“Me? I’ll probably end up with PTSD, but the last twenty-four hours have been the most amazing in my life. It feels like I’m in a movie. The near-death experience, then a getaway, then a private jet, this mansion, meeting Ms. Perry. Not to mention Mr. Sunshine over there,” Luci said, pointing at Congo Knox.
Olivia’s reaction to Luci wasn’t lost on Dwyer, observing the scene from just inside the doors. Olivia, he thought, was scrutinizing Luci with the same intensity she likely devoted to classified intelligence assessments. Dwyer cleared his throat.
“Congo, Matt…”
“It’s okay, Dan,” Luci interjected. “I’ll leave you guys to talk. I just thought I heard Mike’s voice and ran in to check.” She turned to Knox and hooked her arm in his. “Come on, let’s finish the movie.”
Dwyer waited for Knox and Luci to leave. He gestured to the couches and chairs. “Have a seat, everybody.”
Garin got directly to the point. “Olivia, without compromising any confidences, is Brandt going to act on Bor?”
“That would be impossible to answer without disclosing confidences, Michael.”
“What can you tell us, then?”
“That for now, you’re on your own.”
Garin stared in frustration. As far as he was concerned, the mere mention of Bor’s name should prompt some kind of response.
“When did you last speak to him?”
“At approximately three thirty.”
“There have been some developments since then that might change his perspective,” Garin said. “Earlier, I flew from Dallas to Cleveland. No real reason to go to Cleveland other than it’s my hometown—I wanted to leave a trail of bread crumbs to flush out Bor’s men to get information from them. I succeeded, in part.
“In the airport parking lot two shooters almost took me out.” Garin leaned forward in his chair. “Please understand, Olivia, these men were extremely skilled—the way they moved, their reactions.” Garin turned to Dwyer. “Dan, you’re probably right. I think they were Zaslon Unit.”
“What’s Zaslon Unit?” Olivia asked.
“A hyperelite unit of Spetsnaz operators,” Dwyer answered. “At least that’s how our media would describe them. To my knowledge, there’s never been confirmation by our intelligence services that Zaslon exists, but in my estimation, enough evidence points in that direction. There was evidence of them in Iraq. Now in Crimea, Ukraine, Syria. Russian black operations have always made ours look tame in comparison, but even for the Russians, Zaslon takes it to another level. Present company excepted, they’re the baddest of badasses.”
“Then how did two of them fail?” Olivia asked.
“They missed. I didn’t. Simple as that,” Garin replied. “It was sheer luck, Olivia. I should be dead.”
Olivia fought to suppress a shudder. She’d known Michael Garin for barely a month, and in almost every encounter death and violence followed him as closely as Dwyer’s dogs followed him. Even if the men who attempted to kill Garin were not from some elite unit, the effort to kill him, she thought, was uncomfortably similar to the prelude to the EMP operation. It was implausible that the rapidly accumulating events of the last twenty-four hours were mere coincidence. “You don’t need to convince me, Michael.”
“Olivia,” Garin said, “Bor is going to do something seriously bad. You know that from previous experience. And he doesn’t do small stuff. I’m an operator without a home right now. I have no authority to go after him. Hell, the airport incident might have the FBI looking for me again at this very moment. I need authority and I need resources—the resources only our military and intelligence can provide. I need them right now. Brandt could facilitate green-lighting them.”
“Even if James Brandt agreed, where would you get the manpower?”
“Reconstitute Omega,” Garin said emphatically.
“I’m sorry, but that won’t happen, Michael. Just yesterday, Senator McCoy made it plain that Omega will never be resurrected as long as he’s chair of Senate Intelligence.”
“What an idiot,” Dwyer said. “Didn’t that airhead learn anything from the near miss with the EMP? His freakin’ counsel was the one providing intel to the Russians, for God’s sake.”
“And that’s why he doesn’t want to reconstitute Omega. Doing so would highlight just that. It would be not only embarrassing, but politically catastrophic for him,” Olivia said.
“What about the best interests of the country? Doesn’t anyone put country above self-interest anymore?” Dwyer practically shouted.
“Dan, with all due respect, where have you been lately?” Olivia asked.
Garin rubbed the stubble on his face pensively. “If we can’t reconstitute an Omega team, can we commission and finance the functional equivalent?”
“What are you saying, Michael?”
“I’m saying that Omega need not be part of the US military or intelligence apparatus. Instead, the functional equivalent of the Omega team could be financed under the CIA’s Title 50 authority. And it could operate as a contractor under JSOC direction.”
“I don’t want to be party to a plan to deceive Congress,” Olivia said.
“We’re not deceiving Congress,” Garin explained. “We’re accommodating them. At least one of them. If McCoy doesn’t want to reconstitute Omega—if he doesn’t want direct oversight responsibility for Omega—then let’s give him what he wants.”
“But if Omega is not part of DOD or the CIA or any other governmental entity, where do you get the personnel?”
“Omega was comprised of a select group of tier-one operators trained by Clint Laws,” Garin responded, turning to Dwyer. “This man happens to employ a number of former tier-one operators—people like Congo Knox, for example. Even Matt over there, if you consider the sorry slugs from Australian SAS tier-one.”
“Watch it, mate,” Matt warned amiably.
“I’m not sure that will fly, Michael,” Olivia said.
“What about me?” Dwyer protested. “Don’t I get a say?”
“Run it by Brandt, Olivia. He’ll see the merits of this given what we’re up against. We need to get a team of the best together—immediately—to counter Bor.” Garin pointed at Dwyer. “And you will be well compensated for providing a crucial service to the country. Win-win. But it has to happen now. We’ve got to be given authority and resources to go after Bor.”
“Can do,” Dwyer said.
“I can’t speak for James Brandt, but I’m willing to bring it to him,” Olivia said.
“Good.” Garin fished in one of the side compartments of his gym bag, pulled out a cell phone, and tossed it to Dwyer. “I got that off one of the guys we presume were Zaslon. It’s fully intact but no doubt heavily encrypted. No redial or recents. Can you have your tech guys pull all the information they can from it? If the guy was in communication with Bor, and if we’re lucky, we might be able to track Bor’s location.”
Dwyer extended the phone to Colton. “Matt?”
“On it.”
Dwyer looked back to Garin. “What else?”
Garin turned to Olivia. “Please call Brandt and see if he’s on board.” To Dwyer, he said, “Pick several of your best men who can be ready to go once Brandt gives us the green light.
“As for me, just in case the tech guys can’t get anything from the phone, I’m going to drop some more bread crumbs.”
CHAPTER 36
WASHINGTON, D.C.,
AUGUST 15, 9:38 P.M. EDT
Bor spotted Levan Bulkvadze sitting alone at a far corner table of the Edgar, the restaurant-bar at the Mayflower Hotel.
Spotting Bulkvadze was a task only slightly more difficult than spotting an elephant in a phone booth. At six foot seven, he weighed well over three hundred pounds and was built like a power lifter. The thick black beard that covered much of his face matched the color of eyes that projected constant hostility. As he sat among the politicians, congressional staffers, and lobbyists who frequented the establishment, his overall appearance suggested a reversion in the evolutionary spectrum. Yet his frame was draped in an impeccably tailored twenty-five-hundred-dollar suit that somehow rendered him not merely civilized, but cultured.