He said, “This is Derek Walsh.”
“That would’ve been my first guess. Where are you?”
“I’m still in the city, and I would like to meet you.” He could tell there was a sense of relief on the other end of the phone.
Agent Stratford said, “That’s good news. Tell me where you are and I’ll come there right now.”
“It’s not quite that simple.”
“It never is.”
Walsh smiled at the slight humor she was finally starting to display. “I’ll meet you in Times Square between five and six this evening. No tricks, no games, I should have everything I need, and I believe you when you say you’ll give me a chance to explain.”
“I try to deal honestly with everyone. I can’t meet you alone. You’ve pulled too much shit.”
“I understand. But I would prefer if you didn’t use a SWAT team to knock me to the ground.”
“I’ll bring one or two other agents, all in plainclothes. But I don’t want any funny business. Go right to the discount ticket booth, and we’ll be there waiting.”
“One more thing.”
“I’m listening.”
“You know my concerns about a conspiracy.”
“Go on.”
“I give you my word as a former marine officer and a gentleman that I will be in Times Square between five and six this afternoon. But I have no idea who to trust and how far this conspiracy reaches, so I’m asking you to keep it quiet and use the minimum amount of help you feel is necessary. Otherwise, there’s no telling what will happen to me.”
“Again, no promises. But I believe you when you say you’ll meet me. And we will be in Times Square at five o’clock waiting for you.”
“I’ll see you then.” That went as well as he could have expected. Now all he had to do was get the evidence and meet her. At least by setting up the meeting for five, he knew she wouldn’t be at Thomas Brothers when he got there.
Since he was not using official CIA resources but relying on his own guile—and a ploy that the FBI used to get people to talk about different subjects by making it seem like they were investigating crimes against children—Rosenberg made it a point to chat with the woman for a moment and ask her first name. Even if this was rude to a German, it made him feel like he was making a personal connection. He called her Barbara several times, and she finally responded by calling him Mike. Then he got into the meat of his question.
He said, “Barbara, I have a very sensitive investigation involving a phone number that your company carries. We’re trying to move quickly due to the nature of the investigation, and I was just wondering if I could get some basic information from you.”
Her voice had softened considerably from her initial greeting, and now she said, “Of course, we now accept subpoenas directly from the United States via fax. It really doesn’t take any longer than if we were dealing with the German police. I will even e-mail you the information back.”
That didn’t help Rosenberg at all. He started to move toward his original plan. “Here is the problem, Barbara, the investigation is extremely time sensitive, and we need to locate other victims as soon as possible. Most of them would probably be in Germany, or perhaps Switzerland.”
Curiosity got the better of Barbara, and she asked, “Victims of what?”
Rosenberg knew he had her. “We have identified a serial pedophile who’s using the phone to contact his victims. We desperately need the phone numbers he has called in the past thirty days or so just to make sure these kids are safe.” He was surprised how guilty he felt lying like this.
The woman’s sincerity didn’t help him feel any better. There was a long pause, and Rosenberg looked up at the clock on his desk, watching the seconds tick by. Did the pause mean she was swayed by his request or that she was looking up the “United States National Police”?
Rosenberg had started considering an exit strategy when the woman said, “Oh my, I was just thinking about my two young children at home. Perhaps there is a way I can expedite the information.”
“That would be very helpful and give us a chance to identify this man and perhaps have the German National Police pick him up as soon as possible.” Rosenberg felt a little guilty lying to the woman, but justified it by thinking of his friend Derek Walsh.
There was a longer pause on the phone, and Rosenberg could hear the keyboard clicking. Then the woman said, “I can see that there has been a great number of calls in the past thirty days to a number of different countries.”
Rosenberg was thinking, Jackpot!
The woman said, “I could e-mail these without the official stamp. They would not be able to be used in court, but once you send a subpoena we could send another copy.”
“That would be perfect.”
“I have to scan them, and it might take a little while.”
“No problem, thank you.”
Rosenberg smiled because he had a safe e-mail address that wouldn’t be traced to the CIA.
He was in business.
For some reason Katazin kept an eye on the young man in the heavy coat as the train stopped and people started filing off. It was just something about him that didn’t seem right. He switched his focus from looking for Tallett and his girlfriend to seeing what the guy in the coat did. The young man stepped toward the train but showed no interest in getting on. Then Katazin had a sinking feeling that he knew what was going on: This was one of the lone wolf jihadists who were supposed to hit the city over the next few days. Fate was a bitch, and luck wasn’t with him today. Everyone had speculated that the jihadists would eventually hit the subway. They’d been trying for a couple of days already.
Just as Katazin formed that opinion, Lenny Tallett stepped off the train and practically ran right into him waiting on the platform. But Katazin couldn’t take his eyes off the young man in the dark, heavy jacket.
Tallett turned to Katazin and said, “What are you doing here? Were you on the same train as us?” When he didn’t get any response, Tallett looked around the platform, then turned back to Katazin and said, “What’s wrong? Do you want to just give me the bag here?” He scanned the platform again, then said, “Why are you staring at the guy in the coat?”
Before Katazin could answer, the man stepped into the train car where the most people were still lingering, glanced around quickly, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out something that looked like the end of a jump rope. He shouted something and detonated the bomb wrapped around his chest. The flash was phenomenal. A second later Katazin felt the blast and a shard of glass etching a wound across his forehead. The blast knocked him off his feet, and he skidded across the platform floor until he crashed into a pillar. He barely caught sight of Tallett being thrown to his right and the girlfriend whizzing past him off the platform onto the tracks.
His ears were ringing so badly the wave of screams barely registered in his head. It reminded him of a mortar attack by the Mujahideen in Afghanistan, if the mortar had landed inside the tank with him. He tried to sit up as blood trickled from his ear. Now the smoke and smell of burned flesh was reaching him.
He twisted his body and slowly sat up and searched the platform around him until he found Tallett lying in a heap in the corner.
Tallett was moving. There were a dozen injured people on the platform and more dead inside the train, but somehow this asshole had survived.
Major Bill Shepherd finally laid his head on his pillow in his half of an officer’s duplex he shared with an army lieutenant colonel on the base. Housing was based on several factors, but the main one was rank. In recent years, not as many officers brought their families to Germany, and that opened up the larger residences for bachelor officers. The small, neat duplex featured a bedroom, living room, and kitchen, which was plenty for Shepherd at this point in his life.