“Later, Dan. I need to talk to the president.”
“Michael, that can wait,” Olivia said. “Have your arm taken care of first.”
The statement was registered by the same region of Garin’s brain that had stored Olivia’s previous expressions of concern and interest. Thinking he had the green light, Coe approached Garin once again, only to be met by a look that had gone from cold to glacial.
Garin was silent. Dwyer simply led Garin through the French doors into the library and down to the communications room in the subbasement. Olivia followed, while Luci took Knox’s hand and sat with him on the patio.
Dwyer punched the keypad next to the communications room door. The bolts slid open and the heavy steel door swung aside.
“I suspect I’m not cleared for this, so I’ll leave you two alone. Please give the commander in chief my regards and tell him I voted for him last year. Once in the primary and twice in the general.”
Dwyer withdrew. The door closed and the bolts locked into place.
Olivia caught Garin’s eye and nodded at his arm. “What happened?”
“Small accident.”
“It doesn’t look small.”
“I’ll take care of it. First, the president.”
Olivia moved to one side of the captain’s chair, pressed the speakerphone function, and keyed Brandt’s office number. Garin stood next to the opposite arm rest.
Brandt himself answered. “Yes?”
“Professor, I have Michael Garin with me. He’s calling for the president.”
“Hold on. This will take a minute. I’ll have the call patched to the Situation Room. The president, Kessler, and Secretary of Defense Merritt will be there momentarily, and I’m joining them.”
There was a click and then silence.
“It will take Arlo and the Secret Service a few minutes to get him there,” Olivia said. She looked Garin up and down. The incongruity in his appearance was ever present: intensity in a relaxed body.
“Can you tell me how that happened?” Olivia asked, nodding at his arm.
“Just an occupational hazard.” The gravedigger’s voice.
“You could always change occupations.”
Garin didn’t respond.
“Jim says the president thinks very highly of you. There’s been some discussion of issuing a commendation to you for”—Olivia smiled—“well, averting a war. The president seems to want you in a policy position.”
Garin’s single shake of his head conveyed finality: no way.
“At some point you won’t be able to do what you’re doing now, at least not at the same level. The cumulative effect of the physical traumas will slow you down. I saw it among some of my father’s friends in the NFL. They’d lose a half step, then a step—enough to lose their starting spots, then their spots on the team. Your job is more punishing by an order of magnitude. If you lose a step…”
“I’m dead,” Garin acknowledged. I’m dead anyway, Garin thought.
“During the EMP crisis James Brandt had me research you. Dan gave me background, that you weren’t expected to live at birth; your twin died in utero and you were infirm for much of your childhood.”
“This sounds like a prelude to psychoanalysis.”
“No.” Olivia shook her head. “Just suggesting you might consider easing back a bit, enjoying life with less peril.”
“Are you enjoying life as an aide to the NSA?”
“It’s what I’m trained to do.” A flick of her impossible abundance of hair off her left shoulder. “It’s what I want to do.”
“I’m doing what I want to do, Olivia.”
She examined him for several seconds. “What you want to do may be fatal.”
“Everyone dies.”
“Very Homeric. But even Achilles, Hector, and Ajax didn’t seek to expedite it, Michael. You’re entitled to some enjoyment in life.”
“As are you.”
Olivia cocked her head, bemused. “You don’t think I enjoy myself?”
“You work twenty-four/seven. Now you’re forgetting Aurelius, Plutarch, and Goethe.”
Olivia laughed. “You’re mocking me.”
“I can reference the classics too. Ivy League and all.”
“Remember, I’ve seen what you do, Michael.”
“And you disapprove.”
“No. Well, admittedly, seeing you kill people was… I wasn’t prepared for that. But you came close to being killed yourself. The odds will catch up to you, eventually.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
It was Garin’s turn to appear bemused. “Very few people express concern about my well-being, let alone my career path.”
“The Washington policy world needs a Michael Garin. Washington, in general, needs adults.”
“I can’t disagree with that.”
“You just might find that your talents are even better suited for making policy rather than executing it. Washington needs more people who don’t suffer fools gladly.”
A whisper of a smile briefly crossed Garin’s face. “A great American philosopher said, ‘A man’s got to know his limitations.’”
Olivia laughed. Garin found it musical.
“I love that movie. I love all the Dirty Harry movies.”
“Even The Dead Pool?”
Another laugh, just as musical. “I’d like to binge-watch them sometime.”
A not so subtle opening not lost on Garin. Before he could respond, a click came over the speakerphone.
“Mr. Garin, this is the president.”
“Yes, Mr. President. Olivia Perry is with me, sir.”
“Secretary of Defense Merritt, John Kessler, and Jim Brandt are with me. I understand you want to reconstitute Omega and want authority. Tell me what’s going on.”
“Sir, there have been a series of events that indicate that the Russians are about to strike us. It could be minutes, hours, or days—but it’ll be a two-stage attack conducted somewhere on American soil. The first stage will consist of an unknown number of suicide bombers. The locations of the bombings also are unknown.
“The bombings are a feint, an attempt to lull us into complacency. Sometime after, another attack will occur, presumably of greater magnitude. I’m told it will ‘paralyze’ us. I have no further details on the main attack.”
“Who told you the attack will paralyze us?”
“An associate of the Russian agent Taras Bor.”
“Who is this man?”
“He has no name. He referred to himself as the Butcher.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s dead, sir.”
“I see.”
“Sir, I was told there’s a backup to the main attack. Taras Bor is expected to execute the secondary plan if the main attack is prevented. Again, no details on the backup plan either.”
“Mike.” It was Deputy Director Kessler. “Do you have any evidence with which we can confront the Russians about this?”
“There have been several attempts on my life. But I have captured no one and the men I’ve killed had no evidence on them signifying Russian involvement.”
“How many men, Mr. Garin?” Marshall asked.
Garin hesitated, glancing at Olivia. “Several.”
“How do we know the Butcher isn’t some crazy man?” the president asked. “How do we know someone, say the Chinese, isn’t trying to foment a conflict between the US and Russia? How can we be sure this isn’t a false-flag operation?”
“Mr. President, we can’t. We have nothing concrete. Obviously, nothing that would qualify as proof in a court of law.”
“Or the court of public opinion,” Marshall said. “Mr. Garin, even if I were to reconstitute Omega, it doesn’t have authority to operate domestically, not without congressional approval or a finding of a nuclear threat. We have no evidence to support that.”