There was a lot that could go wrong with this plan.
Joseph Katazin came awake with a start. He didn’t know why his heart was pounding, but he was wide awake and it was not yet sunrise. He sensed that it was close to dawn, but it wasn’t until he twisted in the bed and saw his digital clock that he knew it was after five. He settled back into the bed and felt the different twinges of pain from all the injuries he had suffered. The one he’d have to deal with the most was his ankle, because he intended to do a little walking today. He would walk until he found Derek Walsh and put a bullet in his head.
There was not much more he could do on the operation other than tie up the loose ends and delay the inevitable FBI investigation into what happened. He didn’t think anyone would ever be able to tie the protesters to his plot, and his luck with the suicide bomber in the subway would cover his killing of Lenny Tallett. Then his mind settled on another potential loose end: his wife. She still lay in the bed next to him, rigid as a board. He doubted she had slept the whole night, but she was probably too scared to try to leave. He was frustrated because she was not something he should have to worry about while the biggest operation of his career was under way. Realistically, she was a potential threat, and he had to make a decision about what he intended to do.
He eased out of bed and slowly put some weight on his ankle. It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be. He shuffled to his closet and pulled on some clothes. He knew his wife was faking being asleep now, because she was always up before him. It was a point of pride with her that she make him coffee.
Katazin gingerly came down the stairs and flopped onto his couch to turn on the TV. He recognized his superiors had purposely left him in the dark about many elements of the operation, even though it was entirely his idea. It made sense that he would not be aware of the exact military action that would be taken. He had to believe the Red Army would move soon; he didn’t want to consider the possibility that he’d gone to all this trouble and moved all that money just to fund a few minor terrorist attacks that wouldn’t add up to a thousand deaths across the world. He knew the small and uncoordinated attacks were minuscule, but their cumulative effect was obviously incredible. Many of the Western countries were frozen with fear over what could happen next. Katazin hated to admit it, but it was also a little embarrassing that Russia couldn’t fund the attacks and distractions and had to resort to theft. They were lucky Katazin had turned that into another plus by motivating the protesters and diverting resources to their silliness.
He realized how excited he was as he searched for CNN. He felt like a child watching a parade. What would happen? As soon as he found the channel he realized there were no blazing banners of “breaking news” and no theme songs dedicated to the ongoing coverage they reserved for major events. It was the news as usual. Celebrities, sports, more celebrities. What was it with Americans and celebrities? Then there was the daily story of some weird crime that happened in Florida. A man beat another man to death with an alligator. Typical. But there was nothing, not one word, about world-shattering events in Eastern Europe.
That put him in a dark mood.
As he turned to climb back up the stairs, he thought once again about his wife as a potential threat.
Bill Shepherd parked in front of the café and had already shut the door to the Humvee when he heard his phone ring on the seat. He hesitated, torn between rushing to see Fannie and concerned that there might be a problem that Rosenberg needed to talk to him about.
After a moment he turned the handle, yanked open the door, and reached in, wondering if he could answer the phone before it went to voicemail. He swiped his finger across the screen and said, “Mike, can you read me?”
On the other side of the line in a clear voice he heard his friend Mike Rosenberg say, “Shep, I read you.”
Shepherd looked up and saw that Fannie had stepped toward the door, so he held the phone tight to his ear as he locked the Humvee once more and slowly started strolling to the front of the café. He said into the phone, “Everything all right?”
“No, I need to ask you something straight up on our personal phones. No official communication.”
“Sure, go ahead.” He slowed his stride as he waited to hear what his friend had to say that warranted such a grim tone.
Rosenberg said, “I have the toll records for a phone that belongs to a suspected terrorist.”
“I’m listening.”
“And your personal phone number is on them. It looks like you called the number several times, including Tuesday night, a couple of times Wednesday, and once yesterday morning. I got the records after that. If I go back during the month, it looks like you started contacting the phone about a week ago.” He gave Shepherd the number, digit by digit.
Now Shepherd froze in his tracks as he thought about the limited number of personal calls he made. The only person he had called with that frequency the past two weeks besides his family, Derek Walsh, and Rosenberg was Fannie. He didn’t need to hear all the digits to the phone number to confirm his fear. Quickly he said, “Do you have any identification for the terrorist? Male or female?”
“I believe it’s a female that opened a bank account in Bern. She has calls all over Europe as well as to other suspected terrorists.”
Shepherd noticed Fannie stepping out of the doorway of the restaurant and took a quick glance around the courtyard. The two men who were down the street on the sidewalk were now closer. One carried a heavy satchel, which looked more like a duffel bag. Both men had dark hair and scraggly beards. This was no time to be politically correct, so he decided to jump to a conclusion based on their appearance. He could explain his mistake later if he had to.
Shepherd spoke quickly into the phone, saying, “Mike, in case anything happens to me, the number I was calling belongs to a white female who claims to be from France and is using the name Fannie Legat. I was just trying to get to know her and never told her anything of importance. I met her one morning over coffee, and I’m about to walk into a café where she is waiting for me.”
“Walk away.”
“That’s a good idea.”
Shepherd saw that the two men were now staring directly at him and Fannie had stepped into the courtyard and was reaching into her purse. He said into the phone, “Too late now. Remember what I told you.”
36
Derek Walsh waited by Tonya Stratford’s front door as the car slowly drove past. He didn’t want to be obvious but felt like crowding against the wall away from the street. It didn’t look like a police car, and no one showed any interest in him. Suddenly he realized he was directly in front of the door so he jumped off the landing. He took a moment to reposition himself and was careful not to be too close to the front door if it opened unexpectedly. It was never a good idea to startle someone carrying a gun. He had left Charlie snoring soundly in the front seat of the VW when he made his way toward the front door of Tonya Stratford’s residence. He had no idea if she lived alone or had a boyfriend or maybe even her parents living with her. The Internet tended not to give that kind of information.
He was a little chilly in his simple white shirt with the sun just starting to throw light over the top of some buildings to the east. He was nervous, but this had to be done. He’d left his pistol under the front seat of the VW so there would be no mistake about what he was trying to do. He didn’t want to get shot now because of information he needed to get to someone about what these crazy Russians were up to. He should’ve realized it was a more sophisticated plan than just someone trying to rip off Thomas Brothers. His only leverage was the security plug, and no one was going to use it but him. He wasn’t going to tell anyone where he had hidden it and wouldn’t let it out of his sight once he had it in his possession.