“That was one of my guys in California,” Dwyer said, patting the breast pocket in which he had just stowed his cell phone. “Thanks to the help of a sheriff’s deputy who was a former swim buddy in the teams, he was able to spend several hours in the hospital room of Clint Laws, Garin’s old boss. Laws was shot and in pretty bad shape. He was in and out, mumbling things no one could understand. Garin was right, though; that tough old bird wasn’t talking about how bored he was.”
“You’ve lost me. What do you mean?”
“Laws had been shot and left for dead at the bottom of a ravine near Generals Highway in Kings Canyon. Wounds in the head and chest. Professional,” Dwyer said, shaking his head in disgust.
“Anyway, the old man refuses to die,” Dwyer continued. “Crawls up the ravine to the side of the road, where a couple of hikers find him. They call 911 and Laws is life flighted to Community Regional Medical Center in Fresno. When they get him there, he’s barely conscious, on the verge of death. Everyone thinks he’s babbling incoherently about how bored he is. Delusional.” Dwyer looked up and waved off the waiter, who had appeared at Olivia’s elbow, before continuing.
“Except for Mikey. He insists Laws is trying to tell us something. Turns out he was, but I’m not sure what.”
“Exactly what did your man tell you?” Olivia asked.
“Earlier this afternoon, he calls to say Laws described the men who hit him. Two Middle Eastern–looking dudes. Called one Mr. Obvious or something. Then the nurses come in and chase my guy off, but he gets the sheriff’s deputy to intercede and goes back in. Laws was unconscious for a long while, but a few minutes ago he told my guy that he overheard the two guys who shot him talking while they were standing over him, thinking he was dead. They were talking about reporting in to someone named Taras Bor.”
“Taras Bor doesn’t sound like a Middle Eastern name,” Olivia said. “More like Russian or Ukrainian. Given the circumstances, though, my guess is Russian. It looks like the UN isn’t the only place where Russians and Iranians are working together.”
“I don’t know why, but something tells me I should know that name,” Dwyer said pensively. “I’ll run it through our databases to see if we get any hits. It would probably be a good idea for you to do the same. See if you can get CIA, NSA, and everyone else to run the name. He may be the one who orchestrated the assassination of the Omega team.”
“The Russians working with the Iranians on the UN censure resolution is one thing. There are certain advantages to Russia in an unstable Middle East. But assassinating America’s counter-WMD strike force—if that’s in fact what they did—is another order of magnitude,” Olivia said.
Dwyer summoned the waiter, who was waiting patiently out of earshot. “Olivia, why don’t you have some dinner? You can’t solve the Middle East crisis and usher in a golden age of world peace on an empty stomach.”
Olivia ordered the free-range chicken breast. Dwyer ordered a glass of ginger ale.
“You’re not eating?” Olivia asked.
“As you’ve probably noted, I can stand to miss a meal or two.”
Once the waiter left with their order, Olivia asked, “Have you heard anything more from Michael Garin?”
“As a matter of fact, I have. He’s in the District.”
“When did you talk to him?”
“Late morning, which means he’s been running around unsupervised for the last five or six hours. And that means there’s a pretty good chance he’s engaged in some mayhem.”
“That raid on the Crowne Plaza had something to do with him, didn’t it? On the news they said that traffic was backed up for hours as a result.”
“That was him.” Dwyer nodded. He looked down as if pondering a dilemma. “Look, I told you earlier that Mike might have to kill more men before this is over. You should know that he’s eliminated at least half a dozen Iranians in the last two days. Maybe more by now.”
“What?” Olivia’s outburst drew the attention of surrounding diners. She immediately lowered her voice. “Six Iranians now? What could he possibly be thinking?”
Dwyer wasn’t especially surprised by Olivia’s reaction. The last she’d heard, Garin had shot two men in Dale City. She was smart enough to conclude that Garin had done so in self-defense. But the body count was adding up. It was difficult for a civilian to absorb.
“Olivia, I told you, this is what Mike does—”
Olivia cut him off. “You mean start mini-wars on American soil? Reenact the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre?” Although her voice was hushed, her tone was one of exasperation. She’d invested valuable time with this band of former special operators. They had impressed her as responsible and civilized. Now it appeared that Garin was nothing more than a rampaging thug shooting up the countryside. Relying on such a man was imprudent, to say the least.
“Before you get all righteously indignant,” Dwyer said firmly, “you just might want to consider the circumstances. Mike’s entire team has been wiped out. His mentor was shot and left for dead. Multiple teams of Iranian assassins have been hunting him for the last several days.”
Dwyer’s voice became sharper and more strident with each word. He liked and respected Olivia. She seemed to have an admiration for the military sometimes lacking among many of the people who traveled in her circles. But even someone as grounded as Olivia often had difficulty appreciating the terms under which men like Garin operated.
“Not only that, but his own government is trying to kill him,” Dwyer continued, noticing Olivia’s eyebrows arch upon hearing the statement. “That’s right. And I’m not talking about the cops or the FBI. Someone’s decided that Mike is sufficiently dangerous that he needs to be taken out—no Miranda rights, no trial, no judge, no jury—just killed immediately, no questions asked. Like some rabid animal that needs to be put down. So you might want to consider forgiving him for acting in self-defense when teams of assassins come gunning for him.”
Olivia’s demeanor quickly changed from prosecutorial to contrite. “Look, Dan, you guys get enough crap without having to hear it from someone like me. I get it. I do. I just reacted to hearing the number—six men killed.” Olivia paused and shook her head. “But I’m having a hard time believing that the United States government is trying to kill Michael Garin. What makes you say that? What evidence do you have?”
“Mike told me that two nights ago in upstate New York, more than a dozen men, armed to the gills, came looking for him. They came on military helos. Not only were they armed to the teeth, they moved like military. Mike was able to identify one of them. He’s a Delta Force sniper.”
“Delta Force?” Olivia said incredulously. “Dan, seriously, no one in government could give that order. Not even the president.”
“Well, someone gave it. Mike saw the sniper again this morning. He was outside the Crowne Plaza during the FBI raid, poised to hit Mike if he made an appearance.”
Olivia sank into the back of her chair as she processed what she’d just heard. The waiter returned with their drinks and a basket of bread. Olivia waited until he left before speaking.
“I have to say I don’t think this is something I’m at all equipped to handle. I’m an aide to the national security advisor. I can talk to you about the implications of the START II Treaty on missile defense or what side the US should take in the Kashmir dispute. But this”—Olivia shrugged, palms upturned—“this is spook stuff, serious spook stuff. What am I supposed to make of this?”
“Help Mike, Olivia.”
“Help him how? What can I possibly do?”
“You work for a man who has the president’s ear. You don’t have to interfere with the FBI investigation. Just tell them the truth. Tell them Mike was set up in Dale City, that it was self-defense. And that you have credible evidence that Delta Force has targeted him.”
“Do I? Do I have credible evidence? Listen to what you
’re saying. I’m supposed to go to the FBI and say, ‘Hey, guys, that Michael Garin you’re looking for was set up by an Iranian hit squad, the same squad that wiped out the US counter-WMD strike force. They’re still trying to kill him, as is Delta Force, by the way. So cut him some slack, okay?’ Is that what you expect me to say?”
“It’s precisely because you’re an aide to Brandt that they’ll take it seriously. They need to start looking for the real bad guys.”
“What do I say when they ask me where I got the information?”
“That you got it from one of the Pentagon’s biggest contractors; a guy who’s got multiple clearances; a guy who’s been vetted a thousand times by the FBI, DOD, and a half dozen committees of Congress. And who’s witty, charming, and exceedingly handsome.”
“They’ll ask me for a name, Dan. If I don’t cooperate, they’ll hit me with obstruction.”
“Tell them it’s Dan Dwyer. Hell, tell them Mike’s been calling me on a regular basis. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“They’ll want to know where Mike is. Do you know where to find him?”
Dwyer hesitated. “I know where he was last night, but he’s probably not there anymore.”
“You provided him with a place to stay, didn’t you?” An adult remonstrating a child.
“He’s probably not there anymore,” Dwyer repeated.
Olivia sighed. Arguing with Dwyer was futile. The type of man who became a Navy SEAL was the type who would die before quitting almost anything, even an argument. But beyond that, he was right. The FBI needed to know the facts. Whatever the Russians and Iranians were up to, it had to be bad.
“Even if they go for it, they’ll want Garin to turn himself in,” Olivia said.
“Fat chance.”
“They’ll tap your phones, monitor your e-mail,” Olivia said, a final parry before yielding.
“Let them try. My systems will have them so screwed up they’ll end up listening to the French prime minister placing an order for truffles with his mistress’s chocolatier.”
“Okay,” she relented. “I’ll give it a shot. I’ll talk to the FBI about the Iranian operators, about Michael being set up. I need to clear it with Jim, but I think he’ll be okay with it. But the issue of Delta is another matter entirely. I don’t even know where to begin there—they’ll seriously doubt my credibility, if not my sanity. No one, I mean no one, can give an order to American military to kill Michael Garin on American soil, except in the most extraordinary of circumstances. And even if someone had, no one will ever admit to it. It could only have come from the highest levels. We’re playing with fire here, Dan. Four alarm.”
The waiter returned with Olivia’s entrée. Again, Olivia and Dwyer paused until the waiter departed before resuming the conversation.
“I understand about Delta,” Dwyer said. “Start with James Brandt. Tell him about Delta first. See what he thinks. Let’s see if the Oracle has a solution. But make it fast. Mike’s out there by himself. I’m not so worried about the Iranians, but Delta is a concern even for Mike Garin.”
“Now, in return for doing this, I want to talk to Michael directly,” Olivia insisted.
“I don’t think Mike will object. In fact, I think he’ll be happy to do so. Next time he calls . . .” Dwyer paused as he watched the hostess lead Julian Day and another man to a table at the other end of the restaurant. Day sat with his back toward Dwyer, while his dinner companion sat facing him. While Day’s appearance was reptilian, the other man’s was amphibian. His short, squat frame, bald pate, and bulging eyes made him resemble a bloated frog.
Dwyer had seen the man before but couldn’t place him. “Excuse me a moment, Olivia.” Dwyer pulled out his cell phone and aimed the camera at the frog.
The Mayflower was a good place to people watch. And surreptitiously take pictures of them.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
JULY 16 • 5:30 P.M. EDT
Garin ascended the stairs to the master bedroom of the house that Dwyer contended he wasn’t in. In his right hand was a flash drive he had retrieved from the pocket of the athletic Iranian as he lay on the highway on the Eastern Shore.
Garin had conducted a quick sweep of the Severn after leaving the scene of the accident. He had retrieved his SIG but had found nothing else of note. In fact, it appeared to Garin that the Iranians had concluded their stay. The refrigerator contained just two bottles of water and a plastic container with the remains of some kind of meat. The closets were empty. He found no weapons of any kind. The keys to a Ford Explorer parked outside the cabin were on the kitchen counter.
After checking the Iranians’ SUV for any obvious booby traps and surveillance, he wiped down the Fusion and left it at Terrapin Estates in favor of the Explorer. Since he couldn’t be certain the Explorer didn’t have any hidden tracking devices, he parked the vehicle several blocks from the safe house and would abandon the vehicle as soon as he could secure another one.
The flash drive might yield a wealth of information about what the Iranians were up to or it might reveal nothing. Garin was skeptical that it would be of much use. Over the last few days, questions seemed to multiply in inverse proportion to answers. All he knew was that for some reason, someone wanted Garin and his team dead, and that someone had somehow motivated actors as disparate as the FBI and Iranian operators to get the job done.
Garin settled into a cushioned swivel chair before the laptop in the master bedroom. He paused before inserting the flash drive into the portal and examined the innocuous-looking device. Not long ago he had assisted a team that had used such a device to set back the Iranian nuclear program by at least two years. The device had contained a worm that had wreaked havoc on the computers controlling, among other things, the centrifuges that had processed uranium.
The Iranians hadn’t been careful. Garin would be. He thought about what he’d seen in Pakistan. He’d survived scores of operations by being prepared. Caution dictated that he take an additional step before examining the contents of the flash drive. He picked up a secure cell phone and called Dan Dwyer.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHALUS, IRAN
JULY 17 • 2:00 A.M. IRDT
The blood on his face was noticeably warm, a thought Chernin found somewhat odd given the circumstances. He also thought it strange that his heart rate was stable and his mind was calm and focused. Although this wasn’t the first time he’d killed someone, it was the first since the Afghan war almost three decades ago, and then his target had been hundreds of feet away, not seated next to him in a cramped Subaru.
After leaving Mansur’s apartment, Park and Chernin had returned to their waiting automobile. Chernin knew immediately that something was amiss when he saw that the Quds Force driver wasn’t alone. Seated next to him was a stocky, bearded man Chernin didn’t recognize but who had the familiar sneering look of another secret police thug. The man must have entered the vehicle while Park and Chernin had been in Mansur’s apartment.
Chernin’s suspicions had increased when Park approached the vehicle without so much as a hitch in his stride or a glance at Chernin. The presence of a second man in the vehicle hadn’t seemed to faze the hypercautious North Korean in the least.
No Russian, however, would take the unexpected appearance of the second man as anything other than a bad sign. Over the last century untold thousands of disappearances had been preceded by something seemingly innocuous but slightly out of the ordinary: the sudden appearance of an old friend; the Lada idling across the street. Some Russians made preparations for the fateful day; others thought preparation a wasted effort. The result, after all, was almost always the same.
Nonetheless, Chernin believed in preparation, however futile. And he wasn’t in Russia. In the two dozen or so steps from the entrance to Mansur’s apartment building to the waiting vehicle, Chernin had resolved to act without hesitat
ion upon the slightest confirmation of his suspicions. Any window of opportunity, if there was one at all, would close in an instant. He wouldn’t have the luxury of deliberation.
All doubt that something was amiss was erased when he and Park had climbed into the backseat of the car. Before he had even closed the door, Park had begun speaking.
“He told Mansur everything about . . .”
Whatever else Park was going to say was cut off by a bullet to his temple from Chernin’s Tokarev. It was followed by two bullets to the back of the driver’s head and two more to the face of the second Quds Force thug, who had turned toward the backseat when Chernin began firing.
The three men now slumped in various poses, their blood spattered across the interior of the Subaru. Chernin, unsure of the source of the blood trickling down his left cheek, absently wiped it with his free hand as he scanned the three bodies for signs of life. Seeing none, he replaced the Tokarev in his waistband and covered it with his shirt.
Although no lights had come on in any of the low-rise apartment buildings lining the street, Chernin was certain that the blasts from his pistol had awakened many, if not most, of the residents. Some were probably peering through the blinds while standing in their dark apartments to avoid detection. Mansur must have heard the shots too.
Chernin needed to move quickly, before the authorities arrived. He performed a cursory check of the corpses’ pockets and he ripped open Park’s shirt to see if he was wearing a recorder or transmitter. He wore neither. A quick glance in the glove box and under the seats revealed nothing.
Chernin gave momentary consideration to moving the car but concluded doing so would accomplish nothing. The bloody vehicle would be found soon enough. The police would be the first to arrive, perhaps within minutes. VEVAK wouldn’t be far behind. Clearly, security at the project, whether Iranian or Russian, had concerns about Chernin’s friendship with Mansur. To test Chernin, they had Park act the fairly convincing role of a potential defector. Throughout, Chernin had remained uncertain how much of Park’s professed desire to get out of North Korea was genuine. Even someone of Park’s rank couldn’t help but want out of that lunatic country. But the intensity in Park’s voice when the two shared a smoke earlier in the day seemed forced, artificial. And Park’s offer to Mansur of a hundred thousand American dollars did nothing to allay Chernin’s suspicions. A North Korean scientist, regardless of his importance, was unlikely to have access to such a sum.
Target Omega Page 23
