Red Deception

by Gary Grossman

  The agents closed the bridges for four hours, checking each vehicle in the immediate area before turning them around. Provisions had to be made for bathrooms and other emergencies, including a pregnant woman who was rushed to a hospital to deliver twins.

  They tagged eight bodies. None of the combatants carried identification, so it would be up to the FBI labs to try to identify the dead. But there was a hint to their origin: it had been captured by FBI microphones and cameras wired days earlier throughout the bridge cable housing, and reviewed by Vincent Moore in the lead helicopter.

  Junbidoen. They had been ready.

  LONDON

  Flanders watched the breaking news bulletin on CNN: the FBI had thwarted a terrorist attack on the Bay Bridge between San Francisco and Oakland, California. Traffic was at a standstill. Talking heads could only speculate beyond the limited first reports. From live news helicopter cameras she saw what looked like bodies under a tarp. It eclipsed her story, but she somehow thought there had to be a Reilly connection. She called his cell.

  “Reilly, it’s Savannah. Watching the news?”

  “Yes, we got lucky,” he replied.

  “We?” She noted that Reilly’s voice was confident, the way it had been in Ukraine.

  “They. The FBI,” he quickly added.

  “What do you know?” He didn’t respond. “Damn you, Reilly. Give me something! At least off the record!”

  She only heard the sound of Reilly’s TV in the background.

  “Who are you!” she demanded.

  “A guy who thought he could help. It’s what I do.”

  “Oh, you’re much more than that. You want to know what I think?”

  Reilly didn’t really want to hear.

  “I’ll tell you. And maybe it’ll be part of my article. You’re Cecrops.”

  “What?”

  “Cecrops from Greek mythology. Cecrops was the first king of Athens who reigned for fifty years. A cultural hero. Legend has it that Cecrops brought the alphabet to the Greeks. Quite the guy. Like you.”

  He ventured, “Is there a moral to this story?”

  “Yes, relatively speaking. Relative to you. Cecrops had two halves to his being. From the waist up he looked human. The man who taught the Greeks to read and write. The man who introduced the concept of marriage, political representation, and ceremonial burial. Good things. The Acropolis was also known as Cecropia in his honor.”

  “Glad you’ve got your ancient history down,” Reilly said offhandedly. “I’ve got more pressing things to deal with.”

  “Precisely. But wait, this is where it gets really interesting. From the waist down, Cecrops was a serpent, coiled and dangerous. Two parts of the same figure. The top, enlightened and informed. The bottom, a snake; always observing, calculating, ready to strike.”

  She paused for reaction. Reilly didn’t offer any, so she made her point.

  “You’re like Cecrops, Dan Reilly; smart and cultivated. A man of the world. But there’s that other part. The part that knows how to act in the moment. On the 14th Street Bridge. Along the backstreets of Kiev. And if I dig further, I’m sure I’ll discover more of what you do and who you are.”

  “You’re reaching.”

  “Then talk to me, Reilly. Really talk to me. I am going to get my story. It would be far better if you participate.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t help you further.”

  Before hanging up, Flanders made one final declaration. “I’m not dropping this. I’ll see you in Stockholm.”

  67

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  They watched what America was watching—the foiled terrorist attack at the Oakland Bay Bridge, the eight bodies, and one recorded word, now translated.

  “Junbidoen,” FBI Director Reese McCafferty said.

  “June-what?” Battaglio asked.

  “A word recorded moments before their intended detonation. Junbidoen, Mr. President. Korean. It means Ready. It’s clear even through ambient noise. Our translators have no doubt that was the word.”

  “Meaning?” Battaglio wondered.

  “Ready to start the clock. Meaning the terrorists are speaking Korean and therefore probably are Korean, likely North Korean.”

  CIA Director Gerald Watts took the point further.

  “It supports the video of Asians walking away from the 14th Bridge. Our analysts also ID’d them as likely Korean.”

  “And eyewitness descriptions from the Virginia motel where we recovered battery packaging,” added Watts.

  “Battery packaging?” Ryan Battaglio demanded. He didn’t understand.

  “Sir,” McCafferty explained, “from batteries used to power remote detonation devices or the electronics onboard. Hard evidence found by a smart motel housekeeper. And then there is the Denny’s waitress murder outside of Las Vegas.”

  “Excuse me, but would somebody give the president a concise report with everything in it?” Battaglio complained.

  The FBI and CIA directors shot each other looks before glancing over to the National Security Director.

  “Actually, sir, it was in a paper prepared for you yesterday,” Simon said, hiding his immediate frustration.

  “Well, from now on, do more than hand me something. Tell me what it is, its relevance and importance. And show me photographs. I want to see pictures of what you’re talking about!”

  “Yes, sir,” Kimball said, noting both Battaglio’s short temper and short attention span.

  “And?” Battaglio continued.

  “Mr. President?”

  “What the hell went on at Denny’s?”

  “After finishing the late shift, a waitress was murdered in her home.” FBI Director McCafferty stated. “Sir, we believe she took too much interest in a conversation. Perhaps she overheard details on another attack, making her enough of a threat to one of the individuals that he eliminated her. Brutally sir, while she was in bed.”

  “A Korean?” Battaglio asked.

  “Possibly.”

  “Great. I’ve heard likely, perhaps, maybe, and possibly. Is that how America does investigations these days? By speculation?”

  “In the pursuit of facts, Mr. President, yes.”

  All of this was in the report the president didn’t read, but McCafferty felt it was useless to make a point of that. Instead he continued.

  “The cook at the restaurant never saw the patron, but he had two orders. One from a regular, the other a semi-regular. The semi-regular didn’t show up that often, but the regular was known and we currently have him under surveillance. Mr. President, he is the prime suspect in a plot we’ve uncovered. We’re already surveilling his place of employment.”

  “Which is?” the acting president asked.

  “A pumping station,” McCafferty said. “A pumping station connected with Hoover Dam.”

  68

  ONE HOUR LATER

  Dan Reilly took the British Airways flight from Heathrow to Stockholm, which lasted two-and-a-half hours. It was a smooth trip from takeoff to 33,000 feet, spacious in First Class. A finely cooked medium-rare steak and perfectly paired pinot noir appeared at the appointed time; luxury in the air. Momentarily, it distracted him from the uncertainty on the ground.

  It was vastly different for career Air Force pilot Cpt. Chad Barquist in the tight cabin of his U-2S reconnaissance jet at 70,000 feet. The cockpit was his second home, the one his wife Janis didn’t know much about. Few people did. He claimed, quite truthfully, that in addition to being a jet pilot, he was a military photographer. All true. It’s just that the photos he shot were from fourteen miles above the earth and usually over foreign countries trying to hide things.

  His in-flight movements were restricted by his Navy Mark IV high-pressure suit, required for the extreme altitudes and the mission. Barquist was hooked up to a relief tube for urination. When on-call, he stuck to a high-protein, high-fiber diet. He told Janis it was for his sensitive stomach. It wasn’t. It
was to minimize his need to go.

  Today’s takeoff from Howard AFB in the Panama Canal Zone quickly put Barquist over the Chinese ships heading toward Venezuela.

  He was one of two men in the air: one trying to relax, the other working. Dan Reilly was mulling what he already knew, what he had seen and reported to the CIA while detained in Venezuela. Cpt. Chad Barquist was flying almost three times as high as Reilly in a U.S. spy plane, to photograph more evidence.

  Reilly jotted down and prioritized his immediate concerns:

  Accommodating the Russian delegation in Stockholm.

  Confirming the requirements for elevating the hotel to RED threat level status.

  Staying in contact with Heath, and now Secretary of State Matthews.

  Keeping Savannah Flanders at bay.

  Barquist’s concerns were far different. He was focused on getting clear photographs of the three ships; mission coordinates were programmed into his onboard computer. He would make two passes over each vessel at the current maximum altitude, then drop down to 40,000 feet for a second set of passes.

  Two men in the air—thousands of miles apart, but unknowingly connected.

  STOCKHOLM

  THE KENSINGTON NORDISKA HÔTEL

  Reilly forgot his concern about Marnie the moment he felt her breath on his neck at check-in and the words she whispered in his ear, “Get two keys.”

  He smiled but didn’t turn around. At his request, the clerk gave him a suite on the second floor. When he finished checking in, Babbitt was gone. He looked around. She was waiting at the elevator bank already, her hands folded, alternatingly looking impatient and very excited.

  They produced their identification at the lift and showed their keys.

  Once in the room, Marnie kissed Reilly and began unbuckling him.

  “Seems like months,” she murmured.

  “Years,” he countered, as he unclasped her bra.

  It had been what, a week? An ill-timed trip to Venezuela. The Ukraine evacuation. Terrorists at the door, a reporter on my heels. A very busy week.

  Later that evening, Reilly walked the grounds of the Nordiska Hôtel. Security guards were at the entrance and the elevators. Stockholm police were posted outside. Plainclothes Russian security officers were visible everywhere. They looked to be the toughest: tall blocks of muscle standing at check-in, feet away from the elevator banks, peering out windows and roaming common areas. Each group had discrete wireless communication channels. But Reilly was certain that someone—or multiple someones—in the hotel, or in nearby black vans, were listening remotely. Russian, American, British intelligence. Possibly Iranian. Undoubtedly they all knew about one another.

  The Kensington Royal Nordiska Hôtel sat on the Stockholm waterfront near the Old Town and the Royal Palace. Dan Reilly had overseen the purchase and renovation of the classic brick property, which stretched halfway across a city block. KR brought the hotel, built in 1872, back to its historic glory. Millions went into recreating the lobby’s gold leaf walls, Persian carpets, statuary, and a Michelin 3-star restaurant with one of the best Swedish smörgåsbords in all Stockholm. Tapestries throughout the hotel depicted Sten Sture the Elder, a Swedish separatist who took the city from Kalmar Union loyalists in 1471 and became the ruler of Sweden until he died thirty years later at 63. Elsewhere hung a painting of St. George and the dragon dating back to the 1480s, historical works illustrating the old walled city, and photographs chronicling the 1917 Stockholm Peace Conference, which sought to end the First World War.

  During the renovation, Reilly had successfully lobbied EJ Shaw to bring the Nordiska up to international safety standards in order to make it a diplomatic destination; this meant secure entrances and exits not known to the general public, motion-detecting surveillance cameras in every hallway and elevator, and bulletproof windowpanes in the suites likely to be used by visiting dignitaries. For the NATO summit the Russian Federation had booked 32 of them, the biggest and best for Nicolai Gorshkov. The majority of the Russian group had already arrived. That meant senior officials in expensive Italian suits, generals in uniforms weighed down with metals and decorations, and undercover FSB agents—some passing as tourists, others as Russian thugs.

  Reilly surveyed the lobby again; right now, anyone could be an operative. Many probably were. With a little time before his next survey with hotel staff, he left the hotel for some air.

  A block away, walking along the Södra Blasieholmshamnen Riverwalk, Reilly was aware of a tail. Subtle, but not so subtle he wouldn’t notice—two men followed him roughly a hundred feet back. Another, diagonally across the street, twenty feet behind. They all looked Eastern European.

  Reilly stopped, as a tourist might. He took out his phone and shot typical touristy pictures of the yachts moored in the harbor, followed by five smiling selfies with his phone high and wide. High and wide enough to include his trackers: photos to send to Langley. Before moving on he took a dozen more sightseeing pictures of activity along the wharf.

  A block further, Reilly snapped another set of pictures. The tails were still with him. He paused to scroll through the photos he’d already taken, which were decent shots thanks to the fact that the sun set so late. He dubbed the lone man on the opposite side of the street Moe, for a lock of hair falling over his forehead. The second with frizzy short hair was Larry, and the third, a bald guy, Curly—The Three Stooges.

  Reilly emailed the photos to Bob Heath with a short, cryptic note.

  Any idea who my ugly friends are?

  When he returned to the hotel, Moe was sitting in the hotel lobby with a cup of coffee. Larry was positioned next to the concierge. Curly wasn’t in plain sight, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there. They looked different, but cut from the same Russian cloth. Reilly actually expected better, but he wasn’t about to complain. He wondered whether Gorshkov had sent these three stooges to rattle him. Psych ops? Mind games, or part of a greater strategy? He decided he needed Alan Cannon’s help.

  He was about to join his walkthrough when Reilly spotted a familiar face sitting at a corner seat at the lobby bar. A striking woman. Now wearing blue instead of red but looking every bit as seductive.

  Reilly crossed over to talk with her.

  “Ms.—” he struggled for her last name.

  She looked up and tilted her head.

  “Ah, Mr. Reilly. Nice to see you again. And it’s Pudovkin. Better yet, Maria.”

  Her perfume filled the air. Rosemary, he believed. Fresh and inviting, like her smile. But if legend served him right, a scent associated with fairies and weddings, but also witches and burials.

  “I’m flattered you remember me,” she said.

  “Hard not to. You made a strong first impression.”

  “Well then, care to join me?” Pudovkin replied. “I hope my second is even better.”

  Reilly smiled, not showing his true belief—that she was a spider laying a spider’s web—for him.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Pudovkin. Perhaps another time. Unfortunately, I’ve got a meeting coming up.”

  Reilly glanced in the mirror. Moe moved in closer to them, within eye contact of Pudovkin.

  “I’m not used to taking no for an answer.” She signaled the bartender then pointed to her glass and Reilly. “Just a few minutes to get better acquainted.”

  Her accent made her sound all the more seductive.

  “Just a few, but it comes with some questions,” he replied.

  “Professional or personal?”

  “Definitely not personal. I’m involved.”

  She pouted a little girl pout, then said, “Well good for you, Mr. Reilly. But in your travels you must meet with so many interesting people. Don’t you ever…”

  Reilly interrupted. “You’re here on business?”

  She fixed her eyes on him and cheerfully said, “Ah, a boundary. I’m sorry, she must be very special.”

  “Yes, she is,” he replied.

  “Well, then professional it is. I’m a Mosc
ow tourism attaché. Work takes me everywhere. Right now, Stockholm. The NATO summit gives me opportunity to make connections, create business opportunities, and develop new relationships. Like with you.”

  Another smile. Another comment that tended toward the personal.

  Reilly said nothing.

  His drink came. She raised her glass and offered a toast. “To surprise encounters. You never know where life will lead you.”

  He clinked her glass and said without much inflection, “To surprise encounters.” Reilly took a sip. “I imagine you’re very good at sales. Your superiors,” a word he intentionally chose over bosses, “must be very pleased. You know how to work a room and,” he laughed, “develop new relationships.”

  “Not unlike your work, Mr. Reilly.”

  He never gave Pudovkin permission to use his first name.

  “Yes. I work hard for my company. As we discussed in London, I’m President of our international division. It’s why I hotel-hop so much.”

  “Then it seems we’re both in the same business,” she replied.

  “Apparently. And you’re busy at it right now.”

  Now Pudovkin laughed. “Very astute, Mr. Reilly.” With that, she took a slow sip, traced her tongue across her top lip, leaned forward, and looked into Reilly’s eyes.

  “We must do this again.”

  She went in for a kiss. A light kiss. She eased back, smiled and kissed him again. This one lingered.

  “One for each of our meetings,” she said playfully. “But I’ve always felt they come in threes.”

  Reilly had no comeback as she left the bar. Pudovkin hid a broad smile from him, but it was clearly seen by Moe. A few more encounters, she thought, and she might successfully ensnare and compromise Reilly, turning him into a useful asset. But that wasn’t the plan. What a shame, she thought.

  An hour later, Reilly was on another walk and a call with Heath.

  “Got your photos,” Heath said. “We’re on it.”

  “Thanks. I’ll have another friend for you, but I have to pull it off the computer. In the meantime, a name.”