Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

The plan, his plan, was bold. Its major components were simple—feint, distract, hold, and attack. Nothing that military strategists hadn’t done for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. The tools were different, as well as the magnitude. But the principles remained the same.

Mikhailov read about and admired Frederick the Great, Stonewall Jackson, Patton, MacArthur, Rommel, von Rundstedt. Tactical audacity supported by meticulous planning and effectuated by lightning strikes. His plan was the equal of any of theirs, and he had the good fortune of facing a credulous opponent.

Nonetheless, should any of the moving parts falter—if there were a snag or a problem in timing—the plan could begin to unravel and his country could be imperiled in a way it hadn’t been since Hitler’s advance in 1942. The possibility would make anyone, even the formidable Mikhailov, nervous.

But the potential reward was worth the risk. The potential reward quelled the anxiety. Mikhailov would be assured of his place as one of the great men in history. He already possessed extraordinary power. Now he was on the brink of extraordinary glory.

Mikhailov examined his watch, a superfluous motion driven by nervous energy. He was aware of the time to the minute. “Everyone is to remain on standby until Stepulev notifies us. Then we will proceed in the planned sequence, at the planned intervals.”

“Yes. Anything else, sir?”

“Stepulev is in motion?”

“He is.”

“How much longer to the first strike?”

“Imminently.”

The formidable frame remained motionless. “Inform me immediately.”

“Of course,” Vasiliev replied. “Anything else?”

Mikhailov paused, his hooded eyes gazing nowhere in particular. “Vodka.”

WASHINGTON, D.C.,

AUGUST 18, 11:41 A.M. EDT

Stepulev drove the black Ford Explorer along Wisconsin Avenue, a volunteer in the passenger seat and two in the back. Their expressions were at once frightened and determined. Each wore a light poplin jacket under which were canvas vests into which was sewn enough explosive material to devastate nearly half a city block.

The legend among jihadists was that suicide bombers felt no pain; the explosion resulted in instantaneous death. They simply were, and then, they were not. There was insufficient time for the nerve impulses to register pain before the brain was pulverized and the jihadist was already in paradise. Of course, not all suicide bombers were fully convinced the legend was accurate, so they hedged their bets by ingesting their drug of choice to render them oblivious to the impending explosion. None of Stepulev’s volunteers took that route.

Stepulev hadn’t seen the four men located on the north end of Tunlaw as he drove from the Russian embassy minutes earlier. Ty Wilson and Ike Coe had been joined by Mike Garin and Congo Knox a short time earlier. Garin kept vigil at the embassy after Stepulev had driven away. Knox, Wilson, and Coe followed Stepulev in their own black Ford Explorer while Garin remained behind to wait for Bor. When Knox protested that sending three men after the Explorer was ridiculous, especially since Garin would be alone, the latter pointed out that the passengers in the vehicle were wearing jackets in August in Washington, D.C.

Knox understood. When he asked what instructions Garin had for the three DGT men if the men in the jackets acted suspiciously, Garin simply replied, “Shoot first and don’t waste time asking questions later.”

WASHINGTON, D.C.,

AUGUST 18, 12:37 P.M. EDT

The nearly four-hundred-person staff of the National Security Council dealt with a blizzard of information, much, if not most, of it of little consequence to national security. Indeed, the majority of the information was little more than background noise. It could sometimes yield useful information when tethered to a puzzling statement from a foreign leader or a peculiar incident seemingly unrelated to the safety of the populace.

James Brandt, the Oracle, had long developed a reputation for being able to divine the consequences of disparate bits of ostensibly unrelated information. He had surrounded himself with staff members who possessed similar, if far less profound, capabilities. Brandt, however, had seen in Olivia Perry capabilities at least as impressive as his own. Olivia might be the one person who could match Brandt in seeing answers where others saw only puzzles.

So it was when one of Olivia’s NSC colleagues, Barry Brame, called her on her cell shortly after Garin had left Dwyer’s house for the Russian embassy. Not that Brame had seen anything especially noteworthy about the information he was about to convey to Olivia, but as with most of the male staff of the NSC, he sought any excuse for contact with Olivia.

“Hi, Olivia. It’s Barry. I know you’ve consulted with Professor Hammacher—Ryan Hammacher—about cyberattack issues.”

“Hello, Barry. What’s going on?”

“I just thought that since you know him and this is one of your issues, you should know that Hammacher was found dead in a men’s room at Logan Airport.”

“What? When?”

“About four days ago.”

“What happened?”

“His girlfriend found him on the men’s room floor just before they were to take a flight to Reagan. Airport security called Boston PD and paramedics. They pronounced him dead at the scene. Preliminary cause of death was listed as a heart attack and—”

Before Brame could finish, Olivia said, “Bull.” Flat and unequivocal.

Startled, Brame asked, “Huh?”

“Nothing, Barry.” Hammacher, someone Olivia knew to be relatively young and by all appearances healthy and fit, just happened to be found dead at the same time Bor had reemerged and satellite imagery showed peculiar Russian movements? Garin and Dwyer repeatedly said there were no coincidences in their business. “Did the police find any documents on him?”

“No. His girlfriend took them before they arrived on the scene.”

“And she didn’t turn them over? She’s tampering with a potential crime scene.”

“Tell that to her. She’s a big-time lawyer. She must’ve figured they were important enough to take with her.”

“Where are they now?”

“We have them.”

“How?”

“The girlfriend—a Meagan Cahill—e-mailed them to Jess, to your attention.”

“E-mailed? How…”

“iPhone.”

“Jesus. I assume it wasn’t secure?”

“You assume correctly. Anyone could have intercepted them.”

“Okay. Well, we’ll have to worry about that later.” Olivia thought about asking Brame to have Jess forward the file to one of Dwyer’s secure communications rooms, but if the information in the file pertained to national defense, such transmission would be illegal. She would follow protocol.

“Barry, I need to view that file as soon as possible. In a SCIF. Let Jess know I’m on my way to the OEOB.”

WASHINGTON, D.C.,

AUGUST 18, 12:48 P.M. EDT

Bor would emerge from the embassy soon. Of that Garin was fairly certain. He had a better sense for how Bor operated than perhaps anyone. Garin had served with Bor for two years as Omega operators, Garin as the leader and Bor as one of his most trusted team members. Each had saved the other’s life at some point—taking out a sniper before he got off a shot; providing cover while the other advanced. They’d slept shoulder to shoulder in rat holes, eaten rotted food, and dressed each other’s wounds.

But it went beyond being teammates. More than one Omega member had noted the similarities between Garin and Bor. Both were indefatigable, even for special operators. Both were smart.