Peter Kirsanow: Target Omega

Nothing.

He darted his head around the corner to take a peek. Still nothing. Only the singular silence of a channel embedded within millions of tons of earth and rock.

Garin turned back slightly toward his team, pointed to himself, and nodded. Then he paused, braced, and spun swiftly around the corner.

Twenty-five feet in front of him stood a man brandishing a rifle who himself had just spun around a corner from the left.

The two men stood staring at each other, absolutely frozen, for two seconds that seemed like ten. Not a single breath, not so much as a blink or a twitch or a flinch between them. Squared off. High noon.

Then a second man began to emerge from the bend behind the point man. And a third.

Garin shot the point man with a three-round burst just above the bridge of his nose, the impact shearing off much of the top half of his head and the rifle’s sharp report reverberating down the tunnel. The point man’s body toppled backward to the ground.

There was utter silence for another full second, the surrounding earth having quickly absorbed the gunfire’s echo. A moment later, John Gates appeared from behind Garin and shot the other two men with a level of precision even Garin could not have surpassed.

And then all hell broke loose.

CHALUS, IRAN

JULY 11 11:43 P.M. IRDT

He was drunk. Again.

To the casual observer, nothing about the Russian would seem amiss. His speech was slow but not slurred; the normally stern visage was more relaxed but still flinty. He was somewhat more talkative but not voluble.

But to a man like Hamid Mansur, who had spent more than three decades making a living — and staying alive — by reading people closely, it was apparent that his guest, reclining comfortably on a low white couch in Mansur’s living room, was approaching the red zone of inebriation.

For Mansur’s immediate purposes, this was a good thing. He had befriended the Russian scientist shortly after his arrival in Iran with the intent of gathering as much information as possible about what he was doing at the military installation within the mountains just south of Mansur’s hometown of Chalus.

The Russian remained guarded even after consuming enough alcohol to fell a camel. But on each such occasion, he would reveal another small piece of the puzzle. It had taken the better part of a year, but Mansur had been able to collect enough disparate kernels of information from the Russian to conclude that the installation formed some part of Iran’s nuclear weapons program, and the man sipping chilled vodka across from him was an integral part of that program.

Whatever was inside those mountains appeared to be nearing completion, and although important pieces of the puzzle were still missing, the latest piece filled Mansur with alarm and a compulsion to relay the information to a resourceful Israeli agent who would take appropriate action.

Among the residents of Chalus it was a poorly kept secret that shortly after Iran had begun negotiations with Western powers regarding the scope of its nuclear program, the facility located in the North Alborz Protected Area swarmed with Russians and North Koreans. With only one or two exceptions, the foreigners remained confined to the “research” facility. In truth, Mansur’s guest, Dmitri Chernin, represented the sum total of the exceptions, a position accorded him due to his elevated status at the facility. A position, Mansur deduced, that was something akin to a project manager.

Yet even Chernin wasn’t permitted to venture outside the heavily guarded gates of the installation without an escort, whose purported responsibility was to act as Chernin’s driver, but whose real duty was to act as a minder, a spy, ensuring that the Russian made no unauthorized contacts with local residents or unknown individuals.

Mansur was not merely known to the Iranian regime, but occasionally proved himself quite useful. Now in his midsixties, he’d once been one of the more talented agents of the Sazeman-e Ettala’at va Amniyat-e Keshvar, or SAVAK, the ruthless Iranian intelligence agency under the shah. When the shah fell, Mansur was among the few former SAVAK agents not executed or purged, primarily because of his extensive and valuable network of contacts throughout the Middle East — particularly Israel — and he’d demonstrated a fidelity to each of Iran’s supreme leaders since Khomeini. Vezaret-e Ettela’at va Amniyat-e Keshvar, or VEVAK, the current ruthless Iranian intelligence agency, used Mansur to gather intelligence from, and pass disinformation to, the regime’s adversaries.

What the regime didn’t know was that Mansur’s professed allegiance was a charade — he’d detested most everything about the Iranian leadership since the revolution. So while feeding the regime inconsequential intel from the various intelligence services throughout the Middle East, he provided useful intel about the Iranian regime to those very same agencies. Mansur had even played a minor but indispensable role in one of the occasional setbacks that had beset the Iranian nuclear program over the years. And although it was a dangerous game, Mansur excelled at it, and it had provided him with a very comfortable lifestyle. One that, at least by Iranian standards, might even be considered luxurious.

Mansur was sufficiently concerned by what he’d heard from Chernin this evening that he planned to contact an Israeli named Ari Singer immediately upon Chernin’s departure. But first, Mansur needed to draw as much information about the timeline from his guest as he could.

Assuming a pose of amiable indifference, letting Chernin believe he was controlling the conversation, Mansur asked, “So what will you do when it is finished?”

Chernin shrugged. “I am not sure it matters…” Chernin caught himself. “I am not sure, Hamid. I have been working, seemingly day and night, and I have not given it much thought. It will not be a matter of what I do, but of what I do not do.”

“Retirement? Is that what you are insinuating? You are not that old, Dmitri.”

“Every Russian is born sixty years old.”

Mansur smiled. “You are fatigued, yes. I can see that for myself. Fatigue is not the same thing as age.”

“It is worse.” Chernin took another sip of vodka. “It steals one’s optimism. Robs one of time. Makes one a coward.”

Mansur sensed an opportunity. “How much more time, Dmitri? Years? Months?”

“Days.”

And just like that, Mansur felt a stab of anxiety. Based on their conversations over the last few weeks, he knew Chernin’s work was nearing completion, but he’d assumed at least a few more months remained. So had the analysts to whom Singer had conveyed Mansur’s information. This development would dramatically alter timelines, if not strategies, in Tel Aviv. Mansur needed to bring the evening to a close so he could contact Singer. The elf needed to know this now.

Mansur made a show of examining his watch, appearing surprised. “It is nearly midnight. I have an appointment in Tehran in the morning,” he lied.

The Russian waved him off and rose from the couch. It was his turn to lie. “I am about to leave, Hamid. Early start for me as well.” He keyed his cell phone to alert his driver to pick him up. “Thank you, once again, for dinner. And the vodka. And the cigars.” A playful pause. “Did I mention the vodka?”

“Thank you for the company, Dmitri. These days I have few occasions for interesting conversation.”

Mansur guided Chernin down the narrow entryway to the door of the apartment, pleased that he was able to so easily manipulate Chernin into departing. Opening the door for the Russian, he clapped him on the shoulder and watched him go down the stairs with surprising alacrity and steadiness for someone who had consumed more than half a bottle of liquor.