Putin's Gambit

12

Derek Walsh awoke to sunlight in his eyes. He was one of six men in a small room at the homeless shelter. Charlie lay in the single bed next to him, snoring soundly. The previous day seemed like a bad dream. Damn. It was all too real.

The meal of a turkey sandwich and hot soup the night before had made him reevaluate how tough his life really was. Until yesterday, he thought he had a shitty low-level job that he didn’t care much for. Maybe he was like so many other Americans and didn’t realize how good his life really was. He worked hard and put in long hours, but he was able to buy his own food and live in his own apartment, no matter how small it was. He even had a beautiful girlfriend, and if everything else failed, he’d be able to find another job. He had never even considered how men like Charlie, shattered by their experiences in Vietnam, had abandoned their old lives and ended up on the street, a simple meal of turkey sandwich and soup a luxury they only enjoyed on a rare occasion.

Now Walsh took a few moments to evaluate what was going on. His head was much clearer than it had been the day before, and he could focus without the shock of an FBI agent interrogating him.

He had a good understanding of security systems and computers and had spent his early days at Thomas Brothers Financial working with some of the hotshot IT guys. One of them, a graduate of MIT, explained to him exactly how the system worked. There was absolutely no way to make an international trade without the use of the security plug and a password. The IT nerd had even showed Walsh how to activate the special security protocol on his personal security plug that would take a picture of anyone using it for a trade. Walsh didn’t even know why he turned on the feature, but it was cool knowing something few others at the company did. There was only one way to access the security plug and retrieve the photos, and that was by going back to Thomas Brothers and getting on the network. That had to be his goal.

From a military perspective he had food, was rested, and, thanks to Charlie, had the Russian thug’s 9 mm safely tucked in his waistband. He was ready to go into action.

Fannie Legat had managed a few more hours of sleep before she picked up her Skoda hatchback and drove to the town of Sillamae to meet her Russian contact. Her plan had been to leave Amir in Tartu instead of unleashing him on some dim-witted, unsuspecting Russian army officer. But the taciturn little Iranian had insisted they were on the assignment together. He had not spoken a word when they drove up from Tartu and had barely spoken since. He found a reason to wander off for a few minutes, giving Fannie some time alone with the Russian major.

Now, near lunchtime, she was already impressed by the young officer. She had been worried she wouldn’t be able to deal with him, considering her feelings about anyone from Russia or the United States, but she had been very professional when she met Anton Severov.

His goofy manner and the way he said, “Just call me Anton,” put her at ease. They had eaten a quick meal at the odd little diner and adjusted to each other’s accents in English. She felt she had a greater command of the language, but her French accent threw off the Russian’s ear. She was a little worried about what would happen when he met Amir. Her surly associate seemed to resent the fact that they were working with a Russian, and she was sure that once he saw the Russian was taller and better-looking, Amir would fly off the handle.

She wasn’t used to a man showing her so much deference and displaying such manners. He pulled her chair out for her and waited to sit down until she was comfortable. They had a simple meal of the Estonian version of a hamburger, which meant it was a thin, tasteless meat patty between two slices of white bread. The way the Russian major gulped down the sandwich, she wondered when he had last eaten.

He looked across the table and said, “How were you chosen for an assignment like this?”

“Because I speak German.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve just never done anything like this before. I am a simple soldier and used to the battlefield, not dressing like a grocer and wandering through the streets of foreign cities.”

She flashed him a smile. He deserved it. “It will be all right. They told me to just show you around, and we have someone else to help us. He might not seem too friendly, but after a while you learn that you want to kill him.”

They both chuckled.

“Did they tell you anything about why I was here?”

“I’m not an idiot. I can guess.”

“And it doesn’t bother you?”

“Let’s just say that for now the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

The major smiled and said, “I would like to be your friend, Fannie.”

Derek Walsh stumbled along the streets of New York in a long-sleeved white oxford shirt, purposely untucked to fit in with everyone else. The other reason he let his shirt hang past his belt was to cover the Beretta 9 mm Charlie had taken off the Russian who was watching his apartment. That’s what was really swirling in his head right now: What the hell did the Russians want with him? The guys who robbed him were Russian, too. The FBI he could deal with. The entire accusation was a mistake, he might even have his day in court, but Russians waiting outside his apartment with guns was a major development that caused his stomach to flutter.

It was about 7:45 A.M., and Walsh had put some distance between himself and the homeless shelter. He didn’t want to get Charlie involved in his mess, and he didn’t want to risk anyone telling the FBI where he’d stayed. It was best to head out into the streets. He had told Charlie he would go to Alena’s apartment, but he didn’t think he could get there before eight, and she left for class about then. Protesters were already roaming around in groups, and the cops looked exhausted. It made him wonder what sort of disarray the office was in and if the violence had spilled into the building at all. Things were relatively quiet on this side of town, and he wanted to see a newscast to understand what had happened. It also might give him an idea of how busy the police were going to be today and if they would have time to look for him.

He realized how hungry he was and slipped into a deli for a quick meal. The deli was crammed with rush-hour workers, but he saw an empty table with the TV just above it. He stood and stared at the TV set for a few moments as a story started to unfold about the events of the day before. Thomas Brothers was mentioned by name as being under investigation for funding terror groups. He held his breath, hoping he wasn’t identified specifically. He was mesmerized by the video of the Stand Up to Wall Street group going absolutely berserk along the financial district. Police cars and cabs were turned over and trashed. Later in the day people started throwing Molotov cocktails, and a fire spread through one of the parks north of the financial district.

These so-called protesters were nothing like the old Occupy Wall Street people. By comparison the Occupy people were a pleasant distraction. Their message was never clear. Everyone is against greed and abuse on Wall Street. They could have just as easily been against child molesters. Who is going to argue with that stance? But ultimately the Occupy movement left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth—or at least a bad smell in the cities where they protested. The parks where they camped were ecological disasters and needed to have the soil scraped off and replaced. The businesses near the protests were crippled when paying customers stopped frequenting them. The Occupy spokespeople rarely made sense or focused on issues that could be addressed. But they never caused widespread violence.

This time it was entirely different. Four people had been killed in separate incidents around New York, and in a suspected terror attack in Times Square at about five in the afternoon, a man detonated a crude homemade bomb consisting of a five-gallon can of gasoline wrapped in other explosive material and concealed in a suitcase. The blast incinerated the bomber and severely burned nine tourists, including a little girl from Toronto. But the focus of the unrest was clearly the financial district.

Walsh stared at the TV news, amazed at the scenes of chaos. Had this really been started by an errant trade? It couldn’t be. The markets in London and New York had both dropped drastically before computer trading had been halted, and an investigation into potential hacking was under way in both countries. That news only made things worse, with the early market indicators showing another bloodbath on the way today.

He caught another story about terror attacks and the bombing of a bank in Bern, Switzerland, and worried about his friend Bill Shepherd in Germany. Would American military bases be targets?

Then he knew what he had to do. His friends would help him, specifically, Mike Rosenberg at the CIA. He might have some insights as to what happened and how to fix it. Walsh just needed a phone. He recognized he should call Alena to tell her not to worry. He’d have done it yesterday if the day hadn’t been a blur. But right now he needed to reach Rosenberg. He tried to recall his friend’s personal cell number. He knew the area code was 757, and he remembered a few more digits. He had to try.

He took a step forward, and as he sat at a tiny round table, a woman next to him smiled and said hello. It took a moment to notice her, as he was still staring at the TV set. Finally Walsh nodded back and realized he might be able to get her to lend him a phone for a moment. He reached in his pocket as if looking for something, then said, “Dammit.”

The woman turned her head quickly to look at him.

Walsh turned to the woman and said, “Excuse me. I just realized I left my phone at home, and I needed to call the office.”

The woman, a little older than Walsh and obviously well-off in her Burberry jacket and Oscar de la Renta glasses, smiled and didn’t hesitate to retrieve an iPhone from her purse. “Be my guest.”

He knew he couldn’t get up to have a private conversation. It would make this woman nervous, and she might chase him as if he had stolen it. Instead, he dialed the number he thought would work. His heart raced as he heard the first ring, then the next. At five rings he was about to hang up when he heard his friend’s voice. It was a blunt and direct “Who’s this?”

“Mike, it’s Derek.”

“Tubby! Jesus Christ, what the hell is happening? You were just on the news here.”

Walsh glanced up at the TV and saw his driver’s license photo on the screen and heard the words “Wanted for questioning.” He stole a peek at the woman next to him to make certain she wasn’t seeing it. She was engrossed in a glossy magazine. His right hand moved up to his shaved head, and he remembered that thanks to the bald spot and glasses, he looked fifteen years older than that photo.

Walsh remained very casual as the woman at the next table turned a page in her magazine. “Hello, Mike, I lost my phone but wanted to talk when you had a chance. Is there a good time?”

“Are you insane?” His normally calm voice betrayed the stress he was under. “They’re blaming you for the apocalypse.”

“It’s literally just a big mistake, and I think I can prove it. I could use some help.” He kept his voice calm and words bland so as not to alert the woman sitting next to him.

The long pause and silence that followed unnerved him. Finally Rosenberg said, “Let me see if I can find anything on it. Get a cheap throwaway phone and call me later. Only call this number. And wait until after five. I don’t want to be on government property when you call.”

Walsh heard the stress in his friend’s voice and simply replied, “Roger that.”

The line went dead, and Walsh was left wondering if he’d made a mistake. Mike had sworn an oath to the country. That might include turning in a friend.

He needed a safe haven, and the only place he could think of was Alena’s apartment. He needed to feel her arms wrapped around him for a few minutes and to hear her soothing voice. At least she’d believe him.

Anton Severov sat in the backseat of the shabby little car Fannie was driving. He realized quickly he didn’t want her associate, Amir, to be sitting behind him at any point. With a fair command of English, the Iranian student made it clear that he had little use for Russia, either. But since they could help each other, Amir would put up with Severov and his mission. He didn’t get to be a major in the Red Army by ignoring threats that were right in front him. Severov kept Amir to the side and in front of him.

Fannie, on the other hand, had proven to be charming and had an excellent command of English. That was their only common language, and he enjoyed hearing her Gaelic lilt. She concentrated as she handled the beat-up Skoda Fabia hatchback that had seen better days. It had that curious chug that many of the Eastern European cars possessed. It was still a step up from most Russian vehicles, but nowhere near the luxurious Japanese or American cars that cost a fortune anywhere east of the Rhine.

Despite the distraction of a beautiful escort, Severov managed to make notes and take some photographs as they turned south toward Tartu on the Tartu Maantee. He made notes of the width of the road and buildings that might hinder the travel of their heavy tanks and supply vehicles. In several of the small villages along the beautiful Lake Peipus with its dark water and narrow beaches, the roads had patches of cobblestones, which had been there since the Middle Ages. The citizens wouldn’t be happy with the effects of tank tracks across their decorative streets.

After a while Fannie turned to him and said, “Have you traveled in the West much?”

“I’ve been to Germany and France a number of times and spent an entire year working at our embassy in London. That is where I was able to really polish my English. I had several trips to America as a military liaison, but most of my time in the army has been further east.” He stopped short of saying he had been in Georgia and Turkmenistan, where he had fought in Muslim rebellions.

“How did you find the United States? I’ve never been there.”

“Much of it lives up to everything we hear. It is a land of plenty, and there is ungodly waste. But I found the people to be pleasant and open, and the cuisine to be stolen from virtually every other country.” He was starting to chuckle at his little joke when he saw the look on Fannie’s face.

“They have stolen everything from others. Stolen Arab oil, Native American land, English determination, and some of the best and brightest people from every country. That is why we can work together now. It’s time someone taught them a lesson.”

Severov stared at the young woman and realized why it was so hard to defeat the Muslims in some of the Russian republics. This was not someone he wanted as an enemy. But he was still a little uneasy working with these two.

Joseph Katazin was quite pleased with himself. He wished his father were still alive to see how well he’d done. At this moment, in this place, no one was doing more for the well-being of Russia than he was. He swelled with pride as he thought about the plan he had developed with others and was now responsible for by himself. At least, he was responsible for large parts of the operation.

It was still early in the morning, but he didn’t want his wife and daughter disturbing him. He’d driven down to his office near the docks where he could see the new so-called Freedom Tower. These Americans and their ability to forget struggle and tragedy amazed him. A month after the attack on the World Trade Center, everything was back to normal in the sprawling country of plenty.

His business consisted of a loading dock, generally stacked with product to be shipped out as part of his import/export business, and a set of five offices. His was the nicest, with two wide windows, carpet, and several nice touches of decoration his wife had insisted on. The business had been in the same location for thirteen years. He never had to worry about making rent; if he fell behind on the import/export business he just asked for a supplement from his superiors, although it was rare he needed extra money.

The business employed five people legitimately, a secretary, a bookkeeper, and the men who worked on the loading dock. He had two additional employees, or at least men the company paid, but they rarely showed their face around the office. These two men thought he was part of the Russian mob and occasionally did things for him in his capacity of working for the Russian government. All they could tell the cops if they were captured was that they worked for a surly mob member who ran an import/export business. Let them prove that in court.

The man he had sent to watch Derek Walsh’s apartment, Serge Blattkoff, had proven to be unreliable. He had allowed the former marine to get the drop on him and take his weapon. Serge had a black eye and a broken nose to prove it. This wasn’t Hollywood. Katazin wouldn’t have the man killed. But he certainly wouldn’t trust him with more important missions on his own. However, he recognized that Serge’s embarrassment and anger over this incident would be useful, and the young thug would stop at nothing to get back at Walsh.

He had underestimated Derek Walsh, and now the man was a thorn in his side who must be plucked out. He was clearly not in custody. One of the sources said that he fled from FBI custody when rioters got out of control. It was a smart move, and frankly not one Katazin would have expected from the chunky Wall Street banker. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

Aside from Walsh’s disappearance, the operation seemed to be advancing well. It rested on several key elements. The first one was to use Walsh as the dupe to transfer monies from legitimate accounts to accounts in Switzerland where they could be immediately withdrawn. He was relying on a contact with one of the Islamic extremist groups to complete that task. She seemed to have done a pretty good job so far. A news report early this morning documented a “terror attack” on a major bank in Bern, Switzerland. Katazin realized that was the same bank he used to make the transfer, and the bombing was clearly covering someone’s tracks. He liked that.

The same associate had paid a fortune to a bank employee to somehow hack both the London and New York stock exchanges with a Russian-made computer algorithm that greatly affected the computer-generated trading. The algorithm exaggerated the appearance of the big funds’ selling positions. That caused everyone to actually sell in an effort to beat a tumbling market. That resulted in the massive sell-off and fueled the panic in the general public. The master work of programming had been done at Steklov Mathematical Institute and refined at the Kiev Computer Algebra School. Katazin understood some of it from his father’s work in mathematics. He knew that only the brightest had developed it and that it had cost a fortune to introduce into the computer systems.

Katazin had watched the news all day yesterday and was quite pleased with the results of his and his associates’ efforts to ramp up the chaos. Much of it took on a life of its own with some of the snotty and uninformed European youth protesting any and all American businesses and military installations. It made him chuckle.

The next phase of the operation was ongoing and involved over a hundred individual, lone wolf terror attacks across Western Europe and the United States. Some of these attacks had been attributed to the growing civil unrest and were not even covered by the network news.

All of this activity was just a prelude to what the Kremlin actually wanted to accomplish. Their goal was to swallow up another republic. An important one. Their eyes were set firmly on Estonia, the most advanced and most wired country in Eastern Europe. The Estonian infrastructure would provide Russia with a means of communicating and transferring money unlike anything they had had in the past. It would be a new world, with more land and a base from which the military could move into Latvia and eventually Belarus.

He marveled at how the Americans couldn’t understand why Russia continued to make threatening noises when the U.S. did virtually nothing to stop its successful annexation of Crimea and its continued efforts to bring Ukraine back into the fold.

He doubted anyone realized there were still Russian agents planted inside the continental United States. He knew he wasn’t alone. There were others he could call on if things got tough. They were too far into the operation to abandon it now.

If he could just find Derek Walsh.