Peter Kirsanow - Target Omega

“Is everything okay, Mr. Dwyer?”

“This is Mr. Webster from DOD, Gary. He’s here to consult on a matter with GSG-9,” Dwyer replied, nodding toward Garin. “Is that understood?”

The guard dutifully pulled a smartphone from his breast pocket and scrolled through a list of individuals authorized to enter the facility for the day.

“Mr. Dwyer,” the guard responded skeptically, “I don’t have any appointments scheduled for a Mr. Webster today.”

Dwyer sensed Gary’s indecision. He had a job to perform. His boss had just authorized admission of the most wanted man in America, who, according to company lore, also happened to be one of the trio of special warriors who had founded DGT. “This is unscheduled, Gary. I’m personally authorizing Mr. Webster.” Dwyer pulled a Browning .45 from a shoulder holster and placed it next to Garin’s temple, a theatrical but convincing demonstration that neither Dwyer nor Matt was under duress. Garin didn’t blink. “And you will list Mr. Webster’s name on today’s visitors’ log.” Dwyer replaced the weapon. “Understood?”

Gary, unsure whether his boss was testing him and his fellow guards, hesitated. The wrong decision could mean his job. Or, if it wasn’t a test, his life.

“Okay,” Dwyer sighed, yielding to the evident distress that showed on the guard’s face. “Let’s go by the book, Gary.”

Dwyer and Matt opened their doors and exited the SUV, hands raised. The guard on the passenger side opened the rear door and Garin emerged. The effect among the guards was electric.

All three passengers placed their hands against the SUV and subjected themselves to pat-downs, after which Dwyer turned toward his employees. “All right, very good. That,” Dwyer said, pointing to Garin, “is Mr. Webster. Got it?”

The guards nodded in unison. Whatever was going on, they understood they were to keep their mouths shut.

Gary punched a large red button on the side of the kiosk, raising the lift gate and retracting the floor spikes. Garin, Dwyer, and Matt returned to the vehicle. Before Garin shut his door, the guard closest to him lowered his weapon and addressed Garin.

“Mr. Webster?”

Garin looked toward the guard.

“Hooyah, Mr. Webster.”

Matt drove down three levels to a series of parking spaces marked RESERVED FOR CEO-DGT.

“Those guards back there were hired about two months ago along with about two dozen others. Good men. We’re getting lots of applicants from the teams. Some Delta as well, including a few players you might know,” Dwyer said.

Garin turned his head, curious. “I’d have thought that with the drawdown in Afghanistan you’d be laying off, not hiring.”

“No, business is actually on the uptick. Always a supply of bad guys that need taking down. ISIS, Boko Haram. But we’re doing a lot of civilian contracting now — about sixty to sixty-five percent of our gross revenue. We secured several major maritime security contracts, protecting cargo vessels against piracy off the East African and Southeast Asian coasts. We’re also providing security for oil companies in places like southern Iraq and South America. Very lucrative. Manpower intensive.”

“Impressive. Maybe I cashed out too early.”

“I tried to tell you that, but you wouldn’t listen,” Dwyer chastised lightly. “But, hey, you still did pretty well for yourself.”

“Well, sounds like you’re staying ahead of the curve.”

“It may be hard for you to accept, genius,” Dwyer replied, pointing to his head, “but I also have a brain cell or two rattling around up here.”

“And a flair for the ridiculously dramatic. Black uniforms. Matching black guard dog. You waiting for a call from Hollywood?”

Matt pulled into the parking space.

“We continue to do our bread-and-butter work,” Dwyer informed him. “Still augmenting Diplomatic Security, providing overwatch for high-threat meetings. And we’re also doing a fair amount of training for law enforcement, especially SWAT teams for midsize cities like Richmond, Newark, Akron, Pittsburgh, as well as security for major airports. We’ve hired nearly a hundred people since the beginning of last month alone.”

The trio exited the vehicle and proceeded toward the adjacent door to an elevator that opened directly into Dwyer’s private office. Dotting the ceiling of the garage at regular intervals was a series of surveillance cameras. Dwyer placed his palm on a biometric pad next to the elevator door and it slid open. The three rode silently to Dwyer’s office four floors above.

Dwyer’s corner office fit the man: expansive, untidy, but purposeful. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across two sides of the office, providing a pleasant view of a creek and woodlands beyond the well-kept lawn of the DGT campus. To the left of the elevator sat a four-by-seven glass-topped desk facing a seventy-two-inch television monitor embedded in the wall. A leather couch sat below the monitor, and Navy football memorabilia and photos were scattered across a long, low credenza in front of the couch. The door to the rest of the DGT facility was on the other side of the office, where dozens of technicians and analysts of DGT’s cybersecurity division were hard at work.

Dwyer sat at his desk and began typing on the computer keyboard. He opened a folder marked HEINRICH that contained information on Taras Bor obtained from Dwyer’s German contacts and then stood, yielding the chair to Garin.

“This is everything I’ve got from our German friends on Bor,” Dwyer said as Garin sat before the monitor. “Goes back about ten years. Lots of gaps, as might be expected. Also, lots of speculation. What’s there, though, says this guy’s a very serious player. The go-to asset for President Yuri Mikhailov. Here, I’ll throw it up on the big screen.”

Dwyer leaned forward and manipulated the mouse. Scanned pages of a German intelligence file appeared on the seventy-two-inch screen. Matt whistled.

“Gent really racks up the frequent-flier miles.”

“He ever cashes them in, Aeroflot goes out of business,” Dwyer agreed.

Displayed on the screen was the first of a partially redacted, multipage list of dates and locations with brief descriptions of events in which Taras Bor was suspected by the Germans of being involved. The events spanned several continents and multiple countries. The first page listed operations in Hamburg, Berlin, Lyon, London, Cairo, Benghazi, Tehran, Grozny, and Lahore.

Garin clicked to the next page. Rome, Belgrade, Damascus, Mogadishu, Brussels, Managua. Bor’s suspected activities ranged from assassinations to fomenting and suppressing local uprisings.

“Obviously, he couldn’t have done everything the Germans suspect him of,” Garin observed. “But the list’s still pretty impressive. Of course, I won’t ask how in the world your contact could transmit this to you.”

Dwyer nodded. “Don’t ask, don’t tell. The Germans are thorough. They don’t miss much. Don’t you just wonder what kind of list they have on you, Mikey?” Dwyer needled.

“Not quite as exotic as this.”

“Yeah, sure. I bet.” Dwyer manipulated the mouse again, scrolling several pages down. “Here, look at this. Bring back any memories?”

Garin read the entry, translating the German out loud:

September 3, 2005. Baghdad, Iraq. Subject suspected of training, coordinating and directing insurgents in ambush attack on military convoy escorting US State Department personnel from Baghdad Green Zone to Mosul. Three United States Army Rangers killed, nine wounded. Credit taken by al-Qaeda in Mesopotamia.

The sentence was followed by redactions of the names of several Iraqi informants, as well as a redacted name followed by the legend “MI6.”