“Bonjour, monsieur,” the doorman said to the well-dressed man walking up to the hotel entrance. He carried a folded copy of the day’s Les Échos, the city’s business newspaper.
He returned the greeting, “Merci,” and nodded politely. Before entering he waited for a departing guest to come through the revolving doors. All polite. The mark of a gentleman.
Inside, he casually took in his surroundings. Louis XIV. Polished oak walls, marble floor, mirrors and chandeliers. Regal. Luxurious. He also noted the locations of surveillance cameras at the far corners and a dome in the middle. He was in plain sight of the guards, a sign of the heightened security across the continent.
The man looked like he belonged at the Kensington Rêve. A visitor checking in on a nice summer afternoon. Paris had been quiet for nearly a year. No terrorist attacks. The dangers on the Russian border must have seemed a lifetime away to the other patrons.
He relaxed at a table in the lobby. A waitress asked if he would like anything to drink.
“Café au lait,” he said. When it came, he let it sit without touching it. He wouldn’t. Fingerprints.
The man alternated leafing through the pages of his newspaper with watching people milling about at the front desk, waiting for elevators, and crossing to the lobby bar. His main focus was on the entrance some 20 meters away.
Twenty-five minutes after he sat down, a tall businessman emerged through the revolving door and caught his attention. A bit under two meters tall. Approximately 82 kilograms. Muscular. Black hair closely cropped.
Four mental boxes checked.
Aware of his surroundings. Purposeful. Certain of his steps, where he was going, why he was there.
Three more boxes checked.
Now closer scrutiny as the man approached.
Tailored dark business suit. Crisp dark shirt. No tie.
The man he was waiting for, the American hotel executive, typically wore a tie. But apparently not today, he thought. Anyway, it didn’t matter. He still checked three more mental boxes.
Confirmed.
He casually folded his newspaper in half and in half again. Now he smoothly slipped his holstered Sig Sauer 9mm pistol between the pages and deftly screwed on a suppressor. In one move, he rose and scanned for anyone who could get in his way. No one.
Calculating a direct twelve-step intercept, he crossed the lobby and advanced. Ten seconds. Just as he had practiced.
At step eleven, with a friendly, unassuming voice, the man said, “Reilly? Dan Reilly?”
The executive turned, smiled and began to respond.
The gunman lifted the newspaper with his left hand, his finger on the trigger with his right.
“Excuse me—”
The assassin smiled. Something he liked to do. It made it more interesting.
Pop, pop, pop. He put three bullets point blank into the man’s heart. Three shots that entered and exited so cleanly that they lodged into the oak wall thirty feet away almost in a row.
The suppressor cut down the noise, but didn’t eliminate it. Predictably, cell phones went up and began to record the scene. But in the confusion, within the four seconds it took people to react, the assassin—his mission completed—stepped outside the field of view and was through the manual door, politely held open by the same doorman who had welcomed him in. No one captured his image.
29
NEW YORK
TWO HOURS LATER
“Christ!” Blowen exclaimed. The reporter pulled away from his computer terminal.
Savannah Flanders was on a phone interview. She shushed her colleague.
Blowen gave her a cut sign and gestured for her to hang up. Flanders cradled the phone between her head and shoulder and mouthed, “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” he whispered. He pantomimed “Goodbye.”
Flanders had another follow-up question but said, “I’m sorry, Senator Davidson, I’ve been flagged into an urgent meeting.” She flashed a dirty look at Blowen. “I’ll reschedule with your office.”
After her obligatory thank you, she hung up and began chastising Blowen.
“You know how long I’ve been trying to get him on the phone for a statement about Reilly’s appearance at his committee.”
“This is more important. Reuters just broke a story about your boy.”
“What boy?”
“Reilly.”
“What about Reilly?”
“He was shot in Paris.”
Her eyes widened. Her jaw dropped open. Suddenly she wasn’t concerned about getting a sound bite from the U.S. senator Dan Reilly had sparred with in a subcommittee hearing. Flanders rolled her chair around to Blowen’s computer as he pointed to his screen.
“In the lobby of one of his own hotels.”
Flanders read the headline and shook her head.
INTERNATIONAL EXEC KILLED IN PARIS HOTEL LOBBY
CHICAGO
THE SAME TIME
CEO Lou Tiano’s secretary answered the call from the Paris Rêve general manager.
“This is Richard Korn,” the French executive began. “I need Mr. Tiano.”
“Mr. Korn. Mr. Tiano is in conference.” She didn’t explain it was the Chicago Crisis Committee discussing domestic procedures. But she did hear some urgency in his voice.
“It’s about Mr. Reilly.”
“Certainly, but he can call you back at the Réve when he’s free.”
“Now, for God’s sake!”
“If you can give me more information.”
“Good lord, woman! There’s been a shooting at my property.”
Up to this point, Leigh had been writing on a call sheet. She stopped and stuttered.
“Wh…what if I get Mr. Reilly for you in the meantime? I think I can—”
“You don’t understand! It was Reilly! Reilly was shot! Now get Tiano!”
Carol Leigh gasped. “Yes, sir. Hold please.” She tore down the hall as best she could in heels, knocked on the door of the large conference room, barged in, and signaled for her boss to come.
“Excuse me,” he said to the team. He rose.
“Carol, we’re deep into…”
Leigh said breathlessly, “Mr. Korn is on the phone from Paris. He’s calling about Mr. Reilly. Something horrible has happened. He’s been shot.”
Tiano ran to his office, faster than he’d moved in years.
PARIS
THE SAME TIME
The Police Nationale took control of the crime scene and began to take statements from eyewitnesses. They were joined by a team from the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Intérieure, the General Directorate for Internal Security, and representatives from France’s other intelligence and military agencies.
Investigators were already reviewing CCTV videos from security computer hard drives. The police believed that the attack was premeditated. Witnesses claimed the assassin sought out a man named Dan Reilly. The killer waited for the opportunity and fired point blank. Three shots.
Within a half-hour of the shooting, the French teams had reviewed clear video of the perpetrator, pulled still frames, and emailed them to law enforcement databases around the world.
30
PARIS
In the minutes immediately after the assassin left Kensington Rêve, he walked into Hema, a department store four short blocks away on Rue Rambuteau. He made his way to the men’s room, chose the middle stall, locked the door, and in order he took off his jacket and tie, his holster, and his white dress shirt, leaving on a short-sleeved black t-shirt. One part of his identity erased. Next, he turned his coat inside out, taking it from black to blue with arm patches. He removed his black hairpiece revealing a shaved head, put on tortoiseshell glasses from an inside jacket pocket, and from the same pocket extracted and extended a collapsible cane. He bundled his white shirt under his arm, tucked his wig in his back pocket, put his holster and jacket back on, flushed the toilet, and unlocked the door. He was now a different man, a good fifteen years older.
Before leaving the men’s room, he took off his gloves and stuffed them into his jacket pocket. Outside he gave people something to ignore: a man with a limp. No one paid attention to him; people were wondering about all the sudden police activity in the 4th arrondissement.
Surveillance cameras showed that the killer never took his gloves off. No fingerprints. He ordered a drink, but didn’t touch it. No DNA. He was given a check but failed to pay it. No signature on a credit card. The initial conclusion was a hit: planned, calculated and personal. But the more the Paris police and French intelligence examined the crime scene and took statements, the more they adjusted their thinking. A hit gone bad.
Around the corner, the assassin retrieved a late-model Peugeot that was parked exactly where he was told it would be. He found the key in a metal box, attached to the driver-side wheel-well. Three days’ worth of clothes needing washing were in a suitcase in the trunk. A backpack held more clothes and a receipt from Hotel Bastille Spéria, under the name Markus Visser, a Dutch teacher on holiday. His current identity. He left it all earlier before he donned his businessman disguise. Now, as he merged into traffic, he was certain his work was already leading the news. He began whistling a Russian folk song his parents had taught him, and headed to the A1 toward Belgium. Two hours and fifteen minutes later, he would say goodbye to his short-lived Visser identity, become somebody else, and return to his isolated home in Norway.
31
LONDON
HEATHROW AIRPORT
The phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Well, you sound damn good for a dead man.”
“What?” Dan Reilly asked.
“You don’t know?” Kensington security Chief Alan Cannon asked.
“What? Know what? Just got to Heathrow. Shaw rerouted me to Caracas. It’s the long way around to Kiev, where I should be going.”
“Christ, Dan. You really haven’t heard.”
“I’m about to board. Just tell me.”
“A few hours ago, a man who was taken for you was shot and killed at the Rêve in Paris.”
“Oh my God!” Reilly stepped out of line. “I was supposed to be there.”
“Right, and somebody counted on that.” Cannon went through the details of the attack, working up to the victim.
“They haven’t released his name yet. Unfortunately for him, he fit your height, your build, your hair color, your basic look, and the time you were due in. The killer brazenly walked up behind the guy thinking he was you. He called your name. The man automatically turned, as most people would to explain the mistake, and tap-tap-tap, three shots through the heart. The assassin escaped during the confusion. So, Dan,” Cannon summarized, “who wants you dead?” He had a second, more pressing question ready when Reilly didn’t immediately answer.
“And who knew where you were going?”
Who? As he stood in line to board his flight, he considered the list. Not many people knew his immediate travel plans. Certainly he was in the KR computer system, but with recent security upgrades hacking was infinitely more difficult. Not impossible, but definitely more difficult.
Reilly thought about everyone who would have known. Brenda Sheldon. Members of the London crisis committee. Agent Moore at the FBI, but only shortly before he was due to go. Korn and his staff in Paris. Lou Tiano in Chicago. Who else knew? The corporate travel department? The London crisis committee. …Who?
The gate attendant announced his flight was ready to board. He stepped forward and rolled his suitcase alongside. Reilly suddenly stopped. People maneuvered around him.
There was another.
32
LONDON
News spread quickly and Brenda Sheldon was tasked with fielding calls from inside and outside the KR corporate community, including Dan’s ex-wife, Pam. Sheldon told everyone the same thing.
“I don’t know anything more than what you’ve probably already heard. A gunman in the lobby. The police are investigating.” She held it together as best she could, even through a second conversation with the New York Times reporter, who dialed in on her way to JFK.
Sheldon was exhausted. She didn’t think she could handle another call. But the phone was ringing again. It had a caller ID that shook her. Her voice trembled.
“Yes?” Not hello.
“Brenda.”
Her heart skipped a beat.
“Dan? Dan, you’re—.”
“Alive. Yes.”
Sheldon burst into tears. Reilly consoled her.
“Look, I don’t have a lot of time. I’m about to take off for Caracas. Shaw rerouted me. It saved my life.”
“Thank God.”
In the minutes that followed, he explained that he had only recently learned what happened. He expressed true regret that someone had died in his place. That made his next question all the more urgent.
“Think carefully about this, Brenda. Who knew where I was going? Who did you tell?” She didn’t need time to think.
“No one on the outside. Corporate had your schedule. There’s a reporter trying to track you down, but you know I don’t disclose any information like that without your permission.”
“What’s her name?”
“Flanders. Savannah Flanders. She’s probably gone onto another story.”
Reilly didn’t think so. He could be more newsworthy now. Especially now.
“No one else?”
“No.”
They talked about the calls that had come in after and those she made proactively. Colleagues, friends, and Reilly’s ex-wife.
“Has Marnie called in?”
“Ms. Babbitt,” Brenda replied, more formally. “Not yet. What can I do?”
“Call people back. Let them know you heard on the news that it wasn’t me. But you haven’t heard why. Also, you don’t know where I am. Just keep a list of who phones and why.”
Reilly thanked Brenda again and hung up, debating what he’d say to Marnie. He had to call her. Their relationship was growing. But…
As he thought about it, Reilly’s life was filled with “buts.” But I have to cancel dinner tonight. But I have a late meeting again. But my flight is in two hours. But the office is on the other line. But I know I promised. Each had cost him another part of his marriage. Each had cost him relationships since.
Marnie Babbitt also lived out of a suitcase. She logged hundreds of thousands of air miles a year. They met up in exotic locales. They ate in five-star restaurants. They tumbled into beds in grand hotels. And with it all came another but. There was nothing in their relationship that had any semblance of normality. And now with the assassination attempt, he feared he could put her life in danger. All of this was on his mind as he dialed.
“Hello,” she shivered, looking at the caller ID.
“Marnie, it’s me.”
Utter silence followed. Two seconds. Three, four and five.
“Marnie, I’m okay.”
“What? How?”
“I was expected in Paris but didn’t make it. Lucky, I guess.”
More silence until she finally said, “God, Dan, up until a half-minute ago—” She let the words trail off. Babbitt sounded as if she was crying.
“You could have called sooner.”
“I only found out a few minutes ago. After all, who would notify a dead man that he was dead?
“Don’t you dare joke!”
“I’m sorry.”
“So, where are you?”
He decided to make up an answer. He wasn’t even sure why.
“I’m not supposed to say.”
“Says who?”
“Not supposed to say that either.”
“It’s me. Where are you? I want to come see you.”
“Marnie, someone knew where I was headed.” He stopped before asking the hardest question. “Did you tell anyone?”
“Dan…”
“Did you discuss my schedule with anyone?”
“No. No, of course not. Why would I?” Reilly
had no reply. Just a nagging thought.
“I’m sorry, honey. It’s probably the same questions police will ask. And I’m asking everyone.”
“Are you in London?”
“Can’t say.”
“Even to me?”
“I’m sorry.” He heard a long, exasperated breath.
“Then call me. Every day. Every single day. Promise me.”
“I will.”
There was another long pause.
“Be careful,” she said softly. “Promise.”
“I promise.”
33
SUMMERLIN, NEVADA
“Mr. Harper, have a seat. Some people want to talk with you.”
Richard Harper nodded to his supervisor and acknowledged the two suits in the office.
“This is FBI Agent Ronald Brown and Homeland Security Agent Nancy Sugarman.”
Brown stood six-two. He looked like a man who had been beaten up a number of times and vowed never to be taken down again. Sugarman was younger. Not quite a rookie, but still learning the ropes. She remained a half-step behind Brown.
Richard Harper studied them both. They looked the part. Intent. Grim. Armed, at least Brown. No, both. Nonetheless, he forced a smile. It didn’t seem appropriate to shake hands.
“We’re not just here for a visit,” Brown said. “We’re putting this facility on high alert.”
“Good,” Harper quickly volunteered. He exhaled a silent breath of relief. “Considering the news back east, I’m grateful.”
“We’ll need a walk through, Mr. Harper. All the ways in. Vulnerable operational points.”
“Of course.”
“Richard knows the facility like the back of his hand,” the supervisor said. “Ask him anything.”
“Absolutely,” Harper said. “We can start at the control center.”
“Thank you,” Sugarman replied.
Harper led them out. There were places he definitely wanted them to see and others he purposefully would keep off the tour.
Red Deception Page 13
