She wasn’t used to a man showing her so much deference and displaying such manners. He pulled her chair out for her and waited to sit down until she was comfortable. They had a simple meal of the Estonian version of a hamburger, which meant it was a thin, tasteless meat patty between two slices of white bread. The way the Russian major gulped down the sandwich, she wondered when he had last eaten.
He looked across the table and said, “How were you chosen for an assignment like this?”
“Because I speak German.”
“I’m sorry, I’ve just never done anything like this before. I am a simple soldier and used to the battlefield, not dressing like a grocer and wandering through the streets of foreign cities.”
She flashed him a smile. He deserved it. “It will be all right. They told me to just show you around, and we have someone else to help us. He might not seem too friendly, but after a while you learn that you want to kill him.”
They both chuckled.
“Did they tell you anything about why I was here?”
“I’m not an idiot. I can guess.”
“And it doesn’t bother you?”
“Let’s just say that for now the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
The major smiled and said, “I would like to be your friend, Fannie.”
Derek Walsh stumbled along the streets of New York in a long-sleeved white oxford shirt, purposely untucked to fit in with everyone else. The other reason he let his shirt hang past his belt was to cover the Beretta 9 mm Charlie had taken off the Russian who was watching his apartment. That’s what was really swirling in his head right now: What the hell did the Russians want with him? The guys who robbed him were Russian, too. The FBI he could deal with. The entire accusation was a mistake, he might even have his day in court, but Russians waiting outside his apartment with guns was a major development that caused his stomach to flutter.
It was about 7:45 A.M., and Walsh had put some distance between himself and the homeless shelter. He didn’t want to get Charlie involved in his mess, and he didn’t want to risk anyone telling the FBI where he’d stayed. It was best to head out into the streets. He had told Charlie he would go to Alena’s apartment, but he didn’t think he could get there before eight, and she left for class about then. Protesters were already roaming around in groups, and the cops looked exhausted. It made him wonder what sort of disarray the office was in and if the violence had spilled into the building at all. Things were relatively quiet on this side of town, and he wanted to see a newscast to understand what had happened. It also might give him an idea of how busy the police were going to be today and if they would have time to look for him.
He realized how hungry he was and slipped into a deli for a quick meal. The deli was crammed with rush-hour workers, but he saw an empty table with the TV just above it. He stood and stared at the TV set for a few moments as a story started to unfold about the events of the day before. Thomas Brothers was mentioned by name as being under investigation for funding terror groups. He held his breath, hoping he wasn’t identified specifically. He was mesmerized by the video of the Stand Up to Wall Street group going absolutely berserk along the financial district. Police cars and cabs were turned over and trashed. Later in the day people started throwing Molotov cocktails, and a fire spread through one of the parks north of the financial district.
These so-called protesters were nothing like the old Occupy Wall Street people. By comparison the Occupy people were a pleasant distraction. Their message was never clear. Everyone is against greed and abuse on Wall Street. They could have just as easily been against child molesters. Who is going to argue with that stance? But ultimately the Occupy movement left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth—or at least a bad smell in the cities where they protested. The parks where they camped were ecological disasters and needed to have the soil scraped off and replaced. The businesses near the protests were crippled when paying customers stopped frequenting them. The Occupy spokespeople rarely made sense or focused on issues that could be addressed. But they never caused widespread violence.
This time it was entirely different. Four people had been killed in separate incidents around New York, and in a suspected terror attack in Times Square at about five in the afternoon, a man detonated a crude homemade bomb consisting of a five-gallon can of gasoline wrapped in other explosive material and concealed in a suitcase. The blast incinerated the bomber and severely burned nine tourists, including a little girl from Toronto. But the focus of the unrest was clearly the financial district.
Walsh stared at the TV news, amazed at the scenes of chaos. Had this really been started by an errant trade? It couldn’t be. The markets in London and New York had both dropped drastically before computer trading had been halted, and an investigation into potential hacking was under way in both countries. That news only made things worse, with the early market indicators showing another bloodbath on the way today.
He caught another story about terror attacks and the bombing of a bank in Bern, Switzerland, and worried about his friend Bill Shepherd in Germany. Would American military bases be targets?
Then he knew what he had to do. His friends would help him, specifically, Mike Rosenberg at the CIA. He might have some insights as to what happened and how to fix it. Walsh just needed a phone. He recognized he should call Alena to tell her not to worry. He’d have done it yesterday if the day hadn’t been a blur. But right now he needed to reach Rosenberg. He tried to recall his friend’s personal cell number. He knew the area code was 757, and he remembered a few more digits. He had to try.
He took a step forward, and as he sat at a tiny round table, a woman next to him smiled and said hello. It took a moment to notice her, as he was still staring at the TV set. Finally Walsh nodded back and realized he might be able to get her to lend him a phone for a moment. He reached in his pocket as if looking for something, then said, “Dammit.”
The woman turned her head quickly to look at him.
Walsh turned to the woman and said, “Excuse me. I just realized I left my phone at home, and I needed to call the office.”
The woman, a little older than Walsh and obviously well-off in her Burberry jacket and Oscar de la Renta glasses, smiled and didn’t hesitate to retrieve an iPhone from her purse. “Be my guest.”
He knew he couldn’t get up to have a private conversation. It would make this woman nervous, and she might chase him as if he had stolen it. Instead, he dialed the number he thought would work. His heart raced as he heard the first ring, then the next. At five rings he was about to hang up when he heard his friend’s voice. It was a blunt and direct “Who’s this?”
“Mike, it’s Derek.”
“Tubby! Jesus Christ, what the hell is happening? You were just on the news here.”
Walsh glanced up at the TV and saw his driver’s license photo on the screen and heard the words “Wanted for questioning.” He stole a peek at the woman next to him to make certain she wasn’t seeing it. She was engrossed in a glossy magazine. His right hand moved up to his shaved head, and he remembered that thanks to the bald spot and glasses, he looked fifteen years older than that photo.
Walsh remained very casual as the woman at the next table turned a page in her magazine. “Hello, Mike, I lost my phone but wanted to talk when you had a chance. Is there a good time?”