Garin now heard the sound of a helicopter approaching from the west. He was fairly confident the air-conditioner overhang would shield him from the view of the helicopter’s occupants but retreated slightly from the wall so that no portion of his body protruded from the shelter.
This is quite a production, thought Garin. The numbers of SWAT personnel seemed to grow even larger over the next thirty seconds. Another dark sedan was waved through the roadblock at Fourteenth and K and came to a halt in the middle of the street in front of the hotel. The passenger door opened and a figure familiar to Garin got out. He wore a dark business suit and an air of authority. His name was Jack Sakai, the head of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team. Garin had met him several years ago during joint training exercises at Quantico. The heavy hitters were coming out to get Garin.
The Hollywood Suits emerged from the hotel and met Sakai on the sidewalk, where they engaged in an animated discussion. As they did so, Garin checked the surrounding buildings again, leaving for last the two sniper-friendly spots he had previously identified.
Atop the Tower Building across the street a curious maintenance man watched the proceedings below. In a tenth-floor window of the adjacent office building an office worker in a white shirt and red tie did the same. Garin slowly panned to the sniper-friendly locations. He saw nothing at the first but noticed a barely perceptible anomaly at the second. On the roof of the PNC Bank building, there was what appeared to be a slight discoloration in the otherwise dark gray metal façade of a window washer’s carriage. Only a skilled observer in a position precisely level with the PNC rooftop would’ve had just the right angle and cast of light to spot the discoloration.
While keeping his binoculars trained on the anomaly, Garin adjusted the focus carefully. He then closed his eyes for several seconds to dilate his pupils. When he peered through the binoculars again he thought he could make out something that might be a man. On the other hand, it could very well be an odd-shaped blotch of faded paint on the carriage. A Rorschach test. For anyone else, it was faded paint. For Garin, it held the potential for death.
Garin ignored the activity in the street below and remained focused on the Rorschach test. He didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He concentrated on slowing his breathing, so that his gaze remained steady. He stared at the single spot for several minutes, willing some form of movement. Nothing.
Garin remained patient. His attention stayed fixed on the Rorschach despite an urge to wipe away an annoying bead of perspiration that perched on his right eyelid. He ignored the helo circling overhead. He disciplined himself to avoid looking down at the FBI teams on the street below. And he waited. Yet the Rorschach remained unchanged.
A moment before Garin was about to end his surveillance, a thread of sunlight reflecting off the windshield of the circling helicopter splayed for a millisecond across the carriage. In that millisecond, Garin caught the unmistakable face of one of the most lethal men in the country’s arsenal of covert operators. Approximately thirty hours ago, Garin thought he’d seen that face in a field in upstate New York. Now, seeing it a second time left absolutely no doubt in Garin’s mind as to whom it belonged. Congo Knox, Delta sniper.
Sergeant Knox’s exploits and capabilities were legendary. He could hit the proverbial eye of a mosquito in a hurricane at a thousand yards and disappear while standing at attention at midfield during the Super Bowl. He had more than eighty confirmed kills and an even larger number of probables. His longest recorded kill was nineteen hundred yards, using a fifty-caliber McMillan TAC-50. A man with such skill probably considered it an insult to be assigned such an easy target. Whoever had sent him believed there could be absolutely no margin for error.
Knox’s face and form disappeared with the flash of light caused by the helicopter. Garin scanned the area immediately surrounding the carriage and saw nothing. As he had in upstate New York, Knox was probably working without a spotter.
Knox, Garin reasoned, was positioned in the hide atop the PNC Bank to take out Garin once the FBI had him in custody or, perhaps, when Garin attempted to escape from the hotel. Either way, it was clear that Knox and the FBI weren’t working in tandem. The FBI wanted Garin alive. Someone else wanted him dead. That someone was giving Knox orders.
Garin looked back down at the entrance to the hotel. Sakai and the Hollywood Suits were still talking. The helicopter continued to circle overhead, and at the roadblock at Fourteenth and I a few blocks away, a television news sound truck appeared seconds later. The Hollywood Suits reentered the hotel as Sakai remained standing on the sidewalk, looking like a man waiting impatiently for a delayed train.
Garin resumed scanning the surroundings, hoping that he would find some clue as to why a large contingent of an elite FBI division as well as a Delta Force sniper were pursuing him. Crowds of pedestrians, emboldened by the lack of anything dangerous occurring in the last ten minutes, were beginning to form behind the roadblocks at Fourteenth and I and Fourteenth and Thomas Circle.
Methodically scanning the crowd, Garin noticed something odd about a solitary figure standing at the far right of the barricade at Fourteenth and I. The man stood with his hands thrust into his pockets, looking intently at the entrance to the hotel. His demeanor was different from that of the other spectators. His face was serious. He wasn’t there for entertainment or out of curiosity. He looked like a man performing a job.
The man’s physical appearance also caught Garin’s attention. He appeared very fit under a white polo shirt and tan trousers and had a bearing Garin recognized. The man was either former or current military. Elite military.
Garin examined the man’s face closely. Something about his face seemed artificial, yet somewhat familiar. He wore an Orioles cap and sunglasses and had an unfashionable blond mustache.
It was the mustache. It didn’t fit the face. It was as fake as the facial molds Garin had worn moments earlier. Someone didn’t wear a fake mustache, especially one as unflattering as that, unless his aim was the same as Garin’s had been—to avoid facial recognition. Whoever the man was, the capture or killing of Michael Garin was certainly drawing an interesting crowd.
Renewed activity at the hotel entrance caught Garin’s attention. The Hollywood Suits had reappeared and were in heated conversation with Sakai. The trio’s hand gestures and overall body language conveyed exasperation. Garin surmised that the Hollywood Suits were telling Sakai that the search of the hotel had thus far revealed no signs of a dangerous rogue operator wanted for multiple murders in Virginia and New York.
Garin returned his attention to the figure at the Fourteenth and I barricade. The man also appeared intrigued by the exchange between Sakai and the Hollywood Suits, so much so that he removed his sunglasses for a better look.
The man had wolf’s eyes. Predatory. The feeling of bewilderment Garin had felt the last few days returned even more forcefully.
The man Garin was looking at was dead. At least he was supposed to be. Burned to ashes. He was John Gates, Omega operator. His corpse had been exhumed from the smoldering remains of his house in Dumfries. Garin had seen the destruction himself. He had learned all of his teammates, including Gates, were dead. Yet Gates was now standing in half-assed disguise behind a police barricade waiting for Garin to be apprehended by the FBI.
Garin shook his head. He had staged the Crowne Plaza check-in for the specific purpose of flushing out who was after him, but he hadn’t expected to be more perplexed after the maneuver than before.
Garin knew why the FBI was after him, and through Olivia Perry, by way of Dan Dwyer, he might be able to obtain information on the FBI’s activities. He might even have a contact point in Sakai, who appeared to be running the show. As for Congo Knox, Garin couldn’t very well walk up and ask him why Delta was trying to kill a US citizen in apparent violation of the law. But Garin might get some information, if not an explanation, from Perry and Dwyer.
Gates, howev
er, was another matter entirely. His return from the dead raised even more questions than the appearance of Congo Knox. Why was Gates reported dead? What purpose did it serve? How did he know Garin had checked into the Crowne Plaza?
It was the last question that troubled Garin most. Someone within the law enforcement or intelligence community had to have informed Gates that a man using Garin’s credit card had checked into the hotel, and that information had to have been conveyed instantaneously. Someone within those communities was helping Gates maintain the fiction that he was dead.
Garin could think of no innocent reason for doing so.
There was nothing else to gain from staying on the roof of the NLRB building. But he wouldn’t be able to leave until the FBI’s search was completed and the roadblocks were removed from the surrounding streets. That might take another twenty or thirty minutes, possibly more. He might as well put the time to productive use. Garin took out his cell phone, punched in a number, and recited a series of digits.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
MOUNT VERNON, VIRGINIA
JULY 16 • 11:21 A.M. EDT
For Dwyer, the last forty-eight hours had been largely consumed by all things Garin.
The call from his former partner came seconds after Dwyer had settled into his chair in the subbasement communications room. Dwyer pressed a button on the armrest to connect.
“Where are you?” Dwyer asked Garin.
“In town. Watching the FBI search for someone in the Crowne Plaza. Up on the rooftop a short distance away is a jolly old soul. Not Saint Nick, but a scary elf from Delta. Pretty sure he’s not there to deliver presents,” Garin replied.
“My, but you’re a popular fellow.”
“More popular than you know. Even the dead are coming out to see me today.”
“Anyone I know?”
“About two blocks down around Fourteenth and I is a man who’s a ringer for my old Georgian team member,” Garin said, referring to Gates, a native of Augusta.
“Impossible. The Georgian is confirmed dead. They dragged him out of the ashes of his house after it burned to the ground.”
“What do you mean confirmed dead?”
“I mean he’s not breathing. Horizontal. Cold to the touch. They pulled his body—what was left of it—from his house. And there wasn’t much left of the house, either.”
“How do they know it was the Georgian?”
“You think someone snuck into his house while he was away, set it on fire, and then decided to take a nap in his garage?”
Garin became slightly annoyed. “C’mon, buddy, you know what I mean and I don’t have much time. Forensics. DNA. Did they confirm it was Gates?”
“DNA sampling confirms significant traces of his blood in the garage.”
“What did the body look like?”
“Like it had been through a fire. Very little, if any, flesh remained. An accelerant had been used. Extreme heat. Primarily skeletal remains.”
“Did they check dental records?” Garin asked.
“They couldn’t. Apparently, he was shot once in the forehead right at the bridge of the nose. He fell next to a stack of cinder blocks. One or two fell flush on his face, pulverizing much of his skull, including his teeth. No way to do a meaningful comparison. Besides, after they checked the blood sample, they probably figured there was no need.”
“Very convenient,” Garin scoffed. “Crushed skull, burned corpse, blood helpfully spilled for forensics examiners. Whoever that poor guy was, he wasn’t the Georgian. He was planted there to make everyone believe he was the Georgian.”
“Well, you just might be right,” Dwyer agreed, nodding slowly as he thought about it. “Everyone thinks you snuffed your whole team. Who else had the knowledge and skill to pull that off? Who else could’ve gotten so close to a group of elite operators? And, just to be sure, they—whoever’s trying to pin this all on you—even shot the fake Georgian right at the bridge of the nose. Your signature. The question is, why?”
“And who? But look, I can’t discuss that now. I’ve got to get out of here and somehow find the Georgian. He should be able to provide some answers.”
“Before you go, two things,” Dwyer said quickly. “I got a call late last night. Your hunch was right. They found the Professor of Death and Destruction by the side of the road in Kings Canyon. He’d been shot twice and thrown—or fell—down a hill off Generals Highway. Somehow the tough SOB crawled up that hill and lay at the side of the road, where some hikers found him.”
Garin winced. “How is he?”
“Not good, buddy. He was out there for more than three days. He lost a lot of blood. Exposure, dehydration. One of my West Coast guys is at the hospital right now. He can’t get any information from the medical people, but the cops have told him what they know.”
Garin’s jaw tightened. He respected Laws more than any living being in the world. From feared instructor to close friend, Laws had taught Garin more than anyone, except Pop. The two mentors were alike in many ways. Outwardly mean, physically tough old bastards with impossible standards who unapologetically expected you to meet those standards. Men who had a clear, unsentimental understanding of the world and those who populated it. Laws, Garin knew, had been targeted because of their close association, the possibility that vital information had been shared.
“Keep me updated, buddy,” Garin said quietly.
“Just so you know, my guy says the Professor has got tubes going in and out of every orifice in his body, and he’s mostly unconscious. The cops say during moments of lucidity he tries to talk.”
“Tell your guy to find out what he’s saying. Whatever he says, let me know. Don’t discount anything.”
“All he’s said so far, strangely enough, is that he’s bored. Either he’s not all there or the wicked Laws humor can overcome even the most life-threatening wounds.”
“That’s not what he’s saying,” Garin countered. “I guarantee it. He’s trying to tell them something useful. Tell your man that the Professor has very important information. Hell, ask our newfound friends in high places to send one of their specialists over there to find out what he’s saying. Damn it, the man’s not delusional or being funny. This isn’t the first time he’s been near death. He’s a pro. He’s trying to convey information—probably about who did this to him.”
“Will do. That brings me to the second point. I had a very long talk with our ‘friend.’ I think she’s someone who’s actually on your side. Given the crap you’re in and that you’re generally a pain in the ass, I’d say that’s a pretty big deal.”
Garin thought for a moment. “What about her boss?”
“Well, obviously, I can’t be certain. But he’s the one who sent her over here in the first place. And if she has any influence, I think he’ll be sympathetic. Do you want me to put him in touch with you?”
“No. But you can tell her I’m in D.C., and you can tell her everything I’ve told you.” Garin paused. “And tell her I need their help now. If they can’t call off the FBI, at least tell them to call off a certain sniper. He’s military, and that’s illegal. They should have some pull with that.”
Garin hesitated before adding, “And ask them to at least tell the FBI my version of what’s going on.”
“And if the FBI asks where they got information about a wanted fugitive?”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. Our friends are smart. They can just say they’ve heard from sources. Nothing wrong with that. It’s not like they’re aiding and abetting.”
Dwyer wasn’t wholly convinced but saw little harm in making the request. “Okay. Anything else I can do?”
“You’ve done plenty. But don’t get any ideas that I owe you or anything like that.” Garin disconnected.
Dwyer immediately hit another button and placed a call to Olivia Perry.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
JULY 16 • 11:38 A.M. EDT
Arlo guided James Brandt through the halls of the White House, Secret Service agents parting to permit them to pass.
Brandt had just come from a short briefing for Vice President David Wilson, who was stepping in for the president while the latter was convalescing in Walter Reed. Wilson had quizzed Brandt on his take on the imminent UN resolution sponsored by the Russians and Iranians but seemed only mildly interested in what Brandt had to say. It was almost as if Wilson was just going through the motions, which past occupants of the office have, in colorful fashion, described as the primary function of the position.
Olivia Perry was waiting in Brandt’s office when he arrived. “Good morning, Olivia. Your meeting with Mr. Dwyer was productive?”
After patting Arlo on the head and taking a seat in one of two chairs in front of Brandt’s desk, Olivia wasted no time with pleasantries. “Michael Garin is being set up by the Iranians to take the fall for the assassination of his team. The most rational motivation for the Iranians to do so is to facilitate their intended use of WMD against Israel.”
Olivia’s lack of equivocation drew a loud chuckle from Brandt. “Whoa, whoa, slow down there. No other possibilities, Olivia? None at all?”
“There are always possibilities. But my conclusion is the most logical probability,” Olivia asserted.
Brandt chuckled again as he scratched Arlo behind the ears. His aide had rarely suffered from self-doubt or second-guessing when it came to her work, the product of usually being right. “Tell me how you came to that conclusion.”
Olivia related her conversation with Dwyer in exacting detail: Garin’s peculiar disappearance from BUD/S and SQT; the Garin apparitions in various operational theaters; his Russian heritage; the Omega team; his probable operations in Iran; the Iranian assassins; and the possible involvement of Delta Force. Olivia became most animated while describing the rescue of Dwyer’s SEAL team in Kunar Province.
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