Putin's Gambit

by Lou Dobbs

  His long hours at the CIA prevented him from having a dog, but he would often borrow the next-door neighbor’s golden retriever and go for long jogs. He also found the dog made it easier to meet women at the local park. Usually he told them he worked for the Department of the Treasury as a quality inspection specialist. No one really wanted to ask questions about a job title like that.

  Right now, he had his personal cell phone in his pocket, hoping Derek Walsh would call him back. The 60-inch Sony TV was on CNN as he listened to the news coming in from around the world. He always got the bulk of his news from U.S. stations, then watched the BBC for a different view. He had found the foreign stations were not necessarily more accurate, but it certainly gave him a better idea of how the rest of the world looked at the United States.

  Some of the initial protests had petered out in New York, but there were still the ongoing lone wolf terror attacks, not only in New York but across the entire country. Rosenberg had a hypothesis that these attacks had been scheduled to happen around the same time and he believed the first wave of these attacks were spent. The pace and targets indicated that.He was certain more attacks were on the way.

  So far the attack that had captured the most attention today was a man who wore an explosive vest and detonated it in the ticket line for Disneyland in Anaheim, California. That struck at the heart of American fears. Dozens of children were injured, but a quirk of engineering, a pillar the man was standing next to, had absorbed and directed much of the blast. It saved dozens of lives; even so, nine people were confirmed dead, and several major theme parks had closed their doors for security reasons. It was that sort of activity that had emboldened terrorists. Everyone liked to use the phrase “If we restrict people’s rights, the terrorists win.” More accurately it was “If Americans cave in to terrorist demands, the terrorists win.” It was a subtle but important distinction.

  There was the usual nonstop debate about the president’s address, but in this case very few people felt it was a positive message that sent any sort of reassurance out to the American people. Police forces across the United States were trying to figure out what they could do to keep people safe. The plans made so feverishly after the September 2001 attacks had slowly become obsolete. Technology and population shifts and a lack of money to update the plans had left most cities unprepared for attacks like these. Experience was one of the best teachers, and luckily there were still cops and administrators who remembered the lessons from 9/11.

  Rosenberg’s phone rang, and he grabbed it immediately. He felt a wave of relief mixed with apprehension when he heard his friend’s voice. All he could blurt out was, “Jesus Christ, Tubby, what the hell happened?”

  “I gotta tell you the truth, Mike, I have almost no more information than when I talked to you earlier. One thing that troubles me is that Russians are involved.”

  “What do you mean, Russians?”

  Rosenberg listened while Walsh laid out everything that had happened to him over the last few hours. It sounded like a spy movie, but he knew his friend wasn’t given to exaggeration.

  Finally Rosenberg said, “We’ve got to bring you in where it’s safe.”

  “Bring me in? I’m not a spy. Right now all I am is a goddamned fugitive. I trust you, but I don’t trust what the FBI would do. They want to wrap this up, and I’m the only suspect. I can’t even give them anyone else as a bargaining chip. Someone thought this out really well.”

  “If you stay out there too long, you can do something that’s a real crime. You can get yourself in more trouble. You’ve got to find a way to turn yourself in safely. You could come down here and I’ll walk you into our headquarters. This is enough of an international issue that we could claim some sort of jurisdiction. You’d get a fair shake.”

  “I have a plan, Mike. It’s gonna take me a day or two to work it out, and if I blow it, then maybe I’ll come down to you. I’d ask you to put me and Alena up, but I don’t want to screw up your whole career for helping a known fugitive. Besides, what I need to do is here in New York.”

  “Right now I’m young enough to start a new career. What I am worried about is keeping you alive. Is there anyone you can trust in New York?”

  There was a long pause on the phone.

  Rosenberg said, “That’s what I thought. The two guys you can trust are in Virginia and Germany right now. And my bet is Bill Shepherd has his hands full.”

  Walsh said, “You believe me when I tell you I didn’t do it, right, Mike?”

  Rosenberg didn’t hesitate. “You don’t even have to tell me you didn’t do it. I know you. I know you didn’t do it.” He sensed that Walsh had to pause as relief washed over him.

  “Thanks, I needed to hear that. But I also need to figure out who did it.”

  “I’m working on a few angles from my office. Maybe I’ll be able to find something. Call me tomorrow night about this time.”

  Rosenberg had to sit down after the call. Even when he was deployed in Afghanistan he didn’t worry about his friends this much. He started considering different ways to attack the problem. Just like any good marine would.

  18

  Anton Severov was surprised Fannie could slip out of his room without him knowing it. It just showed how exhausted he was from preparing for this operation and the effect of his vigorous bout of lovemaking with the beautiful French Muslim. He wanted to believe she had some sort of feelings for him, but based on how she described her relationship with an American marine officer, he wasn’t about to let any vital information slip. She was giving him an insight into the Muslim mind, and maybe he would understand the Georgian, Chechen, and other Muslim troops under his command a little better. They always seemed distant and defiant, but maybe they really believed they had reasons for that sort of attitude.

  He got dressed in the crowded, tiny room and shoved his few pieces of clothing and a notebook into a worn-out duffel bag he’d carried across the border into Estonia. He needed to make a report and would use the special phone he was told was secure, although as with much of the equipment issued in Russia, claims of its effectiveness were almost always exaggerated.

  It was still early, barely seven in the morning, and he hoped he’d beaten Fannie and Amir by at least an hour. He needed some quiet time to make more notes and the phone call. First he had to get a little food in him, and the tiny café attached to the hotel offered a good selection of rolls and Danish. The TV behind the counter where a heavyset woman poured him some coffee was set on the BBC and broadcast in English. He wondered if that was because of the expanding tourist trade. The European Union had worked wonders for Eastern Europe, and the conversion to the euro had made travel considerably easier for some of the wealthier residents of Europe. Estonia, with its good Internet infrastructure and ability to reach out to other parts of the continent, had gotten more than its share of eager tourists interested in the history and culture of the former Soviet Union satellite.

  The reports on TV showed the rest of the continent in disarray, especially Great Britain and Germany. That was exactly what Severov wanted to see. If those two allies of the United States were seeing such violence, it would make it harder for the military to come to the aid of Estonia. He had seen a few protests on the streets during the drive, but overall the quaint country had been quite peaceful and calm. Sometimes he felt as if he were on a vacation rather than an assignment, and he would have to thank his commander when he returned home. The old man had gotten it exactly right.

  Severov was still worried about his tanks and company, but now he would have a clear idea of how to cut across the country most efficiently. His plans now included how to avoid historic areas and not crush beautiful cobblestone streets. He would keep his reasons for making certain detours to himself, but it was his most sincere hope they could accomplish this operation without having to shatter the lives of the pleasant Estonian people he had met.

  He finished his coffee and Danish and was about to step outside to make the phone ca
ll when Amir entered the empty dining room, marched directly to Severov, and said, “We must discuss something of great importance.”

  *

  Major Bill Shepherd had grabbed a few hours’ sleep before he received a message personally delivered by an army corporal who worked for the base commander. The young man almost looked embarrassed to hand him the note. It simply told Shepherd he needed to be in the main administrative building at 1000 hours to have an “informal discussion” with an ad hoc board of inquiry comprised of military and civilian personnel about the incident the night before involving the terror attack.

  Even though he had a little time, the major realized he couldn’t fall back asleep, so he shaved and slipped into a clean uniform. He specifically didn’t wear a dress uniform or show any of his ribbons on his utility blouse. He wanted to make it clear that it was just another day and he didn’t consider this anything more than an annoyance.

  Shepherd recognized that if it was serious, the base commander would’ve given him more information and he’d be entitled to consult with an attorney. He’d have to wait for a judge advocate general to come from Berlin. This sounded like they just wanted a clear report of what had happened.

  He watched an army captain supervise the reinforcing of the front gate after the vehicle had been run into it and the suicide bomber had detonated his explosives. It only took five minutes to see that the squared-away young captain knew what he was doing. The terror attack had had the unexpected consequence of dissipating the protest and dispersing the protesters back into Stuttgart. A few lonely and bored-looking German police officers waited on the fringes of the base in case someone came back, and a handful of investigators were picking up whatever forensic evidence of the blast remained.

  Major Shepherd walked along the paved road toward the main administrative complex and the large conference room where he was about to face an inquiry by both military and civilian personnel about what had happened when the bomb exploded. There were persistent reports in the media that the marines had thrown grenades into the crowd in an effort to disperse them, and two FBI agents had been sent by the small liaison office in Berlin to make an official report. It was this sort of nonsense that wasted time during critical incidents that frustrated all military officers. But Shepherd was a pro and wasn’t going to let these people get under his skin.

  He had the casualty figures from the night before and was embarrassed to admit he was relieved no U.S. military personnel were killed. Six soldiers and three marines were wounded, two by the car barreling into the fence and the others by shrapnel from the explosion in the crowd. None of the injuries appeared to be serious, and more men were coming in today to help in the security of the base.

  The commanding general himself welcomed Shepherd into the wide conference room that housed the long table. The general, a short, blocky man, looked like he had been born in the army with a crew cut, squared jaw, and arms that could lift a Humvee. He had a bland midwestern accent as he introduced Shepherd to the three other people at the table. One was the base provost, who technically was responsible for the defenses that Shepherd took over. The lieutenant colonel with sandy hair and a craggy face showed no offense at Shepherd stepping into the job; nor had he ever impressed Shepherd as being interested in protecting his turf. The man just wanted the base to be safe and any security matters to be handled efficiently.

  A middle-aged woman with dark hair was a representative of the German Ministry of Justice, and he suspected she’d been sent to the panel because she could get there quickly and she had an excellent grasp of English.

  The final member, Maria Alonso, was an attractive woman in her early thirties who had sharp, intelligent eyes. She was from the FBI legal attaché in Berlin, acting as liaison with the German police.

  After the introductions, Shepherd shifted his lanky frame into the hard wooden chair on the other side of the table and looked across with the feeling that he was being interrogated.

  He went through a brief description of the threat they had felt as protesters came closer to the fence and then someone ran a car into it. He made it clear that at no time were hand grenades ever considered as part of defense and that no one issued hand grenades. The first question from the German Ministry of Justice representative supported his concern.

  The German woman said in accented English, “But you did have rifles, correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We are part of the U.S. military. That involves being armed and defending ourselves and our country.”

  The German woman said, “Which would’ve meant shooting down innocent German civilians if things had gotten worse.”

  “Is that a question or comment?”

  “A question, Major. We are only here to ask questions.”

  “I cannot say for sure we would not have fired on the crowd if they had broken into the base, but it would have been in self-defense, as a last resort and with only a few designated targets. That has always been our plan. We showed tremendous restraint, and frankly, the German police did nothing to help us. Is that part of your plan, madam? Leave us to fend for ourselves and take the blame if something goes wrong?”

  The base commander said in a calm tone, “Let’s keep this civil, Major. No one is questioning your leadership.” He turned his head and looked down the table at the others and said, “I, for one, think you did an outstanding job. But we have been requested by the German government to look into the matter fully. And look into the matter we will. Is that clearly understood?”

  All Shepherd said was, “It is, sir.”

  He caught a smile sweep over the FBI agent’s pretty face. It wasn’t condescending. It was mischievous.

  *

  Joseph Katazin sat in the older BMW in his own driveway in Brooklyn. He conducted some business directly out of his house, but it was the middle of the night, and he knew this call would test his patience. All the lights were out inside the house, with only the front porch light burning. Occasionally his wife would wait up for him if she really thought he was working at the import/export business. But in the past few years she had realized he had a number of extracurricular activities. She felt certain she knew what they were, but in reality she had no clue. As far as she was concerned he wasn’t even a Russian but a Ukrainian. Like most other Americans, she barely knew the difference.

  As soon as his phone had rung and he saw the number—because no one on this phone had names attached to the numbers—he knew there was a problem. He answered the phone tersely with a simple “Yes” in English.

  The American on the other end of the phone read his tone correctly. He jumped right into it. “I can’t guarantee we’ll have many protesters tomorrow.”

  Katazin kept his tone cold and businesslike. “You told me four or five days of protests would be no problem.”

  “That’s before bombs went off around the world and killed a bunch of protesters other places.”

  “There were no protesters killed in New York.”

  “There was a scare in the crowd across the Thomas Brothers courtyard today. A cop, or his K-9, picked a guy out of the crowd that they thought had a bomb. It was crazy for a few minutes and scared some of the protesters. Now I hear a lot of them say they’re going to take a day off. Maybe more.”

  Katazin didn’t like the sound of this. It was essential for their operation to have four days of protests at a minimum. That would focus people’s attention away from potential military action as well as tie up resources. This was one of the easiest parts of the operation, and now it was taking a turn.

  Katazin said, “Let’s meet sometime in the morning. You keep your people organizing and stirring up new protesters.”

  “This isn’t a money thing. It’s a real problem. That is why I called.”

  “If I’m able to pay you an additional twenty thousand dollars, will we have some loud protests outside Thomas Brothers Financial?”

  There was a long hesitation, then, “Probably.”

  “Then it is a money
problem.”

  *

  Major Anton Severov felt it was smarter to take his conversation with the clearly agitated Amir out of the dining room and onto the sidewalk. Once they were safely outside, Severov calmly asked Amir what he wanted to talk about.

  The smaller man bowed up, trying to look tough, but his rumpled pullover shirt with its collar partway up and out-of-date blue pants that looked like they belonged to a suit made him more of a caricature. His black hair was slicked back by some ungodly-smelling ointment, but he still had that crazed look in his brown eyes. This wasn’t the same Amir who had merely been irritating for the last two days; this was a man who was truly pissed off.

  Severov took a half step away from the angry Iranian and said, “What’s wrong, Amir?”

  “I have been honest in my feelings about Russia, as well as the United States. I think you are both decadent and about to be crushed under the wheels of history. But at this moment I’m sworn to help your cause. I must warn you I will not tolerate you defiling our women.”

  “Defiling your women? I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He quickly glanced around the sidewalk in front of the hotel’s café in case he needed a weapon. There was nothing within reach.

  Amir said, “You know exactly what I am talking about. You and Fannie lay together last night, and it is an affront to our beliefs.”

  “My beliefs, my people’s beliefs, include the right of free will and a woman’s choice. Don’t lecture me about decisions I make about my personal life. And I will tell you right now not to bother Fannie about it, either.”

  “You think I’m some kind of desert nomad. An idiot you can twist around with silly phrases. I am a graduate of the Lebanese University.”

  Severov had to keep from bursting out laughing at that. In a mocking tone he said, “Ohh, Lebanese University, I am impressed. I’ve heard it called the Oxford of shitty universities in the Third World.” He could tell it took the little Iranian a few seconds to understand the odd American idiom, but when he did, his dark face flushed red and he stormed away from the hotel.