Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

Dwyer fixed Olivia with a hard look. “Last night three Georgia State Patrol officers and two civilians were found shot along a highway northeast of Atlanta. I know—unfortunately, that’s not necessarily an extraordinary story these days. Sounds like just a local crime story. Each of the victims was shot multiple times. But each had one gunshot wound in exactly the same place: in the forehead, at the ridgeline above the bridge of the nose.”

Olivia exhaled. “Michael’s signature shot. The one Bor replicated to frame Michael for the Omega assassinations.”

“Exactly.”

“But that shot’s not unique to Michael. Or, for that matter, Bor,” Olivia said. “Besides, the Omega assassinations, the EMP operation, were barely a month ago. The Russians were seriously sanctioned for their involvement. I can’t imagine a scenario where they would even think about engaging in the slightest mischief or provocation against the US.”

“It’s not as if Mike and I haven’t gone through the same thought process, Olivia. The Russians should be, and have been, on their knees groveling since the EMP operation. But both Mike and I instantly thought of Bor when we heard about Georgia. How could we not? Alarm bells went off, big-time.”

Just like the buzzing returned when I saw the satellite images of Arkhangelsk, thought Olivia. And got louder when you called.

“I get it, Dan. Bor’s an alarming person. Remember, I was face-to-face with him.”

“Mike thinks Brandt should be made aware. So do I.”

Olivia pursed her lips. “Don’t misunderstand, Dan. This has got my attention. But these are disparate bits of information. They don’t rise to the level of James Brandt’s involvement,” she said, virtually repeating what James Brandt had said to her a short time ago about the satellite images. “This is something for law enforcement to monitor. If something else happens—depending on its nature—maybe then it will rise to national security advisor level.”

“I couldn’t disagree more, Olivia. When it comes to Bor, time is always of the essence. And we’ve got to suspect the worst. There are no coincidences in this business.”

“Dan, if I went to James Brandt every time there was a coincidence, I’d have to set up camp outside his office. We’d be in constant crisis mode, playing perpetual Chicken Little. I’m afraid the office of the national security advisor would lose all credibility.”

“Don’t you mean you’re afraid you’d lose all credibility?”

“Dan, this isn’t about—”

“Congratulations, Olivia,” Dwyer interrupted. “You really are a whiz kid. You’ve been in Washington less than six months and yet you’ve already perfected the fine art of covering your ass.” Dwyer’s tone became increasingly strident. “You’re not some bureaucrat at the EPA or IRS, whose job description is making life miserable for your fellow citizens. You’re an aide to the damn national security advisor. National security, Olivia. Not wetlands management or paperwork reduction. Your job goes to the essence of what the government’s supposed to do and increasingly refuses to do. Six months, Olivia. Is that all it took for you to become an inside-the-Beltway hack? A political-class drone?”

The words stung. Especially coming from the good-natured Dwyer, who had become almost like a big brother in the short time they’d known each other. And because Olivia felt the words rang true. Earlier she’d felt somewhat chastened when Brandt facilely dismissed her concern about the satellite images. She felt she’d overreacted, embarrassing herself before her boss and mentor. “This isn’t something that rises to that level,” he’d said. She was reluctant to approach him again with something so attenuated.

“Dan—”

“No effin’ bull crap, Olivia. You give me bull crap and I’ll make sure you’ll have to answer to Mike himself.”

Olivia grinned in spite of herself. The two toughest men she knew rarely cursed. And one of them had just threatened to report her to the other.

“Okay. I’ll go to Jim with this. In fact, in addition to Georgia—” She halted abruptly. She was about to relate her observations from the satellite images, but even the very existence of the KH-13 was highly classified and compartmentalized. She knew from the EMP operation that Dwyer was party to a classified information nondisclosure agreement but was uncertain if it covered the satellite images.

“What?” Dwyer asked.

The hell with it, Olivia thought. Half the politicians in this town leaked classified information as if it were tabloid gossip. Dwyer was more responsible and reliable than all of them together. “In addition to Georgia and Dallas,” she continued, “there may be something going on at those Russian industrial sites again.”

“When in doubt… ,” Dwyer began.

“…suspect the worst from the Russians.”

“Remember, Olivia, it was you, not the Oracle, who connected the pivotal dots unraveling the EMP operation. Your opinion matters.”

“Actually, the credit belongs to Michael.”

The pair rose from their chairs.

“Bor was assisted by Quds Force operatives during the last operation, Olivia. My guess is they were imposed on him for political reasons. He’ll have the best working for him this time.”

“Michael seemed to make short work of their best.”

“Those weren’t their best, Olivia. I bet Bor, if that was him in Georgia, didn’t even have operational authority over them. But having gotten their clocks cleaned by Mike twice already, you can be sure that the serious Russians are in charge now.”

“I’ll convey your assessment to Jim,” Olivia assured him. “Can I get a ride back to the District?”

“Matt will take you.” Dwyer grasped Olivia’s arm. “Remember, last time Bor worked on a very tight schedule. We have to assume time’s of the essence.”

“Always.”

NORTH CAROLINA,

AUGUST 15, 3:03 P.M. EDT

The murmuring had continued almost incessantly since the Nicholses had been vaporized.

Nonetheless, Bor was pleased with their progress. They were making good time. They had made only one stop for five minutes at a convenience store to purchase Gatorade for the trip. If they maintained their current pace, they’d be well ahead of schedule. Time to spare. Time for contingencies.

The traffic had been light all morning—or so it seemed to Bor. They hadn’t passed a single speed trap or patrol vehicle. The sky was clear and the sun was bright.

But a pall hung over the van and Bor presumed one hung over the trailing LaCrosse as well. It was apparent from the whispers floating from the volunteers in the rear seats. They had a singsong rhythm—call-and-response. Their tones betrayed the mood: a whisper of concern, then a whisper of reassurance. A whisper of doubt met by a whisper of encouragement.

The pervading tone, however, was one of fear.

Fear, Bor knew, was the dominant factor whenever stakes were high. Fear seemed to be in the background whenever the matter involved Bor. It was an environment in which he felt comfortable, in which he thrived and succeeded.

As much as an environment, fear was an instrument, a tool few, if any, wielded as deftly as Bor. It might, he thought, be time to wield it again.

For most of their acquaintance Bor had been a guide and mentor to the volunteers. The relationship had been more that of a kindly uncle and his eager nephews than that of a commander and his troops. They referred to him as “Teacher” and believed him to be Chechen. In reality, he’d once been known as the “Terror of Tbilisi.”

It had taken nearly two years to find and assemble them. Most of the work had been done by Piotr Egorshin’s unit. In fact, Bor had had no involvement in the recruitment.