“Retirement? Is that what you are insinuating? You are not that old, Dmitri.”
“Every Russian is born sixty years old.”
Mansur smiled. “You are fatigued, yes. I can see that for myself. Fatigue is not the same thing as age.”
“It is worse.” Chernin took another sip of vodka. “It steals one’s optimism. Robs one of time. Makes one a coward.”
Mansur sensed an opportunity. “How much more time, Dmitri? Years? Months?”
“Days.”
And just like that, Mansur felt a stab of anxiety. Based on their conversations over the last few weeks, he knew Chernin’s work was nearing completion, but he’d assumed at least a few more months remained. So had the analysts to whom Singer had conveyed Mansur’s information. This development would dramatically alter timelines, if not strategies, in Tel Aviv. Mansur needed to bring the evening to a close so he could contact Singer. The elf needed to know this now.
Mansur made a show of examining his watch, appearing surprised. “It is nearly midnight. I have an appointment in Tehran in the morning,” he lied.
The Russian waved him off and rose from the couch. It was his turn to lie. “I am about to leave, Hamid. Early start for me as well.” He keyed his cell phone to alert his driver to pick him up. “Thank you, once again, for dinner. And the vodka. And the cigars.” A playful pause. “Did I mention the vodka?”
“Thank you for the company, Dmitri. These days I have few occasions for interesting conversation.”
Mansur guided Chernin down the narrow entryway to the door of the apartment, pleased that he was able to so easily manipulate Chernin into departing. Opening the door for the Russian, he clapped him on the shoulder and watched him go down the stairs with surprising alacrity and steadiness for someone who had consumed more than half a bottle of liquor.
What the wise old spy did not know—would not have believed—was that it was he who was being manipulated.
CHAPTER THREE
NORTH ATLANTIC
JULY 11 • 11:51 P.M. UTC
Barely ten hours ago, they had thwarted a catastrophe by a margin of mere minutes, but now, save for the taciturn man with the fierce eyes, they were at ease.
Five of the eight men reclining in the darkened cabin of the sleek Gulfstream G650ER cruising forty-two thousand feet above the black waters of the North Atlantic were in a deep sleep, aided by the white noise of the jet’s twin Rolls-Royce engines. The two men seated in front, Cal Lowbridge and Manny Camacho, though awake, wore placid, almost trancelike, expressions. Only the man seated aft appeared alert and focused.
Camacho, the newest member of the team, nudged Lowbridge and nodded toward the taciturn man working on his laptop. “Check out the boss.”
Lowbridge glanced back. “Vintage Mike Garin. Sleep’s a nuisance.”
“What’s he up to?”
“Ask him.”
“Tell you the truth, he scares me.”
“Get used to it. It gets worse the longer you know him. I’ve known him for going on six years. Still gives me the yips.”
Camacho nodded toward the man with a bulbous nose sprawled in the seat across from Garin. “Tanski, though, is dead to the world.”
Lowbridge looked back again. “This plane goes down, grab that nose and use it as a flotation device.” Lowbridge turned back to Camacho. “Go ahead. Find out what the boss is up to.”
Camacho rose and walked tentatively to Garin’s seat, crouching in the aisle next to him. Before Camacho could open his mouth, Garin, without looking up from the laptop, asked, “Finish your report yet?”
Flustered, Camacho stammered, “I was about—”
“We debrief as soon as we deplane. Leave absolutely nothing out.” Garin looked up from the screen and locked a glacial gaze on Camacho. “Not one thing.”
The conversation was over. Camacho rose awkwardly and returned to his seat as Lowbridge stifled a chuckle.
Gene Tanski, proud owner of a bulbous nose and other noteworthy anatomical features, stirred. The former Delta Force operator had known Garin longer than anyone else on the team.
“You enjoy doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Intimidating people.”
Garin didn’t respond.
“Why won’t you tell the poor kid what you’re doing?”
“He doesn’t need to know.”
Tanski leaned over to catch a glimpse of Garin’s laptop screen. “Then tell me.”
“Just trying to put down everything I can remember seeing on the bad guy’s laptop before exfil.”
“Mike, op’s over. Mission accomplished. Job well done. Time to shut down the engines and catch some z’s. We’ve been on fast-forward for the last forty-eight hours.”
“We’re missing something.”
“We did exactly what they sent us to do. With flair, grace, and extreme prejudice.”
“They didn’t tell us the whole story, Gene.”
“They never tell us the whole story. Ours is not to reason why . . .”
Garin shook his head slowly. “The thing is, I’m not sure just who it is who’s telling us the story.”
“You lost me, boss.”
“Some of the bad guys in the tunnel were Ansar Corps.”
“So?”
“Why is a file on Evan Dellinger on a laptop of an Iranian Ansar Corps colonel in an assault tunnel . . . underneath a Pakistani nuclear weapons facility?”
Tanski exhaled. “Still lost, boss. Who’s Dellinger?”
“American physicist. Caltech, then Livermore, then MIT.”
“Nuclear?”
“No. Quantum electrodynamics.”
“Whoa. What the hell’s that?” Tanski asked, and then quickly added, “No, forget it. Don’t wanna know. I’m pretty sure my head will end up hurting more than it does now. I just wanna go home and grab a couple beers. Getting laid would be nice. But I’ll settle for an Orioles game if they’re in town.” Tanski sank back into his seat. “What about you, Mike? We got some time coming to us, provided the bad guys cooperate. Any sex, drugs, or rock ’n’ roll in your plans?”
“Going to Badwater.”
Agitated, Tanski sat up again. “Are you freakin’ kidding me? You’re still on that? Be serious, hombre. You’ve never even run a marathon. And I know you haven’t trained, at least not for that. Badass operator or not, can’t be done. No way.”
“Thanks for the encouragement.”
“I’m being serious, Mike. That’s what, five marathons nonstop? In the middle of the desert? That’s absolutely, positively nuts. Suicidal, homicidal, fratricidal—all the freakin’ cidals. Take my advice. Please. Don’t do it.”
“I’ll think about it. Even so, I need to go out there to see Clint Laws.”
“Ahhhh . . . the Professor of Death and Destruction. What for?”
“Not sure. He invited me out to the Ranch for a few days to kick back and tell lies. Said he wants to talk to me about Dan Dwyer and DGT.”
Tanski shook his head. “Nobody kicks back at the Ranch. Telling lies, maybe. But no kicking back. Probably gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse.”
“I don’t think so, Gene.” Garin shifted in his seat so his face was flush with Tanski’s. “You’ve been at this for a while, right?”
“Long enough. You know that. I’ve got at least five years on you, boss.”
“Have you ever been sent on an operation where it seemed like the bad guys were expecting you?”
“All the time.” Tanski examined Garin’s face. “What are you getting at, Mike?”
“That tunnel was rigged. Why would they wire the tunnel if they were making a one-way trip to hit the nuke facility?”
“Are you saying they were tipped by someone on our side?” Tanski shook his head dismissively. “Nice cinematic flour
ish, Mike, but it doesn’t compute. Look, with all due respect, you’re overthinking this. They were probably going to collapse the tunnel onto any pursuers in case they had to make a fast retreat. Besides, outside of the president and Kessler, only a handful of people knew about the op.”
Garin turned back in his seat. The plane dipped as it hit a pocket of turbulence. He closed the laptop and gazed out the window at the crescent moon.
“Right.” He exhaled. “That’s what worries me.”
CHAPTER FOUR
BETHANY BEACH, DELAWARE
JULY 12 • 8:37 A.M. EDT
The assassin was back in the United States.
The tall, lean figure with a patrician bearing, smoking a cigarette on the second-floor balcony of the large beach house overlooking the Atlantic, knew this because of the ringtone on his cell phone. The tone was reserved for one person alone.
Oddly, the patrician felt more at ease knowing the assassin was in the country. The man seemed to discharge assigned tasks with almost supernatural efficiency, and that gave the patrician a sense of comfort, security.
Despite the fact that the phone was encrypted and the house was clean, the patrician spoke sterilely.
“Yes.”
“There was an issue.”
“What kind of issue?”
“A matter of identification.”
“Are you certain?”
“No. But there is, at the very least, a possibility.”
“Then eliminate the possibility.” The patrician paused. “All of the possibilities. Use our surrogates when feasible.”
“That will be a challenge,” the assassin replied. “The possibilities are . . . formidable.”
“Quite right. But time is of the essence and all of the possibilities must be resolved quickly. That can only be done with a sufficient number of surrogates.”
The connection was silent for a moment. The patrician understood that the assassin preferred to resolve the possibilities by himself; he wouldn’t entrust it to surrogates, although he’d allow them to provide any necessary logistical support.
The assassin said, “It will be done,” and severed the connection.
The patrician casually returned the phone to his pocket and flicked the cigarette butt onto the beach below. Calm for a man who had just unleashed hell.
CHAPTER FIVE
DUMFRIES, VIRGINIA
JULY 12 • 9:35 P.M. EDT
The assassin was pleased with the house he had chosen. A two-bedroom nondescript ranch, it sat at the terminus of a dead-end street, ensuring that there would be no passersby.
The house was separated from its only neighbor to the west by an eight-foot-high row of hedges and was set back sixty feet from the street. The yard on the east side of the house dropped into a thickly wooded ravine. There were no houses immediately across the street, only a wooded lot.
The assassin backed the black Ford Explorer into the driveway until the rear bumper was about four feet from the garage door. He exited the SUV, glanced casually about the perimeter of the yard, and proceeded to unlock the manual garage door, lifting it open in a single pull.
The assassin opened the hatch of the Explorer and examined the rolled-up carpet, most of which was encased in a yard-size black garbage bag. He pulled the carpet toward him and, once clear of the hatch, heaved it over his right shoulder. He carried the carpet into the garage, closing the door behind him.
The powerfully built killer gently laid the carpet on the concrete garage floor. Extracting a box cutter from his left rear pocket, he opened it and sliced the rope binding the carpet with a swift upward movement. Before standing, he pulled the weapon from the holster attached to his right calf and affixed a sound suppressor from his waistband.
The assassin stood over the carpet for a moment, his right hand holding the pistol loosely at his side. In the dim light he could detect a slow rhythmic expansion and contraction near the center of the roll. He placed the thick rubber heel of his boot at the crest of the roll and pushed hard, unrolling the carpet and exposing the man who had lain wrapped within.
The man remained motionless except for the steady rise and fall of his chest. Multiple strips of duct tape covered his mouth. Several more were wrapped around his ankles. His arms were bound at the sides of his torso.
The assassin stepped over the man toward a wooden workbench along the length of the west wall of the garage. The bench had a variety of tools, which he casually flung on the floor. He did the same to a row of shovels and rakes that were leaning neatly against the wall.
The clattering of the tools against concrete caused the man on the floor to stir. The assassin strolled over and looked into the man’s face. His eyes registered a mix of fear and confusion. The killer understood. He had seen the look numerous times before. Each time, he had sincerely wished he would not have to see it again.
The assassin moved to the crown of the man’s head. Bending down, he grasped the man’s armpits and dragged him toward the east wall of the garage, where a six-foot pile of gray cinder blocks left over from the construction of a small backyard gazebo was stacked next to a push mower. The assassin noted that the man didn’t even struggle against his restraints. That was unusual. The man was relatively young and strong, yet he put up less of a fight than many of the assassin’s previous victims who had been older and smaller. Young Americans, he thought, were growing soft and weak. Lots of bluster and strutting, but fewer and fewer cowboys among them.
After positioning the man directly beneath the stack of cinder blocks, the assassin reached up and pulled one from the top. He lifted it over his head and prepared to drop it on the man’s head. This elicited a more vigorous reaction from the target, who whipped his head back and forth as muffled noises came from the duct tape covering his mouth. The look in the man’s eyes had evolved from fear to terror.
The assassin hesitated and then replaced the cinder block atop the stack. The man’s agitation subsided a bit as the assassin assumed a relaxed stance, his head tilted slightly to his left as if regarding a puzzle. The two men looked at each other for a few seconds before the assassin drew the pistol from his waistband and shot the target an inch below the center of the forehead, the sound of the suppressed pop resonating in the garage resembling the abrupt release of a champagne cork.
The assassin inserted the weapon back into his waistband and picked up the shell casing from the garage floor as the doll-like eyes of the dead man held the assassin’s gaze. They were all like that. First a pause, as if they would return to life again after recharging their batteries. Then oblivion.
The assassin looked about the tool-strewn floor once again. An artist practicing his craft. Satisfied, he retrieved the cinder block from the top of the stack and dropped it flush on the dead man’s face, the corpse’s head yielding with the soft crunching sound of compressed bone and cartilage. Then the assassin dropped another.
As a stream of blood pooled around the target’s head, the assassin walked to the doorway leading from the garage to the kitchen of the house. Before entering, he pulled the box cutter from his pocket, extended his left arm, and with a slight wince made a longitudinal incision along the top of his forearm. He paused briefly. Then he walked into the kitchen, fixed himself a pot of black coffee, and leisurely sipped until the last drop of the brew was gone. It was the beginning of a very long night. And a new world order.
CHAPTER SIX
CENTRAL CALIFORNIA
JULY 12 • 10:10 P.M. PDT
The raucous postrace atmosphere in the lounge of the Diamondback wasn’t quite what the doctor would have ordered, but Garin hadn’t felt better in weeks. Even though he hadn’t been a formal entrant, he’d followed a caravan of vehicles from Mount Whitney Portal toward the watering holes about an hour’s drive west.
He sat at the corner table on the raised level of the lounge, affording him an excellent view of the goin
gs-on and a direct path to both the men’s room and the exit. On the table in front of him was his fifth ice-cold beer of unknown provenance. They kept magically appearing in front of him and he dutifully consumed the contents.
After returning to the United States following the operation in Pakistan, Garin flew to the West Coast to participate in the Badwater Ultramarathon, unquestionably one of the most grueling physical challenges in the world. More than anything, however, Badwater was a test of will. To complete it, it helped to be one of the best-conditioned athletes in the world, yet ninety-nine percent of those individuals wouldn’t even think of entering the race, let alone have the ability to finish it. It was 135 miles through one of the most unforgiving environments on the planet. Through the bowels of Death Valley and partway up Mount Whitney. Temperatures frequently soared to 120 degrees. The dry air sucked the moisture out of runners’ lungs and muscles.
Garin hadn’t trained for Badwater. At least, he hadn’t altered his normal training routine. He planned to rely primarily on sheer willpower. To test himself. See how deep he could reach. How far his determination and discipline could take him.
Garin, however, had arrived too late to participate. Although disappointed, he acknowledged that Tanski was probably right. Relying on sheer willpower was lunacy. He’d probably have caused himself serious physical harm.
In the end, Badwater was still a voluntary test of physical and mental toughness. He wouldn’t have been shot; he would’ve suffered no grievous wounds that nearly required amputation; no RPGs would’ve exploded about him. And he wouldn’t have suffered the psychic trauma of having the contents of a teammate’s skull splattered across his face—all of which he’d endured during the course of his career.
As Garin finished his beer, he sensed the presence of someone standing behind him. Perhaps it was a combination of the alcohol and self-confidence, but the usual alarms didn’t sound and he made no effort to even turn around. In truth, his lack of urgency had more to do with simple calculation: There were only a handful of men in the world who had any hope of sneaking up on him undetected, and he was expecting one of them to join him at some point that night.
Target Omega Page 2