Collusion

Thirty

Two Years Ago

Senator Cormac Stone was one of the most liberal members of the U.S. Congress and, even before his son’s death in Cameroon, he’d despised the CIA. The senior senator from California claimed it had done more harm than good and he could easily cite its failures.

The Bay of Pigs—a flubbed agency plot to overthrow Fidel Castro. The Cuban Missile Crisis—the agency had declared a month before that the Soviets would never attempt to put a nuclear weapon on the island. The Iranian Revolution—the agency had reported six months before it that the Shah’s reign was secure. The collapse of the USSR—it had never seen it coming.

The impetus for creating the CIA in 1947 had been the Japanese bombing at Pearl Harbor. Yet the agency had not stopped the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks, even though it knew that two of the hijackers were members of al-Qaeda and held valid U.S. visas.

More recently, there was the “weapons of mass destruction” fiasco and finally the CIA-informed Obama administration’s insistence that the Arab Spring would undercut al-Qaeda when, in fact, it had led to the rise of the Islamic State and upheaval in Egypt and Libya.

Now Senator Stone’s only son, Petty Officer 3rd Class Richard Stone, aka “Senator” to his fellow SEALs, had been killed in action during his first CIA-directed operation.

Senator Stone wanted vengeance, and as the ranking minority member of the U.S. Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, he had enough clout to demand a public hearing.

CIA director Harold Harris was his first witness inside the Hart Senate Office Building. In his written statement, he quickly outlined the nonclassified basics. Mission’s purpose: rescue kidnapped NGO worker Elsa Eriksson. Location: terrorists’ camp in Cameroon. Overall success: Eriksson freed, an estimated twenty terrorists killed. Casualties: four Navy SEALs injured. Fatalities: three Nigerian locals, two Navy pilots, and Petty Officer 3rd Class Richard Stone. Cause of deaths: RPG striking rescue helicopter. Survivors of that attack: only one, Chief Petty Officer Brett Garrett.

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

“Yes, that is correct, Senator.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, Senator, he did not.”

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

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

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

“As many as twenty, Senator.”

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

“Only seven.”

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

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

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

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

“When did you next hear from Chief Garrett?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harris didn’t hesitate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Garrett nodded.

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

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

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

Stone shouted: “To not incriminate yourself.”

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

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

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

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

Thirty-One

Current Day

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

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

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

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

Duncan immediately shooed away his staff and began reading.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does he have some personal animus toward you?”

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

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

“Harris and Austin warned me months ago that Sokolov was trying to recruit Heidi. I told them it was utter nonsense. I’ve never told her anything classified, and she’s never asked. They met for a few innocent lunches. That’s all.”

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

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

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

Silence. President Fitzgerald had ended their call.

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

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

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

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

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

Heidi reemerged from the bedroom to ask about the call.

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

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

“I’ve been told to ignore everything.”

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

He scowled at her.

An aide knocked and handed him a paper.

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

Her husband read it aloud. “The Associated Press. Moscow dateline. Ivan Sokolov told reporters outside his apartment in Moscow today that any implication that he and his family were involved in a Russian intelligence-gathering operation to recruit Heidi Duncan as an American spy was a complete fabrication. ‘Cables posted by Maxi-Leaks are a CIA provocation,’ Sokolov said, ‘intended to embarrass Russian president Vyachesian Kalugin.’ Sokolov acknowledged that he and Mrs. Duncan had had an ‘intimate relationship’ but said they never discussed matters of national importance to the United States or Russia.”

“He’s exaggerating. Flattering himself,” Heidi said. “I’m not an idiot. I wouldn’t cheat on you.”

“You are an idiot,” Duncan said angrily, rising from his seat. “You met him alone in a hotel.”

She hurried to where he was standing, threw her arms around his waist, laid her wet cheek against his chest, and quietly sobbed. He did not return her hug.

Another knock on the suite door.

“What the hell is it!” Duncan said.

His top aide entered. Whispered to Duncan. After he had gone, Duncan said, “Heidi, clean yourself up. We’re leaving. I’ve been told to resign. We’ve been told to stay in seclusion until this blows over.”

“Where will we go?”

“I’m going to our home in Grand Cayman.”

Her hands were trembling. She was hoping for comfort, support. Instead he walked toward the study. “You can come too if you haven’t made other plans. I’ve got a call to make. I’m not letting those bastards in Langley and Moscow get away with this.”

Ambassador Duncan’s call to California senator Cormac Stone was unexpected. Stone had been one of Duncan’s harshest critics at his confirmation hearing.

“Senator,” Duncan said, getting right to the point, “Director Harris and his chief of station in Moscow have humiliated my wife and me.”

“I’ve been told about the cables,” Stone replied with no detectible sympathy.

“Tip O’Neill said, ‘All politics is local,’” Duncan said. “My brief sojourn has taught me that all politics is personal. Director Harris is hiding information from your Senate committee.”

“Mr. Ambassador,” Senator Stone replied, “you’re making a serious allegation.”

“Harris is running a covert operation in Moscow outside regular channels—intentionally to keep you from knowing about it.”

“Why? What sort of operation?”

“He’s using Brett Garrett.”

The line went quiet, and for several moments Duncan thought they’d been disconnected.

Finally, Stone said, “I’m listening.”

Thirty-Two

CIA director Harold Harris reviewed a staff-prepared summary of the Maxi-Leaks cables while being driven to Capitol Hill. He’d been summoned by the chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. Harris viewed most members of Congress with contempt. They were meddlers. Outsiders. He’d spent his entire career in the intelligence world. The politicians peering over his shoulders had never recruited an asset, never ran a covert operation, never stolen secrets from a rival nation or lost an operative in the field. Even worse, politicians were notorious leakers—when it served their purpose.

As he rode east on Constitution Avenue, Harris looked at the looming United States Capitol Building on the eastern end of the National Mall. Neoclassical architecture inspired by ancient Greece and Rome to evoke the ideals that guided the nation’s founders. Its final design chosen by President George Washington himself. Built, burnt, rebuilt, extended, and restored. Nearly six hundred rooms now on five levels. Northside: the U.S. Senate chamber. South side: the House of Representatives. Joined together by a rotunda topped by nearly nine million pounds of a cast-iron dome. The bronze statue of Freedom, often mistaken by tourists as a Native American statue, poised on the Capitol’s peak.

Director Harris had been awestruck when he’d walked through the building as a teenager, brought by his parents on a family vacation. Majesty. The best and the brightest. Living gods. No longer. He knew its occupants too well.

He was not being summoned before the full Senate committee today at the Hart Senate Office Building, where he had testified two years earlier about the bungled Cameroon operation and Brett Garrett. This time Harris was reporting in a much more intimate setting. He exited his car and went through a private entrance into the Capitol Visitor Center, an underground labyrinth below the East Capitol grounds. Nearly 700,000 square feet on three basement levels tucked beneath well-tended grass and shady old trees. He doubted if any of the three million visitors who annually toured it were aware it contained the intelligence committee’s SCIF tucked deep within its bowels. Pronounced “skiff,” the acronym stood for Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility—a secure vault whose thick walls were lined with acoustic attenuation technology to prevent audio penetration. It was protected around the clock by U. S. Capitol Police and routinely swept for listening devices.

By law, Congress was entitled to know the country’s most carefully held secrets. Simply by getting elected, any member could request intelligence reports. What was distributed to them, however, was deliberately parceled out and Harris had become adept at keeping information hidden.

Harris had been warned that the only attendees today would be the committee’s chairman, the Senate majority and minority leaders, and the committee’s vice chair—Senator Cormac Stone—the same senator who had chastised him about his handling of the Cameroon rescue, the man who detested the CIA, the one whose son had been killed.

Together these four senators ruled their chamber and Director Harris expected all of them to be outraged by the Maxi-Leaks disclosures.

To the average voter, a senator was a senator, a House member, a House member. In the halls of Congress, few were equal. The bottom-feeders were House freshmen. Two-year terms blew by quickly. Some were voted out of office without ever learning the deliberative body’s unspoken rules. Every member of Congress could introduce a bill. Brag about that legislation to the hometown media. But legislation went nowhere unless the leadership in both chambers willed it. The Senate and House majority and minority leaders, along with their whips, controlled the ship. They kept their power by politicking. Rewards. Punishment. Nothing moved without a favor, a promise, a handshake. To survive, you had to play by the rules, be part of the team. On the campaign trail, every wannabe railed against the Washington establishment. Once under the Capitol dome, those who didn’t join its chorus perished. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington? A Hollywood fantasy. Everyone collected favors. Everyone bartered. Everyone took a knee.

Of the four senators waiting for Harris, none had played the game better than California’s Senator Stone. He’d walked the halls for forty years, ranking him ninth historically in Senate longevity. An untouchable. A left-wing liberal from a previous generation who’d happily discovered a new wave of young voters to support his “progressive” agenda—that was the new buzzword. Progressive!

California had sent Ronald Reagan to Washington in the 1980s. The conservatives’ ultimate superhero. That was then. Today nearly 45 percent of California voters were registered Democrats, compared to only 25 percent Republicans. Of the remaining independents, a majority voted for “progressive” candidates. More important, California voters had money. Silicon Valley and Hollywood. More billionaires than any other state.

Senator Stone had amassed a war chest richer than any potential challenger by preaching that socialism wasn’t a dirty word. It was the perfection of a benevolent federal government.

The disdain that Director Harris felt toward Congress was mirrored by the contempt that Senator Stone felt for him and the entire intelligence community. In Stone’s view, the government had created a bloated, unwieldy, monstrous, top-secret underworld after the 9/11 attacks. Some 1,271 different government organizations and 1,931 private companies collected data at more than ten thousand locations under contracts with U.S. intelligence agencies. Senator Stone had been horrified by President George W. Bush’s infamous Patriot Act. Unidentified roving wiretaps. Lone-wolf warrants for electronic surveillance. Big Brother had taken control. Senator Stone viewed himself as the final guardian at the gate, fighting to keep the beast from entering.

Harris left his cell phones outside the spy-proof chamber. Entered and found the senators waiting. He was told to sit at the witness table facing the four Lords of the Senate. They peered down at him from cushioned chairs arranged much like a small amphitheater.

The committee’s chair asked the first round of questions. Were the CIA cables leaked on Maxi-Leaks authentic? Yes, they were. Did the director know who had leaked them? No, but a diligent investigation was under way and COS Marcus Austin had been recalled to Langley for disciplinary action. Why had the CIA not informed Congress about Heidi Duncan’s liaisons with the son of a Russian oligarch? The agency lacked sufficient evidence of any wrongdoing. It operated on evidence, not gossip.

And so it went for twenty minutes.

Harris felt satisfied by his responses when the chairman finished interrogating him.

Now it was Senator Stone’s turn. He held up a newspaper. Harris had assumed it was going to be the New York Times or Washington Post. It was not.

Moskovskiy Komsomolets.

Large photos of Russian deputy foreign minister Yakov Prokofyevich Pavel and his grandson Peter. Kidnapped. A shoot-out on Moscow’s streets.

“Is this your handiwork?” Stone asked.

Harris had prepared for questions about Maxi-Leaks. Not this. He quickly deduced that Ambassador Edward Todd Duncan had tipped off Stone. He had to assume that Duncan had regurgitated everything that he’d known about Pavel before leaving for the Geneva summit.

“I am aware of the newspaper article,” Harris said nonchalantly.

“I didn’t ask if you were aware of the article. I asked if you are responsible for the events it describes.”

Harris was venturing into dangerous territory. By law, President Randle Fitzgerald and his cabinet were required to “fully and currently” inform both the Senate and the House intelligence committees about every covert action. No exceptions. Even if a president felt it was necessary to limit the most sensitive information, he still was required to notify the top congressional leadership. Smuggling Pavel out of Russia was undoubtedly a covert operation that the president should have informed Congress about, but Harris knew Fitzgerald hadn’t. Harris knew because he hadn’t kept the president informed after their initial discussion and viewing of Pavel’s video offer to defect. Instead, he’d chosen to go off the grid. His actions made both Fitzgerald and, more important, him guilty of breaking the law—but only if caught.

Although Harris was not under oath, whatever he said would come back to haunt him. He girded himself.

“I am not responsible for the events described in that newspaper article,” Harris said.

“I know you weren’t personally in Moscow. I’m asking if your agency was involved in this car chase carnage?”

The lawyer in Harris sought loopholes, and he immediately recognized one. Brett Garrett was not a CIA employee.

“Senator, no one from the CIA was responsible for the car chase described in that article.”

Senator Stone had questioned hundreds of federal bureaucrats during congressional hearings, and he recognized when a witness was playing verbal dodgeball.

“Let’s cut to the quick, shall we?” Senator Stone said. “Is a covert CIA operation currently under way to extricate Deputy Russian Foreign Minister Yakov Pavel from Russia?”

“As the senator already knows, the agency is always open to recruiting high-level sources who we believe can help us.”

“That’s not what I asked. I asked if a covert operation is currently under way to smuggle Pavel out of Russia—an operation, about which neither you nor the president has informed us?”

“I do not believe the newspaper article states there was any U.S. involvement in the car chase incident,” Harris replied.

“I don’t give a damn what this article claims,” Senator Stone said, clearly becoming angry. “Are you and the agency currently engaged in a covert operation to smuggle Pavel out of Russia? It’s a direct question. Yes or no?”

“Senator, as I just explained, I would be derelict in not pursuing all possible and probable means to recruit human assets, especially someone as important as Deputy Minister Pavel. We are constantly testing the waters with dozens of potential sources, but that doesn’t mean we get involved in car chases and shoot-outs on Moscow’s streets.”

“You’re trying to avoid giving me a direct answer. Let me simplify my question. Is the president aware of a covert operation to smuggle Pavel out of Russia?”

“I cannot say what the president may or may not be aware of, only what communications I have engaged in with him.”

Stone’s eyes narrowed. He’d heard enough evasion. “Have you told President Fitzgerald about a CIA covert operation to extricate Deputy Minister Pavel out of Russia?” he demanded, adding, “This is the fourth time I have asked you this same question, sir. I expect you to answer it.”

But it wasn’t the same question.

Director Harris had been forcing Senator Stone to repeat his question for a clever reason. He’d hoped Stone’s rephrasing would give him a lawyerly out and, this time, it had. “Have you told President Fitzgerald about a CIA covert operation…”

While Harris and the president had discussed Pavel’s possible defection, Harris had not finalized that operation until after their initial talk. Because of that, Harris had never actually told the White House about a covert operation. It was hair-splitting, but hair-splitting mattered when you had something to hide—a lesson well established when then president Bill Clinton and his attorneys argued about the definition of what constituted “sexual relations.”

Harris said, “Senator Stone, I have not informed President Fitzgerald about any such covert operation.”

“Isn’t it true, Director Harris,” Stone asked, “that you sent Brett Garrett, a dishonorably discharged former Navy SEAL and the man responsible for my son’s murder, to get Pavel and his grandson out of Russia? And neither you nor the president informed this committee—as required by law?”

“With all due respect, Senator, Brett Garrett is not a CIA employee.”

“Did you or did you not arrange for Brett Garrett, as a civilian, to go to Moscow to escort Pavel and his grandson out of Russia?” Senator Stone shouted, finally losing his temper.

“Again, Garrett is not under my employ or direction.”

Stone leaned forward and glared at Harris.

“Do you recognize the name Jack Strong?” he asked.

“I do not.”

“Perhaps you knew him by his SEAL nickname, Bear?” Stone continued.

“Senator, I do not remember the individual to whom you are referring.”

“Bear—Jack Strong—was on the Cameroon rescue mission two years ago with my son. You may be interested to know he now works here at the Capitol and he recently came to see me.”

Harris remained Sphinx-like.

“Do you recall your sworn testimony before our committee two years ago when you testified that you had ordered Brett Garrett not to rescue other hostages? If your memory fails you, I will read it because I have a transcript.”

Without waiting, Senator Stone read from a paper:

“Director Harris, is that still your answer—that Garrett disobeyed a direct order from you?”

“I’d have to review my notes.”

“Stop this charade, Director Harris!” Stone snapped. “Jack Strong claims you gave Garrett permission to rescue that second hostage—that Garrett persuaded you by mentioning the hostage was a young girl and the same age as your granddaughter—that you told Garrett you’d—quote—‘have his back’—if things went bad.”

Harris hadn’t seen this coming.

Senator Stone continued: “Director Harris, I believe you committed perjury when you testified two years ago about the events in Cameroon. You hid information and lied to protect yourself just as, I suspect, you are lying again right now. Your actions and conduct are a clear display of the utter disregard that you have for us and the United States Congress. Sir, I’m putting you on notice. I intend to seek your removal as director.”

Harris accidentally bit the side of his cheek while clenching his teeth.

“Now I have one final question,” Senator Stone said sternly. “Where is Brett Garrett right now? Is he with Deputy Minister Pavel and his grandson? Is he attempting to smuggle them out of Russia?”

“Senator,” Harris replied, looking defiantly into Stone’s eyes, “I honestly do not know where Garrett, Pavel, and his grandson may be.”

Thirty-Three

Brett Garrett regained consciousness on the cargo floor of an Mi-26 Russian air force helicopter. Handcuffed, legs bound. The hovering aircraft’s interior was massive. Capable of transporting ninety Russian troops. Garrett counted fourteen other passengers, including Pavel, Peter, and General Gromyko. The rest were Gromyko’s men, some of whom had helped subdue him on the train before Gromyko’s boot toe had knocked him out.

The helicopter landed with a jolt. Four guards carried the manacled Garrett outside. He didn’t resist. Pointless. Instead, he took note of their destination. They’d landed in a clearing edged by forest some twenty meters from a windowless, one-story bunker. Pavel and Peter, who were not restrained, were escorted from the aircraft.

Through a heavy steel door they entered. Down a brightly lit corridor they went. Stopping finally at a metal door at the end of the hallway. An electronic keypad. Beep. Ding. Each a slightly different tone. An electronic bolt slid open. Garrett was carried inside. He lifted his head just in time to keep it from smacking the concrete floor when he was dropped. Pavel and Peter followed him inside. One of Gromyko’s men tossed a pail into the room. “To pee,” he said.

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

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

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

Gromyko glanced at Peter.

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

“Was your grandson not traveling with a traitor?”

The teenager lowered his eyes.

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

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

“The game isn’t over,” Garrett said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I would take satisfaction in kicking your ass.”

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

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

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

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

“Does that feel like ukemi?” he demanded.

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

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

“How close are we to the Finnish border?”

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

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

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

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

“The wall, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gromyko slapped the teen. Hard.

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

Peter nodded.

Gromyko slapped him again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The grin on Sokolov’s face vanished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No!” Peter shrieked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The scientist lowered his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone but Garrett and Peter laughed.

Thirty-Four

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

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

After that, he’d assumed the worst.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stared at her cell phone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She had just downed her first spoonful when her phone dinged, signaling an email. It was from Harris.

She checked her watch: 7:38 p.m. She’d have to hurry. Abandoning her soup, she grabbed her jacket and Glock 19. As she rode the elevator to the condo’s underground garage, she wondered why Harris had chosen a local park. They’d always met in his government-provided Cadillac or at a safe house. Was he taking extra steps to ensure no one saw them meeting? Another explanation came to her. She had just been drawn into a trap in Baltimore. Could this be one, too? Paranoia or perception? She checked the email on her phone. Compared the most recent to the first that she’d received after notifying Mr. Smith. The two emails matched. Still, just to be certain, she forwarded Harris’s email to Thomas Jefferson Kim at IEC. He was a computer expert. He would know if she had reason to worry.

“It’s from Harris. Safe to meet,” Kim replied.

Mayberry frequently jogged in Ellanor C. Lawrence Park, 650 acres of forested hills south of Reston off State Highway 28. She arrived at the park’s visitor center, an eighteenth-century farmhouse called Walney, so named because of the walnut trees encircling it. Twilight was bleeding into night. She fetched a flashlight from her glove box and smiled at a couple loading a cooler and two toddlers into their car. The park was closing and once that couple departed, Mayberry’s Jaguar would be the only vehicle in the lot. She hurried down the hill from the stone farmhouse to rows of wooden benches facing an outdoor stage. As directed, she turned left on a hardened earth path.

Although it was growing darker, she was reluctant to switch on her flashlight. Doing so would make her easy to spot, and she still was uneasy about meeting Harris in such a remote area.

Ten minutes down the path, she stopped. An emerging half-moon illuminated the trail, but she had entered a section under a thick canopy of trees. It was filled with shadows. She was now walking along the bottom of a ravine, with a creek flowing next to her and rising hills on either side. Something darted across the path, startling her. Two squirrels. The park was overrun with them. She moved cautiously in the darkness, watching each step to avoid stumbling on the uneven terrain. Suddenly something felt squishy under her left running shoe and she smelled a horrible odor. A pet owner had cleaned up after his dog but had discarded the plastic bag on the path, leaving it for her to step on.

The trail that she was following connected the Walney farmhouse to a pond and Cabell’s Mill, another building that had been an operating mill until 1916. Ellanor Lawrence and her husband David, the founder of U.S. News & World Report, had purchased the mill in the 1930s, converting it into a guesthouse. Lots of notables had picnicked in this sanctuary, including Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt. Historical trivia—Mayberry’s OCD compulsion. Back then, this had been farmland. Today a lone sliver of greenery tucked between endless suburbs.

Because hers had been the only car parked at the Walney visitor center, Mayberry assumed Director Harris had arrived at the park’s more southern Cabell’s Mill entrance. It was closest to a major highway. If so, he’d be walking north toward her on the path.

Mayberry took several more steps and nearly slipped because of a wet spot caused by water splashing from the creek next to her. She caught herself. It would be impossible for her to continue safely without using her flashlight. She put her finger on its switch but stopped before turning it on.

A sound. To her immediate right across the creek. Squirrels? Not this time. A man’s cough. He’d chosen higher ground, looking down into the ravine. An old black pine tree, at least two feet in circumference, was a step ahead. Another black pine had fallen at its base along the creek. She quietly stepped from the path, transferring her unlit flashlight into her left hand while drawing her Glock 19 with her right.

Another muffled cough. The snapping of a dry branch. Whoever was on the hill was moving down toward her. Mayberry dropped on her haunches and pressed her back against the upright pine, positioning herself between it and its fallen twin. She was now hiding behind a wedge created by the two trees.

A flashlight beam. Someone was approaching on the trail from the direction of Cabell’s Mill. At this distance, she couldn’t identify who it might be. The approaching figure crossed a wooden bridge over the creek some thirty yards south from where she was hiding.

A loud splash. Several expletives. The unknown cougher to her right apparently had slipped while coming down the ravine. Fallen into the ankle-deep creek next to the path.

“Valerie?” the man on the footpath called out, after hearing the sound of thrashing and cursing. The voice was not Director Harris’s. It was Thomas Jefferson Kim.

Phew, phew, phew, phew. The four sounds mimicked those of a storm door slapping shut, but Mayberry recognized them as gunshots. Most likely .22-caliber rounds fired from a pistol with a suppressor. They had been shot by the unknown man on her right.

She heard Kim holler. He dropped his flashlight.

Phew. Phew.

Mayberry rose from her hiding spot behind the trees, flipping on her flashlight and aiming her Glock 19 in one coordinated move. The flashlight beam exposed the gunman’s face. Standing only a few yards from her. She recognized him. He was an Antifa member. From inside the van in Baltimore when she had been abducted. One of the men who’d been ordered by Makayla to wait outside the warehouse.

She and Kim had walked into an ambush.

Mayberry fired two rounds. Her Glock 19’s bark was deafening compared to the Walther P22 pistol in the ambusher’s hand. He was dead by the time his head hit the creek water.

A slug whizzed by Mayberry and smacked into the tall black pine next to her. She doused her flashlight and ducked behind the fallen tree into her hiding spot. Someone else was in the woods—a second shooter.

Blam, blam, blam, blam. The shots being fired at her were not suppressed and appeared to be coming from a heavier-caliber pistol. Fired on her left, but she couldn’t be certain of the shooter’s exact location.

Mayberry lay down flat on the damp ground as the slugs continued to hit the trees protecting her. Raising her Glock above the barrier, she fired wildly. Five rounds squeezed off as quickly as she could pull the Glock’s trigger. She stopped, listened. Nothing. Raising her handgun again, she emptied its clip into the blackness. Reloaded.

“Mayberry!” Kim yelled from the trail.

His cry was greeted by a fresh round of gunshots from the unknown attacker—this time aimed at Kim.

Mayberry knew why Kim had called out. He was drawing fire, pulling attention away from her. She peeked over the log, and this time, when the shooter fired at Kim, Mayberry saw the muzzle flashes.

Mayberry rose up and fired four shots from her Glock 19 in two-round bursts.

Ducking down, she waited. Nothing. Rising to her knees, she switched on her flashlight, aiming it to her left up the ravine. She caught a fleeing Antifa shooter in the light.

Makayla Jones was disappearing over the rise.

Mayberry fired, but Makayla was gone.

She hurried back onto the path and ran to where Kim was lying on his back. Her flashlight showed him clutching his bloody right bicep. His jacket had three noticeable holes.

“Both of those bastards shot me,” he said, gulping for air.

“Tell me you’re wearing a vest!”

He nodded affirmatively. “I was suspicious after I got an email from Harris telling me to come to a park….”

“Wait, I sent you emails that Harris had written me,” she replied. “I asked if they were legitimate and you emailed back that they were. It was safe for me to come here.”

“How many emails did you get from Harris?” Kim asked.

“I got one immediately after I had called asking for a meeting. I got a second one much later telling me to come to the park. I forwarded both to you.”

“I never received them,” Kim said. He thought for a moment. “My guess is the first email was legitimate. It came from Harris. But the Magician—the mole—sent the second one to you and also one to me pretending he was Harris.”

“Helping Makayla ambush us.”

“Right, the Magician has tapped into all of our email accounts. Mine, yours, and Harris’s. He’s manipulating us.”

“Who is he?”

“I’m still not sure, but I’m going to catch him.”

She helped Kim stand. He was wobbly but regained his breath.

“Let me see your wound.”

She helped him remove his shirt, the bullet-resistant vest, and the T-shirt under it. Three rounds were smashed into the vest’s fabric, leaving him bruised and with a possible broken rib, but none of the higher-caliber slugs had penetrated it. Another round, much smaller and most likely from a .22-caliber pistol, was embedded in his upper arm.

“It hurts like hell,” Kim said.

“I’m contacting Harris,” she replied, “by phone, not email!”

She dialed “Mr. Smith” on her backup cell. Within minutes Harris called her. Their conversation was brief, one-sided. If the Magician was intercepting emails, he might also be monitoring their calls.

When finished, Mayberry briefed Kim. “Harris is sending people here to clean up this mess. I’ve been told to take you to a local emergency care. He and his people will meet us there. I’ll drive.”

“Really—you’ll drive,” Kim replied sarcastically, still clutching the bullet wound in his arm.

They found their way to the Cabell’s Mill lot where Kim’s Mercedes was parked, reaching it about the same time a van arrived. Four men stepped from it.

“Where’s the package?” one asked.

“Follow the path heading north. You’ll reach a footbridge, he’ll be on the left of the trail, facedown in the creek,” she replied.

Mayberry got behind the wheel.

“Where’d he tell us to go?” Kim asked.

“A strip mall. Only a couple miles away.”

He cursed. “I fell for this ambush because I was so eager to meet with you and Harris. I let down my guard. I wanted to tell you that I’ve identified Makayla. It wasn’t easy—in fact—it was damn hard, but I did it.”

“Who is she?”

“Nataniela Kalanga. She is not and never has been an American citizen. She’s an illegal.”

“Kalanga, what sort of name is that?”

“Her parents are from Angola. Back when the superpowers cared about Africa, the Soviets made a move there. The CIA went in to stop them, which led to a bloody civil war. Makayla’s grandfathers worked for the KGB. When the Soviets pulled out, the KGB resettled their families in Moscow, but neither liked it. Both families moved to Belarus. One son married the other family’s daughter, and the result was Nataniela Kalanga.”

Kim paused for a moment. He had worked diligently to identify Makayla Jones, aka Nataniela Kalanga, and he wasn’t going to hurry his account.

“We went through thousands of records—passports, facial recognition images at airports—the agency, bureau, Interpol, people in Ukraine and France. It was tedious, difficult work,” he recalled. “The agency and I had trouble getting a positive identification because she changed her name when she initially crossed from Belarus into France. She was posing there as Adalene Petit. That’s also the name she used when she entered the United States on a student visa. She attended undergrad at Stanford before returning to France. By the time she met Gabriel de Depardieu and Aysan Rivera at the Ecole Normale Supérieure school in Paris, she’d changed her identity a third time. She had become Makayla Jones with a complete set of U.S. credentials.”

Kim paused to catch his breath and added, “Getting shot really sucks.”

Mayberry drove them into the strip mall where the emergent care was located.

“How’d she’d manage to obtain a U.S. passport?” Mayberry asked.

“While she was a student here, she obtained a copy of the real Makayla Jones’s birth certificate and used it to get a Missouri driver’s license with a St. Louis address.”

“Missouri? St. Louis? Is that where the actual Makayla Jones lives?”

“It’s where she’s buried. Her parents in St. Louis told us they’d lost a baby girl from SIDS at nine months. They named her Makayla Jones. They had no idea Nataniela Kalanga, aka Adalene Petit, had assumed their dead child’s identity. Because the real Makayla Jones was an infant, there was no Social Security number—until the fake Makayla obtained one. With a Social Security number, driver’s license, and birth certificate, she got a U.S. passport.”

Mayberry parked the SUV outside the emergent care, and a couple stepped from a nearby Ford Taurus.

“We’ll handle it from here,” the woman said. She led Kim into an urgent care that was tucked between a Baskin-Robbins and Zips dry cleaners.

Director Harris had told Mayberry to stay outside and wait. Ten minutes later, he arrived. Unlike the others, who had come from nearby buildings in Reston, he’d had farther to drive. She joined him in the backseat of his Cadillac.

Before either of them had a chance to speak, Director Harris’s phone dinged. He’d received an unsolicited email from a Russian server. He opened it. A thirty-second video. Russian foreign minister Yakov Prokofyevich Pavel, naked, locked in a glass-fronted chamber. Him raising his hands in obscene gestures. A barely noticeable puff of red about his head. He glanced up. Collapsed. Dead.

The director’s phone dinged a second time. Another emailed video. Brett Garrett handcuffed. Peter standing next to him, crying.

A two-word message: “I win.”

Thirty-Five

Peter had stopped sobbing by the time he and Garrett were once again locked inside the Kamera’s converted mailroom. Garrett’s hands remained shackled in front of him. Twelve hours before he was fated to die. How many others had served as Russian lab rats?

“Peter,” he said, “I think I see a ballpoint pen in one of those mailbox cubbyholes, can you get it? It’s on the top row and I can’t reach it.”

Peter followed his eyes but didn’t immediately see it.

“About fifth from left,” Garrett said.

The teen removed a blue plastic ballpoint pen from the slot.

“Some of these older ink pens could be opened. See if there’s a brass ink cartridge inside.”

Peter unscrewed the pen and withdrew a round cartridge.

“Fantastic,” Garrett said. “Now you need to begin bending that cartridge back and forth until it breaks in half.”

The youth quickly snapped it into two pieces.

Garrett turned his palms upward so the teen could see the restraint’s keyhole. Like most handcuffs, these were opened with a hollow key that turned around a permanent center stem.

“I need you to jam that cartridge into the keyhole onto its stem. The pen’s circumference is slightly smaller, so it’s going to split at its tip. If you do it right, we can pry that split open, turning the cartridge into a key.”

Peter shoved the cartridge onto the stem. With his fingernail, he separated part of its split end, bending it outward. It took him several attempts, but he was able to open the lock.

“Great job!” Garrett said, freeing his hands. “Using a ballpoint pen is an old trick used by prisoners. Now we have to get that door open. Can you get your hand through its mail slot?”

Peter lifted the narrow cover, which opened inward. Peeking through it, he could see the electronic keypad. It was mounted to his right on the hallway’s back wall. He forced his hand and wrist through the mail slot, but he couldn’t reach the pad. It was simply too far away.

Garrett searched the room for some sort of extension. The plastic pail that had been tossed inside to serve as a toilet had a metal handle. He broke it free and straightened it. He guessed it was about twenty-six inches long.

“Try this,” he said, handing it to Peter.

Peter slipped his hand through the slot and maneuvered the wire. It reached the telephone-like buttons.

“Can you push them?” Garrett asked.

He jabbed the wire against the pad. It struck a digit and they heard a beep.

“You’re doing great,” Garrett said. “I saw at least three numbers when the guards were unlocking it. It’s a start but we’re going to need all six. Did you see any of them?”

Peter shook his head no.

It seemed hopeless. Peter pulled the wire back inside, and both of them sat on the floor, thinking. There had to be a solution. They had to escape.

Garrett’s mind flashed back to when he’d heard Peter playing Tchaikovsky for his grandfather on the piano at the dacha outside Moscow. Peter could play any tune once he heard it, Pavel had claimed.

“You heard the sounds when the guard pushed the keys, didn’t you?” he asked.

The boy’s face lit up. He grabbed the straightened wire and crammed his hand through the mail slot, reaching the keypad with its tip. He touched each digit to hear its unique sound.

“Can you replicate it?” Garrett asked.

Peter hit the first digit. Then he stopped and pulled back the wire. He looked at Garrett. He was scared.

“You can do this,” Garrett said. “Your grandfather called you a child prodigy. Remember the sounds the pad made.”

Peter stuck the wire through the slot. Six distinct tones. He began to tap on the keypad, and when he finished, Garrett heard the electronic bolt sliding open.

“You did it! Your grandfather would be proud!”

A beaming Peter took the wire and immediately looked for a place to hide it.

“No point in that,” Garrett said. “If they catch us, they aren’t going to bring us back here.”

Garrett opened the door. It was now after midnight. The lab workers had gone for the day. The dimly lighted hallway was empty. Garrett led. When they reached the end of the hallway, he stopped.

A diagram of the Kamera building was posted on the wall in case of a fire. Four exits. Garrett knew each would be guarded. The one at the rear of the building was the closest. Garrett ripped the map from the wall for them to follow. The building was composed of east-west hallways that connected at each end with two north-west corridors. The corridors ran along the structures’ walls and were how workers moved from one hallway to the next. Garrett and Peter stopped walking when they reached a corner at the back of the building. It was on Garrett’s left. He dropped to his knees and looked around it. Two uniformed guards were protecting the exit. One sitting behind a desk. The other on a chair leaning back against the corridor’s exterior wall. Neither noticed Garrett.

Garrett backed up and, with Peter, retraced their steps along the east-west hallway. They checked the knobs on each lab door. Three per side, facing each other. Two were unlocked. One lab was next to the north-south corridor that Garrett had peeked around. The other unlocked one was in the opposite direction at the farthest end of the hallway.

Garrett returned to the corner and opened the unlocked lab there. He led the teen inside. Like the other labs, it had huge windows from the waist up. “Hide under the window so you can’t be seen if someone looks in,” Garrett said. The lights in the lab were turned off. Peter crouched near the interior wall facing the hallway. Garrett intentionally left the door cracked open.

He hurried down the hallway to the other unlocked lab at the far end and entered it. The room contained four tables, each covered with a wide assortment of glass bottles, test tubes, and other equipment. Garrett slipped off his left shoe, removed his sock, replaced his shoe, and paused at a table that held brass weights used to calibrate scales. He dropped several into his sock, knotting its end. A crude weapon.

A chemistry chart was hanging nearby on the wall. As a student of Russian history, Garrett knew that Dimitri Bonavich Mendeleev, an eccentric Russian scientist, was the first to compose the periodic table of the elements. He also knew Mendeleev had moved to Germany in the 1860s to work with a scientist named Robert Bunsen, the inventor of the Bunsen burner. There were eight burners in the room, two per lab table. He disconnected all of the rubber hoses that connected them to gas pipes except for the burner nearest the door. He turned on the gas, lit the burner at the door, shut it behind him, and darted along the hallway to the lab where Peter was hiding. He crouched next to the teen.

Garrett had no idea how long it would take for the methane gas to fill the room and be ignited by the single flame. It didn’t take long.

The explosion blew off the lab’s closed door and busted its window. Flames shot into the hallway. One of the guards rounded the corner. He stopped as soon as he saw the fire and turned his head to yell back to his partner.

Garrett leapt into the hallway, swinging his weighted sock like a billy club. It hit the guard with such force that Garrett heard the man’s skull crack. He dropped onto the floor. Garrett bent down, switched the weighted sock to his left hand, and used his right to retrieve the guard’s Makarov 9 mm pistol. He was rising from the body when the second guard rounded the corner and saw him.

The Russian lunged at Garrett, grabbing his right wrist with both hands, forcing him to raise the pistol upward. Unable to hit the Russian in his face because of his raised arms, Garrett swung the weighed sock with his left hand as hard as he could and smacked it against the Russian’s testicles. It took two more hits before the Russian loosen his grip on Garrett’s hand. Lowering the Makarov, Garrett fired twice directly into the guard’s face.

“Hurry!” Garrett hollered to Peter. “The others will come.”

They darted around the corner and out the exit.

Garrett surveyed the forest encircling them. He had no idea which direction to go, only that they needed to hide.

Peter grabbed his arm and took the lead. He entered the trees with Garrett behind him. Twenty minutes later, Garrett realized Peter had led them to the edge of Svetogorsk.

“No,” Garrett said. “Too risky. We need to avoid people.”

Peter shook his head, disagreeing. He pointed at a five-story, badly weathered apartment complex.

“No!” Garrett said.

But Peter continued marching toward the building.

Garrett hesitated and then followed. No one was in the first-floor hallway. Peter knocked on a door.

Still holding the Makarov, Garrett nervously glanced to his left and right. This was insanity. Surely someone would wake up and see them.

The door opened a crack. A woman looked and then swung it open.

“Peter!” she said in a hushed voice, thrusting her arms around him.

Garrett followed Peter inside. The woman was kissing the teen on his cheeks and forehead. She began to cry.

“God has answered my prayer,” she whispered to Peter. “I was there when your parents died in the snow. I prayed over them, but they took you before I could find you. They told me you were in Moscow with your grandfather. Now God has sent you here to me.”

Peter smiled.

“We have to cross the border,” Garrett said. “People are after us.”

She removed a coat from her closet, slipping it over her nightclothes. “My car is outside. There’s a place you can cross without being seen.”

Thirty-Six

Thomas Jefferson Kim and Valerie Mayberry were waiting when Brett Garrett landed at Joint Base Andrews, south of Washington, D.C. Garrett had never felt so grateful to be home.

“What happened to your arm?” he asked when he saw Kim on the tarmac wearing a sling.

“I got shot. I can still use a keyboard, but I can’t drive.”

“Thank God,” Garrett said, chuckling.

Kim’s wife, Rose, was waiting next to the couple’s Mercedes SUV.

“She’s my new driver,” Kim beamed. “I taught her.”

Garrett noticed she was wearing a Glock 21 around her waist.

“She’s my new bodyguard, too,” Kim added. “I taught her to shoot.”

“Swell,” Garrett said skeptically.

He addressed Mayberry as the two of them slipped into the SUV’s rear seats. “We meeting Harris?”

“Nope,” she replied, “he’s still on Capitol Hill trying to save his job.”

“What’s that about? I’ve been a bit preoccupied,” Garrett replied.

From the front seat, Kim elaborated, “Senator Stone introduced a motion to officially censure Harris. Vote is tomorrow. Because of Maxi-Leaks—at least that’s the official version. Apparently, Ambassador Duncan told Stone about you being in Moscow and Stone’s furious at Harris for not informing the Senate about Pavel and you.”

“What’s Maxi-Leaks got to do with any of that?” Garrett asked.

Mayberry caught him up as Rose Kim wove through the evening rush hour toward IEC’s Tysons Corner building.

“Marcus Austin was recalled from Moscow,” Mayberry said. “He’s supposed to be on leave pending a disciplinary hearing, but Harris has him handling the three of us—still off the grid—at least for now.”

“That’s a gutsy move, especially if Stone has my scent,” Garrett noted.

“And a move that I’m not happy with,” Mayberry added. “It’s time to bring the FBI in on this.”

“Until you called,” Kim said, abruptly changing subjects, “we thought you were dead. Show him the emailed videos, Valerie.”

Mayberry used her cell phone to play the recordings that the Magician had sent. Garrett relived watching Pavel being gassed and seeing Peter and himself being held as prisoners.

“I was planning your funeral,” Rose Kim chirped, as she drove. “No expenses spared, right, husband?”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Garrett said.

Kim turned his head so he could face Garrett in the rear seat. “I’m still trying to positively identify the Magician. I know he operates out of Moscow and I’m almost certain he works for GIT because of his computer skills and embassy access.”

Rose Kim honked at a slow-moving car and darted around it, cursing in Korean. “I taught her to swear,” Kim bragged, grinning.

“When Gromyko was at the poison factory, he said he was coming to America,” Garrett said.

“Ivan Sokolov’s private jet landed at Reagan National three days ago, before you surfaced alive,” Mayberry said. “Sokolov only stayed long enough to drop off General Gromyko and a Russian named Boris Petrov, whom we’ve identified as Gromyko’s bodyguard.”

“Gromyko must have been carrying the poisonous gas—the variant of his perfect Devil’s Breath,” Garrett said. “He and Sokolov talked about it at the Kamera just before Gromyko murdered Pavel.”

“Which brings me back to my earlier comment. We need to get the FBI involved if Gromyko brought gas in,” Mayberry said. “Gromyko and Petrov used their diplomatic passports, so their luggage wasn’t checked. Fortunately, the bureau routinely follows high-ranking Russians when they enter the country, especially someone such as General Gromyko.”

“Where’d he go?” Garrett asked. “If he had the poison, he wouldn’t want to hang on to it for long.”

“Directly to the former Soviet embassy,” Mayberry replied. “It’s right down the street from—”

“The White House,” Garrett said, completing her sentence.

“The Russian ambassador just happened to be throwing a party for a who’s who of Russian bootlickers. Lots of cars entering and exiting at the same time. Lots of guests, including this one,” Mayberry said.

She handed him a photo of a man wearing a long jacket, hat, and sunglasses—even though it was night when the FBI surveillance photo was taken.

“No one had seen him there before,” Mayberry continued, “so I asked Homeland Security for a background check. Turns out his name is Mirzo Rakhmon, and he entered the United States on the same morning as Gromyko—only in Philadelphia and using a Tajikistan passport. The FBI was able to ID everyone else attending the embassy party.”

Garrett studied the photo. “There is no Mirzo Rakhmon from Tajikistan,” he said. “He’s shaved his beard and probably cut off his hair under the hat. I’m guessing he’s also done something to his face—maybe a fake nose. But I recognize him from Moscow.”

“Moscow? Who is he?” Mayberry asked.

“Krishma Duwar. I met him at the ambassador’s daughter’s birthday party and I’m guessing he’s the Magician who’s been intercepting messages.”

“So they flew into different cities but met at the embassy party,” Mayberry said. “That’s where Gromyko must have passed the gas to him.”

Rose Kim laughed loudly, causing Mayberry to pause. “I don’t see what’s funny about that.”

Her husband said, “You said Gromyko passed gas.”

Garrett smiled. Mayberry didn’t. “Gromyko wouldn’t have wanted anyone from Antifa coming to the Russian embassy to get the canister,” Mayberry said. “He’d want to cover his tracks.”

They arrived at the IEC headquarters underground parking garage. On the elevator ride to Kim’s office, Mayberry said, “I don’t think we have a choice now. I’m going to call Marcus Austin. He’s got to alert my bosses at the FBI. If he doesn’t, I will.”

“Hold on,” Garrett said. “Harris is still in charge, and he won’t like it. Not when he’s lobbying for his job. If Senator Stone finds out what is happening, Harris will be done.”

“Since when do you care about Harris?” Mayberry asked.

“I wasn’t thinking about Harris,” Garrett replied. “I was thinking about the three of us. So far, Harris is the only one who knows what we’ve done. He’s betrayed me before, remember? He’ll do it again and blame us if it saves his own neck.”

“You’re worried he’ll blame you for Pavel’s death, aren’t you?” Mayberry asked.

“Have you done anything for Harris that would best be kept secret?” he retorted.

Mayberry thought about the Stonewall Jackson Shrine bombing. Aysan Rivera’s murder.

“How about this,” Kim interjected. “We tell Austin about Duwar and insist the FBI is told, but make it clear that it’s up to him and Harris to decide what and how much.”

Kim glanced at Mayberry. “That makes sense,” she said. “You in, Garrett?”

“Make the call,” he responded. “Duwar entered the country using a fake passport. That’s enough to get him arrested. No need to mention the poison gas and cause a panic.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Mayberry said. “Austin and Harris have to tell the FBI about the gas. They’ll have to know what they’re facing when they catch him.”

“The only reason you know about the gas is because I saw Gromyko use it and heard him talk about bringing it here. We can’t even be certain Gromyko transported it here and passed it to him,” Garrett said.

“I’m not going to put Americans’ lives in danger, especially law enforcement,” Mayberry said in a harsh voice. “You have no authority here, Garrett. You’ve completed the mission that Harris gave you. Your only role was to get Pavel and Peter out of Russia. You’re done.”

“You saying I failed?”

“I’m saying your job is over. Let me do mine.”

“I don’t think you have the power to fire me,” he said. “I’ll say when I’m done.”

Hoping to end their argument, Kim asked, “What about Peter? What did you do with the teen?”

Garrett turned his gaze away from Mayberry. “The agency’s put him in London for safekeeping.”

When the elevator doors opened, all of them except Rose moved into Kim’s office. Kim began a computer search for information about Duwar while Mayberry telephoned Marcus Austin. When she finished speaking to him, she said, “Austin will talk to Harris. He agrees that we have to inform the FBI, but he said Harris will only want to disclose that Duwar is a suspected terrorist possibly carrying poison gas. No background.”

“Duwar is going to need help if he wants to inflict maximum damage releasing the gas,” Garrett said.

“Makayla Jones,” Mayberry replied. “We know the two of them are working together. Duwar helped her ambush us by sending fake emails.

“She won’t hesitate to use that gas and, yes, she will want to kill as many Americans as she can.”

“What’s their target?” Kim asked. “It could be anywhere on the East Coast.”

“Washington,” Mayberry said. “Either here or Baltimore, another city Makayla apparently knows well.”

“The Kamera scientists killed Pavel by releasing it in the air,” Garrett said, thinking out loud.

“Airborne,” Mayberry agreed. “The poison would be most effective in an enclosed area, not FedEx Field or on the National Mall.”

“MGM’s new casino would be packed with people,” Kim volunteered. “Maybe a Smithsonian museum or maybe the Verizon Center downtown.”

“The subway. Metro Center,” Mayberry said. “A major hub would hold the gas longer and possibly spread it like blood through veins. Union Station would be a smart choice, too. Easy to access. Lots of people.”

“What if Gromyko’s priority is not killing numbers but killing prominent targets?” Garrett asked.

“The White House is too closely guarded,” Mayberry replied.

“I just pulled up Duwar’s records,” Kim said. “His parents are both respected professors teaching in Islamabad. Duwar is the oldest of five children, all successful—doctors, lawyers, professors. He’s the only one who didn’t return home after getting educated here. He came over on a student visa, did his undergrad work at Stanford in computer science—”

“Wait,” Mayberry said.

Kim and Garrett looked at her. “On the night when we were ambushed, you said Makayla Jones’s real name was Nataniela Kalanga, but she’d changed it to Adalene Petit after she slipped into France and then she came to the U.S. on a student visa to attend Stanford.”

“That’s got to be where they met,” Garrett concluded.

“Leftist cells have been popular on California campuses for decades,” Mayberry said.

A quick knock. Rose Kim entered the room. “A Delaware state trooper just gave a speeding ticket to a driver in a rental car whose passport identified him as Mirzo Rakhmon,” she said.

“How’d you know?” Mayberry said. “I doubt if Austin or Harris has had time to tell the FBI to put out an APB.”

“I added his name to the thousands of databases IEC routinely monitors,” Rose Kim explained. “He was stopped minutes ago driving north.”

Thomas Jefferson Kim said, “I can pull the car’s license tag off that ticket. Rental cars have tracking devices.”

“Delaware,” Garrett repeated. “Maybe the target isn’t Washington. Maybe it’s Manhattan.”

“I’m going after him,” Mayberry said. “My car’s downstairs.”

Garrett didn’t ask. He simply followed her.

Thirty-Seven

“What’d Rose Kim slip you as we were leaving her husband’s office?” Mayberry asked.

She and Garrett were riding north on Interstate 95, having just passed through Baltimore. He didn’t realize she’d noticed the handoff. The best way to avoid a question was to ask one, especially one that irks your inquisitor.

“Kim read your medical records,” Garrett said. “Told me you have ADHD.”

“So much for doctor-patient confidentiality,” she said, clearly irritated.

“You’re OCD, too,” he said.

“I’ve never been diagnosed with OCD. That’s not in my medical records.”

“It’s more of a personal observation.”

Mayberry tightened her grasp on the Jaguar’s leather-wrapped steering wheel.

“With those issues, how’d you get into the bureau?” he asked.

“With your issues, how’d you get into the Navy?” she shot back.

“Just making small talk.”

“You must be really fun on first dates.”

“Nobody wants to date SEALs,” he said. “Not after they find out what the pay and schedules are like.”

“Oh, and people hear FBI and can’t wait to get to know you.”

“Your late husband, what’d he think about you joining the bureau?”

“That wasn’t in my file? I’ve asked fewer personal questions in a criminal interrogation. You want to share personal information? Why’d your fiancée dump you after Cameroon?”

He turned his head. Glanced out the passenger window.

“I was in Leavenworth. She couldn’t see a future with a dishonorably discharged ex-con.”

His voice was sad, and for a second, she wished she’d not asked. But only for a second.

He checked the F-type’s center console navigation screen. They were approaching Delaware.

“Why’d you marry him? Your late husband,” he asked.

“I loved him. Why else?”

“What was he like?”

“Nothing like you.”

“Ha, I already guessed that. You’re not my type, Mayberry. You’d be a challenge to live with.”

“I’m sure your fiancée had lots of reasons besides you being an ex-con to leave.”

He ignored the slight.

“My husband was a voyeur. They all are—reporters. I intrigued him. My job intrigued him. He was writing a story about the FBI when we first met. I refused to talk to him. That was like blood in the water for a shark.”

“I’m guessing he married you for your money.”

“Why do you have to be so insulting?” she asked. “But no, that wasn’t a factor. Noah didn’t care about money. What attracted him was crawling into other people’s skins. The more complicated, the better. I used to say he was fascinated by others’ lives because it kept him from having to examine his own. And he was much better than you at asking questions so he could dodge answering them. What did Rose Kim give you?”

“Every man wants a rich wife. Only rich people say money doesn’t matter and the truth is, it usually matters most. Tell me, Mayberry, where does being rich, really rich, start nowadays—ten million, fifty million? Three hundred million?”

“The reason I find you irritating, Garrett, has nothing to do with your bank account.”

“We’re talking about your husband, not me. Or does asking questions about him make you uncomfortable?”

“Does me asking you about Rose Kim and what she gave you make you uncomfortable?”

She downshifted and pulled into the E-ZPass lane to enter the New Jersey Turnpike.

She said, “Noah made everyone feel as if they were the most fascinating person he’d ever met when he interviewed them, rather than verbally waterboarding them like you do. Are you going to answer my question or keep avoiding it?”

“I’ve never been accused of being a smooth talker,” Garrett said. “I’ll give you that.”

“Since we’re making comparisons, I used to wonder how he could get people to share their innermost secrets and then write a story using those secrets that totally eviscerated them.”

“Cold. But that’s what reporters do.”

“Like I said, a voyeur. Not a stayer. He met people, heard their stories, and moved on.”

“He married you, didn’t he? Stayed on?”

“Yes.”

But she didn’t elaborate, and he’d expected a more definitive reply. Indignant even.

“You did love him, right?” Garrett pried.

“Yes, but that is none of your business.”

For several moments, they watched the scenery in silence.

“When we got back to camp in Afghanistan,” Garrett said, “reporters would run up, stick a microphone in our faces. ‘What’s it like?’ I never commented.”

“Noah would have gotten you to comment.”

“No, he wouldn’t have. I’m sure he was as good as you claimed, but that’s not it. How do you describe what happens when you’re in the suck? What we did? What we saw? War is not something you can understand unless you experience it. Ever play craps? It’s the difference between watching someone gambling and being the guy who puts his entire paycheck on the line, knowing he’s not going to eat for a week or maybe a month. Only in war, it’s not money that’s at risk. It’s coming home in a body bag.”

“Noah was blown to bits in a helicopter that he never should have boarded,” she said angrily. “He understood war, even if he didn’t carry a gun.”

Her face was flush.

“With all your money, Mayberry,” he said quietly, “why aren’t you sitting on some island drinking piña coladas working on your tan and painting your toenails? Did your husband figure you out? Crawl into your skin?”

“I don’t drink piña coladas. I don’t want skin cancer. I pay someone else to give me a pedicure. And your last question is none of your business.”

Again, neither spoke. This time for several minutes and then she said quietly, “I’m not a rabbit.”

“A rabbit?”

“That’s how people the likes of Gromyko and Kalugin see our world. There are those who get eaten and those who eat them. And then there are those of us who protect the rabbits from being eaten. With all my money and flaws, that’s who I am. That’s what Noah finally understood when he got into my skin. I care about other people.”

She continued staring straight ahead.

“I see that,” he said. “Suboxone.” The word came out so quickly, his admission seemed to surprise even him. “That’s what Rose Kim gave me. I have an opioid addiction. Got hooked after being burned in Cameroon. The Navy, hell, it didn’t care when I was recovering. Didn’t care when I was in Leavenworth. Vicodin, OxyContin, Percocet, Opana. At first it was for physical pain.”

“What about now?” she asked. “I have a right to know if we continue to work together.”

Her cell rang. She pushed a button on her car’s steering wheel answering it.

“Duwar’s rental car is parked at the Thirtieth Street Station in Philly,” Kim said over the Jaguar’s speakers. “I hacked into the rail station’s surveillance system. Footage of him boarding a northbound train.”

“No one ever inspects bags on a train,” Garrett said.

“Get the bureau to stop the train,” Mayberry said.

“Not so simple. New Jersey Transit. The train he boarded already has made several local stops. Most of those stops don’t have security cameras. I informed Marcus, and he relayed the information to Sally North, at the bureau. They’re all over this. Austin said that Harris wants both of you to turn around and come back. He wants to minimize your involvement.”

“I’m FBI,” Mayberry replied. “Where are they setting up?”

“Penn Station,” Kim said.

“They’ll need someone who has seen Duwar’s face to ID him,” Garrett said.

“My car’s GPS says we’ll get to Penn Station by—”

Kim interrupted her. “I’m tracking you on my computer. Actually, I’ve been listening to your conservation since you left.”

“What the—” Mayberry stammered.

“Intercepting conversations is an IEC specialty,” Kim replied. “And your little tête-à-tête has been most entertaining.” They heard a woman giggle. Rose must have been with Kim.

“Penn Station is the busiest rail hub in the country,” Mayberry said, ignoring his comments. Her memory bank of details was kicking in. “More than six hundred and fifty thousand passengers go through there every day. That’s more than all three major airports combined. A needle in a haystack.”

“What’s this Jag do?” Garrett asked. “Aren’t FBI agents immune to speeding tickets?”

Few trains were entering Penn Station when they arrived shortly before midnight. It was swarming with heavily armed law enforcement officers. Mayberry found Sally North at the bureau’s makeshift command center.

“What’s the latest on Duwar?” Mayberry asked.

“Who’s Duwar?” North replied. “Do you mean Mirzo Rakhmon?”

Mayberry realized that neither Director Harris nor Marcus Austin had disclosed Rakhmon’s actual name or past.

North said, “We didn’t let the train Rakhmon boarded in Philly stop here. Kept it going north out of the city and then side-railed it. No sign of him when our teams boarded.”

“Any luck with surveillance cameras along the route?” Mayberry asked.

“No, we don’t know where or when he got off. Our people are walking the tracks right now in case he jumped when the train was pulling into this station. Twenty-one separate rail lines. Seven tunnels. It would help if the agency was sharing information. They won’t say a damn thing except that Rakhmon is a suspected terrorist who entered the country illegally and could have a bomb or some kind of poisonous gas with him.”

For the first time, North noticed Garrett standing a few steps behind Mayberry. “You’re the last person we need here,” North said, glaring at him.

Garrett didn’t reply.

North said, “Get him out of here. You, too. We don’t need the heat. Go back to Washington. I never saw either of you, and this conversation never happened.”

An hour outside Manhattan traveling South on the New Jersey Turnpike, Mayberry received a text. She was no longer on loan to the CIA.

“It’s over,” she said. “Kim, you, and me. Marcus Austin has been escorted from agency headquarters, put on indefinite leave pending a criminal investigation. I’ve already been reassigned.”

“What about Harris?”

“He’s still hanging on. The Senate votes later this morning on whether to censure him.”

She smacked the top of the steering wheel and cursed.

“We should stop in Baltimore for pancakes,” Garrett said.

“What?”

“I know a place.”

Thirty-Eight

Pancakes.

Brett Garrett lifted one and slid two sunny-side-up eggs between the top cake and the one underneath it, creating his own sandwich. He stabbed the center of the short stack with a fork, piercing the trapped yokes until yellow oozed out.

Mayberry watched. She’d separated her cheese omelet so no part of it was touching the mixed fruit that she’d ordered with it.

“It all ends up in the same place,” he said, taking his first bite. “And it’s better than MREs.”

He’d realized during their return ride that he’d not eaten since his flight from Finland. There’d been no time. Besides being hungry, Garrett wanted time to think. Duwar. Gromyko. Makayla Jones. Devil’s Breath. Its deadly variant. Potential targets. New York’s Penn Station. It was a lot to process, and for some reason, something didn’t feel right.

Mayberry had followed his directions to a local eatery only because she was in no rush to report back to the FBI for debriefing. She’d turned off Interstate 95 and traveled down side streets until they’d reached a building with a weathered exterior and billboard that proclaimed it served Baltimore’s best breakfast. A hand-printed sign inside read: “Cash Tip’s Pleas.”

“They misspelled please and don’t need an apostrophe” Mayberry noted from her seat opposite him in a well-worn booth. “Someone should tell them.”

“It’s been that way since this place opened.” He took another bite.

Mayberry’s eyes took inventory. Tired 1970s décor. Every booth filled. Customers hurrying in to pick up takeout orders. A silver bell above the door that dinged each time it opened—something Garrett appeared to block out but that was irritating her.

“I don’t like being reassigned,” she said. “Duwar, Makayla—they are still out there. No one is going after Antifa.”

A seventy-something, white-haired woman armed with a coffeepot appeared.

“How’s life treating you, Della?” Garrett asked.

“You mean ‘mistreating me,’” she answered. “My arthritis is killing me, and Joe is getting harder to live with, but we can’t close this dump and move to Florida because people like you keep coming in. Hey, sweetie, you wanna run off to Daytona with me? I’m a pretty nice catch, you got to admit.”

“Yes, you are, Della. Maybe tomorrow,” he replied. “My colleague here says you misspelled please on your sign.”

“Is that right?” She turned and hollered toward an opening where prepared food from the kitchen was placed under heat lamps until it was picked up. “Joe, got a gal here says we can’t spell right.”

“R-I-G-H-T,” a man wearing a paper chef’s hat yelled through the opening.

Mayberry heard chuckles from the regulars perched on the counter stools and seated in booths.

Refilling their cups, Della said to Mayberry, “This one with you, he’s not too clever, but he is damn easy on the eyes.” She winked at Garrett and sauntered off to another booth.

“How come you know so much about this place?” she asked.

“I like pancakes.”

The television screen positioned above and behind his head caught her eye.

“You need to see this,” she said in a quiet but alarmed voice, glancing upward. He turned and read the moving caption. Deadly shootout. Suspected terrorist fatally shot by police.

The volume was set too low for them to hear, but the video showed everything. A SWAT team approached a suspect in the early-morning darkness outside a tiny brick rail station in Morristown, New Jersey, west of New York City. A commuter line. The man pulled a pistol, fired, was shot dead on the train platform. Two men in hazmat suits carefully removed a briefcase from his grasp.

“That’s Krishma Duwar!” she said. “Now I have a good reason to get to headquarters.” She pushed her plate aside. “To hell with Harris. I’m telling them about Makayla Jones, Antifa, the bombing, and Rivera’s murder. If I have to go down, then so be it.”

“Why?” Garrett asked, returning to his pancakes. “If Duwar has the gas, it’s over.”

“How can you sit here and say that based on everything you know, everything I know?”

“Think about it. No one wants to hear what we got to say.” He forked another piece of pancake and rubbed it on the bleeding egg yolk smeared on his plate.

“That’s not true. You need to tell the bureau what happened in Russia.”

He put down his fork. “No, I don’t,” he said sternly. “The CIA doesn’t want anyone to know I failed to smuggle a diplomat out of Russia. That’s hardly an inducement for others to defect and not something I’m proud of. The Russians will deny Kamera exists anyway, which is what they have been doing since Stalin. And the White House doesn’t want to admit its CIA director went off the grid and hid information from the president and Congress. It’s easier for everyone to think that Duwar was a lone Pakistani terrorist. It’s over, Mayberry, and you shooting off your mouth is just going to make everything worse—for all of us.”

“You saw Gromyko murder Pavel. You can prove the Russians are involved. I know about Antifa and Makayla Jones. I know she blew up the shrine, murdered Rivera.”

“The entire reason Harris chose me was so if things went bad in Russia, he’d have a scapegoat. You talk, and he’ll paint me as some crazed lone wolf. You talk, and he’ll find a way to blame you, too. Listen to me. I know Harris, and he will crucify us both if you talk.”

“Kim will back us up. He’ll go against Harris. He’ll tell the truth, and he’s not done anything wrong.”

“You don’t know that. Listen, Kim is my best friend, actually my only real friend, but his entire company depends on government contracts, and you don’t know what he might have done for Harris in the past. I’m not going to destroy what he’s built by telling everyone about Kamera. The same is true about Peter: he’s had enough misery in his life and mentioning him will only make him a target. President Kalugin will hunt him down and kill him. Do you want his blood on your hands?”

She slid from the booth. “We have to tell the truth even if the White House, Harris, and the Kremlin don’t want us to—even if you don’t want me to. Because it’s the truth and Makayla Jones and Antifa are still out there.”

She looked down at him. “I thought more of you, Garrett.”

She was walking toward the door when her phone rang. She answered, listened, and spun around, hurrying to the booth. “Kim has found something we need to see. We need to go right now.”

Neither spoke until Mayberry turned off the Capital Beltway and entered the District.

“I thought we were going to Kim’s Tysons Corner office,” Garrett said suspiciously. “This isn’t some stupid scheme by you to take me to agency headquarters, is it?”

“No,” she replied. “He’s meeting us at the Capitol Visitor Center.”

When they reached it, she said, “They won’t let us inside with our guns. We’ll have to leave them in the trunk.”

Kim was waiting in the lower-level restaurant. His right knee bounced up and down nervously. He waved as soon as he spotted them entering Emancipation Hall.

Opening a file folder, he said, “While you two were chasing Duwar, I’ve been digging into his past. We already knew that he and Makayla Jones were at Stanford together—which I overlooked because she was enrolled as a French exchange student under the name Adalene Petit.”

He put a photo from the Stanford Daily—the university’s student-run newspaper—on the table. It showed an academic dean presenting an award to six students. Krishma Duwar was in the photograph, but Makayla Jones aka Adalene Petit wasn’t.

“Duwar was a member of the college’s honors fraternity,” Kim said as he removed a second photo from his file. It was another university newspaper photograph, only it showed masked demonstrators vandalizing a campus police car.

Kim pointed at a masked man standing on the car’s roof, waving an Antifa flag—a red, white, and black banner with the German words ANTIFASCHISTISCHE AKTION printed on it.

“What are you seeing that I’m not?” Mayberry asked. “Duwar isn’t in this second photo.”

“How can you be certain?” Garrett asked. “The protestors are all wearing masks.”

“Because everyone has white hands. Duwar is Pakistani,” she said.

“That’s exactly right,” Kim said, obviously pleased. “Now look at the fingers of the man waving the Antifa flag.”

Mayberry and Garrett did, and still didn’t understand Kim’s point.

“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 heard 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.

“Go get help!” Garrett ordered.

Afraid to avert his eyes, the officer backed down the stairs watching the gun barrel.

The roof exit opened at the base of the giant Capitol dome. To protect the building’s roof from damage, the door led to a raised platform with guardrails. That platform led to a four-foot-wide walkway that extended out to the Capitol’s western front. This walkway also was elevated above the roof. It ended at a flagpole aligned with the center of the dome.

Terrance Collins was standing next to the flagpole with his left arm wrapped around the chest of a woman. A box cutter was in his right hand, its blade pressed against her neck. Garrett assumed she was an employee of the Architect of the Capitol Office, which was responsible for raising and lowering flags—more than three hundred per day on three poles atop the roof—a tradition that dated back to 1937, when a constituent asked his congressman for a souvenir flag that had flown above the Capitol.

“Give me the gun!” Collins shouted. The two men were about thirty feet from each other.

Garrett slowly stepped toward him.

The woman—in her midforties, straight brown hair, about five foot four and chubby—was crying. Collins tightened his arm around her chest and pressed the blade against her cheek.

“You got kids?” Collins asked his hostage. His mouth close to her ear. “Tell him you got kids.”

The hostage tried to speak, but Collins was now squeezing her so tightly that she was having trouble breathing.

“No one needs to get hurt,” Garrett said. “You want the gun—I’ll give you the gun. I’ll let you go. I don’t care. Eventually, you’ll be caught—or maybe you won’t.”

Garrett’s willingness to cooperate seemed to confuse Collins.

“You’re not in charge here,” Collins shouted.

“You’re right. You have the box cutter. But think about this. It was Makayla who released the gas, not you. D.C. doesn’t have a death penalty.”

“You think I’m stupid? The feds can execute me. Now, give me the gun and get off the walkway. Climb down onto the roof and lay down.”

“No problem but the gun might go flying off the walkway if I slide it from here. Let me walk a few feet closer. You can tell me when to stop.” Garrett turned the gun sideways in his hand. “First, I’m going to switch on the safety so it doesn’t accidentally fire when I slide it. The safety switch is just above the grip.”

Garrett started stepping forward. When he was about fifteen feet away, Collins yelled, “Stop! You’re close enough! Slide it to me now!”

“Okay, calm down. I’m no hero,” Garrett said. He bent down, placed the Glock on the walkway, and shoved it with his hand much like a shuffleboard disc. It stopped about two feet in front of Collins.

Still crouched, Garrett looked upward at the hostage’s face. Her eyes rolled back. Without realizing it, Collins was choking her. Her legs went out from under her, catching him off guard. Collins shoved her sideways and reached down to grab the Glock.

Garrett bolted upward from his crouched position like a runner shooting from starting blocks. If Collins had lifted and fired the gun the moment he first grabbed it, he couldn’t have missed Garrett. But he’d heard Garrett talking about a safety switch, and he fumbled with the handgun trying to find it.

The Glock model 22’s safety was not on the side of the pistol. It was part of its trigger. By the time Collins realized he’d been misled, Garrett was within inches of hitting him. Collins fired the half-raised handgun.

The round pierced Garrett’s right leg at a downward angle, splintering his tibia. But his momentum kept him flying forward. His shoulder slammed into Collins’s chest, knocking the Senate staffer upward off his feet.

While guardrails edged the elevated walkway, no barriers encircled the flagpole. It was a three-foot drop from the flagpole platform to the slanted Capitol roof.

Collins tumbled backward and struck the parapet beneath him. He hit the barrier that ringed the western front of the majestic building with the back of his thighs. Waving his arms wildly, Collins continued falling backward over the building’s edge.

Garrett watched Collins disappear from the rooftop. Despite the intense pain in his leg, he forced himself to crawl forward and fell clumsily headfirst from the flagpole platform onto the roof. Determined, he continued and pulled himself up on the parapet so that he could spy over it. Collins’s body was splayed on the Capitol’s marble landing in the same spot where recent presidents had been sworn into office.

Collins was dead.

Forty-One

“We’re dealing with an unfamiliar toxin,” Dr. Sandra Peabody, a nationally renowned poison expert at George Washington University Hospital, said.

Valerie Mayberry had been rushed to an emergency isolation unit at the hospital located six blocks from the White House. FBI director Archibald Davidson and Sally North were being briefed in a private waiting room about her tenuous condition.

“We’re dealing with some weaponized organophosphate derivative,” Dr. Peabody explained. “The same chemical structure backbone as other organophosphate pesticides used in agriculture, only modified to make it more deadly. Ms. Mayberry absorbed it through her skin.”

“Skin contact is how Kim Jong Nam, half brother of North Korean leader Kim Jong Un, was murdered,” Director Davidson volunteered.

“Yes, I helped advise his medical team. His attackers smeared his face with poison,” Dr. Peabody replied. “Until now, we thought Novichok was the deadliest of nerve agents, but this new variation appears to be even more lethal, although it works much the same way. It binds itself to a receptor site in the brain where it disrupts cholinesterase, a type of enzyme needed for proper functioning of the nervous system. I’ve given Ms. Mayberry oxime; it’s a nitrogen-containing chemical compound that we use as an antidote. It’s designed to clean the binding site so the cholinesterase is liberated and can begin working again.”

“Then she’ll recover?” North asked in a hopeful voice.

“I really can’t say at this point.,” Dr. Peabody replied sadly. “This new variant appears to have been engineered to prevent our antidote from working. That’s part of what makes it different from what we have seen before. As in all poisoning cases, the first step is immediate symptom management. And that is the protocol that we are attempting here.”

Continuing, she said, “People poisoned with these types of nerve toxins essentially die because of secretions—vomiting, diarrhea, and urinary incontinence occurring all at once—and since Ms. Mayberry has been here, we’ve seen secretions begin. Luckily, we’ve reacted quickly. To stop them, we have given her high doses of atropine, a medicine derived from the belladonna plant, sometimes called ‘deadly nightshade.’ It works in two ways. It dries out secretions and increases the heart rate, which slows after exposure to a nerve agent. It buys us time to see if the oxime antidote will work.”

“How long before you will know if the antidote is doing its job?” Davidson asked.

“This patient had a blood vessel in her nose break,” Peabody said, ignoring his question. “That’s uncommon in nerve agent poisonings such as this. We expect to see runny eyes, drooling, rapid breathing, diarrhea, confusion, nausea, but even with extreme exposure to poisons such as sarin—which has been one of the most widely used chemical weapons in recent times, especially in Syria—we have not seen bleeding noses. Whoever is responsible for creating this poison has added a new molecule.”

“Is there a tipping point?” Davidson asked, slightly modifying his initial question.

“I know you want me to predict the outcome of our protocol. Tell you when she will get better or if our protocol is working. All I can tell you is we are doing everything possible and the next twenty-eight hours are critical. If she survives during this window, her chances of recovery are much greater. But even then, there is a high chance of permanent damage. She could be paralyzed, unable to speak, lose her memory.”

The doctor shifted her eyes from Davidson to North. “If you want to help and you are religious, I’d suggest you begin praying.”

“One of my people will be staying here twenty-four/seven,” Davidson said. “Please keep him informed so he can relay messages to us.”

“I’ve been told that her parents are flying in from Greenwich with their own specialist to assist you,” North said. “I’ll be dispatching my people to the airport to bring them here.”

“Always willing to consult,” Dr. Peabody replied. “The more minds, the better. Now, I need to get back to my patient.”

After she was gone, North said, “I’d like to speak to Valerie’s parents when they arrive. We need to tell them about her bravery.”

“Yes, I should speak to them, too,” Davidson said. “Now, what about Brett Garrett?

“The nurses said he’s in surgery,” North replied.

“Sally,” Davidson said quietly, “this has the agency’s fingerprints all over it, and Director Harris has not been forthcoming about any of it. There will be dozens of investigations. When I got here, there were already reporters outside the hospital shouting questions. You need to find out what happened and assess the impact on the bureau. Do you have any idea what Agent Mayberry has been doing since she was detailed to Harris?”

“No, sir. I planned to debrief her this morning.”

A knock. One of the director’s aides. “Senator Stone is down the hall speaking to Dr. Peabody,” he said. “The senator is asking where you are.”

“Less said, the better,” Davidson whispered to North, “until we get this sorted out.”

Senator Stone joined them. “According to Dr. Peabody, the next twenty-eight hours are critical,” he said. “I’m sorry. Please know I will be praying for her.”

“Thank you,” Davidson and North replied in unison.

Stone let out a loud sigh. “I’ve been told it was a staff member of mine who brought the poison into the Senate.”

“Our people are already investigating,” Davidson replied. “But, yes, that appears true.”

“Terrance Collins. I don’t understand. He never said or did a damn thing that hinted he was capable of this.”

“We’ll know more after Brett Garrett gets out of surgery,” North said, “and we speak to him.”

“Brett Garrett,” Senator Stone repeated. “He and I seemed destined to encounter each other. I was told he was the one who chased Collins onto the roof.” He shook his head. “For the life of me, I can’t understand why a member of my office family would do something so horrific. I trusted him. I believed he was a good man and he tried to murder me and everyone else in the chamber.”

“He would have succeeded except for Agent Mayberry and Garrett,” Davidson said. “They’re heroes.”

“I know that!” Stone exclaimed. “What I don’t know is how they came to be in the Senate this morning—and why they didn’t warn anyone before then.”

“Senator,” Davidson said, “we’re not sure. Perhaps Director Harris can answer those questions.”

“Harris. He’s up to his eyeballs in this disaster,” the senator said bitterly. “It has his stench.” The senator shook his head, pressed his lips together.

“What’s our world coming to?” he continued. “An attack on the Senate floor. I just don’t know anymore.”

North thought she saw tears forming in the senator’s eyes. He looked sad. Weary. Very much like a tired old man, not a proud Lord of the Senate.

“Please keep me informed about Agent Mayberry,” he said softly, excusing himself.

As he left the private waiting room and walked toward the nurses’ station and elevators, Senator Stone sought to regain his composure. He still had to face reporters waiting outside. They’d expect a statement. He was not yet ready. He asked the duty nurse where Brett Garrett was undergoing surgery.

The male nurse checked his computer and said, “I’ll call you an escort, Senator. This building can be confusing.” Looking up from his seat, the nurse noticed Senator Stone’s sweat-covered face. “Sir, are you feeling okay?” he asked, rising from his chair. “Let me check your vitals.”

“No, no, that will not be necessary,” Stone replied. “Just get me that escort.”

Garrett was still in surgery when Stone entered a private waiting room on a different hospital floor. “I’ll get the chief surgeon to brief you as soon as the surgical team is finished,” the escort said.

Pale green walls. Darker green carpet. Senator Stone noticed another man waiting. The stranger stood, approached him, but not with an outstretched hand.

“Why are you here?” Thomas Jefferson Kim demanded.

“And who are you?” Senator Stone replied. “A reporter?”

“I’m Brett Garrett’s closest friend, and I’ve got something to tell you, Senator, that needs to be said.”

His aggressive tone surprised Senator Stone.

“I fought side by side with Garrett,” Kim said defensively. “I was critically wounded. He literally carried me out of a firefight. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be here.”

Stone started to interrupt, but Kim ignored him and kept talking.

“Some young people enlist because they want a way out of their hometowns, are looking for adventure, to travel, or want to learn a trade. Brett Garrett told me once why he joined, and it wasn’t for any of those reasons. He made up his mind the day two commercial jets crashed into the twin towers. The day he watched Americans leaping to their deaths. He joined because he loves this country. He felt it was his duty. Laugh if you want. Call it blind patriotism. Call it naïve. But the America that he believes in and is willing to die for is not defined by ethnicity, heritage, or even birthright. His America is an ideal. That’s what makes us different, isn’t it? Freedom. Democracy. Equality. Our ideals? Those are not empty words to him and whenever his fellow Americans take their freedoms for granted, disparage America, disrespect its flag, anger wells inside him. That’s because he genuinely believes we are living in that ‘shining city upon a hill.’ A city that has been bought with the blood of the thousands before him in that long gray line—the fallen on the Western Front, Omaha Beach, Imo Jima, the Yalu River, Khe Sanh, Khafji, and the Helmand Province.

“There’s no ambiguity in him. He sees only white knights and black knights. Even after you stripped away his honor on national television, even after Director Harris lied about him and what happened in Cameroon, even after the Navy imprisoned him and dishonorably discharged him, Garrett’s devotion to his country never waned because he believes America is not you or a bunch of Supreme Court judges or even the president. It is an ideal, and that’s bigger than any of you. Blame him for your son’s death if you want. Continue to hate him. But what happened today shows you who he is, and he’s a hell of a better man than you or me.”

Kim turned and marched back to his seat.

Senator Stone looked at Kim for several moments before leaving. As he rode the hospital’s elevator to the lobby, his mind flashed back. Two years earlier. Hart Senate Office Building. Director Harris was testifying. Cameroon. Blaming Garrett. Refusing to take any responsibility for the deaths. His son. In his mind, Senator Stone saw himself leaning forward in his seat. His voice rising. His temper flaring. He was scolding Director Harris.

“Are you telling this committee that you are not responsible for the actions of the people under your command? What sort of leader makes such a statement?”

The opening elevator doors snapped him back to reality. He walked slowly across the hospital lobby and through the glass doors to where security guards had corralled reporters and television crews. Questions were shouted. Nearly indistinguishable.

“Senator Stone! Senator Stone! Senator Stone!”

“Did your aide take gas into the Senate?”

“Why did Terrance Collins do it?”

“Was he trying to kill you or every senator?”

“Where’d he get it?

Senator Stone raised his hand to quiet them.

“I’m prepared to make a brief statement,” he said. “I’ll not be answering any questions.”

He took a deep breath and felt tears welling in his eyes as he looked out at the camera lenses. Outstretched microphones. A sea of faces.

“After serving our great nation for forty-plus years,” he said, “I’ve decided to retire.”

Forty-Two

Russian president Vyachesian Kalugin entered the hash marks, skating at full speed directly toward the net, the puck dancing on the edge of his stick. The score was tied, which is what Kalugin preferred in the final moments of his weekly ice hockey matches—and what his rivals and teammates always delivered. Just as they made certain he would have the puck for a game-deciding shot.

The goalie wavered. Only seconds remaining. Would Kalugin shoot, pass, or drive around the net? Two opponents rushed him, but Kalugin glided through them.

He transferred his weight to his front skate nearest the puck and pulled back his stick. Firing.

His shot veered to the net’s right. A sure miss. The goalie lunged at it. The puck smacked his leg pads. Deflected into the net.

A loud horn blast.

Kalugin raised his hands triumphantly at the victory as his teammates mobbed him celebrating.

He skated to the defeated goalie.

“I would have missed,” Kalugin shouted, “if you’d been in the correct position.”

“Bad luck for me,” the goalie replied, “good luck for you.”

“There was no luck,” Kalugin declared. “I beat you.” He turned his skates, so he was now standing next to the goalie in front of the net. “This is where you should have positioned your skates to protect the net,” he said, demonstrating for all of the players. “Your mistake was jumping toward the puck instead of leaving it alone.”

“Thank you,” the goalie replied. There was no mention that he had once played on a Russian Olympic medal–winning team and knew exactly where he should have been positioned during a direct attack.

As Kalugin exited from the ice, he boasted to a teammate, “If I weren’t president, I would have been a professional in this sport.”

It was unclear to those who played each week if the president’s narcissism kept him from seeing through the final shot ruses or if he fully understood that the games were always fixed to flatter him and simply didn’t care. A benefit of his power.

Kalugin had just removed his skates when Nikolai Aleksandrovich Kazakov entered the plush presidential changing room at the ice rink built with public funds near Kalugin’s private estate in Novo-Ogaryovo, twenty-five minutes west of Moscow.

“Mr. President,” General Gromyko’s deputy said, “I have the general on a secure line. It is an urgent matter.”

“Help me with my shoulder pads,” Kalugin replied. “And stay.”

Kazakov only could hear Kalugin’s end of the conversation, but with each second, he watched the president become more and more agitated.

“Diplomatic immunity will not protect you, not for this!” Kalugin shouted.

Followed by, “Brett Garrett. The same American who twice escaped from you?”

Kalugin slammed down the phone when he ended the call.

“Join me in a bath,” he said, starting to strip. There was nothing sexual about the request. It was not unusual for the Russian president to discuss matters in a sauna. Being naked was how he could guarantee no secret recordings or eavesdropping. The self-contained cubicles that he’d ordered specially made were immune to foreign penetration. The sauna also gave him a psychological advantage. Kalugin was proud of his physique. He began each morning spending two hours swimming, another hour with his personal trainers. He felt superior when those around him were stripped naked with all of their physical faults exposed.

“A revolutionary group failed to release a poisonous gas in the United States Senate,” Kalugin said when they were seated on a wooden bench in the heat. “No American politicians were killed, but the general suspects the Americans will blame us.”

Kazakov already knew about Gromyko’s Kamera laboratory and his delivery of the Devil’s Breath variant to Antifa radicals. He knew President Kalugin had approved of the plan. But if the president now wished to distance himself, Kazakov would play along.

“You cannot be blamed,” Kazakov said. “You are innocent. Russia is innocent. Nothing but lies.”

“The Americans will have no choice but to retaliate. This was a direct attack on members of their government,” Kalugin continued, clearly concerned. “Cyber warfare is inconsequential compared to an attempted mass murder.”

“Yes, if they can find a connection with us,” Kazakov said, “they will demand blood. They started a war because of the attack by jihadists in New York and at their Pentagon, but surely they would not risk a nuclear confrontation,” Kazakov said. “We are not Iraq or Afghanistan.”

For a moment neither spoke. Kalugin was thinking.

“If I may speak openly,” Kazakov said, breaking the silence, “this is a problem of General Gromyko’s creation.”

“And so?” Kalugin replied.

“He should bear all responsibility. It is his doing, not yours. He should be the one who is punished.”

Kalugin turned his head, looked at Kazakov. How quickly he had turned on his superior. The president smiled. These were the men whom he chose to advise him. A paradoxical situation. He’d needed the likes of Gromyko and Kazakov to crush his opponents when he was rising to power. He needed them to retain his power. Unscrupulous men to do his bidding without moral misgivings. They intimidated and murdered for him. Yet Kalugin was no fool. He understood these same men would turn on him if he ever became vulnerable. Primates eating their young. It had been no different in Stalin’s day.

“Nikolai Aleksandrovich,” Kalugin replied, “General Gromyko ate the dog but choked on its tail.” He chuckled. It was an old Russian expression that Kalugin’s mother had taught him—to laugh at someone who had performed a difficult feat but tripped up at the end and failed.

Continuing, he said, “I will immediately deny all Russian involvement if the Americans accuse us. In a matter as grave as this, the Americans will need evidence. This always has been their pattern. They cannot justify retaliation based on speculation, even when the culprits are obvious. Unfortunately, there is someone who is an eyewitness, someone who can directly tie this attempted poisoning to General Gromyko.”

“I overheard his name in your conversation,” Kazakov said.

“Brett Garrett—the American the CIA sent here to escort the traitor Yakov Pavel to the West. He has been to the Kamera laboratory in Svetogorsk.”

Once again, this was information Kazakov already knew, but he remained quiet. Listening.

“General Gromyko just assured me that he will eliminate this witness,” Kalugin said. “He is sending a man.”

“Without Garrett, the Americans will have only hearsay,” Kazakov said.

It was a comment, but it sounded more like a question.

Kalugin used a towel to wipe his sweat-covered face. He was again thinking through his thoughts, wanting to be certain of his plan.

“How many Zasion officers are currently in our embassy in Washington?” he asked. A reference to Russia’s elite Zasion Special Operations Group, whose existence was officially denied by the Kremlin but whose soldiers were used to protect Russian diplomats.

“Five,” Kazakov replied. “Under the command of Fedor Ivanovich Vasiliev.”

“Tell him that he needs to escort General Gromyko back to Moscow immediately. Tell him we do not want to risk having the Americans detain the general for questioning.”

“They wouldn’t dare. Such a move would break all diplomatic protocols.”

Kalugin scoffed. “I suspect that line already has been crossed.” He again wiped the sweat from his face. “The general flew to America on a private plane, not a government aircraft,” he said. “This is a good thing. It was not a government flight. It suggests that he was operating independently. It would be best if that same private airplane returned for the general. To bring him back home.”

He twisted in his seat so that he was now looking directly at Kazakov. “It would be best if that aircraft encountered a mechanical malfunction while returning across the Atlantic.”

“Survivors?”

“None.”

Forty-Three

The slug fired into Brett Garrett’s leg had been a hollow-point round, designed to mushroom upon impact to cause maximum damage. His tibia, the second-largest bone in the body, had been fractured and it had taken surgeons more than four hours to perform open reduction and internal fixation (ORIF), a procedure that involved placing a metal rod down the inner aspect of the bone to stabilize and repair the fracture.

He had awoken from anesthesia in recovery but had been given several high doses of morphine, despite his opioid addiction, as well as powerful sleep medication before being moved to a private hospital room. He immediately fell into a deep sleep.

Sally North had instructed an FBI agent to stick close to Garrett and alert her when he was coherent enough to be interviewed. Thomas Jefferson Kim had taken it upon himself to have an IEC security guard stationed outside Garrett’s door, primarily to keep reporters from intruding.

A few minutes after 3:00 a.m., while the FBI agent was flirting with the nurses at a workstation, a lone assassin peered out from an emergency stairway and, seeing no one, stepped onto the rectangular floor. He’d already familiarized himself with the layout: two hallways running north to south holding five rooms each, joined at their ends by matching east-west corridors. The end units housed three patient rooms apiece. The nurses’ workstation was located in a cut-through in the center of the wing, allowing easy access to the longer hallways. Glass offices on each side of the nurses’ station filled the rest of the unit. Normally, lights in these offices allowed the nurses to look directly through them. Because it was night, those lights were switched off, diminishing the view.

Garrett’s room was on the southeast corner. Gromyko’s hired assassin entered the floor at its northwest corner, as far away as possible from Garrett’s room. The assassin ducked into a nearby patient’s room where an elderly woman was sleeping peacefully, attached to monitors tracking her vital signs. He clutched the woman’s throat with his right hand and began to squeeze while covering her mouth with his left palm. Her eyes shot open, and she struggled to grab hold of the stranger strangling her, but she was no match, and within moments, an alarm sounded inside the nurses’ station.

Knowing they would respond via the west hallway running north, the assassin dashed into the east hallway and walked by the now-empty nurses’ base. The FBI agent who’d been chatting there had followed the nurses.

Garrett’s room was easy to identify because it was the only one with a security guard outside it. He was sitting scanning through Facebook on his cell phone.

As Gromyko’s man neared the IEC guard, the killer slipped his right hand up under his light blue jacket.

The guard glanced up and saw him approaching. The killer smiled and in a well-practiced move drew his Ruger .22-caliber pistol fitted with a suppressor, firing twice at close range into the startled guard’s face.

Having disposed of the guard, the assassin slipped into Garrett’s room.

General Gromyko had just drifted to sleep when his bodyguard, Boris Vladimirovich Petrov, gently awakened him.

“Sokolov has sent his plane from his sports team in Texas.”

Gromyko had moved his quarters from the former Soviet embassy to a nineteen-room mansion on Pioneer Point, a scenic peninsula on the eastern Maryland shoreline where the Corsica and Chester Rivers merged. The main house was part of a forty-five-acre compound that contained two swimming pools, a soccer field, multiple tennis courts, and ten bungalows—all purchased in 1972 by the Soviet Union as a Chesapeake Bay “dacha” for its diplomats and visiting Kremlin dignitaries. The house had been owned previously by John J. Raskob, best known as the builder of the Empire State Building. Although the property was not legally sovereign Russian territory, under the Vienna Convention no one could enter it without permission, and any attack on its grounds was the equivalent of an assault on Russia.

Gromyko dressed quickly, tucking a PSM pistol, an easy-to-conceal handgun issued to top Russian diplomats, under his suit jacket.

Petrov was waiting outside his bedroom door.

“Did you do what I asked?” the general said.

Petrov nodded. “It’s ready.”

Four men were waiting for them in the house’s grand foyer. Gromyko recognized Fedor Ivanovich Vasiliev, the Zasion commander in charge.

“Why are you here?” Gromyko asked.

“Moscow ordered us to escort you to your airplane in case the Americans attempt to detain you,” Fedor replied.

“Moscow? Who in Moscow?”

“I received a direct order from your deputy Nikolai Kazakov.”

The four soldiers split into pairs. Two fell in next to Gromyko, the other two next to Petrov. They were greeted outside by two drivers standing next to twin black Mercedes-Benz S Class sedans that had been lightly armored.

“General,” Fedor said, “it would be better if Mr. Petrov rode in the second vehicle so two of us can ride comfortably with you.”

“Tell me,” General Gromyko said, “who does Kazakov report to?”

“Why, he reports to you, General.”

“Then he has no authority over me, does he?” Gromyko replied. “Unless you wish to find yourself stripped of your duties, you need to acknowledge my authority. I decide who sits where and my bodyguard will travel next to me.”

Without waiting for an answer, Gromyko and Petrov both took seats in the backseat of the first Mercedes.

“I meant no disrespect, General,” Fedor said, slipping into the front passenger seat. “I simply thought it safer if two of us were in this car with you.”

“Now you have offended Petrov,” Gromyko chuckled. “Do you think he cannot keep me safe?”

The three other Zasion soldiers rode in the second Mercedes. The two-car motorcade exited the mansion’s circular driveway, traveling along Corsica Neck Road toward the property’s gated exit. Two of the compound’s bungalows were now on the left side of the moving vehicles. To the right of the two-way road was an undeveloped plot covered with Atlantic white cedars and underbrush. It was a buffer to the Chester River.

As the lead car neared Towne Point Lane, the first intersection on the resort property, Gromyko announced, “I need an item from my suitcase in the trunk. Inform your men that we are stopping. No need for them to exit their vehicles. It will only take Petrov a moment to fetch it.”

Fedor spoke through a handheld two-way radio. He started to turn his head so he could glance backward to address Gromyko when Petrov lunged forward from the seat directly behind him. He had put on leather gloves and drawn a garrote from his coat pocket. In a well-practiced move, the massive bodyguard dropped the wire over Fedor’s head, pulling it taut around Fedor’s neck. Petrov used his legs to thrust himself backward. The wire nearly decapitated the unsuspecting Fedor, who raised his hands to his neck in a panic much too late.

General Gromyko had drawn his pistol and now pressed it against the back of the driver’s skull.

“If you want to live, keep your hands on the wheel and stare straight ahead,” he warned.

A sliver of light from under the bathroom door in Brett Garrett’s hospital room provided enough glow for the assassin to quickly survey his surroundings.

As expected, a patient was in the bed, but he was not the room’s only occupant. An Asian woman was asleep under a blanket in a lounge chair near him.

The assassin would deal with her after Garrett. The killer lifted his left hand so he could compare a photograph of Garrett on his cell phone with the patient in the bed. It was his target. Satisfied, he lowered his cell while simultaneously raising the .22-caliber pistol in his right hand.

Thomas Jefferson Kim opened the bathroom door directly behind the assassin, startling both of them. Still wearing a sling from the bullet wound to his right arm, Kim yelled and lowered his shoulders, charging the surprised gunman. The impact caused both of them to bang against Garrett’s hospital bed before they tumbled onto the floor.

Kicking his feet wildly, Kim scrambled to remain on top of the assassin while managing to grab his right wrist.

“Help! Help!” he hollered.

Now pinned to the floor by Kim, the assassin slammed his left fist against the right side of Kim’s skull with dizzying force. A second blow was delivered to Kim’s wounded right shoulder, causing him to yelp in pain. The killer’s third left blow to Kim’s jaw caused him to go limp.

Shoving Kim off his body, the assassin rose to his feet with his pistol aimed directly at the still-unconscious Garrett.

Boom!

The loud gunshot blast caused a confused look to appear on the assassin’s face.

Boom!

The assassin shifted and aimed his handgun at Rose Kim, who’d cast off her blanket and fired her Glock semi-auto.

He pulled his Ruger’s trigger.

Rose Kim had never been in a shoot-out before. She would later claim that the .22 round had barely missed her head. But everyone who had ever been fired upon believed he or she had been barely missed.

Boom! Boom! Two more shots—from Rose.

The assassin fell backward and hit the floor hard.

The FBI agent, who’d run toward the room when he’d first heard gunshots, shoved open the room’s closed door but positioned himself along the hallway wall. As soon as the door opened, Rose Kim fired into the hallway, assuming the assassin had an accomplice. Her slug shattered the glass exterior of the office across from Garrett’s room.

“FBI!” he yelled. “Drop your weapons!”

“It’s me!” Rose Kim squealed. “My husband is hurt! I’ve shot a man attacking us.”

“Put down your gun,” he ordered. “Put it on the floor. Don’t shoot me.”

She put aside her Glock and hurried to her husband, still prone on the floor.

The agent edged his way around the corner, darted into the room, and immediately stripped the .22-caliber pistol from the assassin’s hand. Kneeling, the agent felt for a pulse.

There was none.

Bodyguard Boris Petrov stepped from the first Mercedes into the morning darkness. The headlights of the second car some fifteen yards behind him caused him to blink and shield his eyes. He waved his hand downward, and the car’s driver extinguished the front lights. None of the car’s occupants bothered to exit.

Petrov opened the trunk and reached inside. When his hands emerged, they were holding a Russian-made RPG-7, a shoulder-fired, reusable antitank rocket-propelled grenade launcher. He spun, and before any of the soldiers seated in the Mercedes could undo their seat belts, Petrov fired. At that close range, the blast from the explosion knocked Petrov down onto the asphalt. Flying debris from the Mercedes flew in all directions. Everyone in the car was dead.

Inside the first Mercedes, the driver pleaded, “General, I’m only a driver. I know nothing about any of this.”

“It’s a pity,” Gromyko said. He fired a round from his pistol into the back of the man’s skull.

Stepping from the safety of the car, he called to Petrov: “Can you walk?”

Petrov used his palms to push himself onto his feet. He had been struck by shrapnel and his face was bleeding. He tugged a piece of chrome fragment from his left upper arm. Gromyko did not wait for him. He started walking toward the trees to their right. Behind him, the second Mercedes was burning, casting an eerie yellow light across the landscape.

Gromyko found the eighteen-foot-long fishing boat moored at an inlet on the opposite side of the trees where Petrov had said it would be. He climbed aboard and called to Petrov.

“Hurry or I’ll leave you!”

The shell-shocked, bloody bodyguard came aboard. The general started the outboard and headed toward Chesapeake Bay.

Thomas Jefferson Kim had been knocked out by the assassin’s punches, but he regained consciousness within seconds after the nurses took charge. They checked his heart rate and helped him into the lounge chair where Rose Kim had been sleeping only minutes earlier.

“I shot him just like you showed me,” Rose Kim declared.

The FBI agent searched the dead man for identification. Nothing. He unbuttoned the man’s shirt. A bullet-resistant vest. Three of Rose’s shots were blocked there. The fourth had hit above the vest, ripping through the man’s right carotid artery where it was connected to his brachiocephalic trunk.

Despite the melee, Brett Garrett remained unaware in his drug-induced sleep. If he had been semiconscious, what had transpired would have seemed to him much like a bad dream.

Forty-Four

The Day After

“The man who attempted to kill Brett Garrett appears to be Eastern European, but we have no other information about him,” FBI director Archibald Davidson said. “No fingerprint matches, no facial recognition, nothing yet to identify him.”

“Any idea how he entered the country?” President Randle Fitzgerald asked.

“None.”

“What about Agent Mayberry?”

“She’s still alive but has been put in an induced coma while doctors continue to try different levels of the antidote,” Davidson said. He withdrew several photographs from a folder and handed them to Fitzgerald, who was seated behind his desk in the Oval Office.

“These were taken by the Queen Anne Sheriff’s Department after gunshots and explosions were heard earlier this morning at the Russians’ Pioneer Pointe retreat,” Davidson explained. “The Russians refused to allow deputies or local Centreville Police Department officers to enter the compound. The enterprising sheriff used a drone to take these photos.”

“What exactly am I looking at?” the president asked.

“A burning vehicle stopped inside the compound behind another luxury car with its doors open. General Andre Gromyko was staying at the property. The private aircraft that brought him to the U.S.—a jet owned by Ivan Sokolov—had flown in earlier from Texas apparently to transport the general back to Moscow. That plane left without him about an hour after these photos were taken.”

“Texas?”

“Sokolov owns a basketball team based there,” Davidson said.

“Your best guess?”

“Sokolov was getting out of the country to avoid us detaining him and the general for questioning.” Davidson paused. “We’ve got no clue if he is still at that compound or even if he is still alive.”

President Fitzgerald returned the photos to him. “What time were those aerial photos taken?”

“Shortly before six a.m.”

“At eight this morning,” the president said, “I received a telephone call from Russian president Kalugin. He immediately expressed his concern about the Senate attack. He then told me quite a story. He claimed a group of radicals had attempted to use poison gas to murder members of the State Duma in Moscow yesterday. He said his security people stopped them.”

“I’ve not seen any reports about this. Has the agency or State confirmed the Moscow attack?”

“No. President Kalugin said he’d decided to keep it secret until after a thorough investigation. He then told me that he suspects General Gromyko was behind the attack in Moscow. In his words, Gromyko is a lunatic whose aim was to undermine both of our governments and cause us to go to war. He apologized for the general’s actions but insisted that he had no idea about what Gromyko was doing.”

“Sounds convenient. How did you respond?” Davidson asked.

“I said we were investigating the attack. That we took it extremely seriously and would take the appropriate action after we had gathered and evaluated all of the facts,” Fitzgerald said.

“You believe Gromyko acted alone?”

“No, and the fact Kalugin called makes me think he knew and approved of yesterday’s attempt. He’s never admitted anything before about Russian poisoning. I’d say he is desperate to shift the blame and undermine any response we might make in retaliation. It wouldn’t surprise me if he arrests some of his own people today and holds a show trial to convince the world the Russian Duma was threatened by Gromyko.”

“Excuse me, Mr. President,” Davidson said, “but it would be helpful if Director Harris would share his intelligence about Gromyko with the bureau and tell us what the hell he had Agent Mayberry and Brett Garrett doing for him. Garrett regained consciousness this morning, but he’s refusing to answer any of Sally North’s questions, claiming national security concerns. He just keeps saying, ‘Ask Harris.’”

“I’ll deal with Director Harris. Meanwhile, we need to know more about Senator Stone’s legislative aide—the one who brought the poison in—and the woman in Antifa who was trying to take that case away from Agent Mayberry and release the gas. Were they sleeper agents? Can you find definite proof that this gas was made in Russia?”

“We’ll get the facts, sir.”

Moments later, as Davidson was leaving, he encountered Harris in a White House hallway.

“You’ve finished your briefing, I see,” Harris said in a guarded voice. “Now it’s my turn.”

“Harris,” Davidson said, “I’ve told the president that you’ve not been forthcoming with us. You’re holding back information. I wanted to tell you that to your face. I wanted him to know that you have not been cooperative with us.”

“If the president mentions it,” Harris said coldly, “I’ll respond.” He stepped by Davidson.

Harris found the president waiting, still seated behind his desk. President Fitzgerald did not stand to greet him, nor did he respond when Harris said, “Good morning, sir!” Instead he nodded toward a chair across from his desk.

“What in the hell have you done?” Fitzgerald snapped.

“My agency has just helped prevent a catastrophe,” Harris replied. “With assistance from Agent Mayberry and Brett Garrett, I stopped a mass murder.”

“Davidson just told me that you’ve been holding back information and I know it’s true because you’ve not told me a damn thing, either,” Fitzgerald said. “You know that you’re obligated by law to keep both me and Congress informed—something that you clearly have chosen not to do.”

“I haven’t disclosed information purely for national security reasons,” Harris said.

“Where in the law does it say that you get to make that final decision? From the few facts that I’ve been able to glean, you used Agent Mayberry and Brett Garrett to operate an off-the-books covert operation. You went rogue, and you hid it from all of us.”

“It was the only way to protect Yakov Pavel,” Harris replied. “If I’d told Congress, it would have leaked out. Surely you know that.”

“Again, that’s not a choice—not your decision to make. You can’t arbitrarily decide what to tell and what not to tell, especially to me. You may be in charge of the CIA, but you still answer to the president and Congress.”

“I was protecting you by going off the grid.”

Fitzgerald leaned forward and glared at Harris. “No, you were not! You let your ego and your mistrust of Congress impair your judgment, and now you are self-rationalizing and self-justifying your actions by blaming others. Don’t you dare try to claim that you were concerned about me. What you have done has undermined my administration.”

Harris bristled but President Fitzgerald wasn’t done.

“Harris, you’re a liar,” he said bluntly. He pressed a button on his phone that connected him to his secretary. “Please send in my guests.”

Harris turned his head and saw a man and woman enter the Oval Office. She was modestly dressed. Her blond hair was pulled back tightly in a bun. He was wearing a Capitol Police officer’s uniform.

Harris didn’t recognize either of them.

“My name is Elsa Eriksson,” the woman said.

“I’m Jack Strong, but when I was a SEAL, everyone called me Bear.”

President Fitzgerald said, “They have been telling me what really happened in Cameroon when Senator Stone’s son was killed by terrorists. They’ve told me how Garrett and his fellow SEALs rescued a young girl named Abidemi who was being gang-raped, how those ‘locals’ who you described in your Senate hearing testimony were actually young girls. Mr. Strong—Bear—has relayed a conversation to me that he had with Brett Garrett that happened that night—about your granddaughter and how you had assured Garrett that you would have his back if he decided to rescue the children. You didn’t, though, did you—have his back? Instead, you lied.”

Harris remained stone-faced.

“Because you accused Brett Garrett of insubordination—of not obeying direct orders—he spent eighteen months in Leavenworth prison. He was dishonorably discharged. His career and reputation were destroyed. You did that!”

“I gave him a chance to redeem himself,” Harris replied.

“Redeem himself? You’re the one who needs redemption. Your hiding information from me has put my administration and me in a precarious situation. There are going to be investigations into everything that has happened.”

“That’s classified material,” Harris said.

“Not for long. What you’ve done is illegal. I am not going to ask for your resignation. I am firing you because you deserve to be fired.”

“You can’t do that. You need me to deal with what happened in the Senate.”

“I don’t need you. I need to replace you with someone who is honest. And you—you need to hire yourself a team of really good lawyers.”

Forty-Five

Three Months Later

Brett Garrett felt uneasy.

A taxi had dropped him at a gatehouse in the Round Hill neighborhood of North Greenwich, Connecticut, where a uniformed guard checked to ensure that Garrett was on Valerie Mayberry’s visitors’ list. Garrett was holding a bouquet of pink roses and alstroemeria that he’d bought at a grocery store.

Another officer in a golf cart drove him through meticulously groomed lawns along a winding driveway to the entrance of a fifty-room stone mansion built in 1909 on the fifty-acre estate. From its front stoop, he could see Long Island Sound.

“I’m Hannah Clements,” a forty-something woman said after he’d entered the center hall, which had a Bourgogne limestone floor and grand curved staircase and was decorated with Victorian-era furniture. She led him through French doors outside to a spacious terrace.

“Valerie’s parents entrusted her recovery to us as soon as she was stable enough to leave the hospital,” Clements said. “We are quite proud of our rehabilitation facility. We only accept fifteen patients so we can focus on individual needs and we’ve been rated one of the most successful in the world. This is your first visit, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Her parents are very protective and have not allowed many guests. Unless I’m mistaken, you may be the first nonfamily visitor. May I ask how you know Valerie?”

“We worked together before she was poisoned.”

“Ah, so you are that Brett Garrett, the one I read about in the newspapers, just as I suspected.” She nodded toward a woman sitting with her back to them, facing a formal English garden. “There’s our lady.”

He flinched. Garrett had not been warned that Mayberry would be in a wheelchair.

Clements noticed. “The chair is temporary,” she said. “Actually, Valerie is making amazing progress. She is very determined.”

“Yeah, you could say that,” he replied, slightly smiling.

“I must warn you that Valerie still has difficulty speaking and she also becomes tired easily, especially after her morning sessions, so I must insist that your visit last no more than ten minutes.

He thanked her and walked over, taking a seat on the brick waist-high wall that edged the terrace so that he was facing Mayberry.

“Agent Mayberry,” he said cheerfully.

Garrett handed her the flowers. She took them with her left hand, and he noticed her right was knotted awkwardly in a fist and lying on her lap.

“They said you’re doing great with your rehabilitation. Very determined. I don’t think they’ll be able to keep you here for long, which is good news, because the bureau needs you back. Still lots of rabbits in the world for you to protect.”

He grinned. She gave him a curious look. He wasn’t certain she remembered her reason for joining the FBI.

She looked out over the gardens. He did, too. For several minutes. Peaceful. Silence.

“I never got to thank you,” he said quietly. “You stopped a mass murder. Jumping into the Senate like you did, screaming about a bomb, blocking that hole with your finger. Brilliant. I probably would have been poisoned, too, if Makayla had wrestled that briefcase from you. Naturally, I deserve credit as well for throwing the gas mask to you. Probably the best pitch of my life.”

He struggled to think of something else to say.

“Don’t know if you realize how famous you are,” he said. “Della has taped news articles about you on the wall right next to the ‘Cash Tip’s Pleas’ sign in Baltimore. You’re a real celebrity. I suggested they name an omelet after you.” He laughed.

She continued looking out at the garden.

“Listen, Mayberry,” he said standing. “My ten minutes is up, but I came to tell you that I’m going to get the bastard responsible and I wanted you to know something. Something I need to tell you. It’s just not the bureau that wants you back. We’re a good team, even if you do have a lot of really irritating habits. I’d like you back.”

He reached down and gently placed his hand on her left shoulder.

“Thank you, Brett.” Her words came out with a stutter. He realized that she’d never called him by his first name before. Glancing down at her lap, she added, “Your flowers suck.”

She looked up at him and was smiling.

Thirty hours later, Garrett stepped from one of Kim’s IEC jets onto the tarmac at the Bissau Airport in the African Republic of Guinea-Bissau. Thomas Jefferson Kim was waiting behind the wheel of a Range Rover.

“Welcome to one of the world’s most dangerous and utterly corrupt countries,” Kim said. “Not many places to live when you’re a Russian general hiding from the International Criminal Court and U.S. authorities.”

“Gromyko isn’t worried about being put on trial,” Garrett replied. “He’s looking over his shoulder for Russian Zasion forces. How’d you find him when no one else can?”

“I’m better than everyone else at tracking people,” Kim replied as they drove from the airport.

“Have the other members of my team arrived?” Garrett asked.

“Brought them in yesterday. This nation is a haven for international drug smugglers, so cargo planes fly in and out daily without anyone paying attention. Everyone I’ve met here takes bribes.”

He reached behind the front seats for a package that he handed to Garrett. “A little present I picked up for you.” It was a SIG Sauer semi-auto with extra ammunition. “I know you lost the last one.”

“I didn’t lose it. Gromyko’s goons stole it from me when I was ambushed on the train with Pavel and Peter.”

The black oxide-coated handgun felt good in his grip.

“I want to remind you that Gromyko is living under the protection of a local warlord who helped lead a coup d’état against the last government,” Kim said. “You have a limited amount of time to kill him. Otherwise, he’ll call in reinforcements.”

“It will be a piece of cake.”

“I’m not a fan of cake,” Kim replied.

“How reliable is your information about tomorrow?” Garrett asked.

Kim shrugged. “I paid a lot for it to a reliable source, but Gromyko could change his mind in the morning and cancel his trip.”

“Between nine and ten o’clock. That’s when he’ll be on the move, right?”

“That’s what I’ve been told. Get this: he’ll be in a Mercedes-Maybach S650 that he bought off a local drug smuggler. In this hellhole,” Kim said. “Tomorrow’s our best chance to hit him. If he stays in his compound, you’d have to kill your way through a hundred mercenaries.”

“How many bullets did you bring?”

It took them several hours to reach the remote area where Gromyko was hiding. The flat land they entered was barren at points, with only a few scraggly bushes surviving on the brown, dry dirt. Kim pulled off the one-lane road onto a dry creek bed, which they followed for several miles until they came to a more lush area with trees and overgrown bushes. He parked the four-wheeler in a grove of cashew trees, and they continued on foot, using a navigational GPS connected to an IEC satellite to guide them. They eventually reached a clearing about half the size of a football field in the African forest.

“Cost me a fortune to drop your teammates here last night,” Kim said.

“Next time use Amazon Prime,” Garrett replied.

“Funny,” Kim grunted.

“You still got lots of money,” Garrett said. “Stop crying poor.”

They began unstrapping two pallets connected to parachutes. “Now the fun begins,” Kim said. “Time to fire up MUTT-ONE.”

Using a portable computer linked to his satellite, Kim started the engine of a robotic Multi-Utility Tactical Transport, called MUTT by the U.S. military, that he’d customized. It resembled an ATV but had been cut to about half that size. Kim had armed it with a DShKM, a new version of a heavy machine gun first manufactured by the Soviets in 1938 but still being used today by the Russian military.

“I’ve added remote-controlled laser-guided computer sights, GPS mapping, and gyroscopic stabilization,” Kim said proudly. “Now some people mistakenly believe this weapon can fire U.S./NATO .50-caliber ammunition, but that’s not true. The Russian military manual describes its rounds as being .51 caliber, just enough to prevent them from being interchangeable.” He was enjoying showing off his customized weaponry. “I was able to get the records from the company that armored Gromyko’s Maybach. His car was designed to withstand standard 7.62 mm NATO rounds, and a blast from two DM51 hand grenades detonated together. This Russian machine gun’s ammunition will penetrate up to three-fourths of an inch High Hard Armor. Plus, MUTT-ONE will be positioned about fifty yards from the target. At such a close distance, the computer should be able to fire multiple rounds in such a compact grouping that if the first round doesn’t do the trick, the following ones will be enough to penetrate and stop the Maybach’s 621 horsepower V-12 engine.”

Kim next started MUTT-TWO, which he drove remotely from its pallet.

“MUTT-TWO is armed with side-by-side, lightweight ASh-12.7 battle rifles. Favored by the Russians for urban combat. I bought the guns and ammunition from an arms dealer in Azerbaijan to make it appear this is a Russian attack.”

Garrett glanced around the clearing, searching for signs that would signal if someone else might have been there.

“Don’t worry,” Kim said. “I’ve had an employee watching this clearing nonstop since the drop.” He turned his computer screen so Garrett could see it and increased its magnification. Kim waved and one of the two figures next to MUTT-TWO could be seen on the screen waving.

“Smile,” he said.

It was dusk, and several bat hawks appeared chasing their dinners. “As you planned, we are about five miles from Gromyko’s compound. The ambush site is about a quarter mile north in the trees.”

“How’s the ground cover?” Garrett asked.

“Yes, we really couldn’t get a good feel for that from satellite imagery, but based on what we have been hiking through, I believe we’ll be okay. There are enough trees and bushes here to hide the MUTTS, but not so much foliage to obstruct their rounds or prevent them from moving. Actually, they’ll be able to move safer than you.”

“You better head back to the Range Rover,” Garrett said. “Just make certain you don’t get lost or bitten by a snake or shot without me there to rescue you.”

Kim said, “While you’re ambushing Gromyko, I’ll be controlling your teammates from the air-conditioned safety of my Range Rover miles away. In this scenario, who is more likely to need rescuing?”

General Gromyko had prepared his compound for a military assault. The razor wire fencing around it was buttressed with IEDs and monitored by motion detectors. Like all top Russian officials, he had stolen as much money as he could during his military service, and he had put his millions to good use hiring mercenaries and bribing the local warlord. His paid fighters lived in barracks near his main house, where he stayed with Boris Petrov, who had joined him in exile.

Garrett had easily identified the weak link in Gromyko’s defenses. There was only one road leading in and out of his well-patrolled compound. The ambush site that Garrett had chosen was where the one-lane road was edged on both sides by trees and bushes. Plenty of spots to hide.

Nine a.m. at the ambush site and the road remained empty. A half hour later, still no sign of Gromyko. At ten, Garrett began to wonder about the truthfulness of Kim’s paid informant—or had Gromyko simply gotten off to a late start or decided to postpone his trip? Garrett remained hidden in the tree line. He was sweating profusely under his heavy ghillie suit. He’d augmented his camouflage covering made of netting and loose strips of burlap colored to match the leaves, twigs, and ground around him with bits of branches. To pass the time, he watched a parade of ants inches from his face going to and from some food source, the workers returning to their nest with engorged bellies that they would regurgitate to feed those left behind.

At eleven, Kim spoke through Garrett’s earpiece. “Satellite shows caravan leaving compound. Looks like we’re finally a go.”

A ruby-red Toyota Tacoma 4x4 with a heavy machine gun bolted on its truck bed was the first of three vehicles. Next was the Maybach, covered with dust from the unpaved single-lane road, and finally a half-ton troop carrier with what Kim estimated from his satellite viewpoint was at least fifteen armed men.

Kim had positioned his MUTTs some seventy yards apart in the forest that edged the vehicles’ right side. It was important for Garrett, who was concealed on the road’s left side, not to leave his position, which was tagged on Kim’s computer screen, because the MUTTs would be firing across the road in his direction.

“Here we go,” Kim said through Garrett’s earpiece.

The cracking sound of MUTT-ONE’s machine gun caused birds to abandon the trees. Three of its rounds hit the Maybach two inches behind its front wheel. The impact shook the entire car. Three more rounds aimed at those entry holes knocked the sedan slightly sideways, disabling it.

MUTT-TWO’s machine guns sounded next, aimed at the troop carrier, causing the mercenaries aboard it to leap off onto the road. Some took cover behind the vehicle while others lay on the road in the knee-high grass that edged the one lane on both sides, providing twenty yards of clearing between the road and the forest. The fighter manning the U.S. military M2 machine gun on the Toyota’s bed began firing indiscriminately into the trees in the direction of MUTT-TWO. His shots became erratic when the Toyota’s driver suddenly began backing up, running the truck off the road next to the passenger side of the Maybach to shield it from the gunfire coming from the woods.

Kim zeroed in on the machine gunner and fired a burst of rounds from MUTT-ONE, killing him. Kim now concentrated his aim on the engines of the two still mobile trucks to prevent Gromyko from escaping in them. Neither the Toyota nor the troop carrier was armored, so their engines proved easy to destroy. Having disabled both, he unleashed MUTT-TWO’s twin guns at the troop carrier, riddling its cab and puncturing its rear gasoline tank. The mercenaries who had been clustered around it ran, anticipating a probable explosion.

“Stay in the car,” Petrov told Gromyko. He exited from the passenger side into the narrow space created between the Maybach and Toyota truck. Two mercenaries had unloaded crates from the Tacoma, which Petrov opened. Inside one was an assortment of Russian F1 and American MK2 hand grenades, purchased locally. He urged the two fighters nearest him to begin throwing them in the direction of fire. The second crate contained more lethal weaponry—RPO-A Shmel—disposable single-shot Russian-made rocket launchers. He grabbed one of the 93 mm–caliber tubes fitted with an RPO-Z incendiary warhead and fired it into the forest in the direction of MUTT-TWO. Unbeknownst to Petrov, Kim was in the process of moving both MUTTs. The fired warhead exploded, scorching the ground vegetation and downing three trees in a brilliant burst of yellow flames. But MUTT-TWO was untouched.

Petrov ordered his men to stop shooting, and for a moment, it was eerily silent along the road.

Having now been repositioned, MUTT-ONE unleashed a barrage of .50-caliber rounds at the Toyota truck, pockmarking its red exterior and shattering its glass.

A half-dozen mercenaries began running south up the road, abandoning the firefight. Others retreated to the grass on the left side of the road between the vehicles and the tree line where Garrett was hiding. He watched one fighter as he approached, seeking cover within a few feet of him. Garrett held his fire, not wishing to expose himself.

While the mercenaries were shooting into the forest from their hiding spots, Petrov remained upright, as if daring his enemy to kill him. He tossed aside the spent RPO-A Shmel and removed another one, which he shoulder-fired in the direction of MUTT-ONE to his left. Kim was already moving the motorized machine gun. Another thunderous explosion. Another fireball. More underbrush now in flames and trees toppled. More grenades thrown. It seemed impossible that any living being could survive the rocket blast.

Kim returned fire with MUTT-TWO stationed to Petrov’s right, aiming his guns at the pinned-down mercenaries near the abandoned troop carrier. One screamed in pain when wounded. Kim moved his aim toward the Toyota, sweeping it with rifle fire, killing the two fighters throwing grenades from either end of it, along with the Maybach’s driver, who had foolishly left the safety of the luxury sedan to help.

Petrov drew another RPO-A Shmel, this one loaded with a thermobaric warhead, which he fired at MUTT-TWO. The rocket flew wildly to its left, a mishap that accidentally had it striking the location where MUTT-TWO was repositioning itself. A flash on Kim’s computer screen confirmed its demise. With only the heavy machine gun still operational, Kim began pulling MUTT-ONE deeper back into the trees.

Petrov fired yet another rocket, causing a loud explosion and fire near where MUTT-ONE had been. To protect the mechanical killing machine, Kim did not give up its position by returning fire.

Again, Petrov ordered his mercenaries to stop firing and the ambush scene became quiet.

Petrov signaled his fighters to move from their hiding spots across the grass separating them from the forest. They walked gingerly toward the fallen limbs and still-smoking grounds that had been cleared by the rockets.

Petrov and one fighter remained behind to protect Gromyko, who emerged from the Maybach, thinking the assault had ended.

Having drawn back farther into the trees, Kim fired MUTT-ONE at the soldiers pursuing it, causing them to drop onto the forest floor. One of the mercenaries bolted toward the gunfire, heaving a grenade with all his strength.

It landed a few feet from MUTT-ONE’s track plates. It exploded, destroying the tread, grounding the machine.

Kim waited as the mercenaries slowly edged forward. Waited until they were near enough to see that they had been fighting hardware. Having never seen such a machine, they grouped around it. Their leader raised his two-way radio to report to Petrov.

Kim pushed a detonate switch and MUTT-ONE exploded into pieces of deadly shrapnel.

The blast drowned out the suppressed double tap from Garrett’s newly acquired SIG Sauer. He had fired after emerging from the forest and making his way across the grassy area behind the vehicles so that he was now less than fifteen steps from the Maybach’s driver’s side. His shots had hit their target—the mercenary who’d stayed behind with Petrov to protect Gromyko. He’d been standing at the front of the Toyota watching the woods when he was fatally wounded.

Petrov suddenly realized the retreating machine-gun fire and blast had been designed to draw his fighters away from the Maybach. He cursed for not paying attention to the woods behind him. His rear flank.

The broad-shouldered Russian tossed aside the spent rocket launcher and shoved Gromyko down toward the ground in the gap between the Maybach and the Toyota. He drew his Makarov pistol and turned to face Garrett, who was approaching from the vehicle’s driver’s side.

Garrett had removed his head covering. His head appeared out of proportion to the expansive ghillie suit that padded his frame. He could only see Petrov’s head above the Maybach as the Russian glared at him across the luxury sedan’s roof. Garrett’s target was much smaller than what Petrov could see. The Russian raised his pistol to fire across the Maybach at the same moment that Garrett aimed his SIG Sauer. Only ten feet separated them. Garrett had once seen a lieutenant empty the clip in his semi-automatic pistol at a Taliban fighter who was shooting back at him in close quarters. Both missed. Hitting a paper target was different from firing at a man trying to kill you. But Garrett and Petrov were not inexperienced marksmen subject to panic. Neither flinched. Petrov’s slug grazed the fringe on the right shoulder of Garrett’s ghillie suit near his neck. Garrett’s SIG Sauer struck the Russian in the center of his nose. He dropped.

Garrett hurried around the Maybach’s trunk. Gromyko was crouched near the car’s front tire, holding his PSM pistol.

When Gromyko had exited the car’s backseat, he had left the passenger door open. Garrett ducked behind it as Gromyko began shooting. PSMs were generally loaded with rounds designed to penetrate Kevlar vests, but they were no match for the Maybach’s armored door and bullet-resistant glass. Gromyko kept shooting until his gun was empty.

Garrett stepped from behind the passenger door and peered down at the general, who was still kneeling next to the front tire and clutching his useless weapon.

“I’m unarmed. I surrender,” Gromyko cried. He dropped his pistol. “You can arrest me now.” He held out his wrists.

In that moment, Garrett thought about Valerie Mayberry. He saw her sitting in a wheelchair, staring out at the gardens. He placed his SIG Sauer semi-auto on the top of the Maybach’s roof.

“What did you tell me at the laboratory when you poisoned Yakov Pavel?” he asked rhetorically. “That Russian saying, ‘He is brave when fighting against sheep, and when fighting against a brave man, he’s a sheep himself’?”

From a slit inside his ghillie suit, Garrett withdrew his tactical knife. Using a blade made killing much more intimate than a bullet, much more personal.

And that was exactly what Garrett wanted.