Ньют Гингрич - Collusion

“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.”

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.