Red Deception

by Gary Grossman

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM

  President Alexander Crowe entered last. He took the seat facing the largest of the four mounted television screens in the secure basement facility that was wired to the rest of the world. The Situation Room was relatively small, not at all as depicted by most Hollywood productions. Tight quarters where presidents before him had watched real-time, live video attacks against Al Qaeda, monitored riots in the US, and made fateful decisions about North Korea’s submarine fleet.

  “Ladies, gentlemen.”

  Facing Crowe around the long table were FBI Director Reese McCafferty, CIA Director Gerald Watts, National Security Advisor Pierce Kimball, Secretary of State Elizabeth Matthews, and Homeland Security Director Runetta Adams. The greetings back were equally formal.

  “Mr. President.”

  “Reese, start us off.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.” FBI Director McCafferty stood to the right of the largest monitor in the room. There were many. He pressed the remote and a PowerPoint title card appeared.

  Federal Bureau of Investigation

  Preliminary Findings in the Attack on US Infrastructure

  It was dated and marked Top Secret.

  McCafferty thanked Director Watts for the CIA’s cooperation, and noted the speed at which everyone in the investigation chain moved. As he narrated, he clicked through the slides.

  “Here’s what we’ve determined to date. Multiple teams, working off one coordinated game plan, which indicates this was complex at every level. From start to finish. And we have no reason to believe we are at the finish.

  “Beginning with D.C. We’ve raised the trucks from the Potomac and pulled VIN numbers. They were rented in Wheeling, West Virginia two weeks ago. Plates switched. Stolen off trucks in long-term parking in Salt Lake City. That speaks to the reach of the organization. Not so coincidentally, the cameras at the rental office went out the day before. No video of the renters. Another indication of the scope and sophistication. The credit card used for the rental was stolen from a man in hospice in Tampa and not missed by the family. Thanks to a heads up from a housekeeper, we’re working on evidence that placed the team in a motel in Chester, Virginia the night before. That’s where we believe they wired and armed the bombs. We pulled fingerprints from discarded battery packages found by the housekeeper. They’re being run now. We’re also running the packaging to see where the batteries were purchased and if there were active CCTV cameras at that location. Given the numbers of batteries, we’re hoping they came from a single store but if not, we might still be able to pick up the trail.”

  NSA Advisor Kimball raised his hand.

  “Can we hold questions for now, Mr. President?” McCafferty requested. I want to cover our initial findings, then Director Watts and I will answer everything to the best of our knowledge after.”

  Crowe nodded and Kimball dropped his hand.

  “Next, the St. Louis attack. The Kawasaki Jet Ski used in the escape was discovered upstream. Burned. We were able to trace it to a vacation rental in Miami. According to the field report, a man took it out for an hour and never returned. The credit card used was stolen from another hospice patient at the same facility as the first. Pretty damned smart. We’re looking at sign-ins at the facility and having all patients and their families account for their credit cards. If this is their MO, we might get lucky and be able to flag a purchase as it’s happening. We’ve also contacted all hotels and motels within a 100-mile radius of St. Louis to check on discarded battery packaging like those recovered in Virginia. Navy divers are looking for bomb parts. But the Mississippi is still muddy from spring rains and, as we know, it flows extremely fast. Confidence is low that we’ll retrieve much there.

  “Three, the self-driving vehicles in the Lincoln Tunnel. They were running on Chinese software.”

  “China?” the president interrupted. “A connection?”

  “Not necessarily. The system used is on the open market, sold to car manufacturers in Italy and Germany and already showing up in the aftermarket. The guidance could have come from there or been bought and sold many times over. We’ll be tracing whatever we can. Of course, we’re looking for forensic signatures including latent fingerprints, traces of perspiration or other natural secretions on the steering wheel, the doors, the radio, wherever. We’re also examining security footage at restaurants and stores in Chester, Virginia, developing composite sketches from motel eyewitnesses, reviewing CCTV footage in the target areas, and we have another important lead.”

  Everyone hung on McCafferty’s next words.

  “Director Watts, you can take it from here.” The CIA chief rose and began in a deliberate monotone.

  “We now believe a team parachuted into the United States more than two months ago. Northeast Maine at the Canadian border. A trucker spotted them, but only reported it well after the attacks. We’re backtracking now with air traffic control, but we can definitely confirm that a private flight out of Edmundston, Canada went below radar on the Canadian side as it approached the town of Limestone, Maine, then quickly rose high enough for a short drop. The plane returned to the field. The pilot walked away. We’re working with NAV Canada on identification. We have blurry CCTV images from Edmundston of the passengers, who claimed they were on a fishing trip. They never returned. They also intentionally avoided looking directly at security cameras and were not subject to CATSA, the Canadian version of TSA, search. We can’t tie them to the attacks, but it makes the hairs on my back go up. It also suggests that more teams may have infiltrated the US in similar ways or come in through other soft entry points.”

  Crowe nodded.

  “It’s the opinion of the Agency that this was not domestic terrorism. This has the hallmarks of a deeply financed, well-prepared foreign operation. As Director McCafferty noted, the attacks were expertly coordinated and carried out. We’re talking about a major international player; smart, with a bigger endgame than just creating havoc.”

  PITTSBURGH, PA

  The assassin drove the route, checking for possible problems. So far, none. America was still an open society. Fools, he thought. It’s the one thing he really couldn’t comprehend. There was security, but no one seemed really worried. Even despite the earlier attacks, people were anxious for life to return to normal. Unlike in his country, in the U.S. trouble always seemed to happen to other people farther away. Maybe it was because the country was diverse. Maybe because people didn’t understand real suffering. Hunger. Poverty. Maybe because they didn’t respect the rule of law. The rule of one. The rule of the leader.

  Well, he thought, in a short time it will come home to millions of people here. What do they call it? City of Bridges. But not for long.

  SUMMERLIN, NEVADA

  The FBI and Homeland Security agents finished their walkthrough of the Southern Nevada Water Authority’s Intake Station No. 2 at the control station.

  “Anything else?” Richard Harper asked.

  “Nothing right now,” Agent Brown replied. “Your security will be on duty 24/7?”

  “We are a 24/7 facility, sir. We’re never without eyes and ears, both human and—” he pointed up to a surveillance camera, “—electronic. No one goes in or out without being monitored.”

  “Including your hired security?”

  “Including.”

  “We’ll want everyone’s names and Social Security numbers,” the Homeland Security agent added.

  Harper smiled. “Of course, but everyone has been vetted.”

  “Then we’ll vet them again. Is anyone having marital difficulties? Financial problems? Drug or alcohol issues?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, Agent Sugarman.”

  “Become aware. They’re more susceptible to recruitment through blackmail. Notify us of anyone who shows unusual tendencies, a change in work habits, not making a shift, sudden illnesses, or interest in areas beyond their scope. They’re all signals.”

  “Yes, sir,” H
arper replied. “But because of the operation here and the impact on Las Vegas and beyond, we maintain the highest possible standards.”

  “Raise them higher,” Brown declared.

  “Is there something you’re not telling me?” Harper asked. “Do you suspect a problem here?”

  “Just raise those standards higher. Oh, and we’re going to augment your security detail.”

  Harper forced himself to nod approvingly. “Of course. Whatever you feel is necessary.”

  The agents left, and Harper was grateful they didn’t know enough to ask to see some of the more sensitive areas of the facility.

  34

  PARIS, FRANCE

  Savannah Flanders’s French was good, thanks to the eighteen months she spent at the New York Times’s Paris bureau. Her time in the city also gave her entrée to police circles. She recognized an inspector talking to his officers at the Kensington Rêve.

  “Chief Renard,” she said walking up to him. “May I have a moment?”

  The French police officer glanced at Flanders. He instantly recognized her and held up a finger. Flanders stepped back and patiently waited.

  “My goodness, it’s been…” He calculated how much time had passed. “Two years?”

  “More like three,” the reporter replied.

  “We let time slip by too easily.”

  “We surely do.”

  “And so, a crime brings you back to Paris. Is there something you can share with me?”

  “That’s my question for you, Paul.”

  “No comment.”

  She filled in her own answer. “I’m inclined to think international. Reilly was in Washington on the bridge when it was bombed. He helped in the rescue. Days later he’s shot in his company’s hotel. That just doesn’t happen.”

  Renard tilted his head to one side, taking in the information but saying nothing.

  “Paul, you’re holding back.”

  He still said nothing.

  “Come on. Show a little love. Any leads on Reilly’s killer? What does your surveillance video show? This has the feel of a calculated hit with a quick escape plan. That raises two possibilities: he crossed somebody in organized crime, and this was payback, or it’s a government hit. But what government? In either case, it makes me wonder why anyone would have a contract out on a hotel executive, unless he was more than a hotel executive.”

  “That’s a big jump, Savannah.”

  “Or not. Come on, show me a little love, inspector.”

  Renard looked left and right before stepping forward to whisper. “Give me your number.”

  Flanders fished out a business card from her back pocket. She said, “I want the story first.”

  “And piss off everyone in Paris?”

  “You owe me. Remember I came to you about your department’s collusion in the Louvre theft. I gave you a two-hour lead before breaking the story. Time for you to make your arrests.”

  “You’re calling in the mark?”

  “I am. Time to collect,” Flanders said with self-assurance.

  “Okay. Keep your phone handy.”

  “Always is.”

  Inspector Paul Renard waved adieu.

  Savannah started for the exit but paused at the chalk outline on the floor. She’d seen them before, dozens of times. It always left her with the same queasy feeling. She walked around the gruesome outline. Arms flailed out; body crumpled. Dried blood on the left side, where his heart had come to a stop. She made mental notes for her article. Grim depictions of a crime that had taken a hero. Flanders wished she had met him.

  She headed for the door. Time to check into a hotel. Not this one. And shower.

  Flanders heard the phone as she was about to step into the shower. Blowen from New York. She inserted an iPod earpiece in her left ear.

  “Hey there. What’s up?” She turned the shower off, put on a hotel bathrobe, and crossed to a desk in the bedroom.

  “Good news, bad news, interesting news.”

  “Bad news first,” Flanders replied.

  “Bad news it is. Most of Reilly’s record is sealed.”

  “We knew that,” she replied.

  “Lt. Reilly’s Army record, that is,” Blowen continued. “But on the good news side, I’ve got bits and pieces from a source and even earlier history from a few calls I made to Boston, including the Boston Police.”

  “Police. He’s got a record?”

  “No, he got into a summer teen program at the Police Academy. His mother was a 911 operator. Apparently beloved. So, he had an open door to seeing how departmental branches worked, from the ballistics unit, to juvenile, harbor patrol, and the mounted unit. By the time he was through with high school, he’d earned a reputation as a crack shot.”

  “Was his father a cop?”

  “No. Killed on a land mine while serving in the Army.”

  Flanders nodded. Blowen continued. “While in college in Boston, Reilly took a job as a security guard at the Prudential Center, a local office, apartment and shopping mall. Uniformed and all. I’m getting pictures. There was an entry that the Boston police had during his senior year. Reilly interrupted a robbery at the mall. Three men. He tried to take them on. A clobber on the head took him out of the fight. Another security officer found him and called 911. Here’s a timely coincidence: his mother was on duty. He got help damned fast.

  “Reilly gave a detailed description of the robbers. They were caught. He went back on the job, finished school and enrolled in the Army. Thanks to letters of commendation from the Chief of Police and his bosses, he was admitted into the twelve-week Officer Candidate School in Fort Benning, Georgia. After that, the Army sent him to the US Army Intelligence Center and NETCOM, the U.S. Army Network Enterprise Technology Command at Fort Huachuca, just north of the Mexican border in Arizona. Secret shit. And because of that, I didn’t get much of what goes on there. Then Reilly went to the Defense Language Institute at the Presidio in Monterey, California, for Russian and Farsi immersion classes. After that, Afghanistan. Whatever he did, most of it’s sealed. But I tracked down one detail.”

  “Oh?” She was taking notes but feeling she’d be writing Reilly’s obit instead of a feature article.

  “He was decorated for valor, then he retired unceremoniously.”

  “Unceremoniously?”

  “Picked a fight with some general, don’t have the full story yet or his name. But it was bad enough for the general to go down and for Reilly to have to watch his back. So, he left, but went right into a State Department job. According to my source, he did bigtime research on potential terrorist attacks.”

  At that moment her phone vibrated. She looked at the caller ID. It was from a French cell.

  “Hold, Mike,” Flanders said to her colleague. “Call coming in.” The reporter switched over and went from English to French.

  “Flanders,” she began.

  “Because I like you and we’re not having this conversation, you have thirty minutes before this goes out to wider.”

  “Thirty minutes? I gave you two hours. I can’t do much in that time, even online.”

  “The world moves much quicker today, Savannah. Thirty minutes. Write fast.”

  Flanders turned the volume up on her earpiece. “Go,” she said.

  “Reilly,” he paused to make sure she would follow him.

  “Yes,” She wrote Reilly’s name on her pad and circled it.

  “…wasn’t the victim.”

  “Say that again.”

  “Mistaken identity. We’re absolutely certain. The deceased is an American businessman. But not Reilly.”

  “How long have you known this?”

  “Long enough, but I couldn’t tell you before. Had to wait until we notified the family in Connecticut, which we’ve done. I’ve called a press conference in thirty, now twenty-nine minutes. You have an anonymous source, so go write your story. If you want more, come back to the hotel and ask your questions with everyone else.”

  “One
more question, Paul.”

  “One more.”

  “Where’s Reilly now?”

  “You’re the reporter. Find out. We’d love to talk to him, too.”

  With that Flanders returned to Blowen with her news.

  “Now I’ve got a bulletin for you.”

  35

  CARACAS, VENEZUELA

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON

  EJ Shaw’s mission for Reilly was urgent and in two parts. During his call, the company founder had not minced words.

  “Given the political turmoil in Venezuela, we’re ready to close down the Caracas Kensington Royal properties and arrange for the management to move to the Bogotá Hotel.”

  It had been Reilly’s recommendation a month earlier, but now Shaw was prepared to pull the plug—and no matter how much Reilly objected, Shaw insisted that he go. Reilly asked if there were others who could go instead; Shaw said no.

  “People trust you, Dan. It’s your plan. Set it in motion.”

  The general managers at both hotels had been informed of the decision. Caracas was getting too dangerous for Chicago to guarantee the safety of guests, even if they upgraded to full Red Hotel status. It was the right decision, and was reinforced for Reilly by the military presence at the airport and the third-degree treatment he got at customs.

  “Name.”

  It was clearly printed on his passport, but Reilly answered with no emotion.

  Less is best. There was a time when he would have chatted up the officers on duty, but not today. Venezuela had slid further into Bolivaresque autocratic rule; the United States was not a friend of the current administration (Russia, China, Cuba, and North Korea, however, were). The fundamental shift in alliances against the U.S. made the armed officer approach Reilly with intense suspicion. The feeling was mutual.

  “Daniel J. Reilly.”

  The customs officer, probably 35 and politically indoctrinated (or just power-hungry), studied Reilly, his photograph, then Reilly again.

  “Occupation and purpose of your visit,” he said accusingly. If the officer was trying to throw Reilly, it didn’t work. Reilly smiled politely and kept his eye contact directly on the man that separated him from his job and getting to Kiev, where he was really needed.