Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

Egorshin sat up straight as he placed the receiver to his ear. The call came on the line reserved for one purpose, and just a short time ago Aleksandr Stetchkin had made clear he expected Egorshin to accommodate the caller.

“Yes?”

“We need simultaneous satellite feeds for all of the families.”

“Of course,” Egorshin replied.

“With full audio and encryption.”

“Understood.”

“When can you establish connections?”

“When do you need them?”

“It will take a few minutes for us to set up each of the locations.”

“Ten minutes?” Egorshin asked.

“Excellent. Would it be possible to display the images on the screen as a grid?”

“That is how I understood your request.”

“Very good,” said the Zaslon Unit operator and terminated the call.

Egorshin punched the button for Major Volkov. When his subordinate picked up, Egorshin tersely directed him to satisfy the Zaslon operator’s request while emphasizing the imperative that it be done immediately. Egorshin didn’t want any complaints to be made to the tyrant.

Then he resumed scrutinizing the data.

WASHINGTON, D.C.,

AUGUST 15, 3:27 P.M. EST

Olivia decided to get right to it.

“Professor, there was a disturbing incident that occurred last night in northern Georgia. Three highway patrol officers and two civilians were shot by an unknown assailant. Perhaps you heard it on the news?”

Brandt was sitting in the same chair as when they had met earlier, and again, Arlo was, literally, underfoot. “No, I don’t think I’ve heard anything about it, but go on.”

“The five victims were each shot several times, including one shot above the bridge of the nose. You will remember that Taras Bor used just such a placement in an attempt to cast suspicion on Michael Garin for the Omega assassinations.”

“Yes. I remember that well.” The Oracle leapt ahead at light speed. “I suspect you’ve concluded that Bor was, therefore, involved in the Georgia killings. Bor’s involvement in the killings then demands greater scrutiny of the activity at Russian industrial sites, which heightened activity you do not believe is coincidental.”

“Yes.” Olivia shrugged. “In a nutshell, that’s precisely what I think.”

“And you also think that we should bring this to the attention of President Marshall.”

“That’s your call, Professor.” As soon as she said it, Olivia chastised herself. She was punting, avoiding making a firm recommendation. Covering her ass, as Dwyer had said.

“Then my call is to thank you for the information and take it under advisement. There are other matters requiring immediate attention. The previous administration left us strategic chaos: China, North Korea, ISIS. And of course Iran. Those messes aren’t speculative.”

“Professor—”

“This still doesn’t even remotely rise to the level of presidential concern. Look, Olivia, I know the EMP operation was a traumatic experience for you. You were new on the job, new in D.C., and you’re thrown literally into the middle of the biggest national security threat since the Cuban Missile Crisis. It’s understandable that Bor would loom large in your mind. But sometimes coincidences are just coincidences.” Brandt waved his hand dismissively. “A couple more forklifts at a Russian warehouse coupled with a drive-by shooting in Georgia doesn’t command a National Security Council briefing in the Situation Room.”

Brandt’s belittling sarcasm, so unlike him and so alien to their long relationship, angered Olivia, but she remained calm.

“Professor, those satellite images might have shown a modest uptick in activity, but respectfully, any uptick in the sort of activity that presaged what would’ve been the most catastrophic attack in American history should be taken seriously. And, yes, when coupled with the slaughter of five people in the same way Omega was slaughtered during the EMP operation, it should, without doubt, be brought to the attention of the president. And, for what it’s worth, Bor doesn’t just loom large in my mind. He also looms large in the minds of Michael Garin and Dan Dwyer. They’re worried it’s Bor and that something’s afoot.”

The normally unflappable Brandt was somewhat taken aback by Olivia’s adamancy. Several seconds passed before he responded, his tone conciliatory.

“Olivia, in all the time I’ve known you, I’ve always respected your judgment, and I do so now. It’s precisely this kind of alertness that makes you invaluable. The president himself was grateful for your alertness and analysis in helping prevent the EMP attack.” Brandt paused, choosing his words with precision.

“You’ve done your job by telling me of this. And I’m convinced it should be taken seriously. As national security advisor, however, my job isn’t merely to relay important information to the president. It’s to weigh that information, consider it in context, integrate it with other information, and advise the president accordingly. In that respect, I’m also something of a gatekeeper, not simply a conduit. So you’ve done your job and now I must do mine. Thank you.”

Olivia rose and walked out of Brandt’s office. She was irritated. Brandt’s attempt to mollify her had come off as patronizing, a posture he’d not taken before.

Even so, while she disagreed, she understood his position. It made perfect sense.

But the irritation persisted along with the buzzing in her ears.

By the time she’d exited the White House, her phone began vibrating. It was Laura Casini. Olivia answered it.

“Every time I talk to you, my boss ends up thinking I should be fitted for a tinfoil hat. Tell me why I should talk to you this time,” Olivia said, slightly exasperated.

“Because you’re very good at solving puzzles and I have another piece for you to play with.”

“I don’t need any more puzzles, Laura. I need answers.”

“Can’t help you there. In fact, if you come for another visit I’m sure what you see will raise even more questions than before.”

Olivia groaned. “Same subject matter?”

“No. Same country. But different subject altogether. And, to my mind at least, utterly nonsensical.”

Olivia was no longer irritated. She was worried. “I’m on my way.”

“Bring your imagination.”

NORTH CAROLINA,

AUGUST 15, 3:37 P.M. EDT

Bor had directed the driver to turn right at the gravel road approximately a mile from where they had first turned off. The LaCrosse followed. He spotted a small clearing where there stood a wooden picnic table near the kind of outhouse often found in older parks and recreation areas. There was no traffic, there were no nearby residences, and the area looked as if it hadn’t been used in years, since back before traffic had abandoned the gravel road for newer, larger paved roads.

They drove into the meadow and parked the two vehicles near the picnic table. Doors opened on all sides and the occupants got out stiffly and stretched and meandered about, each taking a turn using the toilet facilities.

Bor placed the bag of sandwiches prepared by the now atomized Allie Nichols on the picnic table along with his gym bag and the bottles of Gatorade. A light breeze sifted through nearby pines, which provided shade against the sun. It was a quiet, comfortable, secluded setting—perfect for bucking up the troops, providing encouragement to the team.

Presently, everyone gathered around the picnic table, most sitting, a few standing, including Bor, who stood at one end as if he were about to propose a toast with Gatorade. He waited while they ate their sandwiches. There was a smattering of quiet chatter, a low chuckle, but mainly they ate in silence.