Peter Kirsanow - Target Omega

“You are such a pessimist. Always such a pessimist.”

“It’s better to be a pessimist. That way, I’m rarely disappointed. Chernin wouldn’t be talking about returning home unless both the missile and the warhead were nearly ready to go.”

“Everything I hear says they are not yet capable of producing a deliverable nuclear device. The faulty centrifuges, the random accidents, set the program back even further than the IAEA estimates,” Mansur said.

Singer picked a bit of tobacco from his tongue. “Those ‘estimates’ were sheer guesswork. They haven’t the slightest idea where Iran’s program stands. Neither does the CIA. For three years they were saying Iran had discontinued its nuclear program. Then, suddenly, nuclear sites are popping up all over the country. The IAEA and UN have consistently underestimated Iran’s nuclear progress, and forgive me for suspecting that their underestimation was intentional. If they say your country is one year from having deliverable nuclear capability, I’d bet it’s actually one month.

“Considering what you’ve told me, I’d say Iran will be a nuclear power within days or weeks, if it is not already. And by nuclear power, understand something, Hamid: I mean being able to deliver and detonate a functional nuclear payload. We estimate they already have a nuclear device, probably more than one. We believe they can already detonate such a weapon — however crude — but we need to be absolutely certain it’s functional and deliverable before appropriate action can be taken. There can be no mistake.”

Both men stood silently. The sky was darkening and night quickly approached. Singer gazed pensively at the large orange half-moon cresting over the horizon.

“When can you see Chernin again?”

“I must be careful, Ari. I cannot overplay my hand. You know how these things are. His driver is security. Chernin calls me every few days. He hates the food in the compound, so he comes to my place to drink my vodka, fill his stomach, and smoke my cigars. I cannot push.”

Singer dropped the half-smoked cigarette to the ground and put it out with his foot. The look on his face was uncompromising. “Hamid, I have to ask you to do whatever you can to get him to come over to your place and give you more information, any information that would provide greater certainty as to what we’re dealing with, so appropriate action can be taken. We can’t afford to make mistakes — either of action or inaction.”

“You understand that this will be risky,” Mansur said. “If I ask too many questions, if I appear too interested, he will stop talking. Worse, for me, my inquisitiveness might come to the attention of VEVAK.”

“Hamid, I understand fully what I’m asking. I wouldn’t ask if I thought we had more time or another way. But if we don’t confirm what we’re dealing with, the consequences could be catastrophic. After the failure to find large weapons of mass destruction dumps in Iraq, no Western nation will move on Iran without verification of the project’s status. This restraint would allow Iran to complete the nuclear missile and strike Israel. Think about that. Do you think Israel, though devastated, wouldn’t launch everything it had at its enemies? Your country would cease to exist. Period. And who knows what other actions would be triggered? Once nukes start flying, there’s no way to predict where, or if, it will stop. It’s a risk you must take. And, although I don’t think it needs to be said, you will be compensated in proportion to the risk.”

Hamid smiled sardonically. “Dead men have little use for money.” He quickly added, “Make no mistake, I will gladly accept your generosity. But I recognize what must be done, regardless of the fee. It is just that I am not eager to die while so young and handsome.”

“Hamid, dear man, we’re no longer young. And you were never handsome.”

Singer reached into his pocket, produced an envelope, and handed it to Mansur.

“Thank you,” Mansur said without examining the contents. “I will meet you here in two days, but one hour earlier. If I am not here, it is because I am dead, or will be soon.” Both men knew the last comment was superfluous.

Singer shook Mansur’s hand. It was not the handshake of a concluded business transaction. The two men stood for a moment and regarded each other before Hamid climbed onto his motor scooter and drove into the twilight.

MOUNT VERNON, VIRGINIA

JULY 15 1:45 P.M. EDT

After the meeting with Day and Riley, Dwyer decided to go home. He had cleared his calendar for the day, anticipating that the hearing would take several hours. When he arrived, he went straight to his library, sat in his recliner, and wondered how Washington had come to be dominated by the Julian Days of the world.

Dwyer was mildly surprised when the phone on the credenza next to him rang, for it rarely did so. Nearly everyone called his cell. He picked up the receiver and listened as a series of digits were recited before the line went dead.

Dwyer rose to his feet and walked quickly out of the library, down the hall, and down two flights of stairs to the subbasement. At the bottom of the stairs was a long, wide hallway with a series of doors on both sides and one at the end. Dwyer walked to the end of the hallway, where he punched a four-digit code on the touch screen next to a thick metal door. There was an electronic chirp and then a heavy click as the door unlocked.

As Dwyer entered, lights came on automatically and the door swung shut behind him. The room was the size of a large conference room. Arrayed along the walls was millions of dollars’ worth of some of the most advanced communications technology in existence. Dwyer had the ability to establish secure links with individuals anywhere in the world. A large video screen on the wall opposite the door provided videoconferencing capabilities. The walls of reinforced steel were thickly padded and acoustically designed to absorb any sounds emanating from the room. An electromagnetic curtain surrounding the room precluded any form of electronic eavesdropping.

Dwyer settled into a deep-cushioned captain’s chair in the center of the room and waited impatiently. Nearly five minutes passed before a light flashed on the phone embedded in the right armrest of the chair. Dwyer picked up the phone and said, “I assume I don’t have to tell you that you are, once again, in an impressively deep pile of excrement.”

“It’s good to talk to you, too,” Garin said.

“Is there anyone in America who isn’t looking for you?” Dwyer asked.

“I doubt it. But what do you hear?”

“This morning I got a visit from an aide to James Brandt. Yes, that James Brandt. National Security Advisor James Brandt. She — the aide, world-class babe, by the way — tells me Brandt wants to know everything there is to know about one Michael Garin. They think you’re somehow connected to the crisis in the Middle East and something the Russians and Iranians might be cooking up. They know I recruited you to Annapolis. And they know I was one of your instructors at BUD/S.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That I haven’t talked to you in months. Afterward, I sauntered over to make a special guest appearance at Senate Intelligence. But it’s canceled because an urgent complication has come up regarding our country’s counter-WMD capability. Instead of the privilege of testifying, I get to spend quality time with the lovely and talented Julian Day, who informs me that, in fact, you are the complication. Apparently, you’ve captured the attention of the entire intelligence establishment, and most anyone who matters in law enforcement.”