Collusion

Twenty-Four

Two years earlier

“Abidemi!” Elsa Eriksson cried. “They’re raping her!”

“Chief, she’s not our mission,” Senator cautioned.

Senator was right. Garrett’s orders were to rescue Eriksson from her Boko Haram kidnappers in this eight-hut Cameroon village. Not her fourteen-year-old friend who was being assaulted.

Another scream pierced the early-morning stillness.

“She’s gonna wake everyone up,” Sweet Tooth said.

“That dude got up early to be first in line. No sloppy seconds,” Senator replied.

Eriksson gasped.

Through his headset, Garrett heard CIA director Harris ask: “What’s the holdup?”

“Sir,” he said, “we believe a fourteen-year-old Nigerian who was captured is being raped in a hut near us.”

“Not your problem, Chief,” Harris replied.

Only Garrett could hear their conversation.

“Sir, she’s nearby.”

“This isn’t the Peace Corps.”

“We can hear her screaming, sir.”

“Then cover your ears.”

“Sir, she’s fourteen. How old is your granddaughter?”

Silence.

“How do you know about my granddaughter?” Harris asked.

“Newspaper. When you were appointed. What if it were her?”

“Listen, Garrett,” Harris said, “you’re on the ground and I’m not. So, here’s the deal. You evaluate and decide. If you believe you can complete your mission, rescue that kid, and get out okay, then do it and I’ll have your back. But your mission and your men come first. Granddaughter or not. Are we clear, Chief?”

“Yes, sir,” Garrett said.

Bear had overheard Garrett’s side of the conversation. “What’d Washington say?” he asked.

“My call.”

“What was that stuff about having a granddaughter.”

Garrett looked at Bear. “Harris didn’t want to bother until I mentioned his granddaughter. Then he promised to back me up.”

Garrett spoke to Eriksson. “We can’t rescue her as long as you’re in danger. You’re our primary objective. You must leave now if you want us to save your friend. Nod if you understand.”

Eriksson nodded.

Speaking to Bear, Garrett said, “You and Sweet Tooth get her to the others. Have the second team escort her immediately to the helos. The first team stays put until Senator and I snatch the other girl.”

Garrett felt closest to his first team. Big Mac—the sniper. His spotter, aka Curly. Bear, Sweet Tooth, and a SEAL called Spider. The only unknown was Senator, who’d joined them late and was untested.

Bear peeked outside the hut’s entrance. There was no movement.

Through his microphone, Garrett spoke to his sniper. “Big Mac?”

“All clear, Chief.”

Garrett tapped Bear’s shoulder. Bear pushed aside the heavy blanket covering the hut’s doorway.

“God will protect,” Eriksson whispered as she passed Garrett.

“Let’s hope he protects all of us,” he replied.

She followed Bear outside. Sweet Tooth fell in behind as they disappeared around the circular hut.

Abidemi’s screams had turned into sobs. They reminded Garrett of the whimpering he’d heard in Arkansas when he’d once struck a stray dog with his truck, knocking it into a roadside ditch. Garrett peered outside, taking stock of the C-shaped camp illuminated by the embers of a dying fire. Abidemi’s cries were coming from a hut near Alpha-1 where he and Senator were positioned.

“Need confirmation,” Garrett told Big Mac. “Where’s the girl?”

“Second hut to your right. You facing out your door.”

“Wait,” Senator said. “You’re really serious about rescuing her? I thought you were just putting on an act to get the package to cooperate.”

“We’re getting the girl,” Garrett replied. “There was one guard inside this hut. They’ll have at least one in the girl’s hut, plus the rapist.”

“What if there’s more?” Senator asked. “We got no idea who could be in that hut and there’s only two of us.”

Garrett regretted not sending Senator back with Eriksson and having a more veteran SEAL stay.

Senator said, “I need to know if Washington okayed this.”

“You need to know what I tell you,” Garrett answered, not hiding the anger in his voice.

“But if this isn’t part of our mission—”

Garrett cut him short. “Listen to me and listen good. We’re going to rescue that little girl. You got that? Or do we need to take this a step higher than words?”

For a moment, the two men stared at each other. Garrett sensed fear.

“Senator, we can do this,” he said, reassuringly. “Just fall back on your training. We’ll grab the girl and be on a helo heading home in the blink of an eye.”

“Yes, sir,” Senator said. Now he seemed embarrassed. “I’m fine, sir. Let’s do it.”

Garrett was holding his SIG Sauer. He had a Heckler & Koch MP7 assault rifle with a suppressor strapped to his back. Senator was holding a Heckler & Koch 416 assault rifle with a ten-inch barrel and suppressor.

“Pistol,” Garrett ordered. Senator shouldered his rifle. Drew his M-9.

“You follow my lead,” Garrett said, “and this will turn out just fine. You’ll be a hero. Maybe get a medal. Are you ready?”

“Yes, Chief.”

Garrett stepped into the morning air and slipped silently across the hard-packed earth to the hut where Big Mac had said the girl was being held. Outside its blanket door covering, he could hear Abidemi’s pitiful sobs.

Using hand signals, Garrett positioned Senator to the right side of the opening while he stationed himself on its left. They entered the hut simultaneously.

Three terrorists. One on top of Abidemi, who was lying on the floor. Two Boko Haram watching, one on each side of her. Garrett double-tapped the one on the left. Senator shot the one directly in front of him. The rapist rose to his knees just as two of Garrett’s SIG Sauer rounds punched into his chest. He fell forward onto Abidemi, who began shoving his corpse, trying to free herself from his heavy body. Hysterical.

Senator grabbed the dead man’s shirt and jerked him away from the girl.

“Elsa sent us,” Garrett said in a calming voice. “We’re taking you home.”

Her face was covered with sweat and wet with tears. She grabbed her one-piece dress, which had been ripped from her earlier. Began scooting backward. Away from them.

Senator dropped to his knees. He spoke quietly to her. “You’re scared. So am I. But we’ve come to take you home. Just calm down and do what we say.”

Garrett surveyed the hut’s candle-lighted interior.

A second blanket was hanging from the ceiling. Dividing the hut in half. He nodded toward Senator, who noticed the blanket and moved into position. One, two, three. They drew back the barrier.

“Oh my God!” Senator gasped, lowering his pistol.

At least ten girls. Huddled together. Terrified. Garrett guessed their ages were seven to twelve. Two completely naked. Spinning around, Garrett said, “Abidemi.” He wasn’t certain if any of the other girls understood English. “Can you speak to them?”

It took her a moment to comprehend.

“Tell them to keep absolutely quiet,” he said. “No talking. No crying. We’re friends.”

He reached out to Abidemi. Reluctantly, she took his hand. Moved in slow unsteady steps. She spoke in Hausa, the most common language spoken by Muslims in the region.

“Sweet Jesus,” Senator said. “Now what, Chief?”

Garrett’s mind was running the numbers. Two Black Hawk UH-60 Sikorsky helicopters en route to extricate two SEAL teams and the package. Each could carry eleven combat soldiers. Total capacity: 22. He was overseeing two seven-man teams—14 men. That left 8 open spaces. Eriksson—number 15 of 22. Abidemi—number 16. Six more openings, maybe seven because these kids were scrawny. Six openings for ten girls. Four would be left behind. Which four? An alternative came to him. He could simply take Abidemi, leave the others behind. Sophie’s Choice. He hadn’t anticipated this.

Through his head microphone, Garrett informed Harris about the additional girls. The CIA director cut loose with a string of expletives.

“We’ll need a third helo,” Garrett said.

“No way,” Harris said. “I’m not putting more Americans at risk. I shouldn’t have backed you. You made the wrong choice. Now man up, leave ’em, and complete your mission. These kids are expendable. Leave them. That’s an order….”

Garrett looked into the children’s terrified faces. Three klicks to the helo rendezvous point—3.1 miles. They would slow down everyone. Make everyone vulnerable. The smart move was to leave them, as Director Harris had ordered him. The children were collateral damage, the victims of a senseless war. They were not his problem. They were not worth Americans dying to save them.

“Chief, sunlight’s gonna be here soon,” Big Mac said through Garrett’s headset. “Remember these pricks pray before dawn.”

“Status, main package?” Garrett responded.

“Second team is hoofing her to rendezvous. ETA probably thirty minutes.”

“Chief,” Big Mac said, “we got to move, otherwise there’s going to be a shit show.”

Garrett took a deep breath. Switched off communication with Director Harris. He’d decided to talk to the entire first team, every man.

“There’re more girls than one.”

“How many more?” Big Mac asked.

“Ten more. Little kids. Washington won’t send a third helo. Says to leave them. Says they’re expendable. We all know what that means. So, I’m going to ask each of you. Speak freely. Do we leave or take them?”

The Senator spoke first. “I knew this was wrong. They aren’t our mission. I say we leave them.”

“What we have here is a pending O.K. Corral scenario,” Sweet Tooth said, sounding philosophical. “Blood and guts, but hell, I’ve always been a sucker for westerns. I say we take ’em. Every last one of them.”

“Bear?” Garrett asked.

“I go with you, Chief. Your decision is mine. I kill when you tell me and hold my trigger when you tell me. Your call.”

“I say every day is a good day to kill Ali Babas,” Big Mac volunteered. “Let’s save the girls and kill every one of these jihadist bastards.”

“Curly?” Garrett asked the sniper spotter.

“I go where Big Mac goes,” he replied. “I’m down with saving them.”

“Spider, that leaves you? Speak freely.”

“I got a baby girl at home. Enough said.”

The Senator was the only one who’d objected.

“Looks like you’re outvoted.”

“I’ll do it, but when we get back, I’m filing a report.”

“Write what you want,” Garrett said. “Just lift your load.”

Garrett ran a different set of numbers. Bad guys. They’d already killed the two sentries guarding the Alpha-1 hut. Plus, the one inside the hut guarding Eriksson. The rapist and his two buddies were dead. That totaled six. Fourteen tangos remaining according to intel. Twice the number of Garrett and his team. Still, Garrett had faith in his men, including Senator.

“We’re coming out,” Garrett told Big Mac via the headset. He resumed communications with Director Harris in Washington.

“What the hell is happening?” Harris demanded. “Why’d you go off air?”

“We’re bringing the girls with us,” Garrett said.

“Like hell you are.”

“We’ll need another helo.” Garrett switched off his connection with the director.

“Get these girls together,” Garrett told Senator and Abidemi. She didn’t react. “You want to live?” he asked sternly. “You get these girls into a line, tell them to keep quiet, not panic, otherwise we all end up dead. You understand that? Dead.”

She nodded. He and Senator stripped shirts from two dead terrorists at their feet. Handed them to Abidemi for the two naked children. She spoke to the girls in a hushed voice.

“Only eight are coming,” Abidemi announced.

“What?” Garrett replied.

“One’s already dead and her sister won’t leave her.”

“Try to convince her. If she stays, she dies,” Garrett said. “Tell her that.”

The tiny girl began sobbing.

“Line them up.”

Garrett holstered his pistol. Unstrapped his assault rifle. Senator followed his example.

“Big Mac?” Garrett said. “We’re moving. I’ll need two supports behind this hut. Helping us herd. Sweet Tooth, you know the way. Bring Spider.”

“Always wanted to be a shepherd,” Sweet Tooth joked. “Be there in three.”

Waiting made it seem twice that. Garrett pushed the questions nagging at him out of his head. He was disobeying a direct order. There’d be hell to pay. He looked again at the girls. Stay focused.

“We’re in position,” Sweet Tooth announced. “Send them out.”

“Let’s go!” Garrett told Abidemi. He held open the blanket door cover. Senator came next to lead the girls behind the hut to Sweet Tooth and Spider. Abidemi remained with Garrett to assist getting the girls out.

Garrett counted eight, not nine.

“We’re short one,” he said.

“The dead girl’s sister. I told you. Let me try—”

“Hurry, we’re exposed,” he said.

The last girl stuck out her head from behind the blanket in the center of the hut.

Abidemi took her hand and helped her outside. They followed Garrett to where Sweet Tooth and Spider were waiting with the others behind the hut. They moved as a covey to where Big Mac, Curly, and Bear were positioned—about a hundred yards from the huts’ perimeter.

“Let’s get to the helos,” Garrett said.

“Chief!” Big Mac said. He’d been keeping an eye on the camp. Two terrorists were emerging from their huts. Holding prayer cloths. Assault rifles. They greeted each other and then one noticed that the two sentries outside Alpha-1 hut were not at their posts. One dropped his prayer cloth, grasped his Kalashnikov with both hands, and was about to shout an alarm.

“Take ’em,” Garrett said.

Big Mac was good at what he did. One shot. One dead terrorist. The second fell before he had a chance to comprehend what had happened to his buddy. But the sound of the sniper’s rounds, even suppressed, were like claps of thunder in the quiet morning air.

“Senator and Spider, get these kids moving to the helos. Now!” Garrett commanded. With Abidemi’s help, Senator led the way. Spider took the rear guard. They began running with the girls, leaving the other five SEALs behind to cover them.

Big Mac and Curly were on high ground—a slight rise from the flat earth protected by several large rocks. Sweet Tooth, Bear, and Garrett dug in beside them. Five against the twelve remaining jihadists in the huts.

Three Boko Haram fighters came running out, unsure what was happening.

“Wait,” Garrett said through his headset. He wanted as many of them exposed as possible. He was counting. Nine still in the huts. The three jihadists outside the dwellings examined their two dead comrades. One began yelling. They scanned the darkness around the camp, searching for some sign. The SEALs remained hidden. A fourth terrorist emerged and bolted toward the Tacoma truck with its Soviet-made ZKPUT heavy machine gun, unaware it had been booby-trapped when the SEALs first arrived.

Big Mac aimed his MK-12 sniper rifle—a variation of the standard M-16 created to be more compact and lighter than larger sniper weapons.

“Wait, use the C-4,” Garrett said. “Let’s keep them guessing where we are.”

Bear held off until the jihadist had climbed onto the truck’s bed. The deafening blast blew the truck upward. It came crashing down as a fireball. The other jihadists started to seek cover in their huts.

“Now,” Garrett said. Big Mac fired. Methodical. The other SEALs joined him. Within moments, the remaining three jihadists were eliminated.

Another fighter ran outside, firing his Kalashnikov in all directions. Big Mac martyred him. It was obvious now where the SEAL team was positioned. Rifles poked from behind the hut’s heavy cloth coverings. Return fire. The jihadists’ barrage continued for several minutes before the Boko Haram fighters stopped. A moment passed and then intense Kalashnikov gunfire. Garrett understood. This second exchange was cover fire.

A single terrorist suddenly appeared at the bottom of the slight rise below their position. He’d managed to escape from the camp without being seen, perhaps by knocking a hole in the back of his hut. He was less than fifteen yards away, close enough for Garrett to hear him hollering, “Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!”

“Suicide vest!” Garrett yelled.

The attacker’s finger slipped off the dead-man switch as he ran forward. Hundreds of lethal metal pellets blew in all directions. The explosion was deafening. A shock wave.

Bear was struck in his face. A single metal ball passed directly through his fleshly cheek, exiting out the other side, splintering several teeth. Curly got it the worst. His left shoulder was covered with bleeding holes, making his arm inoperable.

The explosion rallied the remaining jihadists. Six Boko Haram fighters scrambled from their hiding places.

Garrett, Sweet Tooth, Big Mac, and a wounded Bear took aim. Killing two. The four others ducked for cover behind the huts. They would try to outflank the SEALs.

“Blow the deuce,” Garrett ordered. Despite his mouth wound, Bear trigged the C-4 planted earlier. The explosion illuminated the entire encampment. One terrorist near the truck was engulfed by flames. Screamed and dropped to the ground. He didn’t move.

The others were easy to spot. Approaching the SEALs from their left, two fighters began scampering up the rocks. Sweet Tooth grabbed a modified M-79. The single-shot, shoulder-fired grenade launcher was loaded with a twenty-seven-pellet round. Buckshot. Fatal at such close range. One jihadist was killed instantly, the other seriously wounded. He fell, crying in pain. Garrett finished him.

“There’s one more out there,” Garrett said.

“Boss, I counted twenty,” Big Mac said.

“Nineteen,” Garrett said. “We’re missing one, unless intel was off. I’m certain of it.”

They waited for a long minute, with Big Mac and Garrett keeping watch while Sweet Tooth, their medic, attended to Curly and Bear.

“We need to get Curly out to save his arm,” Sweet Tooth advised. “Bear can’t speak but looks like a clear pass-through. Jaw appears broken. But we gotta get moving before both go into shock.”

“Let’s move,” Garrett said, his eyes still darting across the camp, searching for that twentieth fighter, silently praying that he’d miscounted.

Sweet Tooth put his arm around Curly’s waist, lifting him to his feet. Once he was steady, Curly slapped away Sweet Tooth’s arm. “My feet are fine, it’s my damn arm that’s falling off.”

In twenty-five minutes they had caught up with the slower-moving girls being escorted to the rendezvous spot by Senator and Spider.

“Oh, my God!” Senator said when he spotted Curly’s arm. “I knew this was going bad.”

“If you faint, Senator, we leave you,” Curly replied, grimacing.

Garrett kept staring back. No sign through his night-vision that they were being tracked.

No one spoke as the entourage continued. Garrett heard the sounds of a helicopter flying above them. Elsa Eriksson and the second SEAL team were en route to Nigeria. The other bird would be waiting—but only with space for eleven. Someone would have to wait behind.

Garrett clicked on his communication with Langley, hoping that a third helo was en route.

“Two wounded, no dead, all terrorists terminated,” he said.

Again, Harris cursed. “This is your fault, Garrett. You got one helo waiting,” Harris said. “I’ll send back the other one. But when you are out of there, you’ll pay for this.”

It took them nearly thirty more minutes to reach the extraction point and second waiting helo. Curly and Bear boarded. Sweet Tooth continued doctoring them as he climbed on board. He was trying to keep shock from setting in. The Golden Hour. Garrett noticed Big Mac limping. He’d not said a word. There were bloodstains on his right thigh. The suicide vest. Garrett ordered him to get on board. That left Spider, Garrett, and Senator, along with Abidemi and nine girls to fill seven spots. Garrett helped Abidemi onto the aircraft.

“Spider,” Garrett said. “Sweet Tooth is busy taking care of Curly, you get on board and nursemaid the girls.”

Abidemi climbed off the helicopter. “You’ll need me to talk to the ones left behind. They’re frightened and will panic.”

Senator started to board. “Let’s go, Chief. The next helo can get the girls.”

“No,” Garrett said. He knew there would be no helo unless at least one SEAL stayed behind.

A pilot spoke to Garrett. “These little girls are so light, I can get one more on board.”

Senator looked at the girls and then at Garrett. He reluctantly stepped off the helo so that more girls could board. The final count—everyone on board except for two girls, Abidemi, Senator, and Garrett.

“Your ride should be back in thirty,” the pilot said.

They watched the helicopter lift off. Disappear into the horizon. It was starting to get light. Dawn. Garrett and Senator kept watch. Abidemi and the two girls huddled together, cowering, terrified.

“Status report,” Harris demanded from Langley.

“No tangos in sight. We got three girls and the two of us still waiting.”

“Was it worth it, Garrett?” Harris asked. “Worth two Americans injured? Worth your career?” He didn’t hide the anger in his voice.

Garrett looked at Abidemi comforting the girls.

“Yes, sir,” he replied. He switched off his microphone.

Senator said, “The girl, Abidemi, she’s brave.”

“You got to be to survive in this hellhole,” Garrett replied.

“What kind of men are these?” Senator said. “Kidnapping and raping children and then praying?”

Garrett shook his head. “You did okay for your first mission,” he said. “Be sure to put that in your report.”

Senator gave him a sheepish look. “What report is that? I don’t know of any report.”

The sun was peeking over the terrain.

Garrett heard the rescue helicopter approaching. Senator set off a smoke flare. Red. The helo landed. Still no sign of terrorists. Senator helped Abidemi and the two girls aboard. Climbed on.

“Thanks for not forgetting us,” Senator joked to its pilot.

Garrett was the last in, still checking the surrounding area. Still looking for that twentieth fighter. The helicopter began lifting from the ground.

“We made it!” the Senator beamed. He nodded at Abidemi.

Garrett felt a sense of relief. They had made it. He looked out.

That’s when he saw the twentieth jihadist. That’s when he saw the RPG lifted to his shoulder.

Twenty-Five

Current Day

“You should have put a bullet in Pavel’s head when he returned from Washington,” an enraged Russian president Kalugin declared. It was the morning after. “You should have shot him like the others.”

General Andre Borsovich Gromyko didn’t have to ask who the “others” were.

Russian journalist Anna Stepanovna Politkovskaya had been the toe first dipped into the water. Arrested by Russian military forces for her reporting in Chechnya, Politkovskaya had been fatally shot in her own building’s elevator. Back then, the Kremlin had felt an obligation to the West to conduct a mock trial. Five men sentenced. Scapegoats.

After that, the pretending had ended.

Kremlin critic Boris Yefimovich Nemtsov. Four bullets. Fired from behind him while crossing the Bolshoy Moskvoretsky Bridge near the Kremlin. The reason: he’d revealed the true wealth that the Russian president had stolen. Twenty palaces and villas, fifteen helicopters, forty-three private aircraft, two yachts—one with a waterfall—and a multimillion-ruble palatial estate under construction. How had a Russian president become a billionaire many times over while supposedly living on a $100,000 annual salary?

“A bullet to the head of a deputy minister would have complicated things,” Gromyko said, quietly hoping to justify his actions.

President Kalugin scoffed. “And what would the West do?”

“Not only the West. Pavel still has influential friends here, around us in Moscow.”

Kalugin’s face became flushed. “And what?” he repeated, his anger intensifying. “They are nothing but frightened field mice.”

“We can’t murder everyone,” Gromyko replied.

“Have you learned nothing from history? From Stalin? You only have to kill enough. The others will cower.”

“We agreed that poisoning Pavel with candy was the best way to cast suspicion on the Americans.”

“Yes, that was the argument you made,” Kalugin said. “The West accuses us of using poison in England. We accuse the Americans of poisoning Pavel. But your poison only killed his driver and wife.”

Kalugin was quiet while he pondered yesterday’s escape. Gunfire on Moscow’s streets. Car crashes. A truck explosion. Cell phone videos on social media had chronicled the carnage. Gromyko had arranged for the state-controlled television to announce Pavel and his grandson had been kidnapped. Chechen rebels. Radical Islamists. No mention of any American involvement. Within hours, photos of Pavel and Peter had been distributed everywhere. A reward offered. Roadblocks erected. Security tightened at all border crossings, airports, train stations, and harbors. Help rescue Pavel and Peter! Not since the peak of the Cold War had such an impenetrable Iron Curtain been raised at the borders. Or such a huge lie been told.

“Has he told the Americans?” asked Kalugin.

“Pavel never would have disclosed all of our plans until he was safely in America. To do otherwise was to risk the Americans simply leaving him here.”

“An assumption.”

“No traitor gives away the crown jewel until he is safe. The Americans might suspect, but they cannot possibly know who we have targeted with our poison. Or who is helping us. Our tracks are covered. We can still move forward with our plan.”

Kalugin nodded toward official reports on his desk. “Tell me the truth, not what these official versions say. How did Pavel make contact with the Americans?”

“I suspect he spoke directly to the American president at the Washington funeral for their dead Ukrainian ambassador.”

Kalugin slapped his open palm down on his wooden desk. “You were warned the Americans had sent this man—Brett Garrett—to help him escape. You knew he was waiting yesterday for Pavel and his grandson. You had men watching the Billa. You could have arrested him.”

“We needed to wait until he and Pavel were together.”

“Yes, yes, yes, this is what you said,” Kalugin grunted, “and now? You let them escape like smoke through your fingers.”

“We know where the American was told to go. Ukraine. At the border near the city of Novhorod-Siverskyi. We will catch them there.”

Kalugin sneered. “Do you assume this American is as big a fool as you are showing yourself to be?”

Gromyko shrugged, hoping to minimize the president’s anger. “It will not matter. He cannot escape. If Garrett contacts the American embassy, we will know from our friend there. If he uses any public phone in Russia, we will know. If he attempts to communicate with America by a satellite phone, as he did when we were pursuing him, we will know. He is only one man and he is alone without help. He and Pavel will never cross our borders. I swear to you that I will bring Pavel, his grandson, and the American to you on their knees within the next forty-eight hours.”

“General Gromyko,” Kalugin said in a solemn voice, “your elbow is close, yet you still cannot bite it.”

Gromyko’s face turned red upon hearing the familiar Russian proverb.

“We have been comrades a long, long time, so I will speak plainly to you,” Kalugin said. “If Pavel lives and the Americans discover our Kamera plan, it is you who will receive the next bullet to the head.”

Twenty-Six

Thomas Jefferson Kim was exuberant when he entered the CIA safe house in Ashburn, Virginia, shortly before 8:00 a.m. and was immediately disappointed when he found only Valerie Mayberry waiting inside. They sat in awkward silence in the second-level living room of the town house that was identical to hundreds of others in the massive suburban development.

Ten minutes later, the grinding sound beneath them of the ground-floor garage door signaled CIA director Harris’s arrival.

Kim couldn’t wait for formalities. He rose from his seat on a beige sofa and blurted out: “I know how General Gromyko knew where to ambush Garrett and Pavel. Ambassador Duncan told them!”

“What?” Mayberry said, clearly shocked. “The ambassador is a Russian mole?”

“No,” Kim said. “I mean, he didn’t do it intentionally, but he’s to blame.”

Harris sat down on an overstuffed beige chair and motioned to Kim and Mayberry to return to their seats on the sofa.

“You’ve just made a serious accusation,” Harris said, calmly.

“When Garrett was escaping yesterday,” Kim began, “I called him on his SAT phone and a hacker immediately began trying to intercept our conversation.”

“Yes, we already know that,” Harris said.

“Ever since that SAT call, this same Russian hacker has been trying to break into my IEC network. A nonstop assault and I’ve been firing back, trying to penetrate his system.”

“Cyber combat,” Mayberry said.

“Exactly,” Kim declared, excitedly. “Without getting technical, early this morning I succeeded in breaking into his system, but only long enough to copy several hundred megabytes of data before he blocked me. What I discovered is your network has been breached.”

Kim removed a stack of printed-out messages from his briefcase. “At first, I thought the hacker used an advanced version of Pawn Storm—a cyberattack the Russians launched a few years back aimed at NATO, the White House, the German parliament, and a slew of Eastern European governments. It used at least six zero-days, including a critical Java vulnerability, to conduct advanced credential phishing.”

“They got it from phishing?” Mayberry said.

“Russian hackers sent emails to government officials that appeared to come from a legitimate server—let’s say Yahoo. The emails warned there had been a ‘server failure’ and that all emails that were supposed to have been delivered a day or two earlier had been ‘undeliverable.’ To fix the failure, the user was told to hit a ‘start service’ button.”

“And someone fell for it,” Director Harris said.

“Absolutely,” Kim replied, grinning. “These phishing warnings were so well done that even a Yahoo service technician would’ve had trouble identifying them as fakes. All it took was for a couple of government Yahoo users to click and the Russians were inside their targets. Their spyware began spreading and collecting personal information and messages.”

“And that’s how they figured out where Garrett would be?” Mayberry asked.

“No. I mean, that was my first theory. That’s what the hacker wanted me to think. It was a red herring. The hacker in Moscow was invited inside.”

“What? Who invited this hacker in?” Harris asked.

“Ambassador Duncan. My guess is he had a computer problem and whoever fixed his machine created a carefully hidden mirror account,” Kim replied. “What makes this so ingenious is the hacker not only can read message traffic, including the ambassador’s secure emails, he also can block them or, if he chooses, he can answer them posing as someone else. This hacker is really brilliant. Not like me, but still brilliant.”

Kim handed out several printouts from his briefcase.

“If what you are saying is correct, it explains the communications breach,” Harris said, “but not how General Gromyko knew about yesterday’s ambush. My instructions to Garrett were hand-delivered and none of us knew about the rendezvous site at the Billa grocery until the morning of the extraction.”

“That’s right, Director Harris,” Kim replied, “but these printouts show that Ambassador Duncan was sending emails while he was flying to Geneva for an economic summit.”

“Who was he sending them to?” Mayberry asked.

“The secretary of state’s personal account. They were intercepted and blocked by the hacker.”

Harris and Mayberry scanned the printouts while Kim continued. “The first intercepted emails were about the summit, but then Ambassador Duncan reported that a female embassy employee threw red wine on a network television correspondent at a birthday party for his daughter. This correspondent had written several complimentary stories about the ambassador’s wife, Heidi. They were friends. The reporter suspected the female employee was shielding Brett Garrett, protecting him. So the reporter asked Heidi Duncan after the party if the employee was a covert CIA officer posing as a member of her staff.”

“You can’t reveal if someone is a CIA operative,” Mayberry said.

“Heidi didn’t, but she did mention it to her husband. She told him that she might have a deep-cover CIA agent on her staff and that prompted the ambassador to go on an email tirade.”

Kim leaned forward from his sofa seat. Elbows resting on his knees. Eyes looking directly at Harris. “This is where the ambassador screws the pooch.”

Harris looked sullen. “Please continue.”

“Ambassador Duncan tells the secretary that the CIA apparently is spying on Heidi and he wants the agency to back off. What the ambassador doesn’t realize is the hacker is intercepting his emails and it’s at this point where the hacker begins writing back to Duncan on the aircraft.”

“Are you telling me this hacker began interrogating him?” Harris asked.

“Exactly, the hacker asks why Brett Garrett is in Moscow and Duncan—thinking he is communicating with the secretary—tells him everything, including how Garrett was in the midst of smuggling a high-ranking Russian asset out of the country. He was like water gushing from a garden hose.”

“Why would he do something so careless?” Mayberry asked.

“Because he thought he was talking to the secretary and because he was venting. He was furious the CIA was spying on his wife.”

Harris put down the printouts that Kim had handed him. “This is why the president shouldn’t have doled out the Russian ambassadorship as a political plum. A few hours of security protocol training apparently wasn’t enough for him.”

“In his defense,” Kim said, “there’s no way Ambassador Duncan realized he was exchanging emails with a Russian hacker.”

“Have you identified this hacker?” Mayberry asked.

“Only by his nom de plume—Magician. Because of his computer skills, I suspect he works for GIT inside the Moscow Station.”

“Your rival when it comes to government computer contracts,” Harris noted.

“Perhaps it’s time for State to switch IT support,” Kim replied.

Harris said, “I’ll deal with this. Now, has Garrett tried to contact you?”

“No,” Kim said. “Our last communication was on the SAT phone twenty-four hours ago during the Moscow chase.”

“Do you know what’s happened to him and the others?” Mayberry asked Harris.

Director Harris shook his head. “The last word Garrett spoke before destroying the SAT phone was ‘Gordievsky,’” Harris said.

“Like the KGB defector who MI-6 got out of Russia?” Mayberry asked. “It must be a message. The Brits wrote emergency instructions on how to flee Russia in invisible ink in a collection of Shakespeare sonnets and gave it to Gordievsky. When he got into trouble, he soaked the book in water and they appeared. That’s how he knew to take the train to the Finnish border,” Mayberry recalled.

Harris agreed. “He’s not going to Ukraine. We assume he’s going to follow Gordievsky’s escape route.”

“Where did Gordievsky cross over?” Kim asked.

“Just outside Vyborg,” Mayberry answered. “About twenty-four miles from the Finnish border. Before Stalin seized it, Vyborg belonged to Finland.”

“How far is Vyborg from Moscow?” Kim asked.

“If you’re driving, eleven or twelve hours,” Harris replied.

“If he drove all night, he could already be there waiting,” Mayberry said.

Harris disagreed. “The main highway between Moscow and St. Petersburg would be too risky. Even if General Gromyko assumes Garrett is heading to Ukraine, he will have roadblocks along all major routes east.”

Addressing Kim, Harris said, “I need you in Langley working with my people to positively identify this Magician. We need to nail him. But before you go, answer me this. Can you tell me if this Magician intercepted the call in time to hear the word Gordevisky?”

“I’m not sure,” Kim said. “I’d put the odds at fifty-fifty.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kim,” Harris said. “You can go now.” He waited until Kim had exited the safe house.

“There’s a high probability that General Gromyko is going to catch Garrett and Pavel,” Harris said. “If they do, Gromyko will, more than likely, kill them and move forward with his poison attack here. That means you’re our best option for learning where the Antifa attack will happen and when.”

“Aysan Rivera,” Mayberry said. “Have your people intercepted her from wherever she fled?”

“No, she never boarded her plane at Dulles.”

“Where is she?” Mayberry said, genuinely concerned.

“I was hoping you could answer that question.”

Twenty-Seven

Deputy Foreign Minister Pavel began complaining twenty minutes after they exited Moscow. “We should be in a Range Rover. The mafia drives them and the police won’t trouble them. In this BMW, they will think we’re rich and can pay a large bribe.”

The State Inspection of Safety of Road Traffic officers (GIBDD) were known to find any excuse to pull over drivers and threatened them with jail unless they were paid bribes.

Another gripe seconds later. This time about the two major highways connecting Moscow to St. Petersburg. “The M-11 is where a wealthy Russian would drive. Fewer holes. Not the M-10. You selected the wrong road.”

Next came a direct order. “Drive faster. You’re calling attention to us by traveling so slowly.”

Garrett eyeballed the BMW’s speedometer. The national speed limit was 100 kilometers (about 62 mph). He was driving 144 kilometers (90 mph) and still being pressured.

Garrett ignored Pavel.

By this point they’d been on the M-10 motorway long enough for General Gromyko to have ordered roadblocks. Garrett could see a line of cars slowing in front of them. He had counterfeit documents, passports, and travel papers in his gym bag, but Gromyko would have distributed photos of Pavel and Peter, and the two of them would be recognized even though they were traveling under fake names. Would a lucrative bribe be enough for a GIBDD or FSB officer to look the other way? Risky. Another alternative: Garrett’s SIG Sauer. Kill anyone who stopped them. Even more risky.

“We need to get off this highway now,” Garrett announced. “We should find someplace to hide—at least until night.”

“You didn’t plan for this?” Pavel asked. “The SVR would have.”

“I wasn’t planning on being ambushed in Moscow.”

“There was a leak obviously by your people,” Pavel lectured. “Americans talk too much. Involve too many. Now turn off the motorway and I will direct you to a dacha where we will be safe from Gromyko.”

“Whose dacha? Nothing you own, nothing your family owns, nothing your relatives own, nothing your friends own.”

“Don’t waste my time telling me the obvious. Gromyko will not look for us where I am taking you.”

Slowing the car, Garrett said, “I don’t like it.”

“Gromyko will not think of this dacha because it belonged to a family whose daughter he raped and murdered.”

“They’ll take you in?” Garrett asked.

“What I told you is sufficient.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Pavel didn’t reply. He was sulking. He was not used to anyone giving him orders.

Garrett pulled to the side of the road, parked, and turned off the engine.

Pavel wet his lips. “Gromyko was not the first to abuse this woman,” he explained. “A Soviet foreign minister violated her when she was a child. The father protested to the Foreign Ministry, and I was put in charge of paying restitution. That’s how it was done in the Soviet days. We didn’t murder people. I was a junior diplomat and part of the restitution was building the family a dacha. I found the girl a good job after she finished school.”

“I thought you said Gromyko raped and murdered her?”

“Yes, he did. It happened several years later. The girl’s boss took her to a party. She was an adult and quite beautiful. Gromyko was there and when she rejected his advances, he raped her. When her father demanded justice this time, there was no restitution. Gromyko killed him, her, the entire family. He will not think to look for us there. He isn’t aware of my earlier connection to the family.”

“How can you be sure no one is living there now?”

“Tell me, Mr. Garrett,” Pavel replied, “all of the residents know what Gromyko did. Would you risk moving into that dacha?”

Unlike the highway, Pavel directed Garrett onto ruts, washed-out sections of road, and potholes in what road was not yet washed away. Moscow was modern, but this countryside reminded Garrett of developing countries he’d seen. “All the young have left the county,” Pavel volunteered. “The collectives provided work. There is nothing here now except the old, decay, and the stench of death.”

Ten minutes after they passed through a village, Pavel ordered Garrett to turn onto what had been a dirt road but now was a barely visible path overgrown with weeds.

Several limbs had fallen onto the entrance to the heavily treed property. With Peter’s help, Garrett moved them aside while Pavel waited. Eventually they entered a meadow with a creek and no visible neighbors. “This is the price the state puts on child molestation,” Garrett said. “How old was the girl?”

“That is of no importance to you.”

A log cabin made from hand-hewed timber had been built by the creek more than a century before. A newer building had been added to it, but it was now several decades old. Long ago faded were its yellow walls with green trim. The panes in two windows were cracked. So many weeds had overtaken the front door that it would have been impossible to pull outward. A single wooden T from a clothesline stubbornly stood erect. Its mate had fallen. A waist-high, fenced-in area enclosed what Garrett assumed had been a vegetable garden. Fireplace wood was neatly stacked near an outdoor toilet. Easily missed was an ax protruding from a chopping block. Both had been overtaken by an indigenous vine that had curled itself around the stump and up the tool.

Garrett maneuvered the BMW to the back side of the original log cabin and discovered that one wall had been removed from it as a conversion project, turning it into a garage. A 1980s-era Lada was parked inside. Despite dry rot, the tires were still inflated even though the box-shaped Lada’s bright red paint was layered with dirt and bird dung.

Pavel was the first to enter, swatting his hand in front of his face to clear cobwebs. This back door opened inward and he pushed hard against the door, forcing it across the planked floor.

“Fetch firewood,” Pavel ordered his grandson.

“No,” Garrett said. “Smoke will get attention.”

Peter looked at his grandfather, who shrugged and relented.

Garrett was surprised when he stepped inside. The dacha’s interior had remained untouched by human hands. A single, large room, with a curtain closing off a sleeping area. The bed still carefully made. No electricity. Glass jars of canned fruits filled the kitchen cabinets. Contents black now, impossible to identify. Everything store-bought in paper boxes had been ravaged by mice. A musty smell. Two framed watercolors mounted near chairs. A single framed photograph. Parents. Two boys. A girl, maybe five at the time.

A piano.

“The father insisted,” Pavel said without emotion, “for his daughter to take playing lessons.”

Peter walked to it and pushed a dusty white key. Out of tune but it worked.

“Play something for us,” Pavel said. He glanced at Garrett, adding, “Peter is a prodigy. You can play any piece of music to him one time, and he can duplicate it.”

The teenager sat and began to play.

Pavel closed his eyes and hummed along. “Tchaikovsky,” he said. “This is from The Seasons. November.”

He continued to hum along and then said:

Peter struck a wrong key.

“You half-wit!” his grandfather snapped, opening his eyes. “If you can’t play Tchaikovsky correctly, you shouldn’t try.”

The teen stopped. Ashamed.

“I thought he did a pretty damn good job,” Garrett said.

“Every child in America does a damn good job even when they don’t,” Pavel retorted. “It is why you are weak.”

Pavel walked across the room to a decorative wooden cabinet. “We are saved,” he declared, removing two bottles of unopened vodka, which he placed on the dacha’s only table.

“Peter, fetch us three glasses,” he said. “Vodka. Our gift to the world.”

He opened the first bottle and filled three cups. “There are many false stereotypes about Russians, but drinking vodka is not one of them.” He examined the bottle. “Russki Standard, one of our most popular. Every educated Russian knows the history of vodka. Why? Because the outside world always asks us, ‘Why do Russians drink so much vodka?’ Do you know the history, Mr. Garrett?”

“No,” he replied, happy that Pavel was now talking so freely.

“Pyotr Arsenjevitch Smirnov introduced vodka to the czars but, like all the rich, he fled Russia after the October Revolution. Where did he go? Where else but America? A joke. His vodka wasn’t accepted there until some American advertising man called it ‘white whiskey.’ Pearls before swine.”

Pavel raised his glass. “Let’s have a toast. You must toast. Let’s toast to us following in the footsteps of Smirnov to America!”

Pavel downed his in one swallow. The teen pushed his away. Garrett sniffed the vodka.

“Vodka doesn’t go bad,” Pavel declared. He reached across the table and reclaimed his grandson’s still full glass, which he also drank in a single gulp. He refilled both glasses for himself.

“Do you think I am trying to poison you?” he asked Garrett.

“Isn’t that how Tchaikovsky died?”

Pavel’s face lit up. “Ah, so now you are trying to impress me. Tchaikovsky died from cholera caused by drinking unboiled water.” He dropped his voice to a whisper and added, “There are others who say he committed suicide from depression brought on by living in Russia.” He laughed and drank one of the glasses before him, his third shot.

Garrett took his first sip. “How is Gromyko planning on attacking the U.S.?”

Pavel’s toothy smile became a frown. “Mr. Garrett, I prefer being kissed before I am—” He stopped short, censoring his language for the sake of his grandson. “You want to learn what I know, first get us to America alive. No more talk about this. We drink and discuss happy things.”

He emptied the fourth glass and nodded at Garrett’s still nearly full one. “Mr. Garrett, let me further disabuse you of any diabolical thoughts. It is physically impossible for an American, any American, including you, to outdrink a Russian when it comes to vodka. If you are hoping to get me drunk to loosen my tongue, you will be deeply disappointed.”

Garrett finished his glass and turned it over so Pavel couldn’t refill it.

“My father was an alcoholic,” he said.

“Every Russian’s father is an alcoholic,” Pavel said, laughing.

“Mine killed himself and my mother in a car crash.”

“And what?” said Pavel. “You are telling us this sad story to win my sympathy? You hope to establish some personal bond, some intimacy? You forget that you are seated at a table with a Soviet-trained diplomat who has survived a poison attack. You are seated with a Russian father whose only daughter and his son-in-law are dead, leaving my grandson here without a parent. Do you think you have suffered because your parents died? You Americans know nothing about suffering.”

Pavel downed the glass before him. “My country lost thirty-one million people during World War Two. Three hundred thousand soldiers were killed during the Siege of Leningrad. Another million killed, wounded, missing, or captured at Stalingrad along with forty thousand civilians. We remember this because every family in Russia lost someone. You are like spoiled children compared to us. We know death. We accept death. We expect death.”

Despite Pavel’s earlier bragging, the vodka was taking root. His eyes were becoming glassy.

“You hoped to impress me because you knew about Tchaikovsky’s death. Tell me about Vasily Semyonovich Grossman if you are so well educated about my country.”

“You win. I have no idea who that is,” Garrett replied.

“This is because Americans only study American history. They are ignorant about the rest of the world. Grossman was a journalist for the Red Army newspaper Krasnaya Zvezda. He wrote firsthand accounts of the battles of Moscow, Stalingrad, Kursk, and Berlin. He was the first to tell us about the Nazi extermination camp at Treblinka.”

Pavel licked his lips. Perspiration was forming on his forehead.

“Did I tell you he was a Jew?” Pavel asked. “This is why Stalin eventually banned his writings and books. This Jew—this Grossman—he saw more human suffering than other men.”

Pavel closed his eyes, leaned his head back as if he were reaching into the back of his mind to retrieve information. “Grossman wrote this: ‘There are people whose souls have just withered. People who are willing to go along with anything evil—anything so as not to be suspected of disagreeing with whoever is in power.’”

His head fell forward, his eyes open. “This Jew was writing about the Germans. The Nazis. But he could be talking about my people today. Gromyko. Kalugin. Everyone lives in fear of them. My daughter and her husband are dead but they did not have withered souls.”

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.

Mayberry slipped her right hand from her side to the front of her pants. Makayla and her driver had overlooked a concealed weapon. Their mistake had been allowing Mayberry to unfasten her belt, drop her denim jeans to the warehouse’s concrete floor, and step free of them. What neither of her captors had noticed was the stainless-steel woven belt around Mayberry’s waist—held together by a pair of matching three-inch-long powerful magnets. The belt was pencil thin, so it wouldn’t snag on pant loops.

Mayberry gripped the belt’s clasp, separating the magnets.

Now!

She whipped the belt free at the exact moment Makayla inserted the needle into Rivera’s arm. Eric was watching Makayla flag the needle—pulling back on the syringe plunger to draw blood into the hotshot, checking to ensure the needle had hit its intended target.

Mayberry snapped the belt’s magnet tip like a bullwhip, catching him completely off guard. Its silver tip struck with such force that it broke the metal frame of his glasses at the hinge and drove a piece of the frame into his eye, impaling his iris, instantly blinding his left eye. He yelped and instinctively reached for his face to remove the jagged frame, dropping the Ruger LCP at his feet so he could use both hands.

Makayla heard him cry out and looked at Mayberry just as the undercover agent was diving to the floor, scooping up Eric’s discarded Ruger. Now on her back, she fired upward into Eric’s torso. The impact of three rounds sent him stumbling backward. A well-placed fourth caused him to collapse.

Mayberry turned. Makayla, who’d been unarmed, was gone.

Rivera groaned. The half-filled syringe was still dangling from her arm.

Mayberry checked Rivera’s pulse. Weak. Her lips were beginning to turn blue. Her skin felt cold. Mayberry grabbed Rivera’s diamond-encrusted cell phone from the table. Dialed 911.

“I need Narcan! Hurry!”

“What’s your address?”

“A warehouse near the docks.”

“Who has overdosed?”

Mayberry didn’t have time to answer. Most 911 dispatchers can get an approximate location of a cell phone call, but not always.

Makayla and the two men, who had been waiting outside in the van, could return at any moment, only this time Makayla would be armed.

Mayberry glanced left, right. A fire alarm. She pulled it. The electronic drone of the alarm echoed through the warehouse. Emergency lights flashed on. She retrieved her Glock 19 from the waistband of Eric’s corpse. Armed now with a pistol in each hand, she hid between cargo containers and waited for an attack. Nothing.

“Aysan,” she called. “Nod if you can hear me.”

No response.

She emerged and checked Rivera’s pulse again. Barely noticeable. She hurriedly wiped her fingerprints from the Ruger LCP, placed it on the table, grabbed Rivera’s cell phone, and dashed through the cargo containers to where her jacket, socks, and shoes were lying. Dressing quickly, she inched her way to the doorway. She had to be certain Makayla and the other two were gone before she could go back, untie Rivera, and possibly begin CPR. The warehouse door was open. She looked outside but didn’t see the van. She exited the warehouse, searching for the van. She heard sirens. The flashing lights of an approaching ambulance, fire trucks.

No time to go back inside. Instead, she hurried from the warehouse and found a place to disappear in its shadows.

She watched first responders entering the warehouse. No one noticed her. Using Rivera’s phone, Mayberry called Mr. Smith.

“This is Special Agent Valerie Mayberry. I need to see him. My cover has been blown and where in the hell was my backup!”

Twenty-Nine

Yakov Prokofyevich Pavel gazed through the Lada’s dirty passenger window at the darkening evening sky outside the Klin railway station.

“Mr. Garrett,” Pavel said wistfully. “The Russian poet, Fyodor Tyutchev, wrote:

It was a pensive moment for the fleeing deputy foreign minister.

“Your beloved Russia is trying to kill you and your grandson,” Garrett reminded him.

“Not Russia,” Pavel bristled. “Gromyko and Kalugin. You may take me to America, but I will always be a Russian.”

They had driven from their dacha hideaway to the Klin railway station without attracting notice. Peter had been sent inside to purchase three tickets to Vyborg via St. Petersburg. Garrett had cut his hair short, military style—a thin disguise. Their plan: purchase the tickets and board a train scheduled to arrive within the next ten minutes.

Garrett’s eyes darted back and forth between the station’s main entrance and his watch.

“What’s taking so long?” he asked. “Do they always demand to see passports?”

“And I should know this, why?” Pavel scoffed. His underlings at the Foreign Ministry had always made his travel arrangements.

A loud whistle. A locomotive pulling into the station. Garrett opened the driver’s door. He and Pavel walked in hurried steps toward the tracks. Passengers were exiting the train cars. Others began boarding. No sign of Peter with their tickets.

Garrett scanned for police.

Peter burst from the station door frantically waving their tickets. They entered a railcar just as its provodnitsa was shutting its door.

“Next time, you will be left,” the stout, older woman attendant scolded. They followed her down a narrow corridor as the train slowly pulled from the station. She stopped at a four-berth kupe—a cramped compartment with two bunk beds facing one another. A middle-aged man inside looked up from the Moskovskiy Komsomolets newspaper.

Pavel stopped at the berth’s doorway. Garrett braced himself for a scene. He suspected Pavel was about to complain about the dingy quarters. He was accustomed to high-speed Sapsan trains that raced between St. Petersburg and Moscow at speeds of 150 mph. Grand Express railcars, lavishly decorated, each with its own television, private toilet, and shower. This was a passazhirsky train, which smelled of human sweat and urine. The blue padding on the berth’s bench seats, which doubled as mattresses, was worn flat. The floor badly stained. A lone bright yellow crocus in a cheap glass vase placed on a steel table under the window was the berth’s only nicety.

“My grandson—he is being treated for tuberculosis,” Pavel said quietly to the woman. “Although a doctor has cleared him for travel, one never knows how contagious he still might be.”

As he spoke, Pavel slipped a five-hundred-ruble note, roughly ten U.S. dollars, into the woman’s pudgy hand.

Peter coughed convincingly.

The provodnitsa gave Pavel a cold look. Another five-hundred-ruble note changed hands. She entered the berth and ordered the lone rider to gather his belongings. He protested, but when she threatened to eject him from her railcar, he threw the newspaper onto the floor and angrily grabbed his bag to follow her to a different berth. As he slipped by Pavel, he cursed him.

“A clever lie and a bribe,” Garrett said approvingly when they were alone.

Pavel sat on the bunk opposite him facing the rear of the train. Peter would sleep in the top bunk above, but plopped down next to Garrett to get settled.

“Isn’t it the same in every country—a threat or a bribe?” Pavel asked. Without waiting for a reply, he said, “Peter, what happened in the station?”

Reaching into his jacket, the teen produced the three CIA doctored passports and returned them to Garrett. He spread his hands apart and rapidly opened and closed his fingers.

“He’s saying there was a long line, many ticket buyers,” Pavel interpreted.

“Ask him if he had to show the passports?” Garrett said.

“You ask him. His hearing is not impaired.”

From his jacket pocket, Peter removed a slip of paper that Pavel had given him. The words: Three tickets. Vyborg. I don’t speak were written on the sheet. Someone had scribbled in pencil. Show me your passports.

“They wrote because they assumed he couldn’t hear,” Pavel said. “Just like you.” Pavel laughed. Peter grinned.

“Did you show them?” Garrett asked again, impatiently.

The teen glanced at his grandfather and flashed a mischievous grin.

“I’ve taught my grandson how to get things done,” Pavel said. “Without complications.”

Peter took a wad of thousand-ruble notes from his pocket and handed them to his grandfather, who counted them. “I gave him ten thousand, and there are only eight remaining. This means he had to pay two thousand to purchase our tickets—without producing passports.”

“Why doesn’t he talk?” Garrett asked.

“He must not have anything he wants to say,” Pavel said dismissively.

Garrett picked up the discarded newspaper from the floor. Photos of Pavel and Peter were printed above the front-page fold. Kidnapped after touring the Metro Museum in Moscow. Call local police or the FSB if seen. A knock. Garrett flipped over the newspaper, hiding its pictures. The provodnitsa entered with a tray. A bottle of vodka, two beers. Soda for the teen. Some cut fruit. Crackers. Glasses.

“Come, drink with us,” Pavel told her, turning on the charm. “There is nothing better than Russia vodka and a good Russian woman to pass the time on a train ride!”

“I have nine compartments on my car and I’m past the age when I wished to party with passengers.” Still, she returned his flirtatious glance.

“Such a pity,” he said.

Pavel noticed the beer. “Ah, excellent, beer without vodka is throwing away your money. It is a common Russian saying. And to drink without a woman at your side is truly tragic. But my comrades and I will somehow manage.” He handed the woman another five-hundred-ruble note.

“You need to look at the newspaper,” Garrett said, as soon as she left them.

“What will I learn that I already don’t know? Nothing. Today’s news is written with a pitchfork on flowing water.”

The teen eagerly ate the snacks and downed his soda. Pavel focused on the beer and vodka.

Two hours later, the attendant returned, this time with three plastic sealed packages. Each contained two sheets, a pillowcase, and one towel. She retrieved the food tray, leaving the unfinished vodka on the table, and extended her hand for payment. Pavel glanced at Garrett, implying it was his turn to pay. Garrett handed her a one-hundred-ruble note. Even though it was more than what the average passenger was charged for bedding, she continued to hold out her hand. Pavel chuckled and fetched another five-hundred note from his pocket. Again she smiled at the old man.

Garrett flipped shut a loosely attached interior latch on the door after she was gone. It was supposed to keep the berth secure, but every enterprising thief would know how to slip a coat hanger between the jam and lift it. He took the vodka bottle and placed it against the door so it would be knocked over if opened, sounding an alarm.

Peter obediently made his grandfather’s bed and helped him remove his shirt, shoes, and pants. Within minutes the intoxicated diplomat was snoring loudly. Peter climbed onto the upper bunk above him. Garrett took a blue pill from his gym bag and swallowed it. Ginger Capello had assured him lorcaserin would lessen his cravings, delay withdrawal, but his head was throbbing, and he was wide awake. Jittery.

From his bag, he removed a map of Russia. He noticed his right hand was shaking.

MI-6 had smuggled Oleg Gordievsky into Finland near Vyborg. It was where Garrett assumed the agency would expect him to cross with Pavel and Peter. It was likely that General Gromyko would have extra men waiting there as a precaution. The train ride was seventy-six miles from St. Petersburg to Vyborg, a fishing village. Escaping by boat would be less risky than overland travel, he decided. Once safely in Finland, he could contact Thomas Jefferson Kim.

Garrett traced his forefinger across Vyborg Bay, estimating the shortest course. He suddenly realized Peter was watching him. The teen hopped down from the top berth and shook awake his sleeping grandfather.

“What! What!” the old man grumbled. The teen shook him harder and motioned toward the map. He pointed at the bay.

“My grandson is trying to warn you,” Pavel muttered, “that the islands and shores of Vyborg Bay are strictly guarded by border control. Heavily patrolled. Anyone entering a three-mile zone will be captured.”

The teen slid his finger down the map from Vyborg Bay along the train route toward St. Petersburg, stopping midway at Roshchino Leningrad Oblast. A much smaller village. From there he moved his hand to the Gulf of Finland.

“I get it,” Garrett said. “We’ll get off the train at Roshchino, not Vyborg.”

Satisfied, Peter returned to the top berth. Garrett turned off the light, removed his SIG Sauer. Tucked it next to him under a top sheet and listened to Pavel snoring again.

The berth had no curtains on its window. Garrett rested the back of his head on his raised hands as a pillow, slightly propping up his head. He was watching the berth’s door. Lights and shadows from outside the car danced across it. Only the stars and moon penetrated the darkness when the railcar moved through rural areas, but when the train slowed, the lights from whatever village they’d entered would illuminate the entire berth. He listened to the sounds of passengers boarding and leaving the train. He became familiar with the provodnitsa’s lumbering footsteps as she passed their berth trudging along the corridor. There was only one toilet at the end of the car, three berths away, and either those using it didn’t shut its door tightly, or its latch was broken. Garrett could hear the door banging against the side of the train until either the attendant or the next occupant secured it.

He thought about Russians and Americans and official lies and broken promises. He thought about betrayal and obstacles they still faced. Had Heidi Duncan noticed the missing weight-loss pills that he’d stolen from her embassy desk? Had General Gromyko recognized Capello when she’d exploded the Zil delivery truck they’d used to escape? There hadn’t been any mention of him or possible U.S. involvement in the newspaper’s account.

Unable to sleep, he took another blue pill to calm his nerves and closed his eyes. Twilight sleep. In German: Dammerschlaf. Partial narcosis. Awake enough to be conscious but not fully awake. Was it the pill? Was he high or was it caution that was keeping him half-awake?

There. He saw it. Or was it a dream? A trick of light and shadows. The interior latch rising. The door beginning to open. The quick sound of the vodka bottle being knocked across the berth’s floor.

By the time Garrett realized what was happening it was too late. Hooded men were already inside. One pushed his knee against Garrett’s chest making it difficult for him to breath, pinning him helpless on the lower bunk. He felt hands grabbing his limbs. One man per arm, one per leg. Within seconds, they’d tossed him on the floor, his hands cuffed, legs secured with a plastic cord. Stripped the SIG Sauer from him. He locked his teeth when one of the attackers tried to stuff an object into his mouth. A hard slap against his head. Mouth forced open. Pavel was blissfully snoring during the attack. Peter was also asleep. Dragged out into the corridor, Garrett found himself looking up at a pleased General Gromyko. Behind him, the provodnitsa. Her body had been placed in a sitting position on the floor, her back against the railcar’s side, her neck broken. Lifeless eyes staring forward. Standing nearby was the passenger who’d been in the berth when they’d arrived. The front-page newspaper photographs. Him stopping to stare into Pavel’s face and curse him when he was ejected. It all made sense.

With the toe of his polished boot, Gromyko kicked Garrett along the side of his skull.