Putin's Gambit

24

Derek Walsh watched the Russian as he paused near a parked BMW. There was no one else on the street near them, and if they were up to something criminal, now was the time to do it. The only thing that made Walsh wonder if this was some sort of criminal transaction was the young woman who was standing near the skinny tattooed man the Russian was talking to. She looked like she was totally out of place. She had no interest in what was going on. It made Walsh hesitate. He didn’t want to put anyone else in danger unnecessarily.

But his whole life was unraveling, and this guy was the key to it. He had held him and Alena at gunpoint. Walsh could tell the cops everything that had happened. All he needed was an excuse to use his pistol as he approached the man. He knew he could put a couple of rounds into him before the man pulled his own gun, which Walsh was sure he had on him.

He stepped around the corner and onto the sidewalk. Now if the Russian looked up he’d see Walsh. He started to walk forward, knowing that he would have to take action as soon as he was noticed.

Joseph Katazin kept Lenny Tallett’s attention as he made a show of fishing for the key, then slowly inserting it in the door of his BMW. Right now his big choice was whether to use the pistol and drive away or open the door, act like he was reaching for a pack of money, but instead grab his knife and run it up into Tallett’s throat. His only concern there was that the girl would be alert enough to run immediately. Then he’d have one more loose end. But it would be quieter to use the knife.

He opened the door and said to both of them, “Come closer, I got something you’ll like in here.”

That got the bored girl interested in leaning into the car, and Tallett just wanted his money. He moved closer to the car as well.

Katazin’s heart rate increased as he decided to use the knife. He made one quick sweep with his eyes from one end of the street to the other. He noticed a man on the corner and paused. That wasn’t what made him hesitate. It was the police cruiser pulling up slowly and stopping on the curb just behind the man.

Katazin said out loud, “Damn it.”

Tallett looked up and saw the cops. He muttered, “Be cool, be cool.”

Katazin was annoyed at the obvious instruction but realized the skinny street rat knew more about dealing with local cops than he did. He needed another plan and needed it quickly, so he slipped into the driver’s seat of the car and said, “Meet me at South Ferry in two hours. I’ll be on the dock. I’ll have all of your cash then. It’s not safe to give it to you now.” He saw the barest of nods from Tallett, then pulled the door shut, started the car, and calmly pulled away from the curb, turning down an alley before he had to pass the police car.

Walsh heard the vehicle before he saw the reflection of the NYPD cruiser in the window of the shop he was in front of. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself, so he kept walking toward the white BMW as he casually removed the baseball cap so anyone looking at him would think he was an older, balding man. Now that he had a gray stubble growing on his chin, the aging effect was more pronounced.

Almost immediately the Russian slipped into the car and pulled away from the curb, coming straight toward Walsh. At this point he didn’t care if the man saw him or not. All he really needed was the license plate. It would almost be worth the risk to tell the cops to stop the car, but he doubted they would act fast enough or believe him, and then he’d be in custody with nothing.

After a few more steps the car came toward him, and he could hear the engine was badly out of tune. He barely noticed the young couple as they walked away from him on the opposite sidewalk. All he could think of was getting the license plate.

The BMW came closer, but from behind him he heard, “Excuse me, sir.” It was the cop. Walsh didn’t want to take his eyes off the BMW, but he didn’t want to raise the cop’s suspicions, either.

He slowly turned and noticed the BMW make a hard right down an alley. The opportunity was lost, and now he faced two of New York’s finest. They weren’t dressed in regular patrol clothes but appeared to be some kind of tactical team. They might have been dressed like that just because of the recent civil unrest, but Walsh was uneasy about it. The black fatigue pants and long-sleeve turtleneck T-shirts with NYPD logos made them look like combat troops.

Both of the cops were younger than Walsh and very fit. The officer addressing him was a black man with a shaved head. The driver, standing by the cruiser, had the pale, freckled face of a third-generation Irish cop. Squared away in tactically prepared positions, they appeared highly professional.

This could be trouble. He had to think fast.

Fannie Legat had an idea what was about to happen to Amir, but she was still shocked when she saw him turn to run back toward the bridge and one of the Russian soldiers struck him in the head with the butt of his machine gun. Then Anton Severov turned and raised his hands as he shrugged his shoulders with that goofy smile of his. He was protecting her the best way he knew how. In truth, it probably saved her the trouble of shooting the little Iranian before he could say anything to their superiors. Now she could blame the Russians, and there was really nothing her group could do about it. For the most part it seemed like they didn’t trust Amir anyway because he was an Iranian. But the Iranians had wormed their way into a number of groups, either through financing or people with the right education, and none of them were particularly well liked in the radical circles. That might change once they got nuclear weapons, but for now they seemed to be more of a nuisance than anything else. Their efforts to control ISIS in Iraq had infuriated many, even though ISIS had made its own enemies within the radical world. Now, at least officially, Iran was at war with ISIS.

She waited until the Russian military transport had driven off to the east and out of sight. She didn’t think Severov was cold-blooded enough to just murder Amir. He would find some job for him that would keep him safely stashed far into the Russian homeland, and maybe the crazy Iranian would find his way home one day.

It was time to focus on the operation once again. She started down the same highway headed south, only this time she intended to catch a flight from Tartu to Stuttgart and get back to business immediately. If the Russians did invade as she thought they would, anything she did to slow down the Americans would be helpful. Now her main target would have to be her marine major, Bill Shepherd. And she had the entire flight home to figure out exactly how she could use him.

Walsh knew not to do anything stupid or sudden, so he put on a smile and said calmly, “What can I do for you, officers?”

It was clear the passenger was going to do all the talking, as the driver stayed right next to the cruiser. Years of abuse and unnecessary officers’ deaths had trained them not to get too close to people immediately.

The young man who was addressing Walsh had a very dark complexion, and his head was shiny in the midday sun. He said, “We were just wondering what you were doing on the street alone. We haven’t seen many pedestrians the last few days in this area.”

Walsh didn’t know if it was a trick to get him to say something that would reveal his identity or if it was just a “stop-and-talk,” as the cops liked to call it. He considered his options, and short of pulling his pistol and shooting fast, there were none. And no matter what he had done or how many years he could be facing in jail for something he didn’t do, Walsh was not about to shoot police officers just doing their job. But he did decide that he wouldn’t make it easy for them.

Walsh said, “Oh. I get it.”

The cop gave him a quizzical look and said, “Get what?”

“In order to continue to do your stop-and-frisks, you have to get a certain number of white people in nice areas so the numbers even out. I don’t agree with that, son.” He liked throwing in the “son” to make himself seem older, even though he was probably only three or four years older than this guy.

“Not sure what you’re talking about, sir.”

That made Walsh wonder if the cop threw in the word “sir” to indicate to him that he was an old man. Either way, Walsh had this guy on the line. He said, “I’m talking about how you guys constantly ignore Mayor de Blasio and continue to do things like stop-and-frisk even though he said the practice would stop.”

The cop near the car said, “And look where it’s gotten us the last few days.”

The black cop who had been talking to Walsh turned and gave his partner a sharp look that shut him up. He quickly turned his attention back to Walsh.

Walsh said, “I know you think he took the teeth out of enforcement and that he’s cutting back on your authority, but picking on me when I’m not doing anything at all is not going to help.”

The cop looked truly confused now and said, “All I said was, ‘Excuse me, sir.’ I don’t know where the rest of this is coming from.”

“It’s coming from a citizen who believed the mayor when he said he’d stop making the city a police state. What’s your probable cause for stopping me?”

“First of all, I don’t need probable cause to stop you. Second of all, I am not stopping you, I was just going to talk to you.”

“Am I under arrest or am I free to go?” Walsh had seen some attorney on TV say that was a phrase that forced cops to make a decision. Never give them a third choice.

The cop hesitated as he formed an answer. He was no idiot.

Walsh was ready with his next response when the cop turned as a radio call came over his handheld. The cops exchanged a quick look after a series of codes and an address not far from where they were standing.

Walsh recognized that the cop looked relieved they were getting a call.

The cop looked at him one more time and said, “Have a good day,” and as he slid into the car, Walsh heard him mutter, “Dickwad.”