Target Omega

by Peter Kirsanow

  Garin retrieved his coffee from the roof of his car, got in, and placed the weapon under his seat. Looking in the rearview mirror, he could see the splintered windshield of the Taurus, the two dead men reclining against their respective headrests. They appeared strangely at peace.

  He took a sip of impressively awful coffee before driving out of the parking lot, casting a quick glance through the store window, where the cashier remained engrossed in her paperwork. Garin would’ve preferred to have spared one of the sentinels for interrogation but couldn’t risk having another patron drive into the parking lot and report the gruesome sight of three dead men slumped in their cars. It would take only a few minutes for the local cops or sheriff to arrive and put out an alert for a man matching his description. He estimated that he had twenty minutes to get rid of the car, ball cap, and glasses, alter his appearance, and secure another means of transportation.

  As he drove, Garin realized that he was becoming accustomed to being in a sustained state of bewilderment. It seemed no matter where he went, someone was able to track him and employ various hunters. The sentinels had already been in place outside of Katy’s house when he arrived, even though the FBI had no idea they were looking for a Michael Garin. The only person besides himself who had known about the bunker was dead, yet it seemed someone may have been snooping around the cabin shortly after he left. Then an elite assault team conveyed by military helicopters showed up at the Burns farm, defying odds that would dwarf winning a multistate lottery. And finally, the sentinels from Katy’s house had tracked him to a convenience store in central New York.

  Garin could only assume the sentinels followed him to the store using some form of tracking device. But since there was nothing in his bags, the device would have to be inside or attached to the car. How someone had managed to place a device in or on a vehicle that had been locked in storage for more than a year was a puzzle he would have to ponder later. Right now, Garin needed to get rid of the vehicle so it wouldn’t be an easy target for either the authorities or the sentinels’ associates.

  And he had to do it quickly. He had the uneasy sense that a clock was ticking, although toward what he had no idea.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  JULY 15 • 9:30 A.M. EDT

  Dan Dwyer arrived thirty minutes before the hearing was scheduled to begin. He sat on a leather couch in Room 211 of the Hart Senate Office Building, waiting to be summoned through the imposing vault-like double doors of the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility of Hearing Room SH-219, the space wherein the most consequential secrets of the world were discussed. A young man sat at a desk opposite him, typing earnestly on a keyboard.

  With Dwyer was his attorney, Jack Elliott, instantly recognizable to cable news junkies as the man invariably seated next to whoever was testifying that particular day before an investigative body of the federal government on a matter of national interest. Elliott’s expensive but rumpled suits, unruly white hair, and exploding waistline camouflaged a quick and precise mind that regularly outmaneuvered the congressmen before whom his clients appeared.

  And Dwyer regularly appeared before congressmen. As DGT had grown exponentially over the last eight years, so had the interest of some congressmen in nearly every aspect of his business. A few of them had serious questions about the enterprise and the extent to which it was replicating, if not usurping, the role of the military in fighting the war on terror. But the majority of politicians simply saw DGT as a useful foil, a shady, rapacious outfit that not only soaked up large amounts of federal revenue but soiled America’s reputation overseas. For the latter cohort, DGT was the Great White Whale. Whoever harpooned it would be a hero to the country’s antiwar movement and could use it as a springboard to higher office.

  If DGT was the Great White Whale, then the man who had just walked into the room was Captain Ahab. Julian Day was counsel to Senator Harlan McCoy, chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. Princeton undergrad. Yale Law. Smart and tenacious, he had been responsible for unearthing evidence leading to the conviction and imprisonment of nearly a dozen military contractors for matters ranging from massive overbilling to the killing of civilians in war zones. During his nearly two decades on the committee, he had accumulated a wealth of institutional knowledge and innumerable contacts, allowing him to establish something of a fiefdom in Intelligence. As a result, a mere call or e-mail from Day’s office often generated substantial bouts of anxiety and paranoia in contractors, other staffers, and even some congressmen.

  Day was determined to uncover evidence of scandal and misconduct by DGT and had spent the last several years demanding that DGT produce nearly every imaginable document related to its business for inspection and nearly every one of its executives for testimony. So far, all he had been able to discover was that DGT was an efficient, well-run organization that fulfilled all of its contractual responsibilities to the government.

  Day was a short, thin man in his early forties with small, clever eyes behind stylish glasses. His appearance was the opposite of Elliott’s in almost every respect. He wore expensive, closely tailored suits that never seemed to wrinkle and always sported a precisely knotted tie. His thinning light brown hair was perfect, not a strand out of place. He had a permanent sneer on his face and he did nothing to mask his contempt for Dwyer.

  Entering the room behind Day was another committee counsel, Elizabeth Riley, a tall, attractive redhead who once had a crush on one of Dwyer’s key executives, a fact that infuriated Day and, as a result, delighted Dwyer.

  Day didn’t look at Dwyer as he spoke to Elliott. “Jack, there have been some developments over the weekend that require today’s hearing be postponed. Senator McCoy asked me to convey his apologies for the short notice and inconvenience, but we wonder if you’d be kind enough to spend a few moments with Elizabeth and me to answer some questions informally?”

  “Hello, Julian,” Dwyer said cheerfully. Day ignored him.

  “Julian, we will do whatever we can to accommodate the interests of the committee.” Elliott glanced at the young man behind the desk. “We came here today to testify about the matters set forth in your letter to Mr. Dwyer last Thursday. We sent a large number of documents to the committee in advance of Mr. Dwyer’s testimony. We spent a considerable amount of time preparing for the hearing, time that took Mr. Dwyer away from the business of running his company. Would you care to tell us why the hearing’s postponed and what kind of questions you’d like Mr. Dwyer to answer?”

  Day pointed to the door leading to an adjacent room. “Why don’t we step in here?”

  The four filed through the door to an unused hearing room. Riley closed the door behind them. Day and Riley sat on one side of a rectangular, dark-wood witness table. Dwyer and Elliott sat on the other.

  “Okay, Julian, what’s going on?” Elliot asked.

  “The short, unclassified version is this: The hearings have been postponed because there’s been a significant complication to our counter-WMD capability.” Day turned his attention to Dwyer. “Your old friend Michael Garin appears to be in the middle of it.”

  Dwyer concentrated on Day but remained silent. Only a handful of people associated with the committee were familiar with Garin. Some of them viewed him with at least as much hostility as they viewed DGT.

  “Why did that require postponement of the hearing, and what’s Garin’s involvement in all of this?” Elliott asked.

  “Jack, you know I can’t get into all that. Suffice it to say the committee is dealing with the potential ramifications of the ‘complication.’ It’s a matter of some urgency. As for Garin, the FBI has just determined that he was connected to the shootings of two men in Dale City. It’s believed Garin may be the reason for the complication.”

  “Hell, Julian, why don’t you just send us a note about what’s going on in Sanskrit? You want our cooperation and that’s the best
explanation you can give us?”

  Dwyer put his hand on Elliott’s shoulder and looked at Day and Riley. “What do you want to know?”

  “Have you had any contact with Garin recently?”

  “Julian,” Elliott interjected, “do you think we’re completely daft? That I just passed the bar last week? You just told us Michael Garin’s the reason for a complication to national security. I assume that means he’s a person of extreme interest to the FBI and the Department of Justice. And you expect me to allow my client to testify about whether he’s had contact with the man?”

  “He’s not testifying, Jack. This is informal.”

  “That doesn’t mean a damn thing,” Elliott said dismissively. “Clearly, the FBI is looking for him and I have no doubt he’s considered a fugitive.”

  “Hold it, Jack,” Dwyer said, raising his hand. Dwyer gazed at Day. “I haven’t seen or heard from Mike Garin in months. I have no idea where he is. He has no relationship whatsoever to DGT. But get one thing very straight, Julian. Mike Garin is not a ‘complication.’”

  “Perhaps you’re too blinkered to see what he and others like him have done to America’s image abroad,” Day retorted. “They hate our imperial exploitation of their resources, our reckless destruction of their lives and property. Our imposition of our values on their societies. Putting them in the Guantanamo gulag. Mike Garin and those like him destroy their way of life and in the process do incalculable damage to the nation’s reputation. To them, he’s death personified. They hate America because of him and his ilk and yet they’re vilified for simply wanting to stop him.”

  “Simply stop him? Those weren’t temporary restraining orders that flew into the World Trade Center and Pentagon, Julian. And in case you missed it, that was before Mike Garin ever even thought about a career in raping and pillaging.”

  “Dan,” Elliott said, trying to restrain his client. The big man waved him off.

  “Mike Garin is one of the reasons you can sit up here and act like you’re the last defender of democracy on earth. Flatter yourself all you want. But don’t make the mistake of thinking Mike Garin is a complication to anything or anyone except our enemies.”

  “Michael Garin,” Day retorted, disdain punctuating each syllable, “the very idea of Michael Garin, is a disgrace to international law and the constitution.”

  As if a light switch had been thrown, Dwyer’s neck and face instantly turned crimson. “You have no idea what he’s done for this country, the Constitution and, oh yes, your precious international law.”

  “Please enlighten me.”

  “Read his file,” Dwyer shot back. “But I guess you already have. That’s probably why you can’t stand him. Makes you feel kind of puny, doesn’t he? Kind of reminds you of the shower room after gym class.”

  Elliott closed his eyes. “Dan . . . ,” he said quietly.

  “Oh, I was just getting started, Jack. I was going to ask our fearless Julian how many terrorists he’s killed, captured, or defeated today with those lethal subpoenas of his. But I’ll let little Julian and his friends talk the issue to death. It’s what they’re good at. It’s all they’re effin’ good at.”

  Riley spoke for the first time as Day sat rigidly, his face flushed. “Senator McCoy was hoping that you might have talked to Mr. Garin recently. He knows the two of you go back several years. If there’s anyone Mr. Garin would talk to, it’s likely to be you.” Her voice was conciliatory. “Would you please let us know if he attempts to contact you?”

  Elliott said, “Elizabeth, we’ll certainly take the request under advisement. We want to be of assistance. As I said, we’ll do whatever we can, consistent with the law and my client’s interests, to accommodate the committee.”

  “Elizabeth,” Dwyer added, “if Mike Garin contacts me, I’ll make sure to let him know how highly Julian speaks of him.” Dwyer, grinning menacingly, turned to Day. “Don’t wet your pants, Julian. If Mike Garin comes after you, it’ll be painless. It’ll happen so fast you won’t feel a thing. Not one thing.”

  “Please let us know if you hear from him,” Riley repeated evenly.

  “Are we finished here?” Elliott asked, eager to get his client out of the room.

  “Yes,” Riley said. “We’ll e-mail you when the hearings have been rescheduled.”

  “Thank you, Elizabeth.” Elliott turned to Day. “But this time with a little more notice? My client has a fairly substantial business to run.” Dwyer and Elliott rose to leave.

  “Dwyer,” Day said, “this is a very serious matter. Tell Garin to make arrangements to present himself to the FBI. Otherwise something bad will happen.”

  Dwyer paused in the doorway and turned toward Day. “To you or to the FBI?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  NORTHERN IRAN

  JULY 15 • 9:00 P.M. IRDT

  Ari Singer had spent more than thirty years in intelligence, primarily in the field. During that time he had never been shot, never been stabbed, suffered no broken bones. He had never had so much as a scuffle. This was remarkable for someone who worked for an intelligence service whose operations exposed its people to a high degree of risk more frequently than any other service in the world. It was even more remarkable for someone who had operated in Beirut for much of the eighties, Iraq in the nineties, and both Syria and Iran in the last decade.

  Over the course of his career, Singer had seen the nature of intelligence gathering evolve, in large part due to advances in technology. Although he was privy to only a portion of Mossad’s impressive technological resources, he knew that the kind of capabilities presently available would’ve been considered science fiction when he first began his career. Nonetheless, Singer believed technology could never be a substitute for face-to-face human contact. The look in the informant’s eyes sometimes provided more information than a month’s worth of calls intercepted by satellites and decrypted by computers.

  Singer believed there was one tool more valuable to a spy than any other. Most of the vital information he’d collected over the years came from its frequent use. When used correctly, it seldom failed, and it wasn’t as risky as blackmail, as hazardous as undercover work, or as unpleasant as coercive interrogation.

  Singer believed that the most valuable intelligence he had acquired in his career was the result of the judicious payment of money. Information was a commodity like any other. It had a market value like any other. The trick was in being able to accurately appraise both the commodity and the person who possessed it. Come in too low and a higher bidder might snatch it from you. Come in too high and you might scare off the potential seller by causing him to think the commodity was more valuable than his life. Singer’s ability to appraise both the information and the seller was uncanny.

  Singer had accurately taken stock of Mansur shortly after the Iranian Revolution. Both Singer and Mansur were young intelligence agents then. Mansur was a reasonable man with a new family. Singer was an accommodating man with a lot of money. Even better, a lot of American dollars. The two did business regularly. Mansur supplied useful, if not earth-shattering, information about the political strength of the Iranian regime, its alliances with foreign powers, its support of Hamas and Hezbollah, and the state of its weapons programs. The latter had been the focus of Singer’s concern the last five years.

  One of their more recent collaborations had resulted in the identification of the chief of cyberwarfare for the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps. IRGC’s cyberwarfare division was believed to be responsible for the Shamoon virus that had damaged hundreds of Aramco’s computers. They had also hacked the systems of several US banks as well as a highly classified system of the US Navy. Shortly after Mansur had conveyed the chief’s identity to Singer, the cyberspy had been assassinated by a motorcyclist who had attached a magnetic bomb to the chief’s limousine while in transit.

  Mansur might not have grown rich from the arrang
ement, but he had become very comfortable. And Singer, despite resembling a storybook elf, had become regarded as one of Mossad’s most effective agents.

  Mansur’s participation in the arrangement was no longer fueled primarily by money. His wife had passed away after a brief illness a decade ago; his two sons were now physicians in London. He had few expenses and had amassed a sizable savings. Financial concerns had now been eclipsed by patriotic ones. So, for the last six months, Mansur had been supplying Singer with information concerning a joint project involving the Iranian military and the Russians. The information was nebulous at first, but judging from the description of the project’s location and the level of security surrounding it, both Singer and Mansur knew that it was a matter of extreme importance to the Iranian regime.

  The project was being constructed under a small mountain in the North Alborz wilderness area. That fact alone suggested that it might be related to Iran’s nuclear program. It was well known that the Iranians had spread their program throughout numerous fortified underground facilities to shield it from preemptive strikes from the United States and Israel. There was an Iranian uranium enrichment plant at Natanz, another at Fordow, a conversion facility near Isfahan, and two nuclear plants at Bushehr that were supplied by the conversion facility at Ardakan and centrifuges at Tehran’s Sharif University.

  Hamid Mansur was unable to confirm that the project was related to the nuclear program, but he reported that several vertical shafts—which he presumed were large freight elevators leading to the underground facility—had been constructed near the base of the mountain. Also, a railroad tunnel moved massive pieces of cargo into the mountain.