by Lou Dobbs
Behind them, Shepherd heard the engines of an F-16 as it struck at another target. He figured the F-16 was part of a small detachment in Estonia meant as a deterrent to a Russian incursion. Apparently the Russians didn’t believe the U.S. would use force to protect the small country. Shepherd couldn’t blame them. Even as he heard the jets attacking and his team prepared to fire a rocket-propelled grenade, he was surprised the U.S. leaders had committed to action so quickly. Perhaps they realized that if a few soldiers were killed immediately by Russian arms, the public sentiment would swing dramatically in favor of fighting for Estonia. That was not an idea most Americans considered. Some people understood that it was the right thing to do to try to straighten out some of the regimes in the Middle East and that a side benefit included a flow of oil. But the idea of defending a small country like Estonia—with no natural resources that the West needed—would confuse the average American.
*
Derek Walsh tried not to fidget as he stood in the lobby of Thomas Brothers Financial. It had only taken a moment to retrieve his security plug from under the bench in the courtyard. Agent Stratford shuddered when she realized he had used chewed-up gum to hold the plug in place.
It was almost eight thirty in the morning, and the building was starting to get busy. Tonya Stratford stood right next to him with her FBI badge on a chain around her neck. He wasn’t sure if she was advertising that he was in her custody even if he wasn’t in handcuffs or if she didn’t want anyone to bother them. Either way he stood there and noticed the suspicious look from the security guards who last week had greeted him warmly every time he walked through the doors. Now they regarded him as a thief and possible traitor. Everyone in the building knew the story by now. He had been on the news as a “person of interest.” That was as good as being convicted in most people’s minds.
Whatever happened with the investigation, he knew he didn’t want to come back here. Not only did the unwelcome feeling push him toward the door, but now he knew he needed to contribute. Once he realized he was a small cog in a big plan and someone was trying to undermine the U.S. government, he felt that old spirit well up inside of him. He had to fight back.
They slipped onto an elevator and jumped off at the 31st floor. Agent Stratford, who had one hand wrapped around his right arm, said, “You wait here for a minute. I’ll run through the office to make sure none of our people are there. If they are, we’re going to avoid them long enough for you to stick in the security plug and pull off the photos you want. We’ll decide our next move after that.”
Walsh just nodded his head. It was a good plan and what he’d wanted to do all along. He watched as she pushed through the double glass doors that led to his former offices. He could picture Ted Marshall or Cheryl Kravitz already in the office and directing their small army of traders. They would be back up to speed by now as long as the entire financial community hadn’t lost faith in the company.
He stepped over to the giant window that looked over the courtyard and along the street. There were still a few signs of damage from the protests. A statue at the end of the courtyard lay on the ground. Some of the low hedges had been trampled and not replaced. For the most part the city had done a decent job cleaning up the broken glass and all the trash the protesters had discarded. It wasn’t quite on the scale of the mess the Occupy Wall Street people had made, even though the protest had been more violent. The sheer amount of garbage the Occupy people had produced was mind-boggling. This was just annoying.
He noticed more policemen, several of them wearing body armor and MP-5 submachine guns strapped around their chests. The city was still tense after the bombing of the subway in lower Manhattan and several other attacks. The few news reports he had caught were speculating that the explosion and shootout in Brooklyn where the Russians had kept him captive were part of the terror plot.
Unable to stand still, he reached into his pockets, then absently cracked his knuckles. He wanted to get this over quickly.
Then he heard a male’s raspy voice say, “Hello, smart guy, remember me?” As he turned around, strong hands clasped around his upper arms and shoved him to the floor. The violent action stunned him, but as his head cleared he realized he was looking straight up into the face of Tonya Stratford’s angry partner, Frank Martin.
*
Joseph Katazin took a moment to lean against the park bench at the far end of the courtyard in front of Thomas Brothers Financial. His ankle throbbed, his ribs were still sore, he had a headache, and now his back was starting to cramp up. This was not how he envisioned his career as a spy. He needed some sleep, two Advil, and a decent meal.
The one thing that sustained him was the success of the operation. The Russian military was on the move, and he had helped buy time and distract the U.S. as well as its NATO partners. His meeting with his contact had been short but did wonders for his morale.
His new assistant, Jerry, made it clear he didn’t like any show of weakness, but he kept his mouth shut. Lucky for him, because in his current mood, Katazin wanted to shoot him. They were both armed with handguns, and that should be all they needed. His biggest concern was that Walsh could now recognize him. Before, he was just a vague face; now he had spent time with the marine, and he doubted he would be overlooked.
Katazin turned and said, “Let’s wait closer to the door.”
Jerry spoke English with a thicker accent. “What if he doesn’t show?”
“Then you still get paid and you might have a job working with me over the weekend. Is that so bad?”
Jerry held up both of his hands and said, “Just asking.”
“But we can’t fool around. If we see this guy, we need to cap him and get moving quickly. Understood?”
Jerry nodded.
They slowly made their way along the outer edge of the courtyard until they were almost in front of the entrance. He would be able to see anyone coming from quite a distance away, and just in case Walsh was moving quicker than he thought, he would easily catch anyone coming outside from this exit.
40
Derek Walsh felt the barrel of the gun in his ribs as the older FBI agent shoved him into an empty elevator. Just as the doors were closing Walsh said, “You don’t understand. I’m here with your partner. I’m working with you guys now.”
The red-faced man said, “You’re not working with me. You caused me too much shit to skate on any of this.”
Walsh was a little confused and kept expecting Agent Stratford to stop this. He also wondered why the FBI agent hadn’t handcuffed him. He said, “Can you just call Agent Stratford?”
“I’ll call her after you’re secure in lockup. We need an arrest on this whether she knows it or not. I am doing her a favor. By the time you work your way through the system, you’ll understand how much trouble you’re in. And I know the guys in the city holding cell will treat you right. That’s why I’m taking you there instead of the federal corrections holding facility downtown.”
Walsh was trying to think what he could do. He realized if he punched this man, even Tonya Stratford wouldn’t be able to help him. It felt like the elevator was closing in around him as he became short of breath and started to sweat. This guy was completely out of his head.
The FBI agent said, “Did you think it was cute having those protesters rough me up the other day? Or how you were able to walk away from a scene that involved three FBI agents being wounded? I don’t know who you think you are, but you’re about to have a reality check.”
The elevator opened, and the FBI agent shoved him out into the lobby. As they made their way to the doors that exited into the courtyard, Walsh considered the chances of this guy shooting him if he ran. If he couldn’t outrun this tub of lard, maybe he didn’t deserve his freedom. He took in a couple of deep breaths just before they got to the door and planned how he would sprint ahead and get his distance right from the beginning. He would head to the end of the courtyard and turn down the same street where he had followed the Russian
.
Walsh glanced over his shoulder just as he reached the front door. The FBI agent was still only two feet behind him. That might be all the lead he needed.
*
Joseph Katazin stood a few feet from the stairs leading to the entrance to Thomas Brothers Financial. Jerry, standing next to him, might as well have been one of the decorative pillars in front of the door. But maybe he could attract enough attention that no one would notice Katazin. He was still formulating a plan about what to do if they saw Walsh coming up the courtyard. Right now his easiest option was just to shoot the former marine and be done with it. He didn’t waste any time explaining this to Jerry. Anyone who didn’t want to wear a coat on a cool day like this because he wanted to show off his biceps wasn’t smart enough to understand the intricacies of international espionage.
Katazin turned toward the front entrance and was stunned to see the door open and Walsh standing there with another man. The second man was short and pudgy and clearly over fifty. He looked like he might be some sort of law enforcement officer. Katazin didn’t understand the situation, but he knew that it was a rare opportunity. He didn’t want Walsh to see his face, so he turned quickly, looking directly at Jerry, and said in Russian, “The younger man in the white shirt. He’s our target. Shoot him and meet me back at my car.” Katazin waited until recognition swept across Jerry’s face. He was confident the big moron would do his job, and at this point Katazin didn’t care if he shot the other man, too, as long as Walsh was killed. Katazin wanted to escape, so he abandoned his own desire for elaborate revenge.
He stepped away and cut through some low bushes to reach the sidewalk before the shooting started. He watched as Jerry carefully reached under his loose shirt to pull a pistol. Katazin intended to be on his way across the street by the time he had the gun on target.
He felt a certain measure of satisfaction knowing this end of the investigation would be over. He just hoped Walsh hadn’t had time to explain everything he knew to the cops. After Walsh, there was only one other person he needed to deal with, a person in this same building. He knew he was sacrificing Jerry to get this done, but it didn’t bother him. At least not nearly as much as shooting Alena in the head to make her drop the grenade. That was a real decision. That would haunt him. No one would miss a steroid freak like Jerry. He’d pay a small fine to the organized crime family that allowed Katazin to rent their man, but that would be the end of it.
It was what came after that concerned Katazin. He would be on the run unless he could utilize some of the measures he had put in place years ago to hide effectively within the borders of the United States.
Or he could always take a trip back home.
*
Moving through the great glass door to the courtyard, Derek Walsh was about to spring to freedom away from this angry FBI agent who clearly had his own agenda. Even if he was handcuffed, he’d be able to outrun this moron. With his hands free, his sprint would put him out of reach within a matter of seconds.
He scanned the courtyard and saw that it was nearly empty. He wouldn’t have to do any complicated weaving to make a break for the far end and then into the maze of streets that would offer him sanctuary. There were two men right near the door off to the side, but as they reached the top of the stairs, one of the men turned and hurried off toward the street. The other man, a muscle-head who stood at least six foot one, turned and assessed them with dark eyes. Something about the man’s demeanor and interest in them caught Walsh’s attention, and he kept his focus on him.
Just as they were about to step down onto the first stair, Walsh realized the man was reaching for a pistol and saw a flash of blue metal come out from under his loose short-sleeved flannel shirt. Without hesitation, Walsh stepped to the side, grabbed Martin by the arm, and pulled him along with him over the side of the landing so they would have the cement staircase as cover. He only had time to shout, “Gun.”
Walsh heard the FBI agent mumble a protest as he was jerked off his feet. They sailed the four feet through the air, and somehow Martin ended up underneath Walsh as they hit the bushes and grass of the ornamental area. The FBI agent acted like an air bag, taking the brunt of the fall plus the added weight of Walsh on top of him. His breath rushed out in a loud “Ummph.”
Just as he rolled off the FBI agent, Walsh heard the first shot and saw it ping off the edge of the landing. He knew there would be more bullets coming his way and the man would run to the edge of the stairway in a moment. He looked down and realized Frank Martin was out of the fight for at least another minute, so he reached to his side and felt for the gun that was in his right hand before they fell. It was loose on the ground, wedged against the FBI agent’s ribs. Walsh picked up the Glock model 17 and fired a round before he even stood up. He just wanted to scare the man away if he could. When he peeked over the edge of the stairs he saw the man still standing with his pistol up. Walsh fired two quick rounds and ducked as the muscle-head returned fire.
Now Martin was catching his breath and struggling to his feet. He motioned for Walsh to hand him the pistol. His attitude toward Walsh had clearly changed drastically since Walsh had kept him from being shot.
Walsh couldn’t help but peek over the top of the stairs as the FBI agent did the same with the pistol up in front of him. The muscle-head had backed away from them and still had the gun in his hand. Martin popped off two quick rounds, which made the man turn and dart toward the street. The muscle-head fired one round wildly, which struck the front door of the building, causing an odd crack that almost looked like a professional cut down the middle of the door. The FBI agent returned another round.
This round went wide right and struck the windshield of a car coming down the street. It was a gray Dodge Charger and was traveling on the fast side. It swerved for an instant, the driver obviously distracted as the windshield spidered into a thousand cracks. The driver righted the car just as the muscle-head stepped into the street. The sound of the impact was sickening as bones snapped and tires squealed. The muscle-head flew into the air and landed in a lifeless heap on the opposite sidewalk.
The FBI agent calmly looked at Walsh and said, “I didn’t expect that at all.”
41
It had been nearly an hour since Walsh had witnessed the muscle-head assassin run down by a car in the street. They had tried to give the man aid, but he was dead by the time Walsh had reached him. The FBI agent checked for any sign of life, but the impact from the car had been devastating, leaving the man’s neck twisted at an odd angle and his left arm splintered in several places.
After the events of last few days, this one seemed relatively tame by comparison. It had taken a while to straighten out the scene, and quickly Walsh understood why Tonya Stratford’s partner had his job. He was calm, cool, and collected at every moment and explained exactly what was going on. He answered questions from his supervisors, then immediately came upstairs to join Agent Stratford and Walsh. He clearly appreciated Walsh’s efforts to keep him from being shot.
Now Walsh sat on a padded bench near his old desk while Cheryl Kravitz, his immediate supervisor, argued with Tonya Stratford about allowing anyone access to the network until she had cleared it with both their IT and legal departments.
Cheryl said, “Can’t we hold off on doing this for a little bit? I mean, you just killed a guy out front.”
Frank Martin leaned forward and said, “Technically the car killed him, but this smart guy saved my ass, so you’re gonna shut the hell up and run along. We have work to do.” He patted Walsh on the shoulder.
Walsh suddenly realized how entertaining the FBI agent was when his anger wasn’t directed at him. His attitude was sort of like the marines: Americans loved them; everyone else wanted to avoid them. That was a handy reputation to have. It was effective, too, as Cheryl turned on her heel and marched away to confer with Ted Marshall, who was busy in his office.
Agent Stratford motioned Walsh over to his old computer. She handed him the plug as he
sat down. He couldn’t help but take a deep, cleansing breath. He cut his eyes up to Agent Stratford and then her partner. This was it.
He explained the process as he inserted the security plug in the USB port. “Once the plug is inserted, I enter the trading program, enter my password, and this screen comes up.” He waited as the two FBI agents examined the trading screen. “Now I would enter the number of the account the money is coming from and the routing number for the bank and account the money is going to. It’s not particularly complicated or difficult.”
He searched for the program on the security plug and brought up the tools screen. “This is where I can access every overseas trade I’ve made in the past year.” He gave them a minute to examine the new screen that listed hundreds of transactions. “As you can see, there is a tiny icon for a photograph next to each transaction. If you look at my last four transactions, they’re the ones in question.” He pointed to the screen to show the top four transactions.
This was it. Showtime. He took another breath, and a very clear photo popped up on the screen. He did it with the remaining three transactions, and a similar photo appeared.
Walsh mumbled, “Oh my God.”
The older FBI agent said, “That explains a lot.”
Agent Stratford glanced around the office and said, “We have to move.”
*
As Shepherd and his men started assessing the column in front of them, Shepherd heard something in the distance. He held up a hand that stopped everyone in place. He turned to the Estonian lieutenant and said, “Do you hear that to our left?”
The young lieutenant turned his attention from the tanks on their right and scanned the horizon on the rolling hills to their left.
Shepherd said, “That’s a train.” A minute later, a slow-moving locomotive appeared in the distance. Instantly Shepherd realized the train, carrying supplies and reserve tanks, was more vital than the column they had been watching. Trains were one of the reasons they had been dropped here. He couldn’t pass it up. He kept most of the men in place as he grabbed the Estonian lieutenant, two of the men who were best with explosives, and an Estonian private, who was weighted down with packs containing C-4 and two spools of det cord.