Peter Kirsanow - Target Omega

“Carl and the boys taking good care of you?”

“Couldn’t be better,” Olivia replied. It troubled her to admit that she enjoyed hearing his voice.

“I’ll get right to it. We have a serious problem. I need you to relay what I’m about to tell you to James Brandt. Immediately.”

“That may be a problem, Michael. As we speak he’s on his way to the White House. I’m not sure how long he’ll be there. All I know is that he’ll be in the Situation Room and I’m supposed to meet him in the OEOB afterward to debrief. So I’m unlikely to be able to reach him for a while,” Olivia said.

“What’s going on?”

Olivia detected the concern in Garin’s voice. “I’m not authorized to reveal the details. Let’s just say that I wouldn’t be surprised if recent activities of the Russians are discussed.”

“Olivia,” Garin said, urgency now in his voice. “I understand your constraints and don’t want to put you in a tough spot, but we have an extraordinary situation here. This call is secure. The meeting in the Situation Room may have direct bearing on what I need you to relay to Brandt.”

“Michael, I’m sorry. I very much want to tell you. But you know the drill. I can’t say anything.”

Garin sensed Olivia’s distress. There was no time to argue the point. Brandt needed to know about the EMP strike right now.

“Okay. Olivia, you must communicate what I’m about to tell you to Brandt as soon as we get off the call. I don’t care if he’s in the Situation Room, laundry room, or the men’s room. You get a message to him no matter what it takes.”

“Go ahead. I might be able to reach him before he enters the room.”

“First, there may be a worm in certain DOD computers that causes them to give false reads. Tell Brandt we should probably focus on satellite feeds, radar, missile trajectories, and missile launches. Bottom line: We should be concerned about our ability to detect incoming missiles.”

Olivia motioned to Carl to get her some writing materials. He retrieved a pen and pad of paper from a drawer under a bank of monitors and handed them to Olivia, who began taking notes.

“Second,” Garin continued, “my unit was penetrated by a Russian agent by the name of Taras Bor. He was behind the killings. Remember my theory that the elimination of my team might somehow be related to what I saw on the laptop in that tunnel in Pakistan? The missile defense, EMP guys? Well, that brings me to point three.”

Olivia was taking notes rapidly, recording Garin’s statements almost verbatim. “Keep going, Michael.”

“An Israeli agent whom I’ve known for years left me a voice mail a short time ago stating that the US is going to be the target of an EMP strike.”

Garin heard a quick, pronounced intake of breath on the other end of the call.

“How reliable is this information, Michael?”

“As reliable as any intelligence can be. Nothing’s ever concrete. I know you don’t want to go to the national security advisor with this kind of information on a hunch. But the Israeli agent is extremely good — given to understatement, not hyperbole. In fact, tell Brandt that the agent is Ari Singer. Mossad will vouch for how reliable he is — maybe was.”

“When is this going to happen and who’s behind it?”

“Don’t know when. We have no choice but to assume it’s imminent. It very well may not be, but we can’t take the chance. As to who’s behind it, that’s the mystery. You know the litany: The Iranians may want to, but can’t, and the Russians—”

“I know, I know.”

“Both of their fingerprints are all over this. I guess we can’t rule out anyone who’s got the capability — North Korea, maybe even a terrorist group.”

Olivia struggled to resist telling Garin that what prompted the meeting in the Situation Room was the detection of a phalanx of Russian nuclear submarines arrayed along the Eastern Seaboard. Garin was right, however, that the Russians wouldn’t strike the United States.

“What else should I tell Jim?” Olivia asked.

“Make sure someone gets security around Manchester, Bauer, and Dellinger. If the US is going to be hit by an EMP attack, the top experts on it may be subject to an assassination attempt. The president needs to know this. Get in touch with Brandt.”

“Michael, I just heard Dellinger’s dead. Heart attack. FBI suspects it was induced somehow.”

“ Go. ” Garin terminated the call.

Olivia disconnected and punched in the number for the White House.

NORTHERN VIRGINIA

JULY 17 2:05 P.M. EDT

The house was more modest than the assassin had expected. Well maintained, elegant, but relatively small. Much like the man inside.

Bor parked his SUV several doors down, next to a small playground featuring the kind of recreational equipment favored by conscientious, graduate-degreed parents. Padded, rubberized, and, consequently, rarely used by children.

He glided toward the rear of the house and to the side of the back door. Looking through the door’s small, dual-paned window, he saw the back of Julian Day’s perfectly coiffed head as he sat drinking coffee at a small wooden table.

Bor tested the doorknob. Unlocked. He turned it, quietly pushed the door inward, and stood behind the counsel to the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence.

“Get up, Mr. Day.”

To Bor’s mild surprise, Day wasn’t at all startled. He casually slid his chair back from the table, rose, and turned toward the assassin.

“Hello, Bor. Where are you taking me? A rendezvous with Quds Force, perhaps?”

The look on Bor’s face was a mixture of amusement and curiosity. “You were expecting me?”

“Your ilk rarely disappoints. Insufferably predictable.”

“My ilk?”

“I’ve spent nearly two decades dealing with men like you, Bor. The American version, but the same. Regimented. Programmed. You get an order, you execute. No hesitation. No thinking.”

“And you know I’ve received an order?”

Day looked closely at Bor’s eyes. Wolf’s eyes. “I knew I’d become a liability once all of the preconditions were met, obstacles removed. We’re only hours away. I’m of no further use. So you must’ve received an order.”

Bor nodded. “Very good, Mr. Day. A taut analysis. Now it’s time for us to go. Time for me to ‘execute.’”

“Yes. Time to execute, all right.” Day turned his head over his left shoulder. “Gentlemen?”

Three men, each with suppressed handguns trained on Bor, emerged from the adjacent dining room. Bor’s surprise was more than mild. He’d never been outmaneuvered before.

Bor raised his arms away from his sides and opened his hands to show he had no weapon.

“He will be carrying a gun, of course,” Day said. “Get it.”

One of the three men approached and began patting Bor from under his arms down to his waist. The man retrieved a SIG Sauer P226 from Bor’s waistband and continued patting him down to his ankles. The man then rose, stepped back a few paces, and shook his head to Day, signaling the Russian carried nothing more.

“Say hello to Al, Tom, and Rick, Bor. Detectives, D.C. Metro,” Day said.

Bor looked at each in turn. “Al. Tom. Rick.”

Day said, “Al, Tom, Rick, meet John Gates, a.k.a. Taras Bor, the Terror of Tbilisi, the Butcher of Grozny. A one-man blitzkrieg. He’s killed more people than… well, we don’t know how many. But rest assured, it’s a lot. Got an early start — what were you — seventeen, eighteen? Somehow aces every qualification test, mental and physical, known to man — or at least the Russians. Became a Spetsnaz podpolkovnik, that’s lieutenant colonel in Russian special forces. Manages to embed himself in probably the most elite unit in the US armed forces. And kills them all. Beg your pardon. I think he may have let Quds Force kill one or two. No, wait. What am I saying? You don’t trust the Iranians’ competency, do you, Bor? You probably ended up doing all the killing yourself. Am I right?