Walsh allowed Alena to turn him as she said, “I knew you’d be running late, so I thought I’d surprise you. But I desperately have to use your restroom, and they won’t let me in the building without you.” She carried an overcoat draped over the wide portfolio she always had nearby.
He couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder at the two men one last time as he heard a rally at the far end of the plaza begin. Walsh used the security keypad to get back into the building. He made sure no one but Alena was watching when he punched in his password of 73673734—which spelled Semper Fi on a phone—and walked Alena to the ladies’ room. Alena charmed the guard at the security desk into letting her leave her portfolio and coat behind the desk until they were done with dinner. The flustered guard only asked if she would be back by ten, when his shift ended. She threw him a glittering smile and flipped her blond hair as she nodded yes. They were both happy with the transaction.
Alena turned to Walsh as they neared the restroom and surprised him with a full hug and kiss on the lips. Then she whispered in his ear, “You’re so cute.”
A smile spread across his face as he decided she was the prettiest girl who had ever whispered in his ear.
Joseph Katazin, born Joseph Ladov, had spent most of his adult life in the United States, the majority of that in Brooklyn or Queens. His father had been a mathematician at the Nizhny Novgorod State Technical University, and his mother a music teacher from Kiev. All Joseph had ever wanted to do was be a soldier. Just like little boys all over the world. It had been difficult to go against his father’s wishes, but he was accepted into the M. V. Frunze Military Academy and, at the tender age of twenty-one, virtually tumbled out of school and into combat in Afghanistan. That was a treacherous stretch of three years, fighting insurgents who were heavily backed by the United States. That fact didn’t hit home until the Hind helicopter he was riding in was struck by an American-made Stinger and went down in the Eshpi Valley in the Southern Hindu Kush. He’d survived on his wits and an AK-47 with four magazines of ammo. The crash had injured his back and given him a gash from his hairline to his chin on the left side of his face, which now, at fifty-one, had faded to a thin white line that crossed his lips and gave them a slight indentation. He noticed it every time he smiled, and that made him remember why he hated the United States so much.
The time was drawing near for him to feel some level of satisfaction. After the service, when he returned home from Afghanistan, his father let him in on a family secret: His mathematics degree had helped him work with the KGB on cracking codes. As a result of his work, he knew several high-ranking KGB officials who took the young Joseph under their wing. They appreciated his service, and a scar on his face tended to remind people that the KGB wasn’t a group of accountants or technical people trying to eavesdrop on telephone conversations. Occasionally they did serious work and needed serious people.
Ladov’s ability to speak English at his mother’s insistence, starting at a very early age, as well as his ability to play the piano, also due to his mother’s iron will, made the Russian spy agency realize he could be used for a number of things other than terrorizing prisoners to get information. Eventually he traveled to the United States using the name Joseph Katazin and never used the name Ladov again. For more than a year he attempted gainful employment as a pianist, but even the KGB gave up on that and instead helped him establish the European Trading Company, a somewhat successful import and export business.
Eventually Katazin married a plump but pretty girl who had just graduated from Stony Brook, a Long Island branch of the State University of New York system. As an elementary school teacher, she was an excellent cover. Over the years, however, Katazin had to admit he had developed feelings for her, and now, sixteen years later, with a twelve-year-old daughter, he was quite comfortable in his life and essentially happy.
His wife, of course, had no idea about his background or main occupation. He told her a dog had bitten him when he was a child and left a scar on his face. The bullet hole in his leg was explained as a hunting accident and the reason he shied away from guns now. She was occasionally loving and attentive and more frequently a suspicious shrew. That was partially his fault—he enjoyed the occasional tryst and had been careless in some of his liaisons. His wife had accepted the fact that her husband worked extraordinary hours; after all, he had provided her with a very comfortable house in an upscale area of Brooklyn.
On this evening he was sitting on a bench in the Wall Street district waiting to see confirmation that the start of Russia’s biggest operation in years had been successful. He was looking at the rear of the building that housed Thomas Brothers Financial and could barely contain his smile when he saw the beautiful young blonde walking out of the building arm in arm with the tall young man in a suit, one side of his shirt untucked from his pants. Katazin knew the man was a former marine, and although he had apparently gained a little weight, he looked like he could handle himself in a fight.
On one hand, Katazin felt guilty ruining a fellow soldier’s life. On the other hand, this was the enemy and a necessary casualty on the new Russia’s march toward glory. There was a saying that soldiers were the same the world over and shared a certain brotherhood. This one was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Katazin was too good at his job to let the opportunity pass.
3
Derek Walsh had enjoyed the short walk from the sushi restaurant back to his office with Alena on his arm. He loved just spending time with her. She had earned his trust by little things, like not questioning his travel when he visited his mom in Philly, or his buddies from the marines. And although he was keenly aware that she was a prize that a low-earning former marine probably didn’t deserve, she had never given him reason to question her fidelity. Little by little she had become an important part of his life, a trusted confidant he could share his insecurities about his job with and never worry about her blabbing his secrets.
The stroll was far superior to the minuscule meal he’d just eaten and paid a fortune for. There was something about his time in the marines and living on a captain’s salary that made him flinch at paying more than seventy dollars for a couple of pieces of bait slapped on top of rice. It didn’t matter that he now made a little more money; no one was paying for his living quarters or food, and he lived in Manhattan. These dates were killing him. The three sixteen-ounce Ichiban beers he’d thrown down helped ease his annoyance at not taking in enough calories.
As they approached the building his cell phone rang, and he looked at his girlfriend as a matter of manners to see if she minded him answering the call.
Alena smiled and nodded as she pointed to the front door, saying she was going to retrieve her coat and portfolio. He nodded back and was hustling toward the security pad to enter his code when he saw the guard rushing to the door to let her in. So much for security if you had blond hair and a great smile.
As soon as Walsh had the receiver to his ear, he heard the clear and unmistakable voice of his former classmate from the Naval Academy, Michael Rosenberg.
“Tubby! I didn’t wake you up, did I?”
Walsh couldn’t hide his smile at hearing the nickname he’d earned in Germany. It was true that after his stint in Afghanistan, the German food and beer seemed to slap on weight. “Hey, Mike. I’m still at the office.”