Red Deception

by Gary Grossman

  Since ambulances and paramedics would soon be on site, Reilly focused on his other immediate concern: the Russians.

  Reilly saw FSB officers quickly moving out. Some had suitcases. Two men and one woman approached the side exit where the flow headed. He couldn’t immediately identify the woman. He recognized the men—the Russian thugs he dubbed Moe and Larry. And…the woman.

  They saw one another at the same time. Reilly mouthed her name.

  “Pudovkin!”

  She tapped Larry on the back and pointed. The agent separated. Moe stayed with her.

  “Stop!” Reilly shouted. She ignored him. But now Larry was on an intercept course.

  Reilly stepped backwards onto crushed glass. He kept his eyes on the agent who removed something from under his leather jacket—a Marakov; the same weapon Curly had used.

  Reilly continued to back pedal. He yelled, “Pudovkin! She’s dead! Babbitt’s dead!”

  The Russian colonel froze short of the exit.

  “Your girlfriend is dead!”

  Pudovkin straightened. The declaration stung. She stared hard at Reilly. He read hatred. Deadly hatred. But her expression slowly changed to a cold, heartless, emotionless smile, as if it didn’t really matter.

  Her Russian muscle closed in. Reilly reached to the gun tucked in his belt, but rejected the idea. Too dangerous in the lobby. Instead, he shouted, “Everyone, keep moving. Out! Out now.” He moved toward the rear exit, losing himself in the crowd and repeating, “Spring! Lauf! Allez! Go! Out now!”

  Larry searched for his target. He was nowhere in view so he also pushed through the panic to the exit. People who didn’t move quickly enough got the butt of his Marakov. A woman went down. Then an old man.

  A young security officer saw the hits and the gun.

  “Txepe!” There!

  It drew the attention of another security officer who took up the chase. But it was short lived. Moe had his partner’s back. The guard went down with a swift thrust of his Vityaz, a narrow, long-blade Spetsnaz knife.

  84

  Reilly ran to the service ramp. At the top he had a simple decision to make. Left or right. Which way would the Russian go?

  He pictured her at the bar. She’d held her cocktail in her left hand. Dominant left. But was it her decision which way to go or Moe’s? Hers, Reilly reasoned.

  He ran. He ran without a plan.

  What would he do if he caught her? She’d have diplomatic immunity. And he realized he had no legal authority over her. Reilly stopped three blocks beyond the hotel. He leaned over, caught his breath and thought about what had just happened. Everything became clear except one final point. Marnie was a plant. A sleeper spy. She’d entrapped him with the hope of turning him. Failing that she was willing to poison him, and yet by not proposing a toast, did she intentionally send a clue for him not to drink the wine?

  A car honked. It snapped him back to the moment. Reilly took off again focused on catching up with the Russian. Now he focused on Pudovkin’s immediate moves. Would she try to commandeer a vehicle at gunpoint? No. Better to be lost in the crowd. The subway!

  Even though Reilly usually traveled in a company car, cab, or Uber when he worked, he made it his business to memorize a city’s key subway stops relative to where he stayed. An old habit from college days when he first toured Europe on twenty dollars a day. So which subway station? In his mind, the one with the most options. T-Centralen.

  The T stood for tunnelbana, Swedish for the underground. The station formed the apex of Stockholm’s metro system where all the lines met including the regional trains. From T-Centralen the Russian had options. Fourteen directions, fourteen ways to escape through more than ninety other stations. That, of course, was assuming Reilly was correct and she was headed toward T-Centralen. But then again, if the situation were reversed, that’s where he’d go.

  A five-minute fast walk, Reilly thought. A two-minute run.

  Gorshkov’s motorcade shot through traffic at nearly highway speeds.

  Acting President Ryan Battaglio’s procession converged at the same rate, which was good because the Secret Service wanted him in and out fast. Battaglio figured he could present his proposal authoritatively, presidentially. Gorshkov would discuss it with his aides. They’d agree, work through the timetable, sign a preliminary document, shake hands and the world would be safer. To Battaglio and his tentative presidency, the solution would offer a concession to Gorshkov while still being a win for the U.S.

  Pudovkin had a running head start. Reilly raced to catch her. Four blocks from T-Centralen, along Klarabergsgatan, he saw Moe peer out from a storefront. A Pizza Hut. Moe was on his cell phone, undoubtedly talking with Larry. He calculated the woman would be another block away, still three from the subway station.

  He thought quickly. Rerouting around the block to cut her off would take too long and if he stayed on this side of the street he’d be spotted. The only possibility was to cut across and use cars and trucks for cover. He started, but then he faced a new problem. The center strip was cordoned off by four-foot-high fences. He swore.

  At that moment, a motorcyclist sat on his parked Triumph Scrambler. He started the engine and prepared to put on his helmet. Reilly acted. He pushed the driver off without apologizing. The cycle listed, but before falling away from him, he grabbed it, hopped on, and raced off to the man’s screams.

  Larry saw it down the block. Still on the phone, he alerted his partner.

  Reilly didn’t see the man behind him, he had his eye on Moe who now ran out into the road. The Russian raised his gun. Reilly began to swerve making it too hard for Moe to get off a clean shot. He sped up, figuring he had less than ten seconds to catch up to an oncoming city bus that, if he judged right, could provide cover from the gunman. It was a good idea except the bus driver was slowing for a red light ahead.

  This gave the Russian an unexpected opportunity to cross to the center strip behind the bus and get off a shortened round.

  Reilly braked. Too fast. He began to wobble. He shifted down and dragged his left foot on the ground to steady the motorcycle. The friction on his leather soles and the immediate resulting heat made him lift his foot and brake more, which cost him precious seconds to catch up with Pudovkin.

  Three other things happened in quick succession. The light turned red in four directions, allowing pedestrians to cross. The bus gave him cover past Moe. The gun slipped out of his belt when he leaned forward to speed up.

  Two more blocks driving against traffic. No police around and he knew why. All forces not assigned to cover Gorshkov and Battaglio were undoubtedly rushing to the hotel, fearing there might be another attack.

  He wished he had called for help from Alan Cannon. But Cannon was likely wrapped up getting staff and guests to safety at the property. He was on the own.

  He passed Moe. Another block, some 100 yards ahead, he spotted the Russian spy. She was on her cell.

  They had eye contact. Distant, hate-filled. Reilly shifted, accelerated and saw her race into the metro entrance. Pudovkin still had twenty seconds on him. Twenty seconds and fourteen choices leading to a hundred potential subway stops.

  He came to a quick stop. Reilly dumped the Triumph outside the station and ran into what was as much an art installation as a metro stop. Staggering, breathtaking, dynamic. He entered a huge, bustling transportation hub with hundreds of citizens walking to the lines they knew and pockets of tourists with phone apps open, trying to navigate the system.

  The main terminal was bright with a golden hue. Voices echoed off the marble floors and the massive curved ceiling. He stopped twenty feet in to get his bearings and scan for the Russian. As he turned 360, he caught a commotion. A young boy was on the ground crying. His mother was helping him up. The woman was shouting and pointing to an escalator.

  Reilly ran past the woman and child into another slowdown—people queued to take the escalator down to the platforms. Reilly slid down the metal barrier between up and down.
/>   At the bottom he emerged in what appeared to be a surrealistic cavern; bigger than life and from an alternate reality. Faded denim-colored walls curved up to soaring snow white ceilings adorned with paintings of leaves suggesting giant fossils. It was as awesome as he remembered when he first came to Stockholm years earlier. That day he took his time to appreciate the architecture and the art. Not today. He ran down to the center platform where he could go in either direction. A train was just departing south. The T19. If Pudovkin had boarded, he’d missed her. Now he felt the rush of air as another green line subway approached. One of the westbound trains. The subway rolled to a stop. There she was at the far end, waiting for the door to open to the first car. He ducked behind a group of tourists. She stepped in. Reilly did the same five cars back.

  Reilly read the stops on a route grid. He was on T17, which shared many of the stations of the other two subways on the green line. Where? Where are you going? Too many choices. Then one station jumped out. Thorildsplan! Of course, he thought. It stops at Embassy Row. Pudovkin is heading to the Russian Federation embassy. Escape and diplomatic sanctuary.

  Six stops. He walked toward the front subway car, timing his confrontation. Not on the train or at the platform. Above ground. Outside Thorildsplan.

  At each stop he stood near the open door ready to bolt if she moved. She didn’t get off at Hötorget. Not at Rädmansgatan, Odenplan, or St. Ericksplan. The subway rolled into Fridhemsplan, one stop before Thorildsplan. Now he was one car away. Pudovkin didn’t get out. He let out a long, deep breath. The subway moved ahead.

  The long train began to brake an eighth of a mile from Thorildsplan. Reilly held onto a metal pole near the door.

  Slower. Slower. The train emerged from a tunnel into the daylight and stopped. The doors opened. He waited. A couple pushed past him. Reilly strained to see who was exiting the first car without being seen himself. An old man with a cane. Three students. A businesswoman with an attaché case and a Gucci bag. A blind woman with a seeing-eye dog. Then Maria Pudovkin.

  85

  “Mr. President. It seems that your life was spared by a matter of inches. Are you certain you’re willing to continue today?” Ryan Battaglio asked before sitting.

  “I am, but considering the dangers, we must come to an agreement quickly. My security forces will not allow me to return to the hotel, which itself is not even habitable. I understand there were many deaths in the assassination attempt against me,” Gorshkov said, showing a modicum of compassion. “Sixty minutes, Mr. President. Whatever you have to present, I’ll give you one hour. My plane will be ready whether or not you are.”

  Battaglio nodded. He was prepared to present his proposal despite the opposition in his camp. To get, he had to give. He figured getting was more important. He could take that to the press. He could take it to voters if Crowe didn’t recover. Americans didn’t care about Eastern Europe anyway. But they did care about the threats to the homeland.

  The opposing sides took their seats and traded polite comments. Battaglio cleared his throat.

  “Mr. Gorshkov, the solution to everything comes down to one word.”

  The Russian president cocked his head, understanding the English and not waiting for the translation. Battaglio felt he had set up his position perfectly.

  “Venezuela.”

  Reilly held back. Just enough to make sure that his prey wasn’t going to return to the subway. Pudovkin quickly looked up and down the platform. Clear. She pressed on. Reilly stepped off into another world. A life-size video game. The artistic inspiration for Thorildsplan station was Pac-Man complete with representations of the Ghosts, Pac-Man’s enemies, Inky, Blinky, Pinky and Clyde; all against a blue tile background that ran the length of the station. Another day, under other circumstances, Reilly would have laughed. Not today. Not now.

  The Russian walked through a connecting Pac-Man route. Past arrows and hearts. Down a flight of stairs, heading toward a huge red cherry outlined in black. She stopped midway and looked over her shoulder.

  Reilly ducked behind four Chinese tourists. He waited a few seconds that seemed like minutes. He straightened. She was walking again.

  “Venezuela?” Gorshkov asked.

  “Mr. Gorshkov, the time to intervene is now. Talk to Beijing, then we will have something to discuss.”

  “China?” The Russian president straightened up. “What can you possibly be thinking?

  “China can defuse the crisis and bring the Supreme Leader of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea to his senses.”

  NATO General Rother scribbled a note to Turnbull, who passed it along to Secretary General Phillipe. It simply said, “What’s he doing?”

  Battaglio continued, “Get China to solve this mess if you can’t yourself. Don’t let this turn into another Cuban crisis.”

  At first, Gorshkov silently considered the request, then he whispered to his generals to his right and left. They whispered back. Gorshkov sat and thought, cleared his throat, and leaned toward Battaglio across the table. “And for this gesture?”

  Secretary of State Elizabeth Matthews, blindsided like the NATO allies by Battaglio, left her seat and with her back turned to the Russians, whispered to the president. “He won’t do anything out of the goodness of his heart. He’ll drop another shoe.”

  “Of course he will, Elizabeth. It’s called negotiating.”

  “Not if this is all his doing,” Matthews said. “We’re scrutinizing intelligence to confirm whether Russia also has operatives in Venezuela working with the North Koreans. Remember Dr. Severi’s caution. Gorshkov can run the table on you and…”

  “Thank you, Madame Secretary,” Battaglio replied dismissively. “You may sit down.”

  Gorshkov waited for the exchange to end. He cleared his throat, again demanding everyone’s attention. He looked serious, but inside he was beaming at how well the inexperienced acting president had fallen into his trap.

  “President Battaglio, you speak of Cuba. It is worth considering that after the United States’ failed incursion into Cuba, what you Americans call the Bay of Pigs, Premier Castro sought protection from the U.S.S.R.” Gorshkov intentionally meant his reply to sound like a lecture. “Through that union, came the Soviet Union’s obligation to defend all its interests. If Moscow wasn’t willing to defend Cuba, what faith would the Soviet Union’s other allies have in the Kremlin? So yes, Nikita Khrushchev shipped missiles to Cuba. To defend the country allied with Russia.”

  “And Russia backed down.”

  “Negotiated, Mr. President; negotiated for the removal of missiles in Turkey that threatened our people and our major cities.”

  “Which would have been removed eventually,” Battaglio said, relying on the primer he’d gotten.

  “Which were removed sooner than eventually. And so, here we are with a similar situation. Perhaps the Venezuela government fears for its survival. But, my friend, you strike the right tone now. I am willing to make the calls for the sake of peace—to Beijing, to Pyongyang, to Caracas. But we also seek peace in Europe. Security on Russia’s eastern borders.”

  Phillipe shuddered. As he’d feared, Battaglio was about to use NATO as a pawn.

  “And this brings me back to Latvia and Ukraine,” Nicolai Gorshkov stated. “Think of it as our Venezuela, Mr. President.”

  Reilly held back as the Russian woman took the stairs, then proceeded cautiously. He reached for his gun. It wasn’t there.

  Shit!

  At street level Reilly looked left. Nothing. To the right, no more than twenty feet ahead, Pudovkin, standing, watching, and waiting.

  “Mr. Reilly, you’re certainly persistent,” she said loud enough for him to hear.

  He walked toward her. Ten feet away he asked, “Who are you?”

  She smiled confidently and looked around.

  “The woman you met in England. The woman you met here.”

  He stopped five feet from her.

  “FSB? SVR? GRU?” Reilly asked, listing
three Russian spy agencies.

  “What’s in a name?” she responded.

  “You’re in Stockholm. Gorshkov is in Stockholm. The GRU doesn’t report directly to the president, but the SVR does. But your president was KGB, then FSB. He values FSB training over all others. I’d say that makes you an FSB Chief. But then again, you could be with the foreign ministry intelligence, which puts you in the GRU as a uniformed officer working directly under Gorshkov?”

  Reilly decided for himself. “Yes. Under him,” he said suggestively. “A lieutenant? A colonel? And surely, Pudovkin isn’t your name.”

  “And hotels aren’t your only interest, Mr. Reilly. You could very well be a spy yourself. But that’s only conjecture based on Babbitt’s reports.” She paused. “Did you love her?”

  Reilly glared.

  “She said you did. And she was very lovable. I trained her well.”

  “Don’t you even want to know how she died?”

  “You killed her?”

  “No. The explosion. I suspect from a shoulder-fired missile. Yours?”

  She said nothing. Enough of an admission.

  “A deception for something bigger going on.”

  “Oh how you do sound so much like a spy, Mr. Reilly. But it is what it is,” she said defiantly. “So now, we must say goodbye. You, the jilted lover who can’t stop me. Me? A Russian tourism attaché being stalked by an American.”

  “But your problems don’t disappear,” Reilly said.

  “I have no problems.”

  “No? You fucked up. Your agent is dead. We’re out here under,” he turned counting the buildings and posts, “ten, maybe more surveillance cameras. And eyewitnesses.”

  “We’re simply having a conversation. Two people just off a subway.”

  “But your men will make a report. Your work outside of Russia will be over. How long will Gorshkov want to keep a burned agent around?”