Target Omega

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The cab dropped Olivia before a massive black wrought iron gate. On either side of the gate were eight-foot-high redbrick walls that appeared to run the entire length of the street. Somewhere beyond the tall barrier sat Dan Dwyer’s house. The only things visible from where Olivia stood were a long, winding driveway lined with neatly trimmed hedges and at least a dozen varieties of spectacularly colored flowers.

Olivia was a few minutes early for the meeting. She searched the gate in vain for a camera, buzzer, or intercom. As she reached into her purse for her cell, a golf cart driven by a serious-looking man in his early thirties came down the driveway. A sidearm was visible in a holster on his right hip. The gate automatically opened inward as he neared.

“Good morning, Ms. Perry. My name is Matt. Mr. Dwyer is on the east patio. If you’ll join me, I’ll take you there.”

Olivia climbed in and Matt drove up the driveway, passing a series of fountains, miniature waterfalls, and ponds along the way. After riding for nearly a quarter mile, they rounded a perfect circle of hedges and came to a large manicured lawn punctuated by geometrically shaped plots of brilliant flowers. Sitting one hundred yards beyond the expanse of emerald grass was a series of wide-terraced, marbled steps — similar in appearance to those in front of the Capitol Building — that led to Dwyer’s four-story home.

Matt turned the cart to the right and proceeded up an asphalt ramp to the east patio, where Dwyer was seated in a cushioned redwood chair, looking at his smartphone. He wore a blue suit, white shirt, and bright yellow tie. Standing ten feet behind him in front of the French doors leading to the house was Matt’s clone, also wearing a firearm on his hip. On the table in front of Dwyer were several carafes of coffee, pitchers of various juices, a plate of Canadian bacon, sausage, and scrambled eggs, baskets of rye and wheat toast, bowls of nearly every fruit imaginable, and several platters of assorted pastries.

Dwyer looked up when the cart approached and rose to his feet, a broad grin on his face. He appeared to be in his midforties, easily six feet five inches tall, and had the build of a recently retired NFL offensive lineman. He still looked fairly fit but could stand to lose a few pounds. He had a large head and short, thick hair so blond it appeared nearly white.

“Hello, Olivia,” Dwyer said enthusiastically as she got out of the cart. Holding up his phone, he said, “I’ve been reading more of your work: Russia’s effort to reconstitute the Soviet Empire by extorting the former republics, one by one, with natural resources. Interesting stuff. You’re a regular Junior Oracle.”

Olivia smiled and extended her hand. She was inclined to like Dwyer. There seemed to be little, if any, artifice about him. “Thank you again for meeting me,” Olivia said. “Especially since you’re testifying this morning.”

“I’m happy to do it. I’m an admirer of your boss. He’s not the standard-issue cloistered academic who thinks everything wrong with the world is America’s fault. A serious man and a rigorous thinker. Understands that there are some real bad guys out there, and we can’t pretend they don’t exist.

“Besides,” Dwyer added, pointing at Olivia’s driver, “when Matt over there heard me mention your name on the phone yesterday, he practically begged me to invite you over. He’s made a major pest of himself. Embarrassing, really. He’s seen your picture in the Post and insists you’re a goddess not of this realm.”

Both Matt and his clone were smiling unabashedly. As was Olivia. Dwyer’s affable nature made it hard to be offended by him.

Dwyer waved his hand theatrically across the table. “What would you like?”

“Just some coffee, thank you. Black.”

Dwyer appeared crestfallen. “You didn’t bring your appetite. And we went to all this trouble.”

Dwyer poured her coffee and gestured for Olivia to sit in the chair next to him. “So you have a problem with the Russians and Iranians. Don’t we all. Decent caviar, though. Caspian. Unfortunately, probably seventy percent petroleum. What can I do to help?”

Olivia hesitated, glancing at Matt and his clone.

“Guys,” Dwyer said, tilting his head to the door. The two vanished inside the house.

“See those things over there that look like bug zappers?” Dwyer asked, pointing to two oblong metal objects flanking the patio. “They prevent long-distance electronic eavesdropping. Beyond state-of-the-art. A generation ahead of anything the NSA pukes have even thought about. So feel free to speak as openly as you’d like.”

Olivia got right to it. “The Russians and Iranians have been working closely together during this latest crisis in the Middle East.” Olivia paused. “I know, no surprise there. But Professor Brandt thinks that something out of the ordinary may be brewing and that Michael Garin might be able to shed some light on the situation. No one can find him, so we’re attempting to get as much information about him as we can to see whether that may provide some answers.”

Dwyer steepled his fingers under his chin. “Why can’t anyone find him?”

“We understand Mr. Garin leads, or led, a military or paramilitary unit of some kind. I don’t know the name of it or even to what branch or agency it’s attached—”

“Olivia,” Dwyer interrupted, “no need to talk code. As you might expect, I’ve signed a Classified Information Nondisclosure Agreement. I may be privy to more classified information than you.”

Olivia nodded. “It’s a counter-WMD strike force. And every member of the force — seven in all — except Garin, has been found assassinated in the last forty-eight hours. He’s the chief suspect and the subject of a massive FBI manhunt — although I don’t think the FBI knows it just yet.”

“I don’t follow.”

“As of yesterday, the FBI was still looking for someone named Tom Lofton, an alias Garin used. Maybe they’ve connected Lofton to Garin by now, I don’t know. But I don’t think they know about the weapons of mass destruction angle.”

“What does any of this have to do with the Russians, Iranians, and the Middle East crisis?”

Olivia looked slightly embarrassed. “I’m not quite sure. Professor Brandt has a theory, but he tends to keep such theories close to the vest until he has more information.”

“The Oracle,” Dwyer declared dramatically. “Sees patterns where others see puzzles. What’s your theory?”

“I’m still working on it. But I think that Israel could get hit by something bigger than anyone expected.”

“I don’t know what I can tell you about Mike Garin that will be of any use,” Dwyer said, shrugging.

“It could be something that seems irrelevant to you, but it might be a thread that leads to answers. For example, do you know where he’s traveled recently? Has he been to the Middle East? Has he said anything about the situation in the Middle East? What has his training been focused on?”

“I haven’t seen Mike in some time, Olivia. I wouldn’t have any idea.”

Olivia tried a Hail Mary. “You were DEVGRU, right? Black Squadron? Weren’t you involved in recovery of nuclear material?”

Dwyer remained silent, putting his hands in his lap.

“Do you know anything about what Garin was up to in the last few months?” Olivia asked.

“I recruited Mike to come to the Naval Academy to play football. A few years later, I was one of his instructors when he was in BUD/S. I’ve had a couple of beers with him in the years since. I don’t know anything about what Mike’s been doing the last few months. I can tell you one thing, though, Olivia. Mike Garin did not kill those men. You tell that to Jim Brandt. You tell that to the FBI.”

The sudden intense look on Dwyer’s face projected a mixture of loyalty and protectiveness. Because there was so little artifice to Dwyer, Olivia thought she detected that he was being less than candid about his relationship with Garin. Not deceitful exactly, but also not completely forthcoming.

“Mr. Dwyer…”

“Dan,” Dwyer reminded her.

“We’re not out to get Michael Garin. In fact, I don’t know him, but I’d tend to agree that he had nothing to do with the assassination of his team. I’m told Garin is very talented, but for one man to assassinate seven… It doesn’t seem feasible.

“It really comes down to this: The Middle East is currently on a trip wire; it’s no mystery that the Iranians would like to wipe Israel off the face of the earth; to do so requires deliverable WMD. Garin is the sole surviving member of a highly specialized counter-WMD team. It’s quite possible the rest of the team was killed by someone trying to prevent information from getting out. So Michael Garin, consciously or not, may have knowledge that someone desperately wants covered up. Information that may concern WMD that could be used against Israel. I don’t need to tell you the implications of such use.”

“No, you don’t. I’ve been warning Senate Intelligence about those implications for some time. Everyone acts like if they ignore the problem, it’ll go away. It won’t and it’s not. It’s at our doorstep. Right now.”

Matt appeared at Dwyer’s elbow. “Sir, Jack Elliott’s here.”

“That’s my lawyer, Olivia,” Dwyer explained as he rose to his feet. “I’m going to a barbecue in the Hart Senate Office Building, and I’m the main course. Matt will be happy to see you out. I’m afraid I haven’t been much help to you. I don’t know what to say.” Dwyer shrugged apologetically.

Olivia stood and shook Dwyer’s hand. “Thank you for your time, Dan, and good luck with Senate Intelligence. Let me know if something occurs to you. And if it does, let me know fast. Given how quickly things are developing in the Middle East, I don’t think we have very much time.”