Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

Many of Brandt’s colleagues, both at Stanford and within the administration, believed that in Olivia, Brandt had met his intellectual equal. In fact, during their six-month collaboration in the White House, Olivia’s analyses had bested Brandt’s.

“That’s got to drive the Secret Service nuts,” Olivia said, referring to Arlo’s sound effects. “It sounds like an administration official’s being tortured.”

“Some of the newer ones do poke their heads in from time to time,” Brandt confirmed. “I think they just want to be absolutely sure that no one slipped through security and is trying to extract classified information from me.”

“I’m afraid I’ve got some more for you, courtesy of KH-13.”

“Go ahead.”

“Yesterday, Laura Casini showed me a series—”

“No, wait,” Brandt interrupted. “Before you do that, how are things with Senator Braxton?”

Brandt had long taken somewhat of a paternal interest in Olivia’s social life. Despite looks that surpassed those of most runway models, Olivia had been painfully shy and had dated infrequently at Stanford. Brandt had made it his mission to get her to have some fun.

“He’s a senator,” Olivia explained.

“Pompous, arrogant, sophomoric…”

“That’s being charitable, Professor.”

“So, not going well?”

“I’m sure he thinks he’s charming, witty, and loads of fun.”

“I understand he’s been written up in all the social columns. ‘Best-Looking Bachelor on the Hill.’ ‘Most Eligible Senator.’ He’s supposed to be the best-looking politician in Washington,” Brandt continued.

“I’m sure he agrees.”

“Whatever happened with our daring action hero, Mr. Garin? I thought I detected something there, Ms. Perry. You finally met your match. And before you deny it, remember my one superpower.”

Olivia cast her eyes to the ceiling. “Detecting bull.”

“That’s right. I could practically hear you panting whenever his name was mentioned.”

“That was fear, Professor. He kills people.”

“Is that all?” Brandt said innocently. “I take it killing people is a deal breaker, then?”

“Can we talk about what I came here to talk about?”

Brandt chuckled softly. His true superpower was getting under his protégé’s skin. “What’s on your mind?”

“Russia.”

“They’ve been behaving since the bombing campaign began. Compliant, obsequious even,” Brandt noted.

“KH-13 satellite images show activity at the same warehouses and plants that drew our attention prior to discovery of the EMP plot. They’re moving the supplies and electrical equipment. Not at the rate or in the quantities that they were moving them before the EMP planned strike, but product definitely has resumed moving.”

“At what rate, precisely?” Brandt asked, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

Olivia shifted slightly in her seat. “More slowly than before. But the point is, they are moving it again.”

“I understand. But can you estimate? Would you say, for example, it’s eighty percent of the pre-EMP pace? Seventy percent? Sixty percent?”

“It’s difficult to measure, Professor.”

“I can’t see the satellite images, Olivia…”

“Twenty percent of the previous rate. Perhaps fifteen.”

“That’s nothing, Olivia.”

“But the equipment is standard grade. Some of it’s a generation behind—”

“The type of equipment often sold to emerging or poor markets,” Brandt observed. “The spike in oil prices due to the Iranian bombing campaign has affected everyone, but none more so than third world economies. Cheap, standard-grade equipment that’s affordable is just what the doctor ordered. It would make sense for the Russians to try to sell it, and for those countries to buy it.”

A simple explanation and, Olivia conceded to herself, the most plausible one. But when it came to the Russians, both Olivia and Brandt distrusted simple explanations.

“Then it might not hurt to let the president know. He can verify what’s going on with Mikhailov, who, as you noted, has been compliant.”

Brandt thought for a moment. “This isn’t something that rises to that level. This is something for NSA or NGA to continue to look at. If there’s a radical increase, we may revisit the issue. Okay?”

Olivia nodded. “Yes.”

“I have a meeting with Iris,” Brandt said, referring to the president’s chief of staff, Iris Cho. “Just some housekeeping. Anything else?”

“There’s still the matter of the Senate Intelligence hearing.”

“We can do that later. You handled McCoy well, although you were surprisingly combative.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“You’re very protective of Mr. Garin, Ms. Perry.” Brandt grinned mischievously. “But, of course, even killers need protection. Nothing more than that, I’m sure.”

Mildly annoyed, Olivia rose from her chair. “I’ll touch base with NSA and NGA.”

“Say hello to Senator Braxton for me.”

Olivia headed back to her office at OEOB, reassured by Brandt’s assessment of the satellite images’ relative insignificance. The reassurance was short-lived.

Before she entered the OEOB, her cell phone vibrated. It was Dan Dwyer.

“Dan!” she said in a tone a brainy little sister would use to a protective older brother. “It’s been weeks. How have you been?”

“Bor’s back in play.”

And just like that, the buzzing returned.

MOSCOW,

AUGUST 15, 4:15 P.M. MSK

Piotr Egorshin had arrived fifteen minutes before his appointment with Aleksandr Stetchkin. One of Stetchkin’s aides led him to an immense room at the south end of the Senate Building in the Kremlin.

Egorshin was relieved. Not only had the meeting been pushed back to a more civilized hour, but what he had believed was to be a private meeting with his new boss in the latter’s office—a prospect that would have frightened nearly any sentient being within the borders of Russia—appeared instead to be a gathering of nearly everyone in a command position in Russian cyberwarfare.

Egorshin could see his reflection in the highly polished floors and the countless gold-framed mirrors that hung along the walls between the floor-to-ceiling windows bordered by thick velvet drapes. Eight enormous chandeliers hung from the twenty-foot ceilings, adorned with frescoes of Russian military victories and gold-leaf borders.

Approximately fifty chairs ringed the room, each occupied by an officer, every single one of whom sat bolt upright, including Egorshin, who was seated along the middle of the left wall as one entered the room through massive double doors made of carved wood. At the end of the room opposite the doors sat a single large chair, almost resembling a throne, thought Egorshin. No doubt reserved for Stetchkin.

The room’s occupants sat silently for several minutes. At precisely four thirty P.M., the double doors opened and Stetchkin appeared, tall—nearly six foot six—and very lean. His eyes were blue-gray and the stubble of hair that covered his skull silver. His face, Egorshin thought, looked naked without a monocle. His gait was long, fluid, and unhurried, a man used to having others wait for him and on him. An aide followed two steps behind and to his left side.

Stetchkin sat in the chair at the head of the room and gazed back at the entrance, which remained open. The room was nearly silent for several minutes, the faint tapping of footsteps slowly approaching in the distance echoing in the room. Egorshin’s eyes flitted about, noting that none of the others present dared look at Stetchkin. Most looked straight ahead, a few others downward, and one or two glanced toward the doorway.