Garin had to ditch the Jeep. It was registered to Thomas Lofton, and the police and FBI, if they weren’t already searching for the vehicle, would be doing so shortly. He walked to the storage bay he rented—unit 53—at the northeast edge of the facility and lifted the overhead door, revealing a navy-blue 2006 Crown Victoria. The registration form in the glove compartment stated that it belonged to Mark Webster.
Garin opened the trunk and lifted the carpeted bottom that covered the well housing the spare tire. Inside were a variety of supplies and an arsenal of weapons and ammunition sufficient to wage a small but respectable war, including an MP5 submachine gun, a Taurus 608, a Glock 17, a couple of tactical knives, several flash bangs, and even a vanity Desert Eagle. He retrieved several nutritional bars and a bottle of water and closed the trunk.
Garin opened the passenger-side door and pulled a soft leather case from the glove compartment. Inside he found a current driver’s license for Mark Webster along with several major credit cards in Webster’s name. He would use the credit cards only in an emergency—relying on cash instead. Removing the Lofton license and credit cards from his pocket, he threw them onto the floor of the Jeep and doused the vehicle with a five-gallon container of gasoline. When he was done, he threw the container onto the floor of the Jeep, too, before lighting a match.
As Garin pulled out of the empty lot in the Crown Victoria, he glanced once in his rearview mirror, seeing nothing but an eruption of orange-yellow flames consuming the vehicle.
Good-bye, Señor Lofton.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
NORTHERN IRAN
JULY 14 • 8:55 A.M. IRDT
Dmitri Chernin sat glumly at the black metal desk in his office, a large glass of Smirnoff and a fully loaded Tokarev before him. Although it was only nine A.M., he was on his second glass of vodka. The Tokarev, which had formerly belonged to his father, was prominently displayed to deter anyone who might express disapproval of the alcohol.
Chernin sometimes imagined himself a beleaguered character in a Chekhov play. It seemed his life consisted only of work, responsibility, discomfort, and disappointment. Any moments of joy were confined to childhood memories and, even then, were fleeting. And there was little prospect of joy in his present station in life.
Chernin’s office was a small box with a linoleum floor and concrete walls painted a ghastly shade of green. Beneath an overhead fluorescent light, two metal cabinets stood in the corner near his desk, which faced the door leading to a catwalk above the floor of the main facility forty feet below. The floor-to-ceiling window adjacent to the door permitted him to see much of the enormous work space.
In addition to the vodka and gun, a secure phone and computer sat on the desk. The computer screen displayed data indecipherable to almost anyone but Chernin and told him that the work taking place outside his office was slightly ahead of schedule, an impressive achievement given the numerous setbacks the project had endured. Chernin was effectively in charge of the facility. Although he had no formal title, all operational authority ultimately rested with him.
Chernin, however, took no satisfaction in the project, in part due to his boss, Aleksandr Stetchkin, head of the Twelfth Chief Directorate of the Ministry of Defense and second only to President Mikhailov as the most feared man in all of Russia.
Stetchkin was perpetually displeased with anything and everything related to the project. When work was temporarily halted because the centrifuge operations at Natanz had been sabotaged with faulty parts, Stetchkin accused Chernin of indolence. After Chernin patiently explained that nothing could proceed without the enriched uranium, he was charged by Stetchkin with insubordination and docked a month’s pay. When a minor earthquake again required a cessation in operations until the structural integrity of the supply tunnels could be verified, Stetchkin blamed Chernin for lack of foresight. Chernin declined to ask how he was supposed to forecast earthquakes.
By any other measure, Chernin had performed brilliantly. But Stetchkin was a man for whom no performance was adequate until the objective was successfully met.
Chernin wondered what his boss would do to him if he knew how he really felt about the project. Chernin saw no benefit to Russia in helping the Iranians. On the contrary, he saw only problems down the road. The mullahs’ wrath was directed at Israel and the West today, but Chernin believed it was only a matter of time before they trained their sights on Russia, too. After all, it wasn’t as if Iranians and Chechens had no common purpose. These fanatics believed they were destined to dominate the world. The project was a major step toward fulfilling that destiny, and the mullahs maintained that they were divinely inspired to build it. Indeed, they took enormous pride in its construction.
Except, the Iranians didn’t build it. The critical parts came from Germany, Belgium, and France. The technicians came from North Korea. And the design, management, and even some of the uranium came from Russia.
Moreover, Chernin had nothing against the Israelis. The tiny state never threatened to annihilate anyone. They weren’t out to take over the world. When he looked into the eyes of an Israeli, he didn’t see the seething hatred he often saw in the eyes of the lunatics here.
Not that Chernin disliked the Iranian people generally. He found most of them to be little different from people everywhere—friendly, industrious, and concerned about their families. He had made several friends here, including one of his closest—Mansur, with whom he shared a fondness for premium cigars, Smirnoff, and Iranian caviar.
The mullahs and their followers were another matter. They didn’t even attempt to hide their contempt when he interacted with them. His presence was tolerated only because they needed him; without him they couldn’t achieve their goal. Once it was achieved, he would be seen as just another infidel, with little to distinguish him from the apes and pigs that inhabited Israel and the other countries in the West.
Chernin had abandoned most pretenses by now. At first, he hid his drinking, in large part because Stetchkin had forbade it as offensive to the Iranians. But as his antipathy toward the hard-liners grew, Chernin made a show of drinking openly, daring anyone to say anything to him. The Tokarev was an additional touch, an affect in which he secretly found great humor.
Soon the project would be completed. Most of the essential work was already done. He estimated that they were only days away from being fully functional. Then he would go home, stroll down Nevsky Prospekt, and look at women who weren’t covered from head to toe in burlap bags.
The phone buzzed. Chernin picked up the receiver with his right hand, took a swallow of vodka from the glass in his left, and prepared to listen to an inventory of his infirmities. To his surprise the call was brief and Stetchkin was not unpleasant, probably because the project was under budget and all but complete. Stetchkin even encouraged him to take the day off, one of only a handful over the last year. Chernin was going to do just that. He grabbed the Smirnoff and headed over to Mansur’s for an afternoon of palatable food, strong tobacco, and mild inebriation.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
BRECKSVILLE, OHIO
JULY 14 • 1:11 A.M. EDT
Few who knew Michael Garin could imagine him as a vulnerable young boy, but from infancy through adolescence, he had been undersize and frail, a favorite target of the larger boys, and even some of the older girls, in school.
Garin had been born nearly three months premature with respiratory problems requiring him to remain in the hospital’s intensive care unit for several weeks. Even after he was discharged, his parents rushed him to the emergency room for any number of ailments, and for the first nine months of his life he seemed perpetually attached to IVs and breathing tubes.
His parents rarely permitted him to venture outdoors. When, by age four, his illnesses became less frequent, Garin begged his parents to let him go outside to play with the other children in the neighborhood. The spindly boy was eager to make friends, and he did so fair
ly easily. Unfortunately, he attracted antagonists as well. His quick wit allowed him to parry taunts from bullies, his responses often making them look foolish.
The physical abuse, however, was something he couldn’t handle alone. So, after his third or fourth bloody nose, it was up to Katy—recognized as the most fearsome kid, male or female, in the neighborhood—to protect him. No one challenged Katy Garin, and anyone who hurt her little brother in any way suffered swift and painful retribution.
Mikey, of course, was properly mortified to be under the protection of his older sibling, a girl, no less. He gradually withdrew to the confines of his room rather than face the looks of derision from his peers. There, he spent his days reading everything from his parents’ outdated Collier’s Encyclopedia set to the old Great Books series his mother had won in an academic competition as a teen.
Garin had an affinity for history, but his real aptitude was in science and math. He spent hours gazing through a microscope Katy bought him for his ninth birthday and rigging crude chemistry experiments, usually in attempts to create small explosions.
He was, undeniably, a geek. When the boys in his sixth-grade class began playing organized football, Mikey, too small to join, spent his time preparing exhibits for the middle school science fair. When the others attended dances in the school gym, Mikey busied himself with algebra problems.
By the time he reached high school, a growth spurt negated any further need for Katy’s protection. Indeed, by tenth grade he was already a second-team all-conference running back and far and away the fastest, strongest, and most respected athlete in his school. As Katy put it, from geek to freak in just over two years.
But it was at this very point when Garin would need Katy most. She’d come home from college to attend a postseason awards banquet with Garin and their parents. Returning home from the event, their car was struck head-on by a driver under the influence. Garin’s parents were killed instantly. Garin suffered a concussion, several broken ribs, and numerous cuts and contusions. Katy walked away from the collision practically unscathed.
By chance—with an assist from advances in technology—the emergency room visit revealed something the countless NICU exams hadn’t: Garin had a congenital heart defect. It was likely he’d never see his fortieth birthday, maybe not even his thirty-fifth. Katy was with him when he got the news. It was the first and last time he’d ever seen her cry.
But just for a minute. Then she gathered herself, asked the cardiologist where she could find the chapel, and followed him out of the examination room. After he deposited Garin’s chart at the unattended nurse’s station, she deftly retrieved the exam results from the file, stuffed them in her purse, and checked the desktop computer, verifying that the results hadn’t yet been entered into the system. Thanks to Katy, they never would.
Katy dropped out of college to look after Mikey until their grandfather arrived from Europe nearly a year later. By then, Garin was an all-state running back and excelled at most everything he tried. Katy had drilled into him that he needed to treat the heart anomaly as an opportunity, a blessing. Everyone else, she insisted, was so occupied with evading death, prolonging life, that they missed living. They put things off, didn’t take risks, thinking they’d always have another chance, a better opportunity down the road.
Mikey, on the other hand, could concentrate purely on living every second as if it were his last. Taking risks he otherwise wouldn’t. Keeping absolutely nothing in reserve. He couldn’t afford to procrastinate, to say “maybe later” or “someday.” Everything took on greater urgency. People, places, and events became more vivid, more intense, more consequential. He needed to pack all of his life into half the time he’d thought he had.
Katy was right. As the grief of their parents’ death gradually receded with time, Garin had found the knowledge of his limited life span . . . liberating. He could take the brakes off. After all, he had almost literally nothing to lose. He was never irresponsible, but he had an indomitable quality bordering on recklessness. He had far fewer guardrails than his peers. Ironically, it made him feel almost indestructible, invincible.
After their paternal grandfather—Pop—arrived, Katy had planned on reenrolling in college, but their parents’ death benefits were meager, so she helped Pop get settled, took an administrative job at a local hospital, advanced quickly, and never looked back. She and Pop were the only ones who knew of Garin’s condition, Katy’s theft having apparently erased any record of it. Katy, protecting Mikey’s interests well into adulthood. Now, on a hot July night two decades later, it was Garin’s turn to play protector.
—
It took Garin nearly six hours to drive from Dale City to the Cleveland suburb where Katy lived. As he approached the intersection of her street, he could see that it had taken someone less time than that to station surveillance outside her home. Two Ford Tauruses were parked on opposite ends of Katy’s block, the light from the streetlamps outlining the heads and shoulders of two men sitting in each.
Garin drove past Katy’s street to the block behind her backyard, about fifty yards from the house itself. He turned left and parked across from the tall wooden fence that stretched across the end line of her property.
Garin sat in the car for a moment, surveying the surroundings. There were no other vehicles on the street.
The two cars on Katy’s street couldn’t be FBI. At this point, the bureau likely was still looking for Tom Lofton of Dale City, Virginia, who had absolutely no connection to Katy Burns of Brecksville, Ohio.
Garin had no idea who the sentinels out front were. He thought it unlikely they were somehow connected to his two assailants from yesterday afternoon. No one could coordinate and move that fast. Whoever they were, if any harm had come to Katy and her family, Garin would know whom to kill first.
Garin switched off the dome light. He got out of the car, closed the door gently, and scaled the back fence. Dropping to the other side, he quietly made his way past the swimming pool toward the sliding screen door at the rear of the house. A low, soft light was on in the living room. As Garin neared the screen door he could hear the sound of a television. He pulled his SIG from his pocket holster and paused at the door, listening for signs of any intruders inside the house. From where he stood he could see down the hallway leading to the front door, next to which was the security alarm panel. The light was green, signaling that the system wasn’t armed.
He expected the sliding screen door to be locked and was concerned when it slid open. He crept slowly into the sunroom and then into the kitchen. The living room was to the immediate left. His brother-in-law was seated on the couch facing the TV, his back to Garin. Joe was watching an old black-and-white movie and didn’t appear to be under duress. Garin felt a mild sense of relief, though he had already surmised that his sister’s family was safe, at least for the moment. Unless they were spectacularly incompetent, the sentinels wouldn’t have parked out front if they had caused harm inside. And if they had any involvement in the elimination of Garin’s team, they clearly weren’t unskilled.
But neither were they perfect. Maybe they had only a limited number of men, but their failure to cover the street behind Katy’s house might allow Garin to get Katy’s family to safety. First, however, he had to approach Joe without causing cardiac arrest. Katy and the kids were probably asleep upstairs. Garin decided to turn on the kitchen faucet, leading Joe to think someone had come downstairs for a drink of water.
Hearing the sound of running water, Joe asked, “Katy?” Getting no reply, he turned around and saw Garin standing next to the sink. Joe’s reaction was ideal: He was dumbstruck.
Garin raised his hand to signify that Joe should remain silent. “Joe,” Garin said quietly, “sorry to startle you. Take a second to reorient yourself and I’ll explain.”
Joe looked as if he was trying to blink away the confusion. He stood as Garin came into the living room. “Mike, wha
t’s going on? You scared the hell out of me.” Joe looked at the pistol Garin held at his side and with greater urgency asked, “What the hell is going on?”
Garin got right to it. “Joe, I know this is going to sound bizarre, but I want you, Katy, and the kids to be prepared to leave the house in five minutes. Here’s the situation: Less than twelve hours ago, two men tried to kill me and I’m certain whoever sent them intends to finish the job. Several people close to me have also been killed in the last day. Right now, there are at least four men parked in the street outside your house who I suspect are shooters.” He paused for a moment to allow Joe to process what he had just said. “I don’t think they’re after you or your family. They’re hoping to get me. But I can’t take any chances, so I need to get you out of here.”
As a former command sergeant major who had served three tours in Iraq, Joe knew that at some point Garin had had some type of involvement with special operations. His wife’s brother would frequently disappear for varying periods of time and upon his return respond evasively to any questions about his trip. Joe had long since stopped asking questions and had told the kids Uncle Mike was some kind of big-game or treasure hunter. For her part, Katy had no illusions about what her brother did. She knew him better than anyone in the world and she was sure that in one way or another he was going after some very bad men.
Joe began to move to the staircase down the hall to get his family. As he did so, he turned partially toward Garin. “Mike, why not just call the cops?”
“Can’t do it, Joe. I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t. I know it’s tough, but please trust my judgment on this.”
“Can’t you at least tell me where we’re going?” Joe asked.
“To a safe place not far from here.”
Target Omega Page 8
