Red Deception

by Gary Grossman

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “No, sir.”

  TWO tipped his head to SEVEN’s crossed leg. Right over left. The man looked down. The right was twitching. SEVEN automatically tightened his muscles.

  “It’s nothing.” But SEVEN recognized his superior’s concern. Another cultural superstition: it was believed that by shaking a leg, a person shakes all the good fortune out of them. He uncrossed his legs and squeezed his toes inside his American Nikes. He looked at the others who had picked up on the observation.

  “I’m ready.”

  TWO returned to his map. For the next thirty minutes he reviewed the operation, from precise structural weak points to surveillance camera positions, from the approach roads to the specific targets, to their own exfiltration routes. The briefing concluded with him notifying the group that they had 24 hours to make ready.

  They casually left one at a time, each certain not to make too much of the departure. Their training had taught them to take in the surroundings, but not to act suspiciously. Their orders were to move through the day in a leisurely fashion, return to their respective motels, watch TV, and then proceed to their assigned destinations at the appointed times. Along the way, they were to obey every stop sign, traffic light, and pedestrian crosswalk. If pulled over by police for any reason, they were to act polite and responsive, produce their fake or stolen IDs—they had multiple choices—accept the ticket, and get on their way. They were after all posing as American citizens, and blending in wasn’t hard anymore.

  8

  MOSCOW

  THE KREMLIN

  Colonel Martina Kushkin stood when summoned by Gorshkov’s lieutenant. She had survived meetings like this before and was certain she would again. But she never really knew what the president might do if provoked.

  A new assignment? Activate a sleeper under her command? Or a goodbye for good without a pension, a dacha on the Black Sea, or a last kiss? She set aside the last thought. No words could save her if that was Gorshkov’s intent. So, she thought, new orders that likely involved one of her trainees—a pupil from the special school she taught in, modeled after the Andropov Institute of the Cold War Era. Which one? She had twenty especially talented and field-worthy sleeper spies. Among them ten star pupils, but fewer than five whom she would trust with top assignments.

  The Russian colonel steeled herself as she entered Gorshkov’s office.

  No, she said to herself. I will not end up as my foolish comrades in the waiting room. This is my time to shine. To do whatever Nikolai Gorshkov requires.

  She stood at attention before the president. The former KGB and FSB officer rose. A positive sign.

  “Martina, you look well,” the Russian leader said.

  “Thank you, Mr. President. You as well.”

  It was the truth. Flattering, but the truth. Gorshkov was as fit at 67 as he had been forty years earlier at the end of the Cold War. Not an ounce of unwanted fat, nor any trace of kindness or humility.

  “How did those traitors look to you as they left?”

  “Defeated, Mr. President,” she quickly answered.

  “As well they should. And to be in their company?” the president asked.

  “I am not in their company,” she declared.

  “Of course. To be waiting in their presence?”

  “You wanted me to see their expressions, coming in and leaving. A reminder, perhaps a warning.”

  “Not a warning. Never for you, Martina. I trust you too much to question your dedication.”

  She knew that wasn’t true. Gorshkov didn’t trust anybody completely; even his spies were spied upon.

  “But you are right about a reminder. There is no room for mistakes. They made mistakes and each will suffer the consequences.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gorshkov motioned for Kushkin to take the seat in one of the wide, red jacquard Louis XV chairs. Comfortable. She imagined the men who had been in his office minutes before, but not invited to sit.

  The president pressed a button under his center desk drawer, which closed and locked his office door. He opened a gilded lacquer liquor cabinet from the same period, and removed a bottle of Minskaya Kristall vodka and two glasses.

  “May I?”

  “No thank you, Mr. President.”

  “Perhaps later,” he said lasciviously while pouring a glass for himself.

  Kushkin nodded. Gorshkov had taken her before. She hoped this was not going to be one of those nights. But the decision was not hers.

  The president walked around his desk and sat next to her in a matching chair.

  “Now, to one of the reasons for your visit.”

  Visit. An interesting term. Not one of her favorites.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Given the identity of the individuals who preceded you, what can you assess? Strictly from an intelligence point of view?”

  Less than a year earlier, the Russian Federation was forced to stand down from Latvia. Additionally, rumors circulated that the FSB had recently lost an agent in Brussels, an agent long connected to Gorshkov. She considered that Gorshkov could be cleaning house, particularly in light of current operations to the West. She began strongly.

  “Sir, General Titov was poised to storm Latvia. He suddenly stopped at the border. Perhaps that was not your wish. Perhaps if he had moved earlier—” Kushkin saw Gorshkov purse his lips, an indication that she had made a correct assessment. But which? She continued, “At the same time, as I understand it, the FSB did not provide enough backup for an operative in Brussels, a legend in KGB and FSB annals. A friend of yours. The agent was killed on a mission. Mayor Markovich may have provided information that contributed to the agent’s death.”

  “Not may, did.”

  “And you are holding him and the two FSB deputy directors responsible. You’re correcting those internal mistakes.”

  “Very good, Colonel. And beyond that? Your purpose today?”

  “I can help you right things. Undoubtedly through my assets.”

  “Quite correct.”

  “They will do as I order. As you order. Good rising stars. Ready.”

  “One of them you call Polunochnyy. Why?”

  “You’ve read my reports on them, Mr. President?” she said, feigning surprise. He gave a hearty laugh.

  “Of course I have.”

  “I name them for many reasons. In this case, the time of day when much can be accomplished.”

  Polunochnyy. Midnight. Kushkin smiled.

  “The asset is one of my best. Dedicated. Extremely capable. Adept. Well-placed. Rising in influence.”

  “Loyal?”

  “Completely. Beyond reproach.”

  “Recent communications?”

  “Limited, of course. Selective updates on active measures. The current assignment is—”

  “I’m aware, Martina. Any personal meetings?”

  “Recently no. But as I said—”

  “Eighteen months ago. Christmastime in Paris,” Gorshkov stated.

  Kushkin showed no surprise. Even spies were spied upon. As in the old Soviet Union, the new Russia had its eyes and ears in hotel rooms even in the West.

  “Yes, sir. We met at a hotel bar. Pre-arranged.”

  “And then to your room, Colonel.”

  “Yes, sir. One night. Debriefing.” Gorshkov laughed.

  “I suppose that will suffice.”

  Colonel Kushkin straightened in her chair and declared, “Mr. President, I use all of my skills to instill loyalty and personal faith.”

  Gorshkov smiled knowingly.

  “Well then,” the president said, “here’s what I require.” He explained.

  When Gorshkov finished, she was ready to leave and make arrangements. He had other ideas.

  “You look radiant tonight.”

  “With a little more warning,” she regretted the word immediately. “I mean, time…”

  “You never disappoint.”

  That was what
she had been trained for, and what she had trained others in—the art of seduction, manipulation, and all kinds of pleasure. After all, women who pleased him could advance. Those who didn’t were given to the oligarchs for their pleasure before being banished to the streets. The men had challenges as well. In fact, all her recruits had to be willing to perform in any manner spying required, with either sex.

  “Neither do you, Mr. President,” she lied.

  As she unzipped his pants, Gorshkov removed her tie and worked his way down Kushkin’s buttons. He opened her shirt and stood back to admire her breasts.

  “Beautiful. But before we begin, assurances, Martina.”

  “You will scream with joy.”

  “No, my kitten. Assurances that your assets will follow through. Do what is necessary. What you order.”

  The FSB colonel smiled.

  “Without hesitation.” Martina Kushkin unhooked her bra without taking her eyes off Nicolai Gorshkov. “Without any hesitation, Mr. President.” She wet her lips and glanced at his crotch. “Trust me.”

  She saw Gorshkov flinch. A faux pas. Trust was something Gorshkov never did. Kushkin would have to work harder. Now…and later.

  9

  O’HARE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  “It’s about the specificity, Mr. Reilly.” Reilly leaned forward.

  “If you have a question, Agent Moore, I’d like to hear it.”

  “Oh, I’ve got a whole list, and I’ve just begun to dig into you and your storied career.” Reilly tipped his head to the side. A direct challenge. The FBI agent opened the top file containing summaries of Reilly’s background.

  “Kind of a bratty kid growing up in Boston. Mother worked a 911-call center. Even got the word when you were in trouble one time. Care to discuss that?” Reilly sat expressionless.

  “In high school you did some work with the Boston Police Department. I assume it was some easy fix to work off time. Developed a proficiency on the gun range.”

  Reilly folded his arms.

  “You went to Boston University, worked as a part-time rent-a-cop. I’m curious about that. Why not stay with the police? Authority issues, Mr. Reilly?”

  Reilly leaned back, his arms still folded.

  “Army. Some special schools redacted in my copy.” Moore pointed to the blacked-out portions on the second page. “Spook stuff?”

  The question went nowhere.

  “Well, I can find out. Then Afghanistan and an incident with a general. He stayed, you left. I guess it was those authority issues again. Signs of growing discontent with America? I don’t suppose you’d want to—”

  Reilly said nothing.

  “I didn’t think so.” Moore glanced at the third page. “Then the State Department as an analyst where you had access to enough high-level intelligence to prepare your report.” He tapped the top of the spiral bound report. “And plan. And your latest career in, what do they call it, the hospitality business,” the agent said snidely. “Are you hospitable, Mr. Reilly? Or have you used the job to develop relationships with foreign leaders? We have you recently at the Kremlin, in Brussels during an aborted bomb attack, in Tehran meeting with government officials, talking with Mexican cartels, and who knows what all over Asia.”

  Reilly leaned into the table and now put his arms down, one over another. Neither defiant nor challenging. Moore tried to read him. He couldn’t.

  “Factually correct? That is all you, Mr. Reilly.” Dan Reilly smiled and finally spoke.

  “The locations, yes, but your assumptions are all wrong.”

  “Then correct the record.”

  “I don’t need to correct any record. But, please, I’m eager for you to get to your real point.”

  Moore flipped the report on the desk around. “Let’s talk about this.” He read the full cover aloud.

  A REPORT ON CRITICAL UNITED STATES INFRASTRUCTURE VULNERABILITIES

  SUBJECT TO FOREIGN AND DOMESTIC ATTACK

  PREPARED FOR

  UNITED STATES NATIONAL SECURITY COUNCIL

  THE OFFICE OF INFRASTRUCTURE PROTECTION

  DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY

  Daniel J. Reilly

  United States Department of State

  TOP SECRET

  “Your blueprint.”

  “My report, Agent Moore.” Reilly replied without raising his voice.

  “Which distinctly outlines specific targets, detailing opportunity, means, and timing. Specific bridges, tunnels, overpasses, airports across the country.”

  “And more.”

  “Access and likely escape routes. Time of day traffic flow. Locations of surveillance cameras and security posts. An evaluation of security at those locations. Comprehensive, including the 14th Street Bridge, the Lincoln Tunnel, and the Stan Musial Veterans Bridge.”

  “Among many others. But I’m still not authorized to discuss it.” Moore jammed his finger on the file.

  “As of six hours ago that might have been true. Now it’s in my hands. And for that matter, so are you, Reilly.”

  “I will only confirm to you that I researched, wrote and delivered a white paper with that title for the National Security Council whose members are the President of the United States, the Vice President, the National Security Advisor, my then-supervisor at State, now Secretary of State Elizabeth Matthews, and cabinet heads for State, Defense, Treasury, and Energy. I will assume, which is something I don’t like to do, that at some time since my departure from government service the analysis was distributed more widely. Undoubtedly it, or elements of it, wound its way through the inter-agency pipeline including members of Congress. While I have maintained strict confidentiality, which I continue today—here and now in this room—I do not know if the report has been declassified or worse, leaked.”

  Moore’s eyes shifted left. A classic tip-off to Reilly that at least one of his statements struck a nerve.

  “My opinion, Agent Moore?”

  Moore shot Reilly a neutral look.

  “Director McCafferty sent you out without a thorough briefing,” Reilly stated sharply. “You’ve come loaded for bear believing I have to be your leak. Based on your cursory read of my background, you’ve already decided I’m a traitor, traveling the world selling secrets, masterminding an attack on the United States, perhaps in support of Russia, while Gorshkov is threatening the Baltic and Ukraine.”

  Now Moore leaned back, opened both hands; a gesture for Reilly to continue.

  “So, yes, for the record of whatever’s being observed or recorded, I’ll assume what you have is my white paper, Agent Moore. The one thing you got right is that it is a blueprint for what’s gone down today, and more that could go down tomorrow. Beyond that you’re wrong. If you’re even slightly suggesting that I’ve gone off the rails—”

  “You wouldn’t be the first,” Moore said.

  Reilly looked beyond the FBI agent, directly toward the mirror.

  “I suspect there are one or two others behind the glass. So this is for everyone: any of you know where I was this morning?”

  “D.C.”

  “Excellent guess, since you tracked me through the airline database out of Dulles. But where? Really where?”

  Moore waited for Reilly to answer his own question.

  “I didn’t think so. On the 14th Street Bridge, heading into Washington,” Reilly continued. “And if you think I was responsible in any way, why would I be a few cars behind the explosion? Why would I have helped people to safety?”

  A surprised reaction from Moore.

  “Oh yes, check the surveillance cameras. I’m sure you have the authority to do that. It’s cheaper than the fuel you spent getting here to interrogate me.”

  Reilly noted the tab on another file Moore brought: his redacted military service record.

  “And since you referenced my Army record, I recommend you follow up with the Pentagon. And not to tell you how to do your job, you might want to cross-check the name of a man I pulled out of a Humvee under attack in Afgh
anistan. Give him a call. His number isn’t registered, but with your contacts I’m sure you’ll be able to track him down.”

  Reilly stood and collected his personal items.

  “Now if you don’t mind, I have a crisis committee to meet with in town and a staff in Europe to protect.” He walked purposely to the door. The two FBI agents blocked his way. He knew they wouldn’t move without approval from Moore. He waited. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. Reilly breathed in deeply.

  “Now, Special Agent Moore. We both have work to do.” Moore nodded to Good Cop and Bad Cop to let him out.

  “You know, this isn’t the end of it.”

  “Far from it,” Reilly replied. As he walked out he heard his name called again, this time by someone familiar.

  CHICAGO EXPESSWAY

  In normal traffic, if there ever was such a thing, the drive from O’Hare to the Kensington Royal headquarters could take anywhere from 32 minutes to two hours. But because downtown bridges were closed due to the nationwide alert, Alan Cannon had to work out an alternate route: up. He booked a helicopter out of Vertiport, located in the Illinois Medical District. It was a twelve-minute flight on the Sky Share and another fifteen to the United terminal.

  Cannon was eager to know what had happened. Reilly explained as they returned to the helicopter pad. He kept the conversation general, short on specifics.

  “Jesus, Dan. You really stepped in it, right up to your waist.”

  “Higher. Choking level. Like I’m Person of Interest One.”

  “And where’d you leave it?”

  Reilly said, “At the door when I got up and left.”

  “I’ll make a call,” Cannon replied.

  “Trust me, as soon as I’m back at the office I will, too.” Reilly’s was going to be to Bob Heath to launch a little interdepartmental conversation.

  While they waited to board the helicopter into town, Reilly checked his texts and voicemail. He had waiting updates on the crisis committee assemblage and urgent calls from London. Four. Each with more worry.

  “Hi, Marnie,” he began calmly when the woman answered.

  “It’s been hours. I’ve been leaving messages—”