Putin's Gambit

by Lou Dobbs

  As if reading Walsh’s mind, Serge said, “Don’t think about it. I shoot you if you step any closer. Just keep quiet for few minutes.”

  He reinforced his statement by raising his pistol and aiming it at Walsh’s head. Walsh raised both of his hands to signify he meant to keep calm. He was extremely curious what the warning from the hallway was. He glanced out the window and saw no unusual activity. He didn’t hear anything coming from the hallway.

  He looked at Serge and said, “What’s the problem?”

  Serge said, “Strangers in the building. Maybe police looking for you. No one knows about us.”

  Walsh thought, I do.

  *

  Someone had run through the hallways and warned everyone that there were strangers on the block. Most people assumed that meant some form of police. Joseph Katazin had to assume the worst and started making plans in his head for how to escape. He thought about walking out right this second but couldn’t leave Derek Walsh. When it came down to it he’d sacrifice Serge in a moment, and even Alena if he had to, but he needed to make sure Walsh hadn’t talked to other people, and he needed to know where the security plug was. If he could get the plug, it would keep his contact a secret and delay the FBI investigation into everything that went on at Thomas Brothers. That was a contact Katazin would like to keep safe and operative for the future. Also, it would keep the FBI from tracking the theft back to him.

  He stepped across the room and looked out the window. No matter how subtle law enforcement agents tried to be, they could never mix perfectly in a neighborhood like this. Everyone here spoke Russian. Everyone. They took care of themselves and each other. There might be violent family feuds going on between them, but if the police intervened everyone turned against them. It was very similar to the mentality that Russia had taken advantage of in the Muslims. Aside from a positive relationship with Iran and Syria, Russia wasn’t particularly well liked in the Middle East. But now they were using the anger built up for generations to bring the Western world to a virtual standstill.

  He couldn’t abandon his operation so casually. There was enough drug dealing and meth making going on in the apartment building and several of the surrounding duplexes that the police could be going anywhere.

  Then Katazin heard a foot shuffle in the hallway. His military training allowed him to keep calm and focus on the sound. He looked over at Alena and motioned for her to pull the pin on the grenade, then hold it firmly. She cocked her head. He made a motion again, and she nodded. Then she pulled the pin on the grenade and gripped it tightly in her left hand.

  Katazin pointed to a spot in the middle of the room and told her to wait. He backed away toward the kitchen, noticing the window over the back counter. He stepped into the kitchen itself, keeping the gun hidden from view. There was a knock on the front door. A woman’s voice said, “Mr. Blattkoff, are you home?”

  As he was considering what his next move might be, Katazin heard a simple ringtone from the back bedroom. He wondered if it could be heard in the hallway as well. He turned his pistol toward the front door and decided this might be a good time to squeeze off a few rounds, then slip out the window in the kitchen. In all likelihood whoever was behind the door would blame Serge.

  He looked over at Alena standing terrified in the middle of the room, holding a U.S. military surplus Mk II fragmentation grenade. She was the only one who knew details about his activities.

  That left him with some uncomfortable options.

  *

  Walsh watched as Serge pulled the wooden door to the bedroom closed. It didn’t fit the frame perfectly and left a gap where Walsh could see into the other room. He’d tried to get a picture of the apartment in his head. He had no idea what he was about to do, but he had to do something. He lowered his hands as he eased slightly closer to Serge. The young Russian was distracted by something going on in the other room and was looking out the crack in the door.

  If the cops were about to enter, he couldn’t let Alena toss a live grenade at them. He just needed an opening. Then he heard a knock. At almost the same moment, Walsh’s phone on the bed began to ring.

  It distracted Serge just enough for Walsh to plunge his whole body at him, hitting him so hard that his Eastern European pistol flew straight into the air and he crashed through the door onto the floor with Walsh on top of him.

  Walsh scrambled back into the bedroom and snatched his pistol off the pillow as Serge regained his senses, found his gun on the floor near him, and swung it toward Walsh. Instinctively Walsh raised his own gun and fired twice.

  That was when things got hazy.

  *

  Katazin was still looking at Alena when he heard the two gunshots from the rear of the apartment. His initial thought was that Serge had just shot Derek Walsh. Before he could process it, the back door burst into splinters and three men wearing black fatigues rushed into the apartment shouting, “FBI, nobody move.”

  Katazin knew he had to act quickly.

  *

  Walsh held the gun steady as he watched Serge look at him in shock when both bullets struck him in the sternum. He thought about bursting into the living room and then considered the grenade that Alena was holding and the fact that the older Russian with a scar would’ve been alerted that Walsh had his pistol.

  His decision was made for him when there was a tremendous crash from the far end of the apartment and he heard someone shout, “FBI, nobody move.”

  Walsh wasted no time twisting and racing through the bedroom, then ducking behind the bed, out of sight. He didn’t want to risk hurting an FBI agent or vice versa. He could just catch a glimpse of men in black fatigues racing in a straight line toward the living room. He kept low and crept up the edge of the bed to snatch his phone off the pillow and tuck it in his front pocket.

  He listened to the commotion in the front room.

  *

  This was the worst position Katazin could have found himself in. The FBI agents in black fatigues raised their small MP-5 machine guns and froze at the sight of Alena standing in the middle of the room with her hands raised. Katazin didn’t know if they realized she was holding a grenade in her left hand.

  He swallowed once, took aim, then put a single 9 mm bullet into the back of the girl’s head. She crumpled to the ground as if she’d fainted, and he could hear the grenade clearly strike the wooden floor. The FBI agents standing at the door didn’t react instantly.

  Katazin ducked behind the kitchen counter and slid next to the dishwasher as he heard the deafening blast of the grenade, then felt the flash of heat throughout the apartment.

  He didn’t even take a look at the carnage he had just caused. Katazin sprang to his feet, turned, and burst through the tiny utility door. The blast and ensuing chaos had created a brief opportunity to slip outside into the crowd of locals milling about, trying to see what was happening.

  Katazin hurried down the street to his BMW without anyone questioning him. He now felt like he owed Derek Walsh on a personal level for all the trouble and stress he had caused. The former marine had done his best to screw up Katazin’s plans, and he was sick of it.

  30

  Derek Walsh had experienced grenade blasts in training and once in real-life combat. The concussion of the explosion tended to travel along the path of least resistance. Doorways were a particularly bad place to stand. But having a solid wall and a bed between him and the blast made it nothing more than a very, very loud noise. The floor shook, and he could see the flash and felt the rush of heat, but he was not injured or even particularly dazed.

  But he did recognize that the blast might have killed FBI agents and, more likely, the woman he thought was his girlfriend. Now smoke started to drift through the apartment, and he could smell something burning. He looked over his shoulder at the window he planned to jump through in just a second. It was his hope there was a fire escape, but he was prepared to make a leap to the ground rather than stay and face whoever was left after the grenade blast.


  Walsh stood from behind the bed, careful to keep the gun pointed at the ground. As soon as he stood, he saw that one of the FBI agents had been blown through the outer room and into the bedroom and lay moaning on the ground. His ballistic helmet was twisted at an odd angle, and his body sprawled on the hard wooden floor.

  Walsh turned and looked at the window but knew he couldn’t leave yet. He stuck the gun in his waistband and bounded to the wounded man. He focused on the man because he knew he didn’t want to see what had happened to Alena in the other room. His combat first aid training came right back to him, and he removed the man’s helmet and saw that he was about the same age as Walsh, with hair longer than the typical military recruit’s. On the left side of his neck a piece of shrapnel or perhaps the frame of the door had left a four-inch gaping wound; blood was pooling on the ground beneath his head.

  Walsh looked around for an instant, then grabbed the pillow off the bed and slipped off the cover. He folded it three times and then put direct pressure on the man’s neck. It was then that he looked up and noticed two others lying on the ground in the other room. They both seemed semiconscious and were moaning, but they were both moving slightly as well. That was a good sign.

  Walsh called out to them, “Hang on, fellas. Help is coming.” In fact, he had no idea who was coming. The Russian with the scar could step around the corner and start shooting at any moment. He blocked it all out of his mind while he concentrated on this man’s injuries.

  The FBI agent tried to speak, but Walsh told him to keep quiet and still. He could feel the man’s heartbeat. It was starting to fade, and that caused Walsh to panic a little. Then he heard voices in the main room. First, it was a man’s deep voice that said, “Holy shit.” Then a woman’s voice called out, “Doug?” Then the woman said to someone, “Check the kitchen. Our guys are in the other room.”

  Walsh could hear a commotion and footsteps as he continued to put pressure on the young FBI agent’s wound. Then a head popped around the corner from the main room. Walsh glanced up and immediately recognized Tonya Stratford.

  She said, “What the—”

  Walsh barked an order. “Get over here. I need help, quick.” The FBI agent rushed toward him as someone else came through the door to help the other two injured men. Walsh edged to the side and said, “I need you to hold this tight to his throat. Is someone calling for fire rescue?”

  As she moved to get into position to hold the blood-soaked pillowcase to the wound, Agent Stratford said, “We called. Paramedics should be here in a few minutes.”

  Now Walsh changed position and loosened the man’s ballistic vest carrier to check for other wounds. He lifted the man’s shirt and found one gash in his abdomen that wasn’t serious. The stress of the event was starting to catch up to him, and the adrenaline was dumping from his system. He said, “How’d you find me?”

  Agent Stratford concentrated on stopping the bleeding but said, “I had surveillance on the apartment after you gave me Blattkoff’s name. When you didn’t show at Times Square, I got a call you were seen being escorted in here, and we made a quick plan.”

  Just then another head popped around the corner, surveying the injured man. Then he noticed Walsh and said, “Jesus Christ, I can’t believe the shit you cause, smart guy.”

  Walsh looked up to see agent Stratford’s partner, Frank Martin, raise his service pistol and aim it at him. The guy apparently still held a grudge for Walsh giving him the slip on Wall Street.

  *

  Fannie was exhausted by the time she made it to her apartment in Stuttgart. It was the middle of the night, and the streets were absolutely silent. But she had been on the phone constantly since she’d landed, and there were already three men waiting for her when she arrived. These were trusted men who’d helped her with several major projects and never looked down on her for being a woman.

  Almost as soon as she walked in the door and got settled at her kitchen table with the others, one of the men said, “Where’s Amir?”

  “Helping the Russians.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “Later. You know how the Iranians are. They want to make sure they back every possible player in a conflict so they always look like they’re winning. We see it in Syria. We even see it with the Islamic State. They don’t want to be left out completely. So Amir will help the Russians until it’s time to not help the Russians anymore.” That seemed to satisfy everyone. She looked across at a middle-aged, heavyset bald man. “Were you able to put together what I asked for?”

  The man bobbed his head and said, “I have a very powerful C-4 package that will fit under virtually any vehicle with magnets. The combination of the explosive and the fuel in the car will cause the blast radius to spread thirty meters in every direction.” The man was so excited he looked like he was talking about his children doing well in school. “The blast will break windows up to five hundred meters away. The Americans on the base will think a nuclear weapon went off.”

  “And you won’t have a problem being in position to see when he enters the gate with the vehicle?”

  “I have already scouted it. It won’t be a problem with a cell phone detonator already attached to the device. Just give me a little notice so I’m not hanging out too long in front of the base.”

  Fannie had to smile thinking about the carnage the blast would cause and the confusion it would sow among the American ranks. She hoped she was able to pull it off before they had word that the Russians were crossing the border into Estonia. It could delay action for several hours at the base.

  Thinking about all of this made her worried about Anton Severov. He’d be facing the Americans in a few hours, a day at most. This was the confrontation that the world had been waiting to see for the past sixty years.

  *

  Walsh froze at the sight of the pistol pointed at him and instinctively raised his hands. When he stood, he stepped away from the FBI agent with the gun and past Tonya Stratford, who was still tending to the wounded man.

  Agent Stratford said, “Hold on, Frank, he was helping our wounded.”

  “He’s a fugitive. I’ve never lost a prisoner, and this asshole is not going to be the first.”

  Walsh was going to answer but saw the rage in the man’s face.

  The burly FBI man said, “I’m done having him make fools of us.”

  Walsh didn’t wait to see where this was going. He continued to back away with his hands up, then threw himself into the window and felt the glass and wooden frame break away behind him. He tumbled out of the window wondering how far he would fall, then realized he had landed on a fire escape. The landing jarred his head and clanged in his ears. He didn’t even wait for his head to clear as he rolled and found the elevated ladder, which dropped immediately to the ground with him at the end. The jolting stop knocked him onto a small patch of grass, but he wasted no time springing to his feet and racing toward the sidewalk. He heard a shot from the window but didn’t turn around. As he sprinted down the sidewalk, he saw two Chevy Impalas parked at odd angles in the street. He knew who the cars belonged to. He slipped out his pistol and put a bullet in the front passenger tire of each car.

  He made a hard right turn and found himself once again running for his life.

  31

  Derek Walsh cut across two streets and saw a brightly lit gas station and a woman standing next to a VW sedan at the pump. The driver’s door was open, so Walsh bolted directly into the car, turned the key in the ignition, and sped away without a second thought. He was just under the street light when he heard shouting in Russian and then the rear window of the sedan shattered. He looked over his shoulder to see that the middle-aged woman in a long overcoat had a revolver in her hand and was firing at him. What was up with these Russians? He never planned to come to Brooklyn again.

  He continued north and skipped the Brooklyn Bridge, instead turning onto the island of Manhattan by way of the Williamsburg Bridge. He turned north a few blocks and then left the
car, with the key still in the ignition, near Houston Street. It was too late to go by Thomas Brothers. At least with the revelations about Alena, he now believed Ted Marshall was on the level and could be useful. There was no telling what the FBI thought of him right now. It seemed like Tonya Stratford was on the verge of believing him, but her partner was on the verge of shooting him.

  He needed to figure out where to go. Then he had an idea.

  Walsh had spent more than an hour sitting on a bench in a park off Houston Street. Only a few people had cut across the park in the time he’d been sitting alone, and that suited him just fine. He was still in shock but starting to accept the fact that he’d been used. He’d been used in the worst possible way. He’d been used against his own government. He felt violated. None of these feelings bothered him, because they kept his mind off Alena. Walsh couldn’t accept that she didn’t have feelings for him. It might have been an assignment, but it morphed into something else. Luckily she would never be able to refute that. He’d already heard on the news that two people had died in a police raid in Brooklyn. He hoped that meant all three of the wounded FBI agents would survive.

  Something else that had struck him in the past few hours was the fact that he had been sitting on the sidelines while something like this was cooking. In the marines he felt like he had a purpose. In the financial world he just felt like a tool. He needed a purpose. All marines needed a purpose.

  He no longer just wanted to clear his name. It wasn’t about him anymore. It was about stopping this plot and its ultimate goal. He was ready to turn himself in, but maybe he could help the FBI. He felt that Tonya Stratford might be realizing that about now. He had purposely kept his phone turned off in case they had some way to track him he wasn’t aware of. He also wasn’t ready to take any calls.