Peter Kirsanow - Target Omega

Dwyer pondered the possible reasons why Julian Day, counsel to the chairman of Senate Intelligence, would meet with Yevgeny Torzov. No matter how hard he tried, Dwyer couldn’t think of an innocent one.

Arlo led the national security advisor on one of his frequent strolls along the north side of the National Mall. It was not a daily stroll, the demands of the office being such that doing nearly anything on a regular basis was difficult. But Arlo and his master usually could be found somewhere along the path between the Capitol Building and the Lincoln Memorial four or five mornings a week.

The stroll provided Brandt an opportunity — uninterrupted by aides or conference calls — to sharpen his thoughts and shape inchoate theories. The exercise was a substitute for a cigarette habit long since vanquished. Now the only times he smoked were on celebratory or contemplative occasions. Even then, he indulged in a solitary Winston.

At the moment, Brandt’s focus was on, of all things, warehouses. Warehouses in Murmansk. Warehouses outside Vladivostok. Warehouses around Ust-Kamchatsk. Cavernous warehouses filled with inventory for which the market was, at best, static: standard generators, cables, transformers, capacitors, routers, distribution boards, circuit breakers, switchboards. Nothing advanced or cutting-edge. And, as Olivia had insisted, Brandt was beginning to sense there was something troubling about that. Something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. But something connected to the Russian-Iranian — sponsored UN resolution condemning Israel and to Olivia’s conversation with Michael Garin, both of which signaled major problems in the offing.

The night before, the UN General Assembly had voted to condemn Israel. Only the United States, Great Britain, Canada, and Australia had voted against it. Germany had abstained. The resolution provided cover for Israel’s enemies and within hours the number of skirmishes between the IDF and Hezbollah had increased dramatically. Syrian troops were massing close to the frontier villages near the Golan Heights. Hundreds of rockets were being fired on Israel from southern Lebanon with deadly effect. Although most political pundits contended that full-scale war was unlikely, they were talking out of terminal ignorance. The National Security Council believed the probability of all-out war was greater than at any time since 1982. To lessen the possibility, the Pentagon ordered the US Fifth Fleet, based in Bahrain, to deploy ships to strategic locations throughout the Mediterranean and Persian Gulf.

As troubling as Brandt found these events, they were dwarfed by what Olivia had told him. The information she had gotten from Michael Garin filled in the blanks in her hypothesis regarding Russian-Iranian cooperation on the UN resolution. In short, the latest crisis in the Middle East was about more than Israel. She and Garin believed the United States was also a target. And that nukes were involved.

The problem with the United States — as — an — ultimate — target hypothesis, however, was that all intelligence indicated that Iran didn’t yet have the ability to strike the United States with a nuclear weapon. And Brandt knew that the Russians would never do so.

Nonetheless, Olivia maintained that Russia and Iran planned to hit the United States in addition to Israel. And they planned to hit the United States hard. Precisely how they were going to hit the United States, and with what, Olivia didn’t say. But the Oracle, strolling in the warming morning air past some of the most recognizable monuments in the world, was in the process of formulating the answer. Before going to the president with it, however, Brandt needed more evidence. And he needed to consult with Olivia, the one person who probably was closer to the answer than he. Telling the commander in chief to prepare for one of the greatest threats to national security since the Cuban missile crisis required more support than the hunch of a man currently sitting atop the FBI’s Most Wanted list.

NORTHERN VIRGINIA

JULY 17 10:30 A.M. EDT

Four identical black Ford Explorers, tinted windows shielding their occupants from scrutiny, emerged from the underground parking garage at DGT’s facility near Quantico and sped single file onto I-95.

When the caravan reached exit 156, the second SUV in line peeled off and disappeared around the end of the ramp. When the vehicle came to Dale Boulevard it engaged in a series of countersurveillance maneuvers, including three U-turns. The SUV last in line did the same after reaching the exit for Prince William Parkway.

The remaining two vehicles proceeded north on I-95 until the one in front, Dan Dwyer riding in its backseat, took the exit toward Route 1. The last vehicle crossed the bridge over the Occoquan River on its way toward the District.

Dwyer’s Explorer was driven by Matt, who spent the next several minutes driving circuitously about Lorton, doubling back twice to flush any tails. Satisfied that they weren’t being followed, he parked in the rear of the crowded parking lot of a strip mall featuring a large Sport&Health Fitness Club.

Dwyer and Matt sat in the Explorer for nearly ten minutes, waiting patiently as they surveyed the lot. Neither saw Garin approach the vehicle from the left rear until there was an electronic click and he opened the door and slid into the rear seat next to Dwyer. Dwyer and Matt broke into broad grins, amazed and amused that Garin had, as he’d so often done in the past, evaded their detection.

For his part, Garin, holding up the remote he’d opened the door with, was, as usual, stone-faced.

“If I were one of the Iranians, both of you would be dead,” Garin said, a hint of irritation in his voice.

“Well, Captain Perfect,” responded Dwyer, “before passing judgment on the tradecraft of your inferiors, you may want to take a peek at the roof of the Mexican place to your right.”

Garin looked out the tinted windows. Barely visible atop the restaurant fifty yards away was the matte-black muzzle of an SR-25 trained on the Explorer. Had Garin been one of the Iranians, he would’ve been dead before he had touched the door. A faint smile creased Garin’s face. He turned back to Dwyer and the two clasped hands enthusiastically.

“That’s Ray on overwatch up there,” Dwyer said. “You haven’t met him. Hired him after you left DGT. He has orders to shoot anyone approaching the vehicle who looks better than a pregnant rhino. Figured you’d be safe.”

Garin leaned forward and grasped Matt’s outstretched hand. “Good to see you, Matt,” Garin said. “How’ve you survived for so long working with this worthless SOB?”

“He encourages us to drink on duty. Quite liberally,” Matt said, his voice deadpan.

“Matt’s been walking on air ever since he met the lovely and talented Olivia Perry,” Dwyer said. “Unfortunately for Matt, it appears that Ms. Perry’s intrigued only by the Great and Powerful Garin.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Garin deflected. “But if you don’t mind, there are a few items more pressing than who I’m taking to homecoming.”

“No sale,” Dwyer said. “It’s our understanding you spent a couple of hours alone with the luscious Olivia at the Mayflower. Matt here, along with Ray, Carl, and every man on the tac units I deployed to the hotel last night, would’ve killed for that opportunity. If it were up to me, you’d have no business going anywhere near her, no way, no how. But since that ship’s already sailed, you have a moral obligation — warrior to warrior — to provide us with details about your enchanted evening, pal.”