Collusion

by Newt Gingrich

  “His ring,” Kim added. He produced a third photo—an enlargement of a gold ring visible on the demonstrator’s little finger.

  “Men wear pinkie rings?” Garrett asked.

  “It’s a signet ring,” Mayberry said, correcting him. “Or, more precisely, a ‘gentleman’s ring’ and, yes, they’ve been around since Old Testament days.”

  “Rich kids like them,” Kim interjected. “They’re a fad.”

  He rearranged his photos, placing the ski-masked protestor next to the honors award picture. The nexus—the gold signet ring.

  “The student in the honors photo standing next to Duwar is the same student waving the Antifa flag,” Kim said. “You can tell it’s him because he’s wearing the same ring in both photos. Do you see it?”

  “Yes,” Garrett said. “So who is he?”

  Kim pulled a final photograph from his file. It showed the same man from the award photo—only now he was older and wearing a suit and tie while posing for an identification badge.

  “This is a head shot from the U.S. Capitol Police database. The honor student and Antifa protestor wearing his signet ring is Terrance Collins. Currently employed by California senator Cormac Stone as his legislative director.”

  “Oh my God!” Mayberry gasped, making a connection. “I saw Makayla Jones leave the parking lot after the Smithmyer protest in a car with D.C. plates.” She paused, remembering. “Aysan Rivera told me that Makayla had a connection high up on Capitol Hill. He’s got to be Collins.”

  Suddenly all of the mismatched pieces came together in Garrett’s mind. “We’ve been after the wrong man. Duwar is a red herring,” he said. “They wanted us to follow him and assume he had the gas in his briefcase.”

  “I’ll call the bureau and ask if they found the gas,” Mayberry volunteered, reaching for her cell.

  “Today’s censure vote,” Garrett said.

  “Oh no,” Mayberry cried.

  “Senators are rarely in the chamber unless there’s a critical vote,” Kim said.

  “They’ll all be there,” Mayberry said. She glanced at a wall clock in the restaurant. It was 9:48 a.m. “The Senate always convenes at ten a.m.”

  “I’m guessing the censure vote will be its first item,” Kim said.

  Mayberry started to dial Sally North’s number at the bureau. Garrett reached over and pushed her hand away.

  “No time for that,” he said. “No one is going to believe you—especially Senator Stone. We don’t have any real evidence. Just conjecture.”

  “He’s right,” Kim said. “You can’t accuse one of Stone’s top aides of being an Antifa terrorist based on the photos I’ve shown you.”

  “Makayla Jones,” Mayberry said. “Terrance Collins would have Makayla get the nerve gas from Duwar. Collins wouldn’t want to risk exposing himself by possibly being seen with Duwar. She’ll take that risk and deliver it to him. But only at the last minute. She’s got to be in the Capitol.”

  “You’re right,” Garrett said. “Makayla has to be here. She’d give it to him at the last possible moment.”

  Garrett started for the Senate chamber. Mayberry hurried to catch up.

  Thirty-Nine

  At one time, anyone who wished could walk onto the Senate floor. House members, foreign ambassadors, tycoons, as well as ordinary citizens. In 1859, the Senate stopped the free-for-all, limiting access to senators and their aides only.

  Mayberry or Garrett knew they wouldn’t get close to the second-floor chamber in the Capitol’s north wing. So they talked their way past Capitol Hill officers to the third-floor visitors’ gallery. It ringed the chamber, allowing spectators to peer down, as if in a coliseum.

  “Sorry, all available visitor seats are occupied,” a U.S. Capitol Police officer informed them at the balcony’s entrance.

  Mayberry flashed her badge. “FBI official business. It’s urgent.”

  “If it’s so urgent, why hasn’t anyone told me about it?” the unimpressed guard replied. “You’ll need a pass from a senator and, I already told you, it’s full this morning.”

  “This badge is our pass,” she persisted. “We don’t have time for this.”

  “You got any idea how many federal employees try to use their badges to get by us when there’s a historic vote?” he asked.

  “Listen,” she said sternly. “You need to call your supervisor. Senators’ lives could be at stake.”

  He spoke into a microphone attached to his uniform near his neck. “Lieutenant, we need you to come to the entrance. I got an FBI agent who’s demanding entry.”

  Mayberry whispered to Garrett. “I know of another way. You stay. Talk to this idiot’s boss.”

  She walked around a corner and down a hallway to where a different U.S. Capitol Police officer was standing guard. As she neared him, she removed her wallet from her purse and opened it to the section where she kept credit cards. Good. It still was there.

  Her husband had been an accredited member of the Senate and House press galleries. When Noah had left for Afghanistan, he’d left his credential on their bedroom bureau. After his death, she’d tucked it into her purse. Carrying that badge had been a reminder. A tiny piece of him. She placed her thumb over the ID’s photo and quickened her step.

  There was a time when the third-floor press gallery entrance had been unguarded. That was before the 9/11 terrorist attacks and the swelling of Internet bloggers and social media publications. Who was a legitimate journalist? A “standing committee of correspondents” made that call, composed mostly of reporters working for major newspapers. She approached the door holding the color-coded ID, stepping behind two harried New York Times reporters hurrying by the guard. He waved all three of them through.

  The room contained rows of cubicles. As she navigated her way to the door that opened into the Senate press gallery, she caught the eye of the press room’s director, who was responsible for overseeing the day-to-day operations. Unlike the officer at the gallery’s entrance, he prided himself on recognizing every reporter who covered Capitol Hill. He began walking toward her as she ducked through a door into the chamber.

  Mayberry found herself standing at the top of stadium-style seating on the third-floor balcony directly above the Senate dais where the presiding officer sat. From her vantage point, she could see all one hundred Senate desks arranged in a semicircle. A wide center aisle divided the members of the two political parties. Republicans facing the dais were on her right, Democrats on her left. The most senior and powerful members sat closest to the dais. The president pro tempore—the ranking senator from the majority party—was running today’s proceedings.

  Senator Stone was sitting at his front-row desk patiently waiting for the morning’s business to be called. The Senate chaplain already had given the opening prayer, and the Pledge of Allegiance had been recited. Stone was glancing over written remarks.

  Mayberry didn’t see his legislative aide, Terrance Collins. She eyeballed the visitors’ gallery across from her.

  Makayla Jones. A front-row seat. How had she gotten there? The answer was obvious. Collins had secured it for her. She would want to be present to ensure he delivered the case. Didn’t lose his nerve.

  Mayberry followed Makayla’s eyes. She was looking down into the chamber. Terrance Collins had just entered at the back of the Senate floor.

  Athletic, handsome, nearly forty, dressed like a successful Wall Street equity partner. Mayberry checked his fingers. The same signet ring. On his pinkie. He was carrying a briefcase, walking toward Senator Stone’s desk.

  He casually placed the briefcase next to Stone’s feet, briefly chatted with his boss, and then turned to exit. He’d left the case behind!

  “Madame.” A stern voice behind Mayberry. The press gallery director. “Madame,” he repeated louder. She felt his fingers take hold of her left bicep. “Please step back into the press gallery and show me your badge. We don’t want a scene, do we?”

  Mayberry checked for Brett Garrett across
from her in the visitors’ gallery. He still hadn’t gotten into the balcony.

  * * *

  Outside the gallery, Garrett calculated the odds of getting by the four U.S. Capitol Police officers stationed between him and the gallery doorway. Smile. Rush them. Garrett clenched his fists.

  A ding. The sound of the elevator behind him. Its doors opening. A man’s voice. Sounded strangely familiar.

  “Where’s the FBI agent causing a ruckus?” the officer asked.

  Garrett turned around. Faced him.

  “Holy crap!” the lieutenant exclaimed. “Brett Garrett.”

  “Bear,” Garrett said, his face becoming a huge grin at the sight of his former SEAL buddy. “How’d you get in charge?”

  “After Cameroon knocked me out of the Navy, I got hired here.” He opened his mouth wide. “Like my fake choppers. Cost the government a fortune.”

  Garrett noticed the scar on Bear’s cheeks where projectiles from a jihadist’s suicide vest had penetrated his face.

  “We never talked,” Garrett said. “That night—”

  “Chief, you made the right call, rescuing those little girls. We’re solid. Now tell me, why are you trying to bulldoze your way into my gallery?”

  “Chasing a terrorist,” Garrett said, lowering his voice. “A woman. Thirties. Think she’s inside. Goes by the name Makayla Jones.”

  The officer listening to them checked a list. “Sir,” he said, “no one named Makayla Jones has a guest pass.”

  “She would have gotten it from Senator Cormac Stone’s staff,” Garrett said.

  “Four passes from Senator Stone’s office, but no one with that name.”

  Bear said, “Chief, you know if Stone looked up in the gallery and saw your face, there’d be hell to pay. I’d lose my job.”

  “We’re brothers,” Garrett said.

  “Don’t go there, Chief. It was different then.”

  “You trusted me with your life. If there’s a terrorist inside and I believe there is, people—senators—are going to die.”

  Bear sucked in a deep breath. Took a moment to decide. “One quick look. You and me. Then we’re out. You got it?”

  Garrett followed Bear to the door.

  That’s when they both heard a woman scream.

  * * *

  A scene? That’s exactly what Valerie Mayberry wanted.

  She twisted her arm loose from the grasp of the press gallery director and hurried down the five steps to the balcony’s lip. She threw herself over and screamed as she fell.

  Mayberry hit the chamber floor hard and immediately fell forward onto the blue carpet in front of the dais. Pushing herself onto her knees, she thrust her FBI badge above her head and yelled, “FBI! Bomb! Run!”

  For an instant, no one moved. The entire chamber was completely spellbound. Silent. Startled.

  “Terrorist bomb!” she screamed.

  A Senate page kneeling at the edge of the dais was the first to bolt up the center aisle. Senate clerks seated behind a long marble table at the dais abandoned their posts. The presiding senator rushed from his high-backed chair. Within seconds, a human stampede jammed the exits and blocked the U.S. Capitol Police officers stationed outside, keeping them from entering the chamber. Mayberry stood and hurried toward the briefcase.

  * * *

  At the visitors’ gallery doorway, Bear yelled, “We got a jumper!”

  Followed by his men, he rushed to a stairway that led down to the second floor.

  Garrett shoved his way through the frightened spectators fleeing the gallery. Only one visitor made no attempt to escape.

  Makayla Jones. She’d unbuttoned her blouse. Removed a clear plastic mask shaped to hide over a bra cup and a tiny plastic tube containing oxygen hidden in her ample cleavage. Several minutes of safe air. She saw Garrett coming.

  Down below them, Valerie Mayberry had reached the briefcase. Lifted it from the floor. Placed it on Senator Stone’s wooden desk. The clasps were locked. She ran her fingers over the case’s top. Along the case’s sides. There. She felt it! A dime-size hole on its upper left side. She pressed her forefinger against it. Pressed hard. Covering it.

  Makayla had been forced to leave her phone and other personal items outside the gallery, but the officers had not taken her Apple Watch. She pressed an app and immediately covered her mouth with her home-made oxygen mask.

  Mayberry felt pressure against her left forefinger. The poison. Trying to escape. She pressed harder on the hole, successfully keeping the gas from bursting out.

  Makayla had expected the gas to be expelled. She saw Mayberry’s finger over the hole. Lowering her gas mask, she straddled the balcony’s barrier. Just like Mayberry, she was about to jump down onto the Senate floor.

  Garrett reached her as she let loose of the railing. Reaching forward, he grabbed her left wrist. She was too heavy for him to pull back but he held on to her long enough to snatch the oxygen mask from her grasp before she fell.

  Makayla landed on a Senate desk. A crack. Instant pain. A snapped bone. Compound fracture. She forced herself upright and moved from one desk to the next supporting herself, making her way toward Mayberry. Even though they both would be poisoned, she was intent on prying Mayberry’s fingers off the case’s escape hole, freeing the gas.

  Garrett started to leap over the balcony but realized it was too late. Makayla would reach Mayberry first. A thought. A desperate move. He balled up the mask and tube that he’d taken from Makayla. Rocket arm. That’s what his high school baseball teammates had called him. Deadly accurate. Capable of throwing a hardball at nearly a hundred miles per hour. Cocking back his arm, Garrett heaved the mask and its plastic tube of oxygen.

  It smacked onto the top of Senator Stone’s desk and slid off onto the carpet. Mayberry bent forward, scooped it up with her free right hand while carefully keeping her left finger pressed against the case’s hole, preventing the gas from escaping.

  Makayla was within a foot of her now. She jutted out her hands to slap away Mayberry’s finger from the opening. Mayberry lifted the case so its hole was aimed directly at Makayla. She slid her finger off the hole and then immediately covered it. A puff of red mist. Shot into Makayla’s eyes.

  Behind the oxygen mask covering her nose and mouth, Mayberry stared at Makayla. A look of sheer terror.

  The Antifa leader fell onto the carpet. Her body shook. Her face was frozen in anger. A bit of blood trickled from her nose—until her heart stopped pumping. She was dead.

  Bear burst into the chamber.

  “Poison gas!” Garrett hollered from the gallery. “Stop. Get out!”

  Bear pulled back, raised his arms, signaling the officers behind him. “Get hazmat!” he hollered, closing the chamber doors. “Everyone stay back. Evacuate!”

  Mayberry glanced up into the balcony at Garrett.

  He smiled at her. They’d done it. And then he saw something red coming from the bottom of the gas mask pressed against her face.

  Blood.

  Forty

  Garrett rushed from the visitors’ gallery using the same staircase that Bear had taken earlier to reach the second floor. The scene outside the Senate chamber was mayhem. Scrambling senators, staff, and visitors. A hazmat team was threading between them toward the closed Senate chamber’s doors.

  Garrett spotted Terrance Collins. Senator Stone’s legislative aide returned his stare. Collins shoved people from his path and hurried to escape toward the heart of the Capitol—its domed, circular rotunda, nearly a hundred feet in diameter, soaring 180 feet from its marble floor to its interior peak.

  Garrett gave chase. Once free of the mob, Collins broke into a run, distancing himself from Garrett. But the legislative aide stopped when he reached the rotunda’s perimeter. Rather than hurrying through it, he turned to his immediate left and opened a door that normally was guarded. It was a staircase, which he began ascending until he reached a landing. He stopped and listened to hear if he had fooled Garrett.

  He hear
d the stairway door below him open, shut. A man’s footsteps. Collins was trapped. He had no choice but to climb the gradually narrowing stairs to the building’s roof. Suddenly he encountered a Capitol Police officer descending the staircase.

  Collins raised his Senate staff ID attached to a lanyard around his neck. “A terrorist—behind me! Coming up the stairs!”

  The officer drew his Glock 22 and let Collins slip by him.

  Garrett appeared moments later.

  “Stop!” the officer hollered, aiming his .40-caliber weapon at Garrett’s chest.

  Garrett froze beneath him, raised both hands. In a calm voice, he said, “The Senate staffer who you just let by you is an Antifa terrorist.”

  The officer kept his gun pointed at Garrett.

  “Call Bear,” Garrett said, still standing two steps beneath the officer.

  “Bear? Who are you, Goldilocks?”

  “Your lieutenant, Jack Strong. We called him Bear when he was a Navy SEAL. Just call him on your radio. Tell him that I’m Brett Garrett.”

  Switching his Glock to his left hand, he raised his right to use the radio microphone positioned on his shirt to the side of his chin.

  “Lieutenant Strong,” he said, lowering his head, “got a guy here claiming he’s pursuing a terrorist up to the roof.” Pausing, he asked, “What’d you say your name was?”

  “Brett Garrett.”

  The officer repeated it, but there was no response. Either the signal was weak inside the enclosed stairwell or too many Capitol Police officers were trying to communicate on the same channel. He tried again, but got no response.

  “I don’t know you,” the officer said, “but I know the staffer who went up on the roof. I’ve seen him with Senator Stone. Let’s you and me go down these stairs and let the lieutenant sort this out.”

  “He’ll escape,” Garrett warned. “He’s trapped now. Try your radio again.”

  The officer was now holding his Glock with both hands, but he freed his right one to use his radio microphone. Garrett flew upward, catching the policeman by surprise, grabbing the officer’s left wrist with both hands and stepping in front of him. He shoved the Glock upward, forcing the officer to twist his torso on the narrow stairs. He lost his balance and started to fall forward. As he did, he instinctively released his hold on his weapon. The officer fell past Garrett, landing on his face below him. Disarmed, he looked helplessly at Garrett, who was aiming the Glock at him.