Putin's Gambit

9

Derek Walsh slowed his pace about fifteen blocks from the Seventh Precinct building. His head was spinning. What had he done? He had acted. That’s what he had done. Taken action like the former marine he was. It felt good. He liked standing up to a bully even if it was the U.S. government. Or at least a couple of FBI agents. He had acted on instinct, and now he couldn’t have regrets. He had to play this hand out.

Walsh walked along Grand Street into Chinatown and kept going until he came to a stop on Mulberry Street, feeling like he just needed to catch his breath and clear his head. The goddamned FBI had his wallet and cell phone. All he had was a plastic bag holding his security plug from Thomas Brothers Financial. The streets were much more orderly here. No one was protesting, and there was no open violence. His run along Grand Street had showed him the chaos in the financial district. He had intended to use this to his advantage, but there was no way he was heading back right now. Walsh needed a plan, which had to include cash and a change of clothes. He might have blended in along Wall Street, but here he was as out of place as an Oakland Raiders fan at a Super Bowl.

He had to think and consider his position. The marines had spent a lot of money to train him to react under stress, and it frustrated him that none of that seemed to do him any good at the moment. The only person he could think of to call was Mike Rosenberg at the CIA, but he doubted his friend could help, and he was certain it wouldn’t look good for a fugitive to be calling a CIA employee.

A police cruiser came down Mulberry with its lights on but no siren. For a moment Walsh was worried they were searching for him; then he realized they were moving much too quickly and were just more reinforcements going down to the financial district.

Walsh had no idea how any of this had happened or who made the trades on his computer. He didn’t think there was any way someone could get past the security plug issue. If someone had stolen his plug and returned it to him, no matter how far-fetched that seemed, then he had to get back on the Thomas Brothers computer network and access his security plug to see the photographs of whoever made the trade.

There was only one place he could go and only one person he could trust. He intended to slip back into his apartment on the Lower East Side and get some money and clothes. Then he would go to Alena’s apartment closer to the Columbia campus and explain everything to her. He had to be careful because her phone number was in his phone and there was no telling how far the FBI would dig.

He stood up and started to walk casually along Mulberry Street. Soon enough he’d see his chance to blend in with the crowd, but this was not the place.

Bill Shepherd looked at the gates of the base and decided to call up a platoon of marines to augment the army personnel already dealing with growing crowds of protesters. The occasional rocks and bottles sailed through the air, breaking harmlessly on the asphalt in front of the soldiers. There were German police directly in front of the crowd trying to keep them back, but it wasn’t clear who they were trying to protect.

Shepherd had grown more and more concerned as the day went on and he listened to reports on the news. CNN was known for exaggeration, but it looked bad. He had called his new lady friend, Fannie, twice to make sure she was okay as she traveled. It concerned him that he only got a voice message. It was a sign of how interested he was in her that he kept the small German phone in his pocket. He’d purchased it mainly for calling his friends Mike Rosenberg and Derek Walsh. There was something in him, a rebellious spirit, that made him want to keep some of his life private from the Marine Corps. Like his girlfriends. He never talked with them about his work. He’d learned a lesson from what had happened to poor trusting Derek when the cute German girl stole his company credit card. Shepherd missed his friends. Now he felt like he was alone in the Corps.

Just like in combat, he had no real clue what the generals were planning and what the global picture was, but here at his own base, with a threat in front of him, Shepherd knew what was expected of him and how to lead men.

It was hard to imagine that a week ago he was training for a Russian attack and trying to keep his men from being bored. Now a couple of bad financial transactions and terror attacks had caused even more problems than tanks rolling across the Fulda Gap.

He saw some movement in the crowd, and then a light rose up in the twilight sky. It was a Molotov cocktail, and that caused some concern among the men standing before the base. They tracked it as it rose in the air in a small arc, then shattered on the ground, spreading flames in front of them.

Part of the crowd was energized by the act of violence, but Shepherd noticed that several of the protesters didn’t want anything to do with it and started to file away from the base.

His marines came jogging up behind him with their weapons at port arms. He held them behind the the army MPs for now, but there was no way anyone was getting on a U.S. military base without feeling some major heat.

Fannie Legat did not stay long to admire her handiwork in Bern. She’d lingered for only a little more than an hour after emergency vehicles converged on the collapsed ruin of the bank, just to make sure none of her intended targets emerged alive from the devastation. No one did, and three rescue workers were killed when one of the remaining arches tumbled over. That was a small matter but would play well on TV. The story had already reached the international markets, and many commentators wanted to tie it to the violence that was growing in New York and London. That was fine with her.

There was no time to rest. First she had to drive to the airport, where she was catching a private plane to Estonia. She was supposed to meet her superior in Tartu late that night to update him. Then she would begin her new assignment, which would start in Estonia and last several days. As usual, she had been given no details other than that her language ability was needed and she’d be helping another person. She was assured it was all part of the same operation and she would see her reward soon.

Joseph Katazin felt invigorated by the meeting with his contact, who clearly had a better overall view of the operation than he did. But now the time had come for him to take an active role. The fact that he had just gotten a call from one of his contacts down at the Seventh Precinct saying Derek Walsh had escaped from custody turned the situation from tense to nerve-racking. There were just too many moving parts of this operation for him to keep clear in his head. Even though his job was to focus on the financial aspect and elements in New York, he still was talking to contacts in Europe to coordinate the timing of events. It went against virtually all of the protocols they had used over the years for secrecy, but someone had decided this operation was important enough to throw caution to the wind.

The phone he was using had been provided by someone from Toronto and had international calling. He had talked to another contact with the country code of Germany to explain when the money was coming in and follow up on a few other details. It was a woman, and she had an odd accent. He knew this operation had made extremely strange bedfellows, but he could’ve sworn she had a Middle Eastern tinge as well as some French in her English. He knew Muslims were involved in parts of this operation, but the whole idea made him uneasy.

He recognized that the price of oil, which continued to drop, was a real concern to the Arab countries as well as Russia. Russia had no recognized industrial capacity and made nothing that the Koreans or Japanese couldn’t make better and cheaper. Who wanted a radio that might or might not have been put together correctly by a pissed-off former Red Army corporal who was working in a factory outside Moscow? Russia needed money from oil and needed it badly. Katazin suspected that was the main reason this entire operation had been given the green light. If they waited too much longer, the Russian economy would be in shambles, and they wouldn’t have the power to strike out at other nations. This was the old way of doing things. The Russian way of doing things. Grab up some land, divide the spoils, and look to the next place that could be scooped into the Russian sphere of influence. It also gave a warning to the West that the Russian Empire was not dead.

This operation probably meant nothing in the overall scheme of things. A few hundred million dollars moved here or there and some attacks that would kill perhaps a hundred people at most. But it was all a simple distraction. Everything that happened, including the riots and the events unfolding in Europe, was meant to distract the president of the United States, like throwing a ball for a puppy to chase. While he was looking at these issues, thinking they were important, the real intent of Russia would be out of sight and out of mind. It wouldn’t be until tanks were rolling through European capitals that the president would react and the U.S. take any action at all. At that point, at least to Katazin, it seemed unlikely they would be able to act militarily. And everyone had seen the effects of sanctions. Iran still went forward with its nuclear plants, and North Korea flaunted any sanctions leveled against them. Even the Gulf Wars were the result of failed sanctions. People liked to talk about the alternatives to war, but the fact was that sovereign nations rarely responded to anything but the threat of brute force. All that was necessary was to stoke the flames of patriotism and make sure the public was behind the government’s efforts to use military force. The Russians had been looking for anything to be proud of, and an operation like this would bring out their patriotic spirit.

Patriotism was an odd thing. Just thinking about Russia rising above the other nations of Europe made him proud. He couldn’t explain why. He didn’t think his life would be any better once his country was a superpower. But he knew he was willing to risk everything, even his American family, to make it happen.

Katazin figured the FBI would be looking for Walsh’s apartment. It would be hard to find because he had no lease. Katazin had chosen his patsy well. Generally the FBI was good at finding people, and all he needed was to make sure Walsh was in custody. Or dead. He knew things the FBI didn’t know about Derek Walsh, and those were the places he was checking on now. His beat-up BMW sedan wouldn’t look out of place in any neighborhood in Manhattan. It was nice enough to belong to a rich man who might have had an accident or two, but it was also dinged up enough to fit a hipster trying to act cool and maybe driving it “ironically.”

The Beretta 9 mm he carried in his waistband was the only thing that would get him in real trouble with the New York cops if someone happened to pat him down. But he was a burly white man in Manhattan. No one was going to bother him as he walked down the street or drove his car.

He had waited to call in reinforcements in case he couldn’t find Walsh right away. He knew how to use manpower correctly and realized that if Walsh remained missing for any length of time it would be important to have fresh men ready to pursue him.

And this was just one of the things he was worried about.

Fannie Legat stared out the window of the rattling 1999 Yugo cab as it pulled away from the dilapidated airport at Tartu, Estonia. It reminded her of an old World War II film. It almost felt like she was looking at it in black-and-white. Part of it had to do with fatigue, despite the sound sleep she’d grabbed on the plane. A light drizzle and low-hanging clouds did nothing to dispel the grim atmosphere. Twin-engine prop planes littered the tarmac, and the two jets, one from Air France and one from Lufthansa, looked out of place.

The cab driver didn’t speak to her when she handed him the slip of paper with the address on it. He dropped her at a café with virtually no one sitting inside. It was the middle of the night, and she wondered how any businesses that served food could be open. She had never met her superior and knew him only as “Sam.” She was surprised to meet a good-looking man in his early thirties whose accent gave him away as being raised in London. He wore a business suit with wire-rimmed glasses and could pass for Italian or Spanish unless he was forced to show ID that would surely have a name more consistent with a Middle Easterner.

He greeted her warmly, although she noticed he didn’t offer a hand and or touch her in any way. He apparently had little knowledge of exactly what she had done in Bern. But she was gratified to hear him praise her and say that others in their organization had spoken very highly of her. She kept waiting to hear the common phrase “You have done well for a woman.” But it never came.

Sam ordered water and a salad with chicken as they chatted in the corner of a big room where no one could possibly hear anything they said. The high wooden ceiling held dozens of fans, and the paneled walls absorbed sound like a sponge. It was simple and ingenious.

Sam said, “Before I get into everything we need to discuss, I’m waiting for one more person.”

That surprised her. Usually people in their group met one-on-one. The idea of having self-contained cells and people not knowing other members was vital to the success of their jihad. But these were unusual circumstances. And she recognized they were working with other people and other groups on an operation that had to be gigantic.

She decided not to say anything or voice her concerns about meeting anyone else. Then she saw who it was. Amir Kahmole stepped in the front door and immediately started marching toward their table. She knew Amir from Syria, and he was one of the main reasons she was happy to be out of there. The arrogant fundamentalist viewed women as more of a nuisance than anything else. She was surprised that someone as educated as Sam would be associated with Amir. She was also surprised he cleaned up so nicely and didn’t look like a ragged rebel. In casual Western clothes with a cute blue rain slicker, he could’ve been a student at one of the local universities.

Born in Lebanon but of Iranian decent, Amir wanted a more aggressive stance against the idea of Western corruption and had joined their group. He was an exception to most jihadists. Iran’s official policy was to limit ISIS and related groups and support Syria. Amir still held his father’s country dear and wouldn’t shut up about the Grand Ayatollah, but he was firmly committed to the Islamic State’s stance and tactics against the U.S. He was a Shiite who could function with Sunnis. At least on anything that would hurt the West.

He wanted them all dead and was working hard at achieving his goal. That was a classic Iranian move: Be on both sides of a conflict so you win no matter what.

Amir sat down without greeting and looked directly at Sam. “Are we going to speak in front of her?” That was as close to a greeting as Fannie was going to get. She held her tongue but felt like poking Amir through the eye with the steak knife that sat to her right.

Sam calmly said, “In this particular operation you will both be working on the same assignment. I wanted to explain the whole thing one time and for both of you to understand how important it is.” He waited while they nodded acknowledgment. Amir still hadn’t turned and looked at Fannie. A vein popped in his neck.

After an awkward moment of silence, Amir said, “Will we have to work side by side? Because I would find that inappropriate. She is only a woman and unwed. I shouldn’t really have to sit with her now.”

Fannie again resisted the impulse to stab him with her knife. Instead she waited to hear Sam’s response.

In his cultured English accent, Sam said, “We must work with other groups in this struggle. You will both escort one of our partners. You need only work together in Estonia and possibly further west when we’ll need your language ability, Fannie, and your engineering experience, Amir. But you will both be on most of the trip together.” He was very calm when he said, “And if you question my judgment again, Amir, you will find yourself in a retraining camp under the supervision of a very strict teacher. Is that understood?”

Amir nodded but added, “It is my duty to explain my concerns before an operation. I feel as if this woman has been given far too much credit and risen too high in the organization, but I understand the need to succeed against the United States and will work with anyone in the world against the Great Satan.”

Sam smiled as he looked from Fannie to Amir. “Good, because the man you are meeting is a Russian army officer.”

Fannie was shocked, but obviously not as shocked as Amir. The first thing that popped into her head was to call back the American major who had called her. She might find a use for him sooner than she’d thought. It was funny how things worked out so well.