Target Omega

by Peter Kirsanow

  Garin decided to force the issue by moving forward and drawing fire. Two large oaks on the other side of the street would provide sufficient cover if he could just get to one of them. The first oak was on the tree lawn immediately adjacent to the street. The second was about ten yards beyond the first, in the direction of the Blazer.

  After looking to see if there were any cars approaching, Garin checked the Blazer and sprinted across Connecticut to the first oak twenty yards away. As he reached the tree lawn, jets of dirt spit from the ground, three bullets slamming into the earth a few feet in front of him. He safely reached the tree without returning fire.

  The upended vehicle was another thirty yards in front of him. The man behind the vehicle was undisciplined with his fire. Garin didn’t know how many rounds the man had expended but thought he might have only a few shots left. If he could be forced to empty his magazine, Garin might be able to get to him before he had time to insert another.

  Garin fired another round at the SUV and, just as he’d hoped, the man behind it fired back, twice striking the tree behind which Garin hid. Garin then ran to the next tree but was disappointed when he drew no fire. In the driving rain Garin couldn’t determine the make of the man’s weapon, but it was clearly a nine-millimeter semiautomatic. Depending on the type, the number of rounds could vary and he might still have cartridges left. If Garin guessed wrong, he’d be dead.

  With each passing moment, Garin’s options were dwindling. Even if his adversary had spent his magazine, he could seat a second one in the next couple of heartbeats. And if Garin didn’t move now, the Chevy Chase police might arrive, dumbfounded to find the most wanted man in America engaged in a gun battle in one of the wealthiest communities in the country near an upended SUV—next to which, of all things, lay an inert Iranian.

  Garin charged for the Blazer, firing two shots as he closed the twenty yards between the tree and the target. As he rounded the front of the vehicle, he dove to the ground and rolled to his right, the SIG gripped firmly in both hands and extended in front of him ready to fire. But there was no one to shoot.

  Garin leapt to his feet and swiftly checked all sides of the Blazer. The man was gone. As Garin had feared, he had escaped into the wooded area.

  The man couldn’t have gotten far in the seconds since his last shots, but Garin didn’t have time to track him down. Instead, he turned his attention to the vehicle. He looked through the windshield, but it didn’t appear that there were any occupants left within. To be sure, he climbed up to the passenger-side door and carefully peered inside. Empty. He opened the glove box for any identifying documents. It, too, was empty.

  Garin hopped down and stuck his weapon into his waistband. The rain was beginning to lighten up. He was soaked and covered in mud. From where he stood, he could even see several bullet indentations in the side of the Fusion, which the friendly Avis rental agent would likely find somewhat unacceptable. Garin stooped and turned the dead man onto his back. He didn’t recognize the face but thought it looked vaguely Middle Eastern. Rifling through the man’s pockets, Garin feared he’d have no more information than when he’d begun the chase. But as he pulled a piece of paper from the man’s left front pocket, Garin thought, Perhaps not.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHALUS, IRAN

  JULY 16 • 10:30 P.M. IRDT

  Mansur didn’t look anything like Park had imagined. The Iranian was shorter and heavier than expected, his face softer and more open. He looked less like a former member of a ruthless intelligence service and more like a successful hotelier, or a restaurateur nearing retirement.

  Mansur’s apartment was modest but nicely appointed and well kept. It was the apartment, thought Park, of someone well-to-do who didn’t care to advertise his wealth.

  Chernin and Park each sat on comfortable leather chairs in front of a simple but elegant mahogany coffee table. Before Park was a cup of tea. Before Chernin was a glass of Smirnoff, a baked orange peel resting at the bottom.

  Mansur sat opposite them on a low, plush couch that was startlingly white. He sipped from a bottle of water between puffs on a Cohiba. To Park, the cherubic Mansur appeared the picture of contentment.

  When Chernin had called earlier in the day, he had casually informed Mansur that he was bringing Park along. Although there had been no discussion about the purpose of the visit, the astute Mansur surmised that he would likely hear some type of business proposition that evening. Three intelligent men who had lived their lives under three of the most repressive regimes in the world didn’t gather to engage in idle conversation. A favor would be asked; a price would be discussed. If there was agreement, a plan would be formulated.

  Yet to this point—twenty minutes into the evening—the conversation had, in fact, been idle. The comparative climates of Russia, Korea, and Iran; their respective cuisines; the World Cup. Park corrected Mansur on the number of rounds it took Ali to dispatch Jerry Quarry in Atlanta. Mansur, believing he knew more about Ali than the champ himself, was surprised but delighted.

  Mansur was in no hurry. He understood that the rhythm of the conversation would soon turn to the true purpose of the pair’s visit. It was best to let the discussion flow until the visitors felt comfortable. They would broach the subject when ready.

  For his part, Park had been ready from the moment he’d entered Mansur’s apartment. He had no use for small talk and preferred to get right to the point. But he deferred to Chernin. This was his friend and he knew the optimal time to make the request. And the time came soon enough.

  “Hamid,” Chernin said in an offhand tone, tilting his head toward Park. “My friend here believes you may be of assistance to him. I’ve told him you are a very resourceful fellow who can make certain arrangements if the consideration is right.” Chernin arched his brow. “Is this a good time to talk about such arrangements?”

  Mansur understood the question perfectly. He went to great pains to ensure that his apartment was secure. He swept it regularly himself using his own equipment and countermeasures generously financed by Mossad. With the flick of a switch his windows would vibrate to frustrate laser mics. Even so, when discussing business in his home he was careful to use vague terms.

  “This is a good time to talk. It is always a good time to talk carefully,” Mansur replied.

  Both Park and Chernin understood. One of the few advantages to living in societies where paranoia was a virtue.

  “We have been working in your country for some time but have not had much opportunity to see the sights or appreciate the culture,” Chernin continued innocuously as Mansur rose and flipped what looked like a light switch next to the sliding glass doors leading to the outdoor balcony. “Can you suggest some places for us to visit before we return home?”

  “Certainly, Dmitri,” Mansur replied as he pulled a straight-backed chair to within inches of Chernin and Park before speaking softly. “What do you need?”

  Park looked at Chernin, who nodded. “In the next few days my business here will be concluded,” Park said, matching Mansur’s hushed tone. “I need someone who can arrange travel out of Iran, preferably to somewhere in Central America. But at bare minimum, out of Iran. If necessary, I can make my own way to my ultimate destination.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  Park was a bit taken aback. This was going faster than he’d expected. He had anticipated a litany of reasons why his request would be impossible to fulfill, a recitation of the dangers, a recommendation that he abandon the idea. He didn’t know what to say next. Chernin intervened.

  “We can be ready to leave in forty-eight hours. Our work is done. We’re simply filling out forms and smoking cigars. We’re scheduled to return home in days. As you know, we have the ability to leave the compound for brief periods but we are under constant surveillance. The man who brought us here this evening—the driver—is attached to Iranian Quds Force. It will be difficult, but we c
an evade him. Sometimes the driver is Russian SVR. That will make it harder, but I still believe it can be done. I have been coming here for several months now, sometimes twice a week. To them it’s inconsequential, boring. This has caused them to become lax,” Chernin said.

  Mansur nodded as if thinking. He was, but about how to steer the conversation toward the project. It was evident that the window for obtaining any more information was closing. He could no longer afford subtlety.

  “As I said, Dmitri, this can be done. But I will be frank. I am less concerned about the difficulty of getting you out of Iran and to your destination than I am about the consequences of my actions—to me, that is.”

  Park, having expected from the outset to engage in customary Persian haggling over price, believed this was Mansur’s opening gambit. “I am prepared to pay a very generous amount and bonus for your help, Mr. Mansur. That should not be an issue, I assure you. I will pay one hundred thousand American dollars plus costs. Half up front, half upon my arrival in Costa Rica or wherever my destination may be.”

  Chernin glanced at Park, an eyebrow raised.

  Mansur smiled. “I am not talking about price, Mr. Park, although I welcome your offer. I am talking about my life. Literally, I am afraid.”

  Park looked mildly confused. “You have done such things before, have you not?”

  “Yes, yes,” Mansur said, waving a shroud of smoke from his face. “There is always a risk when dealing in contraband—human or otherwise—and especially in countries such as ours. The risks may vary, but they are risks nonetheless. This, however, is different.” Mansur looked at Chernin. “Dmitri, I have enjoyed our time together. I do not have many occasions these days to socialize with individuals who are, shall we say, ‘worldly.’ What little I have learned from our conversations leads me to think you gentlemen are involved in a matter very important and extremely dangerous. That means my involvement with you would be extremely dangerous. Before I agree to help you, I must know precisely how dangerous. And whether I must then make my own arrangements.”

  Chernin and Park stared at each other for several seconds. Mansur knew that each was contemplating what, if anything, to reveal about their work. For Park, any personal constraints on full disclosure should’ve disintegrated once he’d made the decision to defect. He no longer had anything to lose. The only reason to maintain any level of secrecy was the effect disclosure might have on Chernin, who would return to Russia. Mansur resisted the urge to tell both men that Park’s defection actually gave Chernin the perfect cover. If their secret somehow got exposed, everyone—the Russians, North Koreans, Iranians—would think it was Park, the defector, who had talked.

  Chernin was thinking exactly the same thing. The Russian knew that Mansur would be killed, undoubtedly after a long and brutal torture, if the Iranian regime discovered that he had any involvement in Park’s defection. Mansur deserved to embark on this endeavor with his eyes open. He needed to know precisely what risks the endeavor entailed. But Chernin, product of the Soviet Union, needed assurances of his own.

  Chernin said in a slow, deliberate cadence, “Let us, as you said, be frank. I understand your need to assess how much risk you are assuming by helping us. And you are correct; we are involved in a matter of extreme importance to our respective countries and, accordingly, a matter very dangerous.” Chernin leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “I will tell you what I believe you need to know. But first, let me be very clear about something. Yes, we have talked about some interesting things. I have told you . . . well, not much, but more than a little of what we are doing up in the mountains. But I’m not as stupid as I may appear.” The tone of the scientist’s voice became oddly chilling.

  Mansur began to protest, but Chernin calmly raised his hand to silence him. Park shifted uncomfortably in his seat before Chernin resumed speaking. “I have never suffered under the illusion that what I’ve told you stayed in this apartment. After all, you’re former SAVAK.” Chernin paused and glanced about the room. “You live very well, despite not having any visible source of income. It is, therefore, probable that you have sold some of what I’ve told you to an interested party or parties—possibly American, but more likely Mossad.”

  Mansur had a pained look on his face. “Dmitri . . .”

  Chernin held up his hand again. “No need for explanations or apologies,” Chernin said dismissively. “I truly hope you did not think that what I told you was the result of a tongue made loose by vodka. I am not some undisciplined fool. What I told you was intended for not just your ears.”

  Expressions of surprise covered the faces of Mansur and Park. Park because he couldn’t imagine the stoic Russian would say anything whatsoever about the project to Mansur, and Mansur because he had not for a moment considered that Chernin’s revelations about the project were intentional.

  Chernin drew even closer to Mansur. “What we’re doing, my young friend and I—the missiles—is an abomination. Perhaps I did not know that at the beginning; my superiors never revealed the purpose of the project.” Chernin shrugged, his lips drawn into a scowl. “What can I say? We are Russian. Everything is a secret. This is a very big secret. And the more I have learned, the worse it is.”

  Mansur smiled in admiration. This had never happened to the old spy. He had been played by his clever friend, someone with no intelligence experience whatsoever. Over the course of their time together, Mansur believed it was he who had been manipulating the Russian.

  “It is only in the last few weeks that the essential purpose of our work has become manifest,” Chernin continued. “Yet from fairly early on, it has been my aim to alert the West that something troubling was coming. And I found a reliable conduit in you, did I not?”

  Mansur dropped all pretense. He was dealing with a man who was far more sophisticated than Mansur had imagined. “You have, Dmitri. I never put you in any danger. I never revealed the name of my contact. Nor did I provide any identifying information that could be traced to you.”

  Chernin casually sipped his vodka, staring at Mansur. He understood the last statement was untrue. That was the nature of such things.

  “Mossad?”

  Mansur didn’t respond.

  “Hamid, you must never reveal your source. Of course, I do not need to tell you this. It is your expertise, your life’s work. I simply say it for emphasis. If you were to ever reveal my name, the source of information could then be tracked back to you.”

  Chernin knew he now had an unshakable ally.

  Mansur gave two quick nods. “Yes. Your life and mine, I’m afraid, are dependent on one another.”

  “Correct. As obvious as that is, it is important, I think, for us to acknowledge it. If either of our governments learns that what I am about to tell you has been transmitted to the West, what remains of our lives will be worse than hell.”

  “If it is that bad, then I suspect I’ll have to make arrangements to leave the country myself,” Mansur said.

  “You’ll need to leave the country not only for helping my friend,” Chernin said, “but because it will be an extremely dangerous place in which to live.”

  Park’s eyes flitted from Chernin to Mansur as they spoke. “So you will help?” he asked.

  “The Iranian regime is insane,” Mansur replied to Park. “And I suspect the consequences of their insanity are about to be visited upon my country in a catastrophic way. I would do what I can to make achievement of their goals more difficult. So, of course I will help you. But first you will help me by supplying the details of the project in the mountains. I will then immediately make arrangements for your departure.” Mansur looked back to Chernin. “Dmitri, if you’re not also leaving, what will you do?”

  Chernin did not reply immediately but took another sip of vodka. “I have received a good deal of compensation for my work on the project and I plan, quite unoriginally, to use it to retire to a dacha on the Black Sea. I
will be safe—in fact, more than safe. I will be celebrated as a national hero.”

  Mansur reached forward and clasped Chernin’s hand. “Should you change your mind, I can arrange passage for you also.”

  Chernin smiled. “Always looking for a fee, Hamid.”

  “No fee, Dmitri,” Mansur said earnestly. He looked to Park. “And now that we have come to the subject of price, Mr. Park, no fee for you, either. Use the money to disappear so that you’ll never be found.”

  “Thank you,” Park said, “but I could not—”

  “No need to thank me. Thank the Israelis. I will make your arrangements before you leave tonight. They do not know it yet, but they will be paying your fee, and quite a fee it will be.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  EASTERN SHORE, MARYLAND

  JULY 16 • 3:30 P.M. EDT

  Julie Webber had worked as a rental agent for Terrapin Estates for four years. During that time she’d seen scores of people in colorful outfits, many covered with sand or mud. The rental units, after all, catered primarily to anglers and crabbers who spent the week or weekend trying their luck on Maryland’s Eastern Shore.

  The man standing before her was soaking wet and his pants and shoes were caked with mud. Julie barely registered his disheveled appearance, however, because he had the body of a gladiator. Most Terrapin Estates patrons were balding, middle-aged men with paunches who couldn’t have spiked her interest had she spent the last decade in solitary confinement. So she patiently accommodated the man’s inquiries despite the fact that company policy forbade giving out customer information.

  “Sir,” Julie said sweetly as she viewed the desktop computer screen, “we don’t show any rentals to Bobby Martin. Could he be under another name?”