Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

The license number for the forest-green Ford Windstar was first captured by a traffic camera at Fourteenth and C in Washington. The vehicle had crossed C Street just as the light turned red. The information was picked up by DGT personnel, who tracked the minivan along Fourteenth Street using proprietary cameras and GPS until it stopped at 2641 Tunlaw, the address of the Russian consulate, where it had remained until now. It was unclear whether Bor was, in fact, in the vehicle, but Dwyer dispatched Coe and Wilson to the Russian embassy to keep watch and report back should they spot the Russian.

“Where’s Luci?” Garin asked.

“She’s upstairs,” Knox answered. “In the— What do you call that room with the big screen and all the audio, Dan?”

“The room with the big screen and all the audio.”

“I hope she doesn’t feel like we’re holding her hostage,” Garin said.

“She’s having the time of her life,” Knox said. “Plus, she wants to keep an eye on her investment.”

“She can and should stay here until we figure out what’s going on,” Dwyer added.

“Any update from Matt about the numbers and letters on the sheet of paper?” Garin asked.

“Not yet.”

“What letters and numbers?” Olivia asked.

Garin handed her the sheet of paper. “These.”

Olivia looked it over. “Flight information,” she said instantly.

“What do you mean?” Dwyer asked.

“UA4272; MK9BRU; 01623190175961,” Olivia said, reading one of the lines. “That’s a United Airlines flight number followed by a confirmation number and ticket number.” She recited another line. “DL5416; JNVG76; 0062332192690; Delta Airlines, probably a regional express jet if I had to guess.”

“Unbelievable,” Dwyer said. “How did we miss this?”

“It was simple. You were looking for something complex. Where did you get this?” Olivia asked.

“From someone I believe was working for Bor,” Garin replied.

“What you have here”—Olivia counted to herself—“are ten separate flights. Based on the prefixes, it appears they’re United, Delta, and American.

“Based on the flight numbers I would guess that the origin of the United flights might be Reagan National. But why guess? Just log on to the airlines’ websites and input the data. One thing we do know is these flights were or are booked, because of the confirmation number. Maybe they’ve already been taken. But maybe they were booked in advance and remain to be taken.”

“How many look like United flights out of Reagan?” Garin asked.

Olivia scanned the paper. “At least four.”

“Could they be escape routes for Bor’s men?” Knox asked.

Dwyer rose, walked to the captain’s chair, and keyed a number on the console. Matt’s voice came over the speaker.

“Yes, Dan?”

“Those numbers and letters I asked you to check?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Ms. Perry here figured out that they’re flight information. Check them against the various carriers and get me all the data you can: origins, destinations, times, etcetera. Pronto.”

“Got it.”

Knox came back to the purpose for the flights. “They may be escape routes, or maybe the suicide bombers will use the tickets.”

“There are supposedly three parts to this,” Garin said. “Diversionary suicide bombers, a paralyzing main attack, and a backup plan. Where do ten airline flights fit in?”

“Suicide bombers couldn’t get on a plane with the ingredients for a bomb,” Knox said. “And they sure as hell won’t need a plane afterward.”

“So, unless the bombers are flying to various destinations to pick up their suicide vests or whatever, the flight information doesn’t have anything to do with them,” Dwyer said.

“Right. But let’s put part one of the plan on hold,” Garin advised. “Let’s go to part two—the main attack. What would ten flights have to do with that?”

“Maybe they’re planning to hijack ten planes,” Dwyer mused.

“Nearly impossible to do these days with the post-9/11 airline security protocols, hardened cockpits,” Olivia said. “If they’re extremely lucky, maybe they get one, two tops.”

“Olivia’s right,” Garin concurred. “Besides, hijacking planes, though significant, isn’t necessarily ‘paralyzing.’”

“Mike, maybe you’re putting too much significance on the term ‘paralyze,’” Knox said. “Step back. Maybe the guy wasn’t being literal. Maybe he just meant something big.”

“Possible, but I don’t think so. This guy was precise. He spoke excellent English, but like most foreigners he didn’t use a lot of colloquialisms. I think he meant ‘paralyze’ as in ‘cause us to come to a stop; freeze us in place.’”

“Okay,” Dwyer said. “If it’s not part of the main attack, maybe they’re escape routes, like Congo said.”

“Then they’d have to be escape routes for those involved in Bor’s backup operation,” Garin said. “Possible. But let’s look at it from another angle. What if the flights are the backup operation?”

“Doesn’t compute, Mikey,” Dwyer said. “Just as you said about the suicide bombers or hijackers. The odds for success just aren’t good enough.”

“Back to square one,” Knox concluded. “But this is good intel. If these flights are coming up, we tell the president or Brandt about them and they can put a ton of security around them, maybe pick up Bor’s people.”

“The problem with that is as soon as the FBI or anyone else is alerted, there’s a good probability Bor’s people will be alerted as well. Then they’ll just make other arrangements and we’ll miss them.”

“The FBI is compromised?” Knox asked.

“We think so, yes. Even so, we’ve got to do something,” Garin responded.

A buzz sounded over the speaker. Dwyer, standing next to the captain’s chair, connected.

“We have eyes on Bor,” Coe said.

“You sure?” Dwyer asked.

“The guy looks like he could induce cardiac arrest with a glance. Plus, he has a J-shaped scar along his right jawline.”

Garin instantly rose from the captain’s chair. He began to move toward the door but he felt unsteady and momentarily disoriented. Olivia was looking at him with alarm.

“Michael, you have blood flowing from your ear.”

Garin dabbed at the wetness on his cheek. As he did so, he felt a piercing pain radiate throughout the right side of his head. He grasped the armrest of the chair, his vision distorted and blurred, and braced himself, struggling to remain upright.

“Dan, help him,” Olivia demanded, stepping toward Garin.

“No,” Garin ordered, his eyes blinking to orient himself.

Olivia ignored him and grabbed both of Garin’s arms, forcing him to sit. “Michael, what’s wrong? What happened to you?”

“Mikey, you look seriously messed up,” Dwyer said. “All evidence to the contrary, you’re not invincible. We need to get you some treatment. Now.”

Garin continued blinking, attempting to gain focus. “No.”

“Mike,” Knox said. “You need to listen to Dan. You don’t look right. I mean, something’s very wrong.”

Garin said nothing. He shook his head and squeezed his eyelids tight. When he opened them the pain shot through to the other side of his head and a wave of nausea overcame him.

“I’m calling an ambulance,” Dwyer said, pressing 911 on the console.

“No,” Garin said in a voice that gave even Dwyer pause. “Bor…”

Dwyer cut him off. “To hell with Bor. You need a doctor.”

A female voice came over the speaker. “Nine-one-one. What is the nature of your emergency?”

“None,” Garin growled in his gravedigger’s voice and disconnected. He fixed Dwyer and Knox with a withering gaze. “Do not do that again.”