Collusion

by Newt Gingrich

“You sent these SEALs in for one reason and one reason only, to rescue Ms. Elsa Eriksson, is that correct?” Senator Stone asked Harris.

  “Yes, that is correct, Senator.”

  “But the objective of that mission changed, did it not?”

  “No, Senator, the primary objective was always the same—to rescue Ms. Eriksson. However, upon entering the Boko Haram camp, the SEAL team discovered a second hostage.”

  “Hold on,” Senator Stone said. “Did this second hostage—was she a U.S. citizen?”

  “No, sir, she was a Nigerian aid worker.”

  “What specific order did you give Chief Garrett when he informed you of this second hostage?”

  Harris looked directly at the panel of eight senators from the majority party and seven from the minority who were seated behind an elevated platform much like courtroom judges. He moved from one face to another, seeking sympathy, trying to convey with his eyes that he bore no culpability for what had happened.

  “I specifically told Chief Garrett not to put his men in harm’s way by attempting to rescue that second local worker,” Harris answered.

  It was a lie, but Harris said it with confidence that only he and Garrett knew the truth about their communications that night.

  Without prompting, Harris elaborated. “This rescue mission depended on complete surprise. A quick entrance and extraction. The agency had done its due diligence, and while I felt tremendous sympathy for this second hostage, I understood that any attempt to rescue her would threaten our objective and certainly put American lives in grave danger.”

  “Director Harris,” Senator Stone asked, reading from questions prepared by his staff, “did Chief Brett Garrett obey your direct order to exit the camp immediately with Ms. Eriksson and leave the second hostage behind?”

  “No, Senator, he did not.”

  “Did he, in fact, separate his men into two teams, sending a seven-man team back with Ms. Eriksson to a waiting rescue helicopter?”

  “Yes, Senator, he separated his men into two different ones.”

  “How many Boko Haram fighters were in this camp?”

  “As many as twenty, Senator.”

  “And how many SEALs remained there after Chief Garrett divided his men?”

  “Only seven.”

  “Director Harris, were you aware that Chief Garrett was disobeying your direct order?”

  “No, sir. Chief Garrett had switched off his headset, temporarily ending all communication with me.”

  “Why would someone under your command turn off his headset?”

  “I believe it was because Chief Garrett had decided to ignore my direct order, which he did. He had decided before asking me to rescue the Nigerian worker.”

  “When did you next hear from Chief Garrett?”

  “When he informed me his team required a third rescue helicopter because he had discovered—while rescuing the second hostage—that there were more Nigerian locals being held hostage in the camp.”

  “These were not U.S. citizens—is that correct?”

  “Yes, they were Nigerian locals. I reiterated that we only had two rescue helicopters waiting at the rendezvous site and there was not sufficient room for an additional ten non-U.S. personnel. I told Chief Garrett that he should not have separated his men into two groups. He should have left the camp with his complete team immediately after he had freed Ms. Eriksson.”

  More lies. A twisting of the knife that Harris already had inserted into Garrett’s back.

  Harris continued: “I again ordered him to leave the camp immediately—without the additional hostages—because we simply were not prepared to assist non-U.S. personnel and doing so would put his men in even graver danger.”

  Harris paused and sadly shook his head. “Senator, if I may, a personal note. All of us involved in this operation would have preferred saving as many hostages as possible from these terrorists, but that was not Brett Garrett’s decision to make. It was mine, and sometimes being in charge demands making difficult choices—as you know, Senator. I could not legitimately put the lives of American soldiers at risk at that moment and jeopardize the success of our mission. I was perfectly willing to send men back to that camp to rescue the hostages, but only after we had developed a feasible and workable plan. Not a half-cocked, emotionally driven one.”

  “Did Chief Garrett obey these orders from you?” Senator Stone said, continuing with his scripted questions.

  “He did not. He took it upon himself to escort additional non-U.S. personnel from the camp, knowing there was no room for them at the rendezvous site.”

  “Did the SEALs whom he dispatched to escort Ms. Eriksson to the rendezvous site—did that first team safely complete its mission without engaging any enemy combatants?”

  “Yes, Senator, they were able to extract Ms. Eriksson without incident.”

  “Would it be safe to assume, Director Harris, that if Chief Garrett had not divided his team and had he escorted Ms. Eriksson to the two waiting helicopters—this mission would have been a success and no Americans would have been wounded or killed?”

  Harris didn’t hesitate.

  “Yes, Senator, I believe that is a correct assumption.”

  “Director Harris,” Senator Stone said, glancing up from his list of questions, “it’s clear to me, and I’m sure to my fellow committee members, that you are attempting to shift all blame and responsibility for what happened in Cameroon onto Chief Garrett, but what does this incident say about your ability to lead the CIA? You were in charge, not Chief Garrett.”

  “Nothing,” Harris replied in a calm voice. “The agency is not to blame, and neither am I. Mr. Garrett bears complete responsibility.”

  “Why am I not surprised by your answer?” Senator Stone said sarcastically. “Are you telling this committee that you are not responsible for the actions of the people under your command? What sort of leader makes such a statement?”

  “An honest one,” Harris replied defiantly. “My mistake was trusting Chief Garrett, but in my business, you have to trust others to accomplish your goals. Fault me for that, Senator, but don’t fault me for the death of your son. His death lies on Chief Garrett’s shoulders.”

  “No, Director, it is on both of yours. You chose Chief Garrett—a man who didn’t respect you—to run this mission. Earning your people’s respect is part of leadership and, based on what has happened, leadership is severely lacking at your agency. My son’s blood is on your hands, too.”

  Harris took his licks, but he was confident that he’d put enough blame on Garrett to satisfy the White House and keep his job as director secure.

  Witnesses often sat inside the committee room listening to testimony and waiting for their turn, but Brett Garrett was under military guard awaiting a court-martial. The hearing was being broadcast live on national television. He watched Harris testify from an adjoining room and he felt both betrayed and frustrated.

  Director Harris had classified key details about the mission, hiding information from Congress. There had been no disclosure that the Nigerian locals were children or that Abidemi was being raped when Garrett decided to save her. Harris only told Senator Stone, the committee, and the media what he wanted them to hear.

  Still recovering and being heavily medicated for burns, Garrett was escorted into the Senate chamber by guards and two military-assigned defense counsels, who’d been appointed to represent him at his upcoming court-martial. His hands were cuffed.

  “Chief Brett Garrett,” Senator Stone began, “I have been told that upon advice of your legal counsel, you will choose to cite the Fifth Amendment and not answer a single question posed by this investigative committee. Is that correct, sir?”

  Garrett nodded.

  “I asked you a direct question, and this committee requires a verbal reply from you, even if you are, in my opinion, taking a coward’s way out of acknowledging your role and responsibility in the wounding of your men and the death of my son.”

  Senator Sto
ne spat his words. Filled with hatred. He glared at Garrett.

  One of the defense lawyers whispered into Garrett’s ear. Except for cameras clicking, the room was silent. Garrett leaned forward and spoke into the microphone. “I have been advised by my attorneys to cite my Fifth Amendment right.”

  Stone shouted: “To not incriminate yourself.”

  Garrett had wanted to testify. He’d wanted to expose Harris as a liar. After all, the director had given him permission that night to rescue Abidemi. Garrett had wanted to tell the American public that his fellow SEALs, except for Senator, had agreed that they should save the other children. But before the hearing, his attorneys had come to him with a deal—a deal that had been engineered behind the scenes by Harris. If Garrett agreed to plead the Fifth at the hearing, a military tribunal would go easy on him. He’d only do eighteen months at the U.S. Disciplinary Barracks in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. If he rejected their offer, he would be sentenced to a minimum of fifteen years, probably longer, possibly his entire life.

  Garrett sat mum for the next ten minutes while Senator Stone pelted him with questions that he refused to answer, all crafted to verbally castrate him. Even after that dressing-down, Stone wanted more. His staff rolled a large television into the hearing room. The lights dimmed and Richard Stone appeared as an infant. Home movies chronicling his life. A toddler jumping in and out of a plastic baby pool. A ten-year-old performing in an elementary school concert. Trombone. Richard Stone driving his first car. Now posing with his proud parents in a naval uniform. The images on the screen turned ugly. Photos of Bear’s wounded face taken in a Nigerian first-aid tent. Curly’s bloodied arm. Big Mac’s bleeding thigh. The burned corpses of helicopter pilots being loaded for transport, and the finale—a television news clip showing Petty Officer 3rd Class Richard Stone’s funeral procession at Arlington National Cemetery with his mother and Senator Stone in mourning. Stone’s aged and wrinkled face wet with tears as a folded American flag was passed to them.

  There had never been as emotional a hearing as this one before the committee. Several in attendance were sobbing. When the lights came on, Senator Stone’s voice cracked with emotion. “Get this witness out of our sight.”

  By law, courts-martial are public—if the public is told where they are held and permitted to enter military property. A month later, Garrett’s court-martial was conducted aboard a Nimitz-class U.S. aircraft carrier on maneuvers near the Indian Ocean. No reporters attended. Eighteen months after that, Garrett was dishonorably discharged and released.

  Thirty-One

  Current Day

  Title: Fallen Angel

  Originator Classification: SECRET NOFORM

  Levy date: 12-12

  Discipline: HUMINT

  Subject Heidi Duncan, wife of Ambassador Edward Todd Duncan, observed entering Sovietsky Hotel at 1400 hours unescorted. Russian national, Ivan Sokolov, observed at 1415 hours entering Sovietsky Hotel. Subject Heidi Duncan was known to possess a personal Samsung Galaxy model cell phone. Registration number 375867. At 1430 hours, authorization was given by COS Moscow to utilize OVERHEARD protocol on subject Duncan’s Galaxy phone enabling recording of sounds being heard through aforementioned Samsung Galaxy device. Intercept included muffled conversations (unintelligible) and noises commensurate with sexual activity. Moaning. Pleasurable groans. Subject Duncan observed leaving Sovietsky Hotel at 1623 hours, followed at 1641 hours by aforementioned Sokolov.

  Classified CIA cables describing what appeared to be a sexual affair between Heidi Duncan and the playboy son of a Russian oligarch went viral within minutes after being posted on Maxi-Leaks, a Europe-based website. The three hundred messages were communications between Moscow COS Marcus Austin, his CIA underlings responsible for surveilling Heidi Duncan, and Langley headquarters.

  In several, Austin speculated that the ambassador’s wife had been successfully recruited as what Russian intelligence called a “SPECIAL UNOFFICIAL CONTACT”—a top-level source with high social or political status who may or may not recognize he or she is being milked for information.

  The most salacious cables were riddled with inappropriate sexual comments written by male CIA officers describing acts they would willingly perform on Heidi Duncan. These smutty locker room jokes, mostly questioning Ambassador Duncan’s ability to satisfy his much younger wife, logged the most hits.

  The ambassador and Heidi were finishing breakfast in the President Wilson Hotel’s Royal Penthouse suite in Geneva, Switzerland, when an aide informed them about the Maxi-Leaks disclosures. It was the final day of the high-profile three-day European economic summit that Duncan was attending.

  Duncan immediately shooed away his staff and began reading.

  “They followed me like I was a criminal!” Heidi whined as she also scanned the leaked cables.

  “They have recordings of you with him,” Duncan stammered. “My god Heidi. ‘Moaning.’ ‘Pleasurable groans.’”

  “I met Ivan for lunch several times, but we never had sex. This is a smear campaign. It’s all lies. You know the CIA has never liked you.”

  Edward Todd Duncan studied his wife’s flushed face. Listened to the frightened tone in her voice. When the president had nominated him, the opposition party had viciously attacked his character during a four-day Senate confirmation hearing. Fired ex-employees had been traipsed before cameras. His wife’s lavish spending and younger age had prompted tabloid fodder. A Marie Antoinette gold digger. The State Department’s careerists had collaborated with Senate staffers to draft complicated questions about international affairs to trip him up. He’d been a Washington outsider, and Washington had dug deep into his past, finding every dirty tidbit about him—and her. After a second day of being in the national media spotlight’s harsh glare, Heidi had urged him to withdraw. They could retreat in comfort to the Hamptons. They didn’t need such harsh public scrutiny. He’d refused because he’d wanted to serve his country, to give back something for all that America had given him, and a two-vote margin had been enough for confirmation. After that, he’d thought the sniping would end.

  As he listened to Heidi, his visceral reaction was not because of her suspected infidelity. After all, he’d dragged her unwillingly to Moscow, where she’d quickly become bored. It was anger at the CIA. How dare its officers spend months dogging his wife behind his back! How dare lesser men litter their cables with cruel sexual puns at his expense! Even more outrageous, someone inside the agency had chosen to release those cables!

  Duncan had a strong prenuptial agreement and could have easily cast Heidi aside. But he loved her—even if she had betrayed him.

  “I’m calling the president,” he announced.

  It was a few minutes after 9:00 a.m. in Geneva, which meant it was 3:00 a.m. in Washington, D.C. The president’s chief of staff resisted waking his boss. He suggested the ambassador go through proper channels. Call the secretary of state. Duncan refused. After a fifteen-minute hold, a sleepy President Fitzgerald came on a secure line.

  “Heidi is terribly hurt and I’m spitting mad,” Duncan began.

  “Todd,” which is how the president addressed Duncan, “let’s have Geoffrey Baker—you know him, he heads up White House communications—look into this and formulate a plan with you and State.”

  “Plan? Here’s a plan. Director Harris apologizes to Heidi and me, takes full responsibility for his agency leaks, and announces the cables either were fabricated or edited by whoever gave them to Maxi-Leaks. Then he resigns. I want Marcus Austin and every one of those sons of bitches in Moscow who wrote about my wife fired, too.”

  “Todd, remind me, who is Marcus Austin?”

  “The agency’s chief of station in Moscow.”

  “Does he have some personal animus toward you?”

  “They all do. I’m a political appointee. An outsider.”

  “I’ve not read these cables. Did Heidi meet with this Russian?”

  “Harris and Austin warned me months ago that Sokolov was t
rying to recruit Heidi. I told them it was utter nonsense. I’ve never told her anything classified, and she’s never asked. They met for a few innocent lunches. That’s all.”

  “Todd, Heidi should not have been meeting with this fellow without an escort from the embassy accompanying her. That’s just common sense.” The president sounded testy.

  Their conversation was not sounding the way Duncan had imagined. Continuing, the president said, “If Director Harris or this Austin fellow overstepped their authority, I’ll deal with them. For now, wait for Geoffrey to call. I’m going back to bed.”

  “Waiting isn’t a viable option,” Duncan protested. “You owe me this. I raised a lot of money for you, and I want them fired.”

  Silence. President Fitzgerald had ended their call.

  A visibly upset Duncan returned to the penthouse suite’s living room, where Heidi was pacing.

  “What’d he’d say?” she asked nervously. “How’s he going to fix this?”

  Ambassador Duncan poured himself a scotch from the well-stocked bar and plopped down in a chair. “The president blames you.”

  She burst into tears and darted into the bedroom, slamming its door.

  Duncan sipped his scotch slowly, waited, and stewed. Another scotch before the White House communications director called. His advice was straightforward. Under no circumstances make any comment. Return to Moscow. Keep a low profile until media interest dies down. Most important of all, Heidi Duncan was to end all social contact with Ivan Sokolov.

  Heidi reemerged from the bedroom to ask about the call.

  “We’re to act as if none of this is happening,” Duncan said. “You are never, ever to see Sokolov again. Is that clear?”

  “What about Austin and Harris and those terrible comments about me, about us?” she asked in a timid voice.

  “I’ve been told to ignore everything.”

  “That’s it? You’re not allowed to defend my reputation?”

  He scowled at her.

  An aide knocked and handed him a paper.

  “What’s happening?” Heidi asked. “What’s it say?”