Ньют Гингрич - Collusion

It was her counterintelligence boss, Sally North.

An assassination. Kiev. Ambassador Thorpe dead.

“There’s a briefing at nine,” North explained. “The director will attend. Be on your best behavior. Think before you speak.”

Mayberry dressed quickly. A burgundy structured blazer over a long-sleeve white J.Crew blouse with horizontal stripes and Paige Denim ankle-peg skinny stretch jeans, set off with a chunky gold necklace and black Ralph Lauren short heels. Her mother had been a stickler for style. She died without owning a pair of sweatpants or an article with a sports logo.

The mirror reminded Mayberry of her condition. Down exactly 17.2 pounds since Noah’s death. An old copy of Ultimate Jogging magazine she’d read noted that world-class athletes weighed two pounds per inch. She was under that now, under what a five-foot, six-inch world-class runner should weigh. A dusting of makeup and downstairs to the underground parking garage to her silver Jaguar F-type R coupe; 550 horses. Zero to sixty in 3.9 seconds. The sound of the exhaust alone was worth its hundred-grand-plus price tag. Like cannon fire. A luxury she’d bought after Noah’s death. He would have disapproved.

When CIA traitor Aldrich Hazen Ames had been caught spying for the Russians, the agency had been heavily criticized because no one at Langley had asked how a CIA employee could afford to pay cash for what was then a fifty-thousand-dollar Jaguar coupe—equal to his annual salary. The only eyebrows that her Jaguar had raised were jealous ones. Everyone in the FBI knew she had a trust fund. Word of such things spread quickly.

It took an hour to reach FBI headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue. Congress had been arguing for decades about where to move the bureau. The 1975 building was crumbling. Fabric nets strung outside some upper floors had been installed to catch falling pieces. It had been an eyesore from the start. A gaping hole where a second floor should be. That was intentional to keep protestors from using ladders to break into the oddly shaped structure. An empty moat along one side. Again, designed to limit entry by demonstrators. It had been the late 1960s when the design was accepted. Rioting students. Vietnam. J. Edgar Hoover had been paranoid. No offices or windows on the street level. Instead, thick concrete support slabs. A courtyard. Rumor was Hoover had wanted spikes installed in the trees planted outside to keep them from being climbed.

Mayberry entered the director’s conference room ten minutes before 9:00 a.m. Breakfast snacks. A clear signal that FBI director Archibald Davidson—Mack to his friends—would be attending. She didn’t bother with any coffee, tea, or pastries.

She was the only woman present until Sally Norton entered precisely at nine accompanied by Davidson. He was old-school. Former chief of the Los Angeles Police Department. A political appointee but he knew his stuff. Gruff. Spit and polish. A lifelong law-and-order type.

“We believe Ambassador Thorpe was the main target in Kiev,” North announced while nodding at a large monitor. Everyone’s eyes followed hers.

“When the shooting began, the television news crews filming the press conference ran for the exits,” she said. Smirks by some listening to her. “This video is from permanent security cameras mounted in the Ukrainian Foreign Ministry’s ceiling. Their government has asked for our forensic help.”

The monitor split into four screens, each a different vantage point. Ambassador Thorpe could be seen poised behind the podium on one screen while three intruders shown on another burst into the ballroom.

Mayberry’s eyes darted between images. Thorpe and Ukraine’s minister hit by gunfire. Chief of Mission John Harper and two State Department bodyguards falling dead. Scrambling attendees. More gunfire. Three assailants hurrying toward a side door. One assisting another. Clearly wounded. An armed man appearing on the opposite side of the ballroom. Two pistol shots. One miss. The other causing the attacker holding his buddy to drop the injured assailant on the floor. Two escape. More security guards arrive. One makes his way to the stage, kneels above Ambassador Thorpe. The camera showed his face. Wait. Mayberry recognized him. Brett Garrett. His photo had been on every television network newscast during a Senate inquiry into Cameroon. A botched mission. A senator’s son killed. Garrett was responsible. What was the former SEAL doing at a Ukraine press conference?

The monitors went dark.

Mayberry scanned her fellow agents in the briefing. Surely they had recognized Garrett, too. She had questions but remembered North’s warning. No one dared interrupt Sally North during a briefing—unless it was the director. They were there only to listen, not question or comment. All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others. George Orwell and federal protocol.

Stay focused. Don’t let your mind wander.

North continued: “The most logical suspects are Donetsk-based separatists being backed by the Kremlin. This has President Kalugin and General Gromyko’s fingerprints all over it, but, so far, no direct links. Our best clue is the left-behind shooter.”

Photos of a dead frozen face now appeared on the monitors. “INTERPOL identified him as a French national. Gabriel de Depardieu, whose address is a flat in Paris’s Latin Quarter. Neither our people nor the DGSE has any records about him. No known ties to Russia or the separatists. Nothing on Facebook or social media. The French are leading the deep probe since he was one of their own.”

A new face appeared. “French authorities have identified this American as someone of interest. Aysan Rivera, a twenty-six-year-old from Baltimore. Her name surfaced when the police were questioning Gabriel de Depardieu’s landlord. Rivera and De Depardieu shared the same apartment for about a year. She stopped coming there six months ago when the landlord began hassling them for more money because De Depardieu was only paying for one tenant. The landlord knew her name because Rivera occasionally received mail from her family at De Depardieu’s flat.”

Director Davidson grunted. “Ms. Rivera has no interest in being cooperative,” he said.

North continued, “Agents from our Baltimore field office paid her a visit. As soon as they mentioned Gabriel de Depardieu’s name, she handed them her father’s business card.”

Another photo appeared on the monitor. A distinguished-looking fifty-something male posing with a similarly aged, striking woman. Both dressed in black-tie evening wear. “Rivera’s father, Gregory Rivera, is an international lawyer and president of the American branch of a Turkish shipping company headquartered in Baltimore. His wife, Sirin Nadi Rivera, is the sister of the second-richest businessman in Turkey and a close friend of the Turkish president. Neither of them or any of their four children have criminal records. No ties to terrorists or Moscow.”

Director Davidson again jumped in. “Sirin Rivera called the Turkish ambassador after our agents showed up. The ambassador called the State Department and the White House to complain. Both called me. The Turkish ambassador is insisting we leave Aysan Rivera and her family alone. The family claims Rivera has not seen De Depardieu in the past six months. A mere college acquaintance.”

North continued: “Aysan Rivera reportedly met Gabriel de Depardieu at the Ecole Normale Supérieure in Paris. For those unfamiliar with the ENS, it is the highest-ranked university in France and ranked among the top fifty universities in the world. It’s within walking distance from Depardieu’s flat. Rivera graduated last spring with a degree in philosophy. Since returning to Baltimore, she’s lived in the Four Seasons condo building at Harbor East, overlooking Baltimore Harbor. Condos there sell for an average of a thousand dollars per square foot.”