Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

“Okay. Good job,” Dwyer said. “You and the team keep working your magic. Keep me informed.”

Dwyer disconnected, then punched the number for Mike Garin. He needed to know his former teammate and current nemesis was probably even closer than he thought.

DALE CITY, VIRGINIA,

AUGUST 16, 8:11 A.M. EDT

Garin figured he’d left at least a couple of loaves’ worth of bread crumbs for Bor’s compatriots to follow.

Garin had borrowed one of DGT’s fleet of black Ford Explorers and circumnavigated much of the Beltway before parking at the short-term lot at Reagan National to deposit a few dozen crumbs within the terminal. Garin was unconcerned that whoever was watching on Bor’s behalf would unquestionably conclude that Garin was leaving the crumbs on purpose. Bor was certain to send someone nonetheless. He had to. The personal special operator for President Yuri Mikhailov was involved in nothing but matters of geopolitical consequence. Garin knew him well, knew his history, his methods, his thought processes. He’d worked with Bor for nearly two years on Omega, back when Garin knew him as John Gates. He’d watched him move, seen him react.

It was like looking in a mirror.

To predict what Bor would do—tactically at least—Garin needed only to think of what he himself would do. The predictions wouldn’t be perfect, of course, but Bor understood this also. So he would throw in the random counterintuitive, hoping that it might throw off Garin’s timing or conclusions.

To ensure the success of Mikhailov’s plan, whatever that plan might be, Bor would allow no room for Garin’s possible intervention.

Garin knew this. Bor knew Garin knew this. Like Woody Hayes versus Bo Schembechler. No mystery. You know we’re going to run off left tackle. You have to stop us to win.

Garin had meandered about Reagan National, entering the terminal at the United ticket counter, descending the escalator toward the concourses, and strolling past the shops and restaurants. A dozen cameras, seen and unseen, had captured his image. Using the same credit card he had used at DFW, he made a couple of purchases—a paperback and a water bottle. Electronic blips from the transactions would ricochet through cyberspace and alert Bor’s watchers, and from somewhere in the highest reaches of the US government a traitor would transmit a message to Bor: Garin is at Qdoba on the main level of Reagan National, proceeding toward the baggage claim level opposite the taxi stand.

Garin spent fifteen minutes at the airport before climbing back into the Explorer, lowering the windows, lighting a Partagás, and streaming Jimi Hendrix at maximum volume. “All Along the Watchtower” reverberated throughout the parking garage. Signature Michael Garin, clandestine warrior, in plain sight for any and all to behold.

Moments ago Garin had pulled into the parking lot of a sprawling series of low-rise apartment buildings off Minnieville Road in Dale City. The units were occupied by low-income residents, a significant number of whom were day laborers for contractors in the area.

Garin had an apartment in the basement level of Building C, under the name Tom Lofton. However, he had not slept there since the Quds Force operators had attempted to assassinate him at the outset of the EMP operation. They had failed—Garin had killed them both. That unpleasantness, along with the commotion from the related police and FBI investigations, had, to put it mildly, set the complex’s management on edge concerning lessee Lofton. Garin smoothed matters by compensating management for the cleaning bill and presenting them with a bonus of six months’ rent. The bonus resolved any issues as far as management was concerned. As for the other residents—those who knew Lofton liked him, especially the younger kids, who viewed Lofton as an exciting enigma. Besides, it wasn’t as if the complex was wholly unfamiliar with unpleasantness.

Garin spotted ten-year-old Emilio Val Buena in the window of his family’s unit two floors above Garin’s. Emilio seemed to nearly jump out of his skin upon spying Lofton through the SUV’s driver’s-side window and waved ecstatically. Emilio occupied an elevated status in the complex due to the fact that he was the only kid to have had an actual conversation with the legend. Emilio had massaged the conversation into tales of Lofton’s epic adventures, which seemingly improbable tales gained instant legitimacy after the two bodies were removed from Lofton’s apartment.

Garin waved back, and although it was one of the rare occasions when he felt the onset of a smile, he suppressed it—for Emilio’s benefit: The enigma understood that a taciturn Lofton was far more mysterious, and therefore useful, to Emilio’s continuing narrative for his friends.

Garin wasn’t there to move back into the apartment. Not because he eschewed its Spartan appointments: Although he had earned a considerable sum several years ago cashing out of DGT, he preferred to live frugally and efficiently, and the apartment had satisfied both criteria. No, he was there to drop another bread crumb. Bor’s people would eventually check the apartment, if they hadn’t done so already.

Before Garin opened the door, his mobile vibrated. He put the device to his ear without checking the screen.

“Yes.”

“Matt here. Dan told me to get this to you: The tech guys did the analysis you asked for. Do you want me to tell you what we found over the phone or do you want to come here?”

Garin appreciated Matt’s caution. They had to assume Garin’s conversation could be intercepted and monitored. Given Bor’s likely presence in the area, this wasn’t a bread crumb he wanted to drop.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

BETHANY BEACH, DELAWARE,

AUGUST 16, 8:12 A.M. EDT

The soft breeze off the ocean was largely ineffective against the stifling August heat. Nonetheless, the patrician found the balcony comfortable enough to work from.

Garin was an irritant. No, that wasn’t quite right, thought the patrician. Garin clearly was much more than that. He was, after all, responsible for thwarting the EMP attack. He needed to be eliminated quickly.

The patrician was very pleased with the progression of all phases of the operation, but Garin persisted in complicating matters, getting uncomfortably close to the functional levers of the plan. The man was more than a soldier taking orders. Indeed, he was taking no orders now. He was initiating action, independent of the US government, which remained oblivious to what was about to happen.

It remained highly unlikely that Garin could disrupt the plan. There were too many layers and contingencies. As significant as the EMP plot had been, it was but the opening stage of a series of feints, decoys, and misdirections, each of which had the capacity to accomplish the ultimate aim.

As expected, having halted a black swan—an unprecedented event—had lulled the West into a sense of security, of disaster averted. Not Garin. He behaved as if black swans were an everyday occurrence.

He had to go.

The patrician lit a Winston and drew long and deep from it before expelling its blue smoke in a long trail. With his other hand he pressed a key on his phone and waited.

“Yes.” Bor answered flatly.

“Your friend has been waving his arms frantically, trying to get us to notice him. He’s been on the Beltway, at Reagan National, and in several places in between. It’s rude that we haven’t responded.”

“We just need a location.”

“We’re monitoring in real time. We have eyes on. I’m forwarding the information now.”