Putin's Gambit

7

Putin had listened to all of Simplov’s news, so now he shared his own interpretation of what was about to happen.

Putin said, “We are deploying our forces at the northern end of the border so that we can conceal them more easily from satellite detection. The force is relatively small and will move quickly once we cross the Narva River. I want it made clear that we are entering Estonia at the request of some of their leaders and will liberate the ethnic Russians who live there.

“This will be as fast an operation as we’ve ever conducted. That’s what I am counting on. What we need to happen is that NATO makes the decision to save its resources and not risk a larger conflict over Estonia. Everything that I have picked up from my dealings with the Germans and the French is that they are not confident in American leadership. That leads me to believe we can do this quick strike, install the right man as president, and once again have a reliable satellite on our Western border.”

“And if your assessment is wrong?”

Putin scowled at him briefly. This was one of the few men who could challenge him. But he did appreciate Simplov’s grasp of the situation.

“If I am wrong,” Putin said, “which I doubt, the force is small enough that we will simply turn it and recross the border. At that point we’ll come up with a story about rescuing a specific family who was being mistreated by the Estonians. Something like that. There will be some loss of face, but we could overcome it.”

Putin stepped to the window and looked out over the lighted fields outside the parlor located on the eastern side of the palace. “Look at how the U.S. and NATO responded to our adventure in Crimea. They did nothing to stop us. If Ukraine weren’t a political and economic nightmare, we could roll in there as well.”

“But who would want Ukraine?” Yuri asked.

“Exactly,” Putin said. “So this is a test, a probe. We cannot lock ourselves into a course of action that can’t be changed. Still, once this has started, we must be committed.”

“We better be,” Yuri said, “if we are to take on NATO.”

“Which did nothing to prevent us from annexing Crimea,” Simplov said, “and they will do nothing now.”

Putin was aroused by the possibility of going to war.

Derek Walsh appreciated how suddenly Tonya Stratford had escorted him out of the Thomas Brothers building. It was professional and efficient, and she had not handcuffed him in front of his coworkers. It appealed to his marine’s sensibilities, but it still meant he was in trouble. Real trouble.

He’d thought about calling an attorney but decided he could still explain this whole thing and save himself a tremendous expense. He was already short of cash, and having a lawyer suck down what little he had didn’t appeal to him. Once they were someplace secure they would let him explain what happened and look at his evidence to support his claim.

As soon as they walked through the main entrance and saw the crowds fighting with police, Agent Stratford wasted no time turning Walsh around and handcuffing him behind his back. That was what she’d told him all along would happen. She was businesslike and polite but not particularly friendly. That was still a huge step up from her partner, who seemed more interested in being a bully.

They were able to reach an unmarked Ford Crown Victoria and speed a few blocks to the building holding the NYPD Seventh Precinct offices. The two-story redbrick building faced Pitt Street and had the boxy, efficient style that the precinct serving Wall Street demanded. The agents wasted no time hustling him through the rear door, where they obviously had an understanding with the uniformed sergeant who was waiting. Even the short distance from the vehicle to the door gave Walsh time to hear the shouts of protesters in front of the building. A bottle flew over the wall in the parking lot, and the sturdy-looking, middle-aged sergeant snarled at them to get inside quickly.

A few minutes later they were in a private interview room, and Walsh found himself still handcuffed and sitting in a stiff plastic chair. The room was stark and bare except for three of those chairs and a small table. Tonya Stratford had left with a small envelope of his belongings, and her partner just sat silently, staring at him. Walsh had no interest in engaging the man in conversation. But it was still unnerving. In the car, on the way over to the police station, Walsh had tried to explain that it couldn’t have been him making the transactions. He’d stayed calm and reasonable, but every one of his statements was met with more accusing questions, and he had a clear sense that he was the only suspect. He wasn’t certain whether they were looking at the simple theft or some kind of treason for dealing with people outside the United States, specifically the terrorists they had mentioned having access to the account. This was crazy, and the FBI had to realize it soon.

Walsh again considered calling an attorney. Things had already gone further than he thought they would. The male FBI agent, Frank Martin, didn’t want to listen, but Walsh had the sense that Agent Stratford was open to reason.

His brief stint in combat hadn’t been this upsetting. At least there he was with his friends. Now he was isolated. He couldn’t even talk to one of his Thomas Brothers associates like Ted Marshall. He’d know what to do, or maybe not. For all Walsh knew, Ted assumed he had stolen the money and never wanted to see him again. He did appreciate that Cheryl had tried to help him at the end until she was ejected from her own office.

It was past noon when Tonya Stratford slipped back into the interview room. He was waiting for some more sharp questions about derivatives and how he initiated transfers. It was abundantly clear that she knew the finance world and probably had been employed by one of the big houses at one time.

Now she sat next to the small table and pulled out a pad. She asked him a series of seemingly innocuous questions about his usual workdays and duties.

Finally Walsh had to look at her and say, “Were you in banking?”

She glanced up from her pad and folded her hands across the table. “The FBI recruits across all disciplines.” She cut her eyes across to the semiconscious agent who was supposed to be helping her, Frank.

Walsh said, “Where’d they get him? A loan-sharking operation?”

Suddenly Frank was completely awake and said in a gravelly voice with a thick Bronx accent, “Don’t you worry about me, smart guy. You need to come clean and let us help you, because you’re a hair’s width away from a lifetime in Leavenworth. You’re a former military man, you should understand that.”

Tonya directed Walsh’s attention back to her as she reached into the envelope and carefully pulled out the security plug in the clear plastic sleeve by its nylon lanyard. “Tell me about this?”

He cocked his head because he knew she knew already. “I told you before, it’s the security plug required to make any serious trades. I don’t always use it. In fact, I try to carry it in my pocket most of the time.”

“And this was in your computer the day you made the trades?”

“I keep telling you I didn’t make any trades. I think I used it to check an escrow account in Europe on a deal we are facilitating, but no trades or transfers.”

“Sorry, the day the trades were made this plug would’ve had to be in your computer. Is that correct?”

He was tired, and it was catching up to him. He just nodded. An idea popped into his head. “I activated one of the extra security protocols. It would’ve made the computer’s camera take a photo during the trade and store it on the plug.” This could solve the whole puzzle. He really didn’t need an attorney.

The agents exchanged skeptical looks.

Then Walsh said, “If you stick that plug back in my computer, you’ll be able to bring up photographs of whoever used the computer when the trades were made. I set up the protocols myself.”

Agent Stratford stood from the chair, looked at Walsh for a moment, then stepped out of the room, with the plug dangling from its lanyard in her right hand.

Suddenly he had a sinking feeling that he was screwed and they weren’t going to listen to him with or without an attorney.

Joseph Katazin wasted no time once he was on the East River Esplanade. It was a convenient meeting place for his contact, not far from the United Nations. There was a concern about surveillance from U.S. intelligence services, but during an operation like this, where communication could be crucial, they had set up a regular schedule so that Katazin could meet the contact as necessary. Otherwise the contact would just read the newspaper and have a cup of coffee looking out over the East River.

As usual, Katazin sat on the bench next to him and made no direct eye contact. There was no one close by. There rarely was in the morning. Today Katazin just wanted to make sure all was as it appeared to be on the operation and to express his concerns once more.

His contact was an older man whose cover was working as a translator at the UN. Katazin didn’t know exactly what the man’s real job was, but he was certainly connected and could get things done.

The pudgy older man, dressed comfortably in a cardigan sweater, spoke in flawless Russian. “You have done well my friend. Everyone is impressed.”

Katazin had a hard time hiding his grin because this was not news to him. “I didn’t realize how destructive the protesters could be. I’ve seen things get out of hand on the news before in Baltimore or St. Louis, but this was a new experience. They tied up every police officer in the city. It worked beyond my wildest dreams.”

“Then what brings you to talk to me this morning?”

“I guess just general anxiety.”

The man chuckled. “Joseph, all you have to worry about is what happens here in Manhattan. You had the trades made as instructed. The money moved perfectly and has funded a number of activities. You’ve had the protesters deliver as promised, and aside from not eliminating the Thomas Brothers employee, everything has been perfect.”

“My source close to the situation said Derek Walsh is in FBI custody. He knows nothing that can compromise us. As long as he is in custody, I’m not worried. I would prefer that he was dead and the authorities thought it was a suicide, but this will work.”

His contact nodded his head as he looked out over the East River. “Of the entire operation, I think the financial aspect has been most underappreciated. The cascading effect of having the markets crash and the news of the transfer of money to a terrorist account has been remarkable. The crash is mainly due to an algorithm we had introduced to the New York and London stock exchanges. It cost a fortune to have the hacker create the algorithm and then insert it into the systems so computer trading started selling at an exponential rate, but it was worth every penny.”

Katazin said, “I’m not entirely happy with our partners in this endeavor.”

“The Islamic extremists concern you? They concern everyone. But the Americans and Europeans seem to focus on them more than anyone. By promoting these lone wolf attacks we are essentially playing on Western fears. It costs us nothing and completely diverts the West’s attention from our military ambitions in the East. Once we feel the protests and the terror attacks have wreaked enough havoc in the West, our military will cross the Narva River into Estonia, and no one will lift a finger. By the time anyone realizes we have occupied another country, it will be far too late to take action.”

“So you’re not concerned that the Muslims could turn on us?”

“Of course the Muslims will turn on us. But probably not for a while. At least this way we get some use out of them before they turn their wrath on us. Keep doing what you’re doing, and I will be available if anything serious occurs.”

Katazin just nodded as he stood up from the bench and casually headed to the walkway that led up toward the FDR.

Mike Rosenberg continued to watch the news in amazement as the violence across the country seemed to grow by the minute. It was early evening in Europe, and they were having issues as well. The New York Stock Exchange had stopped computer trading, and the word “crash” was being spewed by every financial nerd the networks could round up.

He really wanted to call Derek Walsh to see if he could get an inside scoop, but he recognized Thomas Brothers had so many employees, his friend probably didn’t even know who was involved. He could picture Walsh saying, “I don’t know shit.” Rosenberg would reply, “As usual.” Just the idea of the conversation made him laugh out loud. He missed his friends. Especially Ron Jackson.

After a few minutes, he decided he’d call Bill Shepherd. Maybe he could shed some light on what was going on.