Agent Stratford motioned Walsh over to his old computer. She handed him the plug as he sat down. He couldn’t help but take a deep, cleansing breath. He cut his eyes up to Agent Stratford and then her partner. This was it.
He explained the process as he inserted the security plug in the USB port. “Once the plug is inserted, I enter the trading program, enter my password, and this screen comes up.” He waited as the two FBI agents examined the trading screen. “Now I would enter the number of the account the money is coming from and the routing number for the bank and account the money is going to. It’s not particularly complicated or difficult.”
He searched for the program on the security plug and brought up the tools screen. “This is where I can access every overseas trade I’ve made in the past year.” He gave them a minute to examine the new screen that listed hundreds of transactions. “As you can see, there is a tiny icon for a photograph next to each transaction. If you look at my last four transactions, they’re the ones in question.” He pointed to the screen to show the top four transactions.
This was it. Showtime. He took another breath, and a very clear photo popped up on the screen. He did it with the remaining three transactions, and a similar photo appeared.
Walsh mumbled, “Oh my God.”
The older FBI agent said, “That explains a lot.”
Agent Stratford glanced around the office and said, “We have to move.”
As Shepherd and his men started assessing the column in front of them, Shepherd heard something in the distance. He held up a hand that stopped everyone in place. He turned to the Estonian lieutenant and said, “Do you hear that to our left?”
The young lieutenant turned his attention from the tanks on their right and scanned the horizon on the rolling hills to their left.
Shepherd said, “That’s a train.” A minute later, a slow-moving locomotive appeared in the distance. Instantly Shepherd realized the train, carrying supplies and reserve tanks, was more vital than the column they had been watching. Trains were one of the reasons they had been dropped here. He couldn’t pass it up. He kept most of the men in place as he grabbed the Estonian lieutenant, two of the men who were best with explosives, and an Estonian private, who was weighted down with packs containing C-4 and two spools of det cord.
Shepherd scurried away from his men toward his left, with the others following him quickly.
The Estonian lieutenant said, “Major, I don’t understand. We can knock out two or three of those tanks quickly.”
Now Shepherd was running, looking for the train tracks. “Or we can take a risk, knock out these tracks, disrupt heavy supplies, and really throw a monkey wrench into the Russians’ plans.”
The Estonian cocked his head and said, “What’s a monkey wrench?”
Inside Thomas Brothers, Walsh stared at the photograph on the screen. It was Ted Marshall. The look on his face said he had no idea he was being filmed. It was clear that the two FBI agents immediately understood what had happened. Walsh turned his head toward the glass office where his boss usually sat, and had been working just a few minutes earlier.
It was empty.
Panic rose in his throat. Ted was the key to the whole conspiracy. He could explain what had happened and expose the people funding a terrorist group. Now he was gone.
As soon as she realized their new suspect had vanished, Agent Stratford immediately grabbed her phone and started calling in help. Her partner called out to other agents in the office, and everyone started to scramble. Obviously they now believed Walsh’s story, because no one even bothered to watch him as all the agents bolted out of the office to catch Ted Marshall.
Walsh wanted to see what was happening. He needed to see it. Were they watching the courtyard? The front door? Technically it was the front door, but no one used it. He had to tell someone where to search. Now, for the first time in three days, when he needed an FBI agent, he couldn’t find one.
Anton Severov commanded the eight tanks, fourteen personnel carriers, and seventeen trucks in this section of the column. Although it was only about a fourth of the column and less than a fiftieth of the total expeditionary force, he felt the pressure and responsibility of command. He had hundreds of men in his command if you included the ground troops riding in the carriers. It was terrifying. Especially now as he was learning of the NATO strike.
He listened to the radio chatter and heard the stutter of gunfire behind the terrified report that tanks on the parallel road were taking fire. He felt as if he were the only one who had expected resistance as he scanned the grassy hills surrounding him, trying to spot any danger. A helicopter zipped overhead, but it was headed to a specific location and not looking for NATO soldiers waiting to attack the column. The fact that jets had engaged them earlier, and there had been reports of Black Hawk helicopters and an attack on a column of tanks on a parallel road, led him to believe that NATO was planning some sort of major counterattack here. Men could only be on edge for so long; then they started to lose that alertness that can save a soldier. They needed to either engage a threat or take a break.
Severov had command of the center of the convoy with nine T-90 tanks, six ancient T-84s, two Pantsir S-1 self-propelled portable antiaircraft guns that would be used during encampments, and the associated support vehicles, including transport trucks. The truckload of Chechens, including Amir, was directly in front of him less than thirty meters away. Every time he looked in their direction, Amir was smirking at him as if he knew something no one else did. Quickly Severov scanned the horizon again. His gunner was reclined in his seat trying to stay as comfortable as possible until the action started. They had slowed the convoy to a maddening thirty kilometers an hour. He didn’t know the reason, but more aircraft had gone ahead of them, and he wondered if there were dogfights over the interior of Estonia.
Then he saw it. The first streak of a shoulder-fired rocket-propelled missile off in the distance. It erupted from the tall grass with a flash that caught his eye. He couldn’t identify the type right away, but it streaked forward and struck a tanker truck half a mile in front of him, causing a tremendous explosion. Almost before he could react he saw more trails of rockets coming from the low hills toward the convoy. He immediately dropped into the turret and slammed the hatch shut. He yelled to his men to prepare for battle as he leaned forward to look through the commander’s viewfinder. The viewfinder was set directly in front of him, and just as he adjusted the sight to the truck holding the Muslim recruits, he saw it enveloped in an orange ball of flame.
Severov could feel the heat inside the tank as the driver immediately took evasive action. The tank careened off to one side as Severov swung the viewfinder to see what had happened to the truck. And Amir. The flames lifted into the air and dissipated as the shell of the truck fused with the ground. No one moved. In fact, Severov thought it looked like no people had even been sitting in the rear of the truck.
Now he was in a real war.
42
Derek Walsh decided he needed to help find Ted Marshall. He had unraveled too much of this mystery not to be included in something like this. Plus, he felt his knowledge of the building would give him an advantage over the FBI agents searching for his boss. As soon as Walsh burst into the lobby from the forward stairwell he saw most of the FBI agents already outside in the courtyard fanning out. It was a logical move if that was the only door you had ever used to enter or exit the building. Walsh knew some secrets. He started to check the hallways leading out to the street away from the courtyard. In an adjacent lobby, Walsh looked to his left and was not terribly surprised to see Ted Marshall hustling for the front door with no one paying any attention. He must’ve hidden in a bathroom long enough for everyone to pile out the courtyard door. It was slick and clever and about to backfire.