by Lou Dobbs
Walsh shook his head and paused briefly on the Al Jazeera International channel, which surprisingly covered the events honestly. Its talking heads seemed disappointed that Islamic-based terrorism appeared to be on the rise again. They did not shy away from mentioning that the suicide bombers in Western Europe and the U.S. had mostly been identified as Middle Eastern nationals from Egypt, Saudi Arabia, and Yemen, and fighters who had been trained in Syria.
He listened for reports on death tolls in the U.S. Across the world there were people killed in attacks in Italy and France, a dozen more in London, twenty-two outside a military base in Germany. That made him worry about his friend Bill Shepherd.
One estimate was that over five hundred had been killed in Europe and more than two hundred in the U.S., with more than five times that seriously injured.
The biggest attack had been on a Swiss bank in Bern. More than seventy people were dead and dozens still missing in the massive debris. The investigation was still under way, but the size of the bomb indicated that it had been built into the structure of the building and had left a huge crater on one side and a shaky-looking column of offices along the rear. One report speculated that the bank was also the original site of the algorithm that was introduced into the financial markets. Even Walsh knew that couldn’t be a coincidence.
Finally he settled on CNN, which interspersed inspirational messages from the president with news stories implying the worst had passed. It also had a panel discussion debating whether the presence of police officers had incited any of the protesters and caused more violence than it hindered. Walsh couldn’t believe idiots that spouted that sort of bullshit. It was more popular and easier for CNN to carry that line than it was to look at the deeper issues and what would happen if the police were not in place. It reminded him of the protests in Missouri and how CNN jumped to conclusions about the use of force by a police officer, which were later definitively rebutted by forensic evidence. No one at CNN sounded eager to clear the police officer’s name.
Walsh finally shut off the TV in frustration but felt no closer to sleep. He slipped back up onto the bed and tried to breathe deeply and clear his head. At least he knew Alena was safe. Now he had to keep her that way.
*
Major Bill Shepherd had used the several twenty-minute breaks during the inquiry board to run out and check on his men, who were either near the front gate or getting their gear ready for another night out on the line. The questioning had gone on much longer than he’d anticipated, but no one had thrown him any curve balls. Once he got a line on the German Ministry of Justice representative, he understood she was trying to create a narrative that relieved the Germans of responsibility more than she was trying to blame the U.S. military. Either way, it was just another day on duty. So he was happy.
He slipped back into his chair as the members of the board of inquiry finished up phone calls and got their notes in order. Shepherd expected the base commander to make some sort of final statement, but it was the FBI agent, Maria Alonso, who surprised him.
The sharply dressed and attractive young woman said, “From my training and experience in police work, it appears that the real failure here was in the civilian police’s ability to control the crowd. I understand the need for the military to protect their base and personnel, but the civilian police should have that responsibility. I’d like to commend you, Major, on your decision to bring up marines, some of whom have had duty at embassies and understand the subtleties of security. Your actions undoubtedly kept the situation from getting out of control.”
The German representative turned in her chair and said, “Are you saying it is my government’s fault?”
The FBI agent remained calm. She even took a moment to flip her hair back over her shoulder. Then she said, “I’m not attempting to assign blame, merely complimenting the major on his actions.”
The German ministry representative said, “And you say the situation didn’t get out of control? There are more than twenty dead German civilians.”
All of the military men at the table were smart enough to stay out of this fight. The FBI agent sharpened her gaze and said, “The people were killed by a terrorist. All of the preliminary forensics indicate it was a single person with a bomb strapped to their chest. Something civilian police would have been in a better position to deal with had there been more police outside who knew what to do. So in that regard, yes, it is the Germans’ fault. I realize history has taught us that you will have a tough time accepting responsibility for something like that. But I can assure you, my report back to Washington will indicate that Major Shepherd and his men are heroes. My only hope is that action like that is not required again.” She looked around the table, then stared at the German ministry representative again. “I assume the German government will provide adequate security from here on out. Is that correct?”
Shepherd had to hide a smile. The base commander was a little more obvious as he leaned back in his seat and said, “I think that just about wraps things up here.”
Ten minutes later, as Major Shepherd was getting ready to leave the building and return to his unit, Agent Alonso stopped him in the hallway. He couldn’t help but say, “Thank you for coming to my defense.”
“No thanks are needed. You did a great job.”
Shepherd thought she was flirting with him, but if he was wrong, it would be terribly embarrassing, so he just smiled and turned back toward the door. The FBI agent caught him by the arm with her hand and said, “There are a few things about it I’d like to discuss with you if you have time.”
Shepherd turned and said, “I am at your disposal. I’m sure we can find an office to sit in close by.”
The FBI agent said, “I was thinking more along the lines of dinner.”
This time Shepherd couldn’t hide his smile.
*
Walsh went over everything in his head. He wasn’t used to considering people as suspects. So far, Charlie, the homeless vet, was the only person he could think of who would’ve talked, and that would explain how the Russians knew he was going to Alena’s apartment. But he wasn’t even sure that made sense. How would Charlie know where she lived or what her last name was? All Walsh had said was that she was a student at Columbia and lived near the campus.
Outside, the sun was just starting to rise. For most of his life, if he was awake at sunrise, it was for a positive reason. He was usually in a good mood. Either he had been out all night having a great time or he was so excited about something he got up early. He could remember growing up in New Jersey and getting up at dawn the first day after school was out just so he and his buddies could go exploring in some of the Pine Barrens. They often looked for the elusive “Jersey Devil,” always without success. Even in the service he felt like he got the most work done early in the morning.
Today was different. He was dreading the day. He felt like things could only get worse. Even with this beautiful woman lying in the bed next to him, he was losing his hope. If this was a conspiracy, someone had been brilliant in its execution. There was almost no way he could explain how someone else had made the trades on Thomas Brothers’ accounts. And the chaos that had followed had only muddied the waters and hindered any investigation.
He considered what would happen if he turned himself in to the FBI. He thought about Tonya Stratford and her background in banking. Would she be open-minded enough to listen to him? Finally he sighed and sat up in bed. He didn’t want to wake Alena, so he carefully got dressed and decided to go out to find bagels and coffee.
He needed to get his shit together.
20
The streets were quiet at this time of the morning in Times Square on a normal day, but after two days of rioting and terror attacks, the place looked like Baghdad during an air raid. No one was on the street. Derek Walsh immediately found an open deli and grabbed a couple of bagels and some coffee. That was the extent of his original plan when he left the shabby hotel, but his mind kept going over the steps
he could take to help himself out of this nightmare. The marines had drilled being self-sufficient and proactive into him. Even if it wasn’t his nature, he knew now was the time to put that training to use. That was why, when he stumbled on an Internet café that had ten desktop computers with Web access for rent on an hourly basis, he didn’t hesitate to step inside and slap down twenty dollars.
The clerk behind the counter was a pretty, twenty-year-old girl with some serious tattoos and more piercings than he could count on her left ear alone. She didn’t care where he looked on the Internet or what he was doing. That was perfect.
There were five other people in the small business: a Finnish couple who were on vacation and trying to find an earlier flight home, a guy who looked like he might be homeless, and two young guys who looked like they’d been out all night partying. Whatever they’d rented a computer for, it certainly wasn’t anything legal. Walsh might not have been a cop, but he wasn’t an idiot, either.
He was surprised how fast the server was, and it only took him a moment to log into an account he still controlled that listed all of the financial advisers and people involved in banking based on their licenses. Tonya Stratford, the FBI agent, understood so much about trading that she had to have been involved in banking at some point in her life. So he took a shot and started looking through the series 7 and series 63 license holders over the last few years in New York. It didn’t take long to find her and see that she also had a series 4 license. Apparently she was interested in supervising money managers as well as being one herself.
He took the information he found on her license and made a couple of simple checks through Google and a few other Web sites. He didn’t understand how cops couldn’t catch people immediately nowadays. He found that she lived in Flushing, had been divorced for two years, and received her bachelor’s degree in finance from SUNY Stony Brook out on Long Island. He was impressed to see she later earned a master’s degree from NYU and guessed that was while she was working. He found an article that mentioned her as an analyst at Lehman Brothers, and suddenly he had a clear picture of who he was up against.
He still didn’t have the information he wanted the most. But checking on some sites that few people knew of, he found a credit application, and hidden at the bottom was a phone number. It was her personal cell.
Now the only question was if he really should talk to her.
*
Joseph Katazin woke with a start as pain shot through his cracked rib and welcomed him to the new day. He was alone in the king bed of the upstairs master bedroom of his Brooklyn home. He could hear his wife rummaging around in the kitchen downstairs. She hadn’t spoken to him when he slipped inside during the middle of the night. He was sure it was because she thought he had a mistress somewhere. Another time, probably. He’d had several over the years, including a secretary at the import/export business that his wife made him fire. But she had no idea what he was up to right now.
He padded down the stairs, already dressed in Dockers and a loose shirt to hide the gun he intended to carry once he got in the car. She didn’t even say good morning. Her first words were, “Can you be here for the new washer and dryer delivery this afternoon?”
“Not today.”
“Why not?”
“Busy at work, my love.” He ignored her rolling eyes and the heavy sighs. No matter what he did for the motherland, he still had a nagging wife just like everyone else. He decided to accept it and move on with his life. He was glad to hear that his daughter, Irina, had felt well enough to go to school, because he needed a few hours of uninterrupted time in his home office.
As if she were reading his mind his wife said, “Are you going to lock yourself in your room? What do you do up there? Troll for women on the Internet?”
Katazin thought about the Beretta in his car. It was a fleeting thought, but he realized it occurred to him more and more often. Aloud he said, “Why would I ever troll for another woman when I have a catch like you at home?”
He grabbed a banana and some coffee and stumbled into his office on the first floor, closing the door, but not locking it just in case his wife checked on him. He was dismayed to see all of the newscasts showing the streets quiet in Manhattan after the two days of protests and rioting. He’d already talked to his contact, who had no answers other than that many of the protesters were scared. Had the two prongs of his plan canceled each other out? Had terrorists kept the protesters out of the picture? That was the goal today: Stir up more protests.
It also could be the fact that Americans had such short attention spans. They were like little children. Only CNN had mastered the art of manipulating them. They knew what stories to pump and when to move on. Protests were the best video for them until there was a terror attack. In this case, the attack at Disneyland had drawn reporters like shit drew flies. Even Katazin thought that the attack had gone too far. How could the jihadists risk children’s lives like that?
First, he would go meet with his contact who organized the protests, then he was on to real business: He would deal with Derek Walsh.
*
Mike Rosenberg worried he was paranoid. He checked for surveillance all the way from his house in Bethesda to his office in Langley. He felt nervous greeting the security guard at the gate whom he spoke to every day. He purposely left his cell phone at home. He decided he would call Derek Walsh when he got home. It was only an extra twenty or thirty minutes. And he had a lot to do before he could knock off for the day.
He made it to his office and was scurrying around, gathering information for his regular duties as well as looking at some of the reports about the money transferred from Thomas Brothers Financial to the bank in Bern, when his boss stuck her head in the door. A CIA lifer who had worked in the Far East, she wore middle age well and presented the ultimate professional demeanor.
“You’re here early this morning,” she said.
“I’ve got a lot going on today,” he replied.
“Any idea what the protests are going to look like across the country? You think they’ll pick up speed again or die out?”
Even though that was one of the issues he was supposed to be working on, the question caught him by surprise. He hesitated, then finally said, “Right now I’m looking at the money transfer that started the protests in New York.”
“The one from Thomas Brothers?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The military in him would never be completely gone.
“Why? We have people who specialize in that sort of thing.”
He knew it was time to dive in. “Just a hunch. I’m good with making connections between events. It all ties together somehow. I just haven’t figured it out yet.”
“I need you on the protests.” That was the end of the conversation. She turned and was headed toward her office before Rosenberg could appeal.
Now he really would be working off the grid. Great.
*
Anton Severov stood on a small, quaint bridge and looked out at the running stream the road passed over. It was late afternoon, and the sun made the water glisten like diamonds. All he was really doing was keeping his mind off of other things. He recognized that Fannie had been dragging the trip out as long as possible. They were still an hour from the border and had been driving most of the day. He appreciated the fact that she wasn’t ready to let him go. He wished he had more time with her, too. Maybe after this operation was over they’d be able to see each other. If they weren’t on the opposite sides of some kind of jihad.
He felt the beautiful French woman next to him, then looked up quickly to make sure her little Iranian friend, Amir, was nowhere around. He could see the dark-haired young man standing by the hatchback parked on the side of the road away from the bridge. It was one of the few moments they’d had alone all day.
Earlier, when Severov asked Fannie what kind of trouble Amir could cause if he told people they had slept together, she downplayed the issue. But it had stuck in his brain, and he was worried about
her safety. Now he took her in his arms and gave her a kiss and held her at arm’s length and said in a serious tone, “Really, what will happen if Amir opens his mouth about us?”
She paused, and that didn’t ease his fears at all. Finally Fannie said, “It really depends on who he talks to. Some of the more enlightened men in our cause, let’s say men educated in London, might understand and just have a stern discussion with me. Others, some of the old guard, will take it much more seriously. I could try to explain that I was using you, but they wouldn’t believe me.”
“Were you using me?” He almost melted when those wide dark eyes looked up at him and glistened with a tear. All he said was, “I already know the answer.” Then after a moment longer he said, “So what do we do about Amir?”
Fannie shrugged her shoulders. “You’re not talking about killing him, are you?”
“Would anyone miss him?”
“There would be a lot of questions.”
“Maybe we can be more creative.” He felt a pang of guilt talking so callously about a man who technically was helping in their preparations for war. Then he heard the little shit yell from the car, “Let’s go. There is much to do.”
Severov smiled, thinking, Yes, there is.
21
Vladimir Putin reclined on the balcony of his private residence. The leather-and-mahogany lounger was identical to one in his villa in the South of France. The unseasonably warm weather allowed him to enjoy his vast gardens and scintillating pools wearing only a sheer silk robe. It was not an image he broadcast to the media, but over the years he had grown used to his creature comforts. And he had earned them. As the leader of a resurgent Russia, he had a right to his lavish lifestyle.