by Lou Dobbs
Katazin said, “I’m not entirely happy with our partners in this endeavor.”
“The Islamic extremists concern you? They concern everyone. But the Americans and Europeans seem to focus on them more than anyone. By promoting these lone wolf attacks we are essentially playing on Western fears. It costs us nothing and completely diverts the West’s attention from our military ambitions in the East. Once we feel the protests and the terror attacks have wreaked enough havoc in the West, our military will cross the Narva River into Estonia, and no one will lift a finger. By the time anyone realizes we have occupied another country, it will be far too late to take action.”
“So you’re not concerned that the Muslims could turn on us?”
“Of course the Muslims will turn on us. But probably not for a while. At least this way we get some use out of them before they turn their wrath on us. Keep doing what you’re doing, and I will be available if anything serious occurs.”
Katazin just nodded as he stood up from the bench and casually headed to the walkway that led up toward the FDR.
*
Mike Rosenberg continued to watch the news in amazement as the violence across the country seemed to grow by the minute. It was early evening in Europe, and they were having issues as well. The New York Stock Exchange had stopped computer trading, and the word “crash” was being spewed by every financial nerd the networks could round up.
He really wanted to call Derek Walsh to see if he could get an inside scoop, but he recognized Thomas Brothers had so many employees, his friend probably didn’t even know who was involved. He could picture Walsh saying, “I don’t know shit.” Rosenberg would reply, “As usual.” Just the idea of the conversation made him laugh out loud. He missed his friends. Especially Ron Jackson.
After a few minutes, he decided he’d call Bill Shepherd. Maybe he could shed some light on what was going on.
8
Derek Walsh was hungry but didn’t want to admit it to either of the FBI agents in the small interview room. Frank Martin had barely spoken since they sat down, and Tonya Stratford had come and gone from the room four times and was now working on some notes she had scribbled down on her legal pad. There was a light knock on the door, and a young woman opened it tentatively. She stepped over to Tonya and whispered something in her ear as she handed her a plastic bag. Walsh could see that it was an evidence bag containing his security plug.
Tonya looked up and said, “You can’t remember using this plug since last week?”
“I did not use it. I can specifically remember not using it. You can check my computer log, and it will show you all the transactions I’ve made. The last thing I did with it was check an escrow account.”
“You do realize we’re not some local sheriff’s office. We seized your computer and have been searching the entire network at Thomas Brothers. To say they are unhappy with you would be a monumental understatement.”
“But I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Regardless, the stock market has reacted to the news of the loss, and markets around the world are plunging. It looks like you’re responsible for the biggest single loss in the history of finance. At least that’s something you can hang your hat on.”
Walsh tried to fathom that. Something was going on that was bigger than a few trades. He could feel it. The idea of a conspiracy came into his head. He looked at the two FBI agents. Were they a part of it? Told to make an arrest no matter what? He started considering his options.
They had uncuffed him earlier when Martin had no interest in helping him go to the bathroom. No one had bothered to secure his hands again, so now he let his head drop into them.
Tonya said, “So where do you usually carry the plug?”
He lifted his hands, incensed that it felt like she was listening to the story for the first time. “Usually in a coat pocket, but occasionally I hang it around my neck like a necklace.”
“But you don’t remember handling the plug? Taking it out of its sleeve?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do you use gloves when you handle the plug?”
“Of course not.” Then he thought to ask, “Why?”
“Because a cursory check found no fingerprints of any kind on the plug. It looked like someone had wiped it clean. Even if it’d been in your coat pocket, in its plastic sleeve, there would be fragments of a print somewhere on the plug.”
Walsh wasn’t sure if that helped him or hurt him.
Agent Stratford’s partner spoke up. “This is bullshit. All a smoke screen. He made the trades, and he thinks we’re stupid enough to believe anything he shows us. We can see photos from that plug all day long, but they don’t mean squat. This son of a bitch can make it look like he wasn’t involved, but he had to be. That’s all we need for now. We need an arrest first, then we can figure out what was done. Let’s just book this asshole and be on our way.”
Agent Stratford eyed her partner but didn’t say anything.
Walsh could see she agreed, at least partly, with her partner. Now he needed to ask for an attorney. It was past the point of what it cost or if it made him look guilty. He was about to be railroaded. The only problem was that a lawyer wouldn’t stop that. It sounded like Walsh was going to jail no matter what happened. He was starting to get the sense that this was a well-orchestrated plot. He didn’t want to use the word, “conspiracy,” but it seemed to fit.
There was a surge of noise outside, and he heard glass shattering. The door burst open, and a young uniformed patrolman shouted, “Everyone to the other end of the building. We can no longer maintain security here.”
Walsh offered no resistance. He followed Agent Stratford out the door and down the crowded hallway, with Agent Martin directly behind him. In the rear of the building he could hear shouting and more glass breaking. In the distance, outside the building, he heard the clear sound of gunfire.
Did people really think this was his fault? He needed to do something. Anything.
*
Fannie Legat had used some of the money she was moving around to rent a hotel room four blocks from the Swiss Credit and Finance building on Bundesstrasse in Bern, Switzerland. The ornate building with carved columns and decorative windows had stood for more than 120 years as a testament to the Swiss commitment to banking. It was a major player in international finance, just like Thomas Brothers in New York. This particular office was open twenty-four hours a day to stand as a link between the major financial markets from Tokyo to New York. This was one of the hubs of the financial world, rivaling Credit Suisse.
The room was clean and adequate but certainly not luxurious. The small cell phone that sat on the table before her had a number entered and was merely waiting for someone to send it. That signal would travel to a somewhat complex explosive device, or more accurately devices, located throughout the first and second floors of the building. It had cost $2.3 million to bribe the contractor to hire four Brothers of Islam for a major remodeling job. One, a graduate of Cambridge, with a degree in engineering, had carefully placed sizable chunks of C-4 in the support columns across the entire building. They were also wrapped around key energy components of the building, and the engineer had assured Fannie that the resulting explosion would not only be spectacular but would bring the entire building down upon itself.
This was vital for several reasons. First, an algorithm had been introduced into a number of the major financial markets via a computer within that building. She felt the algorithm was the main contribution of their new allies. It caused financial institutions to think the market was crashing and pushed them to sell immediately. Second, the man she had paid to do that was still in the building, and third, the bank stood for everything she was against. It only dealt with the wealthy, ignored the plight of the poor, and worst of all was hypocritical to its core.
She watched silently as the rising moon reflected off the top-floor windows. Her hand slid across the table and slowly picked up the cell phone. Compared to what
she had done the last few days, this was easy. She flipped open the phone and looked up at the building again.
Fannie paused and picked up a pair of high-powered Zeiss binoculars. She focused on the front of the building along the sidewalk and saw a young woman pushing a stroller with a small child dressed in a green all-weather jacket walking alongside.
This was no time for sentiment, but she hesitated just the same.
*
Still in the Seventh Precinct, Walsh followed Stratford along the busy corridor, and when they paused in a small waiting room with a dozen metal chairs, one of the cops looked at her and said, “Is this the asshole who caused all this?” The statement and the emotion behind it made Walsh realize how much shit he was in. This was not a game, and he was not about to talk anyone out of arresting him. He was the only suspect, and there wasn’t anyone who could help him if he was locked up. He needed to get out and somehow get that plug into a computer hooked into the Thomas Brothers network.
The crowd pushed harder and forced them into the main lobby, where he could catch glimpses through the front door of the chaos erupting outside. Then the doors seemed to explode, and a metal garbage can tumbled into the lobby, making more noise than a politician filibustering a bill.
The clamor startled the two FBI agents, who instinctively put themselves between the front door and Walsh. He appreciated the sentiment, even if it only meant they didn’t want him to make a run for it.
A burly young man with blond dreadlocks forced his way through the front door holding up a garbage can lid. A cop at the front door tried to pull the lid away from him, and while they were struggling, a second cop swung an ASP collapsible baton and struck the young man in the leg. As soon as he went to the ground, two more men forced their way in. All of them had the dingy look of Stand Up to Wall Street protesters. Now there were more pouring through the door, and the cops were starting to back up. Gunshots echoed from outside, and for the first time Walsh was starting to worry about their personal safety.
The FBI agents slowly edged back and pushed him into the corner of the lobby. His view was obstructed, but it sounded like more and more protesters were floating through the front door. Then he noticed the plastic evidence bag sticking out of the side pocket of Tonya Stratford’s jacket.
This might be an opportunity.
*
Fannie Legat watched the front of the bank building. There were more people than she’d expected at this time in the evening, but the only one she really cared about was the woman with the two small children. Then she considered the area around the bank and realized there was a pastry shop on one side and a park near the other side. This was just a night owl who was giving her kids a chance to play before bed. Maybe burn up some energy.
She couldn’t allow children in front of the bank to affect her judgment. It was her job to act and act right now. She gave little thought to the thirty or forty people working inside the building. She had already written them off as casualties of war. Some of them might be innocent, at least of crimes against Muslims. But certainly some of them would deserve to perish in the fire and rubble that the bank building was about to become. It would also make any subsequent investigation into the computer hacking and the transfer of money that much more difficult. In addition, it would be just one more thing for the Western media to focus on.
She chewed on her lower lip, a habit she had developed in primary school. Her mother said it would ruin her beautiful smile and used to make her suck a lemon when she did it. But Fannie still reverted to the old habit when stress started to rise in her.
The woman seemed to be lingering at the front of the building for no particular reason. A man walked by, and she chatted with him briefly. Fannie couldn’t wait any longer. She let the binoculars drop slightly and focused on the face of the child next to the woman. She was too far away to make out much detail but saw that it was a girl with blond hair that danced in the wind.
She set down the binoculars with her right hand and picked up the phone with her left. She started her countdown. Three … Two … Before she could consciously think of the word “One,” the woman started to stroll farther down the street, and Fannie took a deep breath to clear her mind. Within twenty seconds the woman was on her way past the bank building and toward the park. There were several others who had now entered her view, but none of them were children. She could see a heavyset woman with a blue coat and more than one man in a business suit. This was it. She pressed the SEND button and leveled the binoculars at the gaudy building.
At the sign of the first flash she knew this would set back investigators looking into her transactions for weeks.
*
Derek Walsh looked in each direction and realized no one was paying any attention to him. Everyone was focused on the danger at the front of the room. The sound of gunfire from outside only intensified people’s attention, and several of the uniformed officers pulled their service weapons.
He lifted his right hand slowly and edged it toward the plastic evidence bag sticking out of Tonya Stratford’s jacket pocket. He had no idea what he was going to do with it if he even reached it, but someone had to take control of the security plug. He couldn’t fathom a conspiracy that reached inside the FBI, but they weren’t there to help him, either. The idea of fleeing the scene to reconsider his options had a certain appeal that grew every minute he was in the police station. But before he did anything he had to get hold of the plug.
Just as he was about to put his fingers on it, the FBI agent moved to her left and dropped her left arm.
Walsh had to snatch back his hand. He stood up straight and took a breath just as Agent Stratford turned around to look at him. She was just making sure he wasn’t doing anything stupid. For the moment he provided her with the illusion that he was not.
Then he took another shot at the evidence bag. This time his fingers closed on it, and he started to pull back slowly at first, then a little faster.
She shifted to one side, and he pulled the bag completely out of her pocket, but then it slipped from his grasp, bounced off the FBI agent’s leg, and ended up on the ground. There was no way he could reach it without drawing attention to himself.
Walsh tried to ease the clear plastic bag closer to him with his foot. Now there was a surge forward as the protesters were pushed back out of the lobby. He followed Stratford and Martin while casually leaning forward and scooping up the evidence bag. He jammed it into his left front pocket, then shifted slightly so he was off to the left of the FBI agents. Then an opportunity hit him square in the face. One he couldn’t ignore. It fueled his idea to flee.
Just as several protesters forced their way back inside, Walsh turned and walked into the hallway they had come from. It was not as crowded as before, and, dressed in a clean white shirt and acting official, he looked like he belonged there. He walked with his head held high and nodded hello to a couple of the cops who were coming from the rear of the building. The biggest vibe he got was that the cops thought he was some kind of coward running away from the action. Walsh could live with that.
In less than thirty seconds he was walking out the rear door and navigating through the lot where cops were battling more protesters. He acted like he was about to enter one of the brawls but simply slipped around the cop wrestling with an irate female protester with braided hair and a long, patterned dress.
He never knew stepping onto the sidewalk in New York could feel so liberating. He broke into a slight jog, but no one noticed because half the people on the street were running from something.
Now he had to run to the truth.
9
Derek Walsh slowed his pace about fifteen blocks from the Seventh Precinct building. His head was spinning. What had he done? He had acted. That’s what he had done. Taken action like the former marine he was. It felt good. He liked standing up to a bully even if it was the U.S. government. Or at least a couple of FBI agents. He had acted on instinct, and now he couldn’t have regrets. H
e had to play this hand out.
Walsh walked along Grand Street into Chinatown and kept going until he came to a stop on Mulberry Street, feeling like he just needed to catch his breath and clear his head. The goddamned FBI had his wallet and cell phone. All he had was a plastic bag holding his security plug from Thomas Brothers Financial. The streets were much more orderly here. No one was protesting, and there was no open violence. His run along Grand Street had showed him the chaos in the financial district. He had intended to use this to his advantage, but there was no way he was heading back right now. Walsh needed a plan, which had to include cash and a change of clothes. He might have blended in along Wall Street, but here he was as out of place as an Oakland Raiders fan at a Super Bowl.
He had to think and consider his position. The marines had spent a lot of money to train him to react under stress, and it frustrated him that none of that seemed to do him any good at the moment. The only person he could think of to call was Mike Rosenberg at the CIA, but he doubted his friend could help, and he was certain it wouldn’t look good for a fugitive to be calling a CIA employee.
A police cruiser came down Mulberry with its lights on but no siren. For a moment Walsh was worried they were searching for him; then he realized they were moving much too quickly and were just more reinforcements going down to the financial district.
Walsh had no idea how any of this had happened or who made the trades on his computer. He didn’t think there was any way someone could get past the security plug issue. If someone had stolen his plug and returned it to him, no matter how far-fetched that seemed, then he had to get back on the Thomas Brothers computer network and access his security plug to see the photographs of whoever made the trade.
There was only one place he could go and only one person he could trust. He intended to slip back into his apartment on the Lower East Side and get some money and clothes. Then he would go to Alena’s apartment closer to the Columbia campus and explain everything to her. He had to be careful because her phone number was in his phone and there was no telling how far the FBI would dig.
