Random bits of information were gleaned and analyzed. Pins were placed on points on a map. The team discussed the various scenarios and probabilities among themselves.
And they had come to the same conclusion as Ruth Ponder, although nearly an hour later. The scary man in the video taken by cameras stationed on the fuel islands of the truck stop was likely the perpetrator of the massacre in northern Georgia. But by virtue of their boss’s previous experience with the likely perpetrator, the team had something Ruth did not: a name. Taras Bor.
The DGT team also had powerful computers and a platoon of extremely skilled experts to operate them and analyze their output. Even before the FBI got its hands on the video, it had been streamed to DGT’s cybersecurity division just outside Quantico, Virginia, where it had been blown up and enhanced, its resolution sharpened. Hundreds of media reports were collated, sifted, and entered into various programs for analysis, including a report of a peculiar farmhouse explosion in rural western South Carolina and a report of shots fired near the North Carolina border.
For the most part, the adage “garbage in, garbage out” prevailed. But with the help of innovative computer programs and decades of investigative experience, the DGT team came to a conclusion similar to Ruth’s: Taras Bor was headed to Washington, D.C. More ominous, their analysis showed that Bor had already arrived in the District.
As soon as the team arrived at their preliminary conclusions, the lead analyst called Dwyer, who transferred the call to the secure communications room. Dwyer sat in the captain’s chair and put the call on speaker.
“What do you have?”
“Sir, it appears Taras Bor may be in Washington, D.C., right now.”
“Crap.”
“We have a very poor-quality video from a truck stop near Albemarle. We enhanced it, ran it through facial recognition, but the results are inconclusive. Could be Bor; might not be. But considering all of the ancillary facts—especially the style of execution—our operating premise is that it’s Bor.”
“What’s the probability on facial recognition?”
“Between fifty-five and sixty percent. Usually we don’t score it as a hit unless we get eighty percent or more.”
“Can you pull the image up right now?” Dwyer asked.
“I’m looking at a magnification of a still on the big screen as we speak, sir.”
“Can you see a J-shaped scar along the right jawline ending at the earlobe?”
“Not really, sir. The most we can see is a light shadow. Beyond a certain point, enhancement gets counterproductive. It just dissolves into spots and splotches. It could be a scar. Could just as well be the lighting.”
“Understood. What feeds your operating premise besides the style of execution?”
“Well, it seems a reach, unless you at least consider that it may be Bor,” the lead replied. “But we inputted every police, fire, and EMS report in a two-hundred-mile radius of the massacre site from the time of execution to just a short time ago. The program spit back almost everything except an explosion and fire in rural western South Carolina. The program snagged that report because a preliminary arson investigator’s assessment indicates the presence of accelerants. Plural. Magnesium, smokeless powder, possibly penta.”
“Right. Everyone expects to find penta in a farmhouse in South Carolina.”
“Exactly. There’s some evidence of a munitions cache. The program took that and a couple of other data points, including the video, and plotted a path toward Washington, northward on I-95.”
“Were you able to glean anything else?” Dwyer asked. “Makes and models? Plates?”
“Not yet. It appears as if Bor—presuming it’s him—got into a green van behind the truck stop. Most of the vehicle was obscured behind vacuum pumps and the like, but we’re working on it based on a partial configuration of the body. We’ve narrowed it down to Ford products. As far as plates are concerned—wrong angles. Nothing. We’re looking at images during that period of any green vehicles from any traffic or security cameras within a five-mile radius of the truck stop. Not many cameras in that area, so no luck so far. Our best shot is satellite data. But we’re limited in that regard, unless you can convince someone to enlist NSA, NGA, or the kind folks at the OGA, boss. Even then, I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
“Okay. Good job,” Dwyer said. “You and the team keep working your magic. Keep me informed.”
Dwyer disconnected, then punched the number for Mike Garin. He needed to know his former teammate and current nemesis was probably even closer than he thought.
CHAPTER 40
DALE CITY, VIRGINIA,
AUGUST 16, 8:11 A.M. EDT
Garin figured he’d left at least a couple of loaves’ worth of bread crumbs for Bor’s compatriots to follow.
Garin had borrowed one of DGT’s fleet of black Ford Explorers and circumnavigated much of the Beltway before parking at the short-term lot at Reagan National to deposit a few dozen crumbs within the terminal. Garin was unconcerned that whoever was watching on Bor’s behalf would unquestionably conclude that Garin was leaving the crumbs on purpose. Bor was certain to send someone nonetheless. He had to. The personal special operator for President Yuri Mikhailov was involved in nothing but matters of geopolitical consequence. Garin knew him well, knew his history, his methods, his thought processes. He’d worked with Bor for nearly two years on Omega, back when Garin knew him as John Gates. He’d watched him move, seen him react.
It was like looking in a mirror.
To predict what Bor would do—tactically at least—Garin needed only to think of what he himself would do. The predictions wouldn’t be perfect, of course, but Bor understood this also. So he would throw in the random counterintuitive, hoping that it might throw off Garin’s timing or conclusions.
To ensure the success of Mikhailov’s plan, whatever that plan might be, Bor would allow no room for Garin’s possible intervention.
Garin knew this. Bor knew Garin knew this. Like Woody Hayes versus Bo Schembechler. No mystery. You know we’re going to run off left tackle. You have to stop us to win.
Garin had meandered about Reagan National, entering the terminal at the United ticket counter, descending the escalator toward the concourses, and strolling past the shops and restaurants. A dozen cameras, seen and unseen, had captured his image. Using the same credit card he had used at DFW, he made a couple of purchases—a paperback and a water bottle. Electronic blips from the transactions would ricochet through cyberspace and alert Bor’s watchers, and from somewhere in the highest reaches of the US government a traitor would transmit a message to Bor: Garin is at Qdoba on the main level of Reagan National, proceeding toward the baggage claim level opposite the taxi stand.
Garin spent fifteen minutes at the airport before climbing back into the Explorer, lowering the windows, lighting a Partagás, and streaming Jimi Hendrix at maximum volume. “All Along the Watchtower” reverberated throughout the parking garage. Signature Michael Garin, clandestine warrior, in plain sight for any and all to behold.
Moments ago Garin had pulled into the parking lot of a sprawling series of low-rise apartment buildings off Minnieville Road in Dale City. The units were occupied by low-income residents, a significant number of whom were day laborers for contractors in the area.
Garin had an apartment in the basement level of Building C, under the name Tom Lofton. However, he had not slept there since the Quds Force operators had attempted to assassinate him at the outset of the EMP operation. They had failed—Garin had killed them both. That unpleasantness, along with the commotion from the related police and FBI investigations, had, to put it mildly, set the complex’s management on edge concerning lessee Lofton. Garin smoothed matters by compensating management for the cleaning bill and presenting them with a bonus of six months’ rent. The bonus resolved any issues as far as management was concerned. As for the other residents—those who knew Lofton liked him, especially the younger kids, who viewed Lofton as an exciting enigma. Besides, it wasn’t as if the complex was wholly unfamiliar with unpleasantness.