The colonel said, “Relax, Anton, you could have fun. You eat some good food, meet pretty girls. You’ll be traveling with someone as soon as you cross the border. I’m told your contact will be with you for several days. Just scout out what routes are acceptable to the tanks and supply train and look for possible resistance. You’re the perfect choice. An intelligence officer won’t know where a T-90 can go or if a building would house enough soldiers.”
Severov said, “I could walk all of Estonia in a few days. Why so long?”
“You think too small, my boy. This trip could take you into Poland or perhaps even Germany. With the price of oil plunging like it is, no telling what we might need to do to survive. This is what drove the breakup of our great Soviet Union. We had nothing to sell but our oil. At least now we have leaders that are looking to the future and figuring out how to avoid another disaster.”
Severov just stared at him. Then he mumbled in a low voice, “We might go into Germany?”
“I’m telling you we’re on the verge of history.”
“Has anybody in command read history? The last time we tangled with the Germans it almost didn’t work out well. If it weren’t for the Americans, we’d be speaking German right now.”
The colonel put on his paternal act again and chuckled. “Anton, you’re a good soldier. Do your duty. You’re a good-looking, single young man. Have some fun for a change. I’ll have Lieutenant Poola take over your company. He’s quite a competent but humorless new officer.”
“Poola! The Georgian? He’s a Muslim.”
“We have almost seventeen million Muslims as citizens. They do their duty just like everyone else.”
Severov didn’t want to look like a sullen schoolchild, so he sat up straight and tried not to sulk. He didn’t like it, but he’d do it. It wasn’t as if he had a choice.
Walsh had given Charlie a little more cash and sent him the other direction, away from the growing chaos. The last thing he wanted was his elderly friend getting caught up in a riot. He jogged for the entrance to his building and made it past several of the shouting protesters. The keypad on the courtyard entrance was disabled, and one of the security guards had to unlock the huge glass doors to let him into the lobby. The young Hispanic man, whose name was Hector, gave him an odd look. Walsh gave his usual greeting and passed the man and another guard on his way to the elevator.
He couldn’t help checking his phone again as the elevator doors shut. Now the Dow was down almost eight hundred points. That was scary.
On the thirty-first floor, he turned down the wide hallway into the office that held his cubicle. He was barely looking ahead as he kept scrolling through the information on his phone. Once he was in the office he looked up and felt like every eye in the office was fixed on him. Maybe they didn’t realize he was supposed to be late today. The brightly lit office was augmented by the tall glass windows with the sun streaming through. Now a few of the other workers had turned to look out the windows at the protesters. Another police car had been flipped over, and six cops were backing up in the face of aggressive protesters armed with boards and pieces of a crushed police cruiser. A helicopter buzzed low overhead.
His boss, Ted Marshall, looked grave. The portly Northwestern grad was not his usually jovial self.
Walsh stopped and said, “What’s going on, Ted?”
Ted gave him a funny look and said, “Have you been living on the moon the last twelve hours?”
“No, but I don’t live here.”
Ted, always trying to be the diplomat, said, “Cheryl will handle this. You need to talk to her.”
“Handle what?” He was about to ask exactly what was going on when Cheryl, dressed as usual in an immaculate pantsuit, motioned him over toward her office. She was a pretty woman in her early forties, but her no-nonsense approach and brusque manner made her seem much older. She was the perfect enforcer for Ted.
The blinds on Cheryl’s office were pulled down. As he stepped through the door he saw a tall, attractive black woman about his age standing with an older, plump white guy fighting a losing battle against a receding hairline. The woman watched Walsh with sharp eyes like a hawk about to dive on an injured bird. The man seemed tired and possibly bored. All Walsh could think of was that they were auditors of some type. Great.
Cheryl shut the door behind him and wasted no time saying, “Derek, these folks are from the FBI.”
He offered a hand. The man ignored him, but the woman took it and said, “Tonya Stratford.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Take a seat.”
He hesitated, wondering if he should ask some questions first.
The FBI agent added in a calm voice, “Now.”
The command reminded him of the marines. He just followed orders.
6
Derek Walsh leaned forward in the awkward rolling chair he had plopped into ten minutes earlier. He was still in his supervisor’s office, which Cheryl kept immaculate. There were books on marketing and management lining the top row of the shelf behind her wide modern desk. A copy of Jack Welch’s Winning lay on her desk like a Bible. This was the first time he had thought Cheryl might have delusions of grandeur, thinking that she could move from supervisor at a financial house to head of a major corporation through her management skills, which mainly came down to her making fun of people until they did their job.
Now all of his attention turned to Tonya Stratford. Her dark complexion framed very sharp brown eyes that felt like lasers. He realized she was studying him as much as he was studying her. The woman knew finance, and he could tell she was not used to people evading her questions.
Walsh didn’t want to seem like an idiot. He recognized he was sitting silently with his mouth open. Finally he was able to say, “You think I did what?” He didn’t have to fake any outrage. It was all boiling up. He was still scared, but now he was pissed off as well.
Stratford’s partner, whose name was Frank Martin, sat like a pudgy, middle-aged pet, watching everything unfold but not appearing to understand what was being said.
Tonya Stratford repeated her first statement. “According to your company’s records, six nights ago at 7:50 P.M. Eastern Standard Time several transfers were made on your ID from your computer. I’m asking if you have any explanation for why you made the trades at almost eight o’clock at night.”
Walsh tried to keep his voice from cracking. “For how much?”
“The total is a little more than a hundred and eighty million.”
Walsh raised a hand and started to wave it in front of him. “I’ve never made a trade that big. I’d remember. There must be a mistake.” The panic started to creep up from his stomach into his chest. How often did someone tell these guys they were having a heart attack?
Tonya Stratford just gave him a look.
Then Walsh started thinking clearly. He snapped his fingers and said, “That was last Tuesday night, right? I wasn’t even here. I was on a date. I left at quarter after six.”
The FBI agent casually looked over to Walsh’s supervisor.
She just raised her hands and said, “I can’t swear to that. They all slip out every chance they get. No one wants to be noticed leaving. Probably worse than government work. Am I right?”
Tonya Stratford’s look shut her up, too. Then she focused on Walsh again. “According to the logs from your security key, which was in your computer at the time, someone using your password and your computer made the four transfers. A hundred million went to an account in Switzerland, and the rest went to accounts in Asia and one in the Cayman Islands, all owned by the Swiss bank. All the money has been withdrawn. You are now a target of an FBI investigation. Is there anything you don’t understand about that, Mr. Walsh?”