Putin's Gambit

18

Anton Severov was surprised Fannie could slip out of his room without him knowing it. It just showed how exhausted he was from preparing for this operation and the effect of his vigorous bout of lovemaking with the beautiful French Muslim. He wanted to believe she had some sort of feelings for him, but based on how she described her relationship with an American marine officer, he wasn’t about to let any vital information slip. She was giving him an insight into the Muslim mind, and maybe he would understand the Georgian, Chechen, and other Muslim troops under his command a little better. They always seemed distant and defiant, but maybe they really believed they had reasons for that sort of attitude.

He got dressed in the crowded, tiny room and shoved his few pieces of clothing and a notebook into a worn-out duffel bag he’d carried across the border into Estonia. He needed to make a report and would use the special phone he was told was secure, although as with much of the equipment issued in Russia, claims of its effectiveness were almost always exaggerated.

It was still early, barely seven in the morning, and he hoped he’d beaten Fannie and Amir by at least an hour. He needed some quiet time to make more notes and the phone call. First he had to get a little food in him, and the tiny café attached to the hotel offered a good selection of rolls and Danish. The TV behind the counter where a heavyset woman poured him some coffee was set on the BBC and broadcast in English. He wondered if that was because of the expanding tourist trade. The European Union had worked wonders for Eastern Europe, and the conversion to the euro had made travel considerably easier for some of the wealthier residents of Europe. Estonia, with its good Internet infrastructure and ability to reach out to other parts of the continent, had gotten more than its share of eager tourists interested in the history and culture of the former Soviet Union satellite.

The reports on TV showed the rest of the continent in disarray, especially Great Britain and Germany. That was exactly what Severov wanted to see. If those two allies of the United States were seeing such violence, it would make it harder for the military to come to the aid of Estonia. He had seen a few protests on the streets during the drive, but overall the quaint country had been quite peaceful and calm. Sometimes he felt as if he were on a vacation rather than an assignment, and he would have to thank his commander when he returned home. The old man had gotten it exactly right.

Severov was still worried about his tanks and company, but now he would have a clear idea of how to cut across the country most efficiently. His plans now included how to avoid historic areas and not crush beautiful cobblestone streets. He would keep his reasons for making certain detours to himself, but it was his most sincere hope they could accomplish this operation without having to shatter the lives of the pleasant Estonian people he had met.

He finished his coffee and Danish and was about to step outside to make the phone call when Amir entered the empty dining room, marched directly to Severov, and said, “We must discuss something of great importance.”

Major Bill Shepherd had grabbed a few hours’ sleep before he received a message personally delivered by an army corporal who worked for the base commander. The young man almost looked embarrassed to hand him the note. It simply told Shepherd he needed to be in the main administrative building at 1000 hours to have an “informal discussion” with an ad hoc board of inquiry comprised of military and civilian personnel about the incident the night before involving the terror attack.

Even though he had a little time, the major realized he couldn’t fall back asleep, so he shaved and slipped into a clean uniform. He specifically didn’t wear a dress uniform or show any of his ribbons on his utility blouse. He wanted to make it clear that it was just another day and he didn’t consider this anything more than an annoyance.

Shepherd recognized that if it was serious, the base commander would’ve given him more information and he’d be entitled to consult with an attorney. He’d have to wait for a judge advocate general to come from Berlin. This sounded like they just wanted a clear report of what had happened.

He watched an army captain supervise the reinforcing of the front gate after the vehicle had been run into it and the suicide bomber had detonated his explosives. It only took five minutes to see that the squared-away young captain knew what he was doing. The terror attack had had the unexpected consequence of dissipating the protest and dispersing the protesters back into Stuttgart. A few lonely and bored-looking German police officers waited on the fringes of the base in case someone came back, and a handful of investigators were picking up whatever forensic evidence of the blast remained.

Major Shepherd walked along the paved road toward the main administrative complex and the large conference room where he was about to face an inquiry by both military and civilian personnel about what had happened when the bomb exploded. There were persistent reports in the media that the marines had thrown grenades into the crowd in an effort to disperse them, and two FBI agents had been sent by the small liaison office in Berlin to make an official report. It was this sort of nonsense that wasted time during critical incidents that frustrated all military officers. But Shepherd was a pro and wasn’t going to let these people get under his skin.

He had the casualty figures from the night before and was embarrassed to admit he was relieved no U.S. military personnel were killed. Six soldiers and three marines were wounded, two by the car barreling into the fence and the others by shrapnel from the explosion in the crowd. None of the injuries appeared to be serious, and more men were coming in today to help in the security of the base.

The commanding general himself welcomed Shepherd into the wide conference room that housed the long table. The general, a short, blocky man, looked like he had been born in the army with a crew cut, squared jaw, and arms that could lift a Humvee. He had a bland midwestern accent as he introduced Shepherd to the three other people at the table. One was the base provost, who technically was responsible for the defenses that Shepherd took over. The lieutenant colonel with sandy hair and a craggy face showed no offense at Shepherd stepping into the job; nor had he ever impressed Shepherd as being interested in protecting his turf. The man just wanted the base to be safe and any security matters to be handled efficiently.

A middle-aged woman with dark hair was a representative of the German Ministry of Justice, and he suspected she’d been sent to the panel because she could get there quickly and she had an excellent grasp of English.

The final member, Maria Alonso, was an attractive woman in her early thirties who had sharp, intelligent eyes. She was from the FBI legal attaché in Berlin, acting as liaison with the German police.

After the introductions, Shepherd shifted his lanky frame into the hard wooden chair on the other side of the table and looked across with the feeling that he was being interrogated.

He went through a brief description of the threat they had felt as protesters came closer to the fence and then someone ran a car into it. He made it clear that at no time were hand grenades ever considered as part of defense and that no one issued hand grenades. The first question from the German Ministry of Justice representative supported his concern.

The German woman said in accented English, “But you did have rifles, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am. We are part of the U.S. military. That involves being armed and defending ourselves and our country.”

The German woman said, “Which would’ve meant shooting down innocent German civilians if things had gotten worse.”

“Is that a question or comment?”

“A question, Major. We are only here to ask questions.”

“I cannot say for sure we would not have fired on the crowd if they had broken into the base, but it would have been in self-defense, as a last resort and with only a few designated targets. That has always been our plan. We showed tremendous restraint, and frankly, the German police did nothing to help us. Is that part of your plan, madam? Leave us to fend for ourselves and take the blame if something goes wrong?”

The base commander said in a calm tone, “Let’s keep this civil, Major. No one is questioning your leadership.” He turned his head and looked down the table at the others and said, “I, for one, think you did an outstanding job. But we have been requested by the German government to look into the matter fully. And look into the matter we will. Is that clearly understood?”

All Shepherd said was, “It is, sir.”

He caught a smile sweep over the FBI agent’s pretty face. It wasn’t condescending. It was mischievous.

Joseph Katazin sat in the older BMW in his own driveway in Brooklyn. He conducted some business directly out of his house, but it was the middle of the night, and he knew this call would test his patience. All the lights were out inside the house, with only the front porch light burning. Occasionally his wife would wait up for him if she really thought he was working at the import/export business. But in the past few years she had realized he had a number of extracurricular activities. She felt certain she knew what they were, but in reality she had no clue. As far as she was concerned he wasn’t even a Russian but a Ukrainian. Like most other Americans, she barely knew the difference.

As soon as his phone had rung and he saw the number—because no one on this phone had names attached to the numbers—he knew there was a problem. He answered the phone tersely with a simple “Yes” in English.

The American on the other end of the phone read his tone correctly. He jumped right into it. “I can’t guarantee we’ll have many protesters tomorrow.”

Katazin kept his tone cold and businesslike. “You told me four or five days of protests would be no problem.”

“That’s before bombs went off around the world and killed a bunch of protesters other places.”

“There were no protesters killed in New York.”

“There was a scare in the crowd across the Thomas Brothers courtyard today. A cop, or his K-9, picked a guy out of the crowd that they thought had a bomb. It was crazy for a few minutes and scared some of the protesters. Now I hear a lot of them say they’re going to take a day off. Maybe more.”

Katazin didn’t like the sound of this. It was essential for their operation to have four days of protests at a minimum. That would focus people’s attention away from potential military action as well as tie up resources. This was one of the easiest parts of the operation, and now it was taking a turn.

Katazin said, “Let’s meet sometime in the morning. You keep your people organizing and stirring up new protesters.”

“This isn’t a money thing. It’s a real problem. That is why I called.”

“If I’m able to pay you an additional twenty thousand dollars, will we have some loud protests outside Thomas Brothers Financial?”

There was a long hesitation, then, “Probably.”

“Then it is a money problem.”

Major Anton Severov felt it was smarter to take his conversation with the clearly agitated Amir out of the dining room and onto the sidewalk. Once they were safely outside, Severov calmly asked Amir what he wanted to talk about.

The smaller man bowed up, trying to look tough, but his rumpled pullover shirt with its collar partway up and out-of-date blue pants that looked like they belonged to a suit made him more of a caricature. His black hair was slicked back by some ungodly-smelling ointment, but he still had that crazed look in his brown eyes. This wasn’t the same Amir who had merely been irritating for the last two days; this was a man who was truly pissed off.

Severov took a half step away from the angry Iranian and said, “What’s wrong, Amir?”

“I have been honest in my feelings about Russia, as well as the United States. I think you are both decadent and about to be crushed under the wheels of history. But at this moment I’m sworn to help your cause. I must warn you I will not tolerate you defiling our women.”

“Defiling your women? I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He quickly glanced around the sidewalk in front of the hotel’s café in case he needed a weapon. There was nothing within reach.

Amir said, “You know exactly what I am talking about. You and Fannie lay together last night, and it is an affront to our beliefs.”

“My beliefs, my people’s beliefs, include the right of free will and a woman’s choice. Don’t lecture me about decisions I make about my personal life. And I will tell you right now not to bother Fannie about it, either.”

“You think I’m some kind of desert nomad. An idiot you can twist around with silly phrases. I am a graduate of the Lebanese University.”

Severov had to keep from bursting out laughing at that. In a mocking tone he said, “Ohh, Lebanese University, I am impressed. I’ve heard it called the Oxford of shitty universities in the Third World.” He could tell it took the little Iranian a few seconds to understand the odd American idiom, but when he did, his dark face flushed red and he stormed away from the hotel.

Severov realized it might not have been the smartest thing to do, but it sure felt good. He wondered how much he’d appreciate it when he had to watch his back the rest of the trip.

The hotel Walsh had found was everything he thought it would be: cheap, uncomfortable, smelly, and two blocks from Times Square. The Hanely Hotel was a narrow swath of sixty rooms wedged between an office building and a storage facility. It catered to tourists on a real budget or Europeans who didn’t check reviews. The nice thing was that Walsh and Alena seemed to be the only customers, and the clerk understood that an extra twenty bucks meant he wouldn’t ask for ID. The kid from the Bronx even said Walsh and Alena didn’t look like “wild-assed terrorists,” so he didn’t think there would be a problem.

They got settled in their room, which held a queen bed with the headboard pushed against the wall and about a foot of space around it on the other three sides. Alena was in no mood for small talk or cuddling once she was done showering in the minuscule bathroom and flopped into the bed wearing only a white towel with a brown stain in the middle.

Now Walsh was thinking tactically, and he liked the corner room that had access to a stairwell directly across from it or the elevators in the middle of the hallway. Looking out the window from the fourth floor, he could see the street below and anyone walking toward the front of the hotel. He had somehow managed to keep the pistol from Alena’s sight and hoped he didn’t have to explain it. He folded it into his pants and left them on the nightstand as he lay down in bed wearing his undershirt and underwear. Alena was snoring quietly a few minutes after the lights went out.

Walsh tossed and turned as he considered what had happened. He wished he could talk to his three best friends from his time in the marines. Mike Rosenberg was already helping him, and he knew Bill Shepherd probably had his hands full on the base in Germany. He wondered how Ronald Jackson would have viewed the situation. Each of them had strengths and weaknesses, but together they seemed to form the perfect team.

Ronald Jackson had devoted his life to the marines and knew every policy forward and back. He was the bedrock of their friendship. He also had an uncanny ability to locate the best activities during their leaves. A day in a Mediterranean port city and Ron could create enough good times to remember for a lifetime.

Michael Rosenberg was the smartest of the bunch. Perhaps “smart” was not the right word. He was clever, tricky. He had a way of viewing situations and looking at things that no one else would consider. He could piece together fragments of information into a simple report any grunt on the frontline could understand.

Despite his Boy Scout appearance and perpetually shaggy hair, at least for a marine, Bill Shepherd remained calm and unflappable in every possible situation. His demeanor was the same when they were having dinner as it was when they were under fire from an enemy mortar. His clear-headed thinking had saved them a number of times.

That made Walsh take a hard look at himself to figure out what he added to the group. It was clear, perhaps not heroic or sexy but obvious: He was organized. Not in a simple, keeping-things-clean kind of way but from the very basis of his being. He could look at anything and understand how it could be sorted or displayed. No one looked at someone who was good with numbers as heroic, but they always needed him around. He could put together a spreadsheet or expense record and make anyone understand how money was spent. But now, in his current situation, he had to look within himself and discover if he could do more. Maybe this was the kind of test he had expected his whole life. Instead, he had skated from one situation to another without any real hardship.

It looked like those days were over now.

Severov had been unnerved by his conversation with Amir. He needed to talk to someone he could relate to. It was a little early to be calling on the special cell phone he’d been provided. It was supposed to connect him directly to his commanding officer, who had sent him on this crazy mission in the first place. He was surprised to hear a different voice pick up the phone. It took him a minute to recognize the Georgian accent and realize it was the colonel’s adjunct, a Muslim officer who had barely given Severov the time of day.

Severov said, “I need to speak to the colonel.”

“He’s busy. He said you can give me your report and I’ll pass it on to him.”

“Why would I give a report to you? He’s my commanding officer. Give the phone to him now or be prepared to explain to him later why he received no report.”

He heard grunts and then a long pause before the colonel came on the phone. The colonel was in a typical jolly mood and seemed to have more questions about Severov’s trip and how pretty the girls in Estonia were than about the tactical issues he had been sent to study.

The colonel said, “What does it look like, Anton? Will the roads support our convoys?”

“Yes, sir. And I have a good track through Estonia. The rail lines can handle the heavy follow-on equipment and tanks. We won’t damage too much infrastructure and will be able to use the country’s electronic and Internet capabilities almost immediately. I estimate it will take us two days to reach the far border.”

“That is excellent news.” There was a pause, and Severov was certain the colonel was thinking something over. Then he said, “How are your guides?”

“They are certainly different from us.”

“Of course they are. They’re Muslims. Those desert folk aren’t used to the twenty-first century.” The colonel let loose with a loud cackle.

Suddenly Severov realized how wrong they had all been. Fannie and Amir were true Muslims. True believers all the way. The stereotype of the crazy, headgear-wearing nut was part of their strategy. No one in the Russian hierarchy took them seriously. They would never look at someone like Fannie and think she was a crazed zealot. But he knew she was a killer. They looked just like everyone else, but they were a dangerous bunch. More dangerous than a tank rolling down the middle of the street. At least then everyone knew there was danger. It instilled fear and made people get out of the way. A man with a bomb wrapped around his chest gave no warning.

Severov had realized that Amir’s fanatical need to cling to tradition and keep Fannie in what he considered her “place” was a minor manifestation of devotion to a cause, but that didn’t mean he was a lunatic. Both Amir and Fannie were the perfect example of what the West should fear from Islamic extremists. They were in no way “desert folk” and certainly more tech-savvy than the tubby colonel, who viewed them as dimwitted. It was difficult for most Westerners to understand the attitudes about life held by people willing to give their own lives to further their cause. Amir clearly had other personal reasons for being so interested in Fannie, but it was also his culture.

Severov finally answered his commanding officer’s question. “The guides have been helpful, but there is much I must tell you in person.

The colonel said, “That’s fine, because we’re going to move sooner than we planned. You should head back toward the border and double-check our route. Violence is subsiding in the West, and we’ll need you to lead your tank platoons. How does that sound?”

Severov took a moment to look over his shoulder and see that Fannie had joined Amir near the front door of the hotel. “It sounds a lot safer than staying here.”

It’d been a long day, and Vladimir Putin was happy to be back at his palace at Novo-Ogaryovo. He treasured the residence that had been built in the fifties and felt he used it most effectively. Not only was it his retreat from the stresses of his job, but it was his main office. Even though that was a contradiction in terms, he appreciated the time and effort it saved him of traveling into the main part of the city every day. He also enjoyed the grounds that were stocked with wildlife and the pool and workout areas that were never more than a few minutes’ walk away.

He was surprised and not particularly pleased to be told that Yuri Simplov was waiting for him in his official office. Yuri was one of the few people who could ask for admittance in his absence and be allowed to wait. It was late and Putin was tired, and he would’ve preferred to hear any updates in the morning.

When they were alone in the office, Putin went to the comfortable chair behind the desk, making sure Yuri realized he still answered to Putin on everything. Putin said, “I really want to make sure you and I do not have more contact than usual during this critical period.”

Simplov said, “But it’s not unusual for us to talk four or five times a week.”

“Yes, but many of those conversations are over the phone.”

“I understand, but there is much to talk about,” Simplov said.

“I just finished briefing Andre on the operation and trying to explain to him that the protests in the U.S. and Germany were unplanned and spontaneous,” Putin said, “but now our agents are working to influence them. That is correct, no?”

“Our man in New York has taken advantage of an existing protest group and hired contractors to help incite them,” Simplov said. “Germany is a different story. The German youth have been looking for a cause to protest and are anxious to convince the U.S. that Germany no longer needs them as a military force in the country. Their protests turned violent quickly without much prodding from us. But to be accurate, some of their protest groups were already controlled by our SVR agents.”

Putin nodded and said, “Very good. It makes excellent television and focuses everyone’s attention on an issue that doesn’t even really exist. Sometimes fate smiles upon us.” He knew the power of the media and how an intelligence agency could use it. Years earlier, he had directed Yuri to plant four bombs in apartments all across Russia, including Moscow. In September 1999, the blasts killed more than three hundred people and injured seventeen hundred. The country was outraged to learn that Chechen rebels were responsible. The administration had used it as an excuse to start the Second Chechen War by bombing Grozny, and Putin had used that success as a way to succeed Boris Yeltsin as president.

There had always been rumors that the FSB had been involved, and there was even an arrest of three FSB agents who were planting additional bombs. But the agency claimed it was a training exercise, and nothing was ever proven. The Duma rejected calls for an investigation, and all Putin had to do for that was make sure key members were appointed to vital positions of power. That included his friend Andre Maysak.

Putin looked across the desk at Yuri and said, “Where are we in our current operation? And start with the bad news first.”

“We have lost the U.S. trader whose account we used to transfer the money. He knows nothing about us, but the FBI might be able to use him to find a connection to us. Initially, we hoped to eliminate him and make it look like a suicide. He has been much more resourceful than we expected. Still, our man in New York is determined to find him.

“You’ve already seen news reports that the Swiss bank was destroyed by a massive explosive device,” Simplov said. “That was done by our allies. The blast killed the young man who introduced the algorithm into the stock exchanges. It also eliminated the original computer and will greatly slow down any investigation into the algorithm. If anyone is ever able to piece together what happened or who developed the program, it will be long after we have taken complete control of Estonia.”

Putin nodded but refrained from giving any specific praise. This was the SVR’s job, after all. The whole idea was for the agency to control situations like this, and he was not particularly happy there was a loose end like the missing trader.

Yuri said, “The terror attacks are drawing all the media attention, as well as the law enforcement and intelligence attention, in the Western countries. As we talked about earlier, the initial wave of attacks has run out of steam, and now the attacks are occurring with much less frequency. Some of these attacks were planned but had to be delayed for one reason or another. I think it is all working out to our advantage.

“The military is preparing to move and have conducted an in-depth reconnaissance of their route. We did make use of a talented Muslim to help there, but I’m assured the connection is secure. There appear to be no issues, and the Estonian defense force will provide little, if any, resistance. We feel that the sight of Russian tanks rolling across the border will be enough to cause them to surrender.”

That was what Putin wanted to hear. Now he said, “So we can now focus on the military aspect of the operation. The Muslims have completed their assignments. We will see how long our truce lasts with them.”

Simplov nodded his head. “I can have our contacts in ISIL eliminated, if you don’t think we will ever have need of them again. We could even eliminate their contact whom we used during our recon of Estonia. I understand, however, she is French by birth and is gifted with languages. We might have more use for her later if you are comfortable with it.”

Putin nodded his head. “We can always use good people. Leave the contact alone unless there is a problem.”

“And the leaders in ISIL? We are technically fighting them in Syria.”

Putin shook his head. “If this is successful, who knows what we will do in the future. There will always be rumors about who we do and do not work with. This throws some mystery into the mix. I just want to be clear, and this is important, the military phase can begin now, correct?”

Yuri smiled and said, “Without delay.”