Peter Kirsanow - Target Omega

“So, back to the private sector, Chief?” Laws asked. “Make some more money?”

“He’s absolutely got to if he’s got any hope of escorting one Ms. Olivia Perry around Washington,” Dwyer said. “You can’t entertain a woman like that on a government salary.”

“Whoa, whoa, hold up. Olivia Perry?” Laws asked, looking genuinely impressed. “Fat boy’s right, Chief. I’ve seen her on TV sitting behind James Brandt. Yeah, buddy. Now, that’s a woman. Way out of your league, though, son.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling him,” Dwyer agreed. “Wait. Fat boy?”

“She’s a star, Chief. She’s being groomed for bigger things. By the end of the president’s first term she’ll be an assistant secretary of… something or other. Guaranteed. That means Georgetown cocktail parties, state dinners. She sure as hell can’t be dragging an embarrassing specimen like you to those things.”

“Tell him.” Dwyer nodded emphatically.

“Do you even know how to use a salad fork? I mean, for something other than severing someone’s trachea?”

“Save your breath,” Garin said. “Nothing’s happening. She has absolutely no interest in me. Besides, I don’t think operators are quite her type.”

“Now, that’s the first thing I’ve heard since this thing began that makes sense,” said Laws.

“And, sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve got no interest in her, either,” Garin added.

“I call bull. Big-time. Everyone’s interested in her,” Dwyer said.

But the tone of Laws’s voice, to Dwyer’s disappointment, turned sober. “So, what’s it going to be, Chief? You going back to work with Dan?”

“To lead a long and prosperous life?” Dwyer added.

Garin didn’t reply.

“Dan,” Laws said, tilting his head toward the door.

“I’ll be down in the cafeteria,” Dwyer informed them, to no one’s evident surprise. “Bring you guys anything?”

Laws and Garin each shook his head and watched as Dwyer turned to leave. After a moment, Laws shifted his gaze to Garin.

“You weren’t meant for a long and prosperous life, Mike. Not you. Your life will be strenuous and short.”

Garin wore a faint sardonic smile. If only Clint knew. “‘To every man upon this Earth death cometh soon or late.’”

“And you’re not going back to DGT.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet, Clint.”

“There’s no decision to make. We both know that. We both know exactly what you’re going to do.”

Garin cocked his head slightly, considering Laws’s statement. “ I don’t know that.”

“Tell me something, Mike. If you can.”

Garin nodded for Laws to continue, knowing what the question would be.

“Did you kill Bor?”

The two men stared at each other for a long moment. Then Garin shook his head almost imperceptibly.

“He had help on the inside, Mike,” Laws said, his voice raspy. “High up. Way higher than Julian Day. Day couldn’t have authorized Congo Knox. It had to come from one of only two places. You know that.”

Again, Garin’s nod was barely visible.

Laws exhaled wearily. “A short life, Mike. Remember that. Yours will be a short life.”

“Get some sleep, Clint.”

The old warrior’s eyes closed slowly. Garin watched him for several minutes before turning to leave. Upon reaching the door he heard Laws whisper, “Mike.”

Garin paused and looked back. Laws lay perfectly still, his appearance cadaverous. With his eyes still closed, he turned his head in Garin’s direction and spoke, his voice barely audible but clear.

“Kill them all.”

ATLANTIC SHORELINE, DELAWARE

AUGUST 3

Sunrise was half an hour away but already pale shades of orange and pink painted most of the cloudless eastern sky as threads of dawn shimmered over the calm ocean. The air was still. The beach was deserted, but only for a couple of hours more. It was going to be yet another hot day.

A lone figure stood smoking a cigarette on the second-floor balcony of the large beach house situated on the northern end of Bethany. Tall and lean, the smoker had a patrician bearing. His movements were casual, unhurried, a man in control of himself and his circumstances.

The news during the last two weeks had been dominated by the bombings of Iran’s nuclear facilities. The Americans’ and Israelis’ devastating attacks would likely continue for several more weeks, precisely as he had expected. He watched closely the rate at which the US forces expended their munitions as well as the type and amount. Several times each day he studied detailed reports about the progress of the air campaign and the state of US military readiness throughout the rest of the world.

The reports generally pleased him. In fact, the course of events in the last month had generally pleased him. Not everything had gone according to plan. But he had been around long enough to know that there would always be detours and glitches. In this case, nothing had detracted from the overall success of the plan.

The first phase was nearing completion. No other obstacles remained. The United States had behaved exactly as he had predicted. In a way, it was somewhat disappointing. A superpower shouldn’t be so easily manipulated. But then, he’d always been two moves ahead of his adversaries.

It was time to initiate the next phase. They had spent several years meticulously plotting every detail of the entire operation. Although he wasn’t aware of every aspect of the plan, he had executed his portion, the most vital portion, flawlessly. They had determined that the first phase would take a bit longer to execute than it had; nonetheless, they were fully prepared to begin the next step.

He flicked the cigarette onto the sand below and opened the sliding screen door. The house was dark and quiet and would remain so for a while.

Standing for a moment in his study off of the balcony, he decided to first get himself a cup of coffee. Padding down the stairs to the kitchen, he paused on the landing to listen at the window facing the driveway at the side of the house. Although he couldn’t see them, his acute hearing picked up the quiet conversation of two bodyguards from his protective detail standing next to one of two black sedans parked outside of the carport.

At the bottom of the stairs he turned into the kitchen and poured himself a large mug of coffee, taking a sip before returning to the study. He sat in a high-backed leather chair for several minutes, cradling the mug as he faced the brightening sky.

They were on the verge. The vast intelligence apparatus of the United States had been misled and outmaneuvered. Now they would be caught flat-footed. There would be nothing they could do to prevent what was about to happen.

The house was swept twice a day for listening devices. The windows were specially constructed to frustrate any surveillance by laser microphones or similar devices. Nothing he said in this room could be heard by anyone but the intended listener. Nonetheless, obsessive about security, he exercised extreme caution, as a man in his position must, whenever speaking of the operation.

He pulled an encrypted phone from the pocket of his robe, pressed a series of keys, and waited. When the call was answered he spoke a single word.

Then he terminated the call and finished his coffee.

For the first time in longer than Dmitri Chernin could remember, he didn’t feel like a character in a Chekhov play. Rather, he felt… optimistic. Content, even. A rare feeling, perhaps a first. He took another sip of Smirnoff, sat back in the lounge chair, and opened his senses to the ambient sights, sounds, and smells surrounding the open-air beachfront bar on a spit of sand between the Costa Rican jungle and the Pacific Ocean.