Garin retraced his steps, returning to the kitchen, where he spotted the basement door beyond the refrigerator. Fifteen seconds later he had confirmed that Day wasn’t at home, though his car was still in the driveway.
Standing in the kitchen, Garin began to resign himself to waiting until Day returned, when he noticed a cup sitting on the counter next to the range and detected a wisp of steam coming from the stainless steel coffeepot on the front left burner. He tapped the pot quickly with his index finger and confirmed that it was still warm. Day must’ve left just minutes earlier. And before he had a chance to pour himself a cup. On the wall just above the range was what appeared to be a fresh patch job. Garin put a finger to it. Still damp.
His suspicions aroused, Garin examined the rear door and determined that the reason it had opened so easily was that it had been unlocked. Garin made a mental note never to mention this detail to anyone, lest he suffer merciless ridicule from Dan Dwyer.
It took only seconds for Garin to find a third telltale that Day’s hasty exit had been involuntary: fresh scuff marks on the kitchen’s tile floor, indicating resistance. Crouching to get a better look, he detected tiny flecks of a reddish-brown substance in the grout. The floor had been scrubbed but particles of drying blood remained.
Garin had no time to ponder the implications of this, however, because he spotted the tops of two police caps, insignia on their crests, passing a side kitchen window in the direction of the rear door. A neighbor must’ve alerted police to the presence of a stranger. Since Garin had been in the house for barely three minutes, they were probably responding to reports of Day’s earlier abduction.
Because of the height of the kitchen windows, the cops hadn’t seen Garin. He stood flush against the wall next to the kitchen door. The cops would no doubt see the signs of forced entry, radio dispatch, and draw their weapons before entering.
A firefight with the cops was the very last thing Garin needed. He placed the weapon in his holster, and assumed his position against the wall. Then he braced for speed and violence.
—
Eight miles northeast, the convoy of SUVs carrying Olivia Perry and her DGT detail had finally escaped the Beltway and was proceeding down H Street on the way to the Old Executive Office Building, when Olivia caught a glimpse of a man to their left who appeared to be carrying a long plastic tube on his shoulder. Carl saw him too and immediately began shouting something, when the lead SUV burst into an orange fireball, catapulting six feet off the ground and coming to rest on the passenger side of the vehicle.
Unable to avoid the stricken vehicle, Olivia’s SUV slammed into the wreckage, and a wall of flames engulfed the front of the vehicle. Moments later the trail SUV also exploded, its occupants blown out of the vehicle as it, too, rolled onto its right side. Amid a swirl of frantic shouts, flames, black smoke, and screeching metal, Olivia was vaguely aware of debris raining down around her and a dazed Carl drunkenly searching for the MP7 thrown from his grasp in the crash.
The last thing Olivia remembered seeing before losing consciousness was the man with the plastic tube, a submachine gun strapped across his chest, aiming a device that resembled a small TV remote at the vehicle. The last thing Olivia heard before losing consciousness was the click of the door locks opening simultaneously.
—
Garin saw the barrel of the lead cop’s weapon first. The officer’s extended arms, sweeping from side to side, and then his torso appeared in the doorframe. He entered the kitchen cautiously, passing by Garin, whose back was flat against the wall next to the door. The first cop had gotten approximately three feet inside the kitchen when the barrel of the second cop’s weapon came into view, this time at the ready but pointed downward and to the right, away from his partner’s back.
Garin shot forward between the two and smashed his right elbow into the second cop’s nose and forehead, then slingshotted the same arm forward, driving his fist into the base of the first cop’s skull. As the second cop flew sprawling backward out of the house, the lead cop dropped heavily to his knees, his pistol falling from his grasp. The second cop crashed unconscious onto the rear pavement just as the first cop fell face forward on the kitchen floor. Garin swiftly retrieved their respective weapons and tossed them into one of two green garbage cans outside the kitchen door. Grabbing the second cop under his arms, Garin dragged him inside and placed him down next to his partner on the kitchen floor.
It was then Garin noticed a small pool of blood expanding from under the lead cop’s face. Garin cursed, dropped to one knee, and checked the man’s pulse. Still strong. Relieved, Garin turned him over slightly and examined his face. A nose broken by the fall was the source of the blood.
Garin noted blood seeping from under the head of the other cop as well. He performed the same ritual on the man, determining that he, too, was fine, save for a broken nose of his own. No real long-term damage other than embarrassing explanations at the station house offset by a few weeks of paid leave.
Garin went to the living room and peered outside the window, scanning the neighborhood. Everything remained quiet. He returned to the kitchen and used a dish towel to wipe down the surfaces he had touched before stepping over the bodies of the two cops and exiting the house. He remembered to wipe down the cops’ pistols as well as the lid of the garbage can before leaving.
Given the arrival of the cops, he assumed a neighbor was probably still monitoring the scene, watching. There was no point in feigning casualness, so he trotted toward his vehicle. At the intersection he turned left and disappeared around the corner. At least no one would connect Dwyer’s black SUV with the man jogging from the house containing two bloody cops.
Garin climbed into the vehicle and sat for a moment, wondering what else could go wrong. The cascade of setbacks and bad news over the last few days was beginning to overwhelm him. He seemed to be making scant progress in either getting answers or clearing his name. Wherever he went, someone seemed to be one step ahead of him or pursuing one step behind.
Garin returned his focus to Day. The working assumption was that Day had been abducted by the Iranians, of which there suddenly seemed to be an endless supply. The traces of blood on the floor were an ominous sign. Where had they taken him? They appeared to have used the cabin on the Eastern Shore as their base of operations, but where had they gone since? Where could an indeterminate number of foreign operatives possibly hole up without attracting undue attention?
Garin caught himself. Maybe he was asking the questions from a false premise. What if the Iranians hadn’t moved their base of operations after all? Why, in fact, should they? The Severn cabin was perfect—spacious, secluded, and within reasonable driving distance of D.C. Garin was the only one who knew of it and in his present circumstance he would be considered no threat to them. Even he had assumed there was no reason to go back since he had dispatched the Iranians who were there.
He pulled away from the curb, conceding to himself that this particular theory was more than just a little attenuated. He had simply run out of better options.
Garin navigated toward the Beltway to pick up Route 50 toward the Terrapin Estates. The cast of the midsummer sky was beginning to soften. Nightfall would be approaching soon. He would make an obligatory check of the Severn and then return to DGT’s Quantico facility to reevaluate.
He had been driving for a while, making scant progress, when he took a call from Dwyer on the hands-free option.
“Mike, where are you?” There was a distinct edge in Dwyer’s tone.
“On 50. Traffic seems to be a mess everywhere.”
“Where are you headed?”
“You don’t want to know,” Garin said, resignation in his voice. “Why?”
“They got Olivia.”
“What? What do you mean? How’s that even possible?” One of the few times Dwyer had heard Garin’s voice register alarm.
“We’re
trying to figure that out right now.”
What else could go wrong? Garin thought.
“We’re still debriefing Carl,” Dwyer continued. “I’m here with him at George Washington University Hospital, standing in the waiting room. They make you turn off your cell in the patient’s room so it doesn’t interfere with the medical equipment.” He paused. “He’s in pretty bad shape. They were escorting Olivia to the OEOB. Standard escort protocol like we used with the State Department personnel in Iraq. Nothing special, but we thought it was overkill for a run in Washington, D.C. Then a guy with a rocket launcher—a rocket launcher in the District—appears. Don’t know how unless he has drones or satellite feeds, but he just so happens to choose one of the only relatively deserted spots on our route. Hits the lead and trail vehicles. Eight of my men, killed instantly. Olivia’s vehicle crashes into the lead. Carl loses consciousness. When he comes to, half of the D.C. Metro force is there, but Olivia’s gone. Crowder and Gamble in the front seat are dead from multiple gunshot wounds. Close range,” Dwyer’s voice cracked. “Carl was hit too, but so far he’s hanging on.”
That explained the traffic. “How many attackers?” Garin asked.
“Attacker.”
“What?”
“One attacker. One man.”
“Carl give you a description?”
“Uh-huh.”
“It was Bor, wasn’t it?”
“J-shaped scar along the right jawline,” Dwyer confirmed. “Hold on a second. I’m getting a call from Matt at Quantico.”
Garin was beginning to develop a rare sense of desperation. The bad guys seemed to be everywhere at once. They seemed faster, cleverer, and better prepared than his allies. Garin couldn’t remember confronting many adversaries like this, Bor in particular. Not only had he been able to fool Garin for more than two years; Bor seemed able to anticipate Garin’s every move. Garin had always respected his enemies but never feared them. He wondered if that was about to change.
Dwyer returned to the call. “Matt says we’re picking up intermittent data from the GPS nanotracker we sewed into the heel of Olivia’s shoe.”
“Bor’s sure to find it. He’s no dummy. He’ll wand her first chance he gets, if he hasn’t done so already. He finds it, she’s dead.”
“No way, Mike. It won’t register. Its shell is polymer and it emits its signal in microbursts. Unless he wands her at precisely the millisecond it transmits, he’ll never detect it. Either the battery’s damaged or there’s some electronic interference with the GPS, but we did get a brief signal twenty minutes ago near Annapolis. A few minutes later a blip about two miles from there. Nothing since then. The vector suggests she’s moving toward somewhere on the Eastern Shore, but the destination could be anywhere within a one-hundred-square-mile area.”
The Eastern Shore. Garin felt a flutter of hope. “Keep me updated. Dan, listen, have someone make an untraceable call to the McLean District Police. Tell them two cops are down inside Day’s house.
“Geez, Mikey,” Dwyer whispered. “Are they dead?”
“No, just bad headaches and bruised egos. They’re probably up and back at the station by now. But just in case, they may need an EMT.”
“Thank God. Where are you going?”
“Just following a hunch. I’ll let you know if it pans out. Let me know if you get any more GPS coordinates.”
“Roger that. And, Mike, keep your head on a swivel. These guys are everywhere.”
“Tell me about it.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
THE WHITE HOUSE
JULY 17 • 8:10 P.M. EDT
Arlo led Brandt down the hall toward to the Oval Office. After Brandt had left the Situation Room, he’d proceeded next door to the Old Executive Office Building to meet Olivia. He had been there barely ten minutes when he took the call from Iris Cho informing him of the mayhem that had occurred on H Street.
Brandt’s anguish was plain on his face. The placid countenance, the cool demeanor, were gone. Olivia wasn’t simply his aide. She was his closest confidant, their relationship more familial than professional. The two of them had been a prolific intellectual team in the comfortable cocoon of academia. Now the real world had intruded ruthlessly.
“They’re all inside, Mr. Brandt,” said the president’s secretary, Maggie Dixon, a note of sympathy in her voice.
Arlo remained with Maggie as Bob Bertrand, head of the president’s Secret Service detail, escorted Brandt into the room. The president was seated at his desk. Secretary of Defense Merritt and Joint Chiefs Chairman Robert Taylor were seated opposite him on a low couch. As Bertrand guided Brandt to a chair next to Merritt, Marshall stood.
“Jim, for the thousandth time, you know that Arlo’s welcome here.”
“The Secret Service insists he stay with Maggie, Mr. President,” Brandt replied.
“Hell, I’ve known Arlo longer than I’ve known Bertrand here.” Marshall cut himself off, not wanting to make light in view of the situation. “Jim, I want you to know we’re doing everything we can to find Olivia. We’ll get her back. You have my word.”
“Thank you, sir,” Brandt said as he lowered himself into the chair.
Marshall sat. “I’ve read Doug and Bob in on our talk with President Mikhailov. I’ve also spoken to Prime Minister Chafetz and relayed the intel about the EMP threat, just as we discussed—neutral, just the facts. I offered support from the Fifth Fleet if needed. He didn’t hesitate. He definitely thinks it’s necessary.”
Brandt, Merritt, and Taylor sat quietly. Events were unfolding rapidly. Taylor, who had seen a lifetime of military conflict, thought the situation had a certain ominous, martial inevitability about it.
“Chafetz is placing the Israeli Air Force on alert,” the president continued. “He said he can’t risk a delay. Frankly, I don’t blame him. He has no margin for error.
“Now, with this brazen attack right here on American soil”—Marshall jabbed his desktop with his index finger, his voice projecting anger—“barely two miles from the White House, we can’t suffer any illusions that we’re no longer involved—that this is only Israel’s problem.”
“What do you need from us, Mr. President?” Brandt asked.
“I need to know from you, Jim, how far you think our support for Israel should go,” Marshall replied. He pointed at Merritt and Taylor. “And I need to know from Doug and Bob whether we have the capability.”
“Mr. President, do we have any idea who struck the vehicles on H Street?” Brandt asked. “Can they be tied to any state actors?”
“The CIA and NSA are trying to determine that right now. They’re reviewing security cameras in the vicinity, electronic intercepts, satellite feeds. So far, nothing. They’re baffled, absolutely baffled. It’s not like this happened on some country road; it happened during the evening rush in Washington, D.C. Yet no sign of the attackers. They’re ghosts. How’s that possible? And that’s not all. As you know, those were DGT folks that got hit. I’ve been a little skittish about them from time to time, mainly because of the optics. The press absolutely hates private military contractors. But DGT’s men are damned good at what they do and they were wiped out. I’m no intelligence expert, but that looks to me like it requires the kind of skill, logistics, and coordination that can only be pulled off by a state actor.”
“If it was a state actor, that’s unequivocally an act of war,” Merritt interjected. “And we’d be justified in responding accordingly.”
“Mr. President,” Brandt added, “we may not have the luxury of waiting until we’ve nailed down—with a hundred percent accuracy—whether a foreign country was responsible. We may never be able to nail that down. We don’t know when—or even if—there’s going to be an EMP strike, but all signs are that something big is going to happen, and soon. Although you and I both have our doubts about Russia’s innocence in all this, I’m concerned that
the actor is Iran. If we’re caught flat-footed, it could be a debacle. At minimum, Israel could cease to exist.”
“So what do you advise, Jim?”
“What specific support did you offer to Chafetz?”
“Logistics, refueling, intel, and, of course, presence of a carrier strike group—the Eisenhower—in the Gulf as a deterrent.”
Brandt shook his head. “Respectfully, that’s not enough, sir. Israel’s air force can do a lot of damage. Perhaps take out a majority of Iran’s nuclear capability. But they don’t have the kind of bunker busters—like our MOPs—needed to be sure that Iran’s most hardened facilities are taken out. Only we have that capacity. We need to seriously consider deploying that weaponry.”
The president turned to Taylor. “Bob?”
“We’re positioned to both assist the IDF and deploy our own forces, Mr. President,” Taylor said. Brandt’s statement had caused the chairman of the Joint Chiefs to sit at attention. The old soldier was much more cautious, more reluctant to use military force, than anyone else in the room. “But, sir, if I might suggest—strongly suggest—that we not take any action until we’re at the point of no return.” Taylor held up his hand as if to ward off the inevitable question. “That point isn’t easily definable. Mossad has outstanding intelligence on the locations of Iran’s nuke facilities. We’ve also gotten some from the MEK dissidents in Iran. But neither Mossad nor the CIA knows from which site any nukes would be launched. We need to hold off until we get as much intel as possible, before our strike window closes.”
“I concur, Mr. President,” Merritt weighed in. “If we go down this road, we need to maximize the possibility that we’re successful. We can’t risk that they’ll be able to get off even one of their missiles.”
“I don’t disagree, sir,” Brandt added. “If we—along with Israel—hit Iran, the consequences are obvious; too numerous to mention. The oil shock alone will drive markets worldwide into a tailspin. And that’s if we’re successful. If we attack and still leave Iran with nuclear capacity”—Brandt shrugged—“well, earlier today we talked political fallout. Many of the Iranian nuclear facilities are located in the midst of civilian populations. Intentionally so. Human shields.”
Target Omega Page 34
