Red Deception

by Gary Grossman

  “Send your spy satellites over,” she replied with a sly smile. “The coordinates are on the photographs. They’re less than six hours old, completely relevant to today’s business. There are other missile sites we believe are already online and we view them as a great threat to our borders. I am prepared to establish a military blockade of all Venezuelan ports: any vessels that don’t stop, agree to boarding, or turn around will be fired upon with extreme prejudice.

  “You remember the last time the United States of America was faced with a threat of equal proportion? It nearly brought us to war. Kennedy and Khrushchev—the world watched, Mr. Gorshkov. The world will be watching again today. So now mark my words, we will fire on those ships. And we will take out each of the missile sites.”

  “I fail to see what this has to do with the Russian Federation?”

  “I hope nothing, Mr. President. And everything related to our negotiations. We believe the Chinese ships are transports hired by North Korea.” The translator changed North Korea’s name to the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.

  “I still fail to understand the direct relevance,” Gorshkov professed.

  “You are allied with both nations. But I will get to that. For now, it’s absolutely imperative for you to recognize that the United States is prepared to, and will within the next six hours, establish a no pass blockade in international waters, to be maintained by the Fourth Fleet. Those ships will be poised to intercept the transports, as will Los Angeles class submarines below the surface, and Navy jets from on high.”

  Gorshkov turned his attention from Matthews to Battaglio. “Mr. President, assuming this is all true, your issue is with the government of China, presupposing your accusation about the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.”

  Battaglio slammed his fist on the table when he heard the translation.

  “It is 100-percent true, and I believe you are equally 100-percent aware.”

  Gorshkov attempted to answer after the translation, but Battaglio pushed on.

  “Should I consider the Russian Federation complicit in this action, President Gorshkov?”

  Gorshkov’s eyes narrowed to furious slits. He fixed on Battaglio and suddenly spoke in precise English.

  “Are you coming to a point?”

  “Yes I am.”

  Savannah Flanders was an investigative reporter. What she observed made her nervous. And now she couldn’t unsee what she’d seen: how the two women seemed to practice using each other’s names. The whispers and the touches. It appeared to be a rendezvous more than just a casual meeting. An English business executive and a Russian woman.

  Flanders returned the clothes–her props–to the rack. She continued to look like an undecided shopper working her way out of the lingerie department. Now for the nearest exit, she thought. She had to reach Reilly. As she rode down the escalator, she texted him again:

  Need to talk Urgent

  This time, a fast reply from Reilly:

  RU here?

  She replied with a Y for yes and texted:

  Meet you at your hotel in 15 min

  Will u b there?

  Reilly responded with his own:

  Y

  She ended the text stream repeating one word, this time in all caps:

  URGENT

  “Turn those ships around, Mr. President,” Battaglio commanded, trying to give it a Reagan ring.

  “That’s a demand to the wrong nation,” the Russian president replied. He held up a finger and conferred quietly with his aides. Battaglio shot a glance to his translator, who nodded in the negative. He couldn’t hear the conversation.

  “Of course, we both have our channels to Beijing—diplomatic, trade, cultural. I caution you, any statement from the United States of the type you describe would have the sting of an ultimatum.”

  “Fully intended.”

  The Secretary General of NATO blanched. Carlos Phillipe reached over and whispered in Battaglio’s ear. “We’re here to discuss Russia and NATO.” Battaglio ignored Phillipe’s plea.

  Gorshkov countered, “A dangerous posture, Mr. President.”

  “A most dangerous situation, Mr. President,” Battaglio replied. “The transports are Chinese. The missiles, we believe, are North Korean. Together they are complicit and threatening us.”

  Gorshkov replied under his breath, “Delat’ iz mikhi slana.”

  Battaglio’s translator blanched.

  “What?”

  “It’s an expression we have. Don’t make an elephant out of a fly,” the translator offered.

  Battaglio clenched his fist.

  “Well, we have an expression in America, too, Mister Gorshkov. It’s simply that there’s an elephant in the room. It means there’s a problem you don’t want to recognize! But now is the time to do so.”

  Battaglio continued after the translation went unanswered. “We’ve retraced the cargo ships’ route via satellite: China to Wŏnsan Harbor, North Korea, via the Sea of Japan. The containers were loaded under cover of night; large enough to contain Hwasong-15 missiles.”

  Gorshkov understood, but he still waited for his translator to do his work.

  “The Venezuelan armed forces have been working with North Korean advisors to bring the missiles online. We know of one.” Battaglio stated the name. “Kim Noh, a leading nuclear scientist. And if there’s one, there are more. And so, to be abundantly clear, when I present to the American people evidence of North Korea’s deployment of ICBMs in the Western Hemisphere, it will be viewed as a supreme threat. America will demand I consider it an act of war.”

  Gorshkov took a conciliatory tone. “Tell me more of this elephant in the room.”

  “The elephant is not to be ignored. We must find a solution, Mr. President. Are you willing?”

  Gorshkov took a long drink of water from a bottle his own staff had provided. He was always mindful of possible poisons. Battaglio now smiled for the first time in hours; he felt he had Gorshkov where he wanted him.

  “Given our understanding of the facts, I am prepared to offer a proposal,” Battaglio stated.

  NATO Secretary General Phillipe whispered again in his ear. “Mr. President, we should take a recess to discuss this. May I remind you the purpose of our meeting is to—.”

  “No!” Battaglio replied far too loudly. “There are multiple considerations to our sessions which not only include Europe, but the safety of the American people. That is my foremost concern.”

  The NATO Secretary looked to the other members of his negotiating team, Chairman of the European Military Committee General Jules Rother, and General Alias B. Turnbull, Supreme Allied Commander Transformation, SACT; each was appalled by the new president’s demeanor. Jules Rother, the Frenchman, spoke.

  “Mr. President, we insist on a recess before proceeding.” Rother stood. The other NATO delegates did the same. Gorshkov leaned back in his chair.

  “Perhaps this would be a good time for a break. I propose we continue this evening. At 1900.”

  Not waiting for the translation to be completed, the Russian president also stood. With two of the three negotiating parties leaving, the meeting was over for now.

  Flanders walked briskly out of Åhléns City and turned left on Klarabergsgatan. It was busy with pedestrians, fast-moving cars and city buses. She stopped at the crosswalk and waited for the light to change. The sun was beginning to drop, but in Stockholm, it would be another six hours before something approximating night would descend on the city.

  She looked left and right. She felt a slight breeze. There were horns, birds, and the sounds of footsteps as people lined up behind her. There was conversation in multiple languages and the distinctive scent of perfume. She recognized it from somewhere, somewhere recent. She heard people talking on their cells. More pedestrians got ready to cross but not yet, not while a red Hop on/Hop off bus bore down at roughly 50 mph. As a New Yorker accustomed to crazy traffic, Flanders automatically planted her feet on the edge of the curb and brace
d herself. That was a mistake. Instead of anchoring her, it made her unprepared against—

  The crowd. But not the crowd—one person who came from behind and pushed her with such force that Savannah Flanders lost her footing and was thrust directly into the path of the oncoming tourist bus.

  There were screams, but not from Flanders.

  77

  The hour came and went. Reilly texted Flanders. Once, twice, then a third time. No response. He called. No answer. That’s not like her, he thought. Ten minutes later he tried again. Nothing. He reread her earlier texts. The single letter Y for yes. Urgent twice. Meet in 15.

  Reilly phoned Alan Cannon.

  “Got something for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “My radar’s up. Maybe for no reason, but—”

  “Sometimes we don’t need a reason,” Cannon said. “We just have to listen to instinct. What is it?”

  “I’m trying to get in touch with a New York Times reporter.” Reilly spelled her name and gave Cannon a brief description. “She showed up in Kiev wanting an interview about what happened on 14th Street Bridge after the explosion. I’ve been trying to talk her out of it but she’s very persistent.” He didn’t get into any details about where her research had led. “Now she’s in Stockholm and texted a few minutes ago that it was urgent to talk. But I can’t reach her. Like I said, my radar’s up.”

  “On it. Let me see what I can do.” Cannon replied.

  Marnie Babbitt knocked on Reilly’s hotel room door. She carried her shopping bag from Åhléns.

  “Who is it?”

  Reilly was expecting Babbitt, but half-hoped it was Flanders to ease his mind.

  “The woman of your dreams. Now open up!”

  Reilly unlocked the door. He smiled and was ready to kiss her, but Babbitt strolled right past.

  “Wait, wait!”

  “You wait. I want to tell you something.” Babbitt kicked off her heels and put the bag down.

  “Drink?”

  “Sure,” she replied.

  Reilly poured from an open bottle of Albert Schoech Alsace. The Sylvaner, Chasselas, Riesling, and Muscat blend was light and sweet, like their conversation.

  She took a glass. They clinked in a toast to one another as they always did and she sat on the bed.

  “You were right,” Marnie said.

  “About?”

  “The Russian woman. She followed me. More than that. I think she came on to me.”

  Reilly closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Actually, nothing,” Reilly replied. He looked relieved.

  “Really? I just told you that woman came on to me. That’s nothing?”

  “No, it’s something. Look, Marnie, she’s dangerous. She wants to get close to you, maybe to get close to me.”

  “No way.”

  “Seriously.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Reilly said, “It’s what she does. She’s a….”

  “A what?”

  He paused. He needed the right word. A safe word for her that didn’t say everything. “A predator.”

  Babbitt laughed. “I got that much.”

  “The way a…” he paused again. “The way a corporate spy tries to ensnare and entrap.”

  Marnie lightened up.

  “Whoa. She was just making a pass. I shouldn’t have said anything. Besides, I’ve had training.”

  Reilly said, “Just be careful.”

  “Always am.” She snapped her fingers. “Oh, which reminds me, I forgot to take my pill.”

  Marnie retreated to the bathroom with her wine glass. There, she changed into her new purchases—the lace bra and a matching silk negligee she’d bought. Passionata and Awakenings.

  “By the way,” Marnie called from the bathroom. “Why all the worry?”

  “I think I’m just working too hard.”

  She poked her head out. “I’ve been trying to tell you that. You need to start listening to me.”

  “I will.”

  Reilly laid down on the bed and kicked off his shoes and removed his socks. A minute later Marnie re-emerged. She walked quietly over to him. He watched. She ran her left hand over her nipples and her right hand under the appropriately named silk Awakenings. He sat up. She covered the remaining six feet and took his hand and put it under hers.

  Reilly sighed. “Did you find her attractive?” Reilly asked jokingly.

  “What is it with you men and Russian women? Kak Ukus zmei.”

  Despite his knowledge of Russian, he didn’t get the meaning.

  “Like a snake bite. An Aesop Fable. The Peasant and the Snake. It means, ‘What a bad name snakes have gotten from you men.’”

  A thought flashed in Reilly’s mind. Vipers. All the more dangerous because they could open their mouths wider than most to deliver their venom. And Maria Pudovkin was a viper, filled with poison.

  Marnie made the thought go away with what she did next.

  78

  Alan Cannon first called Flanders’ New York Times office and spoke with Michael Blowen. The reporter explained he hadn’t heard anything from Flanders since she’d checked into her Stockholm hotel and said she was going to head out to Reilly’s to see him. Cannon thanked Blowen and went to the Kensington hotel security office to review CCTV lobby footage. He produced his VP of Security identification when questioned by a young guard and explained what he needed. Cannon was quickly set up with a screen and instructions on how to scroll through, freeze, and blow up footage. Before screening, however, he Googled a photo of Flanders from her job at the Times, printed it, and with the image placed beside the monitor, began watching footage from 1500 hrs., or 3:00 p.m. on. He screened in real time; when the time stamp hit 15:47:06, he stopped the playback. A woman who resembled Flanders entered the frame, wearing a navy blue and white-striped long-sleeve blouse with a light blue sweater, slim khaki slacks, and peep-toe wedges. The angle wasn’t good enough to make a clear determination, so he hit play again and picked her up on six different cameras. A different camera angle from behind the front desk provided the best view. He froze the image; the time stamp was 15:48:52. Cannon grabbed a freeze-frame, pasted it to a new window, and compared it with his Google image.

  “Bingo.”

  He returned to the moving images. The woman sat on a couch beside a small round table for drinks. She rested her purse beside her, taking out a folded piece of paper. She opened and scanned it, then placed it face down on the table.

  Cannon wondered what it was. A memo? A schedule?

  At 15:51:03 a waitress came by and took an order. A cappuccino or some other specialty coffee arrived at 15:56:20. She paid in cash. Cannon could clearly see the denomination. A one-hundred Swedish Krona bill and six tens atop it. Roughly eighteen bucks American. She let her coffee cool until 15:58:10 then took her first sip. At 16:12:23 she sat up, alert. Something or someone caught her eye. Cannon glanced across the screen to the direction Flanders was looking. The elevators. He froze the frame again.

  Marnie Babbitt. Cannon her—Reilly’s girlfriend. It seemed logical that Flanders might want to talk to Babbitt if she was doing a story on Reilly.

  As the video continued, Flanders raised her paper again and seemed to be comparing it with the woman she was looking at. A beat later, at 16:12:37, she quickly folded the paper and stood.

  Cannon whispered to himself. “Okay, time for a little chat.”

  But she didn’t. At 16:13:15 Flanders started following Babbitt out of the hotel. Jesus, she’s tailing her. Why? Cannon wondered. The hotel video wouldn’t do him any more good—he’d have to pick up the pair on city cameras.

  Cannon headed to meet an old friend at Polismyndigheten, Stockholm’s Swedish Police Authority, located at Kungsholmsgatan 43—Detective Inspector Erik Eklund. Eklund greeted Cannon warmly, but stated he was busy with an investigation and couldn’t spend time helping. Instead, he assigned a precinct sergeant to set up the s
treet CCTV camera playback. It took a few minutes for Cannon to navigate smoothly and figure out how to have one camera position lead him to another. After a few false starts, he got it. He saw Flanders exit the Kensington, cross the street, turn right and walk along the river. He watched her casually trail Babbitt some fifty feet behind. Never close. Never too far away. Past boats, around bicyclers, street venders, and musicians. Around a corner, through a park, and down another avenue until Babbitt arrived at a huge department store. Åhléns City.

  From the camera mounted high on a pole across the street he watched Babbitt enter, followed 30 seconds later by Flanders.

  Now what? he thought. Shopping could go on for hours. And there were multiple ways in and out of the store. Then he remembered Reilly had told him the approximate time of the last texts. He fast forwarded to just five minutes prior and called up the cameras that covered the exits.

  True to the officer’s prediction, he finally spotted Flanders leaving thirty-two minutes after Marnie Babbitt entered the store. He saw her move quickly along the sidewalk to a corner in order to cross the busy street. Cannon watched closely. She moved to the head of the queue, took her cell out and appeared to be texting. More people came up behind her. Fast moving traffic passed by. The video had no audio, but Cannon heard the sounds in his head. People talking as they pressed forward. Cars honking. A red Hop-On Hop-Off bus speeding up to make the light before it changed. Then another person working her way up to the front of the crowd. A woman wearing a blue hat that obscured her face, but not her intentions to Cannon’s trained eye. Someone who was calculating time and distance, speed and energy.

  Without realizing, he screamed out as if to warn Savannah Flanders. Of course, she couldn’t hear him. He saw the woman appear to bump the reporter. Actually, it was more than a bump. A push. A deliberate, two-handed shove that sent Savannah Flanders to her death.

  79

  Alan Cannon showed the video to the police sergeant assigned to him. He phoned Detective Inspector Erik Eklund, who was on his way back from taking statements where an unidentified woman had fallen in front of a bus. Eklund intended to check the CCTV cameras himself and was surprised that Alan Cannon was reviewing the same scene.