Peter Kirsanow - Target Omega

“The Russian economy wouldn’t be immune, though. They would suffer too. It’s not exactly a risk-free proposition for them, either.”

“In the short term, there would be some dislocation, that’s true. But you know as well as anyone that Russians take the long view. They’re not making decisions on a short-time horizon. They believe that they’ll emerge from the crisis in better shape than when they went in. That may take a few years, but they’re prepared to weather the storm.

“In fact, I believe they’re prepared to profit from the storm. Satellite images show massive stockpiles of generators, cable, and other equipment throughout industrial sectors of Russia. But there’s no market. It doesn’t make sense. Unless, that is, they think there will be a market.”

Olivia brushed stray strands of hair back over her right shoulder. A recess in Garin’s brain noted that the woman had an impossible abundance of hair. But his mind focused on the warehouses.

“What makes you think I know as well as anyone that Russians take the long view?”

“Dan gave me some of your background. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be presumptuous.”

Garin stood. “Do you mind if I help myself to some water?”

“Oh yes, of course. I’m sorry for not offering,” Olivia said, gesturing toward bottles of water on the lower shelf of the armoire.

Garin remained standing next to the armoire as he took a long swallow from a bottle and exhaled. “They do take a long view, the Russians. At least a longer view than we do. And they have a willingness — some would say an expectation — to endure periods of suffering.” Garin finished off the water bottle and placed it in the metal trash can next to the desk. “Enduring brief economic uncertainty is no sacrifice at all for them. That’s one of the reasons why I think, with all due respect, you and Mr. Brandt aren’t thinking big enough.”

Olivia looked surprised, and then intrigued. Until a few days ago she had never heard of Michael Garin. Now this killing machine presumed to point out flaws in the national security advisor’s analysis of the implications of Russian-Iranian cooperation in the Middle East. And not just any national security advisor, but the famed Oracle. This Garin character clearly didn’t suffer from lack of self-confidence.

“Just how big, then, should we be thinking, Mr. Garin?”

Garin discerned that Olivia was a bit nettled by his presumptuousness. James Brandt and his brilliant aide were used to being the ones who came up with the novel theories and who found answers to questions no one else had even considered. They weren’t accustomed to being accused of thinking too small — and by some pit bull from the bowels of the country’s clandestine forces, no less. Garin resolved to be more tactful.

“Dan Dwyer told you that a man by the name of Taras Bor may be running the Iranians in the US, right?” Garin asked.

Olivia nodded curtly in acknowledgment.

“Taras Bor is a Russian agent,” Garin continued, “who operates at the direction of President Mikhailov. Why would the Russians send one of their biggest guns to ensure the elimination of the US counter-WMD team? Why make such a bold move if all they’re interested in is helping Iran hit Israel?”

“Well, first of all,” Olivia answered, “we aren’t sure it’s Taras Bor.”

“Ms. Perry, humor me for a moment,” Garin interjected. “The man who gave us that information is as good as they get. So let’s assume he’s right and it’s Bor. The Russians don’t need to pick a fight with the US to help Iran hit Israel. Helping Iran pass a UN resolution that inflames tensions to the point of war is all Russia needs to do to help Iran. Yet that’s not all they’re doing, is it?”

“Maybe assassinating your team was an insurance policy. If Iran is going to hit Israel with, say, a nuke, then it makes sense to clear the path by taking out America’s counter-WMD team — to ensure you don’t take out Iran’s nukes first.”

“Plausible,” Garin conceded. “But unlikely. Russians play the odds. Wiping out my team is an extremely risky operation that doesn’t guarantee the safety of Iran’s nukes. Israel is more than capable of taking out Iran’s WMD on its own.” Garin shook his head. “No, the risk isn’t worth the reward for the Russians.”

“Maybe they’ve also disabled Israel’s counter-WMD capabilities.”

“If they had, then we would’ve heard about it, wouldn’t we?” It was more statement than question.

Olivia sighed. “Yes, right away.”

“Killing my team was not about Israel. If it wasn’t about Israel, it must’ve been about the US.”

“Utter speculation,” Olivia retorted, and then immediately felt sheepish. Of course it was speculation. That’s precisely what this exercise was all about. “But even if you’re right — that it’s got something to do with the US — the questions remain: What are they up to and why?”

Garin studied the patterns on the carpet as if he was trying to decipher a hidden code. Olivia was right. He was engaging in pure speculation. But it was speculation informed by experience and instinct. And by adherence to Clint Laws’s maxim that there are no such things as coincidences.

Olivia studied Garin as intently as he studied the patterns in the carpet. She still felt somewhat intimidated by him but was becoming increasingly comfortable in his presence. Something about his demeanor and the way he carried himself imparted a sense of security. She also believed Brandt was right. Garin held a key to figuring out what the Russians and Iranians were planning. And she could tell he was on the verge of providing that key.

“There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

Garin looked directly at Olivia, contemplating what he could and couldn’t tell her. The two stared at each other for several seconds before Garin spoke. “There is something else,” he confirmed. “I’m just not sure what it means.”

The midday thunderstorms had done little to diminish the heat of the day. The rain falling on the city’s blistering pavement had steamed into the air and had remained into the night.

Robert Congo Knox was oblivious to the suffocating humidity, just as in past operations he’d been oblivious to the cold or the snow or the rain or the mud. The only thing to which he was never oblivious was the wind. Wind was the enemy. Wind could affect the mission. But tonight the air was still.

Knox had taken a position on the roof of the Washington Square Building at a diagonal from the entrance to the Mayflower. The range was less than a hundred yards. As he had in Spencer, New York, and at the Crowne Plaza, he worked without a spotter. Given the ranges and conditions, he had no need for one.

Knox had a sober understanding of his capabilities. His superiors considered him one of the best in the world at what he did. Reliable, efficient, and deadly, he was a problem solver.

An al-Qaeda leader inciting an insurgency in Ramadi? Deploy Knox. One shot, problem solved. A heavily protected Serbian war criminal defying capture in a mountain redoubt? Deploy Knox. One shot, problem solved.

He often operated at ranges of eight hundred to twelve hundred yards. The shots had been taken on moonless nights, in rainstorms, and during fierce firefights. In jungles and deserts, on mountains and oceans, in villages and metropolises. The results seldom varied. One moment the target’s head appeared in the scope. The next, just a puff of scarlet mist where the head had been.

Knox understood that to deploy someone of his caliber to take out a target at a mere hundred yards meant that the assignment was of unusual importance; there was no margin for error. Other elite snipers might have considered the task an insult to their skills. Knox gave little consideration to such matters. As always, his focus was solely on the successful completion of the mission.