Putin's Gambit

by Lou Dobbs

  The first thing Rosenberg started to look at was the transfers from Thomas Brothers Financial. He had talked to one of the analysts connected to the FBI who had the information, and it didn’t take long to determine that the accounts the money went to in Europe were all connected. Now that he was looking at information outside the United States, things could get complicated, but that was why he liked his job.

  14

  Major Bill Shepherd sat in his office, staring out through the single window into the dark German sky. It was after nine o’clock, but he wasn’t sure how much after. He’d stayed at the front line of the defense of the base until the protesters finally broke up about four in the morning. It was nothing like combat, but it was still tense and kept them on edge.

  The stories Shepherd had seen on the news reminded him of an attack on the marine base he and his friends were stationed at in Afghanistan. It was near some shithole village in the Korengal Valley, and he was just coming out of the mess hall with Ron Jackson and Mike Rosenberg. They didn’t have their M-4 rifles, but Shepherd never went anywhere without a pistol. Things had been quiet around the base for more than a month, and the air force had been pounding the insurgents all across the valley. It was a much-needed respite from some of the combat they had seen earlier.

  Just as they were coming out of the mess he heard gunfire and saw two Afghan men running forward, firing randomly with U.S. Marine rifles. Before he could do much more than reach for a pistol, Ron Jackson shoved Shepherd and Rosenberg to cover. It was a good move, and one that might have saved their lives. Normally in these situations he turned to Rosenberg, who could always give him a good understanding of the situation, but in this case they all had the same information. Someone believed these men were their allies and had given them too much access to the base.

  Just as a man wearing a backpack came running up shouting something in Pashto, a marine sprang from the side of the supply tent and yanked the pack right off his back. It was unbelievable. Shepherd just stared in amazement, and the movement had stunned the three intruders as well. A moment later gunfire from marines knocked down all three attackers.

  It took a few seconds longer for Shepherd to realize the marine who had just saved the base from a major terror attack was his friend Derek Walsh.

  Now Shepherd took another swig of coffee at his desk. The few hours of sleep he’d grabbed in the morning were not enough to recharge his batteries. Because he had taken the initiative and put his marines out front the night before, he’d been called in for a security meeting, and now, after doing such a good job, his marines were expected to be at the front gate and supported by the army personnel.

  So far it had been quiet, but he received reports of buses headed their way, and there were already about fifty people chanting catchy slogans like “America, land of the greedy” or “Leave our land.” His orders were the same: Treat everyone with respect and use the utmost restraint possible to avoid any incident. That meant taking rocks and bottles against their shields and helmets, even allowing the protesters to shove them if they got as far as the gate. They had requested more German police officers, but this was not the only site of large-scale protests. The German financial markets had started to tumble like the ones in London and New York. People were scared and taking to the streets.

  To complicate matters, there had been several sporadic terror attacks at the site of the protests. A suicide bomber had killed thirteen in Berlin and wounded dozens more. The attack in the country’s largest city made him think about his friend Ronald Jackson, who had died defending the embassy there.

  Throughout the stressful night and day, and into the night again, he’d kept thinking about his friends spread out across the globe. Now it was midafternoon in the U.S., and Mike Rosenberg was probably comfortable in his office in Langley. Derek Walsh was probably busy as hell with the markets going wild. Shepherd had talked with his father briefly before coming out to the gate, and the retired navy man assured him that everyone was safe and told Shepherd to worry about himself. That’s what he intended to do, but first he called a couple of women he knew in Germany to make sure they were well. After short conversations, he couldn’t resist making another call while he had a few minutes. He dialed the number, and his latest conquest, Fannie Legat, picked up after two rings.

  It only took a moment for her to recognize who it was, and then she hesitated. Shepherd asked her, “Where are you?”

  There was another hesitation, and he heard voices in the background. It sounded like she was in a restaurant. “I’m still traveling. I probably won’t be back in Stuttgart for another few days. How are you? Are you safe?”

  He could hear the chanting starting again outside the base. He didn’t want to worry her. “I’m as safe as can be inside the base. I just was hoping you were headed home.”

  She purred with that pleasant accent and said, “Soon. I’ll call you tomorrow when I have a little more time, and we can chat.”

  He wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. Something told him she was out with another man. It certainly was her prerogative, but somehow it made him feel a little like a patsy. As he said good-bye, he heard a crash at the front of the base and sprang to his feet, scooping up a web belt with a Beretta in a holster. He ran as hard as he could toward the closest Humvee.

  *

  Walsh couldn’t help but fix his eyes upon the door to the building that Tonya Stratford and her partner, Frank Martin, had walked through about ten minutes earlier. Not much had changed in the tone of either crowd. On the far side of the courtyard, the protesters were taunting police and throwing the occasional bottle. One of them had a strong enough arm to put a crack in the glass at the front of the building with a brick. Walsh was impressed with the power of the throw.

  On his side of the courtyard, he noticed a number of reporters among the spectators. A uniformed NYPD police officer with a K-9 made a pass through the middle of the crowd, not even having to ask people to move out of the way. The sight of the muscular German shepherd had the desired effect and made people step back from instinct.

  Walsh realized the cop had a purpose and the dog was stopping occasionally to sniff bags, looking for explosives. Although there weren’t any obvious protesters, the cops didn’t want to take a chance that someone would infiltrate this quiet crowd and detonate a bomb. He’d seen on the news that there had been several attacks like that around the world.

  He was relieved to see that the cop paid no attention to him whatsoever. He wasn’t carrying a bag and had no heavy coat to conceal anything. If only the cop realized he was carrying a pistol and more than five hundred dollars in cash with no identification, Walsh had no doubt he’d be held for questioning until someone from the FBI figured out who he was.

  He looked around the crowd and noticed several younger men in light jackets or windbreakers at the edges of the group. They were hiding the fact that they were looking into the crowd as if they were searching for someone. They were clean-cut, almost military-style, and that’s what made them stand out; they weren’t dressed in dark suits or shaggy-haired like so many New Yorkers. That made Walsh realize these guys were law enforcement of some kind.

  Just then he noticed some movement at the front of the building and saw Tonya Stratford step out of the door with a uniformed police officer and his boss, Ted Marshall. They immediately started walking toward his side of the courtyard, and he understood instantly that she had caught a glimpse of him as she rushed through the crowd earlier. She’d been smart not to spook him and make him run. Now she was doing what they used to call driving the fox to the hounds. She wanted him to see her and try to cut through the crowd right into the hands of the men who were now ready to catch him.

  This was not the time to panic. Although it hurt to see the man he needed to talk to being so close, Walsh needed to figure a way out of here. And fast.

  *

  As Fannie Legat ended the phone call with Major Shepherd, Amir snapped at her, “Who was that?” />
  Then she realized both men had heard her flirting over the phone. She gave them a smug smile just to get a reaction. The reaction she got from Amir was exactly what she’d expected. He was stuck somewhere in the eighteenth century, and although he outwardly appeared to detest her, she suspected he had a crush on her.

  What surprised Fannie was the reaction of Major Severov. He looked on quietly with a pleasant smile on his face as if none of it was any of his business. She liked that. He had treated her with respect and kept his mission in mind during their short time together. If they weren’t eating, they were surveying roads. He was a soldier, not an ideologue like Amir. The hairy little jerk truly believed everything that was spewed at him by his imams, and he truly believed that a woman like Fannie was mainly needed to cook food and pop children out on a regular basis. That attitude had no place in their jihad. She was working to change it, but it was frustrating.

  Amir said, “I have no idea why you would keep talking to an American soldier. They are our enemies. One day we might have to fight them in our own lands.”

  Fannie said, “You mean France?”

  “Of course I don’t mean France. I mean Iran or maybe one of the Arab lands. They have not hidden their lust for our oil. They cannot keep from exporting their Western goods and attitudes. Everyone is not the same. We wish to live apart from them.”

  Now it was Severov’s turn to tweak the little Iranian dope. “Then why is it that your country insists on butting heads with the United States? You take their people hostage, you export terror, and you make no secret of your desire to become a nuclear power in such an unstable region. You constantly threaten their ally Israel. If you really wanted to be left alone, I would think you would try to live a little more quietly. It seems like every time I turn on the TV some crazy little Iranian is complaining about the Great Satan, the United States.”

  Amir eyed him silently with a scowl darkening his face. “Russia could just as easily be considered a Great Satan. You are infidels who believe in nothing but your military power. Right now you are looking at the innocent people in Estonia and trying to figure out how to get your tanks as far as possible into the country. Please don’t be a hypocrite.”

  “On the contrary. I am a soldier and know my duty. I follow my orders. But I would not walk into this town’s marketplace with a bomb strapped to me.”

  “No, but you have no problem dropping a missile on it or having your tanks roll through the square.”

  It was starting to get heated, so Fannie decided to intervene. “That’s right, Amir. We are here to help him with his assignment. Russia is our ally for now. You don’t have to trust the country, you just have to help this man.” She took a moment to let that sink in, then answered his earlier question. “I am speaking with an American military officer because at some point soon he might be useful in delaying the American forces when they try to stop the Russian attack. If he and his unit are placed on alert, I can pass on that information. There is much more to fighting the Great Satan than spewing the same chants in protests.”

  Amir flushed red, his dark skin a mask of fury. “Do not talk to me like I am a schoolchild. I know exactly what my mission is and how to accomplish it.” He moved his chair closer to her and brought his right hand up as if about to slap her.

  Fannie didn’t wince. Then, with startling speed, Major Severov reached across the table to grasp Amir’s wrist. He jerked once and pulled the little man off the chair onto the cobblestones on the outdoor café’s sidewalk where the table was set up. The Russian didn’t say a word as he looked down at the confused Iranian.

  Fannie liked this handsome major more and more.

  *

  Major Bill Shepherd almost rolled the Humvee as he turned the corner and screeched to a stop. The crowd outside the gate had pushed in around a car that had crashed through the barriers and hit the gate, causing a gap people could squeeze through. His marines had done an excellent job of closing in tight around the gap, with several of them holding back with rifles in case there was a problem.

  The army personnel made up the secondary defense and ringed the marines. The captain in charge had done an excellent job of keeping a lid on things. Their goal was to keep the protesters from entering the base, not to disperse them. If it came to that, the German police would have to act. The fact that there were only a dozen or so uniformed officers for a crowd of nearly five hundred told Shepherd that they didn’t want to be viewed as instigators or oppressors. It was a familiar reaction since some of the riots in the United States several years earlier. The media tended to blame the police presence for the violence, and as a result there was pressure to have fewer police on scene. That led to more disruption to everyone’s lives and the endangerment of innocent people who happened to be near some of the riots.

  The crowd looked angry, and a few younger men tried to squeeze through the opening in the gate, only to be poked hard with a long baton by one of the marines. At least it wasn’t a bayonet like the Russians would’ve used. No shots had been fired, which was probably the most important thing at this point.

  Then Shepherd caught a peek of someone running into the center of the crowd. A moment later there was a blinding flash and a concussion that knocked the marines closest to the gate to the ground. It stunned Shepherd even though he was forty yards away. As he got to his feet, his head cleared, and he realized it had to be a suicide bomber.

  There were screams in the crowd, and any organization they had dissolved in an instant. He yelled to the captain to pull the men back from the gate and rescue the wounded marines. Outside, the German police were scurrying around and calling for assistance. There were dozens of people on the ground, and most of them looked beyond help.

  Then he heard someone from the crowd shout in English, “The marines threw a grenade.” The same voice repeated the phrase in German several times, then again in English, until everyone was saying it.

  Shepherd moved forward, wondering if it would help to rebut the lie. But by the time he was near the gate, things were out of control.

  He had the sinking feeling this whole string of events wasn’t going to end anytime soon.

  *

  Derek Walsh realized any one of the young FBI agents would notice him in a moment, and if he waited, Tonya Stratford would be able to point him out. His new look only went so far. She was a professional and had picked him out of the crowd. If he ran, he’d immediately be identified, and he had no doubt these men could run him down. He didn’t even want to think about using the pistol in his waistband. He might have been out of his mind with fear over what had happened, but he wasn’t stupid. Shooting someone would make him a real criminal, and he couldn’t justify that in his own mind.

  He looked up quickly to see that Stratford and her little group of people were more than halfway across the courtyard and would reach his crowd of spectators in less than twenty seconds. The men in the back had worked their way up and were now stationed almost behind him.

  Walsh glanced around the crowd, sweat starting to build on his forehead and under his arms, his breathing picking up speed as he tried to figure a way out of this. A few feet to his right, a young reporter was scribbling notes on a narrow pad that fit in his hand. Earlier, Walsh had noticed a small clip-on badge that said NEW YORK TIMES. It wasn’t clearly displayed, but the short young man with black hair and thick glasses had been standing there as long as Walsh had. There had also been a man with a camera talking to him and taking photographs he pointed out. The young man fit Walsh’s needs nicely. He didn’t like what he was about to do, but the fact that the man was casually dressed and had shaggy black hair made him the perfect target.

  Just as the uniformed policemen who had a K-9 on a leash turned and started to walk back to the crowd, Walsh stole a glance to gauge how much time he had. He let the dog come forward, and just as it was next to the young reporter Walsh screamed out, “That guy has a bomb.”

  The entire crowd reacted at once. People spre
ad out, a woman fell to the ground and screamed, and the dog, startled by the commotion, turned and faced the dark-haired New York Times reporter. As if by magic everyone focused their attention on the slim young man in the middle of the crowd. It was as if the dog had alerted on him, but only Walsh knew exactly what had happened.

  Now people were scurrying to get away from the man they thought had a bomb strapped to his body, and the dog handler was trying to understand what had happened. He started to address the man, who was too startled to speak and merely held up his hands as if he had a gun pointed at him. The cop was trying to reason with him when other people started shouting, “Someone stop him.”

  Walsh looked over to see the young FBI agents consumed by the unfolding drama. He slowly slid backward in the most subtle movement he could muster. In a few seconds he was at the rear of the crowd and no one had noticed him, almost as if he were invisible. Now he turned and started to walk quickly, not running and definitely not drawing attention to himself. As soon as he was around the corner he started to jog. The commotion of the potential bomber was well behind him now, and ahead of him a group of actual protesters was walking along the sidewalk and in the street, trying to scratch parked police cars with whatever they had in their hands. But there were no cops near them. The rowdy main protests had attracted them, and Walsh suspected whatever cops were in the area were now running toward the site of a potential bomber.

  He felt guilty for identifying the young man as a bomber, but satisfied at the same time that he’d figured out how to slip away from the crowd. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was following him, and when he turned back he almost collided with a man stepping out of the side exit door.

  Walsh’s immediate reaction was to say, “Excuse me.” It was instinct drilled into him by parents who insisted he be polite, and then the Marine Corps, who insisted even harder that he be polite.

  The man said, “No problem, smart guy. Remember me?”