Ultimately, Dmitri Chernin had not been fooled. Despite the fact that they had formed a friendship over the last several months, Chernin thought it unlikely that someone in Park’s position would’ve confided in another person so readily. The North Korean would know that the slightest sign of disloyalty could mean death. He would probe his intended accomplice for any sign of possible betrayal, any inclination toward reporting him. Such a probe would be a long, incessant effort. In this case, though the dance had lasted several months, it hadn’t been long enough.
So, as he did with everything else in his life, Chernin had planned and prepared meticulously. A pessimist when it came to human nature, Chernin anticipated that there was a fair chance he would be betrayed by Park. Chernin, therefore, had done three things.
First, using a series of fake identities he had created over the years, he wired equal amounts of the bonus he had received to accounts in Zurich, Nassau, and Montreal. He had amassed a considerable sum from both the project and general frugality over the years—enough to preserve his anonymity and live very comfortably for the remainder of his life.
Second, using a different series of false identities, he purchased several airline tickets—each with multiple connections to camouflage his ultimate destination, a place that had held his fascination since early adulthood. It had all the amenities he required—chief among them impenetrable obscurity.
Third, he coordinated his escape with Mansur. After providing Mansur with the details of the project earlier in the night, he accepted Mansur’s offer of a Puros Indios and the two walked onto the balcony for a smoke while Park examined Mansur’s rather forlorn collection of poetry inside the apartment. Chernin quietly explained his suspicions that he was being set up by Park along with either Russian or Iranian intelligence—perhaps both. As Chernin expected, Mansur already had a plan in place for getting them both out of the country, if, in fact, Chernin’s suspicions proved accurate. The entire discussion on the balcony took only a few minutes. The two had agreed upon a code to activate the plan, extinguished their cigars, and rejoined Park in the living room.
Chernin climbed from the backseat of the Subaru and punched in a number on his cell. Mansur, having heard the gunshots from the street below, picked up immediately. If the caller was Chernin, he knew he would hear him utter a single word.
“Run.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
MOUNT VERNON, VIRGINIA
JULY 16 • 9:00 P.M. EDT
Dwyer took Garin’s call in the subbasement.
“Your timing couldn’t be better,” Dwyer said.
“Been trying to reach you for a while. I need you to check something for me.”
“Before getting into that, you should know that Olivia Perry is going to try to take some heat off of you. She or Brandt is going to tell the FBI your side of the story. No guarantees that it will cause them to go in a different direction, but it will give them something to think about.”
“Good. Good. What about Delta?”
“That, as you might expect, is a bit more complicated. But she’s going to do what she can,” Dwyer replied.
“And what does she want in return?”
“A meeting. She hopes you might be able to shed some light on what the Russians and Iranians are up to. And before you start questioning my sanity, I think you should take the meeting. It’s a calculated risk. But you take those all the time.”
“In this case the risk might be too high.”
“Then focus on the reward. You get the help of the national security advisor. Risk-reward, buddy. Besides, you don’t have many options, and no good ones.”
Silence, punctuated by a sigh. “You’re right,” Garin agreed, surprising Dwyer. “I need allies and it sounds like Brandt and Perry want to form a coalition. And they’re right to suspect the Russians and Iranians are up to no good.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Various streams of information. I’ll tell Ms. Perry when I see her.”
“Does any of it involve Taras Bor?”
“Bor?” Garin asked, a wisp of concern in his voice. “How did that name come up?”
“Clint Laws. You were right—he was trying to tell us something. Apparently, the Iranians who shot Laws report to this Bor. I’m going to have my people run his name first thing in the morning.”
“Let me give you a head start. He’s Russian. Former Spetsnaz, Vympel unit. As formidable as they come. Supposedly has a scary IQ. I’ve heard he acts at the specific direction of the Russian president. An assassin, but more than that. He ran terrorist cells in Germany and specializes in regime destabilization. This is not good,” Garin said quietly.
“Heard from whom?”
“Contacts at GSG-9. You probably know some of them,” Garin responded, referring to the highly regarded German special operations unit. “I’ll fill in Ms. Perry when I meet her and she can give you the details. But I suggest you have your people run the name right now and gather all of the information they can possibly get. I don’t think we can wait.”
Dwyer had known Garin for nearly fifteen years. He had observed him in situations that would make some men freeze and others panic. Throughout, Garin had remained unflappable. It was a quality that helped keep those around him calm and focused on the task at hand. Hearing concern in Garin’s tone was an unfamiliar experience, one that made Dwyer uneasy.
“Just how serious do you think the situation is?” Dwyer asked.
“I don’t have enough information to say for sure,” Garin dodged.
“Right now,” Dwyer insisted. “With what you know, on a scale of one to ten. How serious?”
“Russians. Bor running Iranians. My entire team wiped out. Look, buddy, you and I don’t deal in tooth fairies and unicorns. I’d say it’s pretty damn serious.”
Dwyer rubbed the back of his neck and abruptly changed direction, a show of resolve, as much to himself as to Garin. “What do you need me to do?”
“I got a flash drive off one of the Iranians. It may be nothing, but I need the contents checked. I don’t want to insert it into any of the network computers you have here at the house in case of malware. I’d like one of the tech guys to analyze it and tell me what’s on it.”
“Not a problem. I’ll come right over and pick it up.”
“No, you won’t. You’re smarter than that. Right now you’re probably the most surveilled man in the US. If you come here, the FBI, and who knows who else, will follow. So that can’t happen. Hell, I’m still having a hard time accepting that your phones are secure.”
“My systems are impenetrable. If someone tries to listen in—”
“I know. They’ll end up listening to the French prime minister placing an order for truffles with his mistress’s chocolatier,” Garin finished. “I’ll talk to you on your internal lines, but as far as getting you the flash drive, I’ll give it to Ms. Perry when I meet her and ask her to give it to you. How soon do you think she and I can meet?”
“She’s pretty anxious. You name the time.”
Garin needed to get out of his muddy clothes, shower, and grab a quick meal. “Three hours?”
“Midnight it is. Nice. Very dramatic. If that’s not good for her, I’ll call you back. She lives in Crystal City, so she can get to the house pretty easily.”
“Not here. Although I doubt she’s being watched, I don’t want to take the chance of her coming here.” Garin thought for a moment. “Make a reservation at your favorite hotel. Have Ms. Perry call you with the room assignment after she checks in. Then call me back with a room number.”
“You don’t want her to come to the house, but you’re going to march into the highest-profile hotel in Washington,” Dwyer declared, shaking his head.
“Would you look for me there?”
Dwyer conceded to himself that the man had a point. “By the way, I take from your
comment about where you got the flash drive that there may be a few more room-temperature Iranians about?”
“There may be,” Garin replied warily, wondering where Dwyer was headed.
“Piece of advice. Try not to mention that to Olivia when you meet her.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
WASHINGTON, D.C.
JULY 17 • 12:05 A.M. EDT
The Michael Garin who strode into the lobby of the Mayflower Hotel shortly after midnight bore little resemblance to the one who had been engaged in a gun battle with Iranian agents hours before. Aside from the distinct physique, he resembled a freshman congressman or judiciary committee lawyer more than an elite killer.
Garin was cleanly shaven and well scrubbed, something he hadn’t been—at least not both at the same time—since before the beginning of the Pakistan operation nearly two weeks ago. Other than a few rebellious curls along the hairline and nape of his neck, his short black hair was brushed straight back. The simple blue blazer, taupe slacks, and white shirt he had selected from the closet in the master bedroom of the safe house fit surprisingly well.
Garin nodded to the night staff manning the reception desk as he walked through the empty ornate lobby toward the elevator bank opposite the concierge station: a hotel guest returning from a long-running meeting, perhaps a late-night outing. The only guest with a handgun stuck in a holster at the small of his back.
Dwyer had told Garin that Olivia would be expecting him in Room 546. He emerged from the elevator and looked down the corridors. The fifth floor was quiet, the guests asleep. Garin rapped lightly on the door to 546 and waited with curious anticipation. Dwyer, in his usual jocular manner, had warned Garin that Olivia Perry was far more attractive than any woman Garin had seen in a very long time. Still, Garin knew that Dwyer was prone to wild exaggerations when it came to women, so he wasn’t sure what to expect.
Olivia Perry opened the door and Garin realized that his friend—possibly for the first time—had embellished absolutely nothing about her. Only those who knew Garin well would be able to discern his astonishment.
In this regard, Olivia held a slight advantage. She had seen photos of Michael Garin and studied him closely over the last several days. She had a fair idea of what to expect upon opening the door. Nonetheless, Olivia found herself somewhat flustered seeing Garin in the flesh. She couldn’t remember ever being intimidated by someone’s mere physical presence.
Neither Garin nor Perry, however, perceived the awkwardness of the other. Olivia moved to the side of the doorway to permit Garin to pass. “Please come in, Mr. Garin. Have a seat.”
The room was dominated by two queen-size beds separated by a nightstand. An armoire that held a television sat opposite the beds. Garin took a chair in front of a small desk near the window. Olivia sat in an armchair across from him. She found herself studying every detail of Garin’s appearance. There was an indefinable quality to it that conveyed physical confidence, martial superiority. He had the air, thought Olivia, of someone who looked as if he owned every room he entered. Not arrogance, but the supreme ease of a creature at the top of the food chain. A sound interrupted Olivia’s musings, and it took a second before she realized that Garin was speaking.
“Ms. Perry, Dan Dwyer told me you were interceding on my behalf with the FBI and possibly the Pentagon. Thank you. I understand the very real problems it poses for someone in your position.”
Olivia shook her head. “Actually, Mr. Garin, it’s my boss, Jim Brandt, who’s doing the talking. I’m just his aide.”
“And I’m sure he wouldn’t be doing so if you hadn’t persuaded him. You took a professional risk speaking on behalf of a stranger who law enforcement and intelligence have concluded is a killer and a threat to national security. So, again, thanks.” Garin leaned forward slightly. “But tell me, given the evident risk to your reputation and your career, why’d you do it?”
The icy intensity that Olivia had seen in Garin’s photos was a weak imitation of the live version. It occurred to her she now knew for certain that the man sitting just a few feet away had killed multiple times. Perhaps as recently as today. Olivia tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress a shudder before responding with a calm she didn’t possess.
“Two reasons, Mr. Garin. First, I find it implausible that you killed your entire team and then went on a rampage that just happens to target Iranians. It’s far more likely that you were intended to die along with your team, and when that failed, they decided you should take the fall. I’m not some criminologist or forensics specialist, but it looks like you were set up—big-time.
“That, of course, brings us to the second reason,” Olivia continued. “Why? Why are you being set up? Obviously, it must be pretty important. People don’t just go to the trouble of obliterating one of the most elite military units in the world on a lark. Jim Brandt thinks you may have knowledge, whether you’re aware of it or not, of information vital to answering that question. Our hunch is that the Russians and Iranians are colluding on a major strike against Israel. We cannot allow them to do so. We cannot allow them to kill with impunity. And we cannot allow them to run wild on American soil.”
Now it was Garin’s turn to note Olivia’s eyes. Already enormous, they grew larger the more animated she became. There was a hint of indignation, even anger, in her voice. This was someone who clearly believed in the concept of good guys and bad guys, perhaps even in vengeance.
“Dan tells me you’re very smart,” Garin said. “And your boss—well, everyone knows the reputation of Jim Brandt. Now, I’m just a little ole grunt, but I’ve got a suspicion that the two of you think something more is going on. Am I right?”
Olivia eyed Garin for a moment before replying. “Dan tells me you’re also very smart.” A smile crossed her face, revealing a perfect set of teeth. “So now that we’ve established that everyone in this room is above average, what else do you think is going on?”
“This goes beyond Israel, Ms. Perry. Precisely how far, I can’t be sure. But as big as a major strike against Israel would be, there’s reason to believe something even bigger is in the works.”
“What makes you say that?” Olivia asked.
“Several things. But, before going any further, am I right that you and Brandt agree?”
“Agree? I’m not sure what you mean. In general terms, yes, we’re concerned that the Russians and Iranians have a strategy that goes beyond a strike against Israel.”
“How far beyond?” Garin asked.
Another electric smile. “I thought I was going to be asking the questions.”
“You will. I’m just trying to get a read on the administration’s thought process. It might shed some light on how I got drawn into all of this.”
Olivia nodded sympathetically. “I understand. You’ve had a hellish last few days. Well, for what it’s worth, we think the Iranians want to destroy the evil, racist, and rapacious Zionist state and become the undisputed leader of the Muslim world. The Russians, in turn, desire instability in the Middle East to increase the value of their oil and gas reserves, thereby increasing their leverage over anyone and everyone dependent on those reserves.”
“Meaning just about everybody.”
“In varying degrees. The most pronounced effect, of course, would be on Eastern Europe, followed closely by Western Europe. But a major war in the Middle East also will wreak havoc on the US economy—further consolidating Russian power.
“What about China, India?”
“Everyone will take some kind of hit. China may be able to weather it better than India, or anyone else for that matter, because the Chinese have been making strategic resource investments in Africa and South America for the last two decades,” Olivia replied.
“The Russian economy wouldn’t be immune, though. They would suffer too. It’s not exactly a risk-free proposition for them, either.”
“In the short term, t
here would be some dislocation, that’s true. But you know as well as anyone that Russians take the long view. They’re not making decisions on a short-time horizon. They believe that they’ll emerge from the crisis in better shape than when they went in. That may take a few years, but they’re prepared to weather the storm.
“In fact, I believe they’re prepared to profit from the storm. Satellite images show massive stockpiles of generators, cable, and other equipment throughout industrial sectors of Russia. But there’s no market. It doesn’t make sense. Unless, that is, they think there will be a market.”
Olivia brushed stray strands of hair back over her right shoulder. A recess in Garin’s brain noted that the woman had an impossible abundance of hair. But his mind focused on the warehouses.
“What makes you think I know as well as anyone that Russians take the long view?”
“Dan gave me some of your background. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be presumptuous.”
Garin stood. “Do you mind if I help myself to some water?”
“Oh yes, of course. I’m sorry for not offering,” Olivia said, gesturing toward bottles of water on the lower shelf of the armoire.
Garin remained standing next to the armoire as he took a long swallow from a bottle and exhaled. “They do take a long view, the Russians. At least a longer view than we do. And they have a willingness—some would say an expectation—to endure periods of suffering.” Garin finished off the water bottle and placed it in the metal trash can next to the desk. “Enduring brief economic uncertainty is no sacrifice at all for them. That’s one of the reasons why I think, with all due respect, you and Mr. Brandt aren’t thinking big enough.”
Target Omega Page 24
