Red Deception

by Gary Grossman

  Gorshkov looked disapprovingly at the reporter. He wasn’t finished. She would have to endure more. But after the press conference she would be rewarded with a diamond necklace to match the bracelet she wore. Gorshkov had a bureau full of them. When they ran out, he’d buy more.

  “I suggest you get your facts right, Sofia. As I stand here, NATO has more than 50,000 troops on a so-called exercise pointing very live missiles at us. At us, Sofia, our homes. Where millions of peace-loving citizens live. NATO has made the world more dangerous, and America’s support of NATO and its demand for more compensation from NATO members has created a great imbalance. In sheer numbers, America has limited borders to patrol—two, Canada and Mexico. The Russian Federation has 20,139 kilometers of border and fourteen countries that must each get our full attention.” He rattled them off by heart. “Norway, Finland, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, Belarus, Ukraine, Georgia, Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Mongolia, the People’s Republic of China, and the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. Fourteen. I will not ever compromise on our safety. Never!”

  Sofia sat. Yakov Sokolov stood. The senior reporter for Russia’s English-language TV channel that played on American cable systems had another Gorshkov-written, well-rehearsed question. He asked it in both English and Russian.

  “Mr. President, Yakov Sokolov, RT. Do you have any words of support for the people of the United States, given the series of terrorist attacks over the past two weeks?”

  “Yes, thank you, Yakov,” he said after the question was repeated in Russian. Gorshkov lowered his eyes from the cameras and paused. More theater.

  “I have spoken with President Crowe, expressing our sympathy for the victims and offering our assistance in tracking down the killers,” he said, another lie. “Good people were merely trying to lead their lives, going to work or home to loved ones. But cowards struck them down. It is unconscionable. Yes, of course I expressed my sincerest concern. And in this difficult hour, he should do the same for us.”

  Then Gorshkov doubled down. He went for one more prepared line, designed to resonate across the Atlantic.

  “The United States should pay attention to its own threats and stay out of Russia’s business.”

  He stood and stared at his close-up camera. It was a look that could kill.

  52

  HENDERSON, NEVADA

  Vincent Moore walked into the Denny’s accompanied by Henderson police deputy Hank Sheridan. Sheridan had picked Moore up at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas. On the drive to the restaurant, their first stop, he filled the FBI Agent in on where they were with the investigation, which wasn’t very far.

  Two truckers were at the counter when they arrived. A couple sat side-by-side at a window. A mother and son were deeper in the restaurant, and an older man was just leaving. A new waitress was on duty.

  “We’d like to speak to Winston,” Sheridan said. He knew the night cook fairly well.

  “He’s in the kitchen. This way.”

  She led them through a swinging door. Sheridan handled the introductions; Winston Chambers, a fifty-something African American, wiped his hands on his apron and offered a greeting to Moore.

  “FBI,” he noted. To the local cop Chambers said, “This is bigger than you thought, Hank?”

  “We’re trying to figure that out, Winston.”

  Moore took over.

  “Mr. Chambers, what do you remember about Angie Peterson last night? Nothing is too insignificant to mention.”

  “Well, I’ve already gone through it with Hank. But whatever you need, Agent Moore.”

  “Did you see anything unusual?”

  “No. Just a few regulars, but I mostly know them by their orders. And honestly, I don’t see much from in here except when I grab orders through the window.” He pointed to the rack of order slips clipped up above the steel window.

  “Anyone acting suspiciously?”

  “Like I said, I don’t see much.”

  “You have CCTV cameras,” Moore said.

  “One.” Chambers leaned through the portal and pointed to the corner. “Not working. Hasn’t for months.”

  It was a problem that existed in too many establishments: the equipment was up but not running. Totally useless.

  “Okay, back to that night. Can you describe anyone she waited on?”

  “Like I said, I don’t see much. But yes, we had a rush at around midnight. Might have been a concert crowd coming home from Vegas.”

  “And Ms. Peterson was on duty then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Credit card transactions?” Moore asked.

  “I handed everything over to the deputy.”

  “Well, we’ve talked to everyone we could identify from the charges,” Sheridan admitted. Winston thought for a moment.

  “Locals were out by around 1:30. Then it was quiet until a couple of guys rolled in. Angie knew one of them, he was a regular. She called him Mr. 2 a.m. Grand Slam. That’s what she wrote on the order. After him, a guy I never saw, but I remember his order. Always egg whites, and he never finishes.”

  Moore needed more than what they ate. “Anything else we could use to identify them besides their orders?”

  “Well, maybe yes. I did look out. Have to crane my neck to see the corner. That’s where they sat. Grand Slam was turned away from me. So was the other guy, sitting back to back with him. But I caught him leaving. Not full on, but I saw him. I think an Oriental guy.”

  “Asian,” Moore corrected.

  “Right, Asian. Well, maybe not Asian. Don’t really know. More American than Asian. A mix.”

  “And the other guy. The semi-regular?”

  “He stayed a bit longer. Polite, quiet, cash customer like the Asian, um, the Asian American. After that it was pretty quiet through the rest of the night. A truck driver came in around four, ate at the counter. Another credit card customer. Hank, you have that one, too.” Sheridan acknowledged this with a nod.

  “Back to the two before, Mr. Grand Slam. Have they been in since?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Show me their tables?” Moore asked.

  Chambers led them to the far end of the restaurant, to the corner and the table adjacent to it. As they walked, Moore considered the questions he asked himself in Washington. Why you, Angie Peterson? Why you, why that particular night?

  “You know,” Chambers volunteered, “I think 2 a.m. Grand Slam never sat anywhere else. And neither did the other guy. Back-to-back. Odd for strangers to do that since the restaurant was empty.”

  Moore took a seat at the corner table facing the wall. It was certainly secluded. He got up and went to the table next to it. A woman and her young son were finishing their meals. He introduced himself and showed his badge, which impressed the boy.

  “Would you mind if I sit where you are, young man? Just for a moment. You’d be helping me with an important investigation.”

  “I really don’t know,” his mother said nervously.

  The boy overruled his mother. “Sure.” He was excited.

  “Thanks. Just for a bit.”

  Now Moore had a clear view of the entrance, the hallway to the bathroom, and straight down the counter to the cash register. He pulled his gaze back along the counter and focused on where Deputy Sheridan was standing, pouring himself some coffee. Moore’s face reflected in the mirror behind the pies. Sheridan caught his gaze and nodded.

  Why you, Angie Peterson? he thought again. Then he understood why: Peterson had had a perfect view of the two men talking. She became suspicious, and her suspicion was reflected in the mirror by the man facing out. The man who didn’t want that suspicion to interfere with—what exactly?

  What? he wondered. Suddenly, it came to him: exactly what Reilly had warned them about.

  53

  WASHINGTON

  Alexander Crowe couldn’t drop the Chamber of Commerce conventioneers from his appointment calendar. They’d come from all over the country, scheduled well before the events t
hat had so suddenly grabbed the news. Some of the participants knew one another, but most did not. For entry into the White House (the Oval Office to be exact) to meet the president, they had provided their Social Security numbers ahead of time. Everyone was cleared.

  There was one slight change, however: Michael Lu. The real Michael Lu, the representative from Chino, California had looked forward to meeting the president. He supported him, had voted for him and believed in his economic policies. A Presidential photo-op for his son was what he really wanted.

  Michael Lu was a second-generation South Korean; his parents had immigrated legally to the U.S. Like many others, they started out working in a grocery store in Brooklyn. But the family had ambition and they’d come with some money. After understanding what it took to run a business, they decided they were ready to own one. But not in the cold—they moved to a Southern California town called Chino where both English and Korean were spoken and they could build a new life.

  By the time Michael was born they owned two markets. By the time he graduated from high school, they had seven; before he finished college, it was up to eleven. With his business degree Michael joined the family firm, eventually succeeding his father as principal owner. A few years later, he was voted president of the Chino Chamber of Commerce. That position earned him a place at the national convention, which led to a White House invitation and the promised photo for his son.

  The only problem was that Michael Lu never made it to the Capitol. He was met in his hotel room by a man who looked a great deal like him. He had been sent to replace Lu temporarily—just for the White House visit. It was a clean kill at Lu’s door: a dart to the heart. No blood, no mess. Five-foot-seven Michael Lu 1 was folded in two and stuffed in a large duffle by five-foot-seven Michael Lu 2. Michael Lu 2 put the body on a luggage dolly he’d brought to the floor. He rolled the dolly to the elevator, down through the lobby, and out the door to a waiting cab—an associate—never to be seen again.

  Meanwhile, Michael Lu 2 skipped all the Chamber of Commerce events, except for going to see the President of the United States. He stayed in the middle of the pack as he entered, then slightly off to the side as Alexander Crowe spoke.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s a pleasure to have you here,” President Crowe said to the excited executives and one intruder.

  “American exceptionalism has many colors, many stories of achievement. You represent the spirit of American business and the very foundation of our economic success. You create businesses and businesses create jobs. Without you we have no America. I’m proud to meet you.”

  The national Chamber president spoke. “Mr. President, we are honored, and your time is short. Allow us a few photographs and we’ll be out of your hair.”

  “Thank you,” Crowe said. “We’re ready and I’m all smiles,” though that was far from the truth.

  Nineteen of the lucky twenty squeezed in for a photograph. Michael Lu 2 remained off to the right side where he knelt and quickly removed a miniscule item from his left vest pocket. It was barely a half-inch wide. Paper thin. Metallic. Flat. He deftly transferred it to his right hand and placed it on the carpet’s edge at the wall just behind the drapes. Next, as people continued to jockey in line, a planted White House coaster slipped down his left sleeve. It matched the other brass coasters in the Oval Office, with the presidential gold seal, with one major difference: it contained a thin heating element. His final step was to place the thin metallic sheet directly atop the fake coaster. No one noticed. He then stepped aside, away from the group photograph.

  The White House photographer snapped a quick series of shots. Historic, Michael Lu 2 thought. Soon even more history would be made.

  Michael Lu 2 left the Oval Office. He passed on taking the chartered bus back to the conference. Instead he walked. Minutes later he sat on a park bench across Pennsylvania Avenue. He took out his cellphone—just another tourist checking his messages. Except, of course, he wasn’t.

  He mused over the fact that the most anachronistic function on the device he held was the telephone itself: everything else it did was beyond the realm of whoever invented the telephone. With his fingerprint he could make banking transactions; with a swipe he could find a hookup for the night. He could text, email, or videoconference around the world. He could watch videos and play mindless games. But now, he was about to play a war game with a remarkable, deadly device.

  Michael Lu 2 pressed an app on his phone. It was programmed with a snarling face. Appropriate, he thought. He followed a prompt to remotely turn on the mechanism. The so-far unnoticed flat sheet, warmed on the fake coaster and silently formed into a tiny, self-driving square with a single small point sticking out. Ingenious. Something out of science fiction, but very real.

  An image appeared on Michael Lu 2’s phone from the onboard camera. But it was dark and unfocused. The curtain. He pressed a command. The device inched forward into the open. The image improved. He saw the American president on his telephone at his desk. He couldn’t hear the conversation; audio capabilities would have added more weight to the gadget. Video sufficed.

  He panned the whole room; the American president was alone with an origami robot.

  When the robot was first developed only a few years earlier, its activation required close operation; not so for the latest generation. It was amazingly simple for a complex object: a cubic neodymium permanent magnet that the robot folds itself around, a tiny battery, and ultra-thin electromagnetic coils that allow the robot to operate from a magnetic field.

  Lu 2 got his bearings and steered the origami robot ahead. It silently moved under Crowe’s desk toward his right foot, and stopped when it reached his right shoe. Lu 2 double-checked his immediate surroundings. No one paid any attention to a man playing with his phone. He returned to his assignment and executed the robot’s most difficult maneuver: extending a point. He directed the robot just above the president’s shoe. Now more slowly, carefully, so as not to tickle the president. He took a deep breath and entered another command. The tip extended. It contained a toxic cocktail of ricin and VX. A scrape of the skin would do. A puncture would be even better, like a mosquito bite, but immediately worse.

  Contact. The president reacted, reflexively twitching his leg. The tiny robot fell, righted itself under Michael Lu 2’s guidance, and provided a view upward. President Alexander Crowe’s fingers attacked an itch on his ankle under his sock. Confirmation.

  Some four feet away, near the bay windows, was a plastic water bowl that belonged to America’s First Dog, Chipper, a Jack Russell Terrier/Chihuahua mix—a true immigrant. The tiny origami robot moved toward it. A straight shot. Lu 2 guided the robot up the side and into the bowl. An instant later, the video went to black as the parts, including the battery, began to dissolve. Thirty seconds later there was nothing.

  54

  KIEV

  Standing in Lazlo’s office, Volosin looked more formidable than he had in the driver’s seat. He was the same height as Reilly but broader, more muscular. He was unshaven; his hair was short and grey. He dressed in leather, like a biker, and yet he spoke with a friendly, assuring voice.

  “Short window for everything to work,” observed the former Spetsnaz officer.

  He turned away from the rough map of Independence Square that Reilly had drawn on the general manager’s wall. Lazlo watched, unsure of the man Reilly had chosen to engineer their escape.

  “If I had just picked up another tourist, my life would be much easier.”

  Reilly laughed. “Yes, but this beats tips.”

  “As long as you don’t get me killed. Twenty-four hours?”

  “Starting now. This time tomorrow.”

  They paused long enough for the sound of Ukrainian jets to clear the sky. They overflew the city every few minutes, each time seeming like they were lower and more numerous.

  “Lots of moving parts.”

  “Lots of them already moving,” Reilly added. “Now show me the best way to get to your buse
s.”

  “You’ll have the money?”

  “It’s on the way.”

  “My men will need to see it.”

  “I need to see the buses.”

  “Money first.”

  “Your money when everyone’s on board the plane.”

  Volosin laughed. “Dealt like a true Ukrainian, ok. Twenty-four hours. We will be ready. Now show me your plan.”

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Five minutes before the president was due to meet with the Speaker of the House, Crowe’s chief of staff, General Lou Simon, opened the door to the Oval Office. He smiled at the familiar scene: the president catching a power nap over his desk. His dog Chipper doing the same beside him on the floor.

  A few feet in, Simon cleared his voice. Crowe didn’t stir. More surprisingly, neither did Chipper.

  Walking further in, Simon repeated the guttural sound. Nothing.

  Almost to the desk, the dog was still not stirring. Simon switched on his booming four-star general voice.

  “Mr. President!”

  No response.

  He leaned over and shook Crowe. He didn’t wake. Simon ran around the side, inadvertently tripping over the white dog with brown ears. The dog remained motionless. He leaned the president back in his seat. Crowe’s eyes were open but showed no awareness. His mouth was covered with a spongy white foam. Simon thought he detected labored breathing, but he wasn’t certain.

  He reached under the left side of the desk, felt around for a small button and pressed it hard. A high-pitched siren blared loudly. Any other time it would have sent Chipper barking and awoken anyone in the West Wing. Everything that happened next happened fast.