Second Strike

CHAPTER 17

^{WASHINGTON, D.C.,}

^{AUGUST 15, 7:55 A.M. EDT}

The buzzing in Olivia’s ears had returned.

It was the visit to the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency and the satellite images Laura Casini had put up on the screen in her office. The buzzing was an insistent reminder to tend to an unsolved puzzle, a signal that something was amiss. It harried her to acquire more information and to examine the information she did have from another angle.

The last time the buzzing had irritated her was approximately a month ago. Then it had been even more aggravating than now, perhaps because at the time the informational vacuum had been greater and the threat more palpable. It had stopped when Michael Garin had acquired the last pieces of the puzzle, establishing that the curious anomalies at Russian industrial sites were in preparation for a massive EMP strike against the United States. Once Garin had provided the pieces, the puzzle was complete and the buzzing stopped. The threat had been eliminated.

But had it? The Allied bombing campaign had devastated Iran’s nuclear and ICBM programs. The threat of an EMP attack from Iran had been eliminated. The standard electrical equipment warehoused in such abundance in anticipation of the EMP was now superfluous. There was no market for it.

So why did it seem as if suspicious activity at the Russian warehouses and industrial sites had resumed?

Sure, the satellite images weren’t unequivocal. The activity at the warehouses wasn’t nearly as frenzied as it had been in the weeks prior to the planned EMP strike. In fact, it was arguable that the activity level was lower, far lower than that of ordinary warehouses and plants.

But the activity level had been zero in the weeks immediately following the onset of the bombing campaign and the warning to Russia to stand down. And since the equipment was standard and unremarkable—in some cases generations old—Olivia believed the activity level should have remained near zero.

She needed to advise Brandt, her famously unflappable boss. He would soberly consider the information, factor it into other strategic developments around the world, and determine whether it should be brought to the president’s attention.

Olivia logged out and turned off the desktop before leaving her office in the Old Executive Office Building for the White House. The buzzing persisted as the clack of her heels echoed down the hall. It continued as she exited the massive structure. It persisted as she maneuvered between the camps of reporters and their broadcast crews, fixtures on the west lawn of the White House.

By the time she was in the White House and just outside Brandt’s office, she was convinced that the increase in activity revealed in the satellite images was deserving of further inquiry, maybe even worthy of mention to the president.

The buzzing in her ears was supplanted by groaning, groaning so exaggerated as to be comical. Groaning she recognized in an instant.

As she turned into Brandt’s office she saw the source of the groaning lying on his back, Brandt’s foot rubbing his chest. Arlo, Brandt’s longtime German shepherd service dog, enjoying a massage, leapt up upon seeing Olivia and offered his muzzle for stroking. Olivia and Arlo went back several years to when Brandt was Olivia’s mentor at Stanford. Brandt had already gained the sobriquet “the Oracle” because of his prescience regarding global affairs. For nearly a quarter of a century he had been predicting the unpredictable: the collapse of the Soviet Union; the rapid economic emergence of China; the rise of radical Islam to supplant communism as the chief threat to the West. He often was years ahead of the other analysts in assessing and knitting together the implications of isolated geopolitical developments.

The nickname had almost as much to do with his regal appearance as his intellect. Sightless from birth, his blue eyes were framed by thick white eyebrows that matched the shade of the hair atop his head, brushed in the style favored by nineteenth-century British aristocracy. The perpetual upward tilt of his chin suggested confidence, sagacity. No one could recall ever seeing him rattled, regardless of the circumstances.

Many of Brandt’s colleagues, both at Stanford and within the administration, believed that in Olivia, Brandt had met his intellectual equal. In fact, during their six-month collaboration in the White House, Olivia’s analyses had bested Brandt’s.

“That’s got to drive the Secret Service nuts,” Olivia said, referring to Arlo’s sound effects. “It sounds like an administration official’s being tortured.”

“Some of the newer ones do poke their heads in from time to time,” Brandt confirmed. “I think they just want to be absolutely sure that no one slipped through security and is trying to extract classified information from me.”

“I’m afraid I’ve got some more for you, courtesy of KH-13.”

“Go ahead.”

“Yesterday, Laura Casini showed me a series—”

“No, wait,” Brandt interrupted. “Before you do that, how are things with Senator Braxton?”

Brandt had long taken somewhat of a paternal interest in Olivia’s social life. Despite looks that surpassed those of most runway models, Olivia had been painfully shy and had dated infrequently at Stanford. Brandt had made it his mission to get her to have some fun.

“He’s a senator,” Olivia explained.

“Pompous, arrogant, sophomoric…”

“That’s being charitable, Professor.”

“So, not going well?”

“I’m sure he thinks he’s charming, witty, and loads of fun.”

“I understand he’s been written up in all the social columns. ‘Best-Looking Bachelor on the Hill.’ ‘Most Eligible Senator.’ He’s supposed to be the best-looking politician in Washington,” Brandt continued.

“I’m sure he agrees.”

“Whatever happened with our daring action hero, Mr. Garin? I thought I detected something there, Ms. Perry. You finally met your match. And before you deny it, remember my one superpower.”

Olivia cast her eyes to the ceiling. “Detecting bull.”

“That’s right. I could practically hear you panting whenever his name was mentioned.”

“That was fear, Professor. He kills people.”

“Is that all?” Brandt said innocently. “I take it killing people is a deal breaker, then?”

“Can we talk about what I came here to talk about?”

Brandt chuckled softly. His true superpower was getting under his protégé’s skin. “What’s on your mind?”

“Russia.”

“They’ve been behaving since the bombing campaign began. Compliant, obsequious even,” Brandt noted.

“KH-13 satellite images show activity at the same warehouses and plants that drew our attention prior to discovery of the EMP plot. They’re moving the supplies and electrical equipment. Not at the rate or in the quantities that they were moving them before the EMP planned strike, but product definitely has resumed moving.”

“At what rate, precisely?” Brandt asked, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

Olivia shifted slightly in her seat. “More slowly than before. But the point is, they are moving it again.”

“I understand. But can you estimate? Would you say, for example, it’s eighty percent of the pre-EMP pace? Seventy percent? Sixty percent?”

“It’s difficult to measure, Professor.”

“I can’t see the satellite images, Olivia…”

“Twenty percent of the previous rate. Perhaps fifteen.”

“That’s nothing, Olivia.”

“But the equipment is standard grade. Some of it’s a generation behind—”

“The type of equipment often sold to emerging or poor markets,” Brandt observed. “The spike in oil prices due to the Iranian bombing campaign has affected everyone, but none more so than third world economies. Cheap, standard-grade equipment that’s affordable is just what the doctor ordered. It would make sense for the Russians to try to sell it, and for those countries to buy it.”

A simple explanation and, Olivia conceded to herself, the most plausible one. But when it came to the Russians, both Olivia and Brandt distrusted simple explanations.

“Then it might not hurt to let the president know. He can verify what’s going on with Mikhailov, who, as you noted, has been compliant.”

Brandt thought for a moment. “This isn’t something that rises to that level. This is something for NSA or NGA to continue to look at. If there’s a radical increase, we may revisit the issue. Okay?”

Olivia nodded. “Yes.”

“I have a meeting with Iris,” Brandt said, referring to the president’s chief of staff, Iris Cho. “Just some housekeeping. Anything else?”

“There’s still the matter of the Senate Intelligence hearing.”

“We can do that later. You handled McCoy well, although you were surprisingly combative.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“You’re very protective of Mr. Garin, Ms. Perry.” Brandt grinned mischievously. “But, of course, even killers need protection. Nothing more than that, I’m sure.”

Mildly annoyed, Olivia rose from her chair. “I’ll touch base with NSA and NGA.”

“Say hello to Senator Braxton for me.”

Olivia headed back to her office at OEOB, reassured by Brandt’s assessment of the satellite images’ relative insignificance. The reassurance was short-lived.

Before she entered the OEOB, her cell phone vibrated. It was Dan Dwyer.

“Dan!” she said in a tone a brainy little sister would use to a protective older brother. “It’s been weeks. How have you been?”

“Bor’s back in play.”

And just like that, the buzzing returned.