Collusion

by Newt Gingrich

  “Deputy Minister,” General Gromyko said mockingly, joining them with two of his guards, “these accommodations are not what you are accustomed to, but your stay here will be extremely brief.”

  “I have rights under our constitution,” Pavel protested.

  Gromyko scoffed. “Arrogance. Even now. You are a traitor, Yakov Prokofyevich, and have only one right. The right to die.”

  Gromyko glanced at Peter.

  Pavel said, “General, my grandson is innocent. Harmless.”

  “Was your grandson not traveling with a traitor?”

  The teenager lowered his eyes.

  Gromyko looked at Garrett, prone and helpless on the floor, wrists handcuffed, and ankles tied by a plastic band.

  “You have big balls, Brett Garrett, believing you could transport a deputy minister out of Russia during my watch.”

  “The game isn’t over,” Garrett said.

  “Like all Americans, you overestimate your skills. You SEALs are nothing,” Gromyko retorted. “It would take four of you to defeat a single fighter under my direct command. Russians are strong. Our president has a black belt in judo, and I train regularly with him. Your president is weak.”

  “I’ve watched the YouTube videos of your president with his ‘supersecret’ Russian fighting technique.”

  “SAMBO,” Gromyko said proudly, impressed that Garrett had referenced the videos. “It’s purely Russian. ‘Self-defense without arms’—a skill your military has been trying to steal from us. I have personally witnessed President Kalugin use it to defeat all challengers.”

  “What I saw was not SAMBO, it was ukemi.”

  “I myself am an expert in martial arts,” Gromyko replied. “There is no such thing as ukemi judo.”

  “A Japanese term. It means having your opponent fake a fall because he doesn’t want to embarrass his boss by kicking his ass.”

  Gromyko raised his boot and Garrett quickly turned his head, expecting a kick. The general laughed and returned his boot to the floor.

  “Is this your Hollywood movie plan? Taunt me? Do you believe I will order you freed so that you can then defeat me in hand-to-hand combat and somehow escape?”

  “I would take satisfaction in kicking your ass.”

  “I have watched your movies with their cheap stunts. Americans always win, but in truth, you sit in theaters with buckets of greasy popcorn and diet sodas. You teach your children to be weaklings.”

  Raising his voice in mock falsetto, Gromyko mimicked: “Mommy, Mommy, a bully called me a bad name at school. Please call our lawyer!”

  Garrett responded, “The question is not how tough most Americans are. It’s how tough are you?”

  Gromyko lifted his boot but stopped himself. “Who is lying on the floor and who is standing above him with a boot?” He spat on Garrett’s face and started to leave, only to quickly spin around and kick an unprepared Garrett in his abdomen.

  “Does that feel like ukemi?” he demanded.

  A guard shut the door. The sound of the six-button code, the dead bolt sliding back into place.

  Pavel sank to one knee and used a handkerchief to wipe Garrett’s face. Peter began waving his hands. A flurry of gestures. Pavel interpreted. “Peter knows this building. It’s where his parents worked. Near Svetogorsk, about thirty miles north of Vyborg. This is a Kamera—a poison factory.”

  “How close are we to the Finnish border?”

  The old man touched Garrett’s ribs, causing him to flinch in pain.

  “It is too late for that, my friend,” he said.

  “Prop me up against a wall,” Garrett said.

  “Better for you to lie flat if your ribs are broken.”

  “The wall, please.”

  Pavel took one arm. Peter the other, pulling the handcuffed and leg-bound Garrett up against the wall. From there he examined their surroundings. A twin pair of fluorescent tubes mounted in the ceiling illuminated the room, which was as large as a one-car garage. Walls: a drab gray. Faded white ceiling. Peeling paint. Directly across from him were rows of wooden six-by-six-inch boxes with names scrawled on paper tabs above each cubby. Dozens and dozens of them attached to the wall. All appeared empty. The wall that Garrett was now leaning against held only one item. An old poster. World War II propaganda. A silk-screen Stalin, red flag behind him, tiny Russian airplanes dropping bombs hovering around his head. At his midsection, a huge battleship. In the foreground, rows of marching soldiers. A Russian tank. The inscription: “Long live the Red Army of workers and peasants—the true guard of the Soviet borders.”

  Garrett looked at the back of the room. Two tiers of fifty-gallon drums on wooden pallets. Each marked with a bright yellow sticker. A black skull and crossbones. Hazardous waste.

  He looked at the doorway. A mail slot. No windows. No obvious ways to escape.

  “This must have been a mailroom,” Garrett concluded, “before they began storing toxic waste in it.”

  Pavel sat down next to Garrett and spoke to Peter, who was still standing in front of both men. “You must be a man now. General Gromyko will return us to Moscow, where I will be tried and executed. I still have friends there. They will find a way to protect you. They have no reason to harm you. I have a sister in Belarus. Go there.”

  Garrett fought the urge to vomit. His head was throbbing. His ribs hurt. He was wet with perspiration even though the room was chilly. The opioid cravings were kicking in.

  He inspected the ceiling. Peter was skinny. There was no air vent.

  Peter took a seat next to his grandfather. Leaned against the old man’s shoulder. They heard the electronic lock beep six times. The bolt opening. General Gromyko reappeared with his guards.

  “Free the American’s ankles and get him onto his feet,” the general ordered.

  Addressing Pavel, who had stood, Gromyko said, “I’m putting on a special demonstration in your honor.” Two guards moved forward to escort him out into the hallway. Peter leapt to his feet to accompany him but was stopped by guards.

  “Your grandfather has told me you can speak but choose not to. Is that true?” Gromyko asked.

  Peter shrugged, still looking out the door at his grandfather, who was being taken away.

  Gromyko slapped the teen. Hard.

  “When I ask a question, you will answer. Now speak.”

  Peter nodded.

  Gromyko slapped him again.

  “Picking on kids a turn-on for you?” Garrett asked.

  Gromyko turned his attention to Garrett. “Bring them both,” he told his men. “They might enjoy our little show.”

  The entourage walked along a maze of corridors. Some rooms they passed had windows. Garrett could see men and women in white lab coats, masks, caps, and latex gloves working in them. In other rooms, scientists were outfitted in hazmat suits with face masks fed by air tanks as if they were underwater divers. A few laboratories were fully outfitted but empty. One lab they passed was completely burnt inside. Black scorched walls.

  Gromyko stopped when they reached double doors. His men opened them. The large meeting room inside had chairs arranged in front of a black curtain. Garrett counted three women and six men. All but one were wearing lab smocks and had plastic-coated name tags. Kamera scientists, Garrett presumed. The other: Ivan Sokolov in his red cowboy boots.

  Gromyko had his men direct Peter to the front of the room while Garrett was guarded at the back. The general positioned Peter so that the teen was facing the curtain. The black covering fell, exposing a thick glass that reached from the floor to the ceiling. On the opposite side, Deputy Foreign Minister Yakov Prokofyevich Pavel. Stripped naked.

  “You son of a bitch, Gromyko,” Pavel yelled, his voice coming through an overhead speaker. “I’ll rip your ass and poke out your eyes!”

  The other three walls, floor, and ceiling of the enclosed chamber were covered with white tiles. The bright lights and the whiteness of the interior seemed to rob Pavel of his pigmentation. He was overweight, had li
ttle muscle tone and saggy skin.

  Gromyko addressed his guests. “The perfect poison must be odorless. Colorless. Without taste when ingested and impossible to detect after it kills. Ricin. Polonium-210. Each a progressive step forward, but each failing to meet all of those requirements for perfection.”

  His eyes darted between the scientists. “You are supposed to be Russia’s best, but even with Novichok, you failed to kill two traitors in England.”

  Turning, he rapped on the glass much like a petulant child taunting a caged zoo animal. He nudged Peter nearer so the teen was only inches from it. Pavel immediately placed his palm against the barrier.

  “Go ahead,” Gromyko urged Peter. The teen raised his palm so that it and the old man’s palm were symbolically touching with the glass separating them.

  “This boy’s parents—the daughter and son-in-law of the deputy minister—were close to creating a perfect poison. I personally named their concoction Devil’s Breath—a rather theatrical description but better than referring to it by its chemical compound.”

  He spoke directly to Ivan Sokolov. “Don’t you agree that Devil’s Breath is a good brand name?”

  “Branding is important,” Sokolov chuckled, “even for a poison, I suspect.”

  Gromyko laughed, and everyone but Garrett and Peter joined in.

  “I was so looking forward to them finally giving it to me, but—”

  Sokolov interrupted. “General, with such a terrifying name, how safe is your Devil’s Breath to transport?”

  A clearly irked Gromyko replied, “Are you calling me a fool?”

  The grin on Sokolov’s face vanished.

  “It will be in canisters aboard your airplane, and I will be accompanying it to America. Would I poison myself?”

  “I apologize, it’s just that I’ve heard rumors and saw the burned laboratory down the hall.”

  “Yes, the traitors who betrayed me and their colleagues in this laboratory. I believe they had created my perfect poison but rather than delivering it to me, they destroyed it. Burned their laboratory. Erased all notes.”

  He paused and then suddenly grinned. “An irony, is it not? While trying to obliterate Devil’s Breath, some variant of it escaped and killed them both. Perhaps I should call it the Son of Devil’s Breath.” He chuckled.

  Peter quietly began to cry. From behind the glass, Pavel mouthed, “Be strong. Be a man.”

  Gromyko continued: “No one in this room has been able to recreate what they achieved. Instead, the best they can do is reproduce this variant killer. It is better than what we have but still flawed. A demonstration is in order.” He turned to watch Pavel.

  Anticipating what was about to happen, Pavel raised both hands and jabbed his extended middle fingers like knives at Gromyko.

  A single pop came from above Pavel. The old man looked up. A puff of red mist appeared from a tiny hole in the ceiling. It was visible only for an instant, no longer than a mere blink. Blood began trickling from Pavel’s nose as he stared at his grandson in horror. Desperate, the old man pressed his hands against his face. He collapsed.

  “No!” Peter shrieked.

  “Ah, so the child can speak with the right prompting,” Gromyko said triumphantly.

  Peter started toward Gromyko with raised fists but was immediately stopped by guards.

  Gazing at Pavel’s naked corpse behind the glass, Gromyko slowly began to clap. One by one, the others watching did the same, except for the sobbing teenager and Garrett.

  “The puff of red. The bloody nose,” Gromyko said in a disappointed voice. “These are the flaws that my brilliant scientists here have yet to resolve. The flaws in my unperfected poison.” He cast his eyes on the scientists before him.

  “General Gromyko,” one of the scientists said, “we are close. We should have your Devil’s Breath within a few months.”

  “But I need it now!” he said sternly. “Perhaps if one of you joined Yakov Prokofyevich in this chamber, your colleagues would work more diligently.”

  The scientist lowered his eyes.

  Gromyko called to the back of the room. “A tiny puff killed Yakov Prokofyevich, but he was an old man and old men are easier to kill. How much is necessary to dispose of a healthy American Navy SEAL?”

  Shifting his glance to Peter, he added, “Or a Russian teenager?”

  Gromyko again looked at Pavel’s corpse. “I’ve been told it takes a full twelve hours to guarantee the poison completely dissipates from this testing chamber. Is that correct?”

  The scientist with the downed eyes said, “Yes, General. We need twelve hours to clear it.”

  “Unfortunately,” Gromyko continued, shifting his gaze to Garrett, “I must leave with Mr. Sokolov for America, so I will not be here to watch you die, but I have set aside enough time to amuse myself by breaking every bone in your body.”

  “General,” the scientist said sheepishly, “we need the American to be in good health if we want the best results tomorrow.”

  Gromyko opened his palms before him, as if he were holding a scale, judging his two options.

  “Breaking every bone in your body,” he said to Garrett, “or providing my scientists with a healthy specimen.”

  “I’ve beaten men,” Garrett said, “but only a deranged sadist enjoys it.”

  “Ah, you see, everyone, what he delivers to me as an insult, I take as a compliment. There is no deranged sadism necessary when it comes to beating and killing Americans. I take great joy in it and will take equal joy in using this variant of Devil’s Breath to kill dozens and dozens of your countrymen. Now, Mr. Garrett, is that your final insult before I make my decision? Answer wisely.”

  “I think Deputy Minister Pavel’s final gesture summed up my thoughts about you.”

  Gromyko smirked. “You have hubris, but not much creativity.”

  He lowered his palms and addressed the scientists. “You will have your healthy specimen. I have a flight to take.”

  Turning his attention back to Garrett, he added, “We will not meet again. You have failed to save Pavel, and you will die knowing that you did not stop me from using this imperfect poison to kill Americans. I will offer you a parting thought—a Russian saying. ‘He is brave when fighting against sheep, and when fighting against a brave man, he’s a sheep himself.’ Would you like to baa now for us, Mr. Garrett?”

  Everyone but Garrett and Peter laughed.

  Thirty-Four

  CIA director Harold Harris was in the middle of a late-night meeting discussing his personal crisis when he was told Valerie Mayberry had called. He felt relieved. The CIA backup team that he’d sent to Baltimore had watched Mayberry being forced into a van at gunpoint, but he’d ordered it to stand down, to not intervene. He wanted to learn where that van was going.

  It had been a risk but one that Harris had been willing to take. And then his ghost team had lost track of the van in Baltimore and, with it, Mayberry.

  After that, he’d assumed the worst.

  Mayberry had told Mr. Smith that she was heading home. She’d given him the number of a backup cell phone that she kept in her condo. As soon as she got there, she retrieved it. An email response from Director Harris.

  “Contact no one until we can discuss face-to-face. That’s an order. Glad you are safe.”

  Adrenaline was still pumping through her. Too anxious to sleep. She waited.

  A watched pot never boils. Six a.m. and still no call. Mayberry switched on the early-morning news.

  Aysan Rivera, the daughter of a prominent Baltimore family, had been found dead in a Port of Baltimore warehouse, the newscaster announced. Police were withholding information, but sources said Rivera had been restrained with duct tape and was wearing only her underwear when found. Detectives suspected a predator, possibly a serial killer.

  Mayberry fought the urge to vomit. Instant guilt. If she had immediately freed Aysan Rivera from her restraints and administered CPR instead of chasing after Makayla, maybe she could have s
aved Rivera. Another disturbing thought. One that had been nagging at her ever since she’d fled the Baltimore warehouse. She had witnessed Rivera’s murder and had not told anyone. She had called Mr. Smith instead of staying and telling the Baltimore police what she knew. She needed to contact Sally North and tell her FBI boss. But if she did, she would be disobeying Director Harris, who was technically her boss.

  Mayberry followed rules. She felt safe within parameters. She began pacing in her condo. Couldn’t think of anything else. The FBI didn’t know that she’d participated in the Antifa bombing at the Stonewall Jackson Shrine. Now she’d witnessed Rivera being given a fatal opioid dose. She was getting deeper and deeper. Even more culpable.

  She stared at her cell phone.

  Why hadn’t Harris responded? He was torturing her. Every moment put her in more legal jeopardy. Plus, Makayla Jones was still roaming free.

  Going into her bathroom, she found a bottle of Xanax that had been prescribed after Noah had died. She swallowed two without water.

  At 7:00 a.m., when the local newscast gave way to the national news, Mayberry got her first plausible explanation for why Harris had not yet contacted her. He was on his way to make the rounds on Capitol Hill. Lobbying to save his job.

  California senator Stone had been so outraged by the Maxi-Leaks disclosures that he was introducing legislation to “censure” the director. Harris was a presidential appointee, which meant the Senate couldn’t outright fire him, but it could apply political pressure on President Fitzgerald to replace him. The Senate had never censured a CIA director, only presidents and its own members. Most famously, Alexander Hamilton, the newscaster said.

  At least three times, Mayberry picked up her cell and started to call Sally North’s private number at the bureau. Each time she stopped. She was an accomplice to murder. She hurried into the bathroom and threw up.

  Morning became afternoon. Still waiting. No return call from Harris. Late afternoon found Mayberry still frozen. She began heating leftover chicken noodle soup to take her mind off everything. It didn’t work. She gave herself a mental deadline. If Director Harris didn’t contact her by the time she finished eating her soup, she would come clean to Sally North and the bureau. Ask for mercy.