Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

Stetchkin tapped the speaker function on his desk phone and then pressed four keys. There was a brief buzzing sound before someone picked up.

“Yes, sir.”

“It is time,” Stetchkin said and disconnected.

NORTHERN VIRGINIA,

AUGUST 17, 1:12 P.M. EDT

Local police arrived at the parking lot behind the woods in the rear of the dead man’s house almost contemporaneously with Congo Knox picking Garin up from the front. Knox had waited, as Garin requested, for a time before placing an anonymous call to alert the police of the dead bodies to give Garin time to surveil the entire house.

Knox drove toward Dwyer’s house, where Dwyer, Matt, Olivia, and additional DGT personnel were assembled.

“You look like hell,” Knox observed.

“Thanks.”

“Cut your arm?”

“Propane torch.”

“My mom told me to be careful around open flames.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

“Why are you doing this, Mike?”

Garin looked sharply at Knox. “What do you mean, why am I doing this? Did you somehow forget the shootout in Dale City? Did you forget about the EMP? Forget Bor?”

“No, Mike. I mean why you? Why do you, as opposed to anyone and everyone else in our security apparatus, have to do this?”

“Because right now, who else is there? Besides you, Dan, Olivia, and Matt?”

“There’s no Omega anymore. But even if the nation’s security apparatus was involved, I bet you’d still be involved. So why you?”

“Why not? I’m an operator. I’m an American.”

“Okay, then, how?”

“You lost me, Congo.”

“You’re…” Knox searched for a word. “Inexorable. You keep coming, like some genetic freak—if there’s a gene for determination, that is. You act like you can’t die.”

Garin didn’t respond. I can’t, he thought. I’m already dead.

“So, did you get anything useful in there?”

“Maybe. How long until we get to Dwyer’s?”

“With the traffic, about twenty-five minutes.”

“I ran into four of Bor’s associates but got very little from them.”

“I assume they’re all room temperature now.” It was not a question.

“Whatever they’ve got planned, it’s going to happen soon and it’s going to ‘paralyze’ us. And it involves suicide bombers. At least in part. Supposedly, Bor’s not part of the main event. He’s part of a backup plan.”

“You don’t know who, how, where, what, etcetera?”

“I don’t know jack, except…” Garin pulled out the piece of paper. “I found what looks like a to-do list. I don’t know what it means, but part of it looks like times. Maybe for the suicide bombings.”

“The president wants to talk to you.”

“I take it Olivia talked to Brandt and Brandt talked to Marshall.”

“Yes. You’ve got the president’s attention now. What are you going to tell him?”

“What I just told you, Congo. That’s all I’ve got. And I’m going to emphasize the need for Omega and authority.”

“Think he’ll do it?”

“Marshall’s serious. He won’t hesitate if he thinks it’s necessary.”

“He’s also a politician.”

“He’s an American first.”

“One of only three in Washington who is.”

“It’s not that bad, Congo.”

“Worse.”

“Very cynical, Congo.”

“You think so? I was ordered to kill you, remember?”

“Point taken. And the person who gave that order is still out there. Do you think he or she acted alone?”

“Well, we know Julian Day was part of it.”

“Besides him.”

“Who knows, Mike? Regardless, it sure wasn’t some GS-14 at the Department of Agriculture. It had to have been a big-time heavyweight. Really big-time.” Knox paused while turning onto I-95. “What do you mean we’re going to be paralyzed?”

“It’s the word one of Bor’s guys used. Paralyzed. If I take it literally, it might refer to immobilizing our transportation capabilities. Maybe communications.”

“If you take it literally. But toward what end? Even if they could somehow immobilize our transportation or communications, how does that benefit the Russians? My guess is it’s a figure of speech, not literal.”

“That’s the problem. We’re guessing. We need more intel.”

Knox snorted. “Who’s going to give it to us?”

The pain in Garin’s arm continued to anger him.

“Bor.”

MOSCOW,

AUGUST 17, 9:20 P.M. MSK

The segment would go very well, she thought. Things were lining up nicely.

Tatiana Palinieva had finished preparations with her production team for a report on the recent massive increase in natural gas production by the Russian energy giant, Gazprom. The increase had significant ramifications, including a projected fifteen to eighteen percent decline in the price of natural gas sold to Europe. That decline assured European dependence on Russian natural gas for the foreseeable future, a major strategic coup for Mikhailov.

Now all Tatiana wanted to do was relax with a cup of tea and tell Piotr about the upcoming piece, yet another step on the seemingly endless ladder of her success. Only last month she’d received a sizable increase in her salary, including a bonus that, standing alone, constituted a year’s rent on her unit in one of the most exclusive apartment buildings in Moscow. Her modeling income had been substantial, but early in her former career she began saving and making plans for when age would reduce her demand. Although in her late thirties, ancient by fashion industry standards, Tatiana was still youthful-looking enough to continue modeling, but she was shrewd enough to have made an early transition to television news, which was only somewhat less ruthless when it came to cosmetic considerations.

The apartment building was opulent, quiet, and stately. She saw her neighbors so rarely that it seemed as if she was one of only a handful of residents. On the rare occasions she shared an elevator with another occupant, they’d exchange only a brief, polite greeting. No one ever made a fuss about her celebrity status. It was a relief, although she found herself occasionally wishing someone did treat her like a star. But that was all right. Once she stepped out on the street, passersby would stare, point, and wave. Some would commend her for a particular story or recommend a topic for another.

Every person in the city recognized her face. Every woman envied her beauty and admired her attire. Most men didn’t dare approach her, concluding they had no chance. Only the occasional oligarch or high government official would make a play.

She and Piotr had been together nearly two years. He was neither an oligarch nor a high governmental official, but it was clear he was a rocket headed to the stars. Piotr’s looks were, at best, slightly above average. In fact, their public appearances together presented a visual contrast somewhat akin to Grace Kelly and Prince Rainier; not staggering, but notable.

Tatiana’s income was far greater than Piotr’s, but it was clear it was only a matter of time before that would change, and probably dramatically. Piotr had all the right contacts in all the right circles, not because of shrewd networking, but because he was valuable, almost indispensable. He was uncommonly smart and a tireless worker. He could figure things out. He could get things done.

Tatiana had started out liking Piotr. He was interesting, a polymath who could discuss a variety of topics. And not merely in a superficial or pedantic way, but with depth and a sly sense of humor. He was considerate and sported a charm that was a cross between old-world courtliness and new-world irreverence.