Putin's Gambit

31

Derek Walsh cut across two streets and saw a brightly lit gas station and a woman standing next to a VW sedan at the pump. The driver’s door was open, so Walsh bolted directly into the car, turned the key in the ignition, and sped away without a second thought. He was just under the street light when he heard shouting in Russian and then the rear window of the sedan shattered. He looked over his shoulder to see that the middle-aged woman in a long overcoat had a revolver in her hand and was firing at him. What was up with these Russians? He never planned to come to Brooklyn again.

He continued north and skipped the Brooklyn Bridge, instead turning onto the island of Manhattan by way of the Williamsburg Bridge. He turned north a few blocks and then left the car, with the key still in the ignition, near Houston Street. It was too late to go by Thomas Brothers. At least with the revelations about Alena, he now believed Ted Marshall was on the level and could be useful. There was no telling what the FBI thought of him right now. It seemed like Tonya Stratford was on the verge of believing him, but her partner was on the verge of shooting him.

He needed to figure out where to go. Then he had an idea.

Walsh had spent more than an hour sitting on a bench in a park off Houston Street. Only a few people had cut across the park in the time he’d been sitting alone, and that suited him just fine. He was still in shock but starting to accept the fact that he’d been used. He’d been used in the worst possible way. He’d been used against his own government. He felt violated. None of these feelings bothered him, because they kept his mind off Alena. Walsh couldn’t accept that she didn’t have feelings for him. It might have been an assignment, but it morphed into something else. Luckily she would never be able to refute that. He’d already heard on the news that two people had died in a police raid in Brooklyn. He hoped that meant all three of the wounded FBI agents would survive.

Something else that had struck him in the past few hours was the fact that he had been sitting on the sidelines while something like this was cooking. In the marines he felt like he had a purpose. In the financial world he just felt like a tool. He needed a purpose. All marines needed a purpose.

He no longer just wanted to clear his name. It wasn’t about him anymore. It was about stopping this plot and its ultimate goal. He was ready to turn himself in, but maybe he could help the FBI. He felt that Tonya Stratford might be realizing that about now. He had purposely kept his phone turned off in case they had some way to track him he wasn’t aware of. He also wasn’t ready to take any calls.

Finally, when he’d had enough time in the park to clear his head, he started walking toward Bleecker Street. It didn’t take long until he saw several men huddled in front of a doorway. It was the shelter Charlie had taken him to for his one night of decent rest.

Before he even reached the door one of the men turned, and he could see it was his friend. The former Army Ranger waved and said, “I’ve been worried about you.”

“You and me both, brother.”

Anton Severov had barely shut his eyes when he heard shouts and a commotion not far from his cot. He bounced up immediately and saw that flames were rising into the night sky a couple of hundred yards from his position. He slipped on his boots and tunic and, fastening buttons as he went, jogged toward the commotion.

As he approached, several officers were running the same direction he was, while many of the enlisted men were moving away from the flames. He could see three trucks were clearly on fire, and there was a group of about thirty men in front of the trucks chanting something.

Severov recognized a sergeant watching the spectacle and said, “What the hell is going on?”

“It’s the Chechen recruits, sir. Something has them all stirred up. They just keep chanting, ‘God is great.’”

“Has anyone tried to disperse them?”

“No one is sure how much force we can use.”

Severov snatched the AK-47 from the man, stepped forward, and fired a burst into the air. That caught everyone’s attention and spurred several other officers to action. Someone struck one of the Chechens with the butt of a gun and knocked him to the ground. Others started shouting for all of the men to sit down and put their hands on their heads. That opened the way for others to move forward and use fire extinguishers on the burning trucks.

It was some kind of demonstration, or possibly a revolt. Severov realized that if it had gone on longer it might’ve sucked in more of the Chechen recruits and could have ignited into something more serious.

It took a little time for Severov to find Amir. He was looking for his former guide to see if he had anything to do with the revolt. If he established that Amir instigated it, Severov wouldn’t have any issues with shooting the Iranian punk.

He found Amir sitting with the group of young Chechen recruits, with one of the men translating from English to the others. Amir was holding an impromptu class on Islam and the future. Severov held back and listened to see if the man said anything that would incriminate him.

Amir said, “This is a wonderful opportunity to embarrass the Great Satan. Americans are greedy and don’t follow the tenets of Islam. Most of them have no faith at all and have been left wandering by their leaders. You have a chance to find glory for our cause.”

Severov listened as a translator repeated everything in Chechen, with a slight Chantish accent. He recognized him as a sergeant who worked in the motor pool. Many of the Chechens were reduced to more menial jobs. That might change after tonight.

Amir looked over to Severov and smiled. He knew there was nothing the Russian major would do in front of an audience of Chechen truck drivers. He couldn’t hide his satisfaction at seeing flames behind the major’s profile.

Severov knew he’d have to deal with this terrorist sooner rather than later.

Mike Rosenberg prided himself on keeping his cool. As a G-2 in the marines he frequently went out on missions with the platoons who were receiving his intelligence. He even managed to get permission for Derek Walsh to come on a couple of the missions, although most of them were relatively quiet.

His toughest combat assignment was in Afghanistan when the small unit on patrol that he was attached to came under attack and was forced into a defensive position between two mountains. They never knew the exact number of enemy combatants facing them, but from the rate of fire Rosenberg had estimated that somewhere between 120 and 150 fighters had converged on the spot after the first few hours of the fight.

Their radio operator had been killed in the initial assault, and it took an enterprising Apache pilot to start searching for them off the usual trails. In the hours that they were pinned down by enemy fire, Rosenberg kept his cool and returned fire when he had a clear target and generally tried to keep his head on straight. The Apache pilot managed to scatter some of the closest fighters and call in an air strike, which to this day was etched in Rosenberg’s memory like a still photograph.

The four F-15s roared across the valley and dropped a mixture of ordnance that was so explosive it sucked the air out of his lungs for a moment. The few trees and exposed boulders were vaporized instantly.

He stepped out from behind cover and looked out over a barren valley, knowing no one had survived the air strike. But he was never scared.

At this moment, he had to admit he was in a panic. He had just found one of his best friend’s phone number on the toll records of a suspected terrorist. He had gone through dozens of potential explanations, and none of them panned out in his brain. His next thought was that if he found these records, someone else would be onto them very soon as well. He doubted the FBI would waste much time in tracking down Bill Shepherd, and Rosenberg’s fear was that they wouldn’t give him a chance to explain. Exactly like what had happened with Derek Walsh. It was this mistrust of the premier federal law enforcement agency that had Rosenberg incapacitated with fear. He had nowhere to turn.

He checked the toll records again and saw that Shepherd had called the number and the number had called Shepherd at least nine times in the past month. This wasn’t just a wrong number.

He looked up at the clock. Now it was nearly nine o’clock, which made it about three in Germany. He didn’t know if he could wait much longer.