Walsh waited a full minute before he stood from the edge of the bathtub and stumbled out of the bathroom, back into the living room of the apartment where he was being held. The Russian with the scar on his face, Serge Blattkoff, and Alena all sat casually on the couch together. It was clear to him that Alena had been the linchpin of this conspiracy from the beginning. He had these wild ideas that dozens of people were involved when, in fact, it looked like it was only his girlfriend.
The older Russian motioned him toward the La-Z-Boy on the other side of the room, where he gladly plopped, then worked the handle to elevate his feet. His legs felt weak, and the acid in his stomach wanted to burn a hole through his skin. The only bright side he saw was that he would probably be killed shortly and none of this would matter.
The man with the scar said, “My name is Joe. And like you, I am a soldier. I haven’t enjoyed any of this.”
Walsh said, “That makes two of us.”
Joe said, “I can see how surprised you are. That’s the whole idea. You’re a smart guy, you were in the marines. You have to know this sort of game goes on all the time.”
“What game?” The exhaustion now was in his voice.
“Spying and connected operations.”
He focused on Alena and said, “From the beginning?”
At least she looked guilty. And she couldn’t speak. It was Joe who said, “You brought this on yourself. You showed a weakness for women when you were in the marines in Germany. A man who has a thing for blond girls is an easy target.”
“My girlfriend in Germany was a spy, too?”
Now Joe chuckled. “I’m afraid you’re giving yourself a little too much importance. No, she was just some drug-addled beauty. But we decided if she could cause that much trouble for you we could arrange for one of our exchange students to bump into you.” He ran his hand through Alena’s hair, then patted her on her shoulder.
It made Walsh shudder, and Alena pulled away from the older man’s touch.
Joe said, “The day we made the transfer of money to Switzerland, we had two protesters stop you outside your office to grab your security plug.”
Walsh remembered the encounter and how he reacted aggressively. He had inadvertently thwarted their first plan.
“When that didn’t work, we had to use dear Alena to slip the plug out of your pocket before you went to dinner. While you were away a couple of hours, many of the world’s most despicable terrorists were having their coffers replenished with money from accounts held at Thomas Brothers Financial. The accounts were carefully chosen. They were long-term accounts not often utilized or audited. I’m sure your country’s FBI has figured that out by now.”
Walsh said, “So you picked Thomas Brothers because of me?”
“Not entirely, but you were a pleasant and easily accessible surprise. In fact, you were the perfect dupe. We just had no idea we’d be able to use you so effectively. Now it’s simply a matter of tying up some loose ends.”
“So that’s all I am? A loose end.”
“No, Mr. Walsh, you’re much more than a loose end. You see, everyone else is a contract employee, doing this for money. I’m the only one with other motives. I have to live with the results of our activities long after we are done. You are more than a loose end; you have also been a major pain in the ass. That’s why I’m not going to waste any more time with you. Tell me where the security plug is or my friend Serge is going to snip off your fingers and then your penis. All in a matter of a few minutes.” He paused as Serge held up a heavy pair of shears that looked like some kind of surgical tool.
Joe added, “Is that really what you want?”
All Walsh could do was think, No, I don’t want that at all.
* * *
Mike Rosenberg was in a panic. But like any good marine, he got over it quickly and took action. The first thing he did was grab his personal cell phone and immediately press the contact for Bill Shepherd. He had no idea why his friend’s phone number was on a potential terrorist’s list of calls, but the two of them could figure it out. He just needed to reach him.
The call went immediately to voicemail and Rosenberg knew that meant the phone was turned off. He looked up and saw that it was nearly seven o’clock his time, which meant it was one o’clock in the morning in Germany. He didn’t know if Shepherd was trying to catch up on his sleep after some exhausting days or if he was in danger. In fact, Rosenberg had no idea what any of it meant.
He tried to call Derek Walsh again. The phone rang, but he got no answer.
He swallowed the panic and started to figure out a plan.
* * *
Walsh tried not to cringe when Serge stood up with the pair of heavy shears in his hand. He closed the extended footrest on the La-Z-Boy and shifted his weight so he could at least jump up. Joe shook his head as he raised the pistol and aimed it at Walsh’s groin.
Joe said, “No one will bother with a single pistol shot in this neighborhood. Russians tend to mind their own business. All that will happen is you will be on the ground in pain with a bullet lodged in your testicles and Serge will be cutting off your fingers. You can avoid all that by simply telling me where your security plug is.”
Walsh’s mind raced, and he decided that if he told them it would at least buy him a few more minutes to figure out what to do. But before he could say anything they heard running footsteps in the hall and a young voice shouting something in Russian. Walsh could tell by the way the two men looked at each other it was some sort of an alert.
Joe put his finger to his lips, telling Walsh to stay silent. Alena sprang up and ran to the doorway. Serge set the terrifying shears on a table next to the sofa and pulled his own pistol. Walsh recognized it as an Eastern European model he had occasionally seen NATO forces carrying. He thought it was a CZ of some kind.
Walsh stood up. He was taller than either of these men by a couple of inches. He tried to give Alena the stink eye, but she was listening to orders in Russian. He saw the older man, Joe, rummage through a drawer and then pull out something that looked like a paperweight. He handed it to Alena.
Walsh was so shocked he said, “Is that a grenade?”
Joe said, “A last resort, I can assure you. Now you go in the back room with Serge.”
The lean young man reached across and grabbed Walsh by the right arm and pulled him along, then shoved him through the door first. They passed the bathroom, then entered a rear bedroom. Once he was past the doorway and near the windows, Walsh turned back to face the angry young Russian who a few moments ago was prepared to amputate parts of his body. As soon as Walsh turned around he noticed his Beretta and cell phone sitting on the pillow of the bed.
As if reading Walsh’s mind, Serge said, “Don’t think about it. I shoot you if you step any closer. Just keep quiet for few minutes.”
He reinforced his statement by raising his pistol and aiming it at Walsh’s head. Walsh raised both of his hands to signify he meant to keep calm. He was extremely curious what the warning from the hallway was. He glanced out the window and saw no unusual activity. He didn’t hear anything coming from the hallway.
He looked at Serge and said, “What’s the problem?”
Serge said, “Strangers in the building. Maybe police looking for you. No one knows about us.”
Walsh thought, I do.
* * *
Someone had run through the hallways and warned everyone that there were strangers on the block. Most people assumed that meant some form of police. Joseph Katazin had to assume the worst and started making plans in his head for how to escape. He thought about walking out right this second but couldn’t leave Derek Walsh. When it came down to it he’d sacrifice Serge in a moment, and even Alena if he had to, but he needed to make sure Walsh hadn’t talked to other people, and he needed to know where the security plug was. If he could get the plug, it would keep his contact a secret and delay the FBI investigation into everything that went on at Thomas Brothers. That was a contact Katazin would like to keep safe and operative for the future. Also, it would keep the FBI from tracking the theft back to him.
He stepped across the room and looked out the window. No matter how subtle law enforcement agents tried to be, they could never mix perfectly in a neighborhood like this. Everyone here spoke Russian. Everyone. They took care of themselves and each other. There might be violent family feuds going on between them, but if the police intervened everyone turned against them. It was very similar to the mentality that Russia had taken advantage of in the Muslims. Aside from a positive relationship with Iran and Syria, Russia wasn’t particularly well liked in the Middle East. But now they were using the anger built up for generations to bring the Western world to a virtual standstill.
He couldn’t abandon his operation so casually. There was enough drug dealing and meth making going on in the apartment building and several of the surrounding duplexes that the police could be going anywhere.
Then Katazin heard a foot shuffle in the hallway. His military training allowed him to keep calm and focus on the sound. He looked over at Alena and motioned for her to pull the pin on the grenade, then hold it firmly. She cocked her head. He made a motion again, and she nodded. Then she pulled the pin on the grenade and gripped it tightly in her left hand.
Katazin pointed to a spot in the middle of the room and told her to wait. He backed away toward the kitchen, noticing the window over the back counter. He stepped into the kitchen itself, keeping the gun hidden from view. There was a knock on the front door. A woman’s voice said, “Mr. Blattkoff, are you home?”
As he was considering what his next move might be, Katazin heard a simple ringtone from the back bedroom. He wondered if it could be heard in the hallway as well. He turned his pistol toward the front door and decided this might be a good time to squeeze off a few rounds, then slip out the window in the kitchen. In all likelihood whoever was behind the door would blame Serge.
He looked over at Alena standing terrified in the middle of the room, holding a U.S. military surplus Mk II fragmentation grenade. She was the only one who knew details about his activities.
That left him with some uncomfortable options.
* * *
Walsh watched as Serge pulled the wooden door to the bedroom closed. It didn’t fit the frame perfectly and left a gap where Walsh could see into the other room. He’d tried to get a picture of the apartment in his head. He had no idea what he was about to do, but he had to do something. He lowered his hands as he eased slightly closer to Serge. The young Russian was distracted by something going on in the other room and was looking out the crack in the door.
If the cops were about to enter, he couldn’t let Alena toss a live grenade at them. He just needed an opening. Then he heard a knock. At almost the same moment, Walsh’s phone on the bed began to ring.
It distracted Serge just enough for Walsh to plunge his whole body at him, hitting him so hard that his Eastern European pistol flew straight into the air and he crashed through the door onto the floor with Walsh on top of him.
Walsh scrambled back into the bedroom and snatched his pistol off the pillow as Serge regained his senses, found his gun on the floor near him, and swung it toward Walsh. Instinctively Walsh raised his own gun and fired twice.
That was when things got hazy.
* * *
Katazin was still looking at Alena when he heard the two gunshots from the rear of the apartment. His initial thought was that Serge had just shot Derek Walsh. Before he could process it, the back door burst into splinters and three men wearing black fatigues rushed into the apartment shouting, “FBI, nobody move.”
Katazin knew he had to act quickly.
* * *
Walsh held the gun steady as he watched Serge look at him in shock when both bullets struck him in the sternum. He thought about bursting into the living room and then considered the grenade that Alena was holding and the fact that the older Russian with a scar would’ve been alerted that Walsh had his pistol.
His decision was made for him when there was a tremendous crash from the far end of the apartment and he heard someone shout, “FBI, nobody move.”
Walsh wasted no time twisting and racing through the bedroom, then ducking behind the bed, out of sight. He didn’t want to risk hurting an FBI agent or vice versa. He could just catch a glimpse of men in black fatigues racing in a straight line toward the living room. He kept low and crept up the edge of the bed to snatch his phone off the pillow and tuck it in his front pocket.
He listened to the commotion in the front room.
* * *
This was the worst position Katazin could have found himself in. The FBI agents in black fatigues raised their small MP-5 machine guns and froze at the sight of Alena standing in the middle of the room with her hands raised. Katazin didn’t know if they realized she was holding a grenade in her left hand.
He swallowed once, took aim, then put a single 9 mm bullet into the back of the girl’s head. She crumpled to the ground as if she’d fainted, and he could hear the grenade clearly strike the wooden floor. The FBI agents standing at the door didn’t react instantly.
Katazin ducked behind the kitchen counter and slid next to the dishwasher as he heard the deafening blast of the grenade, then felt the flash of heat throughout the apartment.
He didn’t even take a look at the carnage he had just caused. Katazin sprang to his feet, turned, and burst through the tiny utility door. The blast and ensuing chaos had created a brief opportunity to slip outside into the crowd of locals milling about, trying to see what was happening.
Katazin hurried down the street to his BMW without anyone questioning him. He now felt like he owed Derek Walsh on a personal level for all the trouble and stress he had caused. The former marine had done his best to screw up Katazin’s plans, and he was sick of it.