The national security advisor listened intently, his sightless blue eyes directed toward Olivia’s face. Arlo lay on the floor throughout, making groaning noises, as if bored.
When Olivia was finished, Brandt sat pensively for several seconds, mental wheels in motion. When he spoke, it was in a sedate, almost grave tone.
“Well, I’ve learned one very important thing beyond all doubt.”
“What’s that, Professor?”
“That Ms. Olivia Perry—the woman who, despite her intimidating intellect and looks, was by far the shyest woman on campus—has a crush on the rough-and-tough Mr. Michael Garin, gentleman, scholar, and American action hero.” Brandt paused dramatically. “Finally.”
Brandt burst into laughter, causing Arlo to sit up alertly and place a paw on his master’s lap. Although he couldn’t see it, Brandt correctly sensed Olivia’s discomfort, causing him to laugh harder and, in turn, Arlo to bark excitedly. Brandt’s secretary appeared at the door to investigate the commotion. A flustered Olivia waved her away.
“I’m sorry,” Brandt said as he gasped for air. “It’s just that your tone was so earnest. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you so impassioned, Ms. Perry.”
“I’m simply reporting what I believe to be the relevant facts.” The indignation in Olivia’s voice was unmistakable.
“All right, okay,” Brandt said, catching his breath. “Just having a little fun at my protégé’s expense. In truth, what you’ve told me may be useful.”
Olivia watched as Brandt’s demeanor quickly became more serious. She’d seen the transformation many times before. Brandt, having processed disparate bits of data, was about to make an analytical leap, arriving at a destination others would find only in hindsight.
“I gather you don’t think my conclusions are sound.”
“No, no,” Brandt assured her. “They are. I think that Mr. Garin is being set up by the Iranians to cover, or distract from, their intended use of WMD. Also, I do think that we may be looking at an attempt to obliterate Israel during the conflict. I doubt, however, that the Iranians have the assets or capability to pull off the elimination of Garin’s entire unit on American soil. Too sophisticated. The Russians might be a different story. Given their cooperation with the Iranians on the UN resolution, we have to assume the Russians are, indeed, involved. But to what end? What do they hope to gain from the Iranians’ strike against Israel? What’s their next move? And how do we stop it?”
“In the long term, perhaps very long term, Russia would benefit from chaos in the Middle East. Oil and gas prices rise, benefiting the Russian treasury and consolidating its power over not just the former Soviet republics, but Eastern Europe and anyone else dependent on Russia for energy,” Olivia said. As soon as she did, she noticed the buzzing was back. Warehouses, fuel depots, oil tankers.
“That’s correct,” Brandt said as if he were responding to a student in class. Olivia sensed that Brandt’s mind was on something more. Two chess moves ahead.
“Professor, we need to talk to Garin.”
“Obviously, yes. The president needs to be advised on the next move once the UN resolution passes. And it most certainly will. We’re making critical policy in a dangerous informational vacuum. The secretary of state says one thing, Defense tells him another. And I prefer that his options aren’t reduced to only military ones. But for that we need information. Something we can confront the Russians with and deter them. Mr. Garin may be able to supply that intel, whether he knows it or not. I’m afraid, however, that things are moving rather quickly, Olivia. So please impress upon Mr. Dwyer the urgency of our request. We don’t have much time. The Congress and leadership are saying ten things at once. We must give the president clear, concrete counsel. We have little, if any, room for error.”
—
In her mind, Olivia kept turning over images of Soviet-era industrial equipment sitting unused in various locations throughout Russia. Unused and, by all indications, not even being moved to market. At a time when the Russian economy needed a large infusion of revenue.
This, Olivia thought, was economic idiocy reminiscent of the old five-year plans. Worse, given today’s just-in-time market dynamics.
Olivia rose from behind the desk in her tiny office in the Old Executive Office Building and went for a contemplative stroll, the staccato click of her heels echoing through the long corridors of the massive edifice. She worked out problems better while walking.
Russian president Mikhailov and the oligarchs were getting quite good at capitalism—especially the more rapacious strain. They were too shrewd to devote precious resources and industrial capacity during an economic downturn to producing commodities no one bought. Olivia shared her boss’s suspicion of all things Kremlin. When in doubt, presume they’re up to no good.
She stopped in midstride. She should’ve been working on matters related to the UN resolution, but it struck her that the idle Russian equipment might have some indefinable bearing on what was going on in the Middle East. And in order to make that determination, she needed more information. She knew just where to get it.
Olivia returned to her office and called her friend Laura Casini, a former Stanford classmate, now an analyst at the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency. Laura picked up on the first ring.
“Casini.”
“Need another favor, Laura.”
“I am not double-dating with you again just so you’ll have another first-date buffer.”
Olivia laughed. “C’mon, you had fun and you know it. Did what’s-his-name call you back?”
“I’m pretty sure mastering the complexities of telephone technology presents an insuperable challenge to what’s-his-name.”
“Laura, you and I both know you’re way past the point where brains are a prerequisite. Just about any testosterone-based life-form should do.”
“You should talk. The only time you ever see men without their pants on is at the gym. And I bet your legs have better muscle tone than theirs. Anyway, what do you need?” Casini asked.
“Satellite images for the last six months of the industrial sectors of Murmansk, Vladivostok, Arkhangelsk, and the Volga from the Caspian to thirty miles upriver, to start.”
“To start? That’s an indigestible amount of data, Olivia. Not to mention a very big ask.”
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t a matter of national security.”
“Yeah, well, you need a new line. You’ve only been in office a few months and it’s already old.”
“Can you send it to me at OEOB?”
“Nope. You’re going to have to come here. Besides, if you want the kind of resolution needed to make sense of the images, you really need our equipment.”
“I’m e-mailing the coordinates as we speak. I don’t need all six months. Just pull, say, January 14, April 14, and July 14.”
“Okay,” Casini replied.
“When can I see them?”
“When can you get here?”
“I’ll be there within the hour.”
—
Olivia stood behind Laura Casini as she typed on a keyboard. A grainy image of what appeared to be some kind of industrial plant situated on a riverbank materialized on the seventy-two-inch monitor before them.
“I have no idea what that’s supposed to be,” Olivia said.
“Neither do I,” Casini agreed. “But watch this.”
Casini played with several more keys and manipulated the mouse, and the screen projected a vivid image of an industrial park on the northeast outskirts of Murmansk, Russia.
“Holy cow,” Olivia said.
“Only nerdy Midwestern girls say ‘holy cow,’” Casini said as she resumed typing.
“Guilty.”
“If you think that’s impressive, watch this.”
Casini moved the mouse and clicked an icon in the upper
left quadrant of the screen. The resolution became even clearer, as if Olivia were standing on the roof of one of the warehouses in the photo. She could see the watermarks on the tar paper covering the roof of the warehouses to the left and the blades of the exhaust fans on the roof of the factory to the right. But Casini wasn’t finished.
“You didn’t hear it from me, but these images are courtesy of the next-generation KeyHole spy satellites that the administration says we never built. The KH-13. As you can see, unparalleled resolution. Now watch this.”
Casini clicked another icon, magnifying the shot so that Olivia could see startlingly clear images of the cigarette butts strewn about the warehouse roof.
“New magnification software,” Casini informed her, smiling. “Radical stuff.”
“What do you make of those?” Olivia asked, pointing to rows of objects in the yard next to the warehouse.
“Standby or backup generators. Commercial grade. Three-phase, probably thirty kilowatts.”
“I count rows of ten by twenty on the ground pallets and an equal number on the flatbed truck pallets. Four hundred generators. Is this the January 14 shot?”
“It is,” Casini replied.
“Go to April 14, please, Laura.”
Another photo of the warehouse appeared.
“Okay. There are a lot more flatbeds than before and . . .” Olivia paused to count. “Rows of twenty by twenty. I’d say there are twice as many generators than in January. Can we go forward to a couple days ago?”
A few seconds later, an image showed rows of generators filling the entire yard, with a caravan of flatbeds streaming down the adjacent road.
“Looks like production—and shipment—has increased dramatically over the last six months,” Olivia said. “Now, can you show me the industrial sector of Vladivostok, same time progression?”
Seconds later, the screen displayed a view of a mammoth industrial park. Casini dialed down to a series of structures flanking a rail yard, then applied the magnification software.
“Heavy electrical cable. Spools and spools of it,” Olivia whispered to herself as she inspected the image. “Go to April, then July.”
Casini did so. There was more cable in April than in January, and still more in July, Towmotors loading them onto a nearby freight train.
“Now Arkhangelsk, please.”
Seconds later, a January shot of an industrial area located near the port city appeared. Casini scanned for data points similar to the images of Murmansk and Vladivostok and then magnified and sharpened the resolution.
“Don’t know what that is, but it looks like some kind of electrical equipment,” Olivia said. “April, please.”
April appeared on the screen. “More of whatever it is,” she said. “July, please.”
July came on the screen. “Tons of it, now on forklifts being loaded onto trucks.”
“Have any idea what this means?” Casini asked.
Olivia shook her head. The buzzing was getting louder. “Not yet,” she replied, only half-truthfully. “But it can’t be good.”
CHAPTER FORTY
WASHINGTON, D.C.
JULY 16 • NOON EDT
Rapidly moving lead-gray clouds hung low to the west as Garin navigated around Dupont Circle, careful to remain several cars behind a white Chevy Blazer proceeding north on Connecticut.
By the time the FBI had abandoned its search of the Crowne Plaza, the man resembling Gates had disappeared from his post behind the Fourteenth Street barricades. Fortunately, Garin had spotted Gates getting into the passenger side of a white Chevy Blazer parked along the curb on Fourteenth Street. The barricades had impeded traffic for several blocks around the hotel, allowing Garin to retrieve his own car and keep the white Blazer in his sights as it drove north onto Connecticut.
Despite being only a few car lengths behind the Blazer, Garin was unable to tell how many occupants were inside because of the SUV’s darkened windows.
Just as the traffic began to disperse along the spokes of Dupont Circle, the winds picked up and the clouds exploded, releasing waves of hard-driving rain. Though the traffic had lightened considerably, it slowed once again as the rain reduced visibility to barely two dozen feet. Garin could just make out the outlines of the Blazer as he leaned over the steering wheel and peered through the windshield.
The traffic continued to disperse as drivers sought refuge in side streets and parking lots adjacent to Connecticut. Within five minutes Garin found himself directly behind the SUV. He quickly resigned himself to the fact that there was nothing he could do but continue to tail the vehicle or lose it. He hoped that the heavy curtains of rain would provide cover, but Garin’s hopes evaporated seconds later as the Blazer’s rear tires spun wildly and it began to fishtail as its driver floored the accelerator. It shot forward and separated from Garin’s car, disappearing into the rainstorm. Garin also sped up, and within a few seconds he reacquired his target, now slightly more than a block ahead of him.
The two vehicles raced along the nearly deserted street at speeds approaching seventy miles per hour. Garin realized he had no plan. He’d hoped to at least follow the Blazer undetected until it reached its destination and then improvise, depending on the circumstances. If he could apprehend Gates, he’d try to do so. If not, he’d observe and acquire whatever intelligence he could.
Now, however, he was in a damn high-speed car chase. The element of surprise was gone. He wasn’t going to be able to gather intel without the subject’s knowledge, and the number of potential outcomes had just multiplied.
Ahead, the Blazer swerved to the left around a slower vehicle. Garin did the same, holding his breath as he felt his car hydroplane momentarily until he eased off the accelerator and regained traction. No sooner had he done so than he saw the Blazer jolt upward as it ran over a large tree branch deposited in the street by powerful gusts of wind. Garin instantly recognized that his vehicle lacked the clearance to duplicate the Blazer’s action. Instead, he drove around the branch, struggling to maintain control as his left rear tire caromed against the curb on the lane divider. He slowed and swung back onto the northbound lane, losing visual contact with the Blazer in the process.
Again, Garin accelerated, the muscles in his upper body taut from almost losing control of the vehicle. A few seconds later, he could make out the rear of the Blazer as it approached Chevy Chase Circle. He was gaining on the vehicle when it swerved around another slower vehicle, Garin pursuing closely behind. As the two vehicles swung around the circle back into the northbound lane of Connecticut, the Blazer’s taillights flashed. Garin stomped his brake pedal to avoid rear-ending the SUV, causing the back of his car to spin to the left until it was nearly perpendicular to the curb. Garin turned into the skid, righted the vehicle, and avoided slamming into a westbound taxi, horn blaring, as it crossed the intersection.
The chase was barely three minutes old, but the tension of the near collisions made it seem far longer. Garin guessed that the Blazer’s occupants were heading for I-495, but he had no idea what their plan was from there.
Garin caught a break less than a quarter mile later when the Blazer swerved to avoid a Volvo that had come to a complete stop in the northbound lane, its driver deciding it was safer to flash the emergency lights and wait out the storm than to navigate blindly down the narrow street. The Blazer skated across the center line, then across the southbound lane, and catapulted over the curb onto a grassy expanse between two light-colored brick houses. Garin braked as he watched the SUV pitch to its left and tip onto its driver’s side as it landed in the vacant lot, its wheels still spinning furiously.
Garin came to a stop on Connecticut, approximately fifty yards beyond where the Blazer had come to rest. A few seconds later, the passenger-side door opened upward, and one of the occupants struggled to climb out. Garin could barely see through sheets of rain as he sprang from the car and was met b
y a volley of gunshots that were wildly off target.
The Volvo, a block back, did a U-turn and sped off.
Garin scrambled to the passenger side of the car and knelt next to the right front wheel well. Peering over the hood, he saw one of the Blazer’s occupants jump to the ground as a second occupant climbed out of the same passenger-side door. Garin drew his SIG from his waistband and cursed as he realized his extra magazines were in the gym bag in the trunk. With visibility severely reduced in the blinding rainstorm, he’d have to make his shots count.
The din from the rain, wind, and thunder nearly drowned out the next round of gunshots coming from the direction of the SUV. The shots came nowhere near Garin, who saw the figures of two men, neither resembling Gates, in front of the SUV, pistols aimed in his direction. Garin fired two rounds in return, designed merely to pin them down and prevent them from making a run for it. To Garin’s surprise, one of the men collapsed to the ground, a round having struck him in the right kneecap. Even under the best of conditions, Garin couldn’t have replicated that shot.
Both men returned fire, this time several rounds striking the Fusion. Garin waited a beat before popping just above the hood of his vehicle and squeezing off two more rounds, at least one of which appeared to strike the wounded man in the chest, dropping him face-first into the wet ground. The other man took cover behind the Blazer, firing a shot in the Fusion’s direction as he moved.
Garin had two concerns. The first was making sure the man behind the Blazer didn’t escape. Garin couldn’t see him and was afraid that he might use the Blazer to conceal a retreat into the wooded area directly behind him.
The second concern was the police. Although the violent storm had obscured the car chase and gunfight, at some point cops were going to show up. Perhaps in a matter of minutes. The driver of the Volvo was probably calling 911 at that very moment. One way or another, Garin had to bring this to a conclusion fast. That was unlikely to happen as long as he remained behind the Fusion and the other man had the protection of the Blazer.
Target Omega Page 20