Putin's Gambit

42

Derek Walsh decided he needed to help find Ted Marshall. He had unraveled too much of this mystery not to be included in something like this. Plus, he felt his knowledge of the building would give him an advantage over the FBI agents searching for his boss. As soon as Walsh burst into the lobby from the forward stairwell he saw most of the FBI agents already outside in the courtyard fanning out. It was a logical move if that was the only door you had ever used to enter or exit the building. Walsh knew some secrets. He started to check the hallways leading out to the street away from the courtyard. In an adjacent lobby, Walsh looked to his left and was not terribly surprised to see Ted Marshall hustling for the front door with no one paying any attention. He must’ve hidden in a bathroom long enough for everyone to pile out the courtyard door. It was slick and clever and about to backfire.

Walsh took three quick steps to get going, and by the time Marshall turned around, Walsh was heading toward him like a guided missile, using the full force of his body and shoulders to drive Marshall into a column, then knock him onto the ground, where the finance manager wheezed, trying to get air back into his lungs.

That was as satisfying as anything Walsh had done in the past year. He resisted the urge to kick the man in the head while he was lying on the hard marble floor. Then Walsh heard someone behind him.

“Nice work, smart guy.” It was Frank Martin, and he casually strolled across the lobby, the only one who’d noticed anything unusual. He barely broke stride as he scooped up the shaken Ted Marshall and motioned for Walsh to follow him. They made it into the lower front stairwell that no one ever used. He unceremoniously dumped Marshall on the first step and stood over him like an interrogator looking at a spy during World War II.

The FBI agent said, “You have until the count of five to start talking or your life goes down the toilet so quickly you’ll feel like a turd.”

Marshall hesitated for a moment.

The FBI agent said, “One,” in a flat voice.

Panic highlighted Marshall’s voice as he said, “Hold on. I need a second to gather my thoughts.”

“Two.”

Walsh was beginning to really like this guy. Now that they were buddies his shtick was entertaining.

Marshall started to weep and rubbed his eyes.

The FBI agent just said, “Three.” Then, without much space, “Four.” He added, “If it helps you, we know all about the Russians.” He turned his head and winked at Walsh.

It was a bluff. They didn’t know shit about the Russians. This guy was good, and Walsh was impressed.

The FBI agent said, “Maybe I’ll just toss you outside and let the protesters know who you are and what you did.”

Finally Marshall said, “Okay, okay, I did it. I made the trade. But it wasn’t my idea.”

Now the FBI agent’s tone changed. “Whose idea was it?”

He sniffled, then wiped his nose on his sleeve. “It was Katazin’s.”

Walsh was about to ask, “Who?” when the FBI agent held up his hand to stop him. He wanted to maintain the illusion that they already knew all of this.

Marshall continued. “He made me. He blackmailed me. I had no choice. He used the girl, Alena. He had photos.”

That hit Walsh hard, but he kept quiet.

The FBI agent said, “You made some money, too, didn’t you?”

It took a moment, but he nodded his head. “They paid huge fees for transactions before the ones to Bern, and I got some into one of my own accounts. The night we made the trades on Derek’s account they knew exactly which accounts to hit. We didn’t think anyone would notice for a while.”

Walsh put in, “That’s why they wanted me dead. To make it look like I did it, then committed suicide.”

Marshall’s expression told him he was right.

Walsh felt ill again.

Anton Severov screamed at the driver to pull the T-90 off the road and into a gully that would offer some protection from rockets. He barked the commands as he tried to find a target from his commander’s station. The smoke from the burning truck and other vehicles that had been struck blocked his view, so he threw open the hatch to get a better view outside the cupola. He raised his head cautiously and peered through the binoculars, surveying the wide open fields in front of him. The stench of burning flesh stuck to the inside of his nostrils. His eyes watered from the smoke.

The tank swerved hard and came to an abrupt stop, trying to use the little protection the gully provided. Severov noted that most of his tanks were doing similar things. He hoped the tanks ahead of him knew what was going on. There was no telling how many soldiers were hidden in the grass. Why hadn’t the scouts reported anything? This was exactly what they did not want to happen. Their entire military plan counted on tactical surprise.

His earlier ideas of gaining glory on the battlefield by fighting the best army in the world had dissipated as soon as he looked over at the incinerated truck. There was no glory for the men who smoldered in the back of the destroyed vehicle.

All Severov could think was that there wasn’t supposed to be any resistance this soon. The general had told him there wouldn’t be any resistance at all! He feared that this battle could resonate across the globe. His opening actions might dictate the course of the war. That was a lot for a tank commander to consider as he searched for a target.

He saw a flash of something metallic in the distance around the low bushes that intertwined with the grass. He gave the position to the gunner and felt the turret start to move.

Severov knew he was too late. The trail of the rocket allowed him to track it easily as it rose above the tall grass and homed in on his T-90. He lost a visual as the rocket got closer, but knew when it hit by the intense heat and noise.

But the pain only lasted an instant.

Frank Martin looked around the enclosed stairwell and barked at Derek Walsh, “Go find Tonya. I’ll wait here with this shithead.” Walsh nodded and turned to find Agent Stratford.

The FBI agent and Marshall stayed put, with Marshall seated on the second stair and the agent standing over him. Walsh paused, sensing something in Marshall’s mood. The financial manager was past the nervous phase but seemed to be considering something. Walsh was going to say something as Marshall sprang with surprising speed, driving his head into the shocked FBI agent’s chin and knocking him back onto the hard cement floor by the stairs, where he slid into Walsh. Martin and Walsh got tangled, and Walsh lost his balance, falling next to the FBI man.

Marshall wasted no time and took the opportunity, turning and bursting through the door into the lobby. It took a moment for Walsh and Martin to untangle from each other and stand up to give chase.

As soon as they entered the lobby, Walsh realized Marshall had a plan. The lobby was empty, and no one even looked up in their direction.

The FBI agent scanned the room frantically, looking for where the money manager had fled. He let out a string of obscenities, which did draw the attention of the security guard. When the man looked their way, Martin yelled, “Did you see anyone just run through here?”

The older black man just shook his head.

The FBI agent screamed out another obscenity.

Walsh said, “You guys aren’t very good at keeping people in custody, are you?”

Martin gave him an angry look, but he was used to it by now.

So far, Joseph Katazin’s day had not been anything like he had expected. At the moment he was wondering if he should just flee the area without trying to tie up any loose ends. Jerry was dead, and there was still quite a crowd around the crime scene. Certainly he had tipped his hand, and Walsh would not be unaware next time. The whole series of incidents had soured his stomach and exacerbated his headache.

He sat in the driver’s seat of his BMW across the street from the back of the Thomas Brothers Financial building. Or it could have been the front. Everyone seemed to come and go through the courtyard. His stomach growled as he considered his options and daydreamed about putting a bullet into Derek Walsh’s groin. That would be sweet.

Common sense took hold, and he decided to pull away from the area and move on to his new life. Then fate intervened. He couldn’t believe his luck when across the street he saw the door from the lobby to Thomas Brothers blast open and his former associate Ted Marshall stumble into the street in a complete daze. Marshall looked up and across the street as if he wanted to cross. This appeared so easy it could be a trap.

Katazin decided he needed to take his shot.