Garin checked his watch as he moved through the terminal toward the parking facility. Just after one thirty P.M. Taking Laws’s advice, he’d refrained from using any devices to contact the other members of Omega. Since they all lived within thirty miles of the District, his plan was to dump his gear at his apartment, then visit each personally. After they had been read on to the possibility that someone was compromising operations, they’d develop a course of action.
He bought a liter bottle of water at a kiosk, consumed its contents in a few seconds, and then bought another, placing it in the smaller of two gym bags for the drive home.
A blast of hot air met him as the sliding glass doors opened to the outside walkway. Locating his Jeep Wrangler Sahara on the first level of the garage, he stored his bags in the rear and retrieved the parking ticket partially wedged under the rubber floor mat. By habit, he examined the vehicle and scanned the entire garage before starting the engine. The place was full of vehicles but no other travelers. Saturday afternoon in July in the District. Hot, humid, and slow.
Before turning on the ignition, he hit a preset on his phone to check in with his support. Getting no answer, he drove out, heading toward I-95 South. He retrieved a La Gloria Cubana cigar from the glove box, lit it, and inserted a Jimi Hendrix CD. He fast-forwarded to “Voodoo Child” and turned the volume to its pulsating maximum, drawing the attention of the motorists he passed.
Michael Garin, clandestine warrior, hiding in plain sight.
—
To describe Garin’s apartment as Spartan would be to assign an unwarranted level of luxury to it. The unit was located in one of a series of low-rise apartment buildings in a sprawling complex in Dale City, Virginia, approximately thirty minutes southwest of D.C. The complex catered to low-income families and had some of the lowest rental prices in the Washington metropolitan area. The majority of the complex’s occupants were Latin American and the remainder equal percentages of whites and blacks. A fair number of the male residents were day laborers who congregated every morning at five at the 7-Eleven about two blocks south of the complex to be picked up by general contractors working throughout Prince William County.
Garin’s apartment was a basement-level unit in Building C, directly accessible from the outside. It consisted of a living room that doubled as a bedroom, a small efficiency kitchen, a bathroom, and a five-by-five storage space. A single mattress lay on the floor next to a lamp and a neat stack of about a dozen history books. The only other furnishing was a metal folding chair that Garin would pull up to the kitchen counter to eat his meals. The refrigerator rarely contained more than milk and some fruits and vegetables, and most of the cabinets above the sink were bare, save for a few glasses and dishes. Above the refrigerator, however, sat an impressive array of nutritional supplements, energy drinks, and meal-replacement packs.
The entire living space was no more than four hundred square feet, a place to “flop” when Garin was in town, which was infrequently. The apartment made no statement about Garin other than his indifference to comfort and his affectless efficiency. It was only a fifteen-minute drive from Quantico to the west and Fort Belvoir to the east, and barely a quarter mile from the Dale City Rec Center on the other side of Minnieville Road.
The clusters of apartment buildings in the complex were separated by fairly large expanses of grass worn bare from the incessant soccer games played by his neighbors’ kids. On Sundays the day laborers played on the largest such field, opposite Garin’s apartment.
Since he was often away, Garin had few occasions to interact with the other residents of the complex, but he found them pleasant and likable when he did. He was an enigma to the adults and a subject of speculation for the kids. The young boys, some of whom tried to copy every nuance of his walk, were especially intrigued by him. Though they disagreed wildly about Garin’s occupation, they were unanimous that whatever he did, it must certainly be something highly nefarious.
The leader of the twenty or so boys who lived in Garin’s cluster was ten-year-old Emilio Val Buena, who lived with his mother and somewhat bookish older sister in the unit two floors above Garin’s place. Emilio was smart and one of the better soccer players in the complex, but part of his elevated status was due to the fact that he was the only kid to have actually spoken to the mysterious Señor Lofton. In fact, it had been Emilio who had pried loose the name. From there, of course, it took very little for Emilio to embellish the routine salutations the two exchanged and report to his friends the details of Señor Lofton’s many epic adventures. A trip to the gym became a rendezvous with a spy; a bruise on the arm signaled a battle with multiple assailants. Emilio could not know how closely he sometimes swerved toward the truth.
Emilio had taken an almost proprietary interest in Garin and jealously guarded his position as the complex’s primary contact with the enigma. And like many kids, Emilio was an expert at surveillance, especially regarding goings-on in the complex. So it was Emilio who first spotted Garin’s Jeep pulling into a parking space almost directly below the front window of the Val Buenas’ apartment. Señor Lofton had been gone for nearly two weeks—enough time, clearly, to topple a small African nation or kidnap a crime boss’s girlfriend. In fact, the two strangers Emilio had seen in the parking lot earlier that day were probably the crime boss’s henchmen, coming to exact a terrible revenge on Señor Lofton.
Spotting Emilio in the window, Garin waved as he climbed out of the Jeep. The soccer fields were deserted due to the stifling midafternoon heat, the neighborhood kids having sought refuge in their air-conditioned apartments with video games for entertainment.
Garin pulled his bags from the back of the Jeep and glanced back up to Emilio before proceeding down the concrete steps on the west side of the building that led to his apartment. Emilio stood before the window with a look of concentration, or perhaps one of anticipation, on his face. Interesting. Random bits of information floated through the part of Garin’s brain devoted to self-preservation. An odd club patron, a Nike bag in the back of a rental car. If there is any question . . .
Garin slowed his pace, taking note of his surroundings again before wedging the smaller of his two bags into his armpit so that he could remove his Oakleys and insert the key into the door. Garin shut his eyes for a moment to acclimate them to the dark apartment and then opened the door.
Light from the blazing sun spilled in a rhomboid pattern across the carpeted floor and reflected dimly off the suppressed Makarov PMM held in the outstretched hands of a figure obscured by shadow. Garin sprang forward furiously, knocking the intruder backward as a round tore into the gym bag under Garin’s right arm. As the two crashed to the floor, Garin seized the weapon with both hands and ripped it from the intruder’s grasp as the man’s head bounced off the floor. Rolling swiftly to his left off of the momentarily dazed assailant, Garin landed on his back facing the open door. Standing there, as Garin intuited, was the assailant’s partner, his figure outlined in the doorway against the streaming sunlight. Garin squeezed the trigger four times, striking the second man twice in the head and twice in the upper torso. The figure dropped limply to his knees and fell forward onto his face. Garin immediately shifted his aim to his left, where the first assailant was struggling to sit up. Garin fired two shots into the man’s chest. Then, springing to his feet, Garin stood over the man’s motionless body and fired a round into the bridge of his nose.
Garin crouched slightly with the weapon grasped in both hands before him, tracking across the room from left to right. He then strode quickly toward the second assailant, the Makarov trained on his body, and kicked the man’s weapon clear. Garin reached down with his left hand and pulled the body clear of the doorframe. After turning on the adjacent light switch, he shut the door and looked about the tiny apartment, the scent of cheap aftershave filling his nostrils. He paused to gather himself and moved quickly to check the bathroom and closet.
Satisfied that
the apartment was clear, Garin looked at his watch: 2:45. He estimated that he had no more than fifteen minutes before the team backing up the pair lying dead on the floor would arrive to see why they hadn’t checked in. They clearly weren’t amateurs, a matter made plain by the fact that, despite his suspicions, he had failed to detect the second assailant. Although he hadn’t seen any signs of another crew in the vicinity when he drove up, he had to assume that another team was watching the apartment.
Garin again hit the call key for support on his phone and waited. Nothing. He quickly disconnected and repeated the action. Same result. Garin didn’t have time to dwell on his inability to contact his team’s support. Instead, he methodically searched the bodies for any identification. Nothing. No licenses, no credit cards. Not even a cell phone. Even their faces yielded little: perhaps Mediterranean, but beyond that, no specificity. He went to the window next to the doorway and peered through a slight part in the drawn curtains for any evidence of surveillance. Again, nothing.
Garin began to feel a dull pain in his ribs that had been shielded by the gym bag when the first assailant had discharged his weapon. He was fortunate that the bullet hadn’t even pierced the bag, having been slowed by the presence of several hardcover books, a water bottle, running shoes, and assorted gear packed tightly inside. It was unlikely that the ribs were broken, but the ache was sure to remind him of the encounter for a few days.
He went into the closet, where a black gym bag nearly identical to the one that had just saved him was stored on a shelf above the clothes rack. Garin placed the bag on the kitchen counter and, facing the door, unzipped the side compartment. The next person to come through that door uninvited would be met by the unfriendly contours of the SIG Sauer P226 that Garin pulled out. Opening the bag’s end compartment, he found a suppressor and two extra magazines and stuffed them into his pockets. He pulled back the slide to check the chamber and placed the pistol on the counter.
The bag was a survival kit, a fail-safe of sorts. It contained items essential for Garin’s short-term existence in case he was cut off and on his own. He had used it—or more accurately, taken it with him—once before, for an assignment that required a lightning insertion into an Eastern European city without any preparation or staging whatsoever. As it turned out, he’d left the bag aboard the transport plane since he’d been able to make arrangements with local contacts for supplies.
The bag contained approximately fifty thousand dollars in cash—ten thousand of which was in dinars and euros—multiple IDs, credit cards in various names, a US passport for Thomas Lofton as well as a French passport for Andre Duvalier, a Glock 17 and several magazines, a tactical knife, a toiletry kit, QuikClot, a secure cell phone, and a couple of changes of underwear, socks, shirts, and pants.
Garin tried calling support once more. Nothing except a hum. Anxiety gradually began to replace frustration as he decided that the circumstances dictated he abandon Laws’s advice and try to contact his team immediately by phone. He hit the first of several preset numbers stored on a coded contact list. Rod Mears. Another hum. He looked at his phone as if he expected it to provide a written explanation for his lack of success and then hit the next number, Joe Calabrese. A hum. Eli Calhoun—hum. Cal Lowbridge—hum.
The muscles in Garin’s jaw tensed with each unsuccessful attempt to reach the members of his team and he began pacing the length of the counter as he dialed. Manny Camacho—hum. Gene Tanski . . . Garin stopped pacing. The phone was ringing. A sense of hopeful relief crept over him, only to be replaced by growing urgency as it continued to ring without answer. Garin disconnected and went to the last preset: John Gates—hum.
Garin’s mind rifled through the plausible reasons for his inability to contact anyone from Omega. None was pleasant. He quickly cycled through the calls once again, this time leaving Tanski for last, and once again, only Tanski’s number rang and rang.
Garin examined his watch: 2:53. He considered his situation. An attempt had been made on his life by two men of indeterminate nationality. They were professionals. He was unable to reach either his support or any of the men he’d last seen only a few days ago when they had returned after a successful, highly sensitive DA in Pakistan. His working assumption, at least for purposes of self-preservation, was that the rest of his team was dead and someone wanted him dead also. He hadn’t the slightest idea who that someone might be. If he tried to contact anyone outside of Omega for help, he might reveal his whereabouts to the very person behind today’s events.
It was time to move. There was at least one open door left: Gene Tanski’s phone was still ringing and he lived less than thirty minutes away. If Garin couldn’t reach him by phone, he would have to reach him in person.
Garin took the SIG and gym bag off the counter and stepped over the bodies of the two dead men as he went to the door. The matter of disposing of the corpses would have to be addressed later. He peeked out the window again before slowly opening the door, pistol held at eye level. He examined the entire area outside the apartment for several seconds before putting the weapon into the pocket holster on his right and covering it with his shirt. In similar circumstances he sometimes had a gnawing sensation that he was about to be struck by a sniper’s bullet, the only solace being that he would be dead before he even heard the shot. He knew the feeling wouldn’t go away until he was no longer in open space.
Turning left, he walked briskly up the concrete steps to the parking lot, this time stopping to check the undercarriage of the Jeep before jumping in and turning the ignition. When he pulled back from the curb, Garin saw Emilio appear at the window above. As he shifted into drive, Garin gave a casual wave, prompting Emilio to return the gesture enthusiastically, a broad grin covering his face.
As the brake lights of Garin’s Jeep disappeared around the corner, Emilio stood vigil by the window, putting the finishing touches on the latest Señor Lofton yarn.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WASHINGTON, D.C.
JULY 13 • 3:10 P.M. EDT
Olivia Perry wasn’t surprised by the news she’d just received, but that did nothing to diminish her bitterness. There was simply no defensible reason for what was going to occur at Turtle Bay, yet few were even aware and fewer still seemed to care.
Olivia had been excited when she’d accepted the offer to be an aide to National Security Advisor James Brandt, her former advisor at Stanford. Moving to D.C. and being at the fulcrum of important global developments promised to be exhilarating. Although the move was a significant advancement in her career, her first few months on the job proved to be largely an exercise in mind-numbing tedium.
Her primary charge had been to monitor and analyze Russian commercial transactions and overall economic development for any hints of their strategic ambitions. Old-fashioned Kremlinology had been resurrected due to President Mikhailov’s increasing bellicosity and adventurism.
But she found nothing scintillating there. It appeared that in some respects the Russians were reverting to the disastrous practices of a command economy. Over the last couple of years they’d produced massive quantities of run-of-the-mill electrical equipment, only to have it all sit idly in row upon row of enormous warehouses scattered throughout the vast country. They’d manufactured enough generators to power a medium-size European country, but there was no corresponding market. Two decades after the collapse of the Soviet Union, Russia, it seemed, still hadn’t mastered the vagaries of supply and demand.
Moreover, the spike in US natural gas production due to new drilling techniques was depressing Russian economic growth. Hydrocarbons, after all, had been responsible for nearly forty percent of Russian GDP growth over the last decade. But the US natural gas boom was lowering world gas prices and undercutting Russian gas exports to Europe. Gazprom, the mammoth Russian gas company—indeed, the largest in the world—had suspended liquefied natural gas production at the Shtokman field in the Arctic because of plummeting prices. T
hey were now forced to look to burgeoning Asian markets for salvation.
There was something about the Russian economy that bothered Olivia. Something annoying, like the irritating whine of a mosquito flitting about her ear, looking for a place to alight. It kept buzzing whenever she was concentrating on another task. Buzzing to remind her to pay attention. To take a closer look.
Olivia stared gloomily out the window of the Peet’s Coffee near the Old Executive Office Building, where she’d spent most of the day gathering information and preparing analyses for Brandt regarding the positions of various nations on the escalating tensions between Israel and its Middle Eastern neighbors. Earlier in the week, the IDF had conducted strikes on a number of Hezbollah strongholds in southern Lebanon in retaliation for a blizzard of rocket attacks on the Golan Heights over the preceding four days. Although a dozen Israeli civilians had died, the international media became aroused only when one of the IDF’s strikes had resulted in the inadvertent deaths of approximately eight Palestinian civilians whom Hezbollah rocketeers were using as human shields. The familiar pattern of outrage and denunciations followed, beginning, of course, in Tehran and Damascus and concluding in Moscow, Brussels, and Paris.
Target Omega Page 5