Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

Tatiana grew to love Piotr—only the second man in her life after her father. She was sure he would ask her to marry him and was a bit impressed, if not mystified, that he hadn’t already. Most past boyfriends had proposed marriage within months, if not weeks. Piotr, however, had more confidence.

He was working on something of some magnitude. That was plain. It consumed most of his time, as well as attention that would otherwise be directed at her. But whatever it was, it appeared to be drawing to a conclusion. And after that he would propose.

It was the manner and venue of the proposal that occupied her mind when the doors of the elevator opened silently on the eighth floor. She considered a number of possibilities, but Piotr was so creative and unpredictable that she suspected the proposal would be different from anything she could envision.

But as she placed her card key next to the electronic pad of the door to her apartment, it came to her and she smiled. Piotr wouldn’t propose to her. She wouldn’t give him the chance. She would propose to him. Here. Right now. Why not?

She also was creative and occasionally unpredictable. It would be a wonderful surprise. The perfect way to celebrate the completion of Piotr’s project and the success of her program. She knew she’d remember forever the look of surprise that would cover his face.

And Tatiana was right. When she opened the door and entered the foyer, she saw Piotr sitting on a lounge chair directly in front of her, staring at the ceiling. He had a look of surprise on his face. And a bullet hole in his forehead.

MOUNT VERNON, VIRGINIA,

AUGUST 17, 1:28 P.M. EDT

They were waiting for Garin and Knox on the east patio: Dwyer, Olivia, Matt, Luci, and two others from DGT, Ty Wilson and Isaac Coe, the latter a former corpsman.

Knox had alerted Dwyer to the condition of Garin’s arm, and Dwyer had summoned Coe to tend to Garin.

The six looked on anxiously as Garin and Knox climbed the steps. Dwyer motioned to Coe, who approached Garin to administer treatment, only to stop cold upon seeing the unamused look on his face.

“Later, Dan. I need to talk to the president.”

“Michael, that can wait,” Olivia said. “Have your arm taken care of first.”

The statement was registered by the same region of Garin’s brain that had stored Olivia’s previous expressions of concern and interest. Thinking he had the green light, Coe approached Garin once again, only to be met by a look that had gone from cold to glacial.

Garin was silent. Dwyer simply led Garin through the French doors into the library and down to the communications room in the subbasement. Olivia followed, while Luci took Knox’s hand and sat with him on the patio.

Dwyer punched the keypad next to the communications room door. The bolts slid open and the heavy steel door swung aside.

“I suspect I’m not cleared for this, so I’ll leave you two alone. Please give the commander in chief my regards and tell him I voted for him last year. Once in the primary and twice in the general.”

Dwyer withdrew. The door closed and the bolts locked into place.

Olivia caught Garin’s eye and nodded at his arm. “What happened?”

“Small accident.”

“It doesn’t look small.”

“I’ll take care of it. First, the president.”

Olivia moved to one side of the captain’s chair, pressed the speakerphone function, and keyed Brandt’s office number. Garin stood next to the opposite arm rest.

Brandt himself answered. “Yes?”

“Professor, I have Michael Garin with me. He’s calling for the president.”

“Hold on. This will take a minute. I’ll have the call patched to the Situation Room. The president, Kessler, and Secretary of Defense Merritt will be there momentarily, and I’m joining them.”

There was a click and then silence.

“It will take Arlo and the Secret Service a few minutes to get him there,” Olivia said. She looked Garin up and down. The incongruity in his appearance was ever present: intensity in a relaxed body.

“Can you tell me how that happened?” Olivia asked, nodding at his arm.

“Just an occupational hazard.” The gravedigger’s voice.

“You could always change occupations.”

Garin didn’t respond.

“Jim says the president thinks very highly of you. There’s been some discussion of issuing a commendation to you for”—Olivia smiled—“well, averting a war. The president seems to want you in a policy position.”

Garin’s single shake of his head conveyed finality: no way.

“At some point you won’t be able to do what you’re doing now, at least not at the same level. The cumulative effect of the physical traumas will slow you down. I saw it among some of my father’s friends in the NFL. They’d lose a half step, then a step—enough to lose their starting spots, then their spots on the team. Your job is more punishing by an order of magnitude. If you lose a step…”

“I’m dead,” Garin acknowledged. I’m dead anyway, Garin thought.

“During the EMP crisis James Brandt had me research you. Dan gave me background, that you weren’t expected to live at birth; your twin died in utero and you were infirm for much of your childhood.”

“This sounds like a prelude to psychoanalysis.”

“No.” Olivia shook her head. “Just suggesting you might consider easing back a bit, enjoying life with less peril.”

“Are you enjoying life as an aide to the NSA?”

“It’s what I’m trained to do.” A flick of her impossible abundance of hair off her left shoulder. “It’s what I want to do.”

“I’m doing what I want to do, Olivia.”

She examined him for several seconds. “What you want to do may be fatal.”

“Everyone dies.”

“Very Homeric. But even Achilles, Hector, and Ajax didn’t seek to expedite it, Michael. You’re entitled to some enjoyment in life.”

“As are you.”

Olivia cocked her head, bemused. “You don’t think I enjoy myself?”

“You work twenty-four/seven. Now you’re forgetting Aurelius, Plutarch, and Goethe.”

Olivia laughed. “You’re mocking me.”

“I can reference the classics too. Ivy League and all.”

“Remember, I’ve seen what you do, Michael.”

“And you disapprove.”

“No. Well, admittedly, seeing you kill people was… I wasn’t prepared for that. But you came close to being killed yourself. The odds will catch up to you, eventually.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

It was Garin’s turn to appear bemused. “Very few people express concern about my well-being, let alone my career path.”

“The Washington policy world needs a Michael Garin. Washington, in general, needs adults.”

“I can’t disagree with that.”

“You just might find that your talents are even better suited for making policy rather than executing it. Washington needs more people who don’t suffer fools gladly.”

A whisper of a smile briefly crossed Garin’s face. “A great American philosopher said, ‘A man’s got to know his limitations.’”

Olivia laughed. Garin found it musical.

“I love that movie. I love all the Dirty Harry movies.”

“Even The Dead Pool ?”

Another laugh, just as musical. “I’d like to binge-watch them sometime.”

A not so subtle opening not lost on Garin. Before he could respond, a click came over the speakerphone.

“Mr. Garin, this is the president.”

“Yes, Mr. President. Olivia Perry is with me, sir.”

“Secretary of Defense Merritt, John Kessler, and Jim Brandt are with me. I understand you want to reconstitute Omega and want authority. Tell me what’s going on.”