Rosenberg was worried, and he hoped no one would make a connection between his phone and Walsh’s. God knew there were enough calls between them. Until someone said something, he intended to look into it more closely and see what he could find out. There was no way Derek Walsh was ever involved in something illegal; something stupid, maybe, especially if it involved a woman, but illegal, never.
The first thing he did was find an analyst to talk to about the money transfer that had gone from Thomas Brothers Financial to a bank in Switzerland. He wanted to know who had access to that account and see what he could find out from there.
There was no way he’d let a friend like Derek Walsh swing on the gallows for something he never did.
Walsh couldn’t believe the change in Charlie. He no longer acted like a harmless, burned-out homeless guy but had reverted to his military background and taken charge. He seemed to have no remorse for the way he handled the Russian. In fact, it was Charlie who led Walsh away from the unconscious man without a second thought.
Walsh said, “I need to get all this straightened out. I need to get a lawyer.”
Charlie snapped his head toward him as they walked along Hudson Street. “You can’t be serious? After the shit you told me has gone down today, you think anyone is going to give you a chance in court? The whole system is fixed anyway. Trust me, I’ve been through it enough times. What you need is the basics: food, rest, and resupply.”
This was something Walsh understood: basic military strategy.
Walsh said, “My girlfriend lives near the Columbia campus. I need to get over to her.”
“Uptown? The West Side? No way. Too far. Too many cops.”
They walked in silence for a few moments. Then Charlie said, “What’s your girlfriend’s name?”
“Alena.”
“She Mexican?”
“No, it’s short for Magdalena. She’s from Greece.”
“That don’t sound like a Greek name.”
“Her mom was from Sweden. She named her, and that’s where she gets her fair skin and blond hair.”
“Where is her dad from?”
“Greece. She doesn’t talk about him much. Her folks are divorced.”
Charlie mumbled, “Too many foreigners in your life. We need to find shelter close by.” After looking both ways and making sure they were still safe, Charlie said, “Can you trust her?”
“Of course. We’ve been dating for almost a year, and I knew her a year before that.”
“The cops can make people do crazy shit.”
Walsh didn’t know why he felt he had to defend Alena, but he dug in his pocket and pulled out her debit card. “She gave me this, and she has more money than me.”
Charlie nodded, seemingly satisfied. “People don’t fool with their money. If she gave you access to her account, she’s okay.”
Walsh would have loved to spend the night in Alena’s arms, but Charlie was right; he couldn’t risk traveling across town. He’d wait till tomorrow and slip by to see her. Right now Charlie was making sense.
“Any ideas where we might stay for the night?”
Charlie gave him a sly grin and said, “We keep walking until Hudson meets Bleecker Street and there’s a small shelter for homeless people. You gotta get there early to get a bed, but the woman who runs the place is great. No one has to sign in or say who they are. The only rule is you don’t cause any trouble. And believe me, if someone causes trouble, other people staying there take care of it. She’ll give us a hot meal, and you can zonk out for a few hours. In the morning you’ll have a better idea of what you need to do.”
It was hard for Walsh to argue with common sense and military doctrine. He wondered how Charlie had become homeless if he had such a good head on his shoulders. The training men and women received in the military tended to shine through in the darkest hours.
12
Derek Walsh awoke to sunlight in his eyes. He was one of six men in a small room at the homeless shelter. Charlie lay in the single bed next to him, snoring soundly. The previous day seemed like a bad dream. Damn. It was all too real.
The meal of a turkey sandwich and hot soup the night before had made him reevaluate how tough his life really was. Until yesterday, he thought he had a shitty low-level job that he didn’t care much for. Maybe he was like so many other Americans and didn’t realize how good his life really was. He worked hard and put in long hours, but he was able to buy his own food and live in his own apartment, no matter how small it was. He even had a beautiful girlfriend, and if everything else failed, he’d be able to find another job. He had never even considered how men like Charlie, shattered by their experiences in Vietnam, had abandoned their old lives and ended up on the street, a simple meal of turkey sandwich and soup a luxury they only enjoyed on a rare occasion.
Now Walsh took a few moments to evaluate what was going on. His head was much clearer than it had been the day before, and he could focus without the shock of an FBI agent interrogating him.
He had a good understanding of security systems and computers and had spent his early days at Thomas Brothers Financial working with some of the hotshot IT guys. One of them, a graduate of MIT, explained to him exactly how the system worked. There was absolutely no way to make an international trade without the use of the security plug and a password. The IT nerd had even showed Walsh how to activate the special security protocol on his personal security plug that would take a picture of anyone using it for a trade. Walsh didn’t even know why he turned on the feature, but it was cool knowing something few others at the company did. There was only one way to access the security plug and retrieve the photos, and that was by going back to Thomas Brothers and getting on the network. That had to be his goal.
From a military perspective he had food, was rested, and, thanks to Charlie, had the Russian thug’s 9 mm safely tucked in his waistband. He was ready to go into action.
Fannie Legat had managed a few more hours of sleep before she picked up her Skoda hatchback and drove to the town of Sillamae to meet her Russian contact. Her plan had been to leave Amir in Tartu instead of unleashing him on some dim-witted, unsuspecting Russian army officer. But the taciturn little Iranian had insisted they were on the assignment together. He had not spoken a word when they drove up from Tartu and had barely spoken since. He found a reason to wander off for a few minutes, giving Fannie some time alone with the Russian major.
Now, near lunchtime, she was already impressed by the young officer. She had been worried she wouldn’t be able to deal with him, considering her feelings about anyone from Russia or the United States, but she had been very professional when she met Anton Severov.
His goofy manner and the way he said, “Just call me Anton,” put her at ease. They had eaten a quick meal at the odd little diner and adjusted to each other’s accents in English. She felt she had a greater command of the language, but her French accent threw off the Russian’s ear. She was a little worried about what would happen when he met Amir. Her surly associate seemed to resent the fact that they were working with a Russian, and she was sure that once he saw the Russian was taller and better-looking, Amir would fly off the handle.