Red Deception

by Gary Grossman

  She laughed, but without her usual bravado. “Are you trying to turn me?”

  “Like Marnie intended with me?”

  She stopped laughing.

  “Here’s reality,” Reilly continued. “You career is over. And with it, I dare say, your life.”

  “You don’t scare me, Mr. Reilly.”

  “I think I have. Come with me and you’ll have a future. Keep walking and you will be dead in a month. You’re good. But you’re not that good.”

  “You’ve heard my offer. What do you want?” Battaglio asked Gorshkov.

  Secretary General Phillipe feared the worst. The American president was willing to trade away Ukraine and Latvia or both to prevent a conflict with Venezuela and North Korea.

  The reply confirmed his worry.

  “Sovereign elections in Latvia and Ukraine,” Gorshkov stated.

  “The countries are not mine to give,” Battaglio postured.

  “And the missiles in Venezuela are not mine to negotiate. But sometimes we must do what is most expedient. Free elections would be a way through the current disagreement.”

  “I object,” General Phillipe said. “You said it yourself, Mr. President.” He addressed Battaglio sternly. “The countries are not yours to give.”

  “Do you not have faith in the electoral process, Mr. Secretary General?”

  “Not with Russian hackers manipulating campaigns and the results.”

  “Let’s hear what President Gorshkov has to say,” the acting president replied.

  “Thank you, Mr. President. Of course, this is all very sudden and without much advance consideration.” A lie. “But here is what the Russian Federation seeks.”

  “For having North Korea remove its missiles immediately,” Battaglio reinforced.

  “That is what you require.”

  Gorshkov stood and paced as he often did when dictating terms to anyone lesser than him.

  “One: Within twenty-four hours, Russian Federation troops currently deployed in Ukraine will withdraw to the Russian side of the border. Two: Russian military exercises previously scheduled on Russian Federation territory east of Latvia will be postponed. Three: The government of Latvia will grant free and open elections within sixty days.”

  “Non!” Phillipe blurted in French. He turned his back to Gorshkov in protest.

  “Please continue,” Battaglio urged. “We’ve come to find solutions.”

  “Four, our Russian brothers and sisters in Latvia must be given full voting privileges, to participate in the determination of their future governance.”

  General Phillipe slammed his fist on the desk.

  “No!”

  Gorshkov looked to Battaglio, who in turn shot Phillipe a visible rebuke, adding, “Let’s hear President Gorshkov out.”

  “Thank you again. Ukraine shall also have open elections, also sixty days.”

  Battaglio was willing to agree, but to calm down the NATO team he proposed, “A ten-minute break, Mr. President. And during that time, I believe you have a phone call to make.”

  Battaglio failed to notice that Elizabeth Matthews had turned the head of her bald eagle pin downward.

  “This is your plan, Mr. Reilly?” Colonel Kushkin declared. “Wooing me into a safe house, promising me asylum? I expected more from you. At least a threat from a broken hearted lover.”

  “Her death is on you, not me.”

  Reilly looked beyond the spy. The two Russian thugs, Moe and Larry, approached. Reilly widened his view and panned the street. Two more Russian teams, some thirty feet away, now stood alert at forty-five-degree angles.

  “Time’s running out,” he boldly told the Russian. “Your muscle has arrived. And they’re not coming for me. They want you. They have their orders. They’ll quietly walk you away. You might even have another meeting with Gorshkov. And then….” He saw the Russian tense.

  “You’re trying to confuse me.”

  “You’re smarter than that. I gave you a very easy offer to accept,” Reilly said. “For a few more seconds it’s entirely your decision. But from what I hear, Gorshkov has personally been willing to permanently solve certain personnel problems right in his office. Is that true?”

  She said nothing. Reilly nodded in the direction of the agents. She also saw them moving in.

  “They’re coming for you.”

  In a room down the hall, free of Russian ears, Battaglio dismissed the Belgian general’s concerns, promising safeguards against hacking and supervised voting.

  “Impossible within sixty days,” the NATO Secretary General contended. “Absolutely impossible.”

  “Then ninety days.”

  “One hundred twenty.”

  Battaglio nodded. Wiggle room, he thought. Counter offer four months, settle for three. He reasoned Ukraine would be the bigger diplomatic problem, but Battaglio could threaten loss of U.S. support if Ukraine failed to comply. In his mind, another win.

  Ten minutes into the debate there was a knock at the door. An American Secret Service agent’s knock.

  “What is it?” President Battaglio bellowed.

  The agent opened the door. “They’re ready, sir.” The thirty-two-year-old Secret Service agent from the Presidential Protective Division—the agents who served closest to the president—conveyed the word from an officious Russian counterpart.

  “We’ll be out in three minutes.”

  “But we’re not through,” Phillipe argued.

  Battaglio declared, “I am ready to close a deal. Our nation’s security demands it.”

  “Please reconsider,” Elizabeth Matthews cautioned. “This rush to judgment, Gorshkov’s sixty-minute demand, is all is highly manipulative and suspect, intended to force your hand.”

  “Jesus, Elizabeth! The man was attacked today. His security wants him safe. We’d do the same thing.”

  “It reads like a page out of Machiavelli,” she countered. “He could have planned the attack himself. A near miss, timed perfectly. Don’t be taken in.”

  “Bullshit!” Battaglio shook his head. “This conversation is over. We’re going.”

  Battaglio stood and strode quickly to the conference room door. The NATO team entered first, followed by Pierce Kimball. Elizabeth Matthews was next in line, but Battaglio held her up, allowing the U.S. translators to pass.

  “Actually, Elizabeth, Pierce and I will handle this. Go back to the embassy.”

  “Sir?” she responded sharply.

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “With all due respect, it won’t look fine,” Matthews replied.

  “I’ll make appropriate excuses. See you in Washington, Madam Secretary. You’re excused.”

  Pudovkin’s two men now flanked her. Moe asked. “Yest’ problema, polkovnik?”

  She shook her head no.

  “Well, one thing’s cleared up,” Reilly said. “They’re addressing your army rank, Polkovnik–Colonel.

  “Poydem s nami,” Moe declared.

  “I believe that’s an order.” Reilly instantly translated. “Come with us.” He addressed Moe. “What happens if she doesn’t want to go?”

  Moe signaled to Larry. They closed in on Pudovkin, hooked her arms and squeezed hard.

  She didn’t wince. She also didn’t move.

  “Your colonel is thinking,” Reilly declared.

  Larry reached inside his leather jacket and slid his pistol halfway out; enough to be seen.

  “Really? Here?” Reilly said.

  Moe leaned into Pudovkin’s ear. Reilly overheard and understood. “Net otveta ot Peterova.”

  “Ah,” Reilly said in English, “You won’t get a response from Petrov. I called him Curly.”

  They looked confused.

  “You won’t be hearing from him.”

  Moe studied Reilly.

  “Ever.”

  Now Moe tugged Pudovkin like he was in charge. “Seychas!” She attempted to pull free. Larry drew his Marakov. Moe repeated his order. “Seychas!” Now!


  “It’s too late,” she said to Reilly.

  “It’s not,” he replied.

  Moe laughed. “It is,” he said in perfect English.

  Gorshkov spoke sharply.

  “Here’s what will happen. The Chinese cargo ships will reverse direction. The missiles will be dismantled and loaded onto ships of another registry to be verified by the United States. There will be no further missile deployments in Venezuela. The United States will not establish a blockade. The United States will not take any punitive action against the government of Venezuela in the form of further sanctions, or against the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, or for that matter, the People’s Republic of China.”

  Battaglio smiled. He was getting what he wanted. Now to the cost. “As for the stand-down in Europe,” he began.

  Gorshkov rose again. He smiled—the kind of smile that comes from someone who holds the high cards in a poker game and doesn’t have to bluff anymore. All the money was on the table. It was time to call.

  “As offered, the Russian Federation will remove its observers from Ukraine.”

  Battaglio looked pleased. Gorshkov continued.

  “However, the United States and NATO agree to allow elections as I proposed.”

  “Actually, we have a different time frame,” the acting president interrupted. He stated the terms, and as expected, they settled on three months, which was precisely Gorshkov’s plan, though he didn’t indicate that.

  “Agreed, ninety days. And one more point,” Gorshkov added.

  “Oh?” Battaglio replied.

  Gorshkov walked to the window and looked out onto the grounds of Noble House. He smiled, but out of view of everyone. He knew Swedish Special Forces were on the roof along with American and Russian snipers. There was no danger here, just as there had been no real danger for him outside the hotel. The maneuver had been rehearsed more than a hundred times. Much like the recent terrorist attacks on the U.S. targets.

  “Yes,” he said swiveling around. “My position is firm. The elections will be open to all Russian nationals living in Latvia, and those Latvian nationals residing in the Russian Federation.”

  National Security Advisor Pierce Kimball reacted before Battaglio.

  “That could drastically alter the government of Latvia.”

  “Brussels cannot agree,” the NATO Secretary General roared.

  Battaglio looked to his left and right, to each of the dissenting voices.

  “The United States and NATO will monitor the elections. We’ll take precautions.”

  “Mr. President, Mr. Secretary General,” Gorshkov said, “Is it too much to ask that all Latvians have a voice in self-determination? Two-hundred thousand Russian-language nationals have not been heard from in Latvian elections. Trust in the democratic process.”

  “And if we cannot gain a consensus from NATO?” Kimball dared. “Then the Russian Federation troops posted at the border shall find another way to open the polls.”

  Battaglio inhaled deeply, and to the dismay of his allies said, “If you put fair elections on paper, I’ll sign.”

  Colonel Martina Kushkin, aka Maria Pudovkin, struggled against Moe’s grip. Reilly moved a half-step forward, but Larry raised his gun.

  “Colonel? As of now, you’re a woman without a country. You can choose America.”

  Moe removed a silencer from his jacket pocket and quickly screwed it on his Marakov. Larry did the same.

  “Really, an international incident right here? Cameras everywhere,” Reilly warned. “You’ll be just as burned as your colonel. An embarrassment. According to everything I’ve read, Gorshkov doesn’t tolerate embarrassments. So again, Colonel. Shall we go?”

  She took a half-step forward. Moe and Larry held her. But her momentum gave her pivot room, enough to raise her right elbow and drive it into Moe’s gut. As he doubled over, with her hand free she drove her knuckles into his Adam’s apple. He grabbed his throat and dropped.

  Next, she swept around hard with a high right kick that should have connected with Larry’s stomach. But the agent anticipated the move. He side-stepped. Her kick went wide, but hit his gun hand, dislodging the Marakov.

  Reilly moved toward the gun, but Kushkin dove for it first and won the scramble. With the Marakov in hand, she returned to a standing position, aimed the gun at Larry, then at Reilly, and back to the Russian agent.

  One of the Russian soldiers from the embassy was instantly on his radio. At the same time, a young woman eyewitness dialed 1-1-2, the Stockholm emergency number.

  Reilly caught the woman’s attention and waved her away, but not before another Russian soldier confiscated her cell phone.

  Reilly turned to Pudovkin. “What’s your real name, Colonel?”

  “Martina. Martina Kushkin.”

  “Well, Martina Kushkin, I strongly suggest we go.”

  Seconds ticked as she continued to hold the gun on her fellow Russian.

  “We’ve got less than a minute before your men get permission to shoot and maybe two minutes before the local police show up. Either way—”

  Kushkin finally nodded. She took a step toward Reilly, but Moe was up and behind her now.

  “Nyet, Polkovnik!” He repeated the order in English. “No, Colonel!”

  Kushkin felt his Marakov in the small of her back. She smiled. A fateful smile.

  “Seems the decision has been made for me.” Nonetheless, she dared another step.

  Moe’s silenced Marakov ended it. He wrapped his arm around Kushkin to prevent her from falling forward. Larry rose to steady her. The other Russians closed in and blocked any real view from the area’s surveillance cameras. Even the eyewitnesses wouldn’t be able to agree on what occurred.

  “We’re finished here,” Moe said. “Your work is done. So is ours.”

  Reilly stood drained. He silently watched as they maneuvered Kushkin’s limp body to the nearby embassy. They did their best to make it look like she was drunk. Not an unusual sight given Stockholm’s widespread sidewalk drinking.

  86

  NEVADA

  FOUR DAYS LATER

  Vincent Moore, wearing all black, led the briefing in a freestanding rented warehouse on Whitney Mesa Drive in Henderson. His team of eight, five men and three women, were suited up in jackets with bold FBI letters on the back, which covered their Kevlar vests. For now, they had on baseball caps. In a few minutes, they’d replace them with helmets.

  “Questions?” Moore asked.

  Nicky Jewel, an FBI special agent out of DC, raised her hand.

  “Resistance?”

  “Assume the subject is armed.”

  “Desperate?”

  “Let’s take him down before he gets that far.”

  “Affirmative,” she said.

  “Affirmative,” the others in the team replied.

  Moore continued, “We go in hard and fast. Announce, no delay, in. I want the subject on his stomach and cuffed in under thirty seconds. We roll at 0300.”

  “And then a quick extraction to Guantanamo?” Agent Jewel asked.

  “Above our pay grade, Nicky. We’re just cowboys at a rodeo.”

  Moore now replayed the events that brought him to this moment.

  About his initial presumed guilt for Dan Reilly. About the realization that Reilly was also after the truth. About the targets and attacks. About bringing the terrorists down, No, he thought as he prepared to move in. It was far more than a rodeo. It was a non-stop wild ride.

  The team quietly exited two black vans a half block from Richard Harper’s rented single-family wooden house on Spotted Eagle Drive. Heat sensors from a surveillance run determined that he slept in the second master bedroom, located in the back of the house, away from the street. From the blueprints filed with the city by contractors, the front door would be the quickest way in. Then up fourteen steps, seven before a landing, seven more on a slight turn to the left. Three seconds to get in, seven seconds on the stairs. Ten to disable or disarm Harper. Ten to lay him
out and cuff him. Moore’s thirty.

  Moore staged the assault. One at the front door lock with a battering ram. Three immediately in, with teams simultaneously hitting the back door. Moore was with the agents at the front of the house.

  Radios linked them and on a count of ten from Vincent Moore—

  Shock and awe. That’s how they intended to storm the house. But they didn’t expect the front and back doors to be wired with explosives. A fatal mistake. The blasts instantly killed the first four agents in front and three in the back. Vincent Moore among them. Only Nicky Jewel was able to struggle away before the entire house went up in flames.

  Two time zones away at a Dallas airport Hilton, Pak Yoon-hoi, checked in as Billy Park, closed the app on his phone. The app was connected to a video camera attached to a tree on Harper’s front lawn. There was another in the back. Whenever anyone crossed a laser beam to the door, it sent a cellular signal to Yoon-hoi. Most of the time it was a coyote or a stray dog. But the sight of FBI agents targeting Harper was something else. And so he quickly dialed another number, which took nine seconds to be bridged through a cellular tower less than a quarter mile away, to a master hub in Dallas, which sent the signal across state lines to Las Vegas, bounced to a local tower in Henderson, to a hidden phone on Spotted Eagle Drive, which triggered explosive devices at the front and back, and on the second floor where Harper slept.

  FBI Director Reese McCafferty led a sweep of the Southern Nevada Water Authority’s Intake Station No. 2. Cameras followed. They found eleven devices wired to C4, each tied to individual cell phones. Each planted along the supply chain that could have drained Las Vegas dry for weeks or longer. Each waiting for Harper’s activation calls which now would never come.

  The phones gave the FBI something to work with, something to trace. They also learned that Richard Harper was a pseudonym. Someone who had passed as Richard Harper from Bellingham, Washington for two years; had worked his way up at the plant, credentialed and promoted. A sleeper spy. The only clue to his identity came from his autopsy: poor dental work. It had all the signs of having been done in Russia.