Peter Kirsanow: Target Omega

What the wise old spy did not know — would not have believed — was that it was he who was being manipulated.

NORTH ATLANTIC

JULY 11 11:51 P.M. UTC

Barely ten hours ago, they had thwarted a catastrophe by a margin of mere minutes, but now, save for the taciturn man with the fierce eyes, they were at ease.

Five of the eight men reclining in the darkened cabin of the sleek Gulfstream G650ER cruising forty-two thousand feet above the black waters of the North Atlantic were in a deep sleep, aided by the white noise of the jet’s twin Rolls-Royce engines. The two men seated in front, Cal Lowbridge and Manny Camacho, though awake, wore placid, almost trancelike, expressions. Only the man seated aft appeared alert and focused.

Camacho, the newest member of the team, nudged Lowbridge and nodded toward the taciturn man working on his laptop. “Check out the boss.”

Lowbridge glanced back. “Vintage Mike Garin. Sleep’s a nuisance.”

“What’s he up to?”

“Ask him.”

“Tell you the truth, he scares me.”

“Get used to it. It gets worse the longer you know him. I’ve known him for going on six years. Still gives me the yips.”

Camacho nodded toward the man with a bulbous nose sprawled in the seat across from Garin. “Tanski, though, is dead to the world.”

Lowbridge looked back again. “This plane goes down, grab that nose and use it as a flotation device.” Lowbridge turned back to Camacho. “Go ahead. Find out what the boss is up to.”

Camacho rose and walked tentatively to Garin’s seat, crouching in the aisle next to him. Before Camacho could open his mouth, Garin, without looking up from the laptop, asked, “Finish your report yet?”

Flustered, Camacho stammered, “I was about—”

“We debrief as soon as we deplane. Leave absolutely nothing out.” Garin looked up from the screen and locked a glacial gaze on Camacho. “Not one thing.”

The conversation was over. Camacho rose awkwardly and returned to his seat as Lowbridge stifled a chuckle.

Gene Tanski, proud owner of a bulbous nose and other noteworthy anatomical features, stirred. The former Delta Force operator had known Garin longer than anyone else on the team.

“You enjoy doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Intimidating people.”

Garin didn’t respond.

“Why won’t you tell the poor kid what you’re doing?”

“He doesn’t need to know.”

Tanski leaned over to catch a glimpse of Garin’s laptop screen. “Then tell me.”

“Just trying to put down everything I can remember seeing on the bad guy’s laptop before exfil.”

“Mike, op’s over. Mission accomplished. Job well done. Time to shut down the engines and catch some z’s. We’ve been on fast-forward for the last forty-eight hours.”

“We’re missing something.”

“We did exactly what they sent us to do. With flair, grace, and extreme prejudice.”

“ They didn’t tell us the whole story, Gene.”

“They never tell us the whole story. Ours is not to reason why…”

Garin shook his head slowly. “The thing is, I’m not sure just who it is who’s telling us the story.”

“You lost me, boss.”

“Some of the bad guys in the tunnel were Ansar Corps.”

“So?”

“Why is a file on Evan Dellinger on a laptop of an Iranian Ansar Corps colonel in an assault tunnel… underneath a Pakistani nuclear weapons facility?”

Tanski exhaled. “Still lost, boss. Who’s Dellinger?”

“American physicist. Caltech, then Livermore, then MIT.”

“Nuclear?”

“No. Quantum electrodynamics.”

“Whoa. What the hell’s that?” Tanski asked, and then quickly added, “No, forget it. Don’t wanna know. I’m pretty sure my head will end up hurting more than it does now. I just wanna go home and grab a couple beers. Getting laid would be nice. But I’ll settle for an Orioles game if they’re in town.” Tanski sank back into his seat. “What about you, Mike? We got some time coming to us, provided the bad guys cooperate. Any sex, drugs, or rock ’n’ roll in your plans?”

“Going to Badwater.”

Agitated, Tanski sat up again. “Are you freakin’ kidding me? You’re still on that? Be serious, hombre. You’ve never even run a marathon. And I know you haven’t trained, at least not for that. Badass operator or not, can’t be done. No way.”

“Thanks for the encouragement.”

“I’m being serious, Mike. That’s what, five marathons nonstop? In the middle of the desert? That’s absolutely, positively nuts. Suicidal, homicidal, fratricidal — all the freakin’ cidals. Take my advice. Please. Don’t do it.”

“I’ll think about it. Even so, I need to go out there to see Clint Laws.”

“Ahhhh… the Professor of Death and Destruction. What for?”

“Not sure. He invited me out to the Ranch for a few days to kick back and tell lies. Said he wants to talk to me about Dan Dwyer and DGT.”

Tanski shook his head. “Nobody kicks back at the Ranch. Telling lies, maybe. But no kicking back. Probably gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

“I don’t think so, Gene.” Garin shifted in his seat so his face was flush with Tanski’s. “You’ve been at this for a while, right?”

“Long enough. You know that. I’ve got at least five years on you, boss.”

“Have you ever been sent on an operation where it seemed like the bad guys were expecting you?”

“All the time.” Tanski examined Garin’s face. “What are you getting at, Mike?”

“That tunnel was rigged. Why would they wire the tunnel if they were making a one-way trip to hit the nuke facility?”

“Are you saying they were tipped by someone on our side?” Tanski shook his head dismissively. “Nice cinematic flourish, Mike, but it doesn’t compute. Look, with all due respect, you’re overthinking this. They were probably going to collapse the tunnel onto any pursuers in case they had to make a fast retreat. Besides, outside of the president and Kessler, only a handful of people knew about the op.”

Garin turned back in his seat. The plane dipped as it hit a pocket of turbulence. He closed the laptop and gazed out the window at the crescent moon.

“Right.” He exhaled. “That’s what worries me.”

BETHANY BEACH, DELAWARE

JULY 12 8:37 A.M. EDT

The assassin was back in the United States.

The tall, lean figure with a patrician bearing, smoking a cigarette on the second-floor balcony of the large beach house overlooking the Atlantic, knew this because of the ringtone on his cell phone. The tone was reserved for one person alone.

Oddly, the patrician felt more at ease knowing the assassin was in the country. The man seemed to discharge assigned tasks with almost supernatural efficiency, and that gave the patrician a sense of comfort, security.

Despite the fact that the phone was encrypted and the house was clean, the patrician spoke sterilely.

“Yes.”

“There was an issue.”

“What kind of issue?”

“A matter of identification.”

“Are you certain?”

“No. But there is, at the very least, a possibility.”

“Then eliminate the possibility.” The patrician paused. “ All of the possibilities. Use our surrogates when feasible.”

“That will be a challenge,” the assassin replied. “The possibilities are… formidable.”

“Quite right. But time is of the essence and all of the possibilities must be resolved quickly. That can only be done with a sufficient number of surrogates.”