RUSSIAN EMBASSY, WASHINGTON, D.C.,
AUGUST 18, 9:52 A.M. EDT
His cell vibrated. The caller ID said “unknown” but Bor recognized the voice instantly.
“He is impaired.”
“How badly?” Bor asked.
“Enough.”
“Unless he’s dead it’s not enough.”
“Enough to give you the advantage if he finds you.”
“You mean when he finds me,” Bor corrected. “Details, please.”
“Severe burns on his arm. It will limit his strength. He also suffered a head injury of some kind.”
A pause as Bor processed the information. “How does the head injury manifest itself?”
“I’m unsure of the symptoms, other than severe pain, some disorientation.”
“All right. Anything else?”
“That’s all for now.”
“Keep me apprised.”
“When I can.”
Bor terminated the call and exhaled. The information he’d just received was troubling. As far as he was concerned, a wounded Garin was a dangerous Garin.
Taras Bor and Vadim Stepulev examined the satellite photo of Washington, D.C., on the tablet provided by an aide to the rezident. Bor swiped the screen and the photo was replaced by a map with nearly a dozen digital pins stuck in various areas throughout the District.
Bor looked at Stepulev. “Ready?”
“Yes. The primaries should be easy enough. But if we encounter any obstacles, I am sure we can execute the secondaries.”
“That does not mean you. Leave everything to your volunteers. You are merely the conveyance. Do not engage anyone. Period. You need not lose your life for a mere distraction.”
Stepulev smiled broadly and clapped Bor’s shoulder with his hand. “You do not sound like the committed lieutenant I first met years ago, Taras. Do you no longer believe in the cause? Is the fire extinguished?”
“I believe. But I do not believe in the state or its nonsense. I never have.”
Stepulev laughed loudly, the sound muffled in the small office with soundproof walls. “Who among us ever did? Our parents did not believe in the state; they only mouthed the words because they were compelled to, my friend. Now the state is no longer supreme. But everyone must believe in something. What do you believe in?”
“Death.”
“That is obvious. What comes after death?”
“For me, hell.”
Stepulev looked at Bor quizzically. “The great Bor believes in hell?”
“Do you believe this is all there is?”
“I am no longer certain what I believe.”
“That is the problem,” Bor observed. “Your volunteers, what do they believe?”
“They believe they will be rewarded in paradise,” Stepulev said.
“And you will help them test their faith,” Bor said.
“I merely make it possible for them to fulfill their destinies. Just as you are doing with your volunteers.”
“My volunteers, like yours, may not have the opportunity to fulfill their destinies,” Bor said. “Garin is alive.”
Stepulev frowned skeptically. “How do you know?”
“Bulkvadze failed once. I gave him a second chance. I have not heard from him since. But I have heard from a source that Garin is alive, but wounded.”
“And you cannot reveal your source,” Stepulev said. “But you believe Garin killed Bulkvadze?”
“I am certain of it.”
“Then the Butcher will kill Garin,” Stepulev assured him. “After having some fun with him.”
“We have not heard from your Butcher either.”
Stepulev contemplated the matter. “Regardless, it is too late. Garin knows nothing. He can stop nothing.”
“He may not know anything now, but if he acquires any clues he will get up to speed very quickly,” Bor said. “And when that happens, things will get complicated.”
“Even so, we will be alerted of his plans and movements. We can stay one step ahead. That’s all we need.”
Bor shrugged. “Probably. Regardless, we may not even be in play. But if we are, we need to be vigilant and execute rapidly.”
“My volunteers are ready,” Stepulev said. “In fact, they are anxious.”
“Mine as well. When this is over we will have achieved something very significant. But if not, thousands of individuals like the volunteers will remain. Then Russia will be their central focus. We will have to deal with them directly at some point.”
“True,” Stepulev acknowledged with a sigh. “But we do not have the same sensibilities as the West when it comes to dealing with adversaries. The West seems perpetually apologetic for defending themselves.”
Bor rose from his chair and arched his back. “We could use a bit of self-reflection also, my friend.”
“But not to the point of suicide.”
“Speaking of which,” Bor said. “How was the timing on your practice runs?”
“Good. We went through three exercises. I would have put them through more, but because of the locations I was concerned someone might notice our repeated presence. Also, the strike points undoubtedly are covered by redundant cameras. Not knowing whether the images are fed into algorithms to identify faces that make repeat appearances, I decided to limit our runs.”
“Good.”
“I will meet you shortly thereafter in Leesburg. My only detour will be to switch vehicles afterward. It won’t take long for them to identify the original vehicle.”
“Does the sequence still appear feasible?”
“Softest target to hardest. Unquestionably,” Stepulev replied. “Union Station has considerable security, but nothing like the other two. Of course, after Union Station the other targets will be further hardened instantly.”
Bor paced the small room slowly. “Have you considered reversing the order?”
“Several times, Taras. There are problems with any sequence we choose. As I have noted to my superiors, simultaneous strikes would be best.”
“Yes, that would enhance the probabilities of success. What was their response?”
“They did not disagree. But they specifically wanted sequenced strikes for the psychological effect. It would be more devastating, more of a distraction. The US would anticipate yet more strikes, so it would occupy their attention in a way simultaneous strikes would not.”
Bor cocked his head to the side, considering the rationale. “Perhaps. I am not sure that outweighs the logistical advantage to a simultaneous strike.”
“Logistics are not their concern, Taras. They leave such considerations to us, no matter the feasibility. They simply come up with grand schemes and expect us to execute. From the comfort of their conference rooms their plans are infallible. If their schemes do not work, it is because we are incompetent.”
“This does not sound like Mikhailov, Vadim. He is too shrewd. He would understand the need for logistical practicality to maximize the probability of success. This has the fingerprints of Aleksandr Stetchkin all over it.”
“Stetchkin can be blamed for much,” Stepulev said with disgust. “But in fairness, I do not think he was involved in these details. Mikhailov delegated this to Vasiliev. Mikhailov is focused on the main event. And your fail-safe. Are your volunteers ready?”
Bor continued to pace slowly. “My volunteers are not as hardened as yours, but they are motivated. They will be striking a powerful blow for ISIS, an historical one. Their names will be spoken with reverence for generations. And their families will become wealthy.”
Stepulev noted the reservation in his friend’s voice. “But . . . ?”
“Most of them went to university. They have the attitudes of many of those who go to university.”
Stepulev grinned. “You mean they will defecate their pants at zero hour.”
“Likely. But they will do their jobs. They are believers. In addition to fame, fortune ensures that they will do it. As does the safety of their families.”
Stepulev nodded with understanding. “So they have all been treated to a demonstration of what misfortune could befall their family members should they fail?”
“They have no illusions about what will happen, Vadim.”
“Even if one were to fail, the impact of the others will be more than sufficient, Taras. Have you considered that your fail-safe operation will be far more devastating than the main event?”
“I have,” Bor said, running a hand through his hair. “But we are, as you have noted, on the logistics side of the equation, not the strategic side.”
“It is a big risk.”
“That is an understatement, my friend. They calculated that the EMP strike wouldn’t trigger war. I am not so confident of that this time. Although I concede that they will have presented the West with an almost insuperable conundrum.”
Stepulev’s eyes narrowed. “They have indeed, Taras. Think about it. It is virtually no different from the conundrum presented by the EMP attack. The genius game theorists in the Kremlin have determined that the same calculus applies here.”
“I fully understand, Vadim. They are employing misdirection once again, except this time it will appear as if ISIS, not Iran, has struck America.” Bor stopped pacing. “But I fear game theory is about to crash into reality. I do not believe the Americans will fall for two false-flag operations in a row, especially when the previous one was barely a month ago. And especially when massive numbers of Americans will die.”
“Massive numbers would have died after the EMP strike also—tens of millions.”
Bor shook his head. “Not from the EMP itself—but from the aftermath. No buildings would have been destroyed, no apocalyptic fires would have raged, pulverized bodies would not have littered the streets. Those things will happen this time. And that, Vadim, is all the difference. The Kremlin’s psychologists and game theorists should have spent some time pondering that.”
“But they have,” Stepulev insisted. “Americans have shown time and again they have no stomach for war, let alone appetite. And under no circumstances do they want to fight an equal. With time, they might find traces of our involvement. Especially considering our contemporaneous troop movements. But their politicians will gladly point to ISIS and tell the American people the jihadists were responsible.”
“And vengeance is exacted on ISIS because to engage us would result in world war,” Bor said.
“Exactly.”
“Neatly done,” Bor conceded. “But I remain unconvinced it will be so. As I said, theory is about to meet reality.”
“We have our orders, Taras.”
“Just so. This is not the first time we have questioned the wisdom of such orders.”
“You sound like a cynic. Like a tired soldier.”
“Nothing new.”
“Not true, Taras. You have always been cynical. However, I have never seen you tired. That is new.”
“Tbilisi, Vilnius, Sevastopol, Aleppo, Ramadi, and one hundred places in between. Yes, I am tired.” Something close to a smile appeared on Bor’s face. “But I have yet to reach my prime.”
Stepulev rose and clapped Bor’s shoulder again. “Now, there is a frightening thought.”
The door to the room opened and the rezident’s aide stuck his head in. “I am to inform you to expect an encrypted call from Moscow in fifteen minutes. You are to take it in the secure facility I showed you earlier.”
“Thank you,” Bor replied. The aide closed the door.
The two operators were silent for several seconds while they contemplated the implications of what was about to occur.
“That will be it,” Stepulev observed. “The order.”
“Where are your volunteers now?”
“An apartment in College Park off Route 1. Denisov is with them. The vests are prepared. They were told to be ready to leave on five minutes’ notice.”
“Get to Leesburg airfield as quickly as possible after dropping off the last volunteer. Do not wait to observe the outcome. Switch vehicles and go. We cannot wait. There will be a period of confusion, of course. But they will mount a furious search almost immediately after the first strike occurs. You need to take off as quickly as possible.”
“You are not coming also, Taras?”
“I will if the main event goes as planned, of course. But I’m the backup for a reason. If I have to execute the fail-safe, you will leave on your own. I will have to leave later. If possible.”
Stepulev nodded. “Where did you move your volunteers?”
“A house in Lorton, a city in northern Virginia along I-95.”
“Do you still plan to simply abandon them if the fail-safe is unnecessary?”
“No.”
“What will you do with them?”
“Eliminate them.”
“All?”
“Yes. They will be a liability.”
“But they know nothing. They believe they are doing this on behalf of the caliphate.”
“They came here expecting to die. I do not want them to be disappointed.”
Stepulev smiled briefly. Then, with a solemn look on his face, he extended his hand to Bor. The assassin grasped it firmly and the two held the grip for several moments. Both came here expecting to die. Each wished the other didn’t have to; each was proud the other was willing.
Bor released his grip and went to receive the order.