RED Hotel

by Fuller, Ed; Grossman, Gary;

  SINGAPORE

  The team converged onto Marina Bay in Singapore via circuitous routes. None of them were traveling the same way. Their flights took them from Tokyo to Yokohama, Nagoya, Kyoto, and Osaka, then on to intermediate airports in Malaysia, Thailand, and Hong Kong before arriving at the Conrad Centennial Singapore Hotel.

  They traveled under the same passports they used to enter Japan. Now those identities would disappear forever. They would assume other names and wait in different parts of the world for their next orders. They worked for only one man—the driver of the FedEx truck.

  That man now stood before them in a fourteenth-floor suite at the hotel in the heart of Singapore’s most famous shopping district, where they were conducting a prearranged debriefing. The four men knew to be punctual and obedient. The commander demanded both, and more: silence, loyalty, and their individual special skills in constructing and delivering lethal weapons.

  But now it was time to evaluate the operation and trigger their hefty payments. Though he knew each of their names, they didn’t know his. He always referred to them by number.

  “One?” he asked in English.

  “Detonation on time with maximum blast field.”

  Two spoke less eagerly when prompted. “The device in the heating plant failed to detonate. I assure you, it was wired correctly, sir. I believe humidity or water may have affected the electronics. I’ll do my own testing.”

  The driver glared at Two. “That means the police have the bomb.”

  “Yes, sir. But rest assured, there are no fingerprints and none of the wiring and components will be traceable.”

  “Except the box.” He bore down on Two. “Are you positive there were no identifying markings?”

  Two paused before speaking as authoritatively as possible. “Positive,” he replied.

  The driver read the expression. Even though he believed the man hadn’t fucked up, his hesitation told him he’d make a change in his team. A permanent change.

  The other members reviewed their assignments and discussed their exfiltration. No one had been stopped or questioned.

  “Well then, it is time for a toast. After that, you will be on your own,” he announced.

  He went to the refrigerator, removed a bottle of vodka, and poured five glasses. “To success and good health!” he proposed.

  “To our success,” everyone repeated.

  Feeling the pressure on him was over, Two blurted a loyal “Za ná-shoo dróo-zhboo”—To our friendship. Something he wouldn’t be enjoying for very long.

  TOKYO

  Reilly ignored Collins’ objections over what to tell the grieving Japanese families. The last to visit were the widow and two teenage children of the security officer.

  “Mrs. Nikaido,” he respectfully began through his interpreter, “please accept my heartfelt condolences. Your husband placed his duties above himself with true honor.”

  Reilly waited for the translator to finish. He’d already told the young woman to convey the tone precisely as he delivered it. Sincerely and compassionately.

  “I met Mr. Nikaido only once and have a clear picture of him. He was dedicated to his job, but told me he was looking forward to retirement. It was coming soon.”

  After the translation he got to the hardest part and went well beyond the lawyer’s admonition.

  “Mrs. Nikaido, there is an insurance plan that will take care of your family,” Reilly said. “I also pledge to see your children through college. Their tuition and expenses will be covered. Mr. Nikaido gave his life. It is the least I can do.”

  “Mr. Reilly, my husband also spoke well of you,” the 54-year-old woman respectfully replied with her eyes lowered. The translator conveyed her sentiment. “‘A good man,’ he said. I accept your offer in his name.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Nikaido,” Reilly replied after the translator had finished.

  Now she lifted her head and stared directly at Reilly. It was as if a completely different woman had appeared.

  “But there is one thing more,” she now said in perfect English.

  Reilly tilted his head.

  “Ah, you are surprised?” she asked.

  “I’m surprised by your English.”

  “Mr. Reilly, I am not the simple accepting wife. And by coming here, you are more than I would have expected.”

  As he looked at her, he saw something more powerful than the sadness he heard.

  “Therefore you can do more,” she continued.

  “What?” Reilly asked.

  “Find the people who killed my husband. Find them and make them pay.”

  The look was unmistakable. Hatred.

  Reilly set up temporary headquarters at the Dai-ichi Hotel Annex, a comfortable local business hotel. Joining him for meetings were his colleagues Chris Collins and Alan Cannon. The head of security had arrived on the morning flight.

  “Dan, Chris. What’s the latest?” Cannon said as soon as he stepped inside the suite. He didn’t use the word count, but that’s what he meant.

  “Three more souls overnight,” Reilly replied. “Naichō took over. They pulled the computers from the two security offices. They’re working on recovering data, if possible, from the hard drives now.”

  “I’ve got a contact inside. I’ll call,” Cannon said. “What else?”

  “Take a breath, Alan. How about some coffee and a muffin?” Collins offered.

  “Sure. I guess I came in like a bat out of hell.”

  “Rolling thunder. Sit down, we’ll walk you through what we have.”

  As they sat around a low coffee table, Reilly and Collins reviewed the information they’d culled.

  “We have the names of everyone who was checked in at the time of the attack,” Reilly began.

  “What about people who left up to seventy-two hours before?” Cannon asked.

  “Working on them.”

  “Good. I’d recommend even earlier. If there was a surveillance run, it might even go back two or three weeks.”

  “I’ll let Chicago know,” Collins replied.

  “And then I’ll start running all the names through HSI,” Cannon said, referring to Homeland Security Investigations. “I’ll also hit up the bureau. I’m sure Naichō will be doing the same. They’ll cross-check with Interpol and all of their sources. What else?”

  “We’re looking at the conventions and VIPs in the hotel,” said Reilly.

  “Any likely targets?”

  Reilly intoned a no. “A Rolex watch club convention, mostly Texas buyers. A Hollywood production company on a film survey. A doctor’s convention. Some Romanian folk singer and his entourage. Nothing relatable. Could have the same kind of mix at any major hotel in the city.”

  “Details on the explosives?” Cannon asked.

  “It’s only an estimate, but something like 1,300 to 1,600 pounds in the truck, which they just determined was painted to look like a FedEx delivery vehicle. Don’t know much about the bombs inside.”

  “American casualties?”

  “Serious injuries, no deaths,” said Reilly.

  “But the issue of hotel liability can impact the entire Kensington chain of hotels,” Collins added. “It’s our image.”

  “Any lapses in security?” Cannon asked.

  “The obvious,” Reilly sighed. “I think we were very vulnerable. I tap-danced around it at the hearing, but Alan, we’ve got serious problems. Not just here.”

  “That’s only for this room, Dan,” Collins interrupted. “Never ever admit—”

  “Chris, enough! This is the first we’ve been hit, but not the first time for the industry. It’s time for serious and fast improvements.”

  “You know what I mean,” Collins warned.

  “I do. But we’re reactive, limited, and only equipped to patch up afterwards. That can’t cut it anymore.”

  “Agreed,” Cannon said. “What are you thinking?”

  “We start by addressing our weaknesses,” Reilly replied.

&
nbsp; “Starting where?”

  “Here.” Reilly took a deep breath. “Here and everywhere.”

  He pulled a list that he’d drawn up earlier from his sport coat. “There were no barriers and limited street surveillance,” Reilly said. “Also, the plant facilities were accessible to guests, and there were inadequate locks. Hell, we might as well have given them an engraved invitation.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Collins said. He was beginning to get a true sense of the bigger problem.

  “What’s scarier,” Reilly continued, “is that Tokyo isn’t the only place we’re negligent.”

  “Another word, Dan,” the attorney stated.

  “Careless.”

  “Try loose.”

  “Okay, loose. And as I said, not just here in Tokyo. I had Brenda poll other regional presidents.” He bit his lower lip. “We’ve got big holes in our security.”

  “Better surveillance would have been easy to add,” Collins complained.

  “Wouldn’t have taken much.”

  Cannon now studied Reilly’s list. “You’re absolutely right. We’ve had upgrades, but not enough. We haven’t turned it into a global initiative.”

  “None of us have, Alan,” Reilly agreed. “So we get to it now. Any news from your security contacts?”

  “Well, coming from a geopolitical perspective, this doesn’t have any apparent signatures.”

  “How can you tell?” Collins asked.

  “Fundamentalist terrorists are getting more coordinated, but want publicity,” Cannon explained. “They market terror. It elevates them. Gets them followers and cash.”

  “So what are you saying?” Collins asked. “No one’s come out publicly yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “To my thinking, that rules out ISIS or radical Islamists.”

  “Just like that?” the lawyer countered.

  “Just like that. But if you’d prefer, put them lower on the list.”

  Reilly had the next question. “Who’s higher?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Four days later, Alan Cannon’s words still swirled around Reilly’s head. I have no idea. The response stayed with him through his stay in Tokyo. Now it kept him awake on his return to Chicago.

  I have no idea. If the usual suspects weren’t responsible, then who? he wondered.

  Reilly knew that Cannon would surely work his sources, inside and out, but he decided to tap one of his own as well.

  During his career, Dan Reilly had spent a significant amount of time flying around the world to Kensington’s properties, meeting with general managers, nurturing relationships, and developing prospects, negotiating, and launching new opportunities. Long ago he adopted author John le Carré’s philosophy, “A desk is a dangerous place from which to view the world.”

  He was reaching the seven million mark as a frequent flier, which kept him frequently away, and a very poor partner. His marriage to Pam, the human resources director for a Washington law firm, lasted less time than their courting. Four years of excitement, meeting in international capitals, three years of waiting for him to come home from his travels, and eighteen months since with off and on regrets.

  Though he had been a failure in marriage, Dan Reilly was successful in business, a likely candidate for president stripes at some corporation. He believed in working foreign relationships as much as company friendships, understanding and showing respect for local traditions and customs, and keeping a dynamic list of go-to people on speed dial.

  Due back in Congress in a few weeks for a second Senate Committee appearance, he vowed to testify about the borderless business world he inhabited, where successful deals were made as often over the dinner table as in the boardroom. He reinforced it among staffers at meetings by awarding them crisp twenty-dollar bills every time they used the word global. One day he had to call a time-out because it was costing so much.

  Today he oversaw properties in every continent except Antarctica. And in every business encounter, he tried to keep in mind the other person’s interests and needs. Most of all, Dan Reilly was a big believer in ditching the desk.

  All of this had worked up until now. But on the flight back to the states, he thought he fully comprehended the paradigm shift that was taking place in his world, the global change that faced him.

  Yes, global, he thought as he took out a twenty from his wallet. Soft targets made hard news.

  4

  CHICAGO, IL

  Dan Reilly had a large, northeastern corner suite in the twenty-one-story Kensington Royal building. He had a great view of Lake Michigan from one window and downtown Chicago from the other. Overall, he felt that the structure was conservative but striking—a combination of glass and cement, with the glass artistically reflecting the lake and the cement imbuing the headquarters with gravitas.

  His office on the nineteenth floor reminded him he still had room to grow in the company. As open as upper management was, he still needed an appointment for the twentieth and twenty-first floors. That was about the only indication of command structure at KR.

  With the title Senior VP of International he worked with the team, but reported to Edward Shaw, the corporation’s venerable founder and partner. Considering there was no president of International, that title and commensurate salary were available unless he seriously fucked things up. He thought this was one of those times where he very well could. More important than the job, the cost of failure might mean more lives.

  Returning to his office, he was instantly welcomed by Brenda.

  “Glad to see you,” she said warmly.

  “Good to be back. It was—”

  “You don’t have to say. Just relax. I’ll get you coffee and fill you in.”

  Reilly went to his desk, sat down, and swirled in his chair. Sailboats dotted the lake, tacking into the offshore wind. Water-skiers jumped the two-foot waves. It was a world apart from what he’d seen in Tokyo.

  “Here you go,” Brenda said. She handed him his black Colombian coffee and sat across from him, putting her notes on his desk.

  Brenda Sheldon had worked with Reilly from his first day. She was as loyal as the day was long. And, given his travel and the time zone differences, her days as his executive assistant were very long.

  She was married to a Chicago cop who Reilly figured was either extremely understanding or loved night shifts himself. Though not required, Brenda always wore a dress, usually blue or teal. The color accentuated her dyed red hair and light complexion. She was in her mid-fifties, the mother of twin girls just out of college, and as much a rock at home as she was for Reilly.

  Brenda was due for a vacation in August, but she had already warned her husband that it might have to be postponed. The one-word explanation sufficed: “Tokyo.”

  “So who’s knocking on the door today?” Reilly asked.

  “Mr. Shaw. Twenty-one in fifteen,” she stated. That meant the twenty-first floor in fifteen minutes.

  “Good. Thanks for scheduling me so fast.”

  “Of course. Also, June has TV requests. She’s willing to grant you a few no’s, but she wants a yes or two as a follow-up to your quote.”

  Reilly had released a quote vetted by Chris Collins’ legal department. It was less than he wanted to say and more than Collins preferred. He spoke about the company’s commitment to helping the families of the victims through the crisis, including transportation and accommodations, financial aid to those in need, and the promise to work with law enforcement authorities in Japan.

  Reilly looked at the list.

  “No, no, no, no, no, and no,” he said.

  “You’re doing CNN,” Brenda said. “That’s not negotiable. June already figured you’d pass on the others.”

  “Oh my God, what can they be thinking?” He read the list aloud. “Discovery Channel’s 10 Most Dangerous Places to Visit, History Channel’s Hidden Hotel Secrets, and Travel Channel’s Hotel Horror Stories! There’s really a show called Hotel Horror Stories? Do these people ha
ve any idea what just transpired?” Reilly asked rhetorically.

  “Reality TV,” she responded.

  “Reality?” he scoffed. “Give me a break!”

  Brenda reviewed four other press requests, each earning an immediate no.

  “You look beat,” she said, maneuvering away from the business at hand.

  “Just down,” Reilly replied. “It was a draining trip.”

  Brenda knew enough not to try to console Reilly.

  “Do you think you’ll get to the bottom of this?” she asked.

  “Hope so.” He stopped and rethought his answer. “Hell, to be honest, I don’t know. We’re targets, but we’re not players. Somehow we have to up our game.”

  “What can I do to help?” Brenda asked, thoughtful as ever.

  “Keep my calendar clear and stay by your phone. I’m mulling something, but it’s going to take a lot of coordination and money.”

  “I expect the coordination will come from you,” she said. “And the money?”

  Reilly sipped his coffee, stood, and pointed to the ceiling.

  “Like you said, twenty-one in fifteen. Now ten. It’s time to hit the bank.”

  Reilly bounded up the stairs to Edward Shaw’s executive floor—two flights in twenty seconds. He opened the glass door to the president’s suite and was greeted by Nancy Barney, Shaw’s longtime secretary. She was efficient, proper, and always wearing bright colors to match her mood. Her gray hair was by choice, but her smooth, youthful skin belied her age.

  “Dan!” she exclaimed. “Welcome back.” She saw the same tiredness that Brenda had, but didn’t comment.

  “Thanks, Nance. How’s everything?”

  “As good as can be expected.”

  “You’ve got that right. Is Edward ready?”

  First name basis was acceptable to Shaw. In fact, preferred. But depending upon the news or the sense of urgency, Reilly defaulted to “sir.”

  “Yes, he’s expecting you. Give me a sec.”

  She hit the intercom button on her phone and spoke into her headset. A moment later she cleared him to enter.