Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

“Olivia,” Garin said, “Bor is going to do something seriously bad. You know that from previous experience. And he doesn’t do small stuff. I’m an operator without a home right now. I have no authority to go after him. Hell, the airport incident might have the FBI looking for me again at this very moment. I need authority and I need resources—the resources only our military and intelligence can provide. I need them right now. Brandt could facilitate green-lighting them.”

“Even if James Brandt agreed, where would you get the manpower?”

“Reconstitute Omega,” Garin said emphatically.

“I’m sorry, but that won’t happen, Michael. Just yesterday, Senator McCoy made it plain that Omega will never be resurrected as long as he’s chair of Senate Intelligence.”

“What an idiot,” Dwyer said. “Didn’t that airhead learn anything from the near miss with the EMP? His freakin’ counsel was the one providing intel to the Russians, for God’s sake.”

“And that’s why he doesn’t want to reconstitute Omega. Doing so would highlight just that. It would be not only embarrassing, but politically catastrophic for him,” Olivia said.

“What about the best interests of the country? Doesn’t anyone put country above self-interest anymore?” Dwyer practically shouted.

“Dan, with all due respect, where have you been lately?” Olivia asked.

Garin rubbed the stubble on his face pensively. “If we can’t reconstitute an Omega team, can we commission and finance the functional equivalent?”

“What are you saying, Michael?”

“I’m saying that Omega need not be part of the US military or intelligence apparatus. Instead, the functional equivalent of the Omega team could be financed under the CIA’s Title 50 authority. And it could operate as a contractor under JSOC direction.”

“I don’t want to be party to a plan to deceive Congress,” Olivia said.

“We’re not deceiving Congress,” Garin explained. “We’re accommodating them. At least one of them. If McCoy doesn’t want to reconstitute Omega—if he doesn’t want direct oversight responsibility for Omega—then let’s give him what he wants.”

“But if Omega is not part of DOD or the CIA or any other governmental entity, where do you get the personnel?”

“Omega was comprised of a select group of tier-one operators trained by Clint Laws,” Garin responded, turning to Dwyer. “ This man happens to employ a number of former tier-one operators—people like Congo Knox, for example. Even Matt over there, if you consider the sorry slugs from Australian SAS tier-one.”

“Watch it, mate,” Matt warned amiably.

“I’m not sure that will fly, Michael,” Olivia said.

“What about me?” Dwyer protested. “Don’t I get a say?”

“Run it by Brandt, Olivia. He’ll see the merits of this given what we’re up against. We need to get a team of the best together—immediately—to counter Bor.” Garin pointed at Dwyer. “And you will be well compensated for providing a crucial service to the country. Win-win. But it has to happen now. We’ve got to be given authority and resources to go after Bor.”

“Can do,” Dwyer said.

“I can’t speak for James Brandt, but I’m willing to bring it to him,” Olivia said.

“Good.” Garin fished in one of the side compartments of his gym bag, pulled out a cell phone, and tossed it to Dwyer. “I got that off one of the guys we presume were Zaslon. It’s fully intact but no doubt heavily encrypted. No redial or recents. Can you have your tech guys pull all the information they can from it? If the guy was in communication with Bor, and if we’re lucky, we might be able to track Bor’s location.”

Dwyer extended the phone to Colton. “Matt?”

“On it.”

Dwyer looked back to Garin. “What else?”

Garin turned to Olivia. “Please call Brandt and see if he’s on board.” To Dwyer, he said, “Pick several of your best men who can be ready to go once Brandt gives us the green light.

“As for me, just in case the tech guys can’t get anything from the phone, I’m going to drop some more bread crumbs.”

WASHINGTON, D.C.,

AUGUST 15, 9:38 P.M. EDT

Bor spotted Levan Bulkvadze sitting alone at a far corner table of the Edgar, the restaurant-bar at the Mayflower Hotel.

Spotting Bulkvadze was a task only slightly more difficult than spotting an elephant in a phone booth. At six foot seven, he weighed well over three hundred pounds and was built like a power lifter. The thick black beard that covered much of his face matched the color of eyes that projected constant hostility. As he sat among the politicians, congressional staffers, and lobbyists who frequented the establishment, his overall appearance suggested a reversion in the evolutionary spectrum. Yet his frame was draped in an impeccably tailored twenty-five-hundred-dollar suit that somehow rendered him not merely civilized, but cultured.

Bulkvadze rose and smiled as the assassin approached. Bor placed a leather satchel on the floor next to the table and grasped Bulkvadze’s outstretched hand. With his other hand the big man gestured for the waiter.

“I’m pleased to see you again, my friend,” Bulkvadze lied. “What brings you to Washington?”

“Business,” Bor replied tersely.

The waiter appeared at Bulkvadze’s elbow. The big man nodded toward Bor. “Bring my friend whatever he wishes and another vodka for me.”

“Nothing for me,” Bor said.

The waiter retreated toward the bar. Bor pulled a mobile device from his hip pocket and tapped the screen, upon which a photo appeared. He turned it toward Bulkvadze.

“This man,” Bor said.

“Who is he?”

“His name is Mike Garin. I will provide his location shortly. Upon receiving that information, you must eliminate him. Immediately.”

“Tell me something about him.”

“He is an American soldier. I worked with him once. He will be very difficult to kill. That’s all you need to know other than where to find him.”

“We have not agreed upon a price,” Bulkvadze said. “Yet you have brought a bag I assume is filled with cash. How much have you brought, if I may ask?”

“Five million US. You will, however, receive an advance of one million only. The balance will be delivered upon proof of death.”

“Very generous. But I’m afraid Nikoloz will demand ten.”

“Five million. That is the price,” Bor said with finality. “I expect you will skim one million off that total and tell Nikoloz that the price was four million. Regardless, how much you keep for yourself is your affair. What is of concern to me is results. If you fail, I will kill you and every one of your associates involved in such failure, including Nikoloz himself.”

“Have we ever failed before? There will be no failure now,” Bulkvadze said with all of the confidence he could muster. He was frightened of Bor. He knew of no one who wasn’t.

“How many men do you plan to use?” Bor asked.

“You say it will be difficult to kill him.” Bulkvadze thought for a moment. He held up three fingers. “Then I will use three.”

“More.”

The big man raised his eyebrows. “More than three, you say?” He tilted his head and looked at Garin’s photo again. “Then I will use five.”

“How many would you use to kill me?” Bor asked.

“Kill you, my friend? I would never think of such a thing. Why kill you?”

“Humor me. How many men would you use to kill me?”

Bulkvadze frowned. “But there are few, if any, like you. I say this not to flatter you, but for a man of your capabilities I would use two primary, two secondary, and three for a perimeter. So”—he rubbed the back of his neck—“to be absolutely certain, I would use seven.”