Jimarez shook his head in disbelief.
“This is nuts.”
“Do it. And don’t touch anything on your way out!”
18
LONDON
HEATHROW AIRPORT
Dan Reilly cleared British customs and exited with his baggage. A Kensington Royal driver met him and as they prepared to depart, Reilly stopped. A CNN International telecast on a terminal monitor caught his attention. The anchor ran through a list of the copycat attacks occurring in the United States; video B-roll showed scenes in Knoxville, San Francisco, Los Angeles and other cities.
“I suppose it was inevitable,” the young woman chauffeur said.
Reilly shook his head.
“Anything here?”
“London’s been quiet. Nothing else on the Continent.”
Reilly didn’t think it would remain that way.
NATO HEADQUARTERS
BRUSSELS, BELGIUM
An aide to NATO Secretary General Phillipe entered the command center.
“A message from President Gorshkov, sir.”
Phillipe took the communiqué, read it himself, then aloud. “In the interest of peace and as expression of goodwill, the good peoples of the Russian Federation, through its leadership seek to convene a meeting to discuss current tensions and this government’s sovereignty eight days hence in Stockholm, Sweden. This will be the only invitation proffered. A response is required.”
Members of NATO’s 179th Military Committee shouted simultaneously.
“What’s his game?”
“He’s playing us.”
“Only invitation? Response required? Then what?”
There was more grumbling and rumbling until General Turnbull, the Supreme Allied Commander, Transformation (SACT) raised both hands in the air.
“Okay. Quiet, everyone. We’ll run the language through intelligence for nuance and intent. But as I see it, Gorshkov wants to gauge what he can achieve through threat.”
“We know what he wants,” blared NATO Secretary General Phillipe. “And in a year, or less, he could have it all if we don’t stand firm.”
“Or sooner,” Turnbull argued. “It comes down to what Crowe will do. And right now, that’s nothing.”
Phillipe sighed deeply. He dialed his secretary on a landline at the table.
“I need to talk to the following people in this exact order: the British Prime Minister, the French President, and the President of the United States.”
As they came through, Phillipe put each call on speakerphone for the benefit of the team. Coleen Waring, the British Prime Minister, expressed concern but no real outrage. His conservative government had pulled back from NATO just as a past American president had.
“I will want to hear what President Crowe says,” Waring concluded. “But it seems to me that Gorshkov is merely dipping his toe in the water again. Not a great deal to worry about.”
French President Paul Reims was more outspoken, but equally noncommittal.
“France is not about to start a war over what could just be sabre-rattling exercises. It was before. Probably it is again. Besides, from what you have indicated, his communication clearly suggests his willingness to sit and talk.”
“Read between the lines,” Phillipe countered. “He’s warning what would happen if we don’t talk, Mr. President. ‘To discuss current tensions and this government’s sovereignty.’ Good lord, he wants his border nations back. And this time, he’s at the front door with his own troops in plain sight.”
“Gorshkov can’t possibly believe….” the French president began before trailing off.
“Believe it,” Phillipe snapped.
“Mr. Secretary General, perhaps if the American president took a firm position,” Reims said, echoing Prime Minister Waring’s reply. “Then we’ll talk again.”
The call ended with no more support than when it began. The French and British leaders might say something different to the press, but right now NATO command knew they had little or no support from key member nations.
“So Riga will have to fall before anyone acts?” Phillipe quietly asked his advisors and command.
“New fears whip up the same old sentiments that Hitler and Stalin so effectively employed,” General Jules Rother offered.
“Must history repeat itself?”
“Monsters sleep. Monsters awake,” Rother continued. “Gorshkov offers protection against NATO. A continent-wide realignment seems all the more likely. Intimidating Latvia and Ukraine just speeds up the clock.”
“So meeting with Gorshkov won’t make a difference,” Secretary General Phillipe concluded.
No one had a reply.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
President Crowe expected the NATO Secretary General’s call. He should have initiated it himself, but there was too much to deal with domestically.
“Yes, Mr. Secretary General,” Crowe answered. Vice President Ryan Battaglio listened on an earpiece along with National Security Advisor Pierce Kimball. “Of course, we’ve been following the developments in Europe.”
“As we have in your country, Mr. President. Our thoughts and prayers are with the families.”
Crowe hated the expression. It was a convenient go-to response. But in truth, anyone subjected to disaster whether natural or manmade, accidental or intentional, needed more than thoughts and prayers. And for that matter, so would Latvia and Ukraine if Gorshkov advanced. But Crowe accepted the expression of sympathy in the manner it was offered: sincerely.
The President listened attentively to the Secretary General who finished with, “It looks bad.”
Crowe had a thought, more political than military.
“The communiqué was directed to NATO. There was no mention of the United States?”
“No, Mr. President.”
“Then a reply from me would be unexpected?”
“It would be.”
“And it would likely make him reconsider his next move.”
“Possibly,” Phillipe replied.
“Definitely. Because he thinks we’re too busy with our own troubles—which we are, but it could throw him off. First, to show solidarity, even though I’d be seriously criticized at home for any military action; and second, to let Gorshkov know that NATO resolve remains strong.”
“It could escalate the situation, Mr. President. Quickly. We have eight days. I’d like to use that time to consider other alternatives. It gives you some cover, too.” Crowe agreed and proposed another idea.
“Okay. Accept the invitation, but do so publicly. Restate Article 5.”
“Without guarantee of member support?”
“You don’t need to prove it, Mr. Secretary. Just state it.”
The two leaders ended the call. Crowe saw that his Vice President was upset.
“You don’t agree, Ryan?”
“No, Mr. President. This is not our fight.”
“Good lord, our allies have to know we support them!” Crowe thundered.
“With what’s going on here? The press will have you for dinner. Focus on America first.”
President Crowe folded his arms across his chest. His Vice President was not with him, but this wasn’t Battaglio’s decision to make. He turned to Kimball.
“Inform Gorshkov that we have spoken and despite what he sees in the press, the United States stands by NATO. Furthermore, the Russian Federation is advised not to take any hostile action in Europe.”
Battaglio stood and went to the door. Shaking his head and with his back to Crowe he quietly muttered, “Fool.”
The Kremlin responded ninety minutes later with a statement dictated by President Gorshkov:
“The peoples of Latvia historically and economically are linked to our brothers and sisters in the Russian Federation. We have long heard their call for unity. This is our final offer to meet with NATO. A reply is expected within 24 hours.”
Phillipe read the reply. He walked over to a map of Europe on his wall. Everyone watched as he sta
red at it. Then he took a step forward and silently mouthed the names of NATO’s member nations on Russia’s eastern border. Estonia, Lithuania, Belarus, Moldova, Romania, Bulgaria, Montenegro, Ukraine. A new Russian Federation, he thought. A resurrection of the old Soviet Union.
19
LONDON
Dan Reilly caught four hours’ sleep, took a shower, and walked into the Kensington Royal corporate offices conference room to meet with his Europe crisis team. It was a similar composition to his group in Chicago, but with additional regional expertise.
Reilly knew each committee member by name. He’d worked with them on the kidnapping and rescue of a KR General Manager in Berlin, and their follow-up after a recent bombing attempt at a property in Brussels. As he looked around the table, he acknowledged an ex-Royal Marine Commando, a retiree from Great Britain’s famed domestic security agency MI-5, a Middle Eastern mercenary who was associated with Donald Klugo in Chicago, and Kensington Royal’s chief corporate counsel. Each looked stern. Chris Collins, the company attorney, appeared the most worried, which was nothing new. On the phone from the U.S., General Coons. It was time to drill down, further into the details and closer to the danger.
“What are we looking at?” Reilly asked.
“Helicopters are out of the question. Given what’s going on in the square near your property in Kiev, it will be too dangerous to put down,” said Kalib Hassan, Donald Klugo’s outside contractor. “As Mr. Klugo told you, we’ll have to get your civilians to the plane. Then there’s the challenge of getting past friendly guards or invading forces. It will come down to money or guns. We have to be prepared with both.”
“How much money?” Reilly asked.
“Enough to grease wheels, open doors, create traffic lanes, and guarantee take-off.”
“How much?” Reilly asked again.
“I’ll make some calls,” the Middle Eastern mercenary said.
“Make them now.”
Kalib Hassan rose from the conference table and went into the hall to find a private room.
“What’s the latest news?” Reilly asked. Brian Crance, the ex-MI5 officer, answered.
“My contacts tell me NATO is going to accept Gorshkov’s offer to meet in Stockholm. Not that there’s much of a choice. No location picked yet, but—”
The but hung in the air.
“The Russian delegation has stayed at our hotel before. I’ll find out if that’s their intention again.”
Reilly typed a text to his office. He narrated what he was doing.
“Checking to see if there’s been any inquiry to block rooms in the next week. High-level clearance.”
“The meeting would buy more time to extract people from Kiev and perhaps Riga,” Crance said. “Takes some immediate pressure off.”
They discussed the point for another two minutes until Reilly held up his finger as he read an incoming text from Brenda Sheldon in Chicago.
Confirmed. Request to block rooms. High security.
“From?” Chris Collins asked.
Reilly began to type but stopped mid-sentence. The answer was in a second text: Russian Federation Travel Office.
“Bingo,” Crance concluded. “How many?”
Reilly typed again. The reply came seconds later. “Three.”
“Rooms?” Collins wondered.
“Floors. Three floors.”
Reilly suddenly felt torn in three directions. Riga, Kiev, and now Stockholm.
“Jesus,” he blurted. “Any sense of how Gorshkov will act, or react, during this conference?”
“Just an opinion,” Crance, the former British spy offered. “If past behavior is anything, he could grandstand then suddenly bolt, claiming there was no give. Then he’d invade.”
NEW YORK
Savannah Flanders found more user-submitted footage of the 14th Street Bridge attack, most of it shaky. She stabilized the footage with her editing program and fast forwarded through everything.
“Okay,” she said to her monitor, where she was screening a clip off the MSNBC website. “Show me something good.”
Flanders rolled through it with the sound down. It depicted panicked people staggering forward, away from the cloud of smoke and explosions. Zoomed in tighter, she saw victims coughing, some crying, and many bleeding. Uniformed personnel assisted those they could, but it was too late for others. A pan of the bridge focused on boats beginning to encircle the area just under a gaping hole in the span.
Flanders turned up the sound. She heard the anchor’s interview with a freelancer who was either at the right place at the wrong time, or the wrong place at the right time. He called MSNBC, and minutes later uploaded his footage to the network’s portal from his DSLR. The interview continued over the raw footage. He described the scene as best he could above the sound of sirens, helicopters, and bullhorns.
Pulled out wide, Flanders felt the full impact of the attack: hundreds injured, lives destroyed and the nation’s capital at a standstill. But she was looking for one man. Already, it was almost an obsession. That’s what made her one of the best on the Times staff, what had earned her a Pulitzer Prize for her investigative series on the Russian mob’s ties to New York borough politics.
But at this moment, she wasn’t thinking of awards. Just an interview with a man, Mr. Late 30s to Early 40s.
She paused the footage, smiled and leaned back. She had found her man. He had turned directly towards the freelancer’s camera. Full face on. A wide shot, but enough pixels to work with. She grabbed the still frame, then another.
Flanders studied the images. She began writing down her first impressions. Despite the chaos, her man was absolutely in control; someone who knew how to act with authority in a crisis.
She loaded the best images in the FaceRec program and waited for a match. “Let’s see who the hell you are. I bet you have some story to tell.”
LONDON
Reilly and Marnie Babbitt met for dinner at The Wolseley in Piccadilly. They made their toasts to one another over Kir Royale, clinked glasses, and decided on just three appetizers to share: wild mushroom soup, Atlantic prawns with a lemon aioli, and a dozen oysters. The oysters spoke the loudest to them. The only time they took their eyes off one another was when they each checked and responded to text messages and emails. Marnie finished first and declared, “Enough!”
Reilly agreed.
“But not enough of you!”
“You have that right, Mr. Reilly.”
Thirty minutes later, they fell into each other’s arms in Reilly’s Kensington Royal London Towers suite. They made up for lost time, ripping at clothes, and not waiting until everything was off. They were noisy and didn’t care, especially Reilly. He longed to feel her warmth, taste her tastes, and be held tightly—everywhere. Marnie Babbitt took him in and with every move demonstrated that he was wanted, needed, and greatly desired.
They breathed as one; intertwining, merging, and flowing. Satiated, Marnie leaned on her side facing him. She gently stroked Dan’s hair, but had a distant look.
“You’re in deep thought,” he said.
“I don’t know. I guess I just enjoy the quiet.”
“I like that,” he replied.
She nodded, kissed him lightly and pulled back. Reilly sensed there was still something else on her mind.
“What is it?”
Marnie nodded. She sat up.
“How close were you to the explosion?” It was the question he had assumed would ultimately come, and now he had to answer her.
“Not that far away.”
“Dan,” she chided.
“Fairly close.” Marnie moved across his body. Her breasts pressed against him.
“How close is fairly close?”
“Very. About like this.” She gave his ear a gentle nibble.
“Come on. Really, how close is very?” He turned his head, lowered his chin and faced her eye-to-eye.
“I was on the bridge.”
Babbitt closed her eyes and res
ted her head on his chest. She whispered, “Tell me more.”
Now Reilly stroked her hair as he recounted his experience, all that he’d been through. All that he’d seen.
“You could have been….” Marnie held him close but didn’t finish the thought.
“I wasn’t.”
“And now where do you go? Into more trouble.” She lifted up. “Latvia next? Ukraine?”
He didn’t answer, but his deep sigh confirmed everything she suspected.
“Why?”
“It’s my job.”
Marnie pulled away. He reached out and touched her. She tensed.
“There’s too much I don’t know about you. Will you ever trust me?” Reilly sighed. He just didn’t know.
20
MOSCOW
THE KREMLIN
Nicolai Gorshkov didn’t place much value in trust. Loyalty was another thing. He rewarded it when it was freely given, and punished anyone who didn’t show respect or conspired, openly or privately, against him. He described it as his management philosophy, a philosophy developed during the waning days of the Cold War.
Gorshkov was a young Lieutenant Colonel in those days, carving out a reputation as a man not to cross. He had served the KGB by luring, engaging, and manipulating foreign journalists, academics, scientists, politicians, and executives. When compromised, they’d do his bidding—Soviet Russia’s bidding—stealing whatever there was to steal. State and military secrets, corporate plans, research findings, think-tank studies.
During his time in East Germany, Gorshkov and his aides had successfully entrapped thirty high-level officials. But when the Berlin Wall fell, it quickly became apparent that a divided Germany would become whole without Russian influence. He was thus ordered to burn all of his records and drop his remaining assets. And so, in the last hours of his time in Potsdam, he burned box upon box of intimate reports, titillating audio tapes, and salacious 16mm film—everything he had used to control his network.
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