Red Deception

by Gary Grossman

  The door closed. He scanned forward. It remained closed for fifty minutes. Until Marnie Babbitt left, went to the elevator, pressed the down button, and then, as he saw on the third floor hall camera, returned to his room.

  He ran through a mental checklist.

  He would confront her.

  He wouldn’t.

  He’d call and wait for Alan Cannon.

  He wouldn’t.

  He’d get hotel security to accompany him.

  He wouldn’t.

  He’d notify Stockholm police to arrest the Russian woman.

  Dan Reilly decided he’d give Babbitt the chance to explain. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe she was developing a deal in Russia. Maybe her intentions were innocent. Maybe, maybe, maybe, he thought. Then personal warning bells sounded. Like the ones he heard going into combat in Afghanistan. The ones that guided him at State. The bells that led him to establish the hotel security priority system.

  He needed two things. A diversion and a tool of the trade. Reilly stopped at the hotel florist. He bought a bouquet of pale purple roses. Next, he went to the Kensington Royal security office.

  Nicolai Gorshkov relaxed in his hotel suite. He held a vodka in his left hand and a French Gauloise in his right. Though he didn’t smoke often, he preferred Gauloises over any Russian brand. None of his aides told him smoking was not allowed in the hotel. Gorshkov spent his life doing things that weren’t allowed.

  While he drank and puffed, a general updated him on the status of his troops.

  “Good,” he said. “Make sure they’re well fed and rested. No further advancement. The Americans are on edge. I want this acting president to act with his own interests in mind and not see mine.”

  He took a final sip of his drink and doused his cigarette in what remained. He motioned for an aide to get his jacket and prepare to leave for the next, and possibly final session of the mirnyye peregovory. The peace talks. He laughed at the notion. Peace.

  Reilly considered knocking. But who knocks on his own door? He used his key, held the flowers to the side and entered. Marnie was on the balcony looking out. “Hi,” he said warmly.

  She spun around. “Hi there,” she said. She had a wine glass in her hand. Another was on a small table waiting for him. “Looks like we each have something for the other.”

  He held out the flowers as he joined her. She smiled. “They’re beautiful. Thank you. Now come, relax,” Marnie implored. “We have nowhere to go until dinner and lots we can do.”

  She picked up the second glass and exchanged the flowers for the wine. Babbitt took in the scent and Reilly swirled his wine. He brought the glass to his lips but stopped when she looked away.

  “What is it?” he asked before tasting.

  “A French red.” She reached for the bottle. “A Bordeaux blend.”

  “Are we celebrating?”

  “Always,” she said, dropping her eye contact.

  “To our tomorrows?” Reilly replied. He didn’t drink. Instead he studied Marnie.

  “Of course, darling. Drink up.”

  He lowered his glass and placed it on the bureau.

  “What?” Marnie asked.

  “We always toast. From the first time we met in Tehran. And every time after. But no toast now. Why not?”

  “I’m sorry. Yes, to…”

  “Tomorrows,” he repeated. “Of course.”

  Marnie tried her best to force a smile. But her voice betrayed her. She quickly picked up his glass, handed it to Reilly and said, “Yes to all our tomorrows.”

  They clinked. She took a sip. He did not.

  “Anything wrong?” she asked.

  “I’ve had a hard day,” he said, wondering how she’d react.

  “I’m sorry. Then forget the wine for now. Let’s just relax.”

  She crossed to the bed and patted the mattress. Reilly shook his head and walked to the French doors leading to a balcony off his suite.

  “Did you hear the news?”

  “No. What?”

  “A reporter was involved in a terrible traffic accident.”

  “Oh?” she asked.

  “Actually, not an accident.”

  He waited for a reaction. It came slowly. Slowly, he thought, with the time it took consider how to respond.

  “Not far from here. Outside a department store.” He looked at the shopping bag from Åhléns City. “That store, Marnie.”

  “Oh my God,” she exclaimed. “That’s horrible.”

  “A New York Times reporter. A good one tracking me down for a story. Good enough to find things out. Good enough to get her in trouble. Good enough,” he paused, “to be considered a threat to someone.”

  Marnie approached him on the balcony. He turned to her.

  “She was pushed in front of a bus, Marnie. She’s dead.”

  Marnie looked up. She began to speak, but no words formed.

  “Yes, I imagine it’s hard to talk about,” he said. “She followed you from the hotel to the store, Marnie. What she saw got her killed.”

  At the same time the Russian president stepped into his blast proof limo in the KR underground garage, the American acting president was leaving the Embassy in his. Battaglio was ready to close a deal, but without unanimity from his advisors. No one had successfully convinced him of the Russian president’s long game. Not his National Security Advisor, nor his Secretary of State. Not the CIA psychologist. Not NATO command.

  Reilly slipped back away from the balcony, leaving his last declaration to settle in. Inside the suite he retrieved his wine. He raised the glass.

  “Come now Marnie. Our toast. Would you say to my health?”

  She stood silently. Neither yes nor no.

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  He tilted the glass over the flowers and poured while keeping his focus on Marnie. She followed his every move. Now to her purse on the desk.

  “Coincidences, Marnie. I’ve been trying to piece together seemingly unrelated coincidences. Like the many times you just appeared in my life. You knew so much about me from the start. Just being a smart businesswoman?”

  She looked at him stone cold silent.

  “Or,” Reilly continued, “a foreign operative.”

  Her eyes darted again to the desk. Reilly caught the look and took three steps toward it.

  “What I don’t know is whether Pudovkin turned you or you’re the real deal, a Russian-born spy. One sends you to prison for treason. The other could earn you protection in the U.S. if you agree to cooperate. I’m sure you’d prefer the latter. For that matter, so would I.”

  She said nothing.

  Reilly shook his head wondering how he could have been so wrong about her. He reached her purse. “Was it my business that you wanted to compromise? No, probably not big enough.”

  Babbitt fixed her eyes on her purse.

  “Bol’she?” Reilly asked in perfectly delivered Russian. “Politicheskiye kontakty?”

  She stiffened.

  “Net. Dazhe bol’she. Pravitel’stvo.” Bigger than politics. Government. “My Russian can’t possibly be up to yours.”

  “It’s passable,” she finally said. “Thank you.”

  He dumped the contents of the purse onto the desk and ran his fingers through the items. Wallet, lipstick, keys, phone and loose change. He moved them to one side. He saw a small vial. He picked it up, unscrewed the top and sniffed.

  “I can explain.”

  “I bet you can. But will it be the truth?”

  “They forced me, I…”

  “Odorless. I suppose tasteless, too.”

  She lowered her eyes.

  “Was any of it real, Marnie?”

  Marnie Babbitt barely spoke above a whisper. “My family.”

  “What about your family?”

  “He’ll kill them.” She looked up. “She’ll kill them.”

  Marnie breathed deeply and started to take a step toward him.

  “No,” he shouted. “Stop.” He was not abo
ut to test her fighting skills. She could very well kill him any number of ways. Stay there until I figure things out.”

  “You figured out enough,” she said. “How?”

  “You forgot a basic I once told you,” Reilly said. “There are no secrets in hotels.” He paused. “If you know where to look.”

  Reilly slid his finger across the desk to another object from her purse. It was flat, larger than a nickel, smaller than a quarter. He’d seen them before. He’d worked with them. Lithium-powered UHF spy bugs. The ones he’d handled in the State Department were good to about 1,000 feet. He knew what was likely to happen next.

  Gorshkov’s five-vehicle motorcade queued underground in the hotel service driveway. Two cars led the president’s Aurus. Two more followed, Gorshkov’s security forces within. They were held up as five Stockholm motorcycle cops took positions at the head of the escort. Two more lined up on either side Gorshkov’s limousine and four others waited to take up the rear. Overhead, circling at 800 meters and 60 meters apart, two police helicopters. Another 500 meters north, a fully armed Swedish UH-60M Black Hawk. Two others were hovering along the route. All prepared to track and protect Nicolai Gorshkov.

  Reilly tossed the bug at Marnie. It landed at her feet. Instead of picking it up, she smashed it with her heel.

  “They’re probably on the way,” she said. “She’ll have sent them by now.”

  “Who is she, Marnie? Who are you?”

  “She can’t let you go.”

  “Who is she?” he demanded.

  Babbitt shook her head. Reilly cocked his ear to the distinctive sound of a slide being pulled back on a pistol in the hallway. He turned and, from under his sports coat, wedged into his belt, he withdrew the Glock that he had taken from the hotel security office.

  The police accompanying the motorcade and the helicopters above were all moving as one. They got the go signal and began rolling up the ramp, and out the service entrance of the Kensington Royal Nordiska Hôtel.

  Reilly instinctively stepped to the side of the doorframe and raised a finger to his lips, signaling Marnie to remain quiet. He stood two feet back from where the door would open, allowing him to see the assailant before he’d be seen. It would be one or more of the Russians who had been following him.

  Marnie stepped backwards toward the balcony. Reilly steadied his gun with both hands. He expected the Russian copped a passkey off a housekeeper. He might knock first, or just unlock the door and enter.

  Reilly would only have one chance. He took in a deep breath, focused his thoughts and waited.

  No knock. Seconds ticked by. Then he heard the click of the electronic entry. The big bald Russian led with his 9mm Marakov. He inched forward. Marnie was straight ahead. He saw her and looked for a signal. Her eyes shifted slightly to the right and forward again. He whipped the pistol around the entrance and fired twice.

  The Stockholm police motorcycles made a right onto the one-way street along the north side of the hotel. The Russians followed. With everyone at street level now, the police paused for radio clearance from above. Once received, they made another right in front of the Kensington Royal Nordiska. Officers posted on the street held traffic as the motorcade turned the corner. Gorshkov leaned low into his seat, made sure his windows were rolled up, and his safety belt was secure. He put his hands on the leather seat, as if to brace himself. Across from him, a Russian general scanned the sidewalks.

  “Ready, sir?” he asked.

  Gorshkov nodded. He’d been ready for months. So was his driver.

  The Russian Reilly dubbed Curly followed his shots with a turn of his whole body. The American was not there. But a gun was now at the back of his head.

  “Bros’ I zhivi.” Reilly demanded. Drop it and live.

  The bald agent complied. But in the same instant, ducked, swiveled, and planted a roundhouse kick to Reilly’s stomach.

  Reilly’s gun arm went high, but he remained on his feet, because there was nowhere to go. He was already pressed against the wall. The Russian came on hard. He grabbed Reilly’s outstretched arm, pinned it to the wall and delivered a knee to his gut. Reilly absorbed the full force. It nearly knocked his breath out. The next punch was intended for his chin, but Reilly parried right. The Russian’s fist smashed into the wall. He lost his hold on Reilly’s gun arm. Reilly brought the pistol down hard on the Russian’s head.

  He stumbled back and retrieved his gun. Reilly didn’t wait. He fired. The big Russian dropped, never to rise again.

  Reilly looked at Marnie. She had given the Russian a cue at the door. The wrong cue.

  “Why?” he asked.

  To witnesses, it was either the speed of the vehicle or the reliability of the M202A1 Flash, an American 66mm, four-tubed incendiary shoulder-fired rocket launcher, that apparently saved Gorshkov’s vehicle from being hit.

  Actually it was neither. It was pure timing and training. The attack went precisely as planned.

  The payload—TPA, a thickened pyrophoric agent—exploded on contact with the three-foot high cement bollards anchored outside the hotel. It’s what spared the lives of thirty-four guests in the lobby. That, and the blast-resistance upgrades. The design included a combination of modular pre-cast cement, steel threaded windows with aluminum glazing. Most of it held, preventing the 1600°C white-hot compound from exploding inside. It did take out the two Russian vehicles following Gorshkov and everyone within, as well as the Stockholm police cruiser behind them, four hotel employees, and three passersby. Searing heat also shot straight up the front of the building in one massive wave.

  First the flash. Then the deafening sound of the explosion. The heat. The sudden and violent change in air pressure. The vacuum it created. The wind and the force it brought.

  “Marnie!” Reilly shouted. She was looking directly at him when the inferno overwhelmed the balcony. For an instant he thought he saw sadness and regret, then there was nothing.

  83

  Gorshkov’s assemblage sped up. The aerial surveillance quickly spotted the assailant. Russian guards appeared to come out of virtually nowhere, shouting orders over their radios. Kill orders. They succeeded in under thirty seconds. Almost as if it were planned.

  The fire alarm blared. The piercing, high-pitched, modulating wail brought Reilly to full consciousness; to his feet, to his job.

  The ceiling sprinklers engaged and immediately soaked Reilly. That was good. It meant that the hotel’s defensive systems were working. He stepped over the dead Russian and ran into the hallway. Since it was early evening, he figured most people were out exploring the city. Another good thing: fewer people running down the stairways. He passed the elevator bank and cut into the nearest corner stairwell, not one deeper inside. A middle-aged French couple, clearly disoriented, staggered out of their room.

  “Aidez-nous!” the man pleaded. Help us. Reilly noted burns on his head and hands. He cradled his wife who was in shock. The 14th Street Bridge all over again.

  “Suivez-moi. Attention!” They followed him as instructed to the stairwell. There, they met others. Reilly held the French couple back until room opened up.

  “Stay calm,” Reilly shouted to everyone. “Don’t push!”

  Four floors. Given the traffic, at least fifteen seconds per floor. One minute. And, for the first time, he replayed what had happened. Bomb blast. Fireball. But not just a bomb. Ordnance, then the explosion. He’d heard the combination before, outside of Kabul. Shoulder-fired. Considering the immediacy of the two sounds, the shot was from within fifty yards of the hotel.

  Now he heard gunfire. Another shooter?

  Three more floors. “Keep moving,” he implored. Two floors. “Look for security officers. They’ll direct you to a safe way out,” he commanded.

  One floor. Then they were down. The door to the northwest corner of the hotel was open and Kensington Royal security was there.

  The Secret Service vehicle in front of Ryan Battaglio’s armored limo got an emergency call.

&
nbsp; “Vacate. Vacate. Vacate.” It was an order to proceed directly to the airport—fastest route, fastest speed. The agent riding shotgun requested confirmation.

  “Confirm, base.”

  “Repeat. Vacate. Vacate. Vacate.”

  The same order was received in Battaglio’s Beast. The acting president, who had never rehearsed for any crisis maneuvers, was thrown hard into his seat with the sudden acceleration.

  “What the hell’s happening?”

  “Sir, we have a situation,” the Secret Service agent explained in the fewest words possible. He pulled Battaglio down below the bullet-hardened windows. A moment later, the agent learned more details. “Sir, bombing at the Russian delegation’s hotel. We’re heading to the airport. Wheels up in thirty.”

  “Gorshkov?” Battaglio asked.

  It took more back and forth with base operations to find out.

  “Unharmed. The attack missed his motorcade.”

  “Is he leaving?”

  “Stand by, sir.” The Secret Service agent requested an update. It took a minute for an answer.

  “He’s on his way to the destination. No change of plans.”

  “Then we’ll do the same.”

  “But sir—”

  “You heard me!”

  Acting President Battaglio peered out the right-side window. A motorcycle hugged close. Another was on his left. One more meeting, he thought. That’s all it will take. Then out.

  Reilly took a minute to survey the lobby. Through the smoke he counted probably two dozen people ambulatory, but in pain. Another nine down and eerily still. Dead or unconscious. Tables overturned and shattered glass everywhere. Billowing smoke, but the fires were out. His security team, communicating to one another on walkie-talkies, attending to victims.

  “Keep everyone calm,” he told the officer nearest to him. “Check the upper floors for fires.” He barked another five orders that came naturally from his training, but realized the staff was following procedures perfectly with no regard to their own safety.