Putin's Gambit

by Lou Dobbs

  The second-story hallway was empty and had what looked like new carpet laid from one end to the other. It was cheap, thin industrial carpet, but at least someone was trying to keep the place up. The far end of the hallway turned gloomy, as none of the lights were on yet. It matched his mood. What could he do in this situation? Everything he’d worked for the last few days was for nothing. And now they had Alena. And he had nothing.

  About halfway down the hallway a door opened, and the man shoved him toward the apartment. As soon as Walsh stepped inside he saw the smiling face of Serge Blattkoff. His left eye was still bruised and discolored. He looked like he was eager to exact some revenge.

  Alena sat in a wide La-Z-Boy recliner with her hands stiffly gripping the arms. She sat perfectly straight with her legs directly in front of her as if she were preparing to model the chair in a photo shoot. Her brown eyes cut up to him, but she didn’t say a word or move a muscle.

  As soon as he was inside, Blattkoff shoved him onto a sofa, which faced out to a wide bay window. Alena was in his line of sight across the room. The questions in his head buzzed like a chainsaw. How had they found her? Why did they have her? But he knew not to ask any questions just yet.

  The older man with a scar leaned on the arm of the sofa. He affected a casual attitude like a man at a beach club about to chat with a friend. Walsh noticed his eyes flick around the room to make sure his security measures were in place. Walsh had no doubt one of the men would easily shoot him if he tried to move, or worse, shoot Alena.

  One floor lamp at the end of the sofa illuminated the whole room. He listened to the sounds of the apartment building but picked up nothing of interest other than someone with heavy footsteps walking on the apartment floor above them. He had already decided he wouldn’t speak first.

  Finally the Russian man said, “You’re quite a resourceful young man. I have been very impressed with your ability to slip out of tight situations. But the only way you’re going to get out of this is to give us what we want.”

  Walsh tried to stay calm and control his voice as he said, “And what do you want?”

  “First, you can hand over the security plug from Thomas Brothers Financial.”

  That caught him by surprise, but he answered honestly. “I don’t have it.”

  “Where is it?”

  Now he lied. “The FBI took it when they arrested me.”

  The Russian smiled and let out an ominous chuckle. “I know you have the plug and activated the security feature that took a photograph of the trade. I will ask you once more in a pleasant tone: Where is the security plug?”

  Walsh’s first instinct told him that Ted Marshall was involved and had told them about the security plug. What would make a man sell out his company and his country like that? Walsh kept his eyes on the Russian as he thought about what to say.

  *

  Mike Rosenberg felt his stomach rumble from nerves the entire drive from Langley to his house in Maryland. Just the idea that he took something out of the main headquarters made him queasy. It didn’t matter if the information came from an unofficial source based on his unofficial phone call or if it was the blueprints to an aircraft carrier; he had just broken half a dozen major rules at the CIA.

  He walked in the door to his small house and slapped down the sheaf of papers that contained the phone numbers from Vodafone in Germany. He went immediately to the kitchen counter and grabbed his personal cell. He dialed Derek Walsh first but got no answer. His friend had not even set up a voicemail account yet.

  He checked his watch and calculated how late it would be in Germany and decided he would risk bothering Bill Shepherd. He sure would love to talk to one of his friends.

  He immediately spread the papers out on the kitchen counter and started looking at the phone numbers and determining what countries had been called. There was a mass of information in these pages, and he wanted to break the code and figure out exactly what some of the information meant. Then he had to figure out a way to explain it to his supervisor.

  It was going to be a very long night.

  *

  Walsh looked around the room and saw nothing that would help him escape. There was the main door, a second door in the corner of the next room, and a narrow utility door that looked like it went from the kitchen to the end of the exterior hallway. At least his head was on straight enough to be thinking about escaping. This was a war, and that was what the marines had trained him for.

  The older Russian with a scar on his face spoke Russian to Serge; then the younger man pulled Alena out of the La-Z-Boy as the older Russian jerked Walsh to his feet. They pushed them both into a spacious bathroom that had one tiny window. It wasn’t big enough for either of them to fit through.

  The Russian looked Walsh in the eye and said, “You make any noise or cause any trouble and I’ll put a bullet in her pretty face.” He pulled the door shut, and Walsh could tell someone was leaning against the outside. He didn’t know why they had been moved, but he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity.

  He rushed to embrace Alena and said, “Are you okay?”

  She just nodded her head, then laid her face against his chest as they both sat on the edge of the wide bathtub. She said, “Just give them what they want so they’ll let us go.”

  “What if they don’t let us go after they have what they want?”

  “Then we’re in no worse shape than we are now.”

  “Unless they kill us.” He could see she was scared. Who wouldn’t be? She was just a student and had no idea what men like this were capable of. He thought back to all the kindness she had shown him. Laughing at his corny jokes, giving him her debit card, trusting him with her heart. It hurt to think of her mixed up with him in something like this.

  After a few seconds Alena said, “Where is the plug?”

  “It’s safe. I can get to it if I need it.”

  “I think you need it.” Her tone had turned flat and cooler.

  After a long silence Walsh said, “Do you know how they found you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Did they take you anywhere else?”

  “No.”

  Walsh tried to concentrate on the noises outside. He could hear people speaking, but it was mostly in Russian. He could barely hear any traffic sounds. The neighborhood wasn’t particularly busy, and the apartment building was sturdy. Noise might not carry if he yelled.

  Alena said, “Who is the old guy they keep talking about? The one that hit the guy who lives here.”

  “Charlie? He’s just a friend of mine. A vet that’s fallen on hard times. Why are they asking?”

  Alena shrugged her shoulders. “They asked a lot of questions. Like if you talk to anyone on a regular basis, what you told the FBI. They wanted to know if you picked up on the fact that they were Russian. They asked everything. But mainly they want to know where the security plug is.” She focused those big brown eyes on him and said, “Where is it?”

  Walsh didn’t want anyone to know that answer. Not even Alena. He just didn’t answer as he started to consider what he might use as a weapon here in the bathroom. Perhaps if he struck one of them hard enough he could get the man’s gun.

  Then Alena stood up and stepped toward the door. Before he could ask what she was doing, she knocked on it hard. The door opened, and Serge Blattkoff peered in.

  Alena spoke to him in Russian. Or was it some other Eastern European language? Whatever language it was, it wasn’t Greek, and it made Walsh’s stomach turn. He had been a fool.

  *

  The small plane Fannie Legat was riding in bumped along on its way to Stuttgart. She wouldn’t have time to grab any sleep once she reached her home base but was pleased with herself for having so easily talked Major Shepherd into meeting her the following day. Now it was the middle of the night and she’d already found a small team to help her. It was a simple plan that would coincide nicely with the plans of the Red Army.

  She intended to have a sizable bomb
placed under whatever vehicle Major Shepherd drove to meet her. The café they were meeting at was close to his base, and he would be able to get back quickly. If all went as planned, they would still be at brunch when the news of the Russian incursion into Estonia reached him. She could picture him rushing back to his car and racing to the base. As soon as he reached the main entrance, another confederate would remotely detonate the bomb, causing all kinds of chaos and confusion.

  It would also leave the marines, who Fannie understood to be the elite fighting force of the U.S. military, in disarray.

  She could catch up on sleep sometime after that.

  *

  Mike Rosenberg could eliminate many of the numbers on the toll records he had taken from the office. It was a long shot, and the fact that the number was scrawled on the side of an application for a Swiss bank account in Bern might not have meant anything, but there were a bunch of calls to capitals all over Europe, as well as to cell phones that appeared to have come from Jordan and Syria. He did his best to eliminate the numbers he could find working through databases on the Internet. Some of the databases were well known and some much harder to find. Mostly all he could tell was if a number was a commercial number or not.

  He also separated the numbers that had been called more than once and then grouped them by country. It appeared that whoever used the phone lived in Germany and made a number of calls in the Stuttgart area.

  He swigged another gulp of coffee as he sat at his kitchen counter with CNN running on the TV in the living room. He had always thrived on doing several things at once. It was his job to stay up on current events, and at least he felt like he wasn’t shirking his duties at the CIA while he worked on his own project.

  It seemed that the lone wolf terror attacks had calmed down the protests across most of Europe and the United States. Even the Germans were saying that the protesters killed in front of the army base where his friend Bill Shepherd was stationed was the result of a suicide bomber. They had identified the man as a disaffected French youth who lived in one of the “no go” areas that housed so many Muslims.

  As always, Rosenberg perked up at any reports on the Russian economy. Every couple of years, people wanted to dismiss Russia as any sort of threat to the United States, and every couple of years, they were proven incorrect. With its economy in shambles and the price of oil still below profitability, Russia was becoming desperate to make itself relevant. More accurately, Vladimir Putin was becoming desperate to make Russia relevant, as well as to keep citizens supporting him.

  The Russian military was still a potent threat, and one that no one with any brains underestimated. What Rosenberg was listening for was any information about the cyberattack that had hit Western Russia.

  He paused for a moment as video of Russian tanks played on the screen, but there was no mention of any computer glitches.

  At almost the same time, his eye caught a number on the sheet he was scanning. Something about the number seemed familiar and held his attention. Then he had an uneasy feeling as he reached for his own phone.

  It only took a moment to confirm that whoever owned this phone in Germany and contacted so many people around the world, including Middle Easterners, also had called his friend Bill Shepherd.

  29

  Walsh waited a full minute before he stood from the edge of the bathtub and stumbled out of the bathroom, back into the living room of the apartment where he was being held. The Russian with the scar on his face, Serge Blattkoff, and Alena all sat casually on the couch together. It was clear to him that Alena had been the linchpin of this conspiracy from the beginning. He had these wild ideas that dozens of people were involved when, in fact, it looked like it was only his girlfriend.

  The older Russian motioned him toward the La-Z-Boy on the other side of the room, where he gladly plopped, then worked the handle to elevate his feet. His legs felt weak, and the acid in his stomach wanted to burn a hole through his skin. The only bright side he saw was that he would probably be killed shortly and none of this would matter.

  The man with the scar said, “My name is Joe. And like you, I am a soldier. I haven’t enjoyed any of this.”

  Walsh said, “That makes two of us.”

  Joe said, “I can see how surprised you are. That’s the whole idea. You’re a smart guy, you were in the marines. You have to know this sort of game goes on all the time.”

  “What game?” The exhaustion now was in his voice.

  “Spying and connected operations.”

  He focused on Alena and said, “From the beginning?”

  At least she looked guilty. And she couldn’t speak. It was Joe who said, “You brought this on yourself. You showed a weakness for women when you were in the marines in Germany. A man who has a thing for blond girls is an easy target.”

  “My girlfriend in Germany was a spy, too?”

  Now Joe chuckled. “I’m afraid you’re giving yourself a little too much importance. No, she was just some drug-addled beauty. But we decided if she could cause that much trouble for you we could arrange for one of our exchange students to bump into you.” He ran his hand through Alena’s hair, then patted her on her shoulder.

  It made Walsh shudder, and Alena pulled away from the older man’s touch.

  Joe said, “The day we made the transfer of money to Switzerland, we had two protesters stop you outside your office to grab your security plug.”

  Walsh remembered the encounter and how he reacted aggressively. He had inadvertently thwarted their first plan.

  “When that didn’t work, we had to use dear Alena to slip the plug out of your pocket before you went to dinner. While you were away a couple of hours, many of the world’s most despicable terrorists were having their coffers replenished with money from accounts held at Thomas Brothers Financial. The accounts were carefully chosen. They were long-term accounts not often utilized or audited. I’m sure your country’s FBI has figured that out by now.”

  Walsh said, “So you picked Thomas Brothers because of me?”

  “Not entirely, but you were a pleasant and easily accessible surprise. In fact, you were the perfect dupe. We just had no idea we’d be able to use you so effectively. Now it’s simply a matter of tying up some loose ends.”

  “So that’s all I am? A loose end.”

  “No, Mr. Walsh, you’re much more than a loose end. You see, everyone else is a contract employee, doing this for money. I’m the only one with other motives. I have to live with the results of our activities long after we are done. You are more than a loose end; you have also been a major pain in the ass. That’s why I’m not going to waste any more time with you. Tell me where the security plug is or my friend Serge is going to snip off your fingers and then your penis. All in a matter of a few minutes.” He paused as Serge held up a heavy pair of shears that looked like some kind of surgical tool.

  Joe added, “Is that really what you want?”

  All Walsh could do was think, No, I don’t want that at all.

  *

  Mike Rosenberg was in a panic. But like any good marine, he got over it quickly and took action. The first thing he did was grab his personal cell phone and immediately press the contact for Bill Shepherd. He had no idea why his friend’s phone number was on a potential terrorist’s list of calls, but the two of them could figure it out. He just needed to reach him.

  The call went immediately to voicemail and Rosenberg knew that meant the phone was turned off. He looked up and saw that it was nearly seven o’clock his time, which meant it was one o’clock in the morning in Germany. He didn’t know if Shepherd was trying to catch up on his sleep after some exhausting days or if he was in danger. In fact, Rosenberg had no idea what any of it meant.

  He tried to call Derek Walsh again. The phone rang, but he got no answer.

  He swallowed the panic and started to figure out a plan.

  *

  Walsh tried not to cringe when Serge stood up with the pair of heavy shears in his hand. He clos
ed the extended footrest on the La-Z-Boy and shifted his weight so he could at least jump up. Joe shook his head as he raised the pistol and aimed it at Walsh’s groin.

  Joe said, “No one will bother with a single pistol shot in this neighborhood. Russians tend to mind their own business. All that will happen is you will be on the ground in pain with a bullet lodged in your testicles and Serge will be cutting off your fingers. You can avoid all that by simply telling me where your security plug is.”

  Walsh’s mind raced, and he decided that if he told them it would at least buy him a few more minutes to figure out what to do. But before he could say anything they heard running footsteps in the hall and a young voice shouting something in Russian. Walsh could tell by the way the two men looked at each other it was some sort of an alert.

  Joe put his finger to his lips, telling Walsh to stay silent. Alena sprang up and ran to the doorway. Serge set the terrifying shears on a table next to the sofa and pulled his own pistol. Walsh recognized it as an Eastern European model he had occasionally seen NATO forces carrying. He thought it was a CZ of some kind.

  Walsh stood up. He was taller than either of these men by a couple of inches. He tried to give Alena the stink eye, but she was listening to orders in Russian. He saw the older man, Joe, rummage through a drawer and then pull out something that looked like a paperweight. He handed it to Alena.

  Walsh was so shocked he said, “Is that a grenade?”

  Joe said, “A last resort, I can assure you. Now you go in the back room with Serge.”

  The lean young man reached across and grabbed Walsh by the right arm and pulled him along, then shoved him through the door first. They passed the bathroom, then entered a rear bedroom. Once he was past the doorway and near the windows, Walsh turned back to face the angry young Russian who a few moments ago was prepared to amputate parts of his body. As soon as Walsh turned around he noticed his Beretta and cell phone sitting on the pillow of the bed.