Target Omega

by Peter Kirsanow

  Garin drove the Jetta south on Interstate 81 until he spotted an Avis location on the outskirts of Scranton, Pennsylvania. He put the keys and, like a good Boy Scout, five hundred dollars in cash in the glove compartment of Lumpy’s car before locking it and leaving it in front of the Avis building.

  Garin rented a blue Ford Fusion, driving within five miles of the posted speed limits to Washington, D.C., stopping only once to change clothes in the restroom of the gas station a few blocks from the Avis.

  The traffic into Washington was fairly light until he reached the madness of the Beltway. He arrived at the safe house in the evening. The house was a small, slate-gray, two-story town house wedged between two others that were nearly identical. He circled the block once looking for anything out of the ordinary before parking along the street a little less than a block away.

  Garin collected his bag from the trunk and proceeded up the narrow walkway along the side of the house to the rear. A row of three darkgreen plastic trash cans stood next to the back door. Garin found the house keys taped to the lid of the middle can and let himself in the back door. Recalling the security code from his days at DGT, he punched it into the touch pad inside the door and found himself in a small kitchen. Curious, he opened the door to the refrigerator and found it stocked with plenty of meats, fish, fruits, vegetables, and sports drinks.

  Garin dropped his bag on the floor and performed a methodical sweep of both floors of the premises. A short hallway with a half bath to the right led from the kitchen to a living room at the front of the house. A large rectangular mirror hung over a small fireplace to the right. A narrow wooden staircase led to the second floor, where there were two bedrooms at opposite ends of the hallway. A laptop sat on the desk in the smaller bedroom. There was a modest full bath between the two bedrooms.

  Garin returned to the kitchen, where he found the basement door next to the stove. He flipped the switch on the wall and went down eight steps to a small, unremarkable cellar with a concrete floor, a washer-dryer combination at the far end, and a freezer along the right wall. Garin opened the freezer. Dwyer was right; the house was well stocked.

  Garin went back upstairs and spent the next hour preparing a dinner of spaghetti, Italian sausage, and tomato sauce with a small mixed-greens salad. While waiting for the water to boil, he took his bag up to the master bedroom and unpacked. He placed his shaving kit in the bathroom and laid out its contents on the counter next to the sink before returning downstairs to finish cooking.

  It was his first meal in three days that didn’t consist of protein bars or junk food. Garin devoured two large plates of spaghetti and sausage and washed it down with more than a quart of Gatorade.

  After a long, hot shower, he emerged feeling fatigued but much better. He looked forward to finally getting a good six hours’ sleep in a comfortable bed, but first he inspected the items from his shaving kit that he had placed on the sink counter. The contents consisted of a nose-bridge mold, a lens case carrying blue contacts, and a molded lower lip. A pair of black-framed glasses would complete his disguise.

  Garin’s somewhat inchoate plan involved altering his appearance. Despite having done so on several occasions, he wasn’t particularly creative or elaborate. Garin understood that subtle changes to one’s face would throw all but the most perceptive observers. More important, given the ubiquity of security cameras in the District, altering his facial symmetry would stymie facial recognition programs.

  Garin walked into the small bedroom, turned on the laptop, and logged in using an old passcode from his time with DGT. He called up a map of the District with the locations of all the hotels. After studying the map for a few seconds, he magnified the area around Fourteenth and K, using the cursor to slowly move the map from east to west, then north to south. He then switched the application to a satellite view of the same area, gradually zooming in on the Hamilton Crowne Plaza on the northeast corner of the intersection. He examined the building from the top and front for several moments before shifting to the National Labor Relations Board building next door to the left, circling its perimeter using Street View.

  He then went to the NLRB website and viewed the members’ office numbers on the eleventh floor. Satisfied, Garin shut down the laptop, walked to the next bedroom, and after placing the SIG under the frame, lay down to rest.

  Tomorrow he was going on offense.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  MOUNT VERNON, VIRGINIA

  JULY 15 • 9:00 P.M. EDT

  Several hours later, Olivia was still on edge.

  When the security alarm had sounded, Dwyer and one of his bodyguards, whose name, Olivia learned, was Ray, had hustled her into a small vault-like room in the subbasement of Dwyer’s house. The room was equipped with multiple surveillance monitors that permitted them to view every corner of the estate. Olivia watched as approximately a dozen armed men supported by two canine teams covered every inch of the grounds. They found nothing.

  A large alarm monitor next to the surveillance cameras displayed a facsimile of the grounds divided into twenty sectors. Sector 17, the easternmost portion of the property near the street, was lit red, indicating a breach in the area. Olivia could see the dogs become agitated as they searched the grounds; they had picked up the scent of someone who didn’t belong. Whoever it was, however, was long gone.

  Dwyer manipulated a mouse on the console in front of the surveillance monitors and a digital recording of Sector 17 began to play back, beginning ten seconds before the alarm had gone off. When the replay reached the time of the alarm, Dwyer enhanced and froze the image. At the top left corner of the screen, the head of a man was visible above the stone wall that surrounded the estate. The right side of the man’s face was obscured partially by a tall hedge near the wall.

  Dwyer magnified the image of the intruder as far as he could without losing resolution. He was olive-skinned and appeared to be in his early to midthirties. No distinguishing features were readily apparent.

  Dwyer played the recording in real time. The intruder remained visible for approximately two seconds. Olivia thought he looked composed, despite the shrieking of the security alarm.

  “See that?” Ray said in a clinical voice as he pointed to the intruder’s image. “He’s not startled by the alarm. It doesn’t look like he was trying to get in. And he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to take off. He knew exactly what he was doing.”

  “A probe,” Dwyer said.

  Ray nodded in agreement. “He wasn’t testing the security system. He knows we’ve got security and that it’s good. He was testing our response.”

  “Gauging manpower and response time. Looking for weaknesses and opportunities,” Dwyer said. “We’ve probably been under surveillance for a while. They won’t try anything here. He’ll go back and tell his friends it’s a no-go.”

  “If they’re going to make a move, it’ll be elsewhere,” Ray agreed.

  “But haven’t they blown it?” Olivia asked. “Haven’t they lost the element of surprise?”

  Dwyer shook his head. Olivia’s question was logical and Dwyer avoided any hint of patronizing her. “If they’re any good, they know not to underestimate their opponent. They’ll operate from the premise that we’ve already been alerted to the possibility of an attack. So for them to be successful, it’s much less about surprise now than it is finding the right spot and the right time. They probably took photos of all of our men.”

  Dwyer recalled the intruder’s image on the monitor and froze it. He turned to Ray. “What do you think?”

  “Could be,” Ray said.

  “Could be what?” Olivia asked.

  “It’s not the best image,” Dwyer said, “but our friend here could be Iranian. Admittedly, he could be two dozen other nationalities, but we can probably rule out ethnic Norwegian.”

  “Do you think they know I’m here?” Olivia asked.

  “T
hey know you’re here but they probably don’t know who you are,” Dwyer replied. “Whoever’s watching this place is likely rank and file and doesn’t know you’re an aide to James Brandt. If they did, they might’ve decided that attacking was superfluous.”

  “Why?”

  “Mike says someone’s killing just about anyone he’s talked to over the last few days. The logical inference is that someone thinks Mike has information they don’t want disclosed to higher-ups in our government. You, Olivia Perry, are definitely a higher-up. So, if they know you’re Olivia Perry, aide to the national security advisor, from their perspective the cat must already be out of the bag. There would no longer be a reason to come after us. The issue’s moot.”

  “Not really,” Olivia argued. “It doesn’t necessarily follow that just because Garin told you, and you told me, that the higher-ups believe Garin. After all, Garin’s wanted by the FBI for killing two men in Dale City.”

  “He’s probably going to kill more before we figure this all out,” Dwyer added, judging this wasn’t the time to tell Olivia that Garin had already dispatched several more Iranians.

  “What?”

  “Mike thinks he’s being tailed by more Iranians, so he might have to act,” Dwyer said, easing slowly toward the truth.

  “When were you planning on telling me this?”

  “I was getting to it before we were interrupted by our friend there,” Dwyer said, pointing to the surveillance monitor.

  “Is this how Garin typically solves problems? By killing people?” Olivia’s exasperation increased as she spoke.

  Dwyer paused as if seriously considering the question. “Pretty much,” he said, and shrugged.

  “Dan,” Olivia admonished, “this isn’t funny. Your friend can’t go roaming the countryside killing people. That’s not a prescription for enhancing his credibility. Where are those brains of his you keep talking about? He’s in very deep—”

  “Excrement,” Dwyer finished. “Yeah, I told him the same thing this afternoon. He’s a big boy. He knows exactly how this would look. Mike would kill them only if they were about to kill him. His brains aren’t very much use if he’s dead.”

  Olivia softened a bit. “But he’s—”

  “No buts, Olivia,” Dwyer interrupted. “Mike is our best bet at determining exactly what’s going on with the Iranians and Russians. And clearly, based on the events of the past few days, something serious is going on. Understand one thing, though.” Dwyer leaned forward in his chair and pointed a finger at Olivia. “Mike is going to kill more people before this is over. If he doesn’t, he’s dead. So be prepared.”

  There was a buzz. A security monitor showed Matt and Carl standing outside the door to the vault. Dwyer pressed a button and the door opened.

  “We’ve combed the grounds and the perimeter’s secure,” Matt said. “We’ve also alerted the police. They’ll do a standard drive-by. Would you like us to escort Ms. Perry home?”

  “Ms. Perry will be joining us for dinner and will remain here tonight,” Dwyer said. Dwyer turned to Olivia. “I hope you don’t mind. I’m not that fond of the idea of you being in your apartment tonight. Unless you can wrangle an invitation to spend the night at the White House, this is the most secure residence you’ll find in the Washington metro area.”

  “I guess this is where I’m supposed to politely decline and say I don’t need the protection, but after everything that’s happened, I’d be foolish not to accept the offer. The only problem is, I don’t have any toiletries or change of clothes. Something tells me, though, that’s not going to be an issue?”

  “No. We should have everything you’ll need, and if we don’t, I think you can probably convince Matt to make a run to the closest store,” Dwyer assured her. He gestured ceremoniously toward Carl. “This gentleman makes the best gumbo outside Louisiana, and it tastes just as good in the kitchen as it does in the formal dining room. So if you don’t mind, why don’t you join us there in about an hour?”

  “Sounds good,” Olivia said, looking forward to the chance to gather more information about Garin’s adventures in Iran. “Can you show me to my room?”

  “Matt will be happy to. Since Carl will be doing the cooking, Ray will go along to keep an eye on Matt.” All four of the former special operators were grinning like schoolboys. Olivia smiled too.

  “Oh,” Dwyer said as an afterthought. “And watch out for Max.”

  “Who’s Max?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  NORTHERN IRAN

  JULY 16 • 9:53 A.M. IRDT

  The best palliative, Chernin found, was to keep repeating to himself the phrase “Just a few days more.” He repeated it both in his mind and out loud. He repeated it when one of the Iranians would give him a hateful look for drinking vodka. He repeated it when the North Korean technicians asked the same infernal question for the hundredth time. He repeated it most often when his boss, Stetchkin, called.

  There remained little substantive work for him to do. He had come in under budget and ahead of schedule. For that, Stetchkin had rewarded him with a series of threats and rebukes, reciting all of Chernin’s deficiencies. But Stetchkin had also made good on the bonuses, deposited timely in Chernin’s account and in the correct amounts. And a premium, of all things, was added to the last bonus.

  The bonuses and premium would permit Chernin a comfortable retirement. He would be able to fulfill his plan to buy a small place in the warmest village he could find on the Black Sea. He would read, boat, and make leisurely excursions to scenic destinations throughout southern Europe. He would, in short, stop living like a character from a Chekhov play.

  The anticipation of these pursuits should have lifted the spirits of a man in Chernin’s position. Instead, he became more depressed as his time on the project drew to a close.

  Chernin was a pragmatist, a realist. And a pessimist. He lacked a capacity for self-delusion. As such, he understood clearly that the cause of his depression was the project’s imminent success. He had presided over an enterprise that would result in the deaths of hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of innocents. The fact that he was being generously rewarded for his brilliant management of the project depressed him further still. The project was an abomination. Profiting from it was evil.

  During the early stages of the endeavor, its potential consequences were too remote in time to give Chernin much pause. Then, as work proceeded, the scale of the damage the project would cause continued to make the effects too enormous to grasp.

  But now the project was complete. And although Chernin had no capacity for self-delusion, he had a healthy capacity for avoidance. He tried to ignore the purposes of what he’d been working on for the last three years. But he could avoid them no longer.

  Chernin wasn’t a man given to frequent introspection. He rarely gave much thought to whether he was a good man, a bad man, or something in between. He was more concerned with survival than self-evaluation.

  Lately, however, he’d asked himself what kind of man gives his best efforts to an endeavor that would cause horrific suffering. For a while he had compared himself to those who had worked on the Manhattan Project. Those scientists had created a terrible instrument that had extinguished tens of thousands of lives indiscriminately and instantly.

  But his inability to engage in self-delusion ensured that the comparison was short-lived. Those men had created a terrible weapon for the purpose of bringing a war to an end, to ultimately save the estimated millions of lives that would have perished with an invasion of the Japanese mainland. Chernin’s work had no such noble purpose, regardless of the deranged rationalizations of the mullahs in Tehran or the sterile explanations of the schemers in the Kremlin.

  At another point, he thought a better comparison might be to the crew of the Enola Gay. After all, like them, he was simply carrying out the orders of his superiors with no real knowledge of the r
amifications of such orders. But again, the crew members of the Enola Gay were on a mission to end a war, not start one. Chernin quickly resigned himself to the fact that the most apt comparison was to the engineers of the Final Solution, those efficient ciphers who asserted at Nuremberg that they were merely following orders. And that really depressed him.

  He resorted to vodka more frequently. It helped temporarily, but afterward he would often be even more despondent. At such times he would occasionally stroll along the catwalks outside his office, silently cursing the circumstances that had placed him here with these insufferable wretches.

  In the last few months he had found a rather unlikely companion with whom to commiserate. Although Chernin had mentioned a few irrelevancies about the project to Mansur, it was the North Korean technician, Dong Sung Park, in whom he most frequently confided.

  Most of the North Koreans were a source of aggravation for Chernin. They seemed perpetually intent on demonstrating their competence in missile technology. They weren’t shy about giving unsolicited advice and recommending changes in protocols. Even by Russian standards, they were abrupt and undiplomatic.

  Park was different. He was quiet and unassuming. Despite the fact that he was in his early thirties and had no apparent connection to the leaders of the North Korean regime, he was the head of his nation’s missile contingent, supervising men much older and with more seniority. In the rigid North Korean hierarchy, that fact alone spoke volumes.

  What set Park apart from the rest of the North Koreans, however, was his attitude toward the project. Like Chernin, Park had serious misgivings about the endeavor, its purpose, and the involvement of the Iranians. Because Park was painfully cautious, even for someone who had spent his entire life under a mercurial totalitarian regime, it took several months of daily interaction with the man for Chernin to begin to recognize that Park might not necessarily agree with the party line.