Putin's Gambit

34

Even by Mike Rosenberg’s standards of getting up early, this was ridiculous. It was still the middle of the night, and the house he was living in felt unnaturally quiet. At least in apartments and barracks you often heard the neighbors. Here in suburban Maryland it was like a graveyard. He was trying to call Bill Shepherd to find out why his number was on the toll records of a suspected terrorist. During the night he wondered if his friend even had an idea who he was calling. Maybe it was a front business. Maybe it was just a mistake. God, let it be an honest mistake.

The number continued to go directly to voicemail, and he finally left a message, hoping Shepherd would call him back as soon as he turned on the phone. The frustration was eating him alive. This was not only personal; there was the very real element of duty involved in it as well. This was ultimately CIA business, and even if he was going to have trouble explaining it to his bosses, he couldn’t let it slip through the cracks. His main hope was to call his friend first, at least to find out what exactly was going on.

Rosenberg hoped he’d get hold of Shepherd before he walked back through the doors of the CIA. Ethically he didn’t think he could sit at his desk and ignore information like this. That was the culture of the agency and one of the reasons he joined the CIA instead of one of the other federal agencies. Despite what the public might have thought or understood from media reports about the use of torture or other negative facts, considering what they had to battle on a daily basis, the workers were incredibly dedicated and ethical. It started from the top and worked its way all the way through the agency.

He tried Derek Walsh’s number one more time but got no answer there, either. He was almost starting to think his phone was the problem. He decided to keep dialing Shepherd’s number until the major picked it up.

Fannie Legat arrived early at the café just to make sure everyone understood their role and their position. She was starting to get concerned that there had been no news of Russian military movement into Estonia. That didn’t change her resolve now. No matter what, this would cause a serious crimp in military activity around the base near Stuttgart. She nodded to her associates, sitting in a nondescript Swedish sedan at the far end of the street so they could see anyone who came or went.

Fannie had picked her table with the utmost care for strategic value. She could see the front of the restaurant and even the street, but the major would be stuck looking only at her. That was why she wore a ridiculously low-cut top to show off her assets and let her hair hang down around her shoulders. It was not particularly modest, but it was effective, and she justified it by the ultimate goal.

There were two more men who would take up a position closer to the base and should be able to see when the major drove back through the main gate. Just as with her bomb at the bank in Bern, a simple cell phone call would detonate plastic explosive and cause a tremendous blast when added to the vehicle’s fuel. She had already determined that a blast at the front gate to the base would be devastating. Ideally she would time it so it was coordinated with the first Russian movements, but that didn’t look like it would work out.

She was done with her work in Germany anyway and would now be able to convince her superiors she should fight like other members of the jihad. The one thing that tugged at her guilt was the major himself. Although he was an American and represented much of what she found distasteful in the world, he had been courteous and decent to her at every turn. She suspected that was his nature more than just an act. Occasionally she thought about the people who died in furtherance of their cause. Sometimes, when she was alone, she would even consider the ramifications of a single death, such as how parents might be affected back in the United States. Usually those thoughts didn’t coincide with the death of a person in the military. She understood that was because it was easy to look at a soldier as a number or an impediment, as opposed to a real, living breathing person.

The time she had spent with Major Shepherd, in an effort to gain any possible intelligence, had taught her that he wasn’t quite the devil most Americans were made out to be. And she had to admit that his death would be unfortunate and cause her some guilt.

But that was what happened in war.

Major Bill Shepherd was behind the wheel of the Humvee. It wasn’t stripped down for field use, but it was by no means a luxury vehicle, either. It was tough and had its uses, but he wondered why on earth anyone would buy a Humvee for a family car back in the United States.

He checked his watch and saw that it was about quarter to eleven. He needed to get a move on. On his way out the main gate he stopped and looked to make sure everyone was in position and doing their job. Even though the army personnel maintained routine security and operated the main gate, he liked to see everyone doing their job. As he slowed to speak to the sergeant at the gate he looked down the street and noticed two groups of bored German police leaning against cars about fifty yards apart well outside the gate. He hoped they stayed bored.

The main entrance and exit to the base was as secure as anything in the area. Metal barricades, which could pop up on a moment’s notice, could keep suicide bombers and heavy vehicles from reaching the security checkpoint. The armed soldiers at the gate could have their M-4 rifles up and spraying a vehicle in a matter of seconds. The security sweeps by soldiers and vehicles covered the entire perimeter of the base and reinforced the main gate on a regular basis. Shepherd didn’t see any weakness in the defense.

He looked from the driver’s window down to the young sergeant and said, “Anything unusual today?”

“No, sir. Everything appears to be quiet. You and your marines were a big help the other night.”

“That’s what we’re here for. If there are no beaches to storm, we can sure as shit put down a riot.” He glanced into the twenty-foot-wide, air-conditioned security hut and said, “We seem to have a full house today.”

“We’re training another shift, so there’ll be sixteen of us on until 1500. Then they’ll go back to eight.”

Shepherd approved of the young sergeant’s tone and attitude. This would be valuable training. He looked down and said, “I’m off for a nice meal and will see you before 1500.”

“Have a beer for me, Major.”

Shepherd laughed and said, “I’m on duty, and it’s too early for beer. I’ll have a Bloody Mary for you.”

This was going to be a spectacular day.

Derek Walsh sat quietly as he watched the front door of Tonya Stratford’s tiny brownstone in Brooklyn. The sun had not yet come up, and the street was still asleep. There was not a single light on in any of the houses in the neighborhood. This was the kind of place he would’ve liked to live and used to think he’d be able to on his salary from Thomas Brothers. He had done some research during his limited computer time yesterday and discovered that federal agents made decent money. If she was a GS-13, getting an extra 25 percent as callout pay and a subsidy for living in an expensive city like New York, Agent Stratford was making over $130,000 a year. Not exactly the view most people had of police work.

Walsh was thankful Charlie had dozed off almost as soon as he had parked the VW. He was surprised how the missing rear window caused almost no distraction once he was used to the extra noise of the wind. After he was done here, he’d abandon the car. One way or the other, he wouldn’t need it again. He just hoped that there were no industrious cops in the area who would check every parked car. He was purposely in a dark spot between two streetlights and ducked low in the seat.

The problem was that now he had time to consider everything that had happened and process the fact that not only was his girlfriend dead, she wasn’t really ever his girlfriend. He just couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that she could fake her feelings for him for so long and in so many situations. On the other hand, as he considered their relationship, he really hadn’t spent as much time with her as he thought. There’d been several long stretches when she said she returned to Greece, and they rarely had more than one date a week when she was in town. But that didn’t change the fact that his feelings for her were real, and that was why he was in total shock as he realized he would never hold her in his arms again.

He had seen the effects of grenades in Afghanistan. He was glad that he hadn’t stepped into the living room to see what this one had done to her. He was also glad he he’d been able to help the wounded FBI agent. The guy was in bad shape, and Walsh didn’t think he would’ve made it if someone hadn’t given him attention immediately. Not that anyone at the FBI would appreciate it. Walsh felt good about it anyway.

He was trying to keep his spirits up as he considered what his life would be like without Alena in it. Even if he was able to make all the charges against him disappear today, what did he have to look forward to? Lonely evenings in his tiny apartment by himself? Working eighty hours a week at a job that didn’t help anyone?

He could use this experience. He needed to find something with meaning. As these thoughts boiled in his head, something caught his eye. A light in the upstairs bathroom of Tonya Stratford’s house popped on.

He wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep.

Bill Shepherd was running a few minutes late, but he didn’t like to push a Humvee too hard on the highway. German drivers tended to be safe, if a little fast in their driving habits. The road was not crowded as he decided to hit the gas harder. It was just now eleven o’clock, and all he could think about was Fannie’s smiling face when he walked through the doors of the café.

He pulled off the highway and realized the café was only a mile up the road where several main highways came together. It was the start of the urban sprawl of Stuttgart. The area catered to many of the young servicemen and focused more on nightclubs than on pleasant cafés.

Shepherd’s phone rang in the cargo pocket of his fatigues. He had to shift at an odd angle to reach it because of the pistol he had in his waistband. It was not a regulation way to carry the M-9, but it was more surreptitious, and the Germans weren’t crazy about seeing guns in public.

He stole a quick glance at the phone and saw it was his friend Mike Rosenberg. He didn’t hesitate to answer. “Mike, what time is it over there?”

“Five.”

“Mike, this is a bad connection. Is everything okay?” He listened but caught only a few words. Something about phones. He hoped the interference might clear up, but after a few seconds he ended the phone call. He was getting close to the café and would try to reach Mike after brunch.

He pulled onto a side street and saw several parking spots open directly in front of the café. Everything was working out perfectly for him today.

Anton Severov, sitting in the commander’s seat of his tank, in line with his unit, ready to cross the border, glanced at his watch for the fifth time in the last hour. The Narva River was up ahead, just out of sight. Beyond that was Estonia. Who would have guessed anyone would consider conquering the small republic an actual military feat. They still were not rolling, and it was practically midday. The sun was bright but not brutal. The cooler autumn temperature relieved the worry of heatstroke. He wondered if they would feed the troops lunch before they moved. He had waited for word and even called the colonel himself. He could tell by the portly man’s curt manner that he was under a lot of stress. They all were. They were potentially starting World War III. But he was told to stand by and be ready to move. That was it. And that was what he had to tell the captains and lieutenants and sergeants who all showed their anxiety by asking him repeatedly when he thought they were going to move.

A few minutes after noon he heard several rifle shots ahead of him. Then the sign to go came over the radio. It was happening. He couldn’t deny the fact that he was excited. Soldiers were when they were about to do something like this. He still had serious concerns about the operation itself, but the idea that he could face an American or German tank on an open field was exhilarating. All of the tanks started to crank up their engines at once and rolled as if they were one giant caterpillar. It was only half a mile to the Narva River, and after a couple of minutes he saw that the route was completely open and the scout vehicles were rolling across the bridge without opposition. By the time his tank got to the bridge he was standing tall in the cupola, taking in the full view of the river, bridge, and town before him. To his left, several Russian soldiers held a group of Estonian border guards at gunpoint. Severov noticed one border guard was lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood and a second sat on the ground leaning against a post and holding a bullet wound in his shoulder. The others apparently had enough sense to surrender immediately.

Severov sincerely hoped the rest of Estonia had that much common sense. He doubted NATO did.

Mike Rosenberg sat alone in his rental house and frantically hit redial, trying to reach Bill Shepherd. He didn’t know how much his friend had heard from the first call, and now all he got was a carrier signal saying the call did not go through. He looked at his clock and couldn’t believe it had only been one minute since he had gotten through to his friend. He dialed the phone again and again. On the fourth try he wanted to slam his phone onto the floor. Instead, he screamed out in anger and knew he sounded like a wild animal that had been wounded. He wondered if all of Western Maryland could hear his frustration.

He took a moment, sucked in a deep breath, and dialed the phone again. He needed to get through to his friend before he went to work.