Putin's Gambit Read online

  On this evening he was sitting on a bench in the Wall Street district waiting to see confirmation that the start of Russia’s biggest operation in years had been successful. He was looking at the rear of the building that housed Thomas Brothers Financial and could barely contain his smile when he saw the beautiful young blonde walking out of the building arm in arm with the tall young man in a suit, one side of his shirt untucked from his pants. Katazin knew the man was a former marine, and although he had apparently gained a little weight, he looked like he could handle himself in a fight.

  On one hand, Katazin felt guilty ruining a fellow soldier’s life. On the other hand, this was the enemy and a necessary casualty on the new Russia’s march toward glory. There was a saying that soldiers were the same the world over and shared a certain brotherhood. This one was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Katazin was too good at his job to let the opportunity pass.

  3

  Derek Walsh had enjoyed the short walk from the sushi restaurant back to his office with Alena on his arm. He loved just spending time with her. She had earned his trust by little things, like not questioning his travel when he visited his mom in Philly, or his buddies from the marines. And although he was keenly aware that she was a prize that a low-earning former marine probably didn’t deserve, she had never given him reason to question her fidelity. Little by little she had become an important part of his life, a trusted confidant he could share his insecurities about his job with and never worry about her blabbing his secrets.

  The stroll was far superior to the minuscule meal he’d just eaten and paid a fortune for. There was something about his time in the marines and living on a captain’s salary that made him flinch at paying more than seventy dollars for a couple of pieces of bait slapped on top of rice. It didn’t matter that he now made a little more money; no one was paying for his living quarters or food, and he lived in Manhattan. These dates were killing him. The three sixteen-ounce Ichiban beers he’d thrown down helped ease his annoyance at not taking in enough calories.

  As they approached the building his cell phone rang, and he looked at his girlfriend as a matter of manners to see if she minded him answering the call.

  Alena smiled and nodded as she pointed to the front door, saying she was going to retrieve her coat and portfolio. He nodded back and was hustling toward the security pad to enter his code when he saw the guard rushing to the door to let her in. So much for security if you had blond hair and a great smile.

  As soon as Walsh had the receiver to his ear, he heard the clear and unmistakable voice of his former classmate from the Naval Academy, Michael Rosenberg.

  “Tubby! I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

  Walsh couldn’t hide his smile at hearing the nickname he’d earned in Germany. It was true that after his stint in Afghanistan, the German food and beer seemed to slap on weight. “Hey, Mike. I’m still at the office.”

  “I know that’s got to be bullshit. You probably just finished eating dinner at some fancy restaurant in the area.”

  “And that’s why you managed to land such a good government job.” Walsh was happy his friend had been recruited by the CIA. It fit perfectly with his assignment as G-2 in their unit in Afghanistan and Germany. As an intelligence officer with the marines, Rosenberg could mix in virtually any circle and had an analytical mind that could rival the best computer Apple could spit out. Walsh patted his belly and realized it was in stark contrast to the wiry Rosenberg, who would use a ten-mile run as a warm-up. “So what’s up?”

  Rosenberg said, “Just thinking about Ron and the funeral. Then Bill Shepherd called. He’s training with some of the local NATO defense forces in case Russia acts up again.”

  “What would a small marine unit do against tanks?”

  “Fight, baby, fight. What else? Besides, they’ve already trained with a bunch of local soldiers. They would lead an interesting force if it came to that.”

  “Is there intel Russia will move?”

  “There are always rumors that Putin has something up his sleeve. They’re in bad shape economically, and that makes them dangerous. But there’s no specific intel right now. Shep is just being a good marine officer and getting prepared. I also think he’s trying to keep his mind occupied.”

  “Were you able to talk to Bill for a while? He was closer to Ron. He still saw him all the time in Germany.”

  “Just for a few minutes. He says it’s not the same with us gone. The G-4 who took your place is useless. Doesn’t keep their supplies up to date and is hard to talk to about issues. Not what you want in a unit like that.”

  Walsh appreciated the vote of confidence. Ron Jackson, Bill Shepherd, and Mike Rosenberg had stood by him during the entire ordeal over the finances of the company. After a moment of silence Walsh said, “Anything going on at work you can talk about?”

  “Only in person. You know this is my personal phone. I don’t trust anyone anymore.”

  “That’s just you adjusting to the natural paranoia of a government employee.” He saw Alena leaving the building and waving to the security guard inside and said to his friend, “Mike, I gotta go. I’m on a date.”

  “Are you still dating the hot Greek chick?”

  “I am.” Saying it made him smile from ear to ear.

  “Roger that, Tubby. I just called to say hello. Maybe I’ll come up this weekend and we can do something crazy.”

  “I figured a guy with a job like yours wouldn’t set foot in a place like Times Square unless he was on duty.”

  “From everything I can tell, Wall Street is as dangerous as any place in New York.”

  Alena gave him another hug as he closed the phone. He didn’t bother to explain who was calling because she never seemed interested anyway. His heart rate increased as he felt Alena’s lovely body next to him, and he wondered if he’d get to see more of it. But that dream ended quickly.

  Alena said, “I have an early class tomorrow morning. I think I’ll take a cab home.”

  “I shouldn’t let you go by yourself.”

  She let out a cute giggle, touched him on the nose, and said, “You and your sweet manners. I appreciate it, but I don’t know that I could keep you from coming upstairs. And I need to study a little more tonight.”

  He flagged down a cab and kissed her good night, hoping she’d be free tomorrow.

  *

  Fannie Legat’s mother had been born in Algeria but raised in France. Her father was a banker, whose parents survived World War II but didn’t survive him marrying, as her grandfather said, a beur—a “melon,” the rudest of French terms for Arabs living in the country. Fannie barely remembered her father, who left them for a plump, blond Norwegian when she was just a little girl. They had languished in the Paris suburb of La Courneuve, about a ten-minute train ride outside the city, known as one of the largest slums for people of all nationalities the government had failed to integrate into the general population. It had been the scene of riots as well as devastating poverty. One of the street poets said, “The sun never shines in La Courneuve.”

  By the time she was twelve, she was reconnecting with her Islamic roots. Her mother worked so many hours she barely noticed her daughter’s transformation, even when she donned a hijab after she reached puberty as a show of propriety. The headdress also concealed her growing anger toward the treatment of Muslims by all of the Western nations.

  But someone in the French government had noticed her exceedingly good grades and by Allah’s grace she was admitted to EMLYON, a college of economics and finance in the eastern city of Lyon. It was in a class on international trade and economics that the seventeen-year-old Fannie met a twenty-two-year-old immigrant from Egypt named Naadir Al-Latif. He was the first to encourage her to embrace her heritage completely and led her to her new name of Yasmine Akram because he said it meant “most generous.” They both laughed at the idea of her gaining an expertise in money and also adopting that name.

  It was through a small group of Musl
im students that the new Yasmine Akram started to follow the teachings of what some Western governments would refer to as “radical clerics.” Their teachings turned on a light in her soul, and she realized it was her duty to contribute to the struggle Islam faced every day to convert others and dissuade nonbelievers from interfering in its activities.

  A boring year of working in the financial district of Paris after graduation led her to jump at the chance to travel to Syria and support their version of the “Arab Spring.” But learning about fundamental Islam is not quite the same as living it day in and day out. The other fighters did not want a woman on the front lines, and she was relegated to helping the wounded and working in logistics. Her ability to speak French, German, and English made her invaluable in dealing with the outside contributors to their cause. She was shocked how many French firms willingly did business with anyone who had the money. They supplied arms to the Assad regime while also sending weapons to the rebels. It was one of the greatest capitalist schemes of all time. It made her both proud and ashamed of her home country.

  Yasmine herself had other ideas about how she could contribute to the struggle. At five foot seven and athletically built, calling herself Abdul, she was able to reenter the rebel’s camp as a man and was given an AK-47 almost without question. She still embraced the first time she had a Syrian soldier in her gun sights: Watching him drop to the ground, lifeless, after a short burst from her assault rifle was a life-changing experience.

  Her prowess on the battlefield soon came to the attention of some of the local commanders. One of the sharper young men recognized her for what she was and quietly pulled her off the line, introducing her to an entirely new set of soldiers for Islam. Some people called them the Islamic State or ISIS. Either way, they had big plans for spreading the conflict beyond the borders of Syria and Iraq. It would be a waste to have a young woman like her killed by artillery. With her lighter hair and the ability to speak several languages without accent, she could pass for French or German with very little effort. Besides, funding was becoming a major issue for their cause, and her background in economics made her that much more appealing a recruit. The successes of ISIS had been covered by world media with flair. Recapturing neglected cities from ill-trained Iraqi conscripts had made their efforts look heroic and the organization appear ready to take over the whole country, but the truth was much more complex. The group was constantly evolving, with splinter groups squabbling endlessly about everything from tactics to proper religious etiquette. The Islamic State had become less of a state and more of a movement. This would change with the upcoming operation. Fannie believed they were on the brink of a new era. After they were established, with a country and permanent funding, she could tackle the other issues that affected her, like the group’s view on women. “One battle at a time” was her private motto.

  All that had led her to the Café Schilling on Charlottenstrasse in Böblingen, Germany, just outside Stuttgart. Now she only used the name Fannie Legat. Her main job while she was in the area was to plan attacks against U.S. military personnel and other targets if she were ordered to. But funding had been an issue for many months now. It seemed the Zionists and the Americans controlled most of the money in the world, at least to hear her superiors tell it. But it was true that attempting a large-scale attack required money. She had several confederates living comfortably in an apartment near the center of Stuttgart who had been running up tabs at local restaurants and other businesses. But the men were true believers and would gladly give their lives to help in the ongoing struggle.

  As she sipped some coffee in the middle of the night at an outdoor table next to a palm tree—the café was trying to have a Mediterranean look—she noticed an athletic-looking U.S. Marine major with short brown hair, reading a report while picking at a piece of toast.

  Maybe this could be an opportunity while she waited for funding to come through.

  4

  After Derek Walsh watched Alena drive away in the cab, he intended to stop and have a hamburger and a few more beers, then grab a few hours’ sleep in the comfortable queen bed in his tiny apartment and head into the office as late as possible.

  Although he admired farmers who were up before dawn working, he had little respect for the financial managers who would come in before the sun rose. He had read an article about how money managers contributed little to society. If everything were to go to hell and you needed a skill in the future, money managers would be out of luck. They didn’t build anything, cure anyone, protect anyone, or carry anything. It led to a fairly widespread depression among thoughtful money managers who considered their contribution to society.

  It was a mild autumn evening, and surprisingly few people were on the street. He could’ve easily hailed a cab, but the nine-block walk would do him good. And one of his favorite diners was right on the way.

  When he was about two blocks away from the office, he noticed two men at the far end of the block walking toward him. He was always alert, but these two seemed harmless enough. They were white; one of them was middle-aged, the other young and thin. They showed no interest in Walsh. His mind was on Alena anyway. Sometimes she was a ball of fire emotionally, but more often she displayed an aloof, cool demeanor and didn’t seem interested in anything intimate. He enjoyed having such a beautiful girlfriend, but if he looked at his life as a whole, he wanted to settle down and start having children. He’d fantasized about telling his son how he fought in the war and then moved on to Wall Street and made a fortune. He intended to do all this from the dock of their spacious home in the Florida Keys. That was his dream, anyway.

  The two men were only about twenty feet away from him when Walsh looked up again and assessed them quickly. The older one was perhaps fifty and had a fading scar across the left side of his face. The younger man was barely twenty-five and had the wiry look of a meth user. He was prepared to file them away in his memory as they passed when he noticed the younger man reaching under a loose Knicks hoodie. The movement caught Walsh’s eye, and he immediately tensed and turned his body slightly as he’d been trained in the marines. It could be anything, but it looked like the younger man was reaching for a pistol.

  It was that little reaction—training that had seeped through all the other bullshit in his head—that allowed Walsh to move quickly when the younger, slim man drew some kind of blued steel automatic from his waistband.

  Walsh did not hesitate. The marines frowned on hesitation. He did exactly what he had always been taught. He literally sprang into action.

  *

  It was late, or early, depending on how you looked at it, but he couldn’t sleep, so Major Bill Shepherd had slipped off base.

  He had managed a call to his former comrade Mike Rosenberg at the CIA and, like many other good military officers, used this back channel to get a better view of world affairs. As he had feared, the U.S. was mainly focused on Middle Eastern threats. The bombing in Berlin that had killed his friend Ron Jackson pointed to the rapidly expanding targets of the Islamic State.

  Although the Russians were considered a threat, they weren’t, at the moment, killing Americans, so the administration devoted little effort to the sleeping bear. Washington was just going along with NATO’s actions to discourage aggression, which involved the U.S. forces in Europe. A few F-16s had been moved around, and a rapid deployment force was in the works, but not much else. If the balloon went up, the men of his brigade would be expected to do a lot. He wanted to be prepared.

  He quietly studied the status report for his brigade. He couldn’t tell anyone he was secretly thrilled at the thought of combat and considered the possibility of moving the team into either Estonia or Belarus as part of a NATO response to any Russian activity. He knew to keep things quiet, and his unit was small enough to operate under the radar. But the army units on the same base were more obvious and some of their commanders realized they might have to act fast. The movement of dozens of tanks attracted attention. Everything was still theo
retical, but just the thought of having a chance to knock out a T-90 or any other Russian armor was exciting, and the reality would mean his decision to join the marines would be completely validated.

  Shepherd’s father and two brothers were in the navy. Although his father was a retired admiral, Shepherd had avoided the Naval Academy, then searched the New York area for an acceptable alternative. Not interested in West Point, he had to travel south to Lexington, Virginia, where he enrolled in the Virginia Military Institute. The college, formed in 1839, was the first state-sponsored military academy and had a proud tradition, most notably featuring “Stonewall” Jackson as an instructor. As far as the marines went, Shepherd considered Lieutenant General Lewis “Chesty” Puller, a highly decorated combat commander with five Navy Crosses, to be the academy’s greatest marine graduate.

  Shepherd had completed one tour in Iraq and two in Afghanistan, but his father didn’t view trading small-arms fire with insurgents as serious military activity. Even so, he was the only one of the three brothers to actually see combat. Military people sought action. No fighter pilot wanted to spend his entire career training. Kids on computers did that. Military personnel prepared for battle, and all of them wanted to make their country proud. They still talked of faith, glory, and honor. Shepherd knew that if the Russians made a move into any of the bordering countries, he’d have plenty of chances to see glory, find honor, and keep his faith. The old saying that there were no atheists in a foxhole was equally true when facing down Russian armor on a highway.

  He just wished there were more assets in case the Russians tried something. The lack of leadership from the top of the U.S. government had led to an absolute debacle in the Middle East. Now, not only intelligence assets but more and more military assets were being directed at conflicts that had little hope of being resolved. Maybe if the United States had taken a more active role early on, things would be different, but a stuttering foreign policy and a spineless view of aggression now threatened the security of Western Europe.