Red Deception

by Gary Grossman

  “This is up to date, sir.” Battaglio didn’t open it.

  “For God’s sake, just tell me!” He threw the folder to the corner of the desk. Ellis cleared his throat, took out the photographs and explained what they showed, slowly. Troop deployments, artillery and tank units rolling into the city, and how quickly the Russians were able to take the airport.

  “He claims it’s not an offensive move,” Ellis continued. “He wants to guarantee honest elections. After all,” he read from a translation of a Gorshkov statement, “Ukraine is notoriously corrupt, evidenced most recently by the failed escape attempt of President Dmytro Brutka, and by other prior administrations that answered to the whims of the United States. The new government cannot be expected to be any different. Therefore, I have ordered Russian Federation forces to safeguard the integrity of the elections on behalf of the good people of Ukraine.”

  “Bullshit!” Battaglio screamed, a continuation of his meltdown. A meltdown within his first few hours as president.

  Though she didn’t say it, Matthews was convinced that Gorshkov had waited to see whether Crowe would remain in office or resign. Once he stepped down, the die was cast. He ordered his troops to swiftly invade Ukraine and hold Kiev. He had counted on Battaglio doing nothing, and he’d been right.

  Battaglio stood and paced. At first he used his desk as a barrier to keep distance from the others. Speaking to the air rather than anyone in the room he said, “Okay, so we spin this as a positive. Which it ultimately is.” He paused when no one reacted. “Take a seat and come up with a marketable approach. I’ll wrap it into a tweet. That’ll buy me some time.”

  General Ellis had nothing. Likewise, CIA Director Watts. Elizabeth Matthews remained silent. Finally, Battaglio voiced his own suggestion. “We’ll broker a goddamned ceasefire. Gorshkov will move his troops back across his side of the border, in return for us allowing him to advance the date of the vote. Something for something.”

  Matthews winced. “Gorshkov has Kiev. He won’t budge.”

  “Elizabeth, just shut up! I asked for an approach and none of you came up with one. So, I’m going to go with the ceasefire.” He turned to his National Security Advisor. “Pierce, go to Moscow and broker it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kimball replied knowing he’d never get such a meeting.

  Matthews had a pad on her lap on which she had taken some notes. Now she wrote a number in the lower right hand corner: 25. She circled it and lightly tapped it with her pen as if she was thinking. The move caught the attention of the only other Cabinet member in the room, her couch partner, Chase Ellis. He glanced down, then up. They exchanged eye contact. He slowly closed his eyes. A response, neither good nor bad, but perhaps an acknowledgment that might lead to a conversation outside the Oval Office, outside the White House…a conversation that could eventually include other Cabinet secretaries.

  With her pen pointing to the number, Matthews held her focus on Ellis until he opened his eyes. He found her gaze, looked to the page again, then up, and blinked purposefully once. A sign: he recognized the significance.

  Twenty-five: the number of an Amendment to the United States Constitution. And within it, the fourth stipulation, or as ratified in 1967 and identified by the Latin Numeral IV, the section most relevant to what Matthews viewed as a real and present internal danger.

  Since there was no current vice president to add weight to the issue, there were really two relevant numbers: Fifteen and eight. Fifteen, the number of Senate confirmed Cabinet members. Eight, the majority of fifteen; the number of Cabinet votes required to remove a sitting president from office.

  Matthews had to be strategic. She hoped General Chase’s nonverbal reaction meant she had two of the eight. If so, six to go. The fate of Eastern Europe depended on it.

  EPILOGUE

  That night, Dan Reilly strolled along Georgetown’s tree-lined cobblestone streets, where America’s founding fathers and future presidents had once lived; where they designed the layout for the capital city over beer at taverns, where they struggled over the character of what would become the United States. Where they took sides on freedom and slavery.

  Georgetown’s history is full of patriots and scoundrels, diplomats and spies, deals brokered and alliances broken. If the walls could, they’d talk of presidential trysts, a last toast before duels, assassination plots, and tactics to keep the republic standing. Unbeknownst to him, Elizabeth Matthews was having one of those conversations just a few blocks away.

  Dan Reilly loved meandering through the city, discovering unique architectural details that had weathered over the years and hearing stories from locals who uncovered centuries-old papers when rehabbing their brownstones. He’d just finished a leisurely dinner with Bob Heath at the Mansion on O Street, an eclectic hotel and restaurant favored by artists, actors, and hip Washington residents. They’d talked openly about friends and family, and quietly about Stockholm. Reilly hadn’t shared his conversation with the Secretary of State and Heath didn’t bring up the CIA’s concerns about President Ryan Battaglio. Both topics would be left for more secure quarters.

  When they finished their last glass of Japanese whiskey, Reilly passed up Heath’s offer to drive him to his Dumbarton Street apartment. He had beds in Washington and Chicago, and wherever else in the world work took him—which was everywhere.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely,” Reilly said. “I need to walk off dinner.”

  They parted, and Reilly headed home a little more than a mile away, usually a fifteen- or twenty-minute walk. Tonight it would be more like twenty-five. He casually observed the Georgetown students out on pub crawls, Congressional staffers making their way to their apartments, and delivery services in cars and on scooters rushing late meals through the narrow streets. There was a certain pace to the city at this hour, not as fast as the morning. And the sounds that carried were different, too: footsteps landing heavier than earlier in the day, tired goodbyes rather than energetic hellos. And dogs on their nighttime walks, barking at shadows across the street: Georgetown at 11:15.

  Reilly was relaxed as he strolled, mostly thanks to the cocktails, wine, and after-dinner drinks. He smiled to passersby. He whistled an old TV show theme he couldn’t quite place. He nodded to couples holding hands and gave lovers ample room. All was quiet in this part of town.

  Reilly had one more block to go. He crossed the last intersection. About halfway down the street, a man stepped out from a shadow under a tree and glanced left and right, as if looking to see if anyone else was around other than the two of them. The sidewalks were otherwise empty.

  Reilly now tensed but continued to walk forward. At sixty feet, the man began sauntering slowly toward him. Reilly fixed on him for a moment. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, but it was really hard to tell at this distance and in limited light. Eighty feet, Reilly changed his thinking. He was younger and walking purposefully. Maybe forty to forty-five. He wore a black suit with a dark shirt.

  The footsteps grew louder as he came closer. But they were not the sluggish nighttime steps he had heard from others. Reilly saw he was carrying a stick—no, an umbrella; a large black umbrella. The handle was in his right hand. He angled toward the right side of the sidewalk. At no time did he tap the ground with the tip as people tend to do.

  The thoughts took Reilly to fifty feet. One streetlight towered between them. Reilly now reconsidered the man. He was definitely younger. Early thirties with an athlete’s body. Or a soldier’s. The man glanced from side to side again and peered further down the street, seeming to grip the umbrella more tightly as he raised it inches above the ground, as if to almost point it.

  Another thought hit Dan Reilly: there’s no rain in the forecast today or tomorrow. So, who carries an umbrella when it’s not going to rain? No one, Reilly concluded. No one except—

  In an instant he called up an event from his intelligence studies in the Army: London, September, 1978. Bulgarian dissident Georgi Markov, then a BB
C broadcaster and award-winning author, was waiting for a commuter bus on Waterloo Bridge when a man approached him with a raised umbrella. As the stranger passed him, Markov felt a sudden prick in his thigh. The man said, “Sorry.” He wasn’t. He had fired a ricin pellet from his umbrella and left the scene in a taxi. Markov ignored the immediate stinging pain. He shouldn’t have. Within three days he was dead.

  Reilly calculated the distance between the two of them. Forty feet. Sixteen steps or less. Little time for options. Maybe no time.

  Fight or flight. Fight options were bad. Flight offered two: in the direction he’d come or dodging across Dumbarton? A foot chase was a bad choice against a younger and likely faster man. As he evaluated his second option, Reilly saw headlights illuminating parked cars ahead. A vehicle was coming up the street from behind him—a diversion? He quickly looked over his right shoulder and made a calculation. With a feint to the left he might throw his adversary’s balance off. Then, he would dart into the street and if he timed it right, the oncoming car would block the man. He just might get enough of a lead to reach safety; it was his best—and only—choice.

  At the exact moment Reilly started to break, the car rolled to a stop. The driver, a woman, called to the man through her open window.

  “Hey, sorry I’m late. Thanks for grabbing my umbrella.”

  “No problem,” the man in black replied. He crossed the sidewalk only a few feet ahead of Reilly, stepped into the road and got into the passenger seat.

  Reilly watched them kiss and drive off. Taking a deep breath, he wondered whether recent circumstances were making him see threats where there were none. He exhaled. No. This was the life he now lived. He had to become more aware of his surroundings, the people he met, and others who suddenly stepped out of the shadows.

  So it wasn’t tonight. Not along his quaint Georgetown block at the hands of an innocent man returning an umbrella. But Dan Reilly resolved he would have to sharpen his senses to recognize danger and how to defend against it. He also needed to figure out how he could better function in the dual worlds he inhabited—business and intelligence.

  Dan Reilly had important decisions to make. He scanned the street and listened for footsteps. It was quiet. He continued home, no longer whistling.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  RED Deception is a thriller about the global hotel industry in a challenging and dangerous world. Gary and I used many fictional characters and incidents which occurred in the forty years I worked with Marriott and the twenty-two years I was President and Managing Director of the International Lodging Marriott. During that time I founded and led the Marriott International crisis committee.

  I am grateful to the individuals listed below who made our successes possible, who influenced, mentored, guided me, and played key roles in making this novel possible. Several of them might find themselves in this creative work.

  Linda Bartlett, Yvonne Bean, Katie Bianchi, Harry Bosschaart, Stan Bruns, Nuala Cashman, Paul Cerula, Weili Cheng, Don Cleary, Mark Conklin, JoAnn Corday, Henry Davies, Victoria Dolan, Roger Dow, Brenda Durham, Ron Eastman, Joel Eisemann, June Farrell, Franz Ferschke, Jim Fisher, Fern Fitzgerald, Paul Foskey, Geoff Garside, Robert Gaymer-Jones, Jurgen Giesbert, Will Grimsley, Marc Gulliver, Tracy Halphide, Debbie Harrison, Ron Harrison, Pat Henderson, Jeff Holdaway, Andrew Houghton, Ed Hubennette, Gary Hurst, Beth Irons, Andrea Jones, Pam Jones, Simon Jongert, Nihad Kattan, Kevin Kearney, Chuck Kelley, Karl Kilburg, Kevin Kimball, Tuni Kyi, Buck Laird, Henry Lee, Mike Mackie, Kathleen Matthews, Alastair McPhail, Scott Melby, Raj Menon, Anton Najjar, JP Nel, Scott Neumayer, John Northen, Jim O’Hern, Alan Orlob, Manuel Oview, Jim Pilarski, Belinda Pote, Barbara Powell, Reiner Sachau, Mark Satterfield, Bill Shaw, Brenda Shelton, Craig Smith, Brad Snyder, Arne Sorenson, Alex Stadlin, Jim Stamas, Peter Steger, Pat Stocker, Susan Thronson, Chip Stuckmeyer, Myron Walker, Bob Watts, Hank Weigle, Steve Weisz, Carl Wilson, and Glenn Wilson.

  I want to thank my Orange County friends for supporting me through publishing Red Hotel and the completion of Red Deception. These friends include Haris Ali M.D., David Brouwer M.D., Jeffrey Bruss M.D., Jay Burress, Lynn Clark, Michelle McCue, Paulette Lombardi-Fries, Christina Palmer, Micky Rucireta, Sharon Sola, Chip Stuckmeyer, Tingting Tan M.D. and the staff at City of Hope, Nicky Tang, Christy Teague, Dominique Williams.

  Through memberships with various boards, I have received inspiration and engaging conversations. My thanks goes out to The Orange County Visitors Association Board Members, Caroline Beteta, and team at Visit California, Doug Muldoon and the FBINAA, MIND Research, Boston University Boards, Cal State San Marcos Foundation Board, and Althea Foundation Board. It is a pleasure being involved with all of you.

  Several people encouraged me to take a leap from my business book, You Can’t Lead with Your Feet on the Desk, to writing a novel. These people include my coauthor, Gary Grossman, Bruce Feirstein, June Farrell, Pam Jones, Pam Policano, Andy Policano, and my wife, Michela Fuller. Thank you all very much. I must admit, it’s been a lot of fun working with Gary Grossman.

  And finally, there are simply no words to describe my enduring thanks to J.W. Marriott.

  ED FULLER

  Thank you to Ed Fuller for our most wonderful creative collaboration. You are a true friend and an inspiration. Your experiences give life to our character Dan Reilly and your friendship fills me up.

  Special thanks, once again, to screenwriter, author, producer and columnist Bruce Feirstein for putting us together. Additional thanks to our agent Carol Mann, the Carol Mann Agency; our marketing and publicity guru Meryl Moss at Meryl Moss Media; Roger Cooper for his ongoing belief in me and for launching my thriller writing career; and our publisher, Eric Kampmann, President of Beaufort Books and Megan Trank, Managing Editor. Thank you one and all.

  There’s our extraordinary business and creative team. Now for the engine behind the effort.

  Thanks to Sandi Goldfarb for her editorial assistance throughout the creative process; Bruce Coons, lifelong friend and technical advisor for all my thriller writing; intelligence and Beltway experts—author and Lasell University Professor Paul DeBole, Homeland Security Special Agent Edward Bradstreet, and Professor Peter Loge, School of Media and Public Affairs.

  Additional thanks to ThrillerFest Executive Director and author Kimberley Howe; all my friends and colleagues at the International Thriller Writers Association; and ITW authors Jon Land, W.G. Griffiths, Raymond Benson, Steve Berry, Daniel Palmer, and R.G. Belsky. Also, Tanya Zlateva, Dean, Boston University Metropolitan College; attorneys Tom Hunter, Ken Browning; Chuck Barquist, Jim Harris; my Hudson High School classmates (we’re a tight group!), Linda Mussman and Claudia Bruce at Time and Space Limited, and of course, friends Stan and Debbie Deutsch, Jeffrey Davis, Vin DiBona, Jeff Greenhawt, Robb Weller, Nat Segaloff, Fred Putman, Michael O’Rourke, and Ryan Fey of the Grill Dads.

  And finally with true loving thanks, my wife, Helene Seifer; and family Jake Grossman, Sasha Grossman and Alex Crowe, Zach Grossman and Tory Sparkman. You keep me going. You inspire me. And you all make me proud.

  GARY GROSSMAN

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ED FULLER is CEO of Laguna Strategic Advisors, a global consortium providing business consulting services worldwide. He has served on both business and charitable boards during his forty-year career with Marriott International where he served as Chief Marketing Officer, followed by 22 years as President and Managing Director of Marriott International. Under his management the international division grew from 16 to 550 hotels in 73 countries with 80,000 associates and sales of 8 billion dollars.

  Upon retirement, Ed repurposed his career in several arenas. He has served on five university boards and has been an adjunct professor for both MBA and undergraduate students. For more than four years he was a blogger for Forbes and other tourism and lodging industry media. As an author, Ed published You Can’t Lead With Your Feet On The Desk in English, Japanese, and Chinese, which has been distributed throughout the world. In 2019, he
and co-author Gary Grossman released their high-energy thriller Red Hotel, Red Deception in 2021, followed by Red Chaos in The Red Hotel Series. Ed served as an Army captain in both Germany and Vietnam, receiving the Bronze Star and the Army Commendation medals. He and his wife Michela reside in Orange County, California.

  GARY GROSSMAN’s first novel, Executive Actions, propelled him into the world of geopolitical thrillers. Executive Treason, Executive Command, and Executive Force further tapped Grossman’s experience as a journalist, newspaper columnist, documentary television producer, reporter, and media historian. In addition to the bestselling Executive series, Grossman wrote the international award-winning Old Earth, a geological thriller that spans all of time. With Red Hotel and Red Deception, his collaborations with Ed Fuller, Grossman entered a new realm of globe-hopping thriller writing.

  Grossman has contributed to the New York Times and the Boston Globe, and was a columnist for the Boston Herald American. He covered presidential campaigns for WBZ-TV in Boston. A multiple Emmy Award winner, Grossman has produced more than 10,000 television series and specials for networks including NBC, CNN, ABC, CBS, Fox, History Channel, Discovery, and National Geographic Channel. He served as chair of the Government Affairs Committee for the Caucus for Producers, Writers and Directors, and is a member of the International Thriller Writers Association and Military Writers Society of America. He is a trustee at Emerson College and serves on the Boston University Metropolitan College Advisory Board. Grossman has taught at Emerson College, Boston University, USC, and currently teaches at Loyola Marymount University.

  FOR MORE INFORMATION AND TO CONTACT THE AUTHORS

  WWW.REDHOTEL.COM