The entire crowd reacted at once. People spread out, a woman fell to the ground and screamed, and the dog, startled by the commotion, turned and faced the dark-haired New York Times reporter. As if by magic everyone focused their attention on the slim young man in the middle of the crowd. It was as if the dog had alerted on him, but only Walsh knew exactly what had happened.
Now people were scurrying to get away from the man they thought had a bomb strapped to his body, and the dog handler was trying to understand what had happened. He started to address the man, who was too startled to speak and merely held up his hands as if he had a gun pointed at him. The cop was trying to reason with him when other people started shouting, “Someone stop him.”
Walsh looked over to see the young FBI agents consumed by the unfolding drama. He slowly slid backward in the most subtle movement he could muster. In a few seconds he was at the rear of the crowd and no one had noticed him, almost as if he were invisible. Now he turned and started to walk quickly, not running and definitely not drawing attention to himself. As soon as he was around the corner he started to jog. The commotion of the potential bomber was well behind him now, and ahead of him a group of actual protesters was walking along the sidewalk and in the street, trying to scratch parked police cars with whatever they had in their hands. But there were no cops near them. The rowdy main protests had attracted them, and Walsh suspected whatever cops were in the area were now running toward the site of a potential bomber.
He felt guilty for identifying the young man as a bomber, but satisfied at the same time that he’d figured out how to slip away from the crowd. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was following him, and when he turned back he almost collided with a man stepping out of the side exit door.
Walsh’s immediate reaction was to say, “Excuse me.” It was instinct drilled into him by parents who insisted he be polite, and then the Marine Corps, who insisted even harder that he be polite.
The man said, “No problem, smart guy. Remember me?”
Suddenly Walsh realized it was Tonya Stratford’s partner, Frank Martin, from the FBI. He hadn’t escaped after all.
15
Derek Walsh kept calm as the FBI agent’s grip on his arm tightened. It was the definition of an “iron grip.” Frank Martin wasn’t pudgy, he was solid, and age hadn’t diminished his strength in the least.
Martin said, “You’ve got a lot to answer for, smart guy. I don’t care if you’re a veteran or not, you’re about to have the most unpleasant experience of your life.” He pulled Walsh around, slamming him into the side of the building.
Walsh realized he was about to be searched. He had to think quickly and knew he couldn’t take this guy out with a single punch or elbow. Then he saw how close the protesters were and shouted, “This guy is one of the Thomas Brothers stooges. He’s trying to keep me quiet. He’s trying to keep all of us quiet.”
The group of ten protesters, who had been chanting about Thomas Brothers raping the country, turned, almost as one, and stared at Martin holding Walsh against the wall. Two men on the end of the group were tall and clearly in a hostile mood.
The FBI agent looked up to see who Walsh was yelling to. Before he could even say anything, the protesters had surged forward, and one of the tall men shoved the FBI agent hard, knocking him away from Walsh.
The young man was dressed like a lumberjack with a red plaid shirt. The other tall protester, who looked like a derelict in ripped jeans and a dirty T-shirt, stepped forward for his own shove.
Then the whole group swarmed toward Martin.
Walsh didn’t wait to see what else happened; he merely turned and started to run across the street and away from danger. He could hear the FBI man saying, “Get back, this is a police matter.” That slowed the crowd but still didn’t open a corridor for the FBI man to give chase.
As Walsh disappeared around the next corner, he looked over his shoulder and saw Martin pushing through the crowd and getting hopelessly tangled with the protesters.
Walsh ran hard for a few blocks, taking turns blindly. He thought that might make it harder for him to be followed. After ten minutes he found himself near the water in Battery Park. It was alive with small groups of protesters getting ready to march on the city.
He caught his breath and realized it was getting late and he was tired of this bullshit. He was going to lie low, then head over to Alena’s to get all of this straightened out. He’d approach carefully and watch for traps, but he figured no one knew enough about his girlfriend to provide any information to the authorities. The guys at work knew her first name and had met her at a happy hour once, months ago. Her place could be a safe harbor.
Major Anton Severov sat at a cramped desk inside his equally cramped room at a bed and breakfast south of Tartu. Fannie had made arrangements and paid for the three rooms, but he had been careful not to let Amir see what room number he was staying in. The little Iranian had a crazy streak that scared Severov. Fannie, on the other hand, seemed to have no business working with a terror group. That also scared him. Until now he had always thought of groups like ISIS or al Qaeda as being nothing but a bunch of nuts you could identify a mile away by their thick beards or their headgear. Now he was viewing them more like their own little country that could use spies and tactics other countries couldn’t consider. They were organized, funded, and dangerous.
This operation was a perfect example. He was being escorted, albeit by this bickering couple, and shown the best way for a military operation to take place. When Russian tanks rolled down these streets, they would be doing it faster because they had gotten help from Islamic extremists. He also had a suspicion, although no one told him and he was smart enough not to ask, that the current financial turmoil had somehow been instigated as part of this operation. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the rash of lone wolf terror attacks had been coordinated through a terror network.
If he looked at it all in perspective, al Qaeda and ISIS were much more formidable than he would ever have considered. The Islamists he had fought in Georgia were really nothing more than a militia and, aside from inflicting some casualties and blowing up a few buildings, barely slowed the Russian army as it rolled in to restore order. This was something else, and he would have to consider it carefully. He was sure someone in the army had reports that detailed the same concerns, but he would add to his own just to be safe.
The other thing that troubled him was the number of friendly Estonians he had met on his first day of this assignment. It’s one thing to look at a military plan and execute it by driving your tank across the countryside; it’s another to see the faces of children who might be left homeless when the plan became reality. One older woman in particular reminded him of his mother, who lived with his stepfather and two sisters in a suburb of Moscow. He couldn’t imagine someone driving his mother out of her house or threatening his sisters, but that’s exactly what was going to happen with these poor people once Russian tanks rolled across the border.
A gentle tap on his door brought him back to reality and made him wish he had a pistol with him. There was no need to protect himself around the Estonians, but his escorts were another story. He slid the tiny wooden chair back and stood up carefully, then waited to the side of the door and listened. A moment later there was another soft tap that echoed in the tiny room.
He said in English, “Yes?”
A woman’s voice said, “May I come in?” It was Fannie.
“Are you alone?”
“Of course.” She threw in a girlish giggle to convince him.
He wasn’t taking any chances and opened the door a crack, ready to throw his weight into anyone other than Fannie. He might not have had a gun, but he was confident he could outfight one of these jihadists if he used the element of surprise.
But the surprise was on him when he opened the door and Fannie slipped into the room wearing a heavy bathrobe and slippers. She flopped onto his bed and gave him a dazzling smile.
Fannie said, “I thought you might be lonely.”
Severov was careful to lean back on the desk and not show his desire as he gazed upon the lovely young woman. Since he had heard her phone call with an American marine officer earlier in the evening, he realized how adept she was at manipulating men. He wasn’t sure he wanted any part of that. They could end up being on the opposite sides of the conflict at any moment. She even told him the alliance between her group and his country was temporary because, as she put it, “the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
It seemed that Fannie finally realized he was not about to jump onto the bed with her. She stood up and leaned against him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a long, passionate kiss.
It had been some time since he’d felt a woman like this in his arms. Who cared if she manipulated him? As long as he was aware of what was happening, he’d be safe. And so would his secrets.