Peter Kirsanow - Target Omega

“Garin’s family is from Russia,” Olivia said as if pondering an unfinished puzzle.

“Mike still has some distant relatives there,” Dwyer said, hoping to add a piece.

“Go on.”

“Mike thought it was his obligation to both his grandfather and his country to serve the latter as best he could,” Dwyer said.

“So he became part of the counter-WMD strike force.”

“It was pretty clear diplomacy wasn’t containing the spread of WMD,” Dwyer said. “A.Q. Khan was selling nuclear know-how to anyone with enough cash; the North Koreans were doing the same. Chechens were trying to get their hands on uranium. Every thug between Syria and Burma had nuclear designs.”

“And the UN does nothing but pass toothless resolutions,” Olivia added. “The IAEA is at best worthless and at worst enabling. There’s no meaningful penalty for violating nonproliferation treaties.”

“The administration — the one preceding Clarke’s, that is — understood that negotiations to prevent the development of WMD have only been used by rogue regimes to play for time until they acquired WMD capability,” Dwyer said. “The administration also knew that even if tough sanctions were imposed, they would find a way to circumvent them. So direct covert action was needed.”

“And the strike force was created,” Olivia finished. “But why not simply use Delta or SEAL Team Six to do the job? They’re already trained in nuke detection, recovery, and disposal.”

Dwyer said, “The strike force isn’t designed for detection and recovery. Its sole task is to seek and destroy.”

“Does it have a name?

“I don’t know. I can tell you that I’ve heard the name Omega once or twice. I’m not sure if that’s the unit’s official designation or if it’s what the unit members called themselves.”

“Omega,” Olivia repeated. “Makes a perverted kind of sense. The last resort before oblivion.”

Before Dwyer could respond, the piercing sound of a commercial-grade security alarm startled Olivia. A gun materialized in Dwyer’s hand and the compact bodyguard appeared at his side in an instant, weapon drawn. The guard outside had his rifle up at the ready.

Dwyer seized her elbow and pulled her roughly in the direction of the hallway.

“Come with me,” Dwyer commanded. “ Now. ”

CENTRAL NEW YORK STATE

JULY 15 5:40 P.M. EDT

Garin parked the Crown Victoria at the edge of a crowded shopping center lot in Binghamton, New York, and surveyed the parking area across from a convenience store that sold lottery tickets — a liquor store next door — and waited, counting on the beneficence of human nature. It would take a while, but inevitably someone in a hurry would park outside one of the two stores to get a ticket, a few sundries, or maybe some spirits — leaving their car unlocked and relieving Garin of the problem of breaking into a vehicle in broad daylight.

Sure enough, within mere minutes a stout, lumpy man in his forties, wearing shorts, flip-flops, and a stained white T-shirt, struggled laboriously from a Volkswagen Jetta that was much too small for him and that he parked in the fire lane in front of the liquor store. A bonus: The man was gracious enough to leave the car running. Just a quick pop into the store for a pint of Jim Beam, maybe a pack of Marlboros from the convenience store, and then back home to finish the tile grout in the bathroom. No worries.

Garin, carrying his gym and rifle bags, was already halfway between the Crown Vic and the Jetta by the time Lumpy had disappeared into the liquor store, its windows placarded with ads obscuring the view from the inside. Garin casually scanned the lot before sliding smoothly into the driver’s seat and driving out of the lot. He was already on the access ramp to Interstate 81 southbound by the time Lumpy emerged from the liquor store and stared blankly at the space where he’d left the vehicle, as if it would magically reappear if he just concentrated hard enough.

Garin drove the Jetta south on Interstate 81 until he spotted an Avis location on the outskirts of Scranton, Pennsylvania. He put the keys and, like a good Boy Scout, five hundred dollars in cash in the glove compartment of Lumpy’s car before locking it and leaving it in front of the Avis building.

Garin rented a blue Ford Fusion, driving within five miles of the posted speed limits to Washington, D.C., stopping only once to change clothes in the restroom of the gas station a few blocks from the Avis.

The traffic into Washington was fairly light until he reached the madness of the Beltway. He arrived at the safe house in the evening. The house was a small, slate-gray, two-story town house wedged between two others that were nearly identical. He circled the block once looking for anything out of the ordinary before parking along the street a little less than a block away.

Garin collected his bag from the trunk and proceeded up the narrow walkway along the side of the house to the rear. A row of three darkgreen plastic trash cans stood next to the back door. Garin found the house keys taped to the lid of the middle can and let himself in the back door. Recalling the security code from his days at DGT, he punched it into the touch pad inside the door and found himself in a small kitchen. Curious, he opened the door to the refrigerator and found it stocked with plenty of meats, fish, fruits, vegetables, and sports drinks.

Garin dropped his bag on the floor and performed a methodical sweep of both floors of the premises. A short hallway with a half bath to the right led from the kitchen to a living room at the front of the house. A large rectangular mirror hung over a small fireplace to the right. A narrow wooden staircase led to the second floor, where there were two bedrooms at opposite ends of the hallway. A laptop sat on the desk in the smaller bedroom. There was a modest full bath between the two bedrooms.

Garin returned to the kitchen, where he found the basement door next to the stove. He flipped the switch on the wall and went down eight steps to a small, unremarkable cellar with a concrete floor, a washer-dryer combination at the far end, and a freezer along the right wall. Garin opened the freezer. Dwyer was right; the house was well stocked.

Garin went back upstairs and spent the next hour preparing a dinner of spaghetti, Italian sausage, and tomato sauce with a small mixed-greens salad. While waiting for the water to boil, he took his bag up to the master bedroom and unpacked. He placed his shaving kit in the bathroom and laid out its contents on the counter next to the sink before returning downstairs to finish cooking.

It was his first meal in three days that didn’t consist of protein bars or junk food. Garin devoured two large plates of spaghetti and sausage and washed it down with more than a quart of Gatorade.

After a long, hot shower, he emerged feeling fatigued but much better. He looked forward to finally getting a good six hours’ sleep in a comfortable bed, but first he inspected the items from his shaving kit that he had placed on the sink counter. The contents consisted of a nose-bridge mold, a lens case carrying blue contacts, and a molded lower lip. A pair of black-framed glasses would complete his disguise.

Garin’s somewhat inchoate plan involved altering his appearance. Despite having done so on several occasions, he wasn’t particularly creative or elaborate. Garin understood that subtle changes to one’s face would throw all but the most perceptive observers. More important, given the ubiquity of security cameras in the District, altering his facial symmetry would stymie facial recognition programs.

Garin walked into the small bedroom, turned on the laptop, and logged in using an old passcode from his time with DGT. He called up a map of the District with the locations of all the hotels. After studying the map for a few seconds, he magnified the area around Fourteenth and K, using the cursor to slowly move the map from east to west, then north to south. He then switched the application to a satellite view of the same area, gradually zooming in on the Hamilton Crowne Plaza on the northeast corner of the intersection. He examined the building from the top and front for several moments before shifting to the National Labor Relations Board building next door to the left, circling its perimeter using Street View.