Putin's Gambit

35

Yuri Simplov rushed into Putin’s office in the palace at Novo-Ogaryovo. The former KGB man was as excited as Putin had ever seen him. He wore a sport coat over casual clothes, and his hair was not in its normal perfect position. He looked like a child about to open a gift.

For his part, Putin stayed in his seat behind his great desk and remained placid, waiting for his old friend to say what was energizing him. When Simplov realized Putin wasn’t going to ask, he simply said, “It has begun. I mean the military aspect of the operation. We have crossed the Narva River and are moving swiftly through Narva. The supplies for the long-term occupation of the country are starting to move on a combination of passenger and freight lines. One of the largest convoy trains will be moving south with our troops shortly.”

Putin still kept silent as he stared over his desk at Simplov. Finally he said in a very quiet tone, “Any issues?”

Now Simplov stepped over to a chair and slid into it.

“Yes?” Putin said, beginning to grow impatient.

Finally Simplov said, “One French reporter was poking around about the intrusion into the financial markets in New York and London. She spoke to a tech person who said the algorithm was quite sophisticated, and he speculated it had originated in Russia. She was trying to uncover more information, so I ordered her eliminated.”

“Where?”

“Paris.”

“Can you have it done quietly?”

“It’s already done. A simple car crash. She was forced into a tree at high speed. Our people verify that she and her teenaged daughter were dead at the scene. I can show you a photo if you’d like.”

Putin held up his hand to stop Simplov from shoving his phone in Putin’s face. “That won’t be necessary. I’ve seen your work before. I trust it was handled correctly.” That made Putin consider everything he had heard up to this point. He said, “What about the American trader in New York? Have we caught up with him yet?”

“Our man in New York is looking for him. He has been told to go to ground once the military action is in full swing. If he hasn’t found the trader by then, we’ll have to take the risk that the trader won’t speed up the FBI investigation. We believe that our agent in New York must escape before the FBI has any leads on him.”

“Good thinking. Now the ball is in NATO’s court.”

“This is what you wanted, no?”

Putin nodded his head slowly as he considered how history would judge this entire operation. He said, “I did. I still do. I don’t think I’m wrong. NATO won’t move militarily. I believe that at worst, we’re looking at sanctions from the UN and perhaps something more from the U.S. But we will survive either.”

Simplov said, “The Estonian border guards surrendered after a couple of shots were fired. I’m told the Estonian citizens are just watching the convoys like it’s a giant parade. There have been no real media reports on it as of yet, but I know that will come in the next hour.”

Putin waved his hand and said, “Downplay everything. From calling it a minor incursion to confirming the very small military force we have used. You know what I want.”

Yuri stood up, sensing that their conversation was over and knowing he had much to do. He turned and headed for the door.

As he was about to leave, Putin called out, “Yuri.” He waited for his friend to turn and look at him. “Good work.”

Major Bill Shepherd pulled down the side street and saw the café facing out with a wide courtyard in front of it. He’d eaten at the place a couple of times in the past, but not often enough to worry about an old girlfriend wandering in or one of the waitresses recognizing him. This was the outskirts of Stuttgart. More accurately, it was the edge of the urban sprawl, and the upscale area attracted all types of people. He knew his younger marines liked to hit a couple of the clubs in the area on Friday and Saturday nights. They felt safe, and he had heard good things about how they were treated by the locals. Like all military men, he worried the attitude could change. There seemed to be a growing sentiment that the U.S. military should pull back from many of its bases. No one would be happier about closing bases in Germany than the Russians. They tended to learn from history, whereas the U.S. allowed history to fade from memory.

Shepherd had sat in a number of meetings where the comparison between Hitler and Putin almost slapped him in the face. Historians would point out the differences and say Putin was much more like Stalin, but to Bill Shepherd he was acting like Hitler as far as his interest in expanding influence and grabbing land. Shepherd was disappointed there were still no real efforts to contain the Russian leader. He’d scooped up Crimea with hardly a comment from the West, and his puppets were moving Ukraine closer to total chaos. Shepherd had seen other studies that showed the Baltic States were at great risk as well. But for now he was satisfied that his marines were doing their job at the base in Germany and he had earned this morning off to spend with the lovely Fannie Legat.

There was almost no traffic as he easily maneuvered the big Humvee down the street. He was a little surprised Mike Rosenberg hadn’t called him back. He checked his phone and saw there were no calls and decided to catch up to his friend after brunch with Fannie.

There were two spaces open directly in front of the café, so he pulled the Humvee to the curb. He took a moment to look through all the windows in every direction. It was a very quiet day. Two men were on the sidewalk up the street, but other than that, the only face he noticed was Fannie’s. She gave him a beautiful smile when he looked through the main window of the café.

He opened the door and stood in the street, taking a moment to straighten his uniform and cover the bulge of his M9 tucked inside his belt. It was nonregulation way to carry a sidearm, but he liked keeping everything out of sight off the base. Most Europeans were crazy about gun control and freaked out seeing even military personnel carrying any firearm. He looked down at his phone for a moment, considering, then placed it on the seat. He didn’t want anything to distract him from Fannie.

Mike Rosenberg had not felt this kind of anxiety since he was in combat with the marines. The fact that he was just pacing in his own house made that seem even more ridiculous. He desperately wanted to reach his friend. He was about to give up and make a call from a landline inside the CIA headquarters in Langley. He was going to have to tell them what he’d found anyway, but he had hoped to give his friend a heads-up first.

He took one more shot at it. This time he didn’t hit redial but entered the number digit by digit and was surprised to hear a ring over the line. Had he really gotten through again? His heart was pounding in his chest, and he desperately hoped his friend would have a reasonable explanation for why his number was on a suspected terrorist’s phone records.

After three rings he started to get nervous that Shepherd wasn’t going to pick up. The fourth ring made him think he was about to get voicemail.

The fifth ring put him into a depression.

Derek Walsh noticed several lights on downstairs in Tonya Stratford’s brownstone. It was about a quarter after five, and he didn’t think she left for work this early; however, after everything that had happened, maybe she had a plan like he did. He was impressed with her work ethic and hoped she had enough compassion to hear him out, but as he stood there Walsh suddenly tried to think of a coherent way to express what had happened.

He didn’t want to come across like a nut, but he knew the entire conspiracy theory did sound a little far-fetched. His hope was that she’d found something in her investigation about the Russians. It would be easy to just surrender now, but he could be of use. His country might actually need him. That trumped all of the two years he’d worked at Thomas Brothers. In that time he had made little money and not contributed to society in the least. Standing in front of a stranger’s front door was more important than all of the trades he had ever made. That was a sad commentary that he didn’t want to dwell on.

He thought he heard some movement inside and suddenly wished he had time to call Mike Rosenberg. Maybe he had tied something together as well. No matter what happened, he didn’t want to throw his friend under the bus for communicating with him while half the world wanted to hang him.

He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Charlie was still comfortable as he slept in the car. He couldn’t really see anything in the dark, then noticed headlights coming from the opposite end of the street. There was no way not to look suspicious standing out on the sidewalk without anyone else on the street. The car moved slowly, and suddenly Walsh wondered if it was a police vehicle. He took the only chance he saw and climbed the three steps to the landing in front of Tonya Stratford’s front door and made it look like he was locking it.

There was a lot that could go wrong with this plan.

Joseph Katazin came awake with a start. He didn’t know why his heart was pounding, but he was wide awake and it was not yet sunrise. He sensed that it was close to dawn, but it wasn’t until he twisted in the bed and saw his digital clock that he knew it was after five. He settled back into the bed and felt the different twinges of pain from all the injuries he had suffered. The one he’d have to deal with the most was his ankle, because he intended to do a little walking today. He would walk until he found Derek Walsh and put a bullet in his head.

There was not much more he could do on the operation other than tie up the loose ends and delay the inevitable FBI investigation into what happened. He didn’t think anyone would ever be able to tie the protesters to his plot, and his luck with the suicide bomber in the subway would cover his killing of Lenny Tallett. Then his mind settled on another potential loose end: his wife. She still lay in the bed next to him, rigid as a board. He doubted she had slept the whole night, but she was probably too scared to try to leave. He was frustrated because she was not something he should have to worry about while the biggest operation of his career was under way. Realistically, she was a potential threat, and he had to make a decision about what he intended to do.

He eased out of bed and slowly put some weight on his ankle. It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be. He shuffled to his closet and pulled on some clothes. He knew his wife was faking being asleep now, because she was always up before him. It was a point of pride with her that she make him coffee.

Katazin gingerly came down the stairs and flopped onto his couch to turn on the TV. He recognized his superiors had purposely left him in the dark about many elements of the operation, even though it was entirely his idea. It made sense that he would not be aware of the exact military action that would be taken. He had to believe the Red Army would move soon; he didn’t want to consider the possibility that he’d gone to all this trouble and moved all that money just to fund a few minor terrorist attacks that wouldn’t add up to a thousand deaths across the world. He knew the small and uncoordinated attacks were minuscule, but their cumulative effect was obviously incredible. Many of the Western countries were frozen with fear over what could happen next. Katazin hated to admit it, but it was also a little embarrassing that Russia couldn’t fund the attacks and distractions and had to resort to theft. They were lucky Katazin had turned that into another plus by motivating the protesters and diverting resources to their silliness.

He realized how excited he was as he searched for CNN. He felt like a child watching a parade. What would happen? As soon as he found the channel he realized there were no blazing banners of “breaking news” and no theme songs dedicated to the ongoing coverage they reserved for major events. It was the news as usual. Celebrities, sports, more celebrities. What was it with Americans and celebrities? Then there was the daily story of some weird crime that happened in Florida. A man beat another man to death with an alligator. Typical. But there was nothing, not one word, about world-shattering events in Eastern Europe.

That put him in a dark mood.

As he turned to climb back up the stairs, he thought once again about his wife as a potential threat.

Bill Shepherd parked in front of the café and had already shut the door to the Humvee when he heard his phone ring on the seat. He hesitated, torn between rushing to see Fannie and concerned that there might be a problem that Rosenberg needed to talk to him about.

After a moment he turned the handle, yanked open the door, and reached in, wondering if he could answer the phone before it went to voicemail. He swiped his finger across the screen and said, “Mike, can you read me?”

On the other side of the line in a clear voice he heard his friend Mike Rosenberg say, “Shep, I read you.”

Shepherd looked up and saw that Fannie had stepped toward the door, so he held the phone tight to his ear as he locked the Humvee once more and slowly started strolling to the front of the café. He said into the phone, “Everything all right?”

“No, I need to ask you something straight up on our personal phones. No official communication.”

“Sure, go ahead.” He slowed his stride as he waited to hear what his friend had to say that warranted such a grim tone.

Rosenberg said, “I have the toll records for a phone that belongs to a suspected terrorist.”

“I’m listening.”

“And your personal phone number is on them. It looks like you called the number several times, including Tuesday night, a couple of times Wednesday, and once yesterday morning. I got the records after that. If I go back during the month, it looks like you started contacting the phone about a week ago.” He gave Shepherd the number, digit by digit.

Now Shepherd froze in his tracks as he thought about the limited number of personal calls he made. The only person he had called with that frequency the past two weeks besides his family, Derek Walsh, and Rosenberg was Fannie. He didn’t need to hear all the digits to the phone number to confirm his fear. Quickly he said, “Do you have any identification for the terrorist? Male or female?”

“I believe it’s a female that opened a bank account in Bern. She has calls all over Europe as well as to other suspected terrorists.”

Shepherd noticed Fannie stepping out of the doorway of the restaurant and took a quick glance around the courtyard. The two men who were down the street on the sidewalk were now closer. One carried a heavy satchel, which looked more like a duffel bag. Both men had dark hair and scraggly beards. This was no time to be politically correct, so he decided to jump to a conclusion based on their appearance. He could explain his mistake later if he had to.

Shepherd spoke quickly into the phone, saying, “Mike, in case anything happens to me, the number I was calling belongs to a white female who claims to be from France and is using the name Fannie Legat. I was just trying to get to know her and never told her anything of importance. I met her one morning over coffee, and I’m about to walk into a café where she is waiting for me.”

“Walk away.”

“That’s a good idea.”

Shepherd saw that the two men were now staring directly at him and Fannie had stepped into the courtyard and was reaching into her purse. He said into the phone, “Too late now. Remember what I told you.”