Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

Vasiliev had waited until zero plus five minutes before informing his boss that the event had not yet launched—there had been some type of catastrophic systems failure at the unit. Mikhailov received the news as if receiving a weather report. It was raining despite a forecast of a sunny day.

But, as always, the unflappable Mikhailov had packed an umbrella. So he invited Vasiliev to take a seat and the two talked hockey for several minutes, until there was a light knock at the door. Vasiliev rose and opened it to a tremulous aide, who whispered something before disappearing as fast as she could. Vasiliev turned to Mikhailov and simply shook his head once and retook his seat to await further instructions.

Mikhailov was deliberative. He had a bit of time. His contingency plan was in place and ready to proceed. All he had to do was give the order.

“We will give the unit another forty-five minutes.”

Vasiliev nodded. “Realistically, Mr. President, if necessary we have more time than that.”

“Yes, I know. But it is better to set a firm deadline; otherwise, we will find ourselves pushing the schedule back five more minutes, then ten, then ten more. Alert Bor.” Mikhailov smiled, anticipating Vasiliev’s response. It was his aide’s unofficial duty to second-guess him.

“Mr. President, the Bor option presents enormous risk. Perhaps it would be advisable to wait.”

“Either option presents enormous risk, Alexei.”

“The Bor option, however, if executed with anything less than perfection, will assuredly precipitate war, and not merely regional skirmishes, but a major conflict. A world war, which could result in the use of nuclear weapons.”

“Bor will execute with perfection. That is why we entrusted the backup operation to him.”

“But he was thwarted in the EMP operation,” Vasiliev noted. “There is no guarantee he will not be thwarted once more.”

“Bor was not thwarted. The Iranians were. By Mr. Garin.”

“Respectfully, Mr. President, I submit the risk is greater now. Garin—and for that matter, the Marshall administration—was placed on notice of our ambitions by the EMP operation. We cannot dismiss Garin—our file on him is substantial. Even Bor respects him.”

“Alexei, we are cognizant of the risk. We have discussed the probabilities more times than I can count. Indeed, the Main Intelligence Directorate ran the probabilities through their supercomputers—what?—literally billions of times. The majority of outcomes show success. And if there is a failure—the possibility of which I do not discount—the Americans will assign blame to ISIS, because every single person Bor is running is inspired by, and believes himself to be working for, that group.”

“This would dwarf the 9/11 attacks, Mr. President. The American people will expect and demand massive retaliation against anyone with any fingerprints on it.”

“No, Alexei, they most assuredly will not. They will demand retribution, but not suicide. ISIS and the jihadists will be made to pay. And even then Marshall’s hands will soon be tied. Half of the American populace believes Marshall to be a warmonger. They and the press will act as a restraint.”

Vasiliev paused for a moment. “But what of NATO? When we move into Greater Russia, Article 5 will be triggered.”

“Not one member of NATO will go to war over Latvia, Alexei. Or Estonia. Or even Ukraine. They are timid and dependent on our gas. And when we sweep through Iran, they will even cheer us for assisting them, for removing the chief state sponsor of terror. Again, keep in mind probabilities. ”

“Still, Mr. President, is it worth the risk?”

“We shall soon discover the answer, Alexei. But consider for a moment the potential rewards. Greater Russia, Iran, the Persian Gulf. No nation has conquered so much territory in more than seventy years. None has done so successfully in more than one hundred. So”—Mikhailov smiled again—“having dutifully performed the role of court skeptic, kindly alert Bor to be prepared to receive final orders within the hour.”

“And if the unit does not rectify the problem—a problem you were guaranteed would never occur—what shall we do with Stetchkin?”

The smile left Mikhailov’s face. “Nothing. For now.”

WASHINGTON, D.C.,

AUGUST 18, 5:12 P.M. EDT

All it took to fool the United States of America were glasses and a ball cap.

Vasiliev had alerted Bor to be prepared to deploy the volunteers. While it was still possible, even likely, that the event would proceed, he needed to leave the consulate and travel through the District to the house where the volunteers were waiting. Since they believed Bor was a jihadist, and to make sure the volunteers could never be connected to Russia, they were kept some distance away.

The Americans were credulous, but they weren’t stupid. After the suicide bombings they would be on highest alert, and Garin was certain to have insisted to the powers that be that Bor was at the center of everything. Even if they weren’t wholly convinced of his involvement, they would act out of an abundance of caution and check all surveillance videos for his image—presuming they knew what his image looked like.

Bor, always a step ahead of his adversaries, left nothing to chance. Both machines and man had biases. Those biases permitted Bor to evade detection by donning nothing more than heavy-framed glasses with one frame slightly smaller than the other and an Orioles cap pulled low over his brow. It was a matter of symmetry. Both human brains and facial-recognition algorithms were thrown off by subtle alterations. For humans, the alterations were magnified by stress. Chaos and pressure caused the closest of associates to misidentify one another. Even the most highly trained associates.

Even Garin.

He was somewhere nearby. Bor hadn’t seen him. The consulate’s ubiquitous surveillance cameras hadn’t picked him up. But Garin was out there, waiting. Bor was sure of it. In the two years they’d been Omega teammates, Bor had watched Garin closely—observed his techniques, habits, and preferences. The man was relentless. Bor had never seen him fail. He made mistakes, as anyone would, but they were inconsequential and immediately rectified.

Bor slung a large black Adidas bag filled with handguns, ammunition, and an MP7 over his left shoulder and proceeded out of the door of the consulate surrounded by several visiting diplomats. He scanned the surroundings as he walked to Wisconsin Avenue and immediately hailed a cab. He saw no sign of Garin, nor did he expect to. If Garin identified Bor, he wouldn’t intercept him here. Rather, Garin would lie back and observe Bor’s movements, waiting for him to rendezvous with others. Then the fireworks would begin.

Garin anticipated that Bor wouldn’t emerge alone from the consulate.

As clever and experienced as Bor was, when it came to evading detection, he had a significant handicap: his physique. Unless he was walking with a group of NFL running backs, his body would betray him.

And it did so only moments later when he left the consulate with several midlevel functionaries from the European Union. In contrast to their deskbound softness, his musculature had a rough, almost cartoonish quality. The minor alteration to his facial appearance would have been enough to throw off most people, but Garin spotted him just as he was entering the Red Top cab. Garin determined not to lose the cab in the traffic as he jogged to the black Explorer. He got in and followed several cars behind.

The traffic was sufficiently heavy that even if Bor looked back through the rear window it would be difficult for him to locate Garin. Given the events of the last couple of hours, Garin thought it likely Bor was now in play and would link up with whatever team might be supporting him.