Target Omega

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

The Edgar in the Mayflower Hotel was one of the better places to people watch in Washington, D.C., although that wasn’t the principal reason Dan Dwyer frequently had dinner there.

It wasn’t uncommon to see a senator or cabinet official strolling through the promenade that led from the reception area to the ballrooms past the restaurant. Talking heads from the various news shows and eggheads from the numerous think tanks were also habitués of the bar.

What drew Dwyer to the Mayflower, however, was the likelihood of encountering at least one stunningly attractive woman there, languidly sipping Chambertin Grand Cru while waiting for one of the rich and powerful to ask if he could join her. Dwyer took mischievous delight in the fact that he, the youngest of a struggling Wisconsin dairy farmer’s four sons, was now among the richest and most powerful.

Dwyer held no illusions about the reason for his current appeal to women. He had boyish good looks for a middle-aged man, yet even fifteen years ago, when he was forty pounds lighter and his face reflected the intensity of an active SEAL, Dwyer’s luck with women came nowhere near that of most of his warrior brethren. Women tended to view Dwyer more like a funny, protective big brother than a smooth lothario. But now that his photograph had accompanied more than a few newspaper and magazine articles speculating his wealth to be in the hundreds of millions, women ranging from Hollywood starlets to horse-country socialites suddenly realized that he was intellectually stimulating and physically irresistible.

The woman for whom Dwyer was waiting this evening rivaled even the most beautiful of the starlets and socialites who fawned over him, but she seemed immune to Dwyer’s newfound allure. With Olivia, he was, once again, the funny, protective big brother. In turn, Dwyer viewed her almost like the brainy yet vulnerable little sister he never had, though he readily conceded that no one in his family looked remotely as good.

Dwyer was deciding whether she needed to be protected from the lethal good looks and altar-boy charm of a certain special operator. It was becoming apparent to Dwyer that Olivia’s interest in Mike Garin went beyond the professional. Kid sisters should not, Dwyer believed, consort with stone killers, no matter how smart and courteous they might be.

And there she was, standing at the hostess station at the entrance to the restaurant. She wore a simple, sleeveless blue-black dress that matched the color of the lustrous hair that fell in abundant cascades to the small of her back. Nearly every pair of male eyes in the room fastened on her face. For a moment, Dwyer reconsidered. Maybe it was Mike Garin who needed protection.

As the hostess escorted Olivia to Dwyer’s table, his cell phone vibrated. He threw an apologetic wink at the hostess and answered the call in violation of the restaurant’s prohibition against cell phone use. He was happily indulged by a waitstaff accustomed to Mr. Dwyer’s ridiculously generous tips.

Dwyer listened intently, rising absently as Olivia came to the table. He disconnected as they both sat down. “Haven’t seen you in ages,” Dwyer said with his standard mischievous grin.

“It’s still not funny, Dan. I thought that some sort of wild animal had gotten loose in your house.” Olivia was referring to Max, Dwyer’s geriatric, overweight, and excessively friendly Newfoundland, which had the run of Dwyer’s residence. The previous night, Dwyer, Matt, and Carl had rushed upstairs upon hearing Olivia’s shrieks to discover their guest — looking magnificent in a white cotton nightshirt that fell barely to midthigh — attempting to barricade herself in the bathroom against Max’s overly enthusiastic greeting. Prying the enraptured Matt and Carl from the scene proved nearly as difficult as removing Max.

“That was one of my guys in California,” Dwyer said, patting the breast pocket in which he had just stowed his cell phone. “Thanks to the help of a sheriff’s deputy who was a former swim buddy in the teams, he was able to spend several hours in the hospital room of Clint Laws, Garin’s old boss. Laws was shot and in pretty bad shape. He was in and out, mumbling things no one could understand. Garin was right, though; that tough old bird wasn’t talking about how bored he was.”

“You’ve lost me. What do you mean?”

“Laws had been shot and left for dead at the bottom of a ravine near Generals Highway in Kings Canyon. Wounds in the head and chest. Professional,” Dwyer said, shaking his head in disgust.

“Anyway, the old man refuses to die,” Dwyer continued. “Crawls up the ravine to the side of the road, where a couple of hikers find him. They call 911 and Laws is life flighted to Community Regional Medical Center in Fresno. When they get him there, he’s barely conscious, on the verge of death. Everyone thinks he’s babbling incoherently about how bored he is. Delusional.” Dwyer looked up and waved off the waiter, who had appeared at Olivia’s elbow, before continuing.

“Except for Mikey. He insists Laws is trying to tell us something. Turns out he was, but I’m not sure what.”

“Exactly what did your man tell you?” Olivia asked.

“Earlier this afternoon, he calls to say Laws described the men who hit him. Two Middle Eastern — looking dudes. Called one Mr. Obvious or something. Then the nurses come in and chase my guy off, but he gets the sheriff’s deputy to intercede and goes back in. Laws was unconscious for a long while, but a few minutes ago he told my guy that he overheard the two guys who shot him talking while they were standing over him, thinking he was dead. They were talking about reporting in to someone named Taras Bor.”

“Taras Bor doesn’t sound like a Middle Eastern name,” Olivia said. “More like Russian or Ukrainian. Given the circumstances, though, my guess is Russian. It looks like the UN isn’t the only place where Russians and Iranians are working together.”

“I don’t know why, but something tells me I should know that name,” Dwyer said pensively. “I’ll run it through our databases to see if we get any hits. It would probably be a good idea for you to do the same. See if you can get CIA, NSA, and everyone else to run the name. He may be the one who orchestrated the assassination of the Omega team.”

“The Russians working with the Iranians on the UN censure resolution is one thing. There are certain advantages to Russia in an unstable Middle East. But assassinating America’s counter-WMD strike force — if that’s in fact what they did — is another order of magnitude,” Olivia said.

Dwyer summoned the waiter, who was waiting patiently out of earshot. “Olivia, why don’t you have some dinner? You can’t solve the Middle East crisis and usher in a golden age of world peace on an empty stomach.”

Olivia ordered the free-range chicken breast. Dwyer ordered a glass of ginger ale.

“You’re not eating?” Olivia asked.

“As you’ve probably noted, I can stand to miss a meal or two.”

Once the waiter left with their order, Olivia asked, “Have you heard anything more from Michael Garin?”

“As a matter of fact, I have. He’s in the District.”

“When did you talk to him?”

“Late morning, which means he’s been running around unsupervised for the last five or six hours. And that means there’s a pretty good chance he’s engaged in some mayhem.”

“That raid on the Crowne Plaza had something to do with him, didn’t it? On the news they said that traffic was backed up for hours as a result.”

“That was him.” Dwyer nodded. He looked down as if pondering a dilemma. “Look, I told you earlier that Mike might have to kill more men before this is over. You should know that he’s eliminated at least half a dozen Iranians in the last two days. Maybe more by now.”

“What?” Olivia’s outburst drew the attention of surrounding diners. She immediately lowered her voice. “Six Iranians now? What could he possibly be thinking?”

Dwyer wasn’t especially surprised by Olivia’s reaction. The last she’d heard, Garin had shot two men in Dale City. She was smart enough to conclude that Garin had done so in self-defense. But the body count was adding up. It was difficult for a civilian to absorb.

“Olivia, I told you, this is what Mike does—”

Olivia cut him off. “You mean start mini-wars on American soil? Reenact the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre?” Although her voice was hushed, her tone was one of exasperation. She’d invested valuable time with this band of former special operators. They had impressed her as responsible and civilized. Now it appeared that Garin was nothing more than a rampaging thug shooting up the countryside. Relying on such a man was imprudent, to say the least.

“Before you get all righteously indignant,” Dwyer said firmly, “you just might want to consider the circumstances. Mike’s entire team has been wiped out. His mentor was shot and left for dead. Multiple teams of Iranian assassins have been hunting him for the last several days.”

Dwyer’s voice became sharper and more strident with each word. He liked and respected Olivia. She seemed to have an admiration for the military sometimes lacking among many of the people who traveled in her circles. But even someone as grounded as Olivia often had difficulty appreciating the terms under which men like Garin operated.

“Not only that, but his own government is trying to kill him,” Dwyer continued, noticing Olivia’s eyebrows arch upon hearing the statement. “That’s right. And I’m not talking about the cops or the FBI. Someone’s decided that Mike is sufficiently dangerous that he needs to be taken out — no Miranda rights, no trial, no judge, no jury — just killed immediately, no questions asked. Like some rabid animal that needs to be put down. So you might want to consider forgiving him for acting in self-defense when teams of assassins come gunning for him.”

Olivia’s demeanor quickly changed from prosecutorial to contrite. “Look, Dan, you guys get enough crap without having to hear it from someone like me. I get it. I do. I just reacted to hearing the number — six men killed.” Olivia paused and shook her head. “But I’m having a hard time believing that the United States government is trying to kill Michael Garin. What makes you say that? What evidence do you have?”

“Mike told me that two nights ago in upstate New York, more than a dozen men, armed to the gills, came looking for him. They came on military helos. Not only were they armed to the teeth, they moved like military. Mike was able to identify one of them. He’s a Delta Force sniper.”

“Delta Force?” Olivia said incredulously. “Dan, seriously, no one in government could give that order. Not even the president.”

“Well, someone gave it. Mike saw the sniper again this morning. He was outside the Crowne Plaza during the FBI raid, poised to hit Mike if he made an appearance.”

Olivia sank into the back of her chair as she processed what she’d just heard. The waiter returned with their drinks and a basket of bread. Olivia waited until he left before speaking.

“I have to say I don’t think this is something I’m at all equipped to handle. I’m an aide to the national security advisor. I can talk to you about the implications of the START II Treaty on missile defense or what side the US should take in the Kashmir dispute. But this”—Olivia shrugged, palms upturned—“this is spook stuff, serious spook stuff. What am I supposed to make of this?”

“Help Mike, Olivia.”

“Help him how? What can I possibly do?”

“You work for a man who has the president’s ear. You don’t have to interfere with the FBI investigation. Just tell them the truth. Tell them Mike was set up in Dale City, that it was self-defense. And that you have credible evidence that Delta Force has targeted him.”

“Do I? Do I have credible evidence? Listen to what you’re saying. I’m supposed to go to the FBI and say, ‘Hey, guys, that Michael Garin you’re looking for was set up by an Iranian hit squad, the same squad that wiped out the US counter-WMD strike force. They’re still trying to kill him, as is Delta Force, by the way. So cut him some slack, okay?’ Is that what you expect me to say?”

“It’s precisely because you’re an aide to Brandt that they’ll take it seriously. They need to start looking for the real bad guys.”

“What do I say when they ask me where I got the information?”

“That you got it from one of the Pentagon’s biggest contractors; a guy who’s got multiple clearances; a guy who’s been vetted a thousand times by the FBI, DOD, and a half dozen committees of Congress. And who’s witty, charming, and exceedingly handsome.”

“They’ll ask me for a name, Dan. If I don’t cooperate, they’ll hit me with obstruction.”

“Tell them it’s Dan Dwyer. Hell, tell them Mike’s been calling me on a regular basis. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“They’ll want to know where Mike is. Do you know where to find him?”

Dwyer hesitated. “I know where he was last night, but he’s probably not there anymore.”

“You provided him with a place to stay, didn’t you?” An adult remonstrating a child.

“He’s probably not there anymore,” Dwyer repeated.

Olivia sighed. Arguing with Dwyer was futile. The type of man who became a Navy SEAL was the type who would die before quitting almost anything, even an argument. But beyond that, he was right. The FBI needed to know the facts. Whatever the Russians and Iranians were up to, it had to be bad.

“Even if they go for it, they’ll want Garin to turn himself in,” Olivia said.

“Fat chance.”

“They’ll tap your phones, monitor your e-mail,” Olivia said, a final parry before yielding.

“Let them try. My systems will have them so screwed up they’ll end up listening to the French prime minister placing an order for truffles with his mistress’s chocolatier.”

“Okay,” she relented. “I’ll give it a shot. I’ll talk to the FBI about the Iranian operators, about Michael being set up. I need to clear it with Jim, but I think he’ll be okay with it. But the issue of Delta is another matter entirely. I don’t even know where to begin there — they’ll seriously doubt my credibility, if not my sanity. No one, I mean no one, can give an order to American military to kill Michael Garin on American soil, except in the most extraordinary of circumstances. And even if someone had, no one will ever admit to it. It could only have come from the highest levels. We’re playing with fire here, Dan. Four alarm.”

The waiter returned with Olivia’s entrée. Again, Olivia and Dwyer paused until the waiter departed before resuming the conversation.

“I understand about Delta,” Dwyer said. “Start with James Brandt. Tell him about Delta first. See what he thinks. Let’s see if the Oracle has a solution. But make it fast. Mike’s out there by himself. I’m not so worried about the Iranians, but Delta is a concern even for Mike Garin.”

“Now, in return for doing this, I want to talk to Michael directly,” Olivia insisted.

“I don’t think Mike will object. In fact, I think he’ll be happy to do so. Next time he calls…” Dwyer paused as he watched the hostess lead Julian Day and another man to a table at the other end of the restaurant. Day sat with his back toward Dwyer, while his dinner companion sat facing him. While Day’s appearance was reptilian, the other man’s was amphibian. His short, squat frame, bald pate, and bulging eyes made him resemble a bloated frog.

Dwyer had seen the man before but couldn’t place him. “Excuse me a moment, Olivia.” Dwyer pulled out his cell phone and aimed the camera at the frog.

The Mayflower was a good place to people watch. And surreptitiously take pictures of them.