Red Deception

by Gary Grossman

  The ship had berths for 193, but through the nine-hour voyage only eight paying passengers were aboard. Seven had jobs as high-rise construction workers; they were all legitimate and going no further than Vladivostok. Those seven would send more than half their income back home. But not actually to their homes—to the government. The North Korean government. Their salaries, along with those of the tens of thousands of other North Koreans working in and around Vladivostok, went to government coffers, for decades helping to offset crippling Western sanctions.

  Seven of the eight. The eighth was different. He was a bright and talented 29-year-old with tremendous potential—potential developed by North Korea’s National Intelligence Service. Potential recognized by Russia’s SVR, Sluzhba vneshney razvedki, the foreign intelligence service. Unlike the other seven onboard, with whom he had nothing in common, this young man was going to get special training that would take years. He was a spy.

  In North Korea, spies had the status of generals. Their families enjoyed the perks that came with loyalty: better housing, a car, first choice of food off the barely-stocked market shelves. They had these benefits so long as the spying member of their household remained loyal. And there was the small print: if captured by an enemy government, they had standing orders to commit suicide. If they didn’t, the regime would punish all family members still living in the country. It wasn’t pretty and it often wasn’t quick. But it was ultimately final, a time-honored incentive for the spying member to stay in line for the sake of his extended family.

  This eighth man understood this. He was committed, an officer of few words and many special skills. In school he had excelled in math and science, which earned him an engineering degree. On the soccer field he distinguished himself as a never-give-up scoring champion. In the army, he proved himself smart and fearless. He had the highest marks in sharpshooting and little regard for people who didn’t measure up to the job. That attitude and natural ability brought him to the attention of North Korea’s intelligence service, and in turn the Kremlin, which had a special long-term mission planned.

  The man would train in a secret city with second- and third-generation Koreans whose families had lived in Russia since the Korean War. It would take years and tremendous coordination, but ultimately they would be serving the cause of the Russian Federation and the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea against the West’s imperialism. That imperialism was manifest through NATO’s post-Cold War expansion.

  At 0625 Pak Yoon-hoi stepped off the gangplank. Two men in business suits and trench coats approached. They were intelligence operatives of the Russian SVR.

  “Pak Yoon-hoi?” the taller of the two men asked in Russian.

  “Yes,” the North Korean replied in their language. Another one of his skills.

  No identification was required.

  “Come with us.”

  That was the extent of the conversation. Yoon-hoi didn’t need to talk to them anymore than he had. They were just his transporters.

  Pak Yoon-hoi looked around. The first light of the morning illuminated the Vladivostok skyline. He was in Russia, but he had also just taken the first step towards becoming an American.

  At the same time the SVR handlers were waiting for the North Korean, another person was surreptitiously watching the ship dock through his camera’s telephoto lens. Leonid Kaminsky had three jobs: teach photography in the humanities program at Far Eastern Federal University in Vladivostok; complete his own post-graduate requirement with an after-dark photo essay titled “Vladivostok, the Pulse of the City;” and stay alive. The staying alive part had nothing to do with his teaching or most of his photography work, though some of tonight’s photos might find their way into an academic presentation. Some, not all. Definitely not the shots through the long lens aimed at the arriving passengers.

  Ordinarily, the Man Gyong Bong offloaded nearly two hundred North Korean passengers. This morning, just a handful. Kaminsky considered that odd. Eight. Only eight?

  Seven looked like day workers in the kind of clothes that conformed to North Korean regime standards—black denim was allowed; blue jeans were not (the government had proclaimed that they embodied Western imperialism). White shirts were expected; no shorts or revealing skirts; no trousers on women rolled above the knees. Flats for women and nondescript black shoes for men. No dyed hair, no long hair. Fashion enforcers patrolled the streets of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, writing citations for people who failed to follow prescribed rules.

  But through his telephoto lens, Kaminsky photographed a lone man with commanding posture and a self-assured mien, wearing clothes few North Koreans could afford. Kaminsky clicked twenty photos from his high hide on the roof of a warehouse facing the dock. Five-ten, he thought. Military or ex-military, which in either case made him active in some branch of the government. He wore a yellow t-shirt, blue jeans, black lace-up boots, a black leather jacket, and a baseball cap. Interesting. Maybe significant. He opened the aperture to get a clearer view of the man’s face just as he was met by a pair of official-looking Russian government goons. Kaminsky revised his thinking: extremely interesting; worth exploring.

  Leonid Kaminsky would get his photos to his supervisor. Not his university Chair or Dean—his boss in Langley, Virginia at the Central Intelligence Agency. That was the part of his job he took most seriously—staying alive.

  6

  PRESENT DAY

  JUNE 5

  HENDERSON, NEVADA

  Some things worked correctly. Almost simultaneously, Richard Harper’s cell phone rang and he received an incoming text and an email; it was Homeland Security emergency protocol kicking in. Not a test this time, but a warning to step up enhanced security.

  Harper had heard the morning news more than three hours earlier, and actually thought the alert should have been triggered sooner. But now he followed procedure: additional eyes on security cameras; check on all vehicles for under-carriage explosives; no parking within 100 feet of the building. Overtime was automatically authorized for regular guards to patrol outside, and additional day hires were called in to take up posts at the River Mountain Water Treatment Plant.

  But most part-time help wouldn’t be familiar with the operation of the plant, or even its layout. Most except for four—they’d studied the plans and came with extra gear.

  O’HARE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  Reilly figured that his absence would be noted. He counted on Alan Cannon, the company’s vice president of global safety and security, to inquire on his whereabouts. For the time being, he’d simply see what the FBI wanted and try to determine what they knew.

  The lead agent asked for Reilly’s phone and wallet. He dubbed him Good Cop, anticipating how he was going to conduct the session.

  “Cell phone and wallet,” demanded the second agent as he noted Reilly’s disheveled clothes. He crossed to Reilly’s side of the table and made his order all too clear.

  “Now!” This one Reilly determined to be Bad Cop.

  Reilly complied. They put his items in a large brown envelope and wrote Reilly’s name and the time on the outside. After that, the room fell quiet. Reilly suspected they were waiting for someone else to arrive. Someone more important than the pair who brought him to the room. Likely the man Brenda had texted him about.

  At minute six, Good Cop, trying to be nice, remarked, “You must know why you’re here.” It wasn’t delivered as a question.

  Reilly believed he knew, but instead said, “Why don’t you tell me?” Bad Cop laughed.

  Reilly recognized what was going on, the pressure they were applying. He’d been on the other end of this kind of interview numerous times in the service. No, he corrected himself. Not interview. Interrogation. So, he decided to lighten the mood.

  “Gentlemen, you obviously know who I am. And you’re having a very busy day. So am I.” He gestured to his dirty clothes. “I have responsibility for my staff and American citizens at my company’s hotels in Latvia and Ukraine.
So let’s get going. This isn’t a friendly conversation.”

  Neither FBI agent responded. Reilly filled the void, more for the benefit of the people on the other side of the glass. He stared at them.

  “I’ve called a crisis team together. They’re waiting for me. Lives are in the balance, people.”

  No one on either side of the one-way mirror responded. Then the two agents heard a command in their ears over their wireless. They stood. A moment later the door opened.

  “I’ll take it from here,” said an obviously senior FBI agent, who entered carrying a thick file folder.

  “Special Agent Vincent Moore, Mr. Reilly.” He produced his identification. Moore was six-four, African-American, imposing, and authoritative. This was the agent who had phoned his office. He had all the means to find out where Reilly was.

  Reilly reasoned his time with Good Cop and Bad Cop was over. Now for Really Bad Cop.

  The two agents took positions on either side of the door. Moore, a block of a man with short-cropped hair, wearing a rumpled suit jacket he didn’t care about, took a seat directly opposite Reilly.

  “You don’t appear surprised that you’re being detained, Mr. Reilly.”

  “I’ve traveled a great deal to some pretty bad places. This is nothing new.”

  “But in your own country?”

  “This isn’t a normal day. I don’t expect normal things on days like this.” Moore ignored him. He tapped the stack of files he’d placed on the table.

  “Then you understand why we intercepted you.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me, Agent Moore?”

  “Three reasons so far, but the day is young: the Lincoln Tunnel, the 14th Street Bridge, the Musial. They’re right out of a State Department Red Team threat report, Mr. Reilly.”

  Moore removed a spiral-bound folder from the top file and turned it around so Reilly could read the bold letters on the cover.

  “It was prepared for the National Security Council and DHS,” Moore said. Reilly said nothing.

  “Highly sensitive. A report, more of an inventory on critical assets ranging from dams to hazardous material sites, nuclear power plants, local festivals, crucial urban highway overpasses, and bridges and tunnels.”

  Reilly remained silent, but anticipated Moore’s follow up.

  “You’re familiar with such a report?” the FBI agent said.

  “I think you know the answer to that.”

  Reilly nodded to Moore’s hand. Moore smiled, but it was anything but friendly. He slid his hand off the paper, revealing one other bit of type. Reilly’s name as author.

  “Mr. Reilly, the three attacks today were carried out in precisely the manner you described.”

  “Researched. Warned,” Reilly responded.

  “Described,” Moore repeated, invoking a new, more accusatory tone. “In detail. Explicit detail.”

  “That was my assignment, Agent Moore. I went further than previous analyses, if that’s what you’re referring to as detail, because I was instructed to.”

  “Whatever you want to call it, it makes you a person of great interest in today’s events.”

  CHICAGO

  KENSINGTON ROYAL HOTELS HEADQUARTERS

  “He was confirmed on the flight,” a worried Brenda Sheldon told Kensington security chief Alan Cannon. “But he didn’t show up for the driver. And he’s not answering his phone.”

  “His phone is registered with the company. I’ll do a Find My Phone search. In the meantime, keep dialing.”

  Cannon tried tracking the phone. Nothing came up. He phoned the airline to confirm that Reilly had been onboard. He had been. So, he said to himself, somewhere between getting off the plane and reaching the baggage claim, he disappeared.

  Alan Cannon, a former FBI agent himself, made a call to his old boss.

  “Sorry, Mr. Cannon. Director Mulligan is not available right now.”

  Not available. This had multiple meanings, from ‘in the bathroom’ to ‘at the White House.’ A meeting with the president was most likely, given the morning’s events.

  “It’s urgent,” Cannon replied.

  “Everything is right now. I’m sorry, Mr. Cannon.”

  Cannon placed another call. This time to a direct cell phone number, no handler in between, to the TSA chief at O’Hare.

  “Kenny, Alan Cannon here. I know you’re underwater, but I have a problem.” Kenny Green listened attentively. The TSA supervisor put Cannon on hold for three minutes before returning with a single sentence.

  “An FBI team is questioning him here at O’Hare.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. They went around us. But an agent, some big shot, flew in from National on a private plane to meet him. An FBI honcho with real stripes. That’s all I have.”

  “Not good enough. I want to see him.”

  “I don’t know, even for you,” Green said. “I’ve already told you too much.”

  “You never talked to me today. And considering that’s the case, how about you also don’t tell me exactly where Dan Reilly is.”

  MOSCOW

  THE KREMLIN

  Nikolai Gorshkov was having a good day. NATO was surely scrambling. The U.S. was preoccupied and Latvia was now in his crosshairs. Soon, Ukraine. All Gorshkov had to do was issue the order, but he had a longer game to play: one that would give him everything he wanted, with minimal casualties.

  Before that, there was another bit of business to deal with. Most displeasing. And when President Gorshkov was displeased, people usually paid dearly.

  “Send in the first,” he told his aide.

  Waiting in the corridor were four paunchy men who enjoyed the spoils of the good life, and one tall, beautiful, early-40s blonde in a brown military uniform. They had been sitting absolutely straight for the past hour. Though no one spoke, the men—two deputy directors of the FSB, Moscow’s Mayor Victor Markovich, and a general from the eastern border of Latvia—gave one another suspicious looks. Each likely pondered whether they’d be sold out by the others. The woman appeared self-assured, but on guard. The FSB officers knew her by reputation, and her rumored association with the president.

  One by one, the men were called in. Before marching into Gorshkov’s office, each straightened his uniform and sucked in the fat. One by one they exited after barely two minutes. Each ashen, looking ahead at an uncertain future. Uncertain by the hour.

  Then it was the woman’s turn. Col. Martina Kushkin stood. She took confident steps forward. Undoubtedly President Gorshkov had staged the waiting time: political theater. He wanted her to be reminded of his power and how he dealt with people who had failed him. But there would be another reason. She was anxious to find out.

  7

  NEW STANTON, PA

  MOTEL 6

  A man of blended Asian and Eastern European heritage sat in the motel room with his four operatives, all loyal but privy to only pieces of the plan, not the whole. For that reason, he knew each of them by name, but they knew one another solely by number. The men were identified as THREE, FIVE, SIX, and SEVEN. The leader was TWO; it would be presumptuous for him to have taken ONE. In his mind, that was reserved for his country’s leader. No one had the designation FOUR—culturally it was considered bad luck, equivalent to the number 13 in the States.

  Like TWO, they all wore jeans, loose-fitting t-shirts, and sneakers. No hoodies. They had arrived separately in rented cars, drawing no attention from the motel staff. Small talk was not allowed. Nothing personal either—they were a team, but not friends. If ordered, they would kill each other without hesitation. They accepted this. They were also reminded it would be for the good of their families, and the point never had to be explained further.

  Each had unique expertise in explosives, electronics, and computers, as well as martial arts. They were in Pennsylvania for business. A planned follow-up to what other compatriots had already accomplished in Washington, New York, and St. Louis: the business of disruption. Highly visible attac
ks against multiple targets.

  This group had entered the country under fake passports through airports. Other mission teams had parachuted in above the Canadian/U.S. border and secretly docked on fishing boats. Nothing on paper could trace them back to their native country. Yet, if captured, they would end their lives immediately by their own hand or at the hands of the enemy—for the good of their families. They were all North Korean nationals.

  TWO had chosen each man for his expertise and by the way they could slip in into American society. His operatives were recruited from active military, the children of mixed marriages, and single. All spoke perfect English. All were unquestionably loyal.

  The TV set was on when they arrived. It was tuned to a soccer match on an American sports channel. Uzbekistan was playing Italy; Italy was ahead. The audio masked their conversation to any passersby outside the room. Their own country had lost the day earlier, news they only heard from the play-by-play announcer during a recap.

  TWO gathered them around the queen-sized bed and unfurled a city map. It had no specific markings. He’d memorized every important detail. He required the same from his men.

  First, the assignments: SIX and SEVEN would retrieve supplies from a local storage facility on Hunker Waltz Mill Road. TWO had purchased the necessary electronics from a Walmart outside of Hudson, NY and a Fry’s in Downer’s Grove, IL. The more lethal items had been smuggled in from Canada in compartments, hidden in the undercarriage of five pickup trucks and transferred to a 16-foot U-Haul truck driven to New Stanton by TWO.

  THREE and FIVE were in charge of renting a new fleet of vehicles from five different locations and preparing them for the mission.

  Next the exact schedule, accounting for traffic issues and weather: as with the first attacks, coordination was critical to both success and escape. As he spoke, TWO looked at SEVEN. He stopped.