Target Omega

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

The Michael Garin who strode into the lobby of the Mayflower Hotel shortly after midnight bore little resemblance to the one who had been engaged in a gun battle with Iranian agents hours before. Aside from the distinct physique, he resembled a freshman congressman or judiciary committee lawyer more than an elite killer.

Garin was cleanly shaven and well scrubbed, something he hadn’t been — at least not both at the same time — since before the beginning of the Pakistan operation nearly two weeks ago. Other than a few rebellious curls along the hairline and nape of his neck, his short black hair was brushed straight back. The simple blue blazer, taupe slacks, and white shirt he had selected from the closet in the master bedroom of the safe house fit surprisingly well.

Garin nodded to the night staff manning the reception desk as he walked through the empty ornate lobby toward the elevator bank opposite the concierge station: a hotel guest returning from a long-running meeting, perhaps a late-night outing. The only guest with a handgun stuck in a holster at the small of his back.

Dwyer had told Garin that Olivia would be expecting him in Room 546. He emerged from the elevator and looked down the corridors. The fifth floor was quiet, the guests asleep. Garin rapped lightly on the door to 546 and waited with curious anticipation. Dwyer, in his usual jocular manner, had warned Garin that Olivia Perry was far more attractive than any woman Garin had seen in a very long time. Still, Garin knew that Dwyer was prone to wild exaggerations when it came to women, so he wasn’t sure what to expect.

Olivia Perry opened the door and Garin realized that his friend — possibly for the first time — had embellished absolutely nothing about her. Only those who knew Garin well would be able to discern his astonishment.

In this regard, Olivia held a slight advantage. She had seen photos of Michael Garin and studied him closely over the last several days. She had a fair idea of what to expect upon opening the door. Nonetheless, Olivia found herself somewhat flustered seeing Garin in the flesh. She couldn’t remember ever being intimidated by someone’s mere physical presence.

Neither Garin nor Perry, however, perceived the awkwardness of the other. Olivia moved to the side of the doorway to permit Garin to pass. “Please come in, Mr. Garin. Have a seat.”

The room was dominated by two queen-size beds separated by a nightstand. An armoire that held a television sat opposite the beds. Garin took a chair in front of a small desk near the window. Olivia sat in an armchair across from him. She found herself studying every detail of Garin’s appearance. There was an indefinable quality to it that conveyed physical confidence, martial superiority. He had the air, thought Olivia, of someone who looked as if he owned every room he entered. Not arrogance, but the supreme ease of a creature at the top of the food chain. A sound interrupted Olivia’s musings, and it took a second before she realized that Garin was speaking.

“Ms. Perry, Dan Dwyer told me you were interceding on my behalf with the FBI and possibly the Pentagon. Thank you. I understand the very real problems it poses for someone in your position.”

Olivia shook her head. “Actually, Mr. Garin, it’s my boss, Jim Brandt, who’s doing the talking. I’m just his aide.”

“And I’m sure he wouldn’t be doing so if you hadn’t persuaded him. You took a professional risk speaking on behalf of a stranger who law enforcement and intelligence have concluded is a killer and a threat to national security. So, again, thanks.” Garin leaned forward slightly. “But tell me, given the evident risk to your reputation and your career, why’d you do it?”

The icy intensity that Olivia had seen in Garin’s photos was a weak imitation of the live version. It occurred to her she now knew for certain that the man sitting just a few feet away had killed multiple times. Perhaps as recently as today. Olivia tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress a shudder before responding with a calm she didn’t possess.

“Two reasons, Mr. Garin. First, I find it implausible that you killed your entire team and then went on a rampage that just happens to target Iranians. It’s far more likely that you were intended to die along with your team, and when that failed, they decided you should take the fall. I’m not some criminologist or forensics specialist, but it looks like you were set up — big-time.

“That, of course, brings us to the second reason,” Olivia continued. “Why? Why are you being set up? Obviously, it must be pretty important. People don’t just go to the trouble of obliterating one of the most elite military units in the world on a lark. Jim Brandt thinks you may have knowledge, whether you’re aware of it or not, of information vital to answering that question. Our hunch is that the Russians and Iranians are colluding on a major strike against Israel. We cannot allow them to do so. We cannot allow them to kill with impunity. And we cannot allow them to run wild on American soil.”

Now it was Garin’s turn to note Olivia’s eyes. Already enormous, they grew larger the more animated she became. There was a hint of indignation, even anger, in her voice. This was someone who clearly believed in the concept of good guys and bad guys, perhaps even in vengeance.

“Dan tells me you’re very smart,” Garin said. “And your boss — well, everyone knows the reputation of Jim Brandt. Now, I’m just a little ole grunt, but I’ve got a suspicion that the two of you think something more is going on. Am I right?”

Olivia eyed Garin for a moment before replying. “Dan tells me you’re also very smart.” A smile crossed her face, revealing a perfect set of teeth. “So now that we’ve established that everyone in this room is above average, what else do you think is going on?”

“This goes beyond Israel, Ms. Perry. Precisely how far, I can’t be sure. But as big as a major strike against Israel would be, there’s reason to believe something even bigger is in the works.”

“What makes you say that?” Olivia asked.

“Several things. But, before going any further, am I right that you and Brandt agree?”

“Agree? I’m not sure what you mean. In general terms, yes, we’re concerned that the Russians and Iranians have a strategy that goes beyond a strike against Israel.”

“How far beyond?” Garin asked.

Another electric smile. “I thought I was going to be asking the questions.”

“You will. I’m just trying to get a read on the administration’s thought process. It might shed some light on how I got drawn into all of this.”

Olivia nodded sympathetically. “I understand. You’ve had a hellish last few days. Well, for what it’s worth, we think the Iranians want to destroy the evil, racist, and rapacious Zionist state and become the undisputed leader of the Muslim world. The Russians, in turn, desire instability in the Middle East to increase the value of their oil and gas reserves, thereby increasing their leverage over anyone and everyone dependent on those reserves.”

“Meaning just about everybody.”

“In varying degrees. The most pronounced effect, of course, would be on Eastern Europe, followed closely by Western Europe. But a major war in the Middle East also will wreak havoc on the US economy — further consolidating Russian power.

“What about China, India?”

“Everyone will take some kind of hit. China may be able to weather it better than India, or anyone else for that matter, because the Chinese have been making strategic resource investments in Africa and South America for the last two decades,” Olivia replied.

“The Russian economy wouldn’t be immune, though. They would suffer too. It’s not exactly a risk-free proposition for them, either.”

“In the short term, there would be some dislocation, that’s true. But you know as well as anyone that Russians take the long view. They’re not making decisions on a short-time horizon. They believe that they’ll emerge from the crisis in better shape than when they went in. That may take a few years, but they’re prepared to weather the storm.

“In fact, I believe they’re prepared to profit from the storm. Satellite images show massive stockpiles of generators, cable, and other equipment throughout industrial sectors of Russia. But there’s no market. It doesn’t make sense. Unless, that is, they think there will be a market.”

Olivia brushed stray strands of hair back over her right shoulder. A recess in Garin’s brain noted that the woman had an impossible abundance of hair. But his mind focused on the warehouses.

“What makes you think I know as well as anyone that Russians take the long view?”

“Dan gave me some of your background. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be presumptuous.”

Garin stood. “Do you mind if I help myself to some water?”

“Oh yes, of course. I’m sorry for not offering,” Olivia said, gesturing toward bottles of water on the lower shelf of the armoire.

Garin remained standing next to the armoire as he took a long swallow from a bottle and exhaled. “They do take a long view, the Russians. At least a longer view than we do. And they have a willingness — some would say an expectation — to endure periods of suffering.” Garin finished off the water bottle and placed it in the metal trash can next to the desk. “Enduring brief economic uncertainty is no sacrifice at all for them. That’s one of the reasons why I think, with all due respect, you and Mr. Brandt aren’t thinking big enough.”

Olivia looked surprised, and then intrigued. Until a few days ago she had never heard of Michael Garin. Now this killing machine presumed to point out flaws in the national security advisor’s analysis of the implications of Russian-Iranian cooperation in the Middle East. And not just any national security advisor, but the famed Oracle. This Garin character clearly didn’t suffer from lack of self-confidence.

“Just how big, then, should we be thinking, Mr. Garin?”

Garin discerned that Olivia was a bit nettled by his presumptuousness. James Brandt and his brilliant aide were used to being the ones who came up with the novel theories and who found answers to questions no one else had even considered. They weren’t accustomed to being accused of thinking too small — and by some pit bull from the bowels of the country’s clandestine forces, no less. Garin resolved to be more tactful.

“Dan Dwyer told you that a man by the name of Taras Bor may be running the Iranians in the US, right?” Garin asked.

Olivia nodded curtly in acknowledgment.

“Taras Bor is a Russian agent,” Garin continued, “who operates at the direction of President Mikhailov. Why would the Russians send one of their biggest guns to ensure the elimination of the US counter-WMD team? Why make such a bold move if all they’re interested in is helping Iran hit Israel?”

“Well, first of all,” Olivia answered, “we aren’t sure it’s Taras Bor.”

“Ms. Perry, humor me for a moment,” Garin interjected. “The man who gave us that information is as good as they get. So let’s assume he’s right and it’s Bor. The Russians don’t need to pick a fight with the US to help Iran hit Israel. Helping Iran pass a UN resolution that inflames tensions to the point of war is all Russia needs to do to help Iran. Yet that’s not all they’re doing, is it?”

“Maybe assassinating your team was an insurance policy. If Iran is going to hit Israel with, say, a nuke, then it makes sense to clear the path by taking out America’s counter-WMD team — to ensure you don’t take out Iran’s nukes first.”

“Plausible,” Garin conceded. “But unlikely. Russians play the odds. Wiping out my team is an extremely risky operation that doesn’t guarantee the safety of Iran’s nukes. Israel is more than capable of taking out Iran’s WMD on its own.” Garin shook his head. “No, the risk isn’t worth the reward for the Russians.”

“Maybe they’ve also disabled Israel’s counter-WMD capabilities.”

“If they had, then we would’ve heard about it, wouldn’t we?” It was more statement than question.

Olivia sighed. “Yes, right away.”

“Killing my team was not about Israel. If it wasn’t about Israel, it must’ve been about the US.”

“Utter speculation,” Olivia retorted, and then immediately felt sheepish. Of course it was speculation. That’s precisely what this exercise was all about. “But even if you’re right — that it’s got something to do with the US — the questions remain: What are they up to and why?”

Garin studied the patterns on the carpet as if he was trying to decipher a hidden code. Olivia was right. He was engaging in pure speculation. But it was speculation informed by experience and instinct. And by adherence to Clint Laws’s maxim that there are no such things as coincidences.

Olivia studied Garin as intently as he studied the patterns in the carpet. She still felt somewhat intimidated by him but was becoming increasingly comfortable in his presence. Something about his demeanor and the way he carried himself imparted a sense of security. She also believed Brandt was right. Garin held a key to figuring out what the Russians and Iranians were planning. And she could tell he was on the verge of providing that key.

“There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

Garin looked directly at Olivia, contemplating what he could and couldn’t tell her. The two stared at each other for several seconds before Garin spoke. “There is something else,” he confirmed. “I’m just not sure what it means.”

The midday thunderstorms had done little to diminish the heat of the day. The rain falling on the city’s blistering pavement had steamed into the air and had remained into the night.

Robert Congo Knox was oblivious to the suffocating humidity, just as in past operations he’d been oblivious to the cold or the snow or the rain or the mud. The only thing to which he was never oblivious was the wind. Wind was the enemy. Wind could affect the mission. But tonight the air was still.

Knox had taken a position on the roof of the Washington Square Building at a diagonal from the entrance to the Mayflower. The range was less than a hundred yards. As he had in Spencer, New York, and at the Crowne Plaza, he worked without a spotter. Given the ranges and conditions, he had no need for one.

Knox had a sober understanding of his capabilities. His superiors considered him one of the best in the world at what he did. Reliable, efficient, and deadly, he was a problem solver.

An al-Qaeda leader inciting an insurgency in Ramadi? Deploy Knox. One shot, problem solved. A heavily protected Serbian war criminal defying capture in a mountain redoubt? Deploy Knox. One shot, problem solved.

He often operated at ranges of eight hundred to twelve hundred yards. The shots had been taken on moonless nights, in rainstorms, and during fierce firefights. In jungles and deserts, on mountains and oceans, in villages and metropolises. The results seldom varied. One moment the target’s head appeared in the scope. The next, just a puff of scarlet mist where the head had been.

Knox understood that to deploy someone of his caliber to take out a target at a mere hundred yards meant that the assignment was of unusual importance; there was no margin for error. Other elite snipers might have considered the task an insult to their skills. Knox gave little consideration to such matters. As always, his focus was solely on the successful completion of the mission.

That characteristic made him virtually automatic, a quality that inspired terror in US adversaries around the globe. The bad guys had no inkling of his actual identity. Only that when he arrived in a particular theater, enemies began dropping. He had spent enough time in the wild west tri-border region of Paraguay-Brazil-Argentina that South American drug lords referred to him as El Diablo Negro — a descriptive coincidence since they had no inkling if he was black, white, or some shade in between. Once, when the Colombian Ministry of National Defense spread a rumor that El Diablo Negro was operating in the southwestern region of that country, two leaders of the Cali cartel surrendered to the authorities rather than risk certain assassination. Knox hadn’t even been in the Western Hemisphere at the time.

It had been slightly more than an hour since Knox had received the order to take out Michael Garin at the Mayflower. Although Knox didn’t know the details, apparently someone had been surveilling a woman with a connection to Garin. The woman had checked into the Mayflower and, sure enough, a short time later Garin was observed entering the hotel also.

Knox was staying at a Days Inn on Connecticut only five minutes away. A quick recon of the area surrounding the Mayflower had yielded a few promising sites for a hide. He had gained access to the roof of the Washington Square with the use of a proximity card descrambler and a pair of bolt cutters.

After the Crowne Plaza fiasco, Knox was pleased that someone had at least verified that Garin was actually inside the Mayflower. When first told that Garin had checked into the Crowne Plaza, Knox had dutifully reported to work, found a hide opposite the hotel entrance, and prepared to waste a few hours of his life. Knox knew full well that a fugitive with the skills and experience of Michael Garin wouldn’t check into a hotel — whether under his own name or any of his traceable aliases — unless he wanted to elicit precisely the reaction that had occurred the previous morning. In fact, Knox was fairly confident that while he was lying atop the PNC building, waiting for Garin to emerge, the target was somewhere nearby watching the pandemonium he had produced.

Knox didn’t know Garin personally, but he certainly knew of him. What he knew he respected. The tier-one special operator community was tiny, and the man had a reputation as an exceptional warrior. He must’ve committed a spectacular sin to be targeted for elimination by Delta, especially on US soil. He knew federal law expressly forbade the use of armed forces personnel within the United States except in extremely limited circumstances, such as restoring order after a terrorist attack, an insurrection, or a national disaster. The secretary of defense could, however, pursuant to the discovery of a nuclear threat on US soil, direct the use of military personnel to eliminate the threat. Knox could only conclude that Garin was involved in some pretty nasty stuff.

Knox was unaware of anything that permitted the assassination of an American citizen on US soil, but he assumed that the legal i’s had been dotted and t’s crossed. Knox’s job was not to analyze the legalities. Knox’s job was to kill Michael Garin.

And that’s what he would do. He had a clear view of the entrance to the Mayflower. He had a comfortable, undetectable hide. Sometime soon a head would appear in his scope. Then just a puff of scarlet mist where Michael Garin’s head had been.

Olivia watched as Garin paced the length of Room 546. The gait was familiar to her. She’d seen it often as a little girl when her father’s former Alabama football teammates visited, some of whom had been in the NFL. It was the stride of the well-conditioned athlete — smooth, balanced, controlled.

Olivia suspected that the intensity never left Garin’s eyes, but his face, incongruously, was calm and his body relaxed. Olivia couldn’t help imagining how she would be carrying herself if she were being hunted like Garin. An ordinary person, any sane person, would be tempted to curl into the fetal position in a corner of the room.

Just a few days ago, Brandt had teased Olivia about having a crush on Garin. Although she found him attractive in the dated photo and was fascinated with the history Dwyer had provided, Brandt had been wrong. Even as a schoolgirl, Olivia had never had anything remotely resembling a crush. Not that there hadn’t been any handsome, accomplished men in her life. Her looks and accomplishments ensured that successful, handsome, and wealthy men, even the occasional minor celebrity, pursued her. None had ever held her interest. Too often the successful were boring, the handsome vain, and the wealthy shallow. The minor celebrities were usually all three.

Garin, on the other hand, had been in her presence for barely thirty minutes, and she found herself wanting the meeting to continue indefinitely. But any attraction she might have felt was overshadowed by the insistent knowledge that this man was a killer.

Garin turned and faced Olivia, who was still seated in the armchair. The look on his face was a curious mixture of calculation and indecision. He needed her cooperation and for her to understand his theories, but he was unsure how much to tell her.

He examined her face for several long seconds. Dwyer trusted her. And although he liked to cultivate a frat-boy image, Dwyer was a shrewd analyst of character. Garin’s own preliminary sense of the woman was more wary. But then, his default mode was wariness. He especially distrusted civilians. Their innocence about malevolence was hazardous. All that was almost beside the point, however, since Garin had no better options than the woman sitting before him.

“My team was involved in an operation a week ago,” Garin began before pausing. “Look, you’re going to have to fill in certain blanks regarding what I’m about to tell you.”

“Michael.” Olivia caught herself. “I’m sorry. May I call you Michael?”

Garin nodded as another recess of his brain noted the length and shape of her legs. She was much taller than he had imagined.

“Please call me Olivia. If it makes any difference, everything you’re telling me is at the direct request of James Brandt.”

“Olivia, we both know that’s not really how Washington works. If things blow up, the fact that I spoke to you about a classified operation will be just one of the paragraphs in the multicount indictment that will be brought against me. And it won’t matter what a great guy James Brandt says I am.”

“I don’t dispute that. But if you can help James Brandt and the president avoid a catastrophe, no one will care that you told me about a classified operation. And believe me, Jim Brandt would go to bat for you. Now, what was it about the mission that makes you think the Middle East crisis is about more than Israel?”

“Something that at the time didn’t quite compute. Let me give you a little background. The conventional wisdom is that Shiite Iran and Sunni al-Qaeda won’t, and don’t, work together.”

Olivia shook her head. “That may be the media’s conventional wisdom, but not James Brandt’s.”

“Brandt’s right. They work together against their common enemy — the US. Are you familiar with the CIA’s program to track al-Qaeda operations in Iran?”

“Yes,” Olivia replied. “RIGOR, I think it was called. Established after the invasion of Afghanistan. Al-Qaeda operatives were fleeing from Afghanistan into Pakistan and Iran. Iran claimed that it was ‘detaining’ the al-Qaeda operatives. We had our suspicions about what that meant, so we began satellite, drone, and ground surveillance.”

“Right. The agency found that ‘detention’ actually meant ‘support.’ Turns out Shiite Iran had no problem providing assistance to Sunni al-Qaeda. In fact, intel from RIGOR showed that the Ansar Corps of Iran’s Quds Force was actually running al-Qaeda operations. They — Iran and al-Qaeda — were working joint operations.”

“When and where?”

“You name it,” Garin replied. “Iraq, Afghanistan, anywhere they found the enemy. Anyway, a week ago a nuclear facility in — you fill in the blanks — is compromised by al-Qaeda and Taliban fighters.”

“Rhymes with Baluchistan, I suspect.”

“You didn’t hear it from me. The intelligence services in that country are supposed to be on our side. Don’t get me wrong — lots of them have taken great risks to assist us. But there’s an element within the nation’s intelligence services sympathetic to al-Qaeda and the Taliban. That element assisted al-Qaeda in gaining access to a nuclear facility. Dangerous stuff. They could’ve gotten control of nuclear weapons — al-Qaeda’s holy grail.”

Olivia looked both perturbed and irritated. “That was a major threat. An off-the-charts threat. All I knew was that there was an attempt, not that they had actually gained access. Why didn’t I hear anything about it?”

“Because we neutralized it just as they were gaining access.”

“How? Why you? Why not the ISI or Pakistani military?”

“First, we weren’t sure of the allegiances of their military and intelligence services. This was a bet-the-farm situation. We couldn’t take any chances.

“Second, Omega was specifically created and designed to handle such circumstances. We are — were — not just trained for combat, but to dismantle and destroy WMD of every type imaginable, most often without the host country’s knowledge. We were airborne within two hours after RIGOR — more accurately, RIGOR’s successor program — even had a hint of a problem.

“As to how, what I can tell you is that al-Qaeda fighters had breached a nuclear facility in the unnamed country and had established control over a portion of it before my team arrived. It’s likely they would’ve gotten their hands on the nukes had we not intervened.”

It was Olivia’s turn to look down at the carpet. “Nuclear weapons in the possession of terrorists.” She shook her head. “I didn’t hear about any of this, Michael.”

“And you wouldn’t. Only a handful of people in the country knew anything about it — the president, SecDef, DNI, DCI. It’s not the kind of stuff that gets broadcast. Markets tanking and all of that. I’m pretty sure James Brandt knew about it but couldn’t share it with you. In fact, my guess is the reason the Oracle put you on my case is because he thinks there could be a connection between what happened in that unknown country and what the Russians and Iranians are up to.”

“He sometimes says that the people who call him a genius do so because they only see the end product. They don’t see all the plodding work that precedes it. The endless days, nights, and weekends sifting through mundane data…”

“The Thomas Edison quote. But I bet even Brandt didn’t expect that I’d have much information that would prove truly useful. He probably thought he was just making sure he wasn’t leaving any stones unturned.”

“He’s excruciatingly thorough.” Her tone indicated her disappointment about being in the dark about the situation at the Pakistani nuclear facility. Garin tried to soften the letdown.

“Olivia, Brandt couldn’t tell you. That’s not a reflection on you. That’s just the way things are. If he didn’t have the utmost confidence in you, he wouldn’t have assigned you the job of ferreting out the information from me.”

Olivia straightened and brushed back her impossible abundance of hair. “I’m a big girl. But thanks.” Her eyes locked on Garin. “Back to your operation. How did you stop them?”

“We destroyed the assault force and secured the facility. We fed real-time video of the dead Tangos to Langley. Some were al-Qaeda. But they ID’d at least one of the dead as Iranian Ansar Corps.”

“And what do you conclude from that?” Olivia asked.

“Nothing more than what we’ve just discussed. The Iranians and al-Qaeda work together whenever it’s in their mutual interests to do so,” Garin replied. “The Ansar Corps officer who was there isn’t what’s important. What’s important is what was on his laptop.”

“I know you’re intentionally leaving gaps in what you’re telling me, Michael, but I need you to be a bit more linear. You have an Iranian Ansar Corps officer’s laptop, and I assume it has certain information that leads you to believe that his country is planning something beyond, or in addition to, a strike in Israel.”

“I’m sorry. I sanitized the narrative a little. I’ll back up. We were in a firefight with these guys. It didn’t last very long — we went in hard, fast, and hot. About twenty of them retreated into a tunnel beneath the complex. They must’ve been working on the tunnel for quite a while — it wasn’t just a crawl space.

“Anyway, we advance and methodically take them down. After we’ve taken out the last one, we video them and examine them for intel. The Ansar Corps guy has a laptop in his backpack. I switch it on and begin examining the files. A few seconds later, one of my guys starts yelling that he’s found a timer. Turns out they’d wired the tunnel. Semtex. We had less than a minute to get clear. We’re scrambling, climbing over dead bodies, trying to get out. We barely made it. I lost the laptop in the process. A couple of my guys took some shrapnel, but everyone made it out alive.”

“What was on the laptop that makes you think the Russians and Iranians are planning something beyond an attack on Israel?”

“Photos.”

“Photos? Photos of what?”

“Jordan Manchester, Joseph Bauer, and Evan Dellinger.”

“Manchester, Bauer, and Dellinger,” Olivia repeated.

Garin could see a look of recognition washing over her face.

“Manchester and Bauer are missile defense at the Pentagon,” Olivia said. “I don’t think I know who Dellinger is.”

“He’s an expert on, among other things, EMP defense,”

Garin said.

“How did you know who they are?”

“Olivia, it’s my job to know.”

Olivia put a hand to her forehead. She understood instantly the connection that Garin had already drawn.

“Was there anything else in the file? Any text?”

“Not that I could make out. It was in Farsi.” Garin returned to the desk chair and sat down. Muscle in repose. “At first, I didn’t know what to think about the file. Thought it was peculiar, something that nagged at me. But the night after we returned from the operation, I had other concerns on my mind, like staying alive.”

“And then when the Iranians killed your team and came after you, you revisited the matter,” Olivia said. “You asked yourself why Iranian agents were so intent on destroying America’s counter-WMD capability.”

“That’s certainly part of it. Like I said before, why take out Omega if your objective is Israel? Also, taking out Omega still leaves the US with SEAL Team Six and Delta, both of which could be tasked to deal with WMD. They’ve done so before. But it’s more than that.”

“What else?” Olivia was leaning forward within inches from Garin. He thought he detected a faint scent of sandalwood.

“A couple of things. The Iranians have invested a ton in intelligence but still don’t have the assets to conduct an operation as sophisticated as eliminating Omega. The Russians do, although I’m a little surprised they farmed out the actual assassinations to second-stringers like the Iranians.

“The Iranians also don’t have a missile capable of coming anywhere near the US. So why would they be interested in our missile defense system? What do our missile defense systems have to do with their plan to hit Israel?”

“Well,” Olivia offered weakly, “we supply Israel with certain missile defense technology.”

“Not the high-end ICBM laser intercept defenses that Manchester and Bauer are involved in. That’s strictly US missile defense. Again, the Iranians are not in a position to test our defenses. So what’s their interest in Manchester and Bauer?”

Olivia shrugged. “Being interested in US missile defenses doesn’t necessarily mean that Iran’s not going to hit Israel.”

“True, maybe they’re going to hit Israel. Maybe not. But having photos of America’s top missile defense guys on the laptop of an Ansar Corps officer who just happens to be trying to access a nuclear facility sure isn’t the product of casual interest.”

Garin rose suddenly. Nervous energy in the middle of the night. Olivia wondered idly if the man ever needed more than a couple of hours of sleep a night.

“If that’s not enough,” Garin continued, “now it appears that the guy running the Iranians is none other than Taras Bor. A joint Russian-Iranian operation run by the Russian president’s pet dragon.”

“We don’t yet know for sure it’s Bor.”

“It’s him,” Garin countered. “We always underestimate the bad guys and refuse to believe they intend to do us harm.”

“I don’t disagree with you, Michael. Just playing a little devil’s advocate to crystallize what we know.” Olivia stood. “The Russians and Iranians are doing their best at the UN to provoke a war in the Middle East. Now they’ve teamed up to destroy America’s counter-WMD team. Is it possible that the Middle East crisis is just a distraction?”

“Olivia.” Garin shrugged, palms up. “You’re the geopolitical expert. What do you think?”

“No, it’s not just a distraction. It’s too big for that. But I’m beginning to be persuaded that may not be the only, or ultimate, target.”

Garin strode the length of the room again, immersed in thought.

“I don’t know what to make of the EMP guy,” Garin said. “The Iranians don’t have deliverable nukes yet. Their missiles can’t hit us. They don’t have the ability to hit us with an EMP. So why the interest in EMPs?”

“The Russians, on the other hand, have nukes. Their missiles can hit us. They can hit us with an EMP. But…”

“They’d never hit us with any of those in a million years,” finished Garin, still pacing slowly.

“Not in a billion years. The Russians can do it, but won’t. Deterred by the prospect of mutual assured destruction. The Iranians, on the other hand, wouldn’t mind doing it, but can’t.”

“I’m pretty certain of one thing,” Garin said, stopping in front of Olivia. “The Iranians — guided by Bor — killed my team because of what was on that laptop in the tunnel. They don’t want the contents of that laptop revealed under any circumstances.”

“But how would the Russians and Iranians even know you’d seen the laptop? And even if you had seen it, that you could read Farsi?”

“They wouldn’t. But that itself is significant, isn’t it? It means that the contents of that file were so sensitive that they couldn’t afford to take even the slightest risk that anyone had seen any portion of it. So they needed to eliminate all of us — and anyone we may have possibly talked to about it.”

“That’s why they tried to kill Clint Laws. They thought you might have spoken to him.”

“Right,” Garin confirmed. “Clint isn’t exactly unknown in these circles. Given his past and our relationship, they probably thought there was a chance that I might talk to him about it — even if he’s not cleared for it.”

“And that’s also why they were poking around at Dan Dwyer’s. They can’t take the chance — given his position and relationship to you — that you told him about the laptop.” Olivia’s eyes narrowed in thought. Garin knew what she was thinking and what her next question would be. “But then why haven’t they come after me yet? If they were watching Dwyer, they’d surely have seen me with him. They’d have to surmise that you told him about the laptop, and then he told me.”

“Killing you would be too high profile, Olivia. They wouldn’t do it unless they absolutely had to, unless they were absolutely sure you had been told.”

“Me?” Olivia scoffed. “High profile? I’m just an aide to the national security advisor. I’m not even a deputy.”

“You,” Garin said, pointing his finger for emphasis, “are the right hand of James Brandt. You’re more important than a deputy. They shoot you, especially in the context of everything else that’s going on, and every agency but the National Park Service will have people looking for them.”

“But, Michael, you just said that they wouldn’t kill me unless they were absolutely sure I had been told about the laptop. The fact that no attempt has been made on my life would indicate that they believe I haven’t been told. How would they know for sure I haven’t been told?”

“They wouldn’t. Not unless they have someone in place inside. Someone who would know, for example, that you’ve told James Brandt that a laptop with incriminating information was discovered during a raid on a nuclear facility.”

Garin and Olivia stared at each other in silence for several seconds. Whatever the Russians and Iranians were planning, all signs pointed to it being something of significant magnitude.

Olivia broke the silence. “Do you think they’ve been watching me?” she asked softly.

“Up until a short time ago I thought it was possible but unlikely. The more we talk this through, the more I think the answer is, clearly, yes.”

“Then they know I’m here…” Olivia’s voice trailed off.

“They do. And that means they know I’m here. So now they have to presume I’ve told you about the laptop. The risk involved in killing you is now outweighed by the risk that you know and will inform James Brandt and the president about our conversation.”

“When will they come for me?” Olivia’s voice remained calm, but Garin could see the apprehension in her eyes.

“As soon as they can.”

“Here?”

“Maybe.”

“They would kill me here?”

“They’re not going to kill you anywhere.” Garin’s voice was low but firm.

“They killed an entire squad of elite soldiers.” Olivia looked down at the desktop. “I’m just a policy person.”

Garin touched her arm. She looked up. Intensity in a relaxed body. “They couldn’t kill me. They will not kill you.”

“What do we do now?”

“First, in a minute, I’m going to take a quick look around while you call Dan Dwyer. I’ll give you the number to use. Tell him to send all the tac teams he has available. He’ll know what to do.”

“Why not the police or FBI?”

“Because Dwyer’s men can get here faster, heavier, and they don’t play by the rules. Besides”—Garin smiled—“the FBI might shoot me.”

“Then what?”

“Then you’re going to call James Brandt and tell him you’ve got to see him right away.”

“And when I see him I suppose there’s something in particular you want me to tell him?”

“There is,” Garin said, motioning toward the chair. “Have a seat and I’ll tell you a story about Russian winters and warehouses.…”