The phone he was using had been provided by someone from Toronto and had international calling. He had talked to another contact with the country code of Germany to explain when the money was coming in and follow up on a few other details. It was a woman, and she had an odd accent. He knew this operation had made extremely strange bedfellows, but he could’ve sworn she had a Middle Eastern tinge as well as some French in her English. He knew Muslims were involved in parts of this operation, but the whole idea made him uneasy.
He recognized that the price of oil, which continued to drop, was a real concern to the Arab countries as well as Russia. Russia had no recognized industrial capacity and made nothing that the Koreans or Japanese couldn’t make better and cheaper. Who wanted a radio that might or might not have been put together correctly by a pissed-off former Red Army corporal who was working in a factory outside Moscow? Russia needed money from oil and needed it badly. Katazin suspected that was the main reason this entire operation had been given the green light. If they waited too much longer, the Russian economy would be in shambles, and they wouldn’t have the power to strike out at other nations. This was the old way of doing things. The Russian way of doing things. Grab up some land, divide the spoils, and look to the next place that could be scooped into the Russian sphere of influence. It also gave a warning to the West that the Russian Empire was not dead.
This operation probably meant nothing in the overall scheme of things. A few hundred million dollars moved here or there and some attacks that would kill perhaps a hundred people at most. But it was all a simple distraction. Everything that happened, including the riots and the events unfolding in Europe, was meant to distract the president of the United States, like throwing a ball for a puppy to chase. While he was looking at these issues, thinking they were important, the real intent of Russia would be out of sight and out of mind. It wouldn’t be until tanks were rolling through European capitals that the president would react and the U.S. take any action at all. At that point, at least to Katazin, it seemed unlikely they would be able to act militarily. And everyone had seen the effects of sanctions. Iran still went forward with its nuclear plants, and North Korea flaunted any sanctions leveled against them. Even the Gulf Wars were the result of failed sanctions. People liked to talk about the alternatives to war, but the fact was that sovereign nations rarely responded to anything but the threat of brute force. All that was necessary was to stoke the flames of patriotism and make sure the public was behind the government’s efforts to use military force. The Russians had been looking for anything to be proud of, and an operation like this would bring out their patriotic spirit.
Patriotism was an odd thing. Just thinking about Russia rising above the other nations of Europe made him proud. He couldn’t explain why. He didn’t think his life would be any better once his country was a superpower. But he knew he was willing to risk everything, even his American family, to make it happen.
Katazin figured the FBI would be looking for Walsh’s apartment. It would be hard to find because he had no lease. Katazin had chosen his patsy well. Generally the FBI was good at finding people, and all he needed was to make sure Walsh was in custody. Or dead. He knew things the FBI didn’t know about Derek Walsh, and those were the places he was checking on now. His beat-up BMW sedan wouldn’t look out of place in any neighborhood in Manhattan. It was nice enough to belong to a rich man who might have had an accident or two, but it was also dinged up enough to fit a hipster trying to act cool and maybe driving it “ironically.”
The Beretta 9 mm he carried in his waistband was the only thing that would get him in real trouble with the New York cops if someone happened to pat him down. But he was a burly white man in Manhattan. No one was going to bother him as he walked down the street or drove his car.
He had waited to call in reinforcements in case he couldn’t find Walsh right away. He knew how to use manpower correctly and realized that if Walsh remained missing for any length of time it would be important to have fresh men ready to pursue him.
And this was just one of the things he was worried about.
Fannie Legat stared out the window of the rattling 1999 Yugo cab as it pulled away from the dilapidated airport at Tartu, Estonia. It reminded her of an old World War II film. It almost felt like she was looking at it in black-and-white. Part of it had to do with fatigue, despite the sound sleep she’d grabbed on the plane. A light drizzle and low-hanging clouds did nothing to dispel the grim atmosphere. Twin-engine prop planes littered the tarmac, and the two jets, one from Air France and one from Lufthansa, looked out of place.
The cab driver didn’t speak to her when she handed him the slip of paper with the address on it. He dropped her at a café with virtually no one sitting inside. It was the middle of the night, and she wondered how any businesses that served food could be open. She had never met her superior and knew him only as “Sam.” She was surprised to meet a good-looking man in his early thirties whose accent gave him away as being raised in London. He wore a business suit with wire-rimmed glasses and could pass for Italian or Spanish unless he was forced to show ID that would surely have a name more consistent with a Middle Easterner.
He greeted her warmly, although she noticed he didn’t offer a hand and or touch her in any way. He apparently had little knowledge of exactly what she had done in Bern. But she was gratified to hear him praise her and say that others in their organization had spoken very highly of her. She kept waiting to hear the common phrase “You have done well for a woman.” But it never came.
Sam ordered water and a salad with chicken as they chatted in the corner of a big room where no one could possibly hear anything they said. The high wooden ceiling held dozens of fans, and the paneled walls absorbed sound like a sponge. It was simple and ingenious.
Sam said, “Before I get into everything we need to discuss, I’m waiting for one more person.”
That surprised her. Usually people in their group met one-on-one. The idea of having self-contained cells and people not knowing other members was vital to the success of their jihad. But these were unusual circumstances. And she recognized they were working with other people and other groups on an operation that had to be gigantic.
She decided not to say anything or voice her concerns about meeting anyone else. Then she saw who it was. Amir Kahmole stepped in the front door and immediately started marching toward their table. She knew Amir from Syria, and he was one of the main reasons she was happy to be out of there. The arrogant fundamentalist viewed women as more of a nuisance than anything else. She was surprised that someone as educated as Sam would be associated with Amir. She was also surprised he cleaned up so nicely and didn’t look like a ragged rebel. In casual Western clothes with a cute blue rain slicker, he could’ve been a student at one of the local universities.
Born in Lebanon but of Iranian decent, Amir wanted a more aggressive stance against the idea of Western corruption and had joined their group. He was an exception to most jihadists. Iran’s official policy was to limit ISIS and related groups and support Syria. Amir still held his father’s country dear and wouldn’t shut up about the Grand Ayatollah, but he was firmly committed to the Islamic State’s stance and tactics against the U.S. He was a Shiite who could function with Sunnis. At least on anything that would hurt the West.
He wanted them all dead and was working hard at achieving his goal. That was a classic Iranian move: Be on both sides of a conflict so you win no matter what.