Collusion Page 2

  “Your girl here is like a frightened rabbit,” Gromyko noted. “I can send you a replacement, one of my prettier assistants, even this one. She would be a compliant and an eager companion now that you have lost your wife.”

  Pavel glanced behind Gromyko at the young woman standing behind the general. Her face was blank, betraying nothing. Empty eyes.

  “Thank you, General, but my secretary has served me well for many years.” Pavel nodded toward the door, and the older woman hurriedly excused herself.

  “As you wish,” Gromyko said, raising a shot glass. “I am so sorry for the bird.”

  Gromyko’s words were a reference to a 1960s Russian comedy The Caucasian Prisoner, a tale about a flock of birds headed south for the winter. One small, proud bird broke away and flew straight for the sun. It burned its wings and fell to the bottom of a deep gorge. In the story, the narrator said, “Let us drink to this: let not a single one of us ever break away from the collective, no matter how high he flies!” At that point, one of his friends had begun sobbing. “What is it, my friend?” his host had asked. The friend had said, “I’m so sorry for the bird!”

  Old Soviet humor didn’t always travel well outside its borders, but among Russians, it was a well-known toast used to break tension. A poor choice, however, offered in memory of the dead.

  Pavel drank his vodka.

  “Yakov Prokofyevich,” Gromyko continued, “the days of the collective are gone, but the Kremlin remains a flock of birds soaring together. It still is dangerous for a single bird to break away from those leading the flock. To risk having their wings burnt. You are from the past. Your ways of thinking are from the past. This is no fault of your own. All men reach a point of uselessness in their lives. It is time for you to reap the rewards of your many years of service, especially now that your grandson will need your full attention. I have discussed this with our president, and we believe it would be best for you to consider retirement.”

  “Does the president intend to fire me?”

  “The president simply said—after the loss of your daughter and son-in-law—you might wish to retire. It was my recommendation to him.”

  “Good day, General,” Pavel said, placing his shot glass on the serving tray.

  “Good day, Yakov Prokofyevich, and please think about what I have just said.”

  Five

  Two Years Earlier

  The specially outfitted Lockheed C-130 four-turboprop aircraft cruising above Africa had been made quieter than standard U.S. military planes. Inside, Petty Officer 3rd Class Richard Stone elbowed Chief Petty Officer Brett Garrett was seated next to him.

  “My old man told a joke at the Pentagon the other night,” Stone said.

  All fourteen of the Navy SEALs inside the C-130’s bowels were keenly aware that Stone’s father—Cormac Stone—was a U.S. senator from California. All could hear the younger Stone talking through their linked headsets.

  “My father tells these generals that a new Army recruit lost his M-4, so the Pentagon charged him six hundred and fifty dollars to buy a new one. Then my father says, ‘That’s why in the Navy, the captain always goes down with the ship.’”

  A few SEALs groaned.

  “Hey, it’s an old joke,” Stone said, defensively, “and I know it sucked.”

  “But every general laughed, didn’t they?” Garrett replied.

  Stone nodded his head, “You bet they did.”

  “Hey, Senator,” which was Stone’s nickname for obvious reasons, “here’s a joke for your old man to tell the next time he gives the brass a speech at the Pentagon.” It was Malcolm Moss, aka Sweet Tooth, a play on his M&M initials. “It’s about a Navy chief.”

  Everyone looked at Garrett. “Go ahead,” he said.

  Brett Garrett had made chief petty officer in fourteen years. That was normal. What wasn’t was his age. Thirty-two. That was young.

  “You got ten guys clinging on to a rope dangling from a helo,” Sweet Tooth began.

  “What kind of helo?” a fellow SEAL, nicknamed Bear, interrupted.

  “What? It don’t matter what kind it was,” Sweet Tooth replied indignantly.

  “’Course it does,” Bear responded. “If you got ten guys hanging on a rope from a helo, it sure as hell matters what sort of helo it was.”

  “It’s a joke,” Sweet Tooth said. “Now shut up and let me tell it.”

  “Go ahead, but it would matter.”

  “Point taken,” Garrett said, ending their argument. “Go ahead. Finish your joke.”

  “Okay, this rope—it’s bound to break unless someone lets go. The guy who lets go is going to fall and certainly die. So, these ten guys are holding on for their lives, and they begin arguing about who should be the one to drop off. Finally, the chief says he’ll do it because chiefs are used to doing everything for the Navy. They never see their families, work all those hours—all without getting nothing in return.”

  “Suck up,” Bear said.

  “Shut the hell up,” Sweet Tooth snapped. “Now, this chief decides to give a little farewell speech before he lets go. I mean, he’s earned the right to say his final words. He talks about his great love of country, the importance of sacrifice, and his complete devotion to his men, and when he finishes, why, the other nine guys hanging there, they are so moved, so emotional, they all begin clapping.”

  Sweet Tooth broke out laughing. Even Garrett smiled.

  “I don’t get it,” Bear said.

  “The other nine started clapping, stupid,” Sweet Tooth explained. “That means they let go of the rope. Only the chief kept hanging on to it. That’s why the chief is a chief, and you’re just another E-4.”

  “What kind of helo was it?” Bear asked, goading him.

  “Enough,” Garrett said. “Get focused.”

  Before he’d become a chief petty officer, Garrett’s nickname had been Hillbilly, a reference and insult to his Arkansas roots. He hated it, but no one picked their own nicknames during SEAL training. An instructor had tagged him when he’d been doing push-ups in the rain and mud in a courtyard called “the Grinder.”

  Garrett didn’t particularly like having a U.S. senator’s son on his team—even though Richard Stone had never sought special treatment and Garrett wouldn’t have given him any. If anything, the opposite was true. Senator had assumed everyone knew. His father was constantly on the news. One of the country’s most outspoken liberals. That being the situation, Richard Stone—the SEAL—had talked openly about his dad from the start and had done everything to prove he wasn’t riding on his old man’s coattails. Did more than what was expected—and those expectations were already too high for most.

  Garrett eyeballed his crew, silently checking their gear, searching each man’s face for tells. Was Senator different from the rest of them? Yes and no. Every SEAL had a personal reason for becoming one. Including Garrett. But this was Senator’s first mission. Being an overachiever in training was impressive. It might not carry over in combat, though.

  Garrett pushed his worries from his head. Only four things mattered. His men needed to follow his orders. Each needed to complete his assigned task. Each needed to be willing to die for the man next to him. And all of them needed to trust Garrett. He was their chief. His job title didn’t include being their father, confessor, or shrink, even though he’d played all those roles at different times. It did require him to be one of them, yet not one of them. The “goat locker.” That’s what the Navy called it. He ate when they ate, drank when they drank, fought when they fought, died when they died. That’s what petty chiefs did. But Garrett was ultimately responsible for their lives.

  “We’ve entered Cameroon airspace,” the pilot said. “Prepare for drop.”

  Boko Haram had underestimated U.S. technology. The kidnappers had used Elsa Eriksson’s cell phone to call her boss in Sweden: $25 million ransom or body parts in the mail. The terrorist had switched off Eriksson’s cell phone, but not discarded it. A critical error. Boko Haram hadn’
t been aware of “the Find,” a sophisticated NSA-enhanced satellite locator device capable of tracking a cell phone even after it has been switched off.

  A surveillance drone had been dispatched. Photos of a permanent camp. Eight primitive mud huts. At least twenty male terrorists. Easy to count because of their morning prayers, all on their knees facing Mecca, Kalashnikovs next to prayer mats. Eriksson was in a hut designated by the CIA as Alpha-1. Jumping in three klicks away. That’s 3.1 miles of hiking at night. Garrett’s orders: snatch the Swedish-American humanitarian worker in the morning darkness. Limit full engagement. Cameroon’s northern leaders had elected to allow the terrorists to operate without much interference. Why rattle that cage? In and out.

  Rescue operations were the only type of military assignment dependent on complete surprise. That’s what Garrett had read in a SEAL School training manual—Gazit, 1980, pages 118–22. Garrett wasn’t certain why that reference had stuck permanently in his head, but it had. If alerted, a terrorist could kill a hostage. It took only seconds to pull a trigger, detonate a bomb. Dealing with Boko Haram was dicier than most kidnappers. Jihadists had nothing to lose. That gave them an edge. Set off a suicide vest. Kill yourself and hostages. Virgins and eternal glory were assured.

  The most difficult task Garrett faced was assuring his team they were invincible. It mattered. No one was going to die today. The slightest doubt jeopardized the mission and their fellow SEALs.

  Focus. It was time. Out the door. Falling. Everyone landing, everyone assembling, everyone hurrying toward the Boko Haram camp where Elsa Eriksson was being held hostage.

  Six

  Current Day

  A casual look backward at the chase car on Sikorsky Street caused U.S. ambassador Stanford Thorpe to pause before he slid into the leather seat of the embassy’s armored Cadillac.

  Thorpe prided himself on remembering faces and names. A key to his successful diplomatic career.

  “What the hell is that former Navy SEAL doing in my protection detail?” he demanded.

  “Brett Garrett is a private contractor now,” John Harper, the U.S. chief of mission in Kiev, replied. “Where better to bury someone than in Ukraine?” He chuckled.

  Thorpe wasn’t amused. “After that screwup in Cameroon, he’s toxic. Private contractor or not. Get rid of him.”

  “He’s on a short leash.”

  “It should be a noose.”

  “Sending him home won’t be easy. An ex-Navy pal owns the company with the security contract.”

  “You don’t get paid to do easy. Call Washington. Throw your weight around. I want Garrett on a plane out of here tomorrow.”

  The three-car caravan entered Mykhaliv Square in central Kiev, arriving outside the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. By the time they stepped onto the sidewalk, Harper was on his cell phone ordering the regional security officer to keep Garrett and the other five private security guards outside with their vehicles. Only the two-person State Department protection detail assigned to Ambassador Thorpe would enter the building.

  * * *

  From the chase car passenger seat, Brett Garrett watched as invited dignitaries and news reporters quick-stepped into the six-story Ukraine Foreign Ministry with its five-Roman-column façade—a communist-era building commemorating the defeat of the Nazis in World War II. Now it was the communists who had fled.

  Patience. He looked at the security guard in the driver’s seat next to him. Donald J. Marks. He was a habitual smoker. Give him a few more moments. He’ll leave the chase car.

  “Screw this sitting here,” Marks said as if on cue. “I’m grabbing a smoke.”

  Mental telepathy? No, Garrett understood addictions. As soon as Marks lit up outside, Garrett removed two thin rectangles from a prescription packet in his jacket. Both went under his tongue. Instant relief.

  * * *

  Inside the grand ballroom, Ambassador Thorpe greeted other diplomats as he walked to the portable stage raised some two feet above a white marble floor. John Harper settled into a reserved front-row seat to watch his boss. U.S. and Ukrainian flags were positioned at each corner of the raised platform. Thorpe’s two State Department bodyguards stood like bookends near the podium. Sunglasses worn indoors. Military haircuts. Flesh-colored earpieces. Jackets unbuttoned.

  “I’m proud to announce that our two great nations have reached a new level of cooperation under the U.S. Generalized System of Preferences Program, which allows Ukrainian exporters and U.S. importers to take advantage of duty-free treatment for nearly four thousand products from Ukraine,” Ukraine’s foreign minister announced, officially starting the news conference.

  From the stage, Thorpe half listened, scanning the crowd for a pleasing face, possibly a redhead this time, someone half his fifty-nine years, someone in awe of his position or perhaps seeking a special favor. Impeccably dressed and coiffed, he was ending his sixth year in Kiev, twice the average posting for a career diplomat and, in his mind, an obvious sign of his importance. No president or secretary of state would dare to dole out such a strategic ambassadorship as a political plum—not with the ongoing fighting in eastern Ukraine against Russia-backed insurgents. No, Ambassador Stanford Thorpe was special. Educated at Groton, the private Episcopal preparatory boarding school that had graduated Franklin D. Roosevelt. On to Harvard College, the guaranteed entryway into the State Department. Ambassador Thorpe fit the decades-old stereotype of an anglophile statesman, and he was proud of it.

  His comments today would be brief, delivered with measured enthusiasm, but with little actual meat that could bind him or the United States to any legal commitments beyond handshake promises. Then off to a leisurely lunch, hopefully with the twenty-something whom he’d just spotted seated in the second row, wearing a bit too much red lipstick and too short of a cheap wool skirt. Definitely Eastern European. Yes, he would mention her to John Harper. Have him extend a personal invitation to a private lunch with the ambassador. But only after Ukraine’s foreign minister finished publicly kissing up to the United States. Finally, Thorpe’s turn. He rose slowly. Dignified. Buttoned his jacket. Shook the Ukrainian minister’s hand while posing for obligatory photographs and finally stepped behind the oak podium.

  “Good morning, my distinguished friends,” he said, smiling, glancing again at the redhead.

  The main doors at the back of the rectangular ballroom flew open. Looking directly down the aisle between rows of seats, Thorpe saw it all. Three figures. Ski masks. Kalashnikovs. Their gun barrels aimed toward the stage.

  With a burst rate of a hundred rounds per minute, the bullets slammed into the wooden podium and swept across the stage, hitting both Thorpe and Ukraine’s foreign minister.

  Screams. Panic. A State Department bodyguard drew his Glock 19. The other, a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun from inside his jacket. In the mayhem, both aimed at the same attacker, leaving the other two free to continue shooting.

  The assailants had assumed the bodyguards would be wearing bullet-resistant vests. Head shots for a kill. The exchange ended quickly. The State Department detail critically wounded one assailant, who collapsed at the rear of the room onto the polished floor. Both Americans fell where they stood. Chief of Mission Harper lunged from his seat, bravely intending to throw himself atop Ambassador Thorpe. Bullets struck his back, killing him before he could reach the platform.

  One of the masked terrorists fired indiscriminately into the panicked crowd. Two hundred attendees fighting to exit through a single side exit. The other terrorist helped his wounded comrade stand.

  * * *

  Brett Garrett entered the grand ballroom at the same moment the three assailants were about to exit through an unmarked side door directly opposite him that had been overlooked by attendees trying to escape. The first attacker ducked through it out of sight while Garrett raised his SIG Sauer P226 pistol. People hurrying by him blocked his view. He shifted to his left, finding a momentary gap, and squeezed off two rounds. His first missed, striking the doo
r’s molding near the two attackers. His second round hit the intruder helping his already wounded companion walk. Garrett’s bullet pierced the assailant’s right arm, forcing him to drop his buddy. He bolted through the open doorway to save himself. The attacker left behind was now motionless on the floor.

  By now, Garrett’s fellow private security guards had joined him. Two dashed across the ballroom in pursuit of the fleeing shooters. Garrett hurried onto the stage.

  Vanity had kept Ambassador Thorpe from wearing the bulky protective vests that the State Department had made available, but the seasoned diplomat was no fool. Before arriving in Kiev, he’d flown to South America for a private fitting by the famous “Armored Armani,” who hand-made bullet-resistant clothing for Latin American presidents and American entertainers, mostly gangster rappers. Thorpe had ordered a half-dozen suits, nearly indistinguishable from those tailored on London’s Savile Row. His protective wear had blocked several of the 7.62x39 mm rounds, but the fabric had not stopped all of them. Three had penetrated the protective weave. One was now next to his heart. The ambassador was conscious but bleeding out.

  Garrett had been with wounded men who were dying. He understood what Ambassador Thorpe was thinking. Surprise mixed with shock and anger. This was not supposed to be happening, not to him.

  Through pleading eyes, Ambassador Thorpe stared at Brett Garrett kneeling over him. His final sight of a man whom he’d wanted sent away.

  “My jacket,” Thorpe whispered.

  Garrett reached inside.

  “No. Other side,” Thorpe cajoled, coughing up blood.

  Garrett removed a computer flash drive.

  “The president,” Thorpe said. “Promise me.”

  “A password?” Garrett asked. “Is there a password?”

  There was no response. Ambassador Stanford Thorpe was dead.

  Seven