As if prompted by the question, a piercing sensation shot from somewhere in the center of his skull to his jaw. “No.”
“Are you going to be up to speed? Can you handle this?”
“Yes.”
“I think we need to get the FBI and everyone else involved now, Mikey. Cat’s out of the bag with the bombings.”
“Wrong,” Garin said harshly. “Bor still hasn’t moved. If we tell the FBI all we know, it will get back to Bor and he’ll compensate. We can’t give him any advantage whatsoever. If he hears the FBI’s about to intercept him, he’ll set off whatever plan he has. He’ll preempt them, or he’ll evade them and then complete his plan.”
“Then they just need to go into the embassy and grab him.”
“That’s Russian sovereign territory, Dan. If we do that, it’s not just a violation of law; Mikhailov will say it was a provocation—a justification. But more importantly, Bor will see it coming and be long gone.”
“I admire your newfound restraint, Mikey. Your usual approach is to kill the bastards and let God sort them out later.”
“Usually works.” The right side of Garin’s face twitched as another sliver of pain skewered his ear. Garin’s phone beeped. “I got another call, Dan. Send someone to GW to be with Olivia.”
“Congo’s already there.”
“Good.” Garin connected the other call.
“Michael?”
The voice was a whisper of pain and exhaustion. It was Olivia.
“How are you?” Garin asked urgently. “Where are you?”
“I just arrived at GW. They still haven’t taken my cell, obviously.”
Garin knew Olivia had something urgent to say; otherwise, she wouldn’t be calling. “Take your time. What do you need to tell me?”
“They’re going to take my cell any second.”
“Don’t let them. You’re Brandt’s chief aide and this is a matter of national security. If they can’t process that, tell them to screw off. Is the phone secure?”
On the other end of the call, Olivia smiled weakly through the pain. “Yes, I’m using Congo’s encrypted device. Michael, this so-called backup plan involving Bor; I’m pretty sure I know what it is. Ryan Hammacher, a professor at MIT, was killed. At least, I’m pretty sure he was killed. You guys always say there are no coincidences and this fits that pattern from before—”
“Olivia,” Garin interjected gently, “save your strength. Tell me your conclusion.”
“I’m sorry,” Olivia said, her voice raspy. “I’m incoherent, I know.”
“No worries. Take your time. Tell me what you know.”
There was silence for a few seconds, followed by the sound of fabric rubbing against the phone. There was an officious voice in the background.
“Michael, the medical personnel are saying I have to turn off the phone because of the hospital equipment. I—”
“Put Congo on,” Garin said.
Another pause, then, “Mike. Congo.”
“Congo, tell the hospital people to back the hell off, now. Pull your Glock out if you have to. Intimidate them. Scare the hell out of them. I need to hear what Olivia has to say.”
“No problem.”
Garin heard indistinguishable noises coming over the phone. Then the sound of escalating voices followed by panicked voices followed by compliant voices. Knox had prevailed.
Olivia continued, “Michael, Hammacher was a professor at MIT. Computers, electrical engineering, or something. Maybe both. He testified before Congress a lot. Worked under contract with DARPA—the spooky kind of stuff.” Olivia paused, her breathing labored. Garin could hear her fight the constriction in her vocal cords caused by pain. “He was about to board a flight to D.C. to testify again. They found him dead in a washroom at Boston Logan.”
Garin heard a sharp command from Knox in the background. More compliant voices, retreating and fading. The sound of Olivia’s breathing became more labored.
“Hammacher was working on systems for military and commercial aircraft, including drones,” Olivia resumed, her voice enervated. Garin expected Olivia’s lucidity to fade soon.
“Olivia,” Garin interrupted. “What is Bor going to do?”
“I think Bor’s backup is the kind of thing Ryan was working to prevent. Except Bor’s plan is probably much larger than what Hammacher anticipated.” Olivia exhaled and tried to summon the strength to continue.
“I’m listening,” Garin said patiently. “Go ahead.”
Several seconds passed. Garin heard the rustle of fabric and the voices of professionals discharging urgent functions. The voices were much closer than they had been seconds earlier.
“Mike?” It was Congo Knox, concern bordering on alarm in his voice. “Olivia just lost consciousness. Not good. Blood all over. I’ll get back to you.”
On the other end, the killer Boy Scout swore under his breath.
CHAPTER 82
MOSCOW,
AUGUST 18, 11:47 P.M. MSK
Major Valeri Volkov had been a young man in a hurry for much of his adult life, and as with most such men, he’d rarely taken a moment to appreciate his accomplishments. He was always looking toward the next goal, his next opportunity to rise. All of his previous advancements had been the product of study, diligence, and sacrifice. He had no influential family members or connections to push him up the ladder.
To this point his station in life was based solely on merit. He was sufficiently introspective to acknowledge that he didn’t possess nearly the natural talent of Piotr Egorshin. But he believed that once Egorshin advanced to bigger and better things, it would be Valeri Volkov, by virtue of endurance and determination, who would succeed him.
Volkov believed, however, that such succession would occur sometime far in the future. Yet here he was at the helm of the unnamed unit Egorshin had built and commanded with his brilliance, the unit that was central to Yuri Mikhailov’s designs for Russian glory.
All Volkov had to do was give an order. The systems and programs had been devised and built by Egorshin. The unnamed unit’s technicians had been trained by the prodigy, to whom Volkov had been loyal to the end.
At least that’s what Volkov kept insisting to himself to brush away the stray threads of guilt he’d felt after the interrogation by Stetchkin. Volkov had been honest throughout. He hadn’t trimmed or expanded his answers in service of his own ambitions. Nonetheless, upon learning of Egorshin’s death, Volkov felt as if he’d advanced to the unit’s leadership by stepping over a corpse.
While the feeling hadn’t entirely dissipated, it had substantially receded behind feelings of pride and power. He’d ascended to one of the more important positions in Mikhailov’s new Russia. His prospects now were almost as unlimited as those of the genius Egorshin had been. He allowed himself to think of a future of wealth, fame, and women.
All because of the tyrant Stetchkin’s fixation on Tatiana Palinieva. Astonishingly foolish, if somewhat understandable. Palinieva was remarkably attractive. Perhaps now Volkov might draw her interest. After all, if Egorshin could, Volkov could too. And why not? He would possess all the accoutrements of power that he assumed a woman like Palinieva found attractive. He’d make sure to pay his respects at the funeral.
Volkov stood in his station on a low platform at the back of the large plexiglass-enclosed room. His eyes, like those of the dozens of analysts and technicians seated at the sleek ergonomic workstations before him, were fixed on the large digital clock set above the massive movie theater–like screen on the front wall. The screen flashed a blizzard of letters and characters arrayed about innumerable lighted dots on a world map separated into ninety-eight grids. Each member of the unit had been tasked with a specific grid, but all the work for each grid was complete. When all of the digits on the giant clock reached zero, it would be left to Volkov alone to press the command key to set the event in motion. A single key. The program could have self-executed at the appointed time, but Egorshin had wanted to engage the event manually.