Joe understood without the need for elaboration. Gas. “Will do,” Joe said.
“I’m getting off now. I’ll call you again tomorrow. On second thought, I’m not going to call you anymore. No sense giving them a signal. You call me if there’s an emergency. Now, turn off the phone and take out the battery.”
“Hey, Mike?”
“Yes.”
“Remember to call my job.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
MOUNT VERNON, VIRGINIA
JULY 15 • 7:20 A.M. EDT
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 i
n 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.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CENTRAL NEW YORK STATE
JULY 15 • 8:40 A.M. EDT
Asign over the convenience store promised sixteen ounces of the best coffee in Broome County for only $1.19. Judging by the number of cars parked along the store’s front curb, the claim appeared highly exaggerated.
Garin had subsisted on protein bars and water for the last twenty-four hours. He would’ve preferred a breakfast of eggs, home fries, toast, and coffee while comfortably seated at a table in the roadside pancake house he had passed thirty minutes ago, but having spent the night sleeping in the woods, he thought he would spare the other patrons the dubious pleasure of his company.
Garin parked as far from the other vehicles as possible and reached under his seat for his pistol. He shoved it into the waistband holster at the small of his back and covered it with his shirt.
The gym bag in the passenger seat contained nearly fifty thousand dollars in cash. He unzipped it and pulled out two hundred dollars, a baseball cap, and sunglasses. He put on the cap and glasses and popped the trunk. No need to give a curious thief any ideas; before entering the store he put the bag in the trunk and locked the vehicle.
The interior of the store was a frigid contrast to the rising heat and humidity of the morning. Garin first searched for any security cameras inside. He spotted cameras on each end of the back wall, one near the entrance to the restroom and another over the cash register. The cashier, a plump woman in her early twenties, pointed helpfully to the back, where pots of coffee were lined up under several coffee machines.
Before heading for the coffee, Garin grabbed one of the small baskets near the door and proceeded down the first aisle, filling it with an assortment of powdered doughnuts, candy bars, and other junk food. He was usually scrupulous about his diet, but he believed that it was a good idea to defer on occasion to the body’s natural cravings for unaldulterated junk.
Garin faced the store’s floor-to-ceiling exterior window while shopping for chocolate bars, giving him a clear view of the parking lot, where a man with jug ears was getting out of the passenger side of a Ford Taurus. He appeared Middle Eastern, as did the driver.
As the man walked toward the entrance, Garin noticed the second Ford Taurus in the back of the store’s parking lot, about fifty feet directly behind the Crown Vic. Two men were seated in the car watching the storefront.
The sentinels.
They wouldn’t try to kill him here. They would wait until he drove to a more secluded area somewhere down the road. Right now, they were simply keeping tabs on him. Jughead would browse around the store until Garin left. Then one of the cars would leave ahead of Garin, in the direction that he had been driving before he’d stopped at the store. A second car would follow behind Garin. They would stay far enough from Garin’s car not to raise his suspicions, but close enough to strike at an opportune moment. Garin would not give them that opportunity.
Jughead moved casually about the store, feigning interest in an item and then moving on. He was weaving up and down the narrow aisles, gradually making his way toward the rear of the store, where Garin was pouring himself a large coffee.
As Garin busied himself with finding a lid and cup sleeve, he examined the periphery to locate the only other customer. He was looking at the newspapers at the front of the store, his back to Garin. The cashier’s attention seemed to be absorbed in some paperwork.
The sentinel strolled down the aisle next to where Garin was putting the finishing touches on his coffee. Garin placed both the coffee and his basket of junk food on the counter and, with a look that conveyed that he’d just remembered something else he needed, walked to the aisle where Jughead was inspecting packages of AAA batteries.
Garin made a show of searching the shelves as he approached the sentinel, who looked up and politely smiled as Garin drew near. Garin returned the smile with a nod and a violent thrust of the three middle fingers of his left hand into the sentinel’s throat, crushing his windpipe. In a smooth motion, Garin caught the sentinel around the waist before he collapsed, and lowered him gently to the floor. The man emitted strained wheezing sounds, choking futilely for air as Garin wrapped his right arm around the man’s head and his left around his neck. With a brutal twist he snapped the sentinel’s neck, killing him instantly.
Garin rose to check the premises. The other two occupants were oblivious to what had just occurred. There was no doubt, however, that a review of the security recording would reveal a muscular man in a cap and dark glasses assaulting a somewhat smaller Middle Eastern man.
He grabbed the sentinel by the back of his collar and dragged him silently across the floor, around the corner at the end of the aisle, and into the employees’ restroom, where he deposited him on the floor of the stall. Garin checked for a pulse in the sentinel’s neck and, satisfied that he was dead, rummaged through the dead man’s clothes for any identification. Finding a wallet in the sentinel’s right rear pocket, Garin stuffed it into his front pocket, though he would be surprised if it contained any useful information. He took his SIG from the small of his back and inserted it into his waistband in front, making sure it was covered with his shirt before emerging from the restroom.
The other patron had left while Garin was stashing the body. Garin casually collected his basket and coffee and went to the checkout register, where the cashier rang up the sale and placed everything but the coffee in a paper shopping bag.
Garin knew his next move would be more difficult. It had to be executed before the remaining sentinels began wondering about the whereabouts of their cohort. It also depended on the angle of the rear- and side-view mirrors of the jug-eared se
ntinel’s driver.
Garin exited the store, turned left, and walked unhurriedly to his car, pretending not to look at either of the two Tauruses. Cradling the shopping bag and coffee in his left arm, he dug into his pocket for the car keys and pressed the button to open the trunk. He put the coffee on the roof of the car, then placed the bag in the trunk, where he quickly unzipped his gym bag and removed a suppressor. With his back to the vehicle containing the two sentinels and angling slightly away from the vehicle to his left, he swiftly affixed the suppressor to the SIG. As usual, a round was already chambered.
Garin closed the trunk. Holding the weapon against his right leg, he turned and began walking briskly toward the sentinels in the vehicle directly behind him. Through the front windshield Garin could see a momentary look of puzzlement cross their faces, changing into wide-eyed expressions of terror as they spotted the SIG in Garin’s hand and realized what was about to happen.
Garin raised the SIG in one fluid motion and quickly fired three shots at each man. He immediately pivoted to his right and sprinted toward the other Taurus, his eyes fixed on its rear- and side-view mirrors for any indication that the remaining sentinel had seen what had happened. If he had, he reacted too slowly. Garin put three more shots through the rear window of the vehicle, striking the driver twice in the head and once at the base of the neck. Through the shattered window Garin saw the man pitch forward against the steering wheel, a curtain of blood and brain tissue splattered across the front windshield.
Garin returned the pistol to his side as he walked back to his car and scanned the area. There was no sign that anyone had witnessed the events of the last ten seconds. Although there were no security cameras on the exterior of the store, Garin was under no illusion that the police, and later the FBI, wouldn’t instantly conclude that the muscular man in a ball cap and sunglasses who had crushed the trachea of the jug-eared shopper was the same one who had assassinated the three men in the parking lot. Just like that. Four corpses in Broome County.
Target Omega Page 12
