by Lou Dobbs
The fifth ring put him into a depression.
*
Derek Walsh noticed several lights on downstairs in Tonya Stratford’s brownstone. It was about a quarter after five, and he didn’t think she left for work this early; however, after everything that had happened, maybe she had a plan like he did. He was impressed with her work ethic and hoped she had enough compassion to hear him out, but as he stood there Walsh suddenly tried to think of a coherent way to express what had happened.
He didn’t want to come across like a nut, but he knew the entire conspiracy theory did sound a little far-fetched. His hope was that she’d found something in her investigation about the Russians. It would be easy to just surrender now, but he could be of use. His country might actually need him. That trumped all of the two years he’d worked at Thomas Brothers. In that time he had made little money and not contributed to society in the least. Standing in front of a stranger’s front door was more important than all of the trades he had ever made. That was a sad commentary that he didn’t want to dwell on.
He thought he heard some movement inside and suddenly wished he had time to call Mike Rosenberg. Maybe he had tied something together as well. No matter what happened, he didn’t want to throw his friend under the bus for communicating with him while half the world wanted to hang him.
He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Charlie was still comfortable as he slept in the car. He couldn’t really see anything in the dark, then noticed headlights coming from the opposite end of the street. There was no way not to look suspicious standing out on the sidewalk without anyone else on the street. The car moved slowly, and suddenly Walsh wondered if it was a police vehicle. He took the only chance he saw and climbed the three steps to the landing in front of Tonya Stratford’s front door and made it look like he was locking it.
There was a lot that could go wrong with this plan.
*
Joseph Katazin came awake with a start. He didn’t know why his heart was pounding, but he was wide awake and it was not yet sunrise. He sensed that it was close to dawn, but it wasn’t until he twisted in the bed and saw his digital clock that he knew it was after five. He settled back into the bed and felt the different twinges of pain from all the injuries he had suffered. The one he’d have to deal with the most was his ankle, because he intended to do a little walking today. He would walk until he found Derek Walsh and put a bullet in his head.
There was not much more he could do on the operation other than tie up the loose ends and delay the inevitable FBI investigation into what happened. He didn’t think anyone would ever be able to tie the protesters to his plot, and his luck with the suicide bomber in the subway would cover his killing of Lenny Tallett. Then his mind settled on another potential loose end: his wife. She still lay in the bed next to him, rigid as a board. He doubted she had slept the whole night, but she was probably too scared to try to leave. He was frustrated because she was not something he should have to worry about while the biggest operation of his career was under way. Realistically, she was a potential threat, and he had to make a decision about what he intended to do.
He eased out of bed and slowly put some weight on his ankle. It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be. He shuffled to his closet and pulled on some clothes. He knew his wife was faking being asleep now, because she was always up before him. It was a point of pride with her that she make him coffee.
Katazin gingerly came down the stairs and flopped onto his couch to turn on the TV. He recognized his superiors had purposely left him in the dark about many elements of the operation, even though it was entirely his idea. It made sense that he would not be aware of the exact military action that would be taken. He had to believe the Red Army would move soon; he didn’t want to consider the possibility that he’d gone to all this trouble and moved all that money just to fund a few minor terrorist attacks that wouldn’t add up to a thousand deaths across the world. He knew the small and uncoordinated attacks were minuscule, but their cumulative effect was obviously incredible. Many of the Western countries were frozen with fear over what could happen next. Katazin hated to admit it, but it was also a little embarrassing that Russia couldn’t fund the attacks and distractions and had to resort to theft. They were lucky Katazin had turned that into another plus by motivating the protesters and diverting resources to their silliness.
He realized how excited he was as he searched for CNN. He felt like a child watching a parade. What would happen? As soon as he found the channel he realized there were no blazing banners of “breaking news” and no theme songs dedicated to the ongoing coverage they reserved for major events. It was the news as usual. Celebrities, sports, more celebrities. What was it with Americans and celebrities? Then there was the daily story of some weird crime that happened in Florida. A man beat another man to death with an alligator. Typical. But there was nothing, not one word, about world-shattering events in Eastern Europe.
That put him in a dark mood.
As he turned to climb back up the stairs, he thought once again about his wife as a potential threat.
*
Bill Shepherd parked in front of the café and had already shut the door to the Humvee when he heard his phone ring on the seat. He hesitated, torn between rushing to see Fannie and concerned that there might be a problem that Rosenberg needed to talk to him about.
After a moment he turned the handle, yanked open the door, and reached in, wondering if he could answer the phone before it went to voicemail. He swiped his finger across the screen and said, “Mike, can you read me?”
On the other side of the line in a clear voice he heard his friend Mike Rosenberg say, “Shep, I read you.”
Shepherd looked up and saw that Fannie had stepped toward the door, so he held the phone tight to his ear as he locked the Humvee once more and slowly started strolling to the front of the café. He said into the phone, “Everything all right?”
“No, I need to ask you something straight up on our personal phones. No official communication.”
“Sure, go ahead.” He slowed his stride as he waited to hear what his friend had to say that warranted such a grim tone.
Rosenberg said, “I have the toll records for a phone that belongs to a suspected terrorist.”
“I’m listening.”
“And your personal phone number is on them. It looks like you called the number several times, including Tuesday night, a couple of times Wednesday, and once yesterday morning. I got the records after that. If I go back during the month, it looks like you started contacting the phone about a week ago.” He gave Shepherd the number, digit by digit.
Now Shepherd froze in his tracks as he thought about the limited number of personal calls he made. The only person he had called with that frequency the past two weeks besides his family, Derek Walsh, and Rosenberg was Fannie. He didn’t need to hear all the digits to the phone number to confirm his fear. Quickly he said, “Do you have any identification for the terrorist? Male or female?”
“I believe it’s a female that opened a bank account in Bern. She has calls all over Europe as well as to other suspected terrorists.”
Shepherd noticed Fannie stepping out of the doorway of the restaurant and took a quick glance around the courtyard. The two men who were down the street on the sidewalk were now closer. One carried a heavy satchel, which looked more like a duffel bag. Both men had dark hair and scraggly beards. This was no time to be politically correct, so he decided to jump to a conclusion based on their appearance. He could explain his mistake later if he had to.
Shepherd spoke quickly into the phone, saying, “Mike, in case anything happens to me, the number I was calling belongs to a white female who claims to be from France and is using the name Fannie Legat. I was just trying to get to know her and never told her anything of importance. I met her one morning over coffee, and I’m about to walk into a café where she is waiting for me.”
“Walk away.”
“That’s a good idea.”
Shepherd saw that the two men were now staring directly at him and Fannie had stepped into the courtyard and was reaching into her purse. He said into the phone, “Too late now. Remember what I told you.”
36
Derek Walsh waited by Tonya Stratford’s front door as the car slowly drove past. He didn’t want to be obvious but felt like crowding against the wall away from the street. It didn’t look like a police car, and no one showed any interest in him. Suddenly he realized he was directly in front of the door so he jumped off the landing. He took a moment to reposition himself and was careful not to be too close to the front door if it opened unexpectedly. It was never a good idea to startle someone carrying a gun. He had left Charlie snoring soundly in the front seat of the VW when he made his way toward the front door of Tonya Stratford’s residence. He had no idea if she lived alone or had a boyfriend or maybe even her parents living with her. The Internet tended not to give that kind of information.
He was a little chilly in his simple white shirt with the sun just starting to throw light over the top of some buildings to the east. He was nervous, but this had to be done. He’d left his pistol under the front seat of the VW so there would be no mistake about what he was trying to do. He didn’t want to get shot now because of information he needed to get to someone about what these crazy Russians were up to. He should’ve realized it was a more sophisticated plan than just someone trying to rip off Thomas Brothers. His only leverage was the security plug, and no one was going to use it but him. He wasn’t going to tell anyone where he had hidden it and wouldn’t let it out of his sight once he had it in his possession.
Just as Walsh was starting to wonder how long he’d wait, he heard some movement inside the brownstone by the front door and noticed the lights upstairs were now turned off. Almost a minute later the knob of the front door turned and the door swung outward onto the low landing.
Now he wasn’t sure what he should say or when he should say it. Agent Stratford’s back was turned to him as she secured the door, so he just cleared his throat and said, “Good morning, Agent Stratford.” He tried to keep his voice level and calm.
It didn’t work as well as he had hoped.
*
Standing in the courtyard in front of the café, Bill Shepherd slipped the phone into the cargo pocket of his fatigues and realized quickly this was no mistake; he was in the real shit now. He slowly started to walk backward toward the Humvee as Fannie sped up to catch him, still trying to make it look like she was waiting for a rendezvous. Her right hand was inside her purse.
He turned his head quickly and saw that the two men on the sidewalk were now almost in front of his vehicle and the man with a duffel bag was setting it on the ground. This was a tough position between two threats, and he didn’t even have his weapon in his hand yet. He quickly calculated the rounds in his pistol. One in the chamber, and he’d counted fourteen in the magazine when he checked it, securing it in his waistband. But who was the bigger threat? Two unknown men near cover, or a woman who probably had her hand wrapped around a pistol at that moment?
He tried to be casual as he let his arms drop to his side and his left hand grasped the bottom of his fatigue blouse. He was going to move quickly once he lifted the blouse and reached for the pistol. He glanced around for his own cover. The only chance he had was to dive for some heavy potted plants, and even that didn’t give him much protection.
One of the men on the street shouted something in German. He thought the man was yelling to him, then realized it was a question directed at Fannie.
Definitely not a good sign.
*
Fannie Legat realized something was wrong once the major started walking toward her on the concrete path that weaved between buildings from the street. He was on the phone and getting information that made him hesitate. Some instinct told her she couldn’t wait. He wasn’t going to meet her. He looked splendid in his military uniform. That would make this easier. He was even dressed as her enemy. And if he was getting information about her, she needed to stop him before he could use it. She hated the fact that she might waste an opportunity to really hurt the U.S. military.
She stepped out of the café waving to him, hoping he would overcome whatever concern he had, but instead she saw him slip the phone into the lower pants pocket of his uniform, then turn and see her associates as they approached his vehicle. Both of the men were German-born Muslims who had been part of their movement since their teens. One of the men carried the plastic explosive that was to be placed under the vehicle.
She could see the hesitation in the major’s face as he looked back and forth between her and the man. Then he started to lift his shirt, and she realized he was carrying a gun.
Typical American.
*
As soon as Walsh cleared his throat and said, “Good morning,” he was shocked at how quickly Agent Stratford moved. She jumped away from the locked door and fell into a crouch behind the low landing. Somehow she had pulled a pistol and had it pointed directly at Walsh’s head.
Her first words were a harsh whisper. “How in God’s name did you find me?”
“The Internet. You’d be shocked at what you can learn on a few simple sites.”
She kept her position. “Just when I was starting to think you were slick, you do something this stupid. Are you crazy? After what happened last night the entire Bureau is focused on finding you.”
“Is that why you’re getting an early start?” He realized he had inadvertently raised his hands.
Tonya Stratford slowly rose to her feet with her gun still pointed at him. She scanned the area quickly, then focused entirely on him again. “Are you alone?”
“I have a harmless old man asleep in the car. He has nothing to do with any of this other than being concerned about my safety.” He noticed her eyes track across the street, then down to where the VW was parked. He was impressed with her powers of observation.
“Turn around and place your hands against the building.”
He didn’t argue. Once his hands touched the building he felt her kick his feet back farther so he was completely off balance. She quickly used one hand to pat down his body on both sides. Then she said, “Stand up and turn around.”
She took a couple of steps away from him and let the pistol drop to her side. “Lower your goddamn hands. You look like the victim of a street robbery.”
“At least you realize I’m a victim. I didn’t move that money. Those crazy Russians kidnapped me last night. If you can get me into Thomas Brothers for ten minutes I can prove to you I’m innocent, and at the same time we’ll discover who transferred the money.”
“There are still FBI agents over at that office working. I couldn’t get you through the front door without someone raising the alarm, even if I did believe you. Why don’t you give me the plug and I’ll get it to a computer.”
“This is no offense to you personally, but I’ve been through too much the past few days to let anyone else handle the security plug.”
She nodded slowly and said, “I can see your point.”
“C’mon, Agent Stratford, let’s cut the shit. You do believe me. I could tell last night. I could tell when I called you. You know there’s something fishy going on here, and I can point you in the right direction. If all else fails you’ll still have me in custody at Thomas Brothers.”
“I have you in custody now.”
Before Walsh could answer, he heard a rough voice say, “No you don’t. Drop the pistol.”
He looked up and Charlie was standing there, pointing a pistol at the FBI agent. All he could do was cry out, “Charlie, no.”
*
Shepherd never panicked as he pulled the semiautomatic pistol from the leather inside-the-pants holster. Instructors at Officer Candidates School at Quantico would have fainted if they saw him carry an official sidearm in such an unorthodox and unauthorized holster. Today it did the trick perfectly. He pulled the pistol and moved quickly to dive behind the cover
of the heavy potted plants to the side.
The first bullet came from the street and flew wide of his position. Fannie hadn’t started firing at him yet. Somehow, in the odd void of time in which firefights take place, he was able to think about how he wouldn’t want to shoot a woman he had feelings for. Even if she had never reciprocated them.
Then a smaller-caliber bullet struck the cement near his head. That was Fannie. She had retreated to the edge of an outdoor stairway and had heavy concrete protecting her. He thought she was firing a .380. Not that the smaller caliber wouldn’t kill him if she found her target, but for right now he was focusing on the man with a 9 mm who was standing in front of his Humvee and apparently didn’t think anyone would shoot back. That was a guy who had never been in combat.
Shepherd risked popping out from behind the heavy planter, aimed his pistol, and fired three times. The man had already started to fall to the ground as Shepherd ducked back behind the planter. Now he turned his attention back to the stairs where Fannie was hidden. He couldn’t see her and tried to figure out if she had changed positions. The last thing he wanted was her popping up out of nowhere with a pistol in her hand.
In the big scheme of combat, this was not particularly challenging to a marine who had fought in Afghanistan and Iraq. He had been part of the battle for Fallujah and seen what street-to-street fighting could be like. Having a couple of middle-class Europeans haphazardly shooting at him didn’t concern him as much as what was in the satchel one of the men in the street was carrying. It could be anything. His imagination took hold and he decided he had to leave this secure position and stop the remaining man in the street from causing some serious casualties in a civilian neighborhood.
Shepherd peeked out from behind the planter and couldn’t see Fannie anywhere. He turned his head, scanned around the Humvee, and saw the man near the back of the vehicle. Shepherd sucked in a lungful of air, then didn’t hesitate once he decided to move. He sprang up from behind the planter and rushed the vehicle with his pistol up in front of him. He couldn’t risk glancing behind to make sure Fannie wasn’t about to shoot him in the back.