by Lou Dobbs
The young man who was addressing Walsh had a very dark complexion, and his head was shiny in the midday sun. He said, “We were just wondering what you were doing on the street alone. We haven’t seen many pedestrians the last few days in this area.”
Walsh didn’t know if it was a trick to get him to say something that would reveal his identity or if it was just a “stop-and-talk,” as the cops liked to call it. He considered his options, and short of pulling his pistol and shooting fast, there were none. And no matter what he had done or how many years he could be facing in jail for something he didn’t do, Walsh was not about to shoot police officers just doing their job. But he did decide that he wouldn’t make it easy for them.
Walsh said, “Oh. I get it.”
The cop gave him a quizzical look and said, “Get what?”
“In order to continue to do your stop-and-frisks, you have to get a certain number of white people in nice areas so the numbers even out. I don’t agree with that, son.” He liked throwing in the “son” to make himself seem older, even though he was probably only three or four years older than this guy.
“Not sure what you’re talking about, sir.”
That made Walsh wonder if the cop threw in the word “sir” to indicate to him that he was an old man. Either way, Walsh had this guy on the line. He said, “I’m talking about how you guys constantly ignore Mayor de Blasio and continue to do things like stop-and-frisk even though he said the practice would stop.”
The cop near the car said, “And look where it’s gotten us the last few days.”
The black cop who had been talking to Walsh turned and gave his partner a sharp look that shut him up. He quickly turned his attention back to Walsh.
Walsh said, “I know you think he took the teeth out of enforcement and that he’s cutting back on your authority, but picking on me when I’m not doing anything at all is not going to help.”
The cop looked truly confused now and said, “All I said was, ‘Excuse me, sir.’ I don’t know where the rest of this is coming from.”
“It’s coming from a citizen who believed the mayor when he said he’d stop making the city a police state. What’s your probable cause for stopping me?”
“First of all, I don’t need probable cause to stop you. Second of all, I am not stopping you, I was just going to talk to you.”
“Am I under arrest or am I free to go?” Walsh had seen some attorney on TV say that was a phrase that forced cops to make a decision. Never give them a third choice.
The cop hesitated as he formed an answer. He was no idiot.
Walsh was ready with his next response when the cop turned as a radio call came over his handheld. The cops exchanged a quick look after a series of codes and an address not far from where they were standing.
Walsh recognized that the cop looked relieved they were getting a call.
The cop looked at him one more time and said, “Have a good day,” and as he slid into the car, Walsh heard him mutter, “Dickwad.”
25
Derek Walsh’s encounter with the New York City police officers had emboldened him. They didn’t recognize him, and he’d showed some balls. He needed to prove to himself he could get out of this, and for the first time he was starting to believe it. Now he sat in a diner off Spruce Street near Pace University’s Manhattan campus. There were even a couple of cops at a booth not far from him, but his confidence made him feel like no one even noticed him. Perhaps his plea to Tonya Stratford really had kept his photo off the news.
He had his cell phone but was hesitant to use it. If he called a number and it was traced, they might be able to get a fix on his position by looking at which cell towers the phone hit. For now, no one even realized he had a phone.
He’d made one call to the hotel and had a short and somewhat unpleasant conversation with Alena. Her belief that she was imprisoned against her will had only grown since he’d left her earlier in the morning, but he convinced her that he’d be back by six o’clock and everything would be all right. She just had to be patient. It was a tough sell, but by the time he broke the connection he felt confident that she’d stay put and spend the day watching Jerry Springer and Steve Harvey.
Then Walsh decided to take one risk with this phone. He called the switchboard at Thomas Brothers Financial. He knew the system and realized it would be difficult to trace a call unless they were waiting for it. Something told him that Ted Marshall was sincere when he said he would help. He certainly was nervous enough in the courtyard to make Walsh believe he was scared. He got no benefit from Walsh being accused unfairly. Walsh was going to have to trust someone besides Mike Rosenberg.
When the operator answered, Walsh asked for Ted Marshall. His former boss picked up the phone on the first ring. Tension strained his voice when he said, “Hello.”
Walsh said, “Ted, it’s me.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. I’ve been a nervous wreck since I tried to eat my lunch on that bench. What do you want, Derek?”
“Just what we talked about, nothing more. Get me on the network and I’ll get the photographs off my security plug.” There was a long pause, and Walsh added, “Come on, Ted, you know I’m straight up. You can stay with me the entire time I’m on the computer.”
“If you don’t get the photos, will you turn yourself in?”
Walsh thought about it for a moment and said, “You can call the FBI while I’m in the office.”
“That’s the problem. There will already be FBI agents in the office. Usually they’re totally focused on files and computers, but I will yell to them if you’re not on the level.”
“I swear I just need network access for my security plug. It will take like two minutes to see if I’m right. If not, I’m screwed anyway. Do you really imagine me as a fugitive for the rest of my life?”
Marshall sounded resolved as he said, “I guess not. It’s just that this is such a huge risk. We’ve gotta make it looked like I just ran into you in the lobby. I’ll need a little time. I’ve got some afternoon meetings, one of them with an FBI agent working in the office.”
Walsh said, “I’m going to have to trust that you won’t say anything. I really need to trust you.”
“Trust me! I’m helping the guy who destroyed Western civilization.”
Walsh had to chuckle at that and said, “Good point. What time?”
“Sometime around five would be good. Most of the FBI agents cut out between three and four.”
“What if I were in the lobby at exactly four fifty?”
Marshall said, “I’ll be sure to be in the lobby at exactly ten minutes to five. We’re gonna have to make this fast.”
*
Mike Rosenberg had gathered an impressive amount of information in a short time by maximizing the efforts of several analysts. That was one of the things he appreciated about the CIA: They worked together as a team. No one ever cared about personal credit or asked questions about what another analyst was working on. They truly followed the “need to know” doctrine, and Rosenberg felt a little guilty for abusing their trust. But he was doing it for noble reasons: to solve the riddle of this money transfer and, more importantly, to save his friend.
He had traced the scrawled phone number to a mobile phone issued in Germany. He tracked down the company, Vodafone, and found its law enforcement compliance office was located in Berlin. At this point he should have found a translator for the conversation he wanted to have with someone from that office. Instead, he decided to risk it and call himself, hoping to find someone who spoke English. This was not the sort of conversation he wanted someone to witness. He wasn’t even sure what he was going to say. This stunt was not as an employee of the CIA. He had no legal authority; nor had he attempted to gain a subpoena and go through the Justice Department to have it legally served in Germany. By the time he had gotten through all that, Derek Walsh could be sitting in prison.
He dialed the ten-digit phone number that included the country code for Germa
ny and waited as he heard the odd ringtone in his phone. A woman answered the phone speaking German. All Rosenberg caught was, “Vodafone and Schmidt.” He recognized she was mentioning her company and her last name. For some reason this made him hesitate for a moment; then he said, “This is Mike Rosenberg from the United States. Do you speak English?”
There was a frustrated grunt on the other end of the phone, which made Rosenberg recognize the arrogance he had in calling and having no idea how to speak the native language. But the woman was a professional and managed an accented “One moment” in English before she put him on hold.
He intended to use a trick an FBI agent had shown him for getting maximum cooperation in a hurry without official paperwork. It was one of the things law enforcement occasionally had to do to protect citizens, no matter how underhanded or sneaky it seemed.
After more than a minute, another woman came on the phone. Part of this plan needed a female. Preferably a female with a family. He hated to be so manipulative but sometimes had to remind himself he worked for the CIA.
With almost no accent, the woman said in English, “My name is Barbara Gould. With whom am I speaking?”
The stern and direct tone caught him by surprise, but he managed to mumble, “My name is Mike Rosenberg, and I work for—” He paused for a moment. This could come back to bite him on the ass in a big way. Finally he decided to take the plunge and said, “The national police of the United States.” He was hoping the German would assume every country had a national police force like Germany. It also would make it more difficult for anyone to figure out who called the company. They would probably assume it was the FBI, and interest in finding out more details would fade long before it was traced back to him. His only hope was that she would buy it and didn’t understand there was no national police in the United States.
The woman said, “Yes, Mr. Rosenberg, how may I help you?”
Rosenberg smiled as he pulled the legal pad with his notes closer. Now he was getting things done.
*
Joseph Katazin waited on the platform of the Whitehall Street station. This time of day there was not a lot of traffic, and he thought he might get lucky and surprise Lenny Tallett as he got off the train. It was just a guess on Katazin’s part, but an educated guess, that the little anarchist would take the train and get off at this station. Katazin had told him he knew a wooded area by the bus line under the Battery Park overpass. In fact, that was his fallback position. There was a surprisingly wooded area where he could do whatever he had to do and slip away. He doubted anyone would notice a body for at least a day. But he liked his plan to surprise the little creep. Then he’d take the N or R train uptown. No one would even know he was in the area.
At least now he was prepared. Not only did he have his pistol, but he had the knife he normally kept in the car. He also carried a vinyl satchel with some paperback books shoved in it to look like cash. He had scooped the latest Lee Child and Tess Gerritsen novels off his secretary’s desk. He had novels by Brad Thor and Brad Meltzer in his own desk drawer. The four books together, along with some crumpled newspaper, made a credible bag of money. At least for as long as he would need it.
He planned to act quickly and quietly but was torn about what to do with Tallett’s quirky girlfriend. He had no desire to kill her, but she could ID him, and there was no telling what secrets Tallett had already spilled to her. Once he was done with this problem, he could focus all of his attention on Walsh.
There were a few people at the far end of the platform waiting to go uptown. He could hear the train in the tunnel and knew it was about showtime. He was surprisingly nervous and felt a tremor in his hand. As a kid he never would’ve thought about spies being nervous. But he was realizing his lifelong dream, so he took a deep breath and made one more scan around the platforms.
To his right he noticed a young man for the first time. He was tall and slender with a scraggly beard and had a heavy coat wrapped tightly around him. His dark hair was cut short, and his eyes darted in every direction. Katazin tried not to pay much attention because he didn’t want this guy being able to give a description to the cops later on.
The train rolled into the station, and Katazin immediately saw Tallett and his girlfriend through the window. The car was surprisingly crowded, and he hoped most the people would clear the station before Tallett noticed him.
There was a certain thrill to this kind of work, and the fact that he could surprise his target, blocks before he would expect it, was sweet.
26
Derek Walsh knew exactly what he needed to do. Sitting at a booth in the deli near Pace University, he’d scrawled several notes on napkins and was about to use the phone to gather more information. He’d already laid a twenty on the table to show the waitress he was going to take care of her for tying up the table, but business was slow, so it wouldn’t be an issue.
Almost as a reflection of his mood, the weather was clearing, and the autumn sun cast a cheerful glow on the street outside. He noticed several young people walk by with backpacks and figured they were probably students at the private university. No one talked much about Pace in a city that boasted about Columbia, NYU, and Fordham.
The next call he made was a risk. He hoped this would all be over soon and he would have no need of the phone in the next few hours. One way or the other, this nightmare would be over.
He dialed Tonya Stratford’s number, and she picked it up on the first ring.
He said, “This is Derek Walsh.”
“That would’ve been my first guess. Where are you?”
“I’m still in the city, and I would like to meet you.” He could tell there was a sense of relief on the other end of the phone.
Agent Stratford said, “That’s good news. Tell me where you are and I’ll come there right now.”
“It’s not quite that simple.”
“It never is.”
Walsh smiled at the slight humor she was finally starting to display. “I’ll meet you in Times Square between five and six this evening. No tricks, no games, I should have everything I need, and I believe you when you say you’ll give me a chance to explain.”
“I try to deal honestly with everyone. I can’t meet you alone. You’ve pulled too much shit.”
“I understand. But I would prefer if you didn’t use a SWAT team to knock me to the ground.”
“I’ll bring one or two other agents, all in plainclothes. But I don’t want any funny business. Go right to the discount ticket booth, and we’ll be there waiting.”
“One more thing.”
“I’m listening.”
“You know my concerns about a conspiracy.”
“Go on.”
“I give you my word as a former marine officer and a gentleman that I will be in Times Square between five and six this afternoon. But I have no idea who to trust and how far this conspiracy reaches, so I’m asking you to keep it quiet and use the minimum amount of help you feel is necessary. Otherwise, there’s no telling what will happen to me.”
“Again, no promises. But I believe you when you say you’ll meet me. And we will be in Times Square at five o’clock waiting for you.”
“I’ll see you then.” That went as well as he could have expected. Now all he had to do was get the evidence and meet her. At least by setting up the meeting for five, he knew she wouldn’t be at Thomas Brothers when he got there.
*
Since he was not using official CIA resources but relying on his own guile—and a ploy that the FBI used to get people to talk about different subjects by making it seem like they were investigating crimes against children—Rosenberg made it a point to chat with the woman for a moment and ask her first name. Even if this was rude to a German, it made him feel like he was making a personal connection. He called her Barbara several times, and she finally responded by calling him Mike. Then he got into the meat of his question.
He said, “Barbara, I have a very sensitive investigation involving a
phone number that your company carries. We’re trying to move quickly due to the nature of the investigation, and I was just wondering if I could get some basic information from you.”
Her voice had softened considerably from her initial greeting, and now she said, “Of course, we now accept subpoenas directly from the United States via fax. It really doesn’t take any longer than if we were dealing with the German police. I will even e-mail you the information back.”
That didn’t help Rosenberg at all. He started to move toward his original plan. “Here is the problem, Barbara, the investigation is extremely time sensitive, and we need to locate other victims as soon as possible. Most of them would probably be in Germany, or perhaps Switzerland.”
Curiosity got the better of Barbara, and she asked, “Victims of what?”
Rosenberg knew he had her. “We have identified a serial pedophile who’s using the phone to contact his victims. We desperately need the phone numbers he has called in the past thirty days or so just to make sure these kids are safe.” He was surprised how guilty he felt lying like this.
The woman’s sincerity didn’t help him feel any better. There was a long pause, and Rosenberg looked up at the clock on his desk, watching the seconds tick by. Did the pause mean she was swayed by his request or that she was looking up the “United States National Police”?
Rosenberg had started considering an exit strategy when the woman said, “Oh my, I was just thinking about my two young children at home. Perhaps there is a way I can expedite the information.”
“That would be very helpful and give us a chance to identify this man and perhaps have the German National Police pick him up as soon as possible.” Rosenberg felt a little guilty lying to the woman, but justified it by thinking of his friend Derek Walsh.
There was a longer pause on the phone, and Rosenberg could hear the keyboard clicking. Then the woman said, “I can see that there has been a great number of calls in the past thirty days to a number of different countries.”
Rosenberg was thinking, Jackpot!