Red Deception

by Gary Grossman

“How’s the read?” he asked, peering down and seeing she was paging through Thomas Piketty’s influential book on economics, Capital in the Twenty-First Century. Reilly had read it on a flight to Beijing.

  “Deep. I don’t understand most of it.”

  He smiled. Or any of it, he thought and he was willing to bet the book was on the seat and she just picked it up before sitting. A handy prop.

  “Are you a guest? I’m with the hotel, I’d be happy to help you.”

  “Thank you. I’m on holiday—heading out in a few minutes. But it’s kind of you to ask.”

  “Well then, have a nice day,” Reilly said. “Do let me know if there’s anything you need. I’m Dan Reilly, you can ask for me by name.”

  “Thank you, Dan Reilly,” she said again before looking down.

  “Pozhaluysta, madam—” You’re welcome, Madame.

  “And I’m Maria Pudovkin,” replied Col. Martina Kushkin.

  “Your English is very good, Ms. Pudovkin.”

  “Your Russian,” she laughed, “is very poor, Mr. Reilly. But thank you again for your hospitality. Perhaps we’ll meet again.”

  “I have a feeling we will.”

  Pudovkin, he mused. Not even a chance that’s her real name.

  46

  HENDERSON, NV

  The Denny’s night manager never knew Angie Peterson to be late. So, when she hadn’t shown up an hour after her shift began, he called her cell. Peterson’s voicemail picked up. He left a concerned message. He did the same thirty minutes later, and another thirty minutes after that. Now three hours without word from his employee, he called the Henderson Police Department.

  A deputy was dispatched to Kansas Avenue at 1:40AM. Her dented Ford Galaxy was in the driveway of the single-story home. He felt the car’s hood: cold. He knocked on the locked front door: no answer. He peered through the front window. Nothing.

  With his duty flashlight in hand, the deputy walked around the structure, peering into each window. The small dining room and the kitchen: nothing. Next, fifteen feet away, the bathroom window with fogged glass: nothing. Now a dark bedroom with an opened shade. He shined his light, first illuminating a closed door at the far end. Then across the wall to a six-drawer dresser, to the middle of the room, and then the opposite side, to the bed: nothing.

  He continued around the corner of the house, finding another bedroom window. His flashlight beam flooded the room. He slowly panned from the door to the open closet, past the bureau and TV, to the bed; a blood-soaked bed with the body of the thirty-three-year-old woman face up. Her throat was slashed.

  Deputy Waldo Sheridan hadn’t known her by name, but he recognized her from the restaurant. Always chipper and refusing tips from police, always there with free coffee and refills. He liked her and wished her well the last time he had seen her. Looked like it hadn’t turned out that way.

  Sheridan radioed for backup and a medical examiner. People would have to be woken up. The only way to help her now was to secure the crime scene and look for evidence.

  By 6 AM ET, details of Angie Peterson’s murder were circulating through the National Crime Information Center, NCIC, the database shared among federal, state, and local criminal justice departments and the FBI. A seemingly local matter wouldn’t have been noticed some 2,421 miles away from Henderson except for the proximity to a keyword already flagged by the bureau: Hoover Dam. Vincent Moore’s work had been deliberate; he’d requested that anything and everything that came up from the area be sent to him.

  At 8:35 AM in Washington, Moore read the report. He’d eaten at the Henderson Denny’s just days ago. At night, too, probably served by the murder victim. Moore tried to picture her: early thirties, sandy brown hair pulled back in a bun. Friendly and chatty. He downloaded a series of photographs attached to the file; it was her.

  The preliminary NCIC report described the cause of death. Brutal, but apparently no rape involved. Or theft.

  So, Moore wondered, why did someone kill you? Why you?

  47

  LONDON

  The next morning Reilly was on his way to his next flight. He finished checking out and quickly headed through the hotel lobby. Suddenly a woman with a rolled-up London Times took three steps directly toward him.

  “Mr. Reilly?”

  Dan Reilly automatically lifted his head. The woman smiled.

  “Dan Reilly?”

  Almost simultaneously, a man the size of a refrigerator appeared from near the entrance along with two security officers with weapons drawn and aimed. Safeties off. From behind, Refrigerator Man locked both of his arms inside hers. Her newspaper fell to the ground. With his right foot he slammed the back of her leg just behind her knee. The woman crumbled to the ground. Guests in the lobby scattered. Refrigerator held her still, not that she could have moved against his weight.

  The guard to Reilly’s left swept him behind and held his gun three feet from the surest part of his target, the woman’s chest.

  The other guard kicked the newspaper away. Sections separated. But there was no weapon.

  “I can explain,” she said.

  “Shut up!” the security officer protecting Reilly replied, now slipping her purse down her arm and nodding to the man to loosen his grip so the third guard could take it.

  “I’m—.”

  “I said shut up!”

  The security officer opened her purse and rummaged through the contents. Wallet, paper, keys, passport. No weapon.

  “Clean,” he said almost disappointedly. Then he checked her wallet and found her identification. He stepped back and holstered his pistol. Refrigerator Man took that as a cue to loosen his grip.

  “Are you happy now?” She rose, giving all three guards an incensed look. “I’m a reporter for the New York Times.” She held her arm out for her purse. “My name’s Savannah Flanders. Who the hell did you think I was?”

  Reilly stepped around his protector.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Flanders. We’ve had some issues.”

  “That’s why I’m here. And to tell you the truth, you’re a hard man to find,” she said. She glared at Refrigerator as she rubbed her arm. “Even harder to talk to once found, apparently.”

  “Well, you found me. But I have to admit, you gave me a scare.”

  “You? The gun was on me!” Flanders declared. “That’s a first. I don’t want a second.”

  Reilly felt like saying, Can’t guarantee anything if you stick around me. He didn’t. Instead he announced to everyone in the lobby, “All’s fine.” And to Flanders he offered, “I hope you understand. You approached….”

  “Stupidly. Just like the assassin in Paris. Totally my fault. I should have realized.” She now addressed the guards. “No issue from me, gentlemen. You were doing your job.”

  The first guard to act picked up the newspaper and returned it to Flanders.

  Reilly looked at his watch and told the security team, “We’re fine. Thank you. I owe Ms. Flanders a conversation.” To her he added, “I presume if we don’t chat now…?”

  “I’ll find you again.”

  “Now it is, then.” Reilly led her to an office behind the check-in desk. Once settled, Flanders removed a reporter’s notebook and opened to a blank page. She sat, he stood.

  “I phoned your office and spoke with your assistant,” she began.

  “I got your messages. Brenda told me you were passed along to our public relations department.”

  “I don’t talk to PR people. I write investigative articles for the Times, Mr. Reilly. We develop stories on our own.”

  “And I’m your story?”

  “You were because of what you did in Washington.”

  “Oh?” he asked, not acknowledging anything.

  “Yes and the story only got more interesting because—”

  “I’m not anyone’s story, Ms. Flanders.”

  “Before you decide that, let me explain. From all the video I watched of the 14th Street Bridge attack, one man stood out. One man w
ho helped people. An elderly couple, women, children, disoriented victims. I lost count. This man risked his own life, getting people out of their cars before they exploded. All of this before others acted. We searched for this man, Mr. Reilly. Calls everywhere, some facial recognition programs, and then a simple match to testimony at a Senate hearing. Your testimony, Mr. Reilly. We discovered you are.”

  “Persistent.”

  “Like I said, Mr. Reilly, tenacious. I wanted to interview you about the morning. What you did. What you saw. Whether you sensed anything beforehand.” She smiled and added, “Who you are.”

  “I wasn’t the only one—”

  She interrupted. “You were the first.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you with much,” Reilly stated. “I was just a guy who wanted to help.”

  Flanders smiled. “Who could help…who was even trained to help. That’s you, Mr. Reilly.”

  Reilly checked his watch. “I really have to—”

  “Two more minutes. If after that you don’t want to talk, I’ll do the story on my own.”

  He sighed. There was no easy way to get out of this. “Okay, two minutes.”

  “Well, maybe three, but stop me at two if I haven’t engaged you,” she replied lightly.

  “Go.”

  “You see I was so intrigued by your accomplishments that we dug deeper into your background. What we could find of it. We were able to piece together early history. Growing up. Your father’s death. Your mother’s work with the Boston police. It gets foggier after that. We have some of it. Special military training, an assignment abroad and an incident with a general in Afghanistan. All of that might not be of interest had you not acted in the moment in Washington and then just the other day in—”

  “Paris,” he volunteered.

  “Yes. The assassination attempt against you. In my line of work, I’ve never believed in coincidences.”

  Reilly gave a half-smile. “You’re not alone.” He decided to sit, signaling she’d just bought more time.

  “Ms. Flanders, I have no doubt that in time, with your resources, you could dig far and wide to put together a compelling piece. But simply put, my actions in D.C. were in the moment. I had a choice. I stepped in.”

  “Not everyone would.”

  “You’re right. But your research must have shown that I’m in charge of my company’s international business. And internationally, we face threats that we have to prepare for. We’ve been targeted at times. Even attacked. So we’ve developed comprehensive security plans that rate the risks.It’s my responsibility to implement those plans.” Reilly didn’t go so far to say he was the father of the Red Hotel strategy, which ranked the level of threats and outlined the necessary security procedures to accompany each assessment. “All of this means, lives matter to me. I did what I could on the bridge.”

  Flanders thought for a moment. “So, are you asking me to forget writing about you?”

  “I’d prefer that.”

  “But I haven’t gotten to my most important questions.”

  Reilly tilted his head, fully expecting the reporter wouldn’t give up. “Which are?”

  “Why did someone want to kill you? And do you have any idea who it was?”

  Without hesitating, Reilly lowered his voice. “I can’t comment.”

  “That says a lot.”

  “It says I can’t comment.”

  The reporter realized she was no longer just interviewing—with still nothing on paper—a business executive. He was much more than a man helping others in a crisis. He was in the middle of one himself.

  “We’re through, Ms. Flanders.”

  “Actually, I have one more question.” Reilly blinked. “There’s a rumor circulating about a State Department study that details terrorism soft targets across America.”

  “Oh?”

  “Targets that have been hit in the past few days in just the manner outlined in the report.”

  “Have you seen it?”

  “No, but I thought a former member of the State Department might know something about it.”

  “Look, Ms. Flanders, I don’t respond to rumors based on something that may be years old. And I can’t comment on anything about my past government work, which you’ve obviously been looking into. I’m in the private sector now.”

  Flanders smiled. “I never said it was an old report, Mr. Reilly. Thank you for confirming that.”

  48

  LONDON

  HEATHROW AIRPORT

  Reilly fastened his seatbelt in advance of takeoff. He was in a bulkhead row adjacent to the door on the port side of the commuter plane.

  The Austrian flight attendant knelt beside him.

  “You’re capable of assisting in case of an emergency?”

  Please, no more emergencies, he thought.

  “Yes. Definitely.”

  He was told they’d have good flying weather. However, based on the most recent State Department advisories he read on his phone, landing in Kiev could be a problem.

  Just as the pre-flight announcement began, Reilly’s cell rang. It was Alan Cannon.

  “About to take off,” Reilly whispered.

  “This won’t take long. I’ve got an update for you on Paris.”

  “Oh?” The flight attendant wagged her finger good-naturedly at Reilly.

  “Got an admission from one of the KR London staff. A young man on the front desk. Very guilty sounding. Apologetic.”

  “Over?”

  “You…and the man in Paris. He told a guest where you were headed.

  Pillow talk,” Cannon explained.

  “Jesus,” Reilly said.

  “Yes, I talked to him myself. He confessed that a woman came on to him when he checked her in. A Russian businesswoman. Named….”

  “Maria Pudovkin,” Reilly interrupted. He was greatly relieved it was the fake Russian tourist, not Marnie.

  “How did you know?” Cannon exclaimed.

  “She was in the lobby yesterday. Stalking me.”

  49

  KIEV

  Landing at Boryspil International Airport was hard enough; getting through the mass of people in the terminal was another thing entirely. Thousands without tickets were waiting for planes out of the country, but not enough planes were coming in.

  Reilly pushed through the crowd. He hailed a cab, expecting an expensive ride into Independence Square.

  “Eight-thousand-five-hundred UAH,” the driver said in English. Three hundred US dollars.

  “You’ve got to be kidding. It’s usually 900 UAH.”

  “Nothing is usual right now. Today it’s eighty-five hundred. You want a ride or not?”

  “Independence Square,” Reilly said. “The Kensington.”

  “Can’t get you all the way in,” the driver said.

  He looked over his shoulder and smiled. It didn’t improve his looks. He had a scar on his right cheek. Reilly figured it was from a knife fight. His grey t-shirt was rolled up to his shoulders, revealing a tattoo of a bat over a parachute atop two crossed swords. Distinctive. Memorable—the shoulder sleeve insignia of the 3rd Spetsnaz Regiment, signifying his service in the 3rd Special Purpose Detachment of Ukraine’s Special Forces Command. Reilly didn’t acknowledge it.

  “I saw the rioting on TV. How close?”

  “From the hotel? Right there. Bad time for a tourist.”

  “Uh huh,” Reilly replied.

  “Do you know your way around?”

  “I do.”

  As they left the airport perimeter, the driver showed he was up to date on all the developments.

  “The fucking Russian Southern Military District has 50 formations and military units aimed at us. The Black Sea Fleet, the Caspian Flotilla, and whatever planes they have ready to drop bombs on us. Gorshkov accuses us of violating Article 19 and 21 of the UN Convention. Blaming Ukraine for encroaching on his maritime security and provocative actions in the shipping lanes. Bullshit.”

  “Doesn’t Russia hav
e the right to inspect any vessel sailing through the Sea of Azov?”

  “More bullshit. A bullshit treaty from 2003 and they’re abusing it. Using it as bullshit provocation. They ram our boats; they attack our sailors. They parade them before the cameras and make our boys recite memorized texts that they knew they were in Russian waters. It’s all a lie. They supply their pro-Russian thug separatists with arms and so we live under martial law. But for how long? They say forty-thousand troops are ready to invade. And what will you, the West, do? Nothing. The same nothing your country gave Crimea. We are not NATO. We’re not France or England, or even Poland. I bet you can’t even spell Ukraine right.”

  “I can spell it just fine.”

  The driver snickered.

  “Who are you, man? Nobody wants to go to Kiev. Everyone wants to get out.”

  “Yeah,” Reilly said under his breath.

  “On business?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hard time to get business done. Better act fast.”

  “You’ve got that right,” Reilly replied.

  The driver smiled. “If your business involves getting out alive, I know the best routes. It won’t be Boryspil.”

  Reilly cocked his head. The driver saw the look in his rear-view mirror. They were sizing each other up.

  “Ah, I have your interest.”

  “Keep going, mister….” Reilly waited for the driver to give his name.

  “Volosin. Ilya Volosin.”

  Reilly played a hand.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Volosin?”

  The driver laughed. “Major.” He reached back and offered Reilly a hand to slap. “Very observant. So again, who are you?”

  “Someone who will need those routes.”

  “It’ll cost,” the former special forces officer joked.

  “If you’re for real, that won’t be a problem.”

  The CNN video Reilly had seen didn’t tell the whole story. Tanks blocked vehicular traffic to some streets in the city center. Troops gave long, hard looks to cars passing by. Looks that could kill.

  Volosin made twists and turns, adding more time to the drive. “You worried?” he asked his passenger.