Red Deception

by Gary Grossman

  While toweling she called Reilly’s cell. He didn’t answer, which was not much of a surprise; the conference had already begun and he might have things to do. Next, she texted him; it was probably easier for Reilly to discreetly respond that way.

  Flanders thought about napping but dismissed the idea. Instead she dressed, signed onto the hotel Wi-Fi, and checked her email. The usual: her editor, her mother, Facebook friends celebrating birthdays, airline mileage updates, and NYT and CNN news alerts. And one other email: it was from Mike Blowen. A note and a file. The file contained a photograph of Marnie Babbitt from a Barclays newsletter.

  Flanders wondered whether she’d be willing to talk. Likely not, but it would be worth asking.

  If sleep wasn’t an immediate option, coffee was. First in her room, then downstairs at the Panorama Restaurant.

  Twenty minutes later, Reilly returned her text with: Busy now. It was likely one of the auto-replies he’d programmed. Flanders decided to go to Reilly’s hotel and wait. Why not? she thought. It was where the Russian delegation was staying. She might pick something up. Besides, waiting for Reilly was becoming her full-time job.

  Reilly’s outside work was again impinging on his full-time job.

  “What’s up?” Reilly asked when Vincent Moore called in from the US.

  “We’ve got a bead on a guy in Nevada.” It took a moment for Reilly to focus on the context. When he did, he was careful what he said next.

  “Oh?”

  “Oh yes. And you were right.”

  ‘Right’ could mean a number of things: right about the dam, right about the water supply. Right about Lake Meade. Right about Las Vegas.

  “About—?”

  “Yes,” Moore said cryptically. “And we’re taking our time for obvious reasons.” To Reilly, that meant the subject was under surveillance.

  “Don’t wait too long,” Reilly said.

  THE HOUSE OF NOBILITY

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER

  Three hours in, the two sides had hardly gone beyond trading political slogans. Gorshkov, channeling Lenin:

  “History has presented my country with an immediate task. The fulfillment of this task, protecting our people, is our right, our duty.”

  Battaglio, summoning Reagan:

  “Mr. President, our responsibility is to the present and the future, between North America and Europe. A Europe including the Russian Federation. Surely we can both recognize that this is the foundation on which the cause of freedom so crucially depends.”

  Gorshkov employing Castro:

  “Not without recognizing that NATO’s military alliance is an instrument of repression; perhaps not from your perspective, but certainly from ours.”

  Battaglio channeling George W. Bush:

  “The unity between NATO and the United States of America, and our commitment to freedom, carried us to victory in the Cold War. Take heed that this remains the mission that history has set for NATO, and the United States is committed to that mission, Mr. President.”

  The two sides postured; a typical opening round. Gorshkov finally called a break. Each group went to opposite anterooms with ample coffee, tea sandwiches, fresh fruit and pastries. Battaglio promptly pulled Pierce Kimball to the far corner.

  “So far this has been a waste of time.”

  “It’s how it starts, not how it ends,” Kimball explained. “It’s a big game board, Mr. President. Big egos, big stakes. And it takes time to move the pieces around correctly. Stay in it, we’ll get to the issues.” Kimball wondered if the new president was up to the job. He felt Battaglio could use a Cold War primer.

  “You have to remember, sir, Gorshkov thinks and acts like a spy. KGB and FSB—no one ever leaves that behind. Once a spy, always a spy.”

  “And?”

  “Gorshkov has been in it for the long game since he served as Chief Intelligence Officer in Dresden in the last years of Soviet rule. In late ’89, with the end in sight, the Kremlin ordered Gorshkov to burn all the files he and his predecessors had accumulated: names of contacts, assets who had been turned, and those who could be blackmailed in the service of the Soviet Union. Gorshkov adamantly complained. He was overruled. The final command from Moscow, ‘Close it all down. Burn everything. Return home.’”

  “Yes, yes, yes, I know all this!” Battaglio hated being lectured.

  “But you need to realize who you’re dealing with—a ruthless, manipulative dictator who rose out of the ashes of the Soviet Union determined to seek revenge on all those who abandoned him and rebuild Russia into a full super power.

  “Mr. President,” Kimball said, “with the U.S. so preoccupied, Gorshkov believes he’s free to tear through Eastern Europe. Georgia and Crimea were the first and second steps under Vladimir Putin. Gorshkov intends to take the rest back.”

  Battaglio dismissed the assessment with a wave of his hand. “I can make a deal that he’s going to have to take. It’ll calm things down.”

  The National Security Officer was aghast, effectively shot down. Secretary Matthews, who had overheard the conversation, was speechless.

  “Don’t worry. He’ll listen,” Battaglio concluded. He took a few cookies from a platter and walked across the hall to meet with the NATO officials. It was a meeting that ended with grim faces.

  75

  HENDERSON, NEVADA

  Vincent Moore’s team remained in stealth mode, invisible to Richard Harper but not to the man assigned to watch him for Pak Yoon-Hoi—an Uber driver named Jimmy Boyd, who wasn’t interested in picking up fares.

  “You asked me to let you know if you had a problem,” Boyd reported. “Well, it looks like you have a problem.”

  Boyd was a local hire: well-paid but uninformed. A Las Vegas hustler, or in the words of Yoon-Hoi’s Russian teachers, a disposable pawn.

  “People in vans are following Harper from a distance. They went to his apartment and now they’re heading to the plant.” Pak Yoon-Hoi listened. “Good, right? You wanted to know.”

  “Very good, Mr. Boyd.”

  “You want me to stay with them?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. Go back to work but don’t talk to anyone. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.” Boyd smiled, pleased with himself and unaware that he only had another day to live.

  STOCKHOLM

  THE HOUSE OF NOBILITY

  The meeting reconvened.

  “Mr. Gorshkov, there’s something you don’t understand,” Battaglio declared as soon as they were seated again. The Russian didn’t like his tone and replied in kind.

  “What is that, Mr. Battaglio?”

  “You’re not dealing with President Crowe. Though by now, I believe he would have come to the same conclusion as I have.”

  “Which is?”

  “You’re making the mistake of listening to America’s polls and political commentators who are ignoring what’s happening in the rest of the world.”

  The Russian president glared.

  “I don’t,” Battaglio stated firmly. “And during our break I made a call.”

  Gorshkov raised an eyebrow before the translator started.

  “Mr. President, I’ll dispense with any mystery because your own people will soon alert you: I ordered operations at Ramstein Air Base in Germany to full tactical ready in support of NATO troops in Ukraine and Latvia. That means…”

  Gorshkov listened, but he already knew what it meant. Ramstein was home to the United States Air Forces in Europe and Africa as well as AIRCOM, NATO’s Allied Air Command. Altogether at least 54,000 servicemen and women were now on alert and poised to fight the Russian Federation.

  Nicolai Gorshkov sat erect and expressionless. He remained focused on Battaglio as he finished speaking.

  Threat received, Battaglio thought. He waited for a response.

  Savannah Flanders’s press credentials earned her entrance into the Kensington Royal Nordiska Hôtel even with its elevated security. But when she texted Reilly, she got the same auto-response and cou
ldn’t be sure if he’d even seen her message. She was determined to hang around until she could gather some useful information, whether it was directly related to Reilly or not, so she settled into the lobby restaurant and ordered a much-needed coffee. Flanders positioned herself facing the lobby, and observed the various government functionaries milling around while she drank her Americano. Suddenly she spotted Marnie Babbitt stepping off an elevator, clad in a bright summer dress and flats. Babbitt moved with a sense of self-assurance, exuding power and success; no wonder Reilly liked her.

  Flanders promised herself she wouldn’t talk to Babbitt without first speaking with Reilly. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t tag along and see where Babbitt was headed.

  Battaglio hadn’t anticipated Nikolai Gorshkov’s response: he clapped. He clapped for ten seconds.

  “Mr. President,” he said, “no one should ever underestimate you. You have a full grasp of the situation. You have allies to answer to. It’s a perfectly rational response to a situation you view as dangerous. But I ask you to view it from the Russian people’s position, from the perspective of our history.”

  He paused for the translation, then continued, indignant.

  “The Germans in the Great War. The Germans in the Great Patriotic War, Mr. President. Russia attacked both times. In each war, we braced against the enemy at the cost of millions of men, women, and children. Today, the same unsettling political waves are sweeping across Europe. Fascists, right-wing extremists. The EU is splintering. Brexit-light and Brexit-heavy is seeping into political discourse everywhere, including your own nation. You have to admit, it’s part of the fabric of America now. This makes the world unsettled in a way Russia knows all too well. We are bracing for history to repeat itself.”

  Battaglio wasn’t convinced. “Yes, but times have changed, President Gorshkov. Military regimes are not at your doorstep now.”

  “Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But tell that to those men, women, and children in 1914 and 1939. Ah, but we can’t. History only allows us to go forward and hopefully act appropriately on what we’ve learned,” Gorshkov continued. “And so, I was elected to do just that. So, stand down, President Battaglio—we can remain trade partners. Russia’s relationship with America doesn’t need to change, but we can agree to focus on our own problems and peoples. And the countries I welcome into the new Russian Federation will benefit from our protection—which, considering the state of NATO, I imagine looks better every day.”

  Battaglio was accustomed to standoffs in Congress, but this had an order of magnitude beyond those partisan stalemates. He widened his eyes at Pierce Kimball, as if to say, ‘What now?’

  Gorshkov saw it. He had the American president exactly where he wanted him.

  76

  STOCKHOLM

  Marnie Babbitt casually strolled through the aisles of Stockholm’s most famous department store, Åhléns City. She was focused on finding a sexy black bra and matching negligee. For Dan Reilly to see, to get aroused by, to remove. There were other high-end shops, but Åhléns on Klarabergsgatan was an experience all its own and a perfect place to meet. The store took up an entire block. It offered a range of price points and endless choices. Everything for everyone. And considering Stockholm was a true international destination, on any given day, dozens of languages could be heard.

  Babbitt found what she thought would entice. A sheer bra with delicate shoulder straps and satin ribbons drawing attention to her curves. It had a perfect name. Passionata. She walked toward the dressing rooms to make sure it delivered precisely as advertised. That’s when she heard a woman’s voice from behind.

  “Ideal’nyy vybor.”

  Russian.

  The woman continued.

  “On budet lyubit’ tebya v etom…I vne.”

  Babbitt turned.

  “Ah, but I should be using my English more.”

  Babbitt smiled. “That’s alright. I have had some Russian. And yes, it is an ideal choice. He’ll love it on and off.”

  “So nice to see you again, Ms. Babbitt.”

  “And you, Ms. Pudovkin.

  “Nothing like lingerie to whet a man’s appetite and wet your own.”

  The conversation was overheard by another woman a few racks away looking through clothes. Savannah Flanders.

  Gorshkov was performing, reveling in the drama he’d plotted. He considered slamming his hand on the table. But no, not yet. Save that for the right moment to scare the inexperienced American president. The acting president.

  “Mr. President, you have made a huge mistake. It is you who has set the clock ticking to war. I will tell you what will happen and in precisely what order should you continue test Russian resolve: your American planes are about to take off. Do not be mistaken, our defenses are poised to respond. The conflict will quickly escalate; your NORAD computers have Russian installations targeted. And at the moment the first American missile crosses Russian airspace, we will respond, Mr. Acting President.” The last slight was delivered with particular venom.

  “History will blame you. While you come ready to lead us to nuclear winter, I come with a desire to make a summer of peace.”

  Battaglio allowed himself a subtle laugh.

  “You can move beyond your rehearsed Cold War speeches. You’re very good at it, but I suggest we start getting to the substance of our meeting.” Hearing the translation, the Russian president shook his head, a dismissive gesture. More theater. Satisfied that he had taken up enough time, he pressed on.

  “Mr. President, here we are deliberating in one of the most beautiful cities of the Old World. ‘A city between bridges.’ Isn’t that how they refer to it?” The American president was not familiar with the description.

  “A city between bridges. Bridging islands. Bridging cultures—Scandinavian and Russian. It’s interesting that the Swedish Vikings, the Varangians, sailed across the Baltic in the 10th Century founding states in Russia, Belarus, and Ukraine. They pillaged the Jewish shtetls, killed the men, raped the women. Tragic on one level. But on another, they actually saved the bloodlines in those communities, introducing new DNA, reversing the ravages of generations of intermarriage.

  “Yes, ‘a city between bridges.’ And perhaps here,” Gorshkov stopped as if to think, but he had planned for the moment, “let us find another bridge to build.”

  Savannah Flanders watched the encounter, first from some twenty feet away, then even closer holding an armload of clothing. She caught much of their conversation in English but noted that some had been sprinkled with fluent Russian.

  “I’m sorry, but this is inappropriate,” Marnie said.

  “You’re so right. Forgive me,” Pudovkin offered.

  “Of course.”

  “And you. It is Marnie, right?”

  “Yes, Marnie,” Babbitt replied. “Marie?”

  “Maria.”

  The woman passing as Pudovkin touched Babbitt’s hair lightly. Marnie didn’t recoil.

  “Beautiful silky hair.”

  “Thank you.”

  Pudovkin lingered. The way she did when she touched Marnie’s hand.

  Marnie breathed deeply and closed her eyes for a moment. She looked around. From her vantage point, no one took particular notice.

  Pudovkin laughed. “I’m sorry. You remind me of someone.”

  “That happens.”

  The Russian withdrew her hand and looked around.

  “Well, try it on. I’m sure he’ll be pleased. And if you need another opinion, I’m here.”

  “I think I’ll be fine,” Babbitt replied.

  “I’d go so far as to say you’re better than fine.” Then the Russian woman leaned in and whispered into Babbitt’s ear. Babbitt smiled and nodded.

  “Help me understand whether any agreement we come to will be supported by your Congress? Considering the temporary position you hold, are you actually viewed as your nation’s leader?” Gorshkov asked.

  “Make no mistake, I am America’s chief executive. In c
ase you’re looking for a title to use, president works just fine.”

  “My apologies, Mr. President. I intended no disrespect, but I have to understand if you speak for the American people.” The question, once translated, cut to the quick. Battaglio fought to keep his frustration out of his voice. He knew that was what Gorshkov wanted.

  “I’m here. That’s all you need to know.”

  “Of course, of course,” Gorshkov replied. “Then we shall proceed, but I cannot hide the feeling that you have an agenda not yet revealed.” Battaglio kept his eye contact on Gorshkov, looking neither left to his team nor right toward the NATO command, and pushed ahead.

  “Mr. President, three Chinese container cargo ships are on their way to Venezuela. That’s three more in addition to those already docked.”

  Gorshkov quickly replied with a wave of his hand, “China is a longstanding trading partner with Venezuela. What is your point?”

  “The ships contain missiles, Mr. President. Intercontinental ballistic missiles that will be joining others already deployed. By our count, forty; soon pointing to forty-two American cities and major population centers.”

  “A bold claim,” Gorshkov declared.

  “Oh, it’s more than a claim.”

  “Well, if you have proof, you should present it to the United Nations and Chinese diplomats, not me. Those are the proper channels.”

  Battaglio nodded to Secretary of State Elizabeth Matthews, who removed a file from her briefcase and handed it to Battaglio. The acting U.S. president slid it across the table to Gorshkov, the tension in the room becoming palpable as the folder slowly moved from the American side of the table to the Russian. Battaglio watched closely as Gorshkov examined the photographs and notations; when he finished a cursory review, he passed them to a general whose name Battaglio couldn’t remember.

  Gorshkov leaned in and asked Matthews sharply, “How do I know these are not doctored?”