Target Omega

by Peter Kirsanow

  The vertical shafts were of particular concern. Singer could see no good reason the Iranians would need both a railroad tunnel and freight elevators to supply the facility. Satellite images revealed little, but Singer always believed it was best to assume the worst. And to him, the worst case was that the “vertical shafts” Mansur talked about were not freight elevators, but missile silos.

  Singer had arrived in the early evening at the spot Mansur and he had agreed on during their last meeting. It was as Mansur had described: a copse of trees exactly five and a half miles east of the bus depot in Chalus, off the Tehran-Shomal Freeway. It stood at the edge of flat farmland along a seldom-used rural road. There were no dwellings within several miles. If anyone approached, they would be seen long before their arrival.

  Singer had arrived on a Vespa motor scooter that he had rented in Chalus. In the distance, he could see another scooter approaching. It would take at least a few minutes to arrive. Singer passed the time leaning against one of the trees, smoking a Marquise.

  Mansur stepped off of the scooter just as Singer stamped out the embers of his cigarette. The two shook hands and, speaking in English, got right to business.

  “Chernin says the project is ahead of schedule,” Mansur said.

  “When will it be ready?”

  “He was not specific. But very soon. Days. A few weeks at the most. My friend, it appears you may be correct. A missile is involved, perhaps more than one. I do not know for sure. When Chernin drinks too much, he is sometimes difficult to understand.”

  “Did he indicate what kind of missile?”

  “No. Perhaps he did and I did not understand him. He said that the solid-fuel rocket caused fewer problems than what the North Koreans had been working with.”

  “Liquid propellant, I presume?”

  “He did not say.”

  “What else?” Singer asked.

  “He is looking forward to going home. He has no quarrel with the Israelis.”

  “Did he say what he means by that?”

  “No. Chernin never elaborates. And when he is asked a question about something he just said—if he’s asked for more information—he immediately stops talking and changes the subject, as if he realizes he has said too much. But the project clearly troubles him.”

  “Did his driver wait for him this time?”

  “No. Not for the last two times.”

  Singer tapped another Marquise out of the pack and offered it to Mansur, who declined with a shake of his head. Singer lit it and inhaled deeply.

  “What do you think?” Singer exhaled skyward.

  “I believe, my friend, that the people who run my country are about to do something very stupid. I believe the Russians are stupid to help. Their stupidity, however, is exceeded by that of the West.”

  “Hamid, for God’s sake, stop talking in Persian parables. Are you saying that the missile’s payload is nuclear?”

  “Clearly, that is the objective. But I do not think that they are there yet,” Mansur answered.

  “Why, then, does Chernin say the project is ahead of schedule? What does he mean?”

  “I may be mistaken, of course, but I think he was referring to the missile, not the payload.”

  “Hamid, you see, that’s where I think you’re wrong. I believe the objective is to have a functional, deliverable nuclear device. And once they have that, they intend to obliterate Israel.”

  “You are such a pessimist. Always such a pessimist.”

  “It’s better to be a pessimist. That way, I’m rarely disappointed. Chernin wouldn’t be talking about returning home unless both the missile and the warhead were nearly ready to go.”

  “Everything I hear says they are not yet capable of producing a deliverable nuclear device. The faulty centrifuges, the random accidents, set the program back even further than the IAEA estimates,” Mansur said.

  Singer picked a bit of tobacco from his tongue. “Those ‘estimates’ were sheer guesswork. They haven’t the slightest idea where Iran’s program stands. Neither does the CIA. For three years they were saying Iran had discontinued its nuclear program. Then, suddenly, nuclear sites are popping up all over the country. The IAEA and UN have consistently underestimated Iran’s nuclear progress, and forgive me for suspecting that their underestimation was intentional. If they say your country is one year from having deliverable nuclear capability, I’d bet it’s actually one month.

  “Considering what you’ve told me, I’d say Iran will be a nuclear power within days or weeks, if it is not already. And by nuclear power, understand something, Hamid: I mean being able to deliver and detonate a functional nuclear payload. We estimate they already have a nuclear device, probably more than one. We believe they can already detonate such a weapon—however crude—but we need to be absolutely certain it’s functional and deliverable before appropriate action can be taken. There can be no mistake.”

  Both men stood silently. The sky was darkening and night quickly approached. Singer gazed pensively at the large orange half-moon cresting over the horizon.

  “When can you see Chernin again?”

  “I must be careful, Ari. I cannot overplay my hand. You know how these things are. His driver is security. Chernin calls me every few days. He hates the food in the compound, so he comes to my place to drink my vodka, fill his stomach, and smoke my cigars. I cannot push.”

  Singer dropped the half-smoked cigarette to the ground and put it out with his foot. The look on his face was uncompromising. “Hamid, I have to ask you to do whatever you can to get him to come over to your place and give you more information, any information that would provide greater certainty as to what we’re dealing with, so appropriate action can be taken. We can’t afford to make mistakes—either of action or inaction.”

  “You understand that this will be risky,” Mansur said. “If I ask too many questions, if I appear too interested, he will stop talking. Worse, for me, my inquisitiveness might come to the attention of VEVAK.”

  “Hamid, I understand fully what I’m asking. I wouldn’t ask if I thought we had more time or another way. But if we don’t confirm what we’re dealing with, the consequences could be catastrophic. After the failure to find large weapons of mass destruction dumps in Iraq, no Western nation will move on Iran without verification of the project’s status. This restraint would allow Iran to complete the nuclear missile and strike Israel. Think about that. Do you think Israel, though devastated, wouldn’t launch everything it had at its enemies? Your country would cease to exist. Period. And who knows what other actions would be triggered? Once nukes start flying, there’s no way to predict where, or if, it will stop. It’s a risk you must take. And, although I don’t think it needs to be said, you will be compensated in proportion to the risk.”

  Hamid smiled sardonically. “Dead men have little use for money.” He quickly added, “Make no mistake, I will gladly accept your generosity. But I recognize what must be done, regardless of the fee. It is just that I am not eager to die while so young and handsome.”

  “Hamid, dear man, we’re no longer young. And you were never handsome.”

  Singer reached into his pocket, produced an envelope, and handed it to Mansur.

  “Thank you,” Mansur said without examining the contents. “I will meet you here in two days, but one hour earlier. If I am not here, it is because I am dead, or will be soon.” Both men knew the last comment was superfluous.

  Singer shook Mansur’s hand. It was not the handshake of a concluded business transaction. The two men stood for a moment and regarded each other before Hamid climbed onto his motor scooter and drove into the twilight.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  MOUNT VERNON, VIRGINIA

  JULY 15 • 1:45 P.M. EDT

  After the meeting with Day and Riley, Dwyer decided to go home. He had cleared his calendar for the day, anticipating that the heari
ng would take several hours. When he arrived, he went straight to his library, sat in his recliner, and wondered how Washington had come to be dominated by the Julian Days of the world.

  Dwyer was mildly surprised when the phone on the credenza next to him rang, for it rarely did so. Nearly everyone called his cell. He picked up the receiver and listened as a series of digits were recited before the line went dead.

  Dwyer rose to his feet and walked quickly out of the library, down the hall, and down two flights of stairs to the subbasement. At the bottom of the stairs was a long, wide hallway with a series of doors on both sides and one at the end. Dwyer walked to the end of the hallway, where he punched a four-digit code on the touch screen next to a thick metal door. There was an electronic chirp and then a heavy click as the door unlocked.

  As Dwyer entered, lights came on automatically and the door swung shut behind him. The room was the size of a large conference room. Arrayed along the walls was millions of dollars’ worth of some of the most advanced communications technology in existence. Dwyer had the ability to establish secure links with individuals anywhere in the world. A large video screen on the wall opposite the door provided videoconferencing capabilities. The walls of reinforced steel were thickly padded and acoustically designed to absorb any sounds emanating from the room. An electromagnetic curtain surrounding the room precluded any form of electronic eavesdropping.

  Dwyer settled into a deep-cushioned captain’s chair in the center of the room and waited impatiently. Nearly five minutes passed before a light flashed on the phone embedded in the right armrest of the chair. Dwyer picked up the phone and said, “I assume I don’t have to tell you that you are, once again, in an impressively deep pile of excrement.”

  “It’s good to talk to you, too,” Garin said.

  “Is there anyone in America who isn’t looking for you?” Dwyer asked.

  “I doubt it. But what do you hear?”

  “This morning I got a visit from an aide to James Brandt. Yes, that James Brandt. National Security Advisor James Brandt. She—the aide, world-class babe, by the way—tells me Brandt wants to know everything there is to know about one Michael Garin. They think you’re somehow connected to the crisis in the Middle East and something the Russians and Iranians might be cooking up. They know I recruited you to Annapolis. And they know I was one of your instructors at BUD/S.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “That I haven’t talked to you in months. Afterward, I sauntered over to make a special guest appearance at Senate Intelligence. But it’s canceled because an urgent complication has come up regarding our country’s counter-WMD capability. Instead of the privilege of testifying, I get to spend quality time with the lovely and talented Julian Day, who informs me that, in fact, you are the complication. Apparently, you’ve captured the attention of the entire intelligence establishment, and most anyone who matters in law enforcement.”

  “Tell me about it,” Garin said.

  “Oh, I’ll do just that. For what it’s worth, I’m told the FBI has figured out that you’re somehow involved in a matter of two corpses in the otherwise tranquil and bucolic suburb of Dale City,” Dwyer said. His tone went from jocular to serious. “This is as bad as it gets, Mikey. What can you tell me?”

  “That it’s even worse than you think. It’s not just law enforcement that’s after me. I have reason to believe Delta Force is involved, too.”

  “As bad as things are, Mike, I think you have a seriously inflated view of your importance. Delta can’t do domestic operations. You know that.”

  “I also know that someone has the capability to take out seven members of my team and make it look like I did it. They also seem to have the ability to track me anywhere I go. And they’ve sent two separate teams to kill me.”

  Dwyer focused on the last item. “So I suppose sometime soon someone’s going to tell me about a second set of corpses.” It was not a question.

  “Probably,” Garin replied. “I’m going to give you a description and you tell me your reaction: sniper, African American, dark complexion, about six feet four and 220 pounds. Shaved head. Goatee with kind of a pointed tip—”

  “Congo Knox,” Dwyer said before Garin could finish.

  “And now, genius, just who is he with?” Garin asked.

  “Delta.”

  “He was gunning for me this morning.”

  “If Congo Knox were gunning for you, I wouldn’t be talking to you right now. You’d be in a rubber bag.”

  “He didn’t see me,” Garin explained. There was silence on the other end. Garin knew Dwyer was considering the import of what he had just heard.

  Dwyer exhaled slowly. “Okay. What do you need?” A note of fatalism had crept into his voice.

  “First, for you to stay alive. Nearly everyone I’ve been in contact with the last forty-eight hours is dead. They—whoever ‘they’ are—are going to come after you. In fact, you were probably at the top of their kill list because of our history. But your palace guard has probably made things a little more difficult for them. Regardless, get even more security.”

  “Matt and Carl can handle anything that comes up,” Dwyer assured him.

  “No, they can’t. I remember Matt and Carl. Let’s see, Matt’s former Australian SAS. Carl’s former Recon Marine, right? Sharp, tough. But these guys who were after me, whoever they are, took out Gene Tanski right in front of my eyes. They got Camacho, Gates . . . everybody. Don’t take any chances. Double up. Don’t go anywhere without a detail.”

  “Are you saying Congo Knox will be after me, too?” There was a hint of concern in Dwyer’s voice.

  “I don’t think so. My guess is that whoever targets you will be Middle Eastern. Now that you’ve told me that the national security advisor is suspicious of the Russians and Iranians, I would guess they’re likely Iranian.”

  “Okay, I’ll increase security.”

  “Second, I need a place to stay in the metro area.”

  “You’re staying here? Not smart,” Dwyer said.

  “I’m not staying there. That is, I’m not there now. But I’m coming back. Look, they’ve found me wherever I go. It doesn’t matter where I am. Somehow they show up. So I may as well be where I can fight back.”

  Dwyer thought for a second and using the code for a DGT safe house said, “Alexandria Four. Do you need me or someone else to meet you there?”

  “No. Do I need a key or does it have electronic access?”

  “Key.”

  “Leave the key taped to the lid of one of the garbage cans in back. How’s the place stocked?”

  “The place is Metz on the Potomac. You could hold off the Third Army for weeks,” Dwyer replied. “Mike. Listen—”

  Garin cut him off. “Dan, I know exactly what I’m asking. I’m asking you to jump into the impressive pile of excrement with me. You’re aiding and abetting someone the FBI is looking for. Day and the rest of those sanctimonious clowns have already painted a target on your back. Putting you in this position isn’t something I’d do by choice.” Garin exhaled. “But it looks like I’ve really hit the trifecta here. I’ve got the FBI, foreign-looking bad guys, and Delta after me. At minimum. That means someone’s up to something very big and very bad.”

  “But that’s not what I’m concerned about,” Dwyer stressed. “Well, okay, it’s one of the things, but it’s not what I was about to get into. I was going to ask, is there anyone in a position of authority you can trust? Someone up the food chain who can help?”

  “No. I’m a grunt. I don’t have friends in high places. You know that. And even if I did, I don’t know who may be involved. But that brings me to my third point. What do you think of Brandt’s aide—what was her name?”

  “Olivia Perry.”

  “What do you think she really wanted from you?”

  “Just what she said. I think she’s s
incere. She and Brandt believe the Russians and Iranians are up to something. More specifically, they think Iran may be poised to use weapons of mass destruction—probably a nuke against Israel. Since you’re the counter-WMD guy and your entire team was assassinated—well, I guess they think it’s all related. For what it’s worth, she thinks you had nothing to do with your team getting wiped out.”

  “What do you think she would do if you told her that you’ve been in touch with me?” Garin asked.

  “You mean, do I think she would go to the FBI?”

  “Yes.”

  “I only met her for a brief time this morning. But if I had to guess, I’d say she’s indifferent about going to the FBI. She wouldn’t do it if she thought it would compromise her ability to get a handle on what the Russians and Iranians are doing,” Dwyer said. “Want my advice? Let me talk to her. You need all the help you can get, and even then it may not be enough. You need an ally who’s more plugged in than a broken-down former SEAL.”

  Garin thought precisely the same thing. There was, of course, significant risk to engaging anyone in a position of authority. But even if she did go to the FBI, she wouldn’t be able to tell them where he was, only that he’d been in contact with Dwyer.

  “I’m inclined to agree,” Garin said. “Not that I’m eager to get you in trouble, Dan, but having Brandt in my corner would be very helpful.”

  “The question is, do you have anything that could be useful to Brandt?”

  “I might,” Garin said. “But let’s not give them everything at once. Let’s proceed cautiously and see how they react.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Call her back. She wants to know about me? Tell her what you know.”

  “What should I say is the reason for my getting back in touch?”

  “That I called you. Hell, be up front. I told you to contact her, but I need help, and in return, I’m willing to provide as much information as I can.”

  “I’ll call right away. Anything else?”

  “No. Thanks. Anyway, I’ve got to get off. Too much time.”