Ньют Гингрич - Collusion

“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.”