Lou Dobbs - Putin's Gambit

“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.”

“I know that’s got to be bullshit. You probably just finished eating dinner at some fancy restaurant in the area.”

“And that’s why you managed to land such a good government job.” Walsh was happy his friend had been recruited by the CIA. It fit perfectly with his assignment as G-2 in their unit in Afghanistan and Germany. As an intelligence officer with the marines, Rosenberg could mix in virtually any circle and had an analytical mind that could rival the best computer Apple could spit out. Walsh patted his belly and realized it was in stark contrast to the wiry Rosenberg, who would use a ten-mile run as a warm-up. “So what’s up?”

Rosenberg said, “Just thinking about Ron and the funeral. Then Bill Shepherd called. He’s training with some of the local NATO defense forces in case Russia acts up again.”

“What would a small marine unit do against tanks?”

“Fight, baby, fight. What else? Besides, they’ve already trained with a bunch of local soldiers. They would lead an interesting force if it came to that.”

“Is there intel Russia will move?”

“There are always rumors that Putin has something up his sleeve. They’re in bad shape economically, and that makes them dangerous. But there’s no specific intel right now. Shep is just being a good marine officer and getting prepared. I also think he’s trying to keep his mind occupied.”

“Were you able to talk to Bill for a while? He was closer to Ron. He still saw him all the time in Germany.”

“Just for a few minutes. He says it’s not the same with us gone. The G-4 who took your place is useless. Doesn’t keep their supplies up to date and is hard to talk to about issues. Not what you want in a unit like that.”

Walsh appreciated the vote of confidence. Ron Jackson, Bill Shepherd, and Mike Rosenberg had stood by him during the entire ordeal over the finances of the company. After a moment of silence Walsh said, “Anything going on at work you can talk about?”

“Only in person. You know this is my personal phone. I don’t trust anyone anymore.”

“That’s just you adjusting to the natural paranoia of a government employee.” He saw Alena leaving the building and waving to the security guard inside and said to his friend, “Mike, I gotta go. I’m on a date.”

“Are you still dating the hot Greek chick?”

“I am.” Saying it made him smile from ear to ear.

“Roger that, Tubby. I just called to say hello. Maybe I’ll come up this weekend and we can do something crazy.”

“I figured a guy with a job like yours wouldn’t set foot in a place like Times Square unless he was on duty.”

“From everything I can tell, Wall Street is as dangerous as any place in New York.”

Alena gave him another hug as he closed the phone. He didn’t bother to explain who was calling because she never seemed interested anyway. His heart rate increased as he felt Alena’s lovely body next to him, and he wondered if he’d get to see more of it. But that dream ended quickly.

Alena said, “I have an early class tomorrow morning. I think I’ll take a cab home.”

“I shouldn’t let you go by yourself.”

She let out a cute giggle, touched him on the nose, and said, “You and your sweet manners. I appreciate it, but I don’t know that I could keep you from coming upstairs. And I need to study a little more tonight.”

He flagged down a cab and kissed her good night, hoping she’d be free tomorrow.

Fannie Legat’s mother had been born in Algeria but raised in France. Her father was a banker, whose parents survived World War II but didn’t survive him marrying, as her grandfather said, a beur —a “melon,” the rudest of French terms for Arabs living in the country. Fannie barely remembered her father, who left them for a plump, blond Norwegian when she was just a little girl. They had languished in the Paris suburb of La Courneuve, about a ten-minute train ride outside the city, known as one of the largest slums for people of all nationalities the government had failed to integrate into the general population. It had been the scene of riots as well as devastating poverty. One of the street poets said, “The sun never shines in La Courneuve.”

By the time she was twelve, she was reconnecting with her Islamic roots. Her mother worked so many hours she barely noticed her daughter’s transformation, even when she donned a hijab after she reached puberty as a show of propriety. The headdress also concealed her growing anger toward the treatment of Muslims by all of the Western nations.

But someone in the French government had noticed her exceedingly good grades and by Allah’s grace she was admitted to EMLYON, a college of economics and finance in the eastern city of Lyon. It was in a class on international trade and economics that the seventeen-year-old Fannie met a twenty-two-year-old immigrant from Egypt named Naadir Al-Latif. He was the first to encourage her to embrace her heritage completely and led her to her new name of Yasmine Akram because he said it meant “most generous.” They both laughed at the idea of her gaining an expertise in money and also adopting that name.

It was through a small group of Muslim students that the new Yasmine Akram started to follow the teachings of what some Western governments would refer to as “radical clerics.” Their teachings turned on a light in her soul, and she realized it was her duty to contribute to the struggle Islam faced every day to convert others and dissuade nonbelievers from interfering in its activities.

A boring year of working in the financial district of Paris after graduation led her to jump at the chance to travel to Syria and support their version of the “Arab Spring.” But learning about fundamental Islam is not quite the same as living it day in and day out. The other fighters did not want a woman on the front lines, and she was relegated to helping the wounded and working in logistics. Her ability to speak French, German, and English made her invaluable in dealing with the outside contributors to their cause. She was shocked how many French firms willingly did business with anyone who had the money. They supplied arms to the Assad regime while also sending weapons to the rebels. It was one of the greatest capitalist schemes of all time. It made her both proud and ashamed of her home country.

Yasmine herself had other ideas about how she could contribute to the struggle. At five foot seven and athletically built, calling herself Abdul, she was able to reenter the rebel’s camp as a man and was given an AK-47 almost without question. She still embraced the first time she had a Syrian soldier in her gun sights: Watching him drop to the ground, lifeless, after a short burst from her assault rifle was a life-changing experience.

Her prowess on the battlefield soon came to the attention of some of the local commanders. One of the sharper young men recognized her for what she was and quietly pulled her off the line, introducing her to an entirely new set of soldiers for Islam. Some people called them the Islamic State or ISIS. Either way, they had big plans for spreading the conflict beyond the borders of Syria and Iraq. It would be a waste to have a young woman like her killed by artillery. With her lighter hair and the ability to speak several languages without accent, she could pass for French or German with very little effort. Besides, funding was becoming a major issue for their cause, and her background in economics made her that much more appealing a recruit. The successes of ISIS had been covered by world media with flair. Recapturing neglected cities from ill-trained Iraqi conscripts had made their efforts look heroic and the organization appear ready to take over the whole country, but the truth was much more complex. The group was constantly evolving, with splinter groups squabbling endlessly about everything from tactics to proper religious etiquette. The Islamic State had become less of a state and more of a movement. This would change with the upcoming operation. Fannie believed they were on the brink of a new era. After they were established, with a country and permanent funding, she could tackle the other issues that affected her, like the group’s view on women. “One battle at a time” was her private motto.