Ruger LCP leveled at Mayberry’s chest.

  “She’s told us,” Makayla continued, “you wanted her to go to the FBI. To snitch me out.”

  Mayberry said nothing. Consciously not reacting.

  Makayla said, “Aysan was trying to run away, leave the country.”

  She glanced at Rivera. “Such a disappointment.” Reaching down, she clasped Rivera’s chin between her thumb and forefinger, wagging it back and forth, as if her captive were a puppet. “Did you hear me? Are you listening?”

  Rivera appeared to gradually become more aware of her surroundings.

  “Antifa is everywhere,” Makayla said. “I knew about your plan the moment you bought your airplane ticket online. I knew you intended to fly away.”

  Makayla released her hold on Rivera’s chin, which dropped back onto her chest.

 
Addressing Mayberry, Makayla said, “Your charade is over, Special Agent Valerie Mayberry.”

  Mayberry’s eyes narrowed. “Someone has been telling you lies.”

  “So you know nothing about Brett Garrett and the CIA’s plans to smuggle Deputy Minister Pavel out of Moscow? You know nothing about IEC and Kim helping him?”

  In spite of her stoic appearance, Mayberry was stunned.

  Makayla said, “I told you we are everywhere. After I dispose of this little bird, I will enjoy putting you in this chair. Hearing what you can tell me. You will tell me everything I ask. I promise you that.”

  Makayla reached over to the table near the chair where Aysan was restrained. Percocet. 10/650. Maximum prescribed dose. She crushed several pills and put the powder onto a tablespoon. A touch of water. Bit of vitamin C pack as an acidic solution. Heated by a lighter to a bubble.

  The threat of another dose seemed to jar Rivera awake. She began squirming

  “No, pleeasse,” Rivera pleaded.

  Through her swollen eyes, Rivera fully comprehended that Mayberry was there. “You did this to me!” she cried.

  “That’s right, little bird. She was supposed to be your friend,” Makayla said.

  Both looked at Mayberry, but she didn’t react. Her thoughts were elsewhere. Where was her promised backup?

  “This is the price you pay, little bird,” Makayla continued, “for introducing an FBI agent into our cell. You vouched for her based on what—her taste in clothes designers?”

  “Don’t!” Rivera gasped.

  Makayla opened two packets of condoms and tied them together, making an addict’s tourniquet on Rivera’s upper left arm.

  “You’ll soon be just another opioid overdose,” Makayla said.

  “My father will pay. I’ll disappear.”

  Makayla found a vein on Rivera’s left forearm. Closest to the wrist was best in case the vein collapsed. You could always move up the arm. Bevel needle hole pointed up. Increased the flow into the view from the syringe. She lowered the injection. Mesmerizing to watch. Too mesmerizing.