Severov was still worried about his tanks and company, but now he would have a clear idea of how to cut across the country most efficiently. His plans now included how to avoid historic areas and not crush beautiful cobblestone streets. He would keep his reasons for making certain detours to himself, but it was his most sincere hope they could accomplish this operation without having to shatter the lives of the pleasant Estonian people he had met.
He finished his coffee and Danish and was about to step outside to make the phone call when Amir entered the empty dining room, marched directly to Severov, and said, “We must discuss something of great importance.”
Major Bill Shepherd had grabbed a few hours’ sleep before he received a message personally delivered by an army corporal who worked for the base commander. The young man almost looked embarrassed to hand him the note. It simply told Shepherd he needed to be in the main administrative building at 1000 hours to have an “informal discussion” with an ad hoc board of inquiry comprised of military and civilian personnel about the incident the night before involving the terror attack.
Even though he had a little time, the major realized he couldn’t fall back asleep, so he shaved and slipped into a clean uniform. He specifically didn’t wear a dress uniform or show any of his ribbons on his utility blouse. He wanted to make it clear that it was just another day and he didn’t consider this anything more than an annoyance.
Shepherd recognized that if it was serious, the base commander would’ve given him more information and he’d be entitled to consult with an attorney. He’d have to wait for a judge advocate general to come from Berlin. This sounded like they just wanted a clear report of what had happened.
He watched an army captain supervise the reinforcing of the front gate after the vehicle had been run into it and the suicide bomber had detonated his explosives. It only took five minutes to see that the squared-away young captain knew what he was doing. The terror attack had had the unexpected consequence of dissipating the protest and dispersing the protesters back into Stuttgart. A few lonely and bored-looking German police officers waited on the fringes of the base in case someone came back, and a handful of investigators were picking up whatever forensic evidence of the blast remained.
Major Shepherd walked along the paved road toward the main administrative complex and the large conference room where he was about to face an inquiry by both military and civilian personnel about what had happened when the bomb exploded. There were persistent reports in the media that the marines had thrown grenades into the crowd in an effort to disperse them, and two FBI agents had been sent by the small liaison office in Berlin to make an official report. It was this sort of nonsense that wasted time during critical incidents that frustrated all military officers. But Shepherd was a pro and wasn’t going to let these people get under his skin.
He had the casualty figures from the night before and was embarrassed to admit he was relieved no U.S. military personnel were killed. Six soldiers and three marines were wounded, two by the car barreling into the fence and the others by shrapnel from the explosion in the crowd. None of the injuries appeared to be serious, and more men were coming in today to help in the security of the base.
The commanding general himself welcomed Shepherd into the wide conference room that housed the long table. The general, a short, blocky man, looked like he had been born in the army with a crew cut, squared jaw, and arms that could lift a Humvee. He had a bland midwestern accent as he introduced Shepherd to the three other people at the table. One was the base provost, who technically was responsible for the defenses that Shepherd took over. The lieutenant colonel with sandy hair and a craggy face showed no offense at Shepherd stepping into the job; nor had he ever impressed Shepherd as being interested in protecting his turf. The man just wanted the base to be safe and any security matters to be handled efficiently.
A middle-aged woman with dark hair was a representative of the German Ministry of Justice, and he suspected she’d been sent to the panel because she could get there quickly and she had an excellent grasp of English.
The final member, Maria Alonso, was an attractive woman in her early thirties who had sharp, intelligent eyes. She was from the FBI legal attaché in Berlin, acting as liaison with the German police.
After the introductions, Shepherd shifted his lanky frame into the hard wooden chair on the other side of the table and looked across with the feeling that he was being interrogated.
He went through a brief description of the threat they had felt as protesters came closer to the fence and then someone ran a car into it. He made it clear that at no time were hand grenades ever considered as part of defense and that no one issued hand grenades. The first question from the German Ministry of Justice representative supported his concern.
The German woman said in accented English, “But you did have rifles, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am. We are part of the U.S. military. That involves being armed and defending ourselves and our country.”
The German woman said, “Which would’ve meant shooting down innocent German civilians if things had gotten worse.”
“Is that a question or comment?”
“A question, Major. We are only here to ask questions.”
“I cannot say for sure we would not have fired on the crowd if they had broken into the base, but it would have been in self-defense, as a last resort and with only a few designated targets. That has always been our plan. We showed tremendous restraint, and frankly, the German police did nothing to help us. Is that part of your plan, madam? Leave us to fend for ourselves and take the blame if something goes wrong?”
The base commander said in a calm tone, “Let’s keep this civil, Major. No one is questioning your leadership.” He turned his head and looked down the table at the others and said, “I, for one, think you did an outstanding job. But we have been requested by the German government to look into the matter fully. And look into the matter we will. Is that clearly understood?”
All Shepherd said was, “It is, sir.”
He caught a smile sweep over the FBI agent’s pretty face. It wasn’t condescending. It was mischievous.
Joseph Katazin sat in the older BMW in his own driveway in Brooklyn. He conducted some business directly out of his house, but it was the middle of the night, and he knew this call would test his patience. All the lights were out inside the house, with only the front porch light burning. Occasionally his wife would wait up for him if she really thought he was working at the import/export business. But in the past few years she had realized he had a number of extracurricular activities. She felt certain she knew what they were, but in reality she had no clue. As far as she was concerned he wasn’t even a Russian but a Ukrainian. Like most other Americans, she barely knew the difference.
As soon as his phone had rung and he saw the number—because no one on this phone had names attached to the numbers—he knew there was a problem. He answered the phone tersely with a simple “Yes” in English.
The American on the other end of the phone read his tone correctly. He jumped right into it. “I can’t guarantee we’ll have many protesters tomorrow.”
Katazin kept his tone cold and businesslike. “You told me four or five days of protests would be no problem.”
“That’s before bombs went off around the world and killed a bunch of protesters other places.”
“There were no protesters killed in New York.”
“There was a scare in the crowd across the Thomas Brothers courtyard today. A cop, or his K-9, picked a guy out of the crowd that they thought had a bomb. It was crazy for a few minutes and scared some of the protesters. Now I hear a lot of them say they’re going to take a day off. Maybe more.”