The explosions in the background were evidence enough of what was occurring.
“Change of plans.”
“No shit, Sherlock. We’ve got eyes overhead. I see what’s going on.”
Reilly didn’t ask and didn’t want to know how the mercenary tapped into satellite imagery or communications. But it was good that he knew.
“Whiskey5 is out. I need you to reroute west to another airport. A regional field. Zhytomyr.
Thompson replied. “Zhytomyr? Never heard of it.”
“Find it. It’s on the map. But it has a shorter runway.”
“By how much?”
Reilly read the numbers.
“You’re crazy. Do you have any idea how—?”
“I do.”
“The problem is the math, Reilly. The math doesn’t work.”
“Come on, Thompson. You’ve done more with less.”
“Fully loaded on the way out? Find me another otherwise I turn the plane around.”
“I can’t. My transportation options are limited and I’m relying on friends on the ground here to make this work.”
The ex-British commander said nothing. Reilly dared to use his first name.
“Reginald?”
“I’m here.”
“Well?”
“We’re talking a different deal.”
“Let’s have it,” Reilly said, expecting as much.
“The price just went up with the risk: 25 percent more. I’ll need the additional money within twelve hours of clearing Ukrainian airspace.”
“Okay on the first. After we land, give me twenty-four hours on the extra.”
“Twelve, otherwise I’ll be coming for you,” the mercenary countered.
“You’ll have to get in line.”
“What?”
“Nevermind. Eighteen hours.”
“Deal. But there’s another problem.”
“I’m listening,” Reilly replied.
“If you want to take off, you’ll have to solve a serious weight problem.”
Reilly knew exactly what he meant.
“I’ll have it figured out. Just make it to Zhytomyr.”
62
WASHINGTON, D.C.
THE OVAL OFFICE
National Security Advisor Pierce Kimball briefed Acting President Battaglio, who was trying to get comfortable at the president’s desk—now his desk. Live satellite images fed a monitor. The president’s team viewed the northeast border between Ukraine and Russia from above; motion was on the Russian side, forward motion. Battaglio listened first to Kimball, then to CIA Director Gerald Watts, and then to Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Robert Levine. Lou Simon, President Crowe’s Chief of Staff, followed along.
“Options?” Battaglio asked, not immediately certain what was possible.
“Limited,” General Levine said. “Like before.” Before was Crimea. “Because Ukraine isn’t in NATO, we have no formal reciprocity agreement.”
“There’s another consideration,” Watts said. “We’ve intercepted internal communications. Brutka is working on his exit plan, he could be in exile by early morning Ukraine time.”
“What about Americans? Gorshkov would have to guarantee their safety,” Acting President Battaglio stated.
“Based on what?” Kimball was serious. “He’s still claiming it’s a humanitarian effort in support of Russian nationals.”
“Same bullshit Putin used,” Battaglio declared. “The world can see what’s going on.”
“But Americans don’t take the time to understand or care,” General Levine argued.
“Lou? What’s your take?” The Chief of Staff, an associate of Crowe’s since the senate and never more than lukewarm on Battaglio, shook his head.
“You do still work here,” Battaglio said, acknowledging their differences and suggesting changes to come if Crowe died.
“Sir, General Levine is only reporting on the polls and the commentators.”
Battaglio felt he needed to say something strong. He proposed a call to Gorshkov, asking him to temper his actions.
“President Crowe did that. It went nowhere,” Pierce Kimball interrupted. “Without some concrete action, you’ll appear weak. If anything, you need to step it up.”
No one disagreed. No one spoke.
“Then I’ll face him in Stockholm. It’s time he met the new President of the United States.”
Simon almost blurted out, Acting President. He assumed the others likewise held their tongue
As people were standing to leave, the president’s secretary called on the intercom.
“FBI Director McCafferty is here to see you, sir. He says it’s urgent.” Battaglio told everyone to stay.
McCafferty entered and Battaglio immediately sensed his urgency.
“Sir,” McCafferty sat opposite the acting president. He removed a single sheet of paper from his attaché case and passed it across the desk to Battaglio who quickly read the three-paragraph missive. It included photographs.
“You can’t be serious, Reese,” he said after a minute.
“Completely,” McCafferty replied. Battaglio handed the paper to the National Security Advisor. Kimball read the summary. He was used to briefings on nuclear stockpiles, troop deployments, terrorist threats, Russian flyovers into domestic airspace, security breaches, and government computer hackings. But not poison dispensed by a self-dissolving… He said aloud, “Robot?”
“Who’s going to believe this?” Battaglio stammered.
“It’s real,” McCafferty stated. “We have a partial photograph of the operative who deployed it and…”
McCafferty removed a coaster from his pocket. He manipulated it through his fingers like a close-up magician would a coin.
“And what?” Ryan Battaglio asked.
“This is what powered it. We recovered the disc…”
Kimball interrupted. “It’s just a fucking—”
“To be accurate, a charging station for an origami robot.”
“A what?”
“Origami robot. The coaster is actually a sophisticated electromagnetic charging station made to look like a common White House coaster. It’s quite ingenious.”
McCafferty produced a sample from his case. A folded flat sheet that he placed on top of a thin metal platform.
“Watch.”
In seconds, the paper slowly transformed into a multi-sided origami that began moving.
Everyone was stunned.
“It’s made of 1.7 cm PVC sandwiched between laser-cut layers of dissolvable polystyrene. According to developers, it can weigh as little as 0.31g. Once on the pad and activated, the PVC contracts, and on the edges where the structural layers had been, it folds into itself. Our lead investigator gave the problem to an MIT expert who confirmed that with a minute camera and the right upgrades, the robot could be radio-controlled by cell phone or tablet. Cutting-edge technology, sophisticated enough to also contain a dart to deliver poison to the President of the United States—all within a miniature device like this that unfolds, walks, does what’s instructed, then dissolves in water.”
“It’s crazy,” Battaglio concluded.”
“It’s absolutely real,” McCafferty said.
“But why the dog?”
“The dog’s death was purely coincidental, but it’s what led to our conclusion. The origami robot dissolved in the dog dish, the dog drank the water, the dog died.”
“My God!” Pierce Kimball said incredulously. “A fucking paper robot. Nobody’s going to believe it.”
“We have proof,” McCafferty said, pulling a last item from his folder: a photograph. He gave it to Battaglio. Kimball walked behind the acting president and peered over his shoulder. The photograph showed an Asian man kneeling near the drapery. He had a flat item in his hand: the coaster.
“Although the perpetrator tried to remain off to the side, out of the photographs, the White House photographer caught him in this picture. He was a member of the Chamber of Co
mmerce delegation, a man named Lu from Chino, California. But we believe it wasn’t Lu. Someone assumed his identity. The real Lu is missing and presumed dead.”
“Why?” the acting president asked.
“To create further instability. Confusion. Disarray,” Kimball proposed. “But maybe much more. Maybe to add to the chaos on top of the attacks we’ve seen. To demonstrate they can get to anybody anywhere, including the president.”
Ryan Battaglio slumped into his chair. President Alexander Crowe’s chair. It suddenly didn’t seem to fit him.
63
KIEV
To most, the evacuation was not a surprise. Lazlo’s staff had given advance warning calling every room. That didn’t erase the shock of the blaring alarm in the middle of the night and the public address announcement that recycled for ten minutes. No suitcases, only essentials. One small handheld bag each. Guests quickly dressed, packed their essentials—identification, medications, tablets and phones, and whatever clothes they could stuff in their carry-on, and made their way down the stairs to the 2nd floor ballroom.
By 0350, all 247 guests and 35 staff members assembled in the spacious room where weddings had to be booked more than a year in advance, companies competed to have their Christmas and New Year’s parties, and Ukrainian businesses held annual board meetings. No one took much notice of the 18th Century crystal chandeliers, the dark crimson carpet which matched the floor to ceiling curtains, or the trompe l’oeil depictions of the Ukrainian countryside.
As the street-facing windows vibrated with blasts miles away, wives and husbands clutched each other’s hands, and strangers who spoke different languages huddled together.
Savannah Flanders stood off to the right against a wall below a painting of a woman lounging on a divan without a care in the world. Flanders made a note that the painting, by contemporary Ukrainian artist Irene Sheri, offered sharp contrast to the uncertainty in the room. It was just one of many observations she recorded in her notepad
Reilly saw a printed poster on an easel with photographs of a woman and man.
Vitayemo, Yulia I Zelay.
He found a young woman employee and asked what it meant.
“Congratulations! Yulia and Zelay. Yulia is the daughter of the Minister of Commerce. Tonight was to be their wedding. I guess someone forgot to take it down.”
Reilly did it himself.
“Make sure there are no obstructions anywhere. Signs, flowerpots, chairs. We’ll need to move quickly. The more room the better.”
Once everyone was assembled, Reilly climbed up on a chair.
“May I have your attention please!”
Reilly waited for translations in Ukrainian, French and German.
“My name is Dan Reilly.” He told them his position with the company and what the next few hours held. People were nervous. Some cried. He offered assurances.
“We’re going to get you out safely. You have my promise. We’re working with a team of very experienced soldiers who know the city and will get us to an airport. Before going downstairs, you will be given a number. Remember it. Follow your group leaders holding flags. Keep them in sight. Stay behind the person in front of you at all times until we board the buses that are just a few blocks away. With Independence Square closed we’ll walk in the groups of twenty to our buses on a nearby street. We will do our very best to ship everything left behind to you, but our primary concern is your safety.”
Now came grumbling, groans, and complaints. Loud and angry complaints. Reilly raised his hands insisting on quiet.
“They’re just things,” Reilly said. “Things can be replaced. But you have friends and family who are waiting for you. Worried about you. And if we don’t move quickly as a group, then we will miss our window to leave.”
He looked at his watch while the translators caught up. Reilly nodded to staff members at each corner of the ballroom to begin handing out the bright yellow t-shirts with the hotel logo that Reilly had ordered before leaving London.
“Put the t-shirts on over your clothes. We’re passing out felt-tip markers. Write your name and city on your shirt. Think of it as a nametag.”
There was a more practical worse-case reason to have names on the shirts, but Reilly didn’t state it aloud.
“There’s no need to trade up or down for sizes. They’re all extra-large. Just take one and help those around you. This way we will be able to keep everyone in sight and together and you’ll be clearly identified as civilians, not combatants.”
Reilly remained on the chair as the shirts were distributed. At 0355, he saw Volosin and ten armed men enter. Each carried a small white flag on a pole. Reilly acknowledged them with a wave and clapped his hands loudly.
“Ladies and gentlemen, our escorts have arrived. We will begin departing in fifteen minutes. Keep the flags in sight at all times.”
He advised people to use the bathrooms now because there would be no stops.
“Also, no phone calls, emails, or texts en route.” An Italian businessman asked why. “Phone calls might be monitored. We want to move through the city without drawing any attention. That means we’ll be walking through Independence Square quietly.”
Reilly finished with his thanks and a word of comfort.
“You are my responsibility and I promise you: I’ll get you out of the country.”
A flurry of question followed.
“Is Ukraine being invaded?”
“Will the Russians kill us or use us as hostages?”
“When did you say we’ll get our suitcases?”
There was no time to answer them.
“Please, just follow the procedures.”
Reilly stepped off the chair and was speaking with Volosin when a young woman interrupted.
“Mr. Reilly, my name is Deborah Ball. I just want to let you know I can help. I just graduated from college with a hospitality degree and decided on a vacation through the Balkans. Some vacation,” she said forcing a smile. “Maybe this will turn into a good learning experience.”
“Deborah, thank you,” he said with a smile. “I’d love your help. You can definitely take lead in one of the buses and make sure everyone is accounted for. Keep an eye out for anyone needing assistance.”
Reilly made a mental note to talk to the woman when they made it out; she’d just earned herself a corporate job at the end of this harrowing vacation.
Four seniors asked for help. Ball immediately assisted. Stephen Lazlo went to a woman in a wheelchair. Reilly put them in the first group: they’d leave with a little head start.
As people began to move out, Savannah Flanders shot video on her iPhone. She watched Reilly break away from the group, talk to Lazlo, and take two thick envelopes from him. Payoffs to get to safety, she concluded.
Volosin’s team parked four school buses on Prorizna Street, two blocks from the Kensington. Rented, bought, stolen? Reilly didn’t know and didn’t care. Fully loaded, each could seat 72 with another twenty or so standing. They had to load 96 or 97 onto each bus; it would be tight and uncomfortable.
The Ukrainians, likely military trained and long reporting to Volosin, led the groups, flags held high. Their weapons were shouldered and holstered. Reilly recognized them: Israeli-made ITI Tavors, 5.56x45mm assault rifles that could be used in either semi-automatic or fully automatic fire mode and Fort-14TP 9x18mm handguns; standard Ukrainian Army issue. The men were big and tough, killing tough. Bearded and tattooed, with scars and broken teeth worn as badges of honor. Some spoke English better than others. They were direct and polite. They kept the evacuees moving while scanning the buildings above Borysa Hrinchenka Street on the way to Prorizna. Reilly wished it had been a shorter walk, but this was Volosin’s call. He wanted easier access to roads west.
More explosions. These seemed closer. Still outside of the city, but closer. Planes and helicopters screamed overhead toward the action. Volosin was right: they’d never have made it to the main airports.
Reilly alternatingly ra
n to the front of the assemblage and held back to make certain no one got separated. Deborah Ball was doing as promised, as was Stephen Lazlo. Flanders shot more video and photos, avoiding Volosin and his men. Reilly rounded the corner with the last group to the spot where the buses were supposed to be waiting. He exhaled a grateful chest full of air: they were all there.
At the door of each bus was a driver, armed and aware, helping people board and throwing items too large to load to the side. The door to the first bus closed fully loaded, then the second and third. Reilly was the last to board the fourth. He stood facing the passengers.
“Everyone okay?”
He got a mix of nods, thumbs up, and okays, though he could feel the apprehension in the air.
Volosin stepped into Reilly’s bus and gave him a walkie talkie.
“Keep chatter to a minimum. My rule is no one keys a mic unless it’s important.” He showed Reilly the unit. “Earpiece in your ear, press to talk.”
“Got it.”
“Okay. See you at the airport.” Volosin checked his watch and radioed to his team, “60 sekund. Odna Khvylyna.” Then he left the last bus to board the first.
“We’ll be leaving in a minute,” Reilly told his passengers. No one spoke. No one coughed. Reilly had seen this in troops going into battle. A natural reaction. Even the most fearful had to brace themselves.
Reilly heard Volosin radio the drivers. “Hotovyy.” Ready. The engine in bus one revved. Then bus two with the same “Hotovyy.” Volosin called bus three, the one in front of Reilly. No reply. He called again. “Kolisnyk!”
Bus three driver, Kolisnyk, finally keyed his microphone. “Zahubyvsya klyuch.” He recognized the last word from its Cyrillic cousin. Klyuch. Key. He didn’t know the first word, but in context it didn’t sound positive.
“What’s the matter, Volosin?” Reilly asked.
An hour out, the Jordanian charter was ordered to a holding pattern.
“Zhytomyr control, this is Charter 1066, we have limited fuel. We were not cleared to land at Kyiv Oblast or Zhuliany. We are on a United Nations mission of mercy. We must land and pick up our passengers, currently en route.”
Red Deception Page 24
