“For now,” Vasiliev reminded him. “Should we urge some of our friends in the Western media to put pressure on Marshall, criticize his unnecessarily provocative Middle East policies, his confrontational posture toward us?”
Mikhailov picked up a glass from the highly polished mahogany table next to him and sipped the clear liquid slowly. It was not vodka, but water. Contrary to his CIA profile, Mikhailov almost never drank alcohol.
“It is not the American president who is on my mind right now,” Mikhailov said. “It is our friend from the American Senate. He has not been as useful as we had hoped, despite being compensated quite handsomely. More importantly, it appears he may now be a liability.”
Mikhailov placed the glass on the table and rose from the chair. Stifling a yawn, he turned toward Vasiliev. “Garin should not know about an EMP. That is unacceptable. It is too close. Only hours now. Much too close.”
“But Marshall did not confirm that he learned it from Garin,” Vasiliev countered.
“That is confirmation itself,” Mikhailov said. “Contact Bor immediately. Tell him to find out from Mr. Day how Garin knows about the EMP, and what else he may know. If I know Bor, he is already in the process of doing so.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes,” the Russian president said as he headed toward his living quarters. “Tell Bor that our association with Mr. Day is yielding diminishing returns and to exercise his best judgment accordingly.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
THE WHITE HOUSE
JULY 17 • 4:53 P.M. EDT
Iris Cho and Josh Plotkin left the Situation Room immediately after Marshall’s call to Mikhailov ended. Marshall asked Brandt to remain behind. The president, Brandt sensed, was endeavoring to project resolve and control.
“So, where are we, Jim?”
“It’s clear that the Russians are not going to hit us with an EMP, especially now that we’ve put them on notice,” Brandt assured him. “Understand, I don’t trust Mikhailov. The Russians are involved somehow. Unfortunately, that call provided no further clues as to the extent of their involvement.”
“I don’t trust him either. What did you make of his reference to Garin?”
“That’s just it. The Russian president should not be able to identify one of our operators by name. It’s pretty clear he knows something about an EMP, even if they’re not going to launch it.”
“What about that crack about Garin being Russian, still having relatives there?”
“You mean, do I think it was a subtle threat that he might somehow hold Garin’s relatives hostage?” Brandt asked, eyebrows raised. “No, I don’t think so. Too Soviet. Besides, what could he hope to gain from it?”
Marshall shook his head. “No, I mean, do you think he was sending some signal that Garin is actually one of theirs?”
“Sir, I don’t know Mike Garin, never met him, never even spoken to him. I suppose anything’s possible in this world. But”—Brandt paused, considering how to relate his knowledge about Garin to the president—“one of my assistants has spoken to him. Ms. Perry. She’s provided me with a debrief. Do you know the story about his grandfather’s escape from the NKVD?”
Marshall didn’t admit it, but he was fascinated by Garin and over the last few days had had DNI Antonetti provide regular updates during his morning briefings, one of which included information about Garin’s personal background.
Long under suspicion by Red Army political officers for having the temerity to engage in irreverent speculation about the party’s alleged infallibility, Lieutenant Nikolai Garin had been remanded to an NKVD detention facility in the Soviet occupation zone of Germany at the conclusion of World War II. He was held there pending transfer—if he was lucky—to a labor camp in the motherland. Stuffed for months in a dank, suffocating cell of stone and mortar with scores of similarly suspect soldiers, barely enough room to take more than two steps, he waited his turn with the dreaded sledovatels. The cell reeked of urine, gangrene, and fear, the prisoners’ ears assaulted day and night with the cries of those being tortured in the “Yama,” an unseen chamber somewhere down the passageway nearby. Listening to the screams and imagining the cause of a specific inflection or tone was sometimes worse than the physical agony each would eventually endure.
Nikolai was among the more fortunate, for many of his cellmates returned from the Yaama missing appendages or disfigured by hideous burns and lacerations. When it was his turn to be escorted down the corridor, Nikolai succeeded in disabling the guard with a single, powerful blow to the bridge of his nose and escaped out a lavatory window. After crawling under barbed wire and evading sentries, dogs, and searchlights, he navigated through the frigid countryside in a general westerly direction. For nearly a week he had not a scrap of food other than pieces of frozen bread found in a garbage dump outside of a small Bavarian village. Nikolai’s feet, several toes frostbitten and the others split and bleeding, had carried him—running, walking, staggering—more than a hundred miles to the American sector. To safety, and, more important, to freedom.
Brandt said, “Then you know that it would be next to impossible to turn a man like Garin. Yuri was right to call him ‘implacable.’ Seething might be more accurate. Men like Garin are Yuri’s worst nightmare.”
“I know. Refugees from the former Eastern Bloc countries, Cuba, Vietnamese émigrés, are some of my strongest supporters . . .” Marshall’s words trailed off for a moment. “Frankly, Jim, I have to say I’ve had a hard time believing for an instant that Garin’s running around killing members of his own team.” Marshall sported a trace of a smile for the first time all day. “Now, if you told me he went rogue and started massacring FSB or SVR agents, I might believe you.”
Brandt seized the opening to press Garin’s case. “Sir, Garin tells my assistant that he’s been set up.” A quizzical expression came over Brandt’s face. “I can’t believe I said that, ‘set up.’ I sound like a character in a bad mob movie. But even if he hadn’t said so himself, it’s pretty obvious. Men identified as Iranian Quds Force showing up dead in New York, Virginia—that just doesn’t happen every day.”
Marshall nodded tentatively.
“Garin’s still alive because he’s lucky and he’s good,” Brandt continued. “In addition to Quds Force, he’s been targeted by a Delta sniper.”
Marshall stopped nodding. “He told your assistant that?”
“He did.”
“Then he’s mistaken or delusional. Jim, you know that’s not possible.”
“Maybe so, but he insists it’s the case. And what about the FBI? Why are they still pursuing him? Aren’t they supposed to be the best in the world at investigating cases? Masters of deduction? By this time they must’ve concluded that if Garin killed anyone, it was the Iranians, and in self-defense. Isn’t it more logical that Garin killed Iranians as opposed to his own men?”
“The CIA came to that conclusion pretty quickly. But the FBI’s getting a lot of pressure from Senator McCoy’s staff. I’m told one of his staffers keeps asking for updates to the point of being obnoxious. But I think they’re also drawing the same conclusion.”
“A word from you, obviously, would help Garin, sir. Not interference with the investigation, just relating to them what you’ve heard.”
“I’ll have Iris make a call.”
“And Fort Bragg, too?”
“Jim, there’s no chance of Delta involvement. I’d know about it. Heck, I would’ve had to green-light it.” Marshall mulled it over a second. “They’re going to think we’re smoking something. But I’ll have Iris call General O’Brien.” Marshall looked sideways at Brandt. “We finished with Garin?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“Then, my friend, what am I supposed to make of all this? The Russians aren’t going to strike us, so is this a big wild-goose chase?”
Brandt’s friendship with Marshall
was strong enough that he felt less discomfort than other aides might at admitting he was somewhat baffled. Even if the Russians weren’t the actors, there was too much going on to dismiss the EMP threat.
“It wouldn’t be the first time. Lawrence seems to think so,” Brandt replied.
“Lawrence was all over the map in the Situation Room. He’s a human weather vane. But I’m sure he truly believes the Russians would never strike the US with an EMP.” Marshall leaned back in his chair. “Beyond the possibility of retaliation, the consequences to the world economy, including their own, would be catastrophic.”
“It most assuredly would cause an earthquake to the world economy,” Brandt agreed. “But, sir, have you considered the very real prospect that Russian strategy is to profit—both geopolitically and economically—from the quake?”
Marshall’s face registered a mixture of befuddlement and curiosity. “How in hell could they do that?”
“Do you remember the previous administration’s summit with Mikhailov in Germany two years ago?
“The Mainz Accords.”
“Right. Clarke tried to score political points in advance of the election by engaging Russia. The theme was that after the Syrian chemical weapons affair, Russia was no longer an adversary; it was a partner.”
Marshall snorted derisively.
“The Mainz Accords,” Brandt continued, “were the capstone of Clarke’s engagement effort. A series of trade agreements representing by far the largest commercial transaction between the two nations in history. It would revive both our economies and permanently reset our relationship for the positive.”
“Lots of words on a piece of paper. But it went nowhere. The Russians produced a ton of product, but nothing that we wanted or needed.”
“So we think.”
Marshall’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve lost me. Where are you going with this, Jim?”
“As soon as the ink dried on the Mainz Accords, Russian factories started spitting out mountains of equipment: generators, switches, circuit breakers. Ms. Perry tells me they’re just sitting there in these immense warehouses. You’re right. We didn’t need them. Nobody’s buying them. And the Russians aren’t even trying to move them.”
“It takes a while to get the hang of capitalism,” Marshall said.
“They also built lots of cargo vessels, cargo containers, trucks, and the like. Presumably to transport product they seem to be in no hurry to sell, let alone ship, anywhere.”
A flicker of understanding played on Marshall’s face. “If it weren’t for the Mainz Accords, we would’ve been awfully curious about why the Russians were producing so much stuff that apparently was going nowhere. Instead, we chalk it up to market ineptitude, a modern Russian version of the Soviet-era five-year plans. So we don’t suspect something’s afoot.”
“Think about what the product might be good for. It’s unremarkable, standard-grade material. But if an EMP were to go off and the power goes out . . .”
“It becomes the most indispensible standard-grade material on the planet,” Marshall finished. “The Russians will step into the breach and save our ass.”
“Food and essentials won’t spoil or rot, because they’ll be transported to distant American populations by our benevolent Russian friends in their trucks and cargo containers. Fried cars, planes, factories, offices won’t be rendered idle, at least not for long. Russian-supplied parts and generators unaffected by the EMP will get them restarted. Heck, they’ll restart all of our essentials, from hospitals to factories to power plants.”
Marshall exhaled audibly. “And a desperate US will pay virtually any price and obey virtually any command to get restarted.” Marshall’s words came slowly and softly. “They’ll set the terms, Jim. They’ll have rescued us from utter destruction, mass starvation, and we, in turn, will effectively become a vassal state.”
Brandt forced a chuckle. “A wee melodramatic there, Mr. President.”
“Maybe so. But I see your point, Jim. This may not be so far-fetched after all. They’d be softening the global economic impact of the strike.”
“Again, it’s just conjecture, sir.”
“That would make me feel better, Jim, if your conjectures didn’t so often come true.”
“It was actually my aide, Ms. Perry, who came up with this. Connecting a million disparate dots. Again, this truly is guesswork, a shot in the dark. It’s conceivable that we’re being fed that EMP intel as a diversion. The Russians are particularly good at getting people to chase down multiple rabbit holes.
“But I do think we should call Prime Minister Chafetz with our EMP intel. I still believe it’s wise not to editorialize—not to state, for example, that they’re definitely the target, or that Iran is the actor. It would be helpful to tell him that Mikhailov assures us Russia’s not going to hit us. Chafetz knows Iran can’t hit us, so he’ll conclude on his own that Iran plans to hit Israel.”
“But we won’t be the ones who say it,” Marshall affirmed.
“Right. If they decide to hit Iran, it’s their decision. If their conclusion is wrong, it’s not our fault. But if they hit Iran and prevent a strike on Tel Aviv, well . . . then we will have provided the critical intel that saves Israeli lives.”
“Jim, I’m inclined to offer to have the Fifth Fleet on standby to provide any support he may need. Too provocative toward the Iranians?”
“On the contrary, it may not go far enough.”
CHAPTER SIXTY
NORTHERN VIRGINIA
JULY 17 • 5:32 P.M. EDT
Garin was proceeding north on I-95 toward Washington after disconnecting with Olivia, but the rush-hour traffic was at its usual crawl. He placed a call to information using the SUV’s hands-free feature and requested the general number for the Hart Senate Office Building. Within moments, he was connected and an operator cheerfully answered, “Hart Senate Office Building. How may I direct your call?”
“Julian Day.”
“One moment, please.”
A few seconds later: “Office of Chief Counsel.”
“May I speak with Mr. Day, please?” Garin asked.
“I’m sorry. Mr. Day has left for the day. Can I take a message or send you to his voice mail?”
“No, thank you. Do you know if I can reach Mr. Day at home?”
“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t provide you with that information.”
“I understand,” Garin said. “This is Dan Dwyer.”
“Yes, Mr. Dwyer. How are you?”
“Fine, thank you. Mr. Day asked me to get in touch with him immediately if I heard from a man by the name of Mike Garin.”
“Okay.”
“Well, I was just in contact with him regarding a matter of some urgency. I need to contact Mr. Day at once.”
“Of course, Mr. Dwyer. I’m sure Mr. Day will want to speak with you right away. He’s at home. I can connect you to his cell or home number.
“Mr. Dwyer?”
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
NORTHERN VIRGINIA
JULY 17 • 5:45 P.M. EDT
Garin drove down a quiet, tree-lined street sporting modest but elegant houses occupied by some of the junior to midlevel consultants, lawyers, and lobbyists who made their livings, directly and indirectly, from the US Treasury. Julian Day’s home was two blocks down on the left.
Garin had spent an exasperating couple of hours on I-95, the traffic at a near standstill due to a single vehicle disabled by an overheated radiator. Maybe he should’ve found some way to use one of DGT’s helicopters after all. While he waited for the traffic to lighten, he had plenty of time to think about how he would approach Day, but he actually didn’t need it. He knew there was no time for subtlety.
He came to Day’s house, a two-story redbrick affair with a small detached garage in the rear. His neighbors’ houses were at least fifty to sixty feet away on e
ither side. Close, but not so close that anyone could overhear a normal conversation or moderate level of noise.
Garin drove past the house and continued for two blocks before making a left turn to circle the block and make another pass. He saw nothing to suggest Day’s house was being watched by anyone else or that he was the subject of any other form of surveillance.
After rounding the block, Garin again drove by Day’s residence and parked beyond the sight line of Day’s home. Turning off the ignition, he remained in the vehicle for another minute or so, checking the rear- and side-view mirrors.
Garin took the SIG from the center console and stuck it in the holster at the small of his back, covering it with his gray T-shirt. He put on a black ball cap, adjusted his Oakleys, and stepped out of the SUV, walking casually toward Day’s house. He knew that if Day were looking out his window, it would take him only a second or two to recognize Garin, but he didn’t have the luxury of even a light reconnaissance.
Though it was early evening, the heat of the day had yet to dissipate. The doors and windows in all the houses were tightly shut, a discernible whirring noise indicating that air conditioners were doing their best to combat the swelter. Thankfully, this ensured that the homes’ occupants were unlikely to hear a wooden door being forced open.
As Garin approached Day’s house, he turned into the driveway and walked swiftly toward the rear, removing his pistol after he had disappeared from street view behind the house. Day’s red Volvo sat in front of the garage. Fortunately, there was a rear door that didn’t look very secure. In one fluid motion, Garin climbed the back steps, opened the screen door, and directed a powerful kick toward the lock. The door yielded easily, with less noise than Garin had expected, and moments later Garin, weapon at the low-ready, was sweeping silently through a hallway, then the kitchen, half bath, office, and living room. No sign of Day.
Garin paused at the bottom of the staircase that led to the second floor, listening for any sounds. Hearing none, he took the stairs two steps at a time and swept three bedrooms, a bath, and a small sunroom. Still no Day.
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