Peter Kirsanow - Target Omega

“One man killed all seven? Just a moment ago you said that even the KGB and Mossad would’ve had a hard time duplicating what happened. I’m sorry, Professor, that doesn’t make any sense,” Olivia said, shaking her head.

“Under most circumstances, I’d agree. But I’m told this man is something of a remarkable fellow.”

Olivia cocked her head, dubious. “He would have to be more than remarkable to pull off an operation like that. Who told you?”

“Who told me he’s remarkable?”

“Yes.”

“The president.”

“The president? No disrespect, Professor, but I find it difficult to believe the president of the United States is even remotely aware of the identity of a lone member of the vast special operations intelligence community, no matter how remarkable. What did he tell you about this man?”

“Just that he’s talented and his name is Michael Garin,” Brandt replied. “Oh yes. And that Scanlon says there’s some evidence of Garin’s culpability. It appears two bodies were found shot dead in an apartment in Dale City, leased to a Thomas Lofton.” Brandt raised his hand to fend off the obvious question. “Lofton is a pseudonym Garin sometimes uses. The FBI says the placement of the shots indicates the shooter was likely a pro.”

“So I take it the bodies belonged to two members of the WMD team,” Olivia said flatly.

“Actually, no. As yet, they’re unidentified. And Garin is nowhere to be found.”

“I can see why his disappearance doesn’t look good.” Olivia’s eyes narrowed. “But did anyone consider that the two bodies are those of the assassins? I mean, isn’t it more likely that Garin killed two unknown attackers in self-defense, as opposed to seven elite operators? What would be his motive for killing his teammates?”

“Liv, that’s precisely what I want you to find out.”

“You’ve lost me,” Olivia said, a distinct note of exasperation in her voice. She was used to Brandt making seemingly unrealistic demands, but detective work wasn’t part of her portfolio.

“I’d like you to gather as much information about Garin and his team as you can. Someone had a reason for killing that WMD team. The more we know about Garin, the more likely we’ll discover the reason. And that reason might have some bearing on the crisis in the Middle East.”

Brandt, four moves ahead again.

“The FBI’s main objective is to find and apprehend Thomas Lofton,” Brandt continued. “They don’t yet know Lofton is Garin. That’s a call for Scanlon to make.”

Olivia studied the designs on the rug under her feet as she pondered Brandt’s statement. “Care to give me a hint of what you think I might find?”

“I’m not sure even I know, because right now, all I have is suspicious timing.”

“What’s so suspicious about the timing? The Middle East is always in crisis. Using that logic, any event that occurs at any time would be suspicious because it would always coincide with a Middle East crisis.”

“Liv.” Brandt smiled. “Don’t be coy. I learned about the assassinations of the WMD team a few hours ago. You learned about them five minutes ago. But if I know you — and you know I do — you’re already starting to draw some of the same conclusions I have.”

Olivia had to admit to herself that as Brandt and she spoke, the chessboard was becoming clearer: tensions in the Middle East that could erupt into a major conflict, the threat of the use of WMD always hanging in the air. And now a WMD task force virtually wiped out. Brandt was right. Getting as much information about the last surviving member of that force might yield some clues.

Olivia nodded. “I’ll do my best. Any recommendations on where I should start?”

Brandt shook his head. “You always know what to do. I’ll leave it to you.”

Olivia, sensing from experience that the meeting was at a close, rose to leave. Arlo got up to escort her out.

“And, Liv?”

“Yes?”

“Try to get as much information as quickly as you can. Garin doesn’t sound like the kind of man who leaves any loose ends. I have a feeling that a lot more bodies are going to start dropping soon. And a lot of information will drop with them.”

DALE CITY, VIRGINIA

JULY 13 6:45 P.M. EDT

Garin drove to the rear of the U-Store-It facility off of Dale Boulevard and parked the Jeep out of sight of both street traffic and the security camera hanging under the western eave of the building. He picked up a discarded newspaper and approached the camera perpendicularly so he could remain out of its range.

Garin had to ditch the Jeep. It was registered to Thomas Lofton, and the police and FBI, if they weren’t already searching for the vehicle, would be doing so shortly. He walked to the storage bay he rented — unit 53—at the northeast edge of the facility and lifted the overhead door, revealing a navy-blue 2006 Crown Victoria. The registration form in the glove compartment stated that it belonged to Mark Webster.

Garin opened the trunk and lifted the carpeted bottom that covered the well housing the spare tire. Inside were a variety of supplies and an arsenal of weapons and ammunition sufficient to wage a small but respectable war, including an MP5 submachine gun, a Taurus 608, a Glock 17, a couple of tactical knives, several flash bangs, and even a vanity Desert Eagle. He retrieved several nutritional bars and a bottle of water and closed the trunk.

Garin opened the passenger-side door and pulled a soft leather case from the glove compartment. Inside he found a current driver’s license for Mark Webster along with several major credit cards in Webster’s name. He would use the credit cards only in an emergency — relying on cash instead. Removing the Lofton license and credit cards from his pocket, he threw them onto the floor of the Jeep and doused the vehicle with a five-gallon container of gasoline. When he was done, he threw the container onto the floor of the Jeep, too, before lighting a match.

As Garin pulled out of the empty lot in the Crown Victoria, he glanced once in his rearview mirror, seeing nothing but an eruption of orange-yellow flames consuming the vehicle.

Good-bye, Señor Lofton.

NORTHERN IRAN

JULY 14 8:55 A.M. IRDT

Dmitri Chernin sat glumly at the black metal desk in his office, a large glass of Smirnoff and a fully loaded Tokarev before him. Although it was only nine A.M., he was on his second glass of vodka. The Tokarev, which had formerly belonged to his father, was prominently displayed to deter anyone who might express disapproval of the alcohol.

Chernin sometimes imagined himself a beleaguered character in a Chekhov play. It seemed his life consisted only of work, responsibility, discomfort, and disappointment. Any moments of joy were confined to childhood memories and, even then, were fleeting. And there was little prospect of joy in his present station in life.

Chernin’s office was a small box with a linoleum floor and concrete walls painted a ghastly shade of green. Beneath an overhead fluorescent light, two metal cabinets stood in the corner near his desk, which faced the door leading to a catwalk above the floor of the main facility forty feet below. The floor-to-ceiling window adjacent to the door permitted him to see much of the enormous work space.

In addition to the vodka and gun, a secure phone and computer sat on the desk. The computer screen displayed data indecipherable to almost anyone but Chernin and told him that the work taking place outside his office was slightly ahead of schedule, an impressive achievement given the numerous setbacks the project had endured. Chernin was effectively in charge of the facility. Although he had no formal title, all operational authority ultimately rested with him.