Peter Kirsanow - Target Omega

“Remember that? Fun times,” Dwyer said drily.

Garin nodded. “One of our first DGT assignments. Rangers were supposed to escort the State Department staffers to Mosul and hand them off to us. Should have been a straightforward security gig while they were in the city. They’re late, we get a call — all hell’s broken loose. We jump in the Humvees and hump down the road. When we get there, it looks like Little Bighorn.”

“Except with AK-47s and RPGs.”

“We lost Bobby Scales that day. I had to inform his fiancée. Not what I’d imagined when we started this outfit.”

“We’re damn lucky we didn’t lose more. We nearly closed shop after that.”

“The Russians were behind that?” Garin asked. “Bor? I thought they were staying on the sidelines, just rooting for us to lose. Hell of a risk for them to take if their involvement became known.”

“Well, the Germans seem to think they had a hand. Look there,” Dwyer said, pointing at an excerpt from the transcript of a prisoner interrogation. Although Bor’s name appeared nowhere, numerous references were made to a Russian who the Germans, piecing together information, concluded was Bor.

“Looks like hard-core jihadists don’t mind being manipulated by infidels like Bor as long as it helps to kill other infidels, especially those loyal to the Great Satan,” Garin said.

“Not exactly unprecedented. First they use the help of the Great Satan against the Soviets in Afghanistan. Now they work with former Soviets against the Great Satan.” Dwyer scrolled down again. “Something I can’t figure out, though…”

“Interesting. The entries stopped cold two and a half years ago,” Garin said, looking at the monitor. “Zero. Nothing. He’s on speed up until that point, but then falls off the face of the earth.” Garin’s eyes narrowed and he turned to Dwyer. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Olivia Perry’s got a smokin’ body?”

Matt raised his hand. “Yo. Amen over here.”

Garin cast his eyes toward the ceiling and paused for the frat boys to air-five.

“Bor’s either dead, discharged…”

“Or setting up his next operation,” Dwyer finished, becoming serious again. “And probably a big one. There’s hardly more than a few weeks’ break between any of his previous operations; then suddenly he’s silent for almost three years.”

“A big op. Complex. Maybe deep cover,” Garin agreed. “Anyone ever put eyes on this guy?”

“Let’s look behind door number two,” Dwyer said, clicking on another file. “GSG-9 takes more photos than a busload of German tourists.”

A series of about two dozen photos appeared on the monitor. It was apparent that most had been taken from an appreciable distance. In most of the photos, it was unclear exactly who or what the intended subject had been — indicating that Bor hadn’t been the original target; German intelligence had simply collected any photos containing anyone resembling Bor’s alleged description and placed them in the file.

Garin began scouring the photos. When he got two-thirds down the screen he stopped, one of the grainy images appearing indefinably familiar. He took the mouse from Dwyer, placed the caret over the photo, and clicked to enlarge. The enlarged results didn’t reveal much more than the original. He zoomed in on the man suspected to be Bor and clicked to enlarge further, causing the image to devolve into a blur of indecipherable pixels.

“Even our facial recognition program is useless without a known photo of Bor to compare against,” Dwyer said. “Here, try this.” Dwyer reclaimed the mouse from Garin and with a series of clicks sharpened the resolution of the enlarged image. As he did so he could see a look of recognition register across Garin’s face, its color draining in the process.

The room fell silent for several seconds. “How the hell did he do it?” Garin asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“Do what, Mikey?”

Garin, ignoring Dwyer, continued to scrutinize the image. It was still blurry in spots, but the telltale was clear: a J-shaped scar along the right jawline terminating in front of the earlobe. A scar Garin had seen on a curious onlooker standing behind a police barricade on Fourteenth Street. A scar he had seen during scores of operations and training exercises over the last two and a half years.

“Mike.” It was Dwyer again. “You know this guy?”

Garin didn’t reply. His mind was trying to process the logistics, the feasibility. The background checks, verifications, fail-safes, and countermeasures compromised and breached. An audacious penetration of the most rigorous security protocols in the world.

Dwyer glanced at Matt, who shrugged his shoulders, then back at Garin, and finally to the monitor. He squinted at the image and tried to see what Garin saw. He scanned his memory for faces, playing them before his mind’s eye. Suddenly, a look — not so much of recognition but of realization — covered his face. The realization of a seeming impossibility becoming reality. A supposedly dead man whose return to life signaled an unimaginable breach of national security that could place the country in peril. “My God. We’re looking at Gates, aren’t we? Gates is Bor. Right?”

Matt whistled again. “Un-freaking-believable.”

“We have a file photo of Gates. Should we run it through facial recognition against this photo to be sure?” Dwyer asked. “The photo angles and lighting may be different, but the algorithm should give us a pretty good probability—”

“No need.” Garin shook his head, pointing to the photo. “See that scar? Unmistakable.” Garin stood and, staring down at the floor, tried to comprehend how Bor had penetrated a team whose very existence was known only to a handful of individuals in the US government. He ran a hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck.

Dwyer gave voice to what everyone was now thinking. “How the hell is that even possible? How could he gain access to your team?”

Garin spoke slowly, thinking out loud. “I met Gates… Bor… more than two years ago when he qualified for the team. Backstory was that he was a good ole boy from Georgia, former Air Force Pararescue, and had also spent time in SAD. He passed every background check — FBI, DOD, CIA. He passed every evolution. He was an exceptional operator. Maybe the best on the team.” Garin shook his head again.

“This is real Cold War shit,” Dwyer declared. “Sleeper agents. Deep penetration. This is more impressive than Aldrich Ames, Robert Philip Hanssen. They didn’t have to air-drop those two into one of our units. They were ours. Already there.” Dwyer squinted at the monitor. “I thought that stuff ended a while ago. Turns out the closest Gates probably ever got to Georgia was the former Soviet republic.” He looked at Garin. “Did you have any clue whatsoever?”

“None. At least none that I can think of right now. As I look back, he played it just right. Nothing amiss. Fit right in. Duty, honor, country — but not mindlessly gung ho. A tough, smart, dedicated soldier. Apparently a lot smarter than the rest of us.” Garin looked up. “Certainly smarter than me. And now, all my men are dead because of it.”

“No sense beating yourself up, Mikey. You’re an operator, not a spook. The guy got vetted by the best in the business. That wasn’t your job.” Dwyer continued staring at the image on the monitor. “If he could somehow craft a résumé that includes Air Force PJ and the Special Activities Division without tripping any wires, no way would you be able to make him.”

Garin wasn’t persuaded. “They were my teams. We drank, hunted, and chewed dirt together. Gates and I weren’t particularly close, but if my family were in trouble, there wouldn’t be anyone I’d trust more to get them out of a jam. I liked the guy. Tanski even said in some ways, Gates and I were alike.”