Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

Olivia held on to his arms. “Michael, please listen to them. If anyone knows when someone is in serious need of medical help, they do. Please.”

Garin grimaced and tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t support him. He collapsed back into the seat. He appeared drained.

“‘I’ll lay me down and bleed awhile. Then I’ll rise and fight again,’” Dwyer recited. “Still good counsel, Mike.”

“Sir Andrew had time to bleed,” Garin retorted. “We don’t.”

“But you’re bleeding now, Michael,” Olivia said, continuing to hold his arms.

Dwyer said, “Let him go, Olivia. When he’s like this there’s no reasoning with him. Only his own body can stop him. And this time it will.”

Olivia shook her head. “No. This is lunacy.” She stared hard at Garin. “Michael, get medical help. You’ve got no obligation to do this. It’s not your responsibility.” She thought for a moment. “Nikolai Garin would tell you the same.”

Garin focused. “Nice try,” he growled. “Nikolai Garin would tell you to let go and let me do my job. Now.”

“He—”

“Now.”

Olivia hesitated but released her hold. Garin gathered himself, stood, and assessed his balance. Then he walked swiftly to the door and out of the room, Diesel following closely behind.

RUSSIAN EMBASSY, WASHINGTON, D.C.,

AUGUST 18, 9:52 A.M. EDT

His cell vibrated. The caller ID said “unknown” but Bor recognized the voice instantly.

“He is impaired.”

“How badly?” Bor asked.

“Enough.”

“Unless he’s dead it’s not enough.”

“Enough to give you the advantage if he finds you.”

“You mean when he finds me,” Bor corrected. “Details, please.”

“Severe burns on his arm. It will limit his strength. He also suffered a head injury of some kind.”

A pause as Bor processed the information. “How does the head injury manifest itself?”

“I’m unsure of the symptoms, other than severe pain, some disorientation.”

“All right. Anything else?”

“That’s all for now.”

“Keep me apprised.”

“When I can.”

Bor terminated the call and exhaled. The information he’d just received was troubling. As far as he was concerned, a wounded Garin was a dangerous Garin.

Taras Bor and Vadim Stepulev examined the satellite photo of Washington, D.C., on the tablet provided by an aide to the rezident. Bor swiped the screen and the photo was replaced by a map with nearly a dozen digital pins stuck in various areas throughout the District.

Bor looked at Stepulev. “Ready?”

“Yes. The primaries should be easy enough. But if we encounter any obstacles, I am sure we can execute the secondaries.”

“That does not mean you. Leave everything to your volunteers. You are merely the conveyance. Do not engage anyone. Period. You need not lose your life for a mere distraction.”

Stepulev smiled broadly and clapped Bor’s shoulder with his hand. “You do not sound like the committed lieutenant I first met years ago, Taras. Do you no longer believe in the cause? Is the fire extinguished?”

“I believe. But I do not believe in the state or its nonsense. I never have.”

Stepulev laughed loudly, the sound muffled in the small office with soundproof walls. “Who among us ever did? Our parents did not believe in the state; they only mouthed the words because they were compelled to, my friend. Now the state is no longer supreme. But everyone must believe in something. What do you believe in?”

“Death.”

“That is obvious. What comes after death?”

“For me, hell.”

Stepulev looked at Bor quizzically. “The great Bor believes in hell?”

“Do you believe this is all there is?”

“I am no longer certain what I believe.”

“That is the problem,” Bor observed. “Your volunteers, what do they believe?”

“They believe they will be rewarded in paradise,” Stepulev said.

“And you will help them test their faith,” Bor said.

“I merely make it possible for them to fulfill their destinies. Just as you are doing with your volunteers.”

“My volunteers, like yours, may not have the opportunity to fulfill their destinies,” Bor said. “Garin is alive.”

Stepulev frowned skeptically. “How do you know?”

“Bulkvadze failed once. I gave him a second chance. I have not heard from him since. But I have heard from a source that Garin is alive, but wounded.”

“And you cannot reveal your source,” Stepulev said. “But you believe Garin killed Bulkvadze?”

“I am certain of it.”

“Then the Butcher will kill Garin,” Stepulev assured him. “After having some fun with him.”

“We have not heard from your Butcher either.”

Stepulev contemplated the matter. “Regardless, it is too late. Garin knows nothing. He can stop nothing.”

“He may not know anything now, but if he acquires any clues he will get up to speed very quickly,” Bor said. “And when that happens, things will get complicated.”

“Even so, we will be alerted of his plans and movements. We can stay one step ahead. That’s all we need.”

Bor shrugged. “Probably. Regardless, we may not even be in play. But if we are, we need to be vigilant and execute rapidly.”

“My volunteers are ready,” Stepulev said. “In fact, they are anxious.”

“Mine as well. When this is over we will have achieved something very significant. But if not, thousands of individuals like the volunteers will remain. Then Russia will be their central focus. We will have to deal with them directly at some point.”

“True,” Stepulev acknowledged with a sigh. “But we do not have the same sensibilities as the West when it comes to dealing with adversaries. The West seems perpetually apologetic for defending themselves.”

Bor rose from his chair and arched his back. “We could use a bit of self-reflection also, my friend.”

“But not to the point of suicide.”

“Speaking of which,” Bor said. “How was the timing on your practice runs?”

“Good. We went through three exercises. I would have put them through more, but because of the locations I was concerned someone might notice our repeated presence. Also, the strike points undoubtedly are covered by redundant cameras. Not knowing whether the images are fed into algorithms to identify faces that make repeat appearances, I decided to limit our runs.”

“Good.”

“I will meet you shortly thereafter in Leesburg. My only detour will be to switch vehicles afterward. It won’t take long for them to identify the original vehicle.”

“Does the sequence still appear feasible?”

“Softest target to hardest. Unquestionably,” Stepulev replied. “Union Station has considerable security, but nothing like the other two. Of course, after Union Station the other targets will be further hardened instantly.”

Bor paced the small room slowly. “Have you considered reversing the order?”

“Several times, Taras. There are problems with any sequence we choose. As I have noted to my superiors, simultaneous strikes would be best.”

“Yes, that would enhance the probabilities of success. What was their response?”

“They did not disagree. But they specifically wanted sequenced strikes for the psychological effect. It would be more devastating, more of a distraction. The US would anticipate yet more strikes, so it would occupy their attention in a way simultaneous strikes would not.”

Bor cocked his head to the side, considering the rationale. “Perhaps. I am not sure that outweighs the logistical advantage to a simultaneous strike.”