RED Hotel

by Fuller, Ed; Grossman, Gary;

  This frustrated the Russian, who thought they had concluded their business. He put down his glass.

  “The Ministry of Energy wishes to reduce our dependence on the EU market,” he explained. “The bilateral economic cooperation that led to the Eastern Siberia–Pacific Ocean oil pipeline affords the opportunity for expansion. And if we are to build on the pact with the construction of a gas pipeline as well, we will provide for a more secure China, which is now the world’s biggest energy consumer.”

  Kang smiled. Russia was protecting its own interests, with oil merely being a part of it.

  “If you were to give an identity to such a relationship, what would you call it, Mr. Nechayev?”

  “For the sake of discussion?”

  “For the sake of discussion.”

  “We would consider it a strengthening of our Treaty of Good-Neighborliness and Friendly Cooperation.” How did they ever come up with that name, Anton Nechayev wondered to himself. It almost made him laugh. “But perhaps we term it a mutual economic defense rider.”

  Lee Kang nodded. “An interesting choice of words. But let us be clear, you are actually speaking about an economic mutual offense agreement.”

  Nechayev smiled. “A fine point for our superiors to discuss.”

  “I will speak with the president.”

  “As I will mine.”

  10

  MAZATLÁN, MEXICO

  Hurricane Gracie had been building intensity in the Pacific for twelve days, fueled by warm El Niño waters. Now it was on a collision course with Mazatlán and promising even more destructive power than previously forecast. Winds were predicted to hit 170 mph at landfall, making it the worst storm to bear down on the resort city in decades.

  Dan Reilly’s commercial flight landed under darkening skies. It was the last scheduled flight in and would be the last going out.

  The air was heavy with rising humidity. Deplaning, Reilly removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. The air was stifling, and he perspired all through customs.

  “Señor Reilly!” The shout came from hotel driver Miguel Rivera. “Mr. Reilly!”

  Reilly gave the familiar driver a quick hug. “Good to see you again, my friend. How is your family?” He didn’t remember their names, but recalled that Rivera and his wife had three young children.

  “They’re good, but afraid.”

  “As soon as you drop me off, go get them. They’ll be better off in the hotel ballroom than at your home.”

  “Gracias, Señor Reilly. Thank you, I will.”

  “How many hours do we have until it hits?”

  “Six, maybe seven. The forecasts are bad,” Rivera said.

  “Six hours. God.”

  From the car it took Reilly three attempts to connect with the Kensington Royal Resort general manager. When he did, he got an update on the race to board up the windows and the status of other emergency measures.

  “Any change on the direction?”

  “None. We’re right in Gracie’s path. Winds picking up within the hour,” Raul Bustamante said in a booming voice. “Full impact around 3:00 a.m., maybe earlier.”

  “Your staff may be at risk if they remain in their homes.” Reilly knew the area’s lower income residential construction was generally cheap if new, and flimsy if old. “Tell them—”

  “I’ve already begun to get the word out. They’re welcome to stay at the hotel.”

  “Good. How many guests still on the property?” Reilly asked.

  “One hundred and twenty-six. Those who could left on fights earlier today. Most couldn’t book seats. Believe me, we tried.”

  “Move everyone to the ballroom. Nowhere higher than the second floor.”

  Reilly heard Bustamante pass along the order, or what he assumed to be the order, in Spanish.

  The general manager then went through the basics: fresh water, food supplies, ice, flashlights, first aid kits, communications, and emergency power. Bustamante was in the midst of explaining how much backup power they had when the phone went dead.

  “Damn!” Reilly said. He wanted to make sure doctors were also called to stay in the hotel.

  “Try mine.” Rivera gave Reilly his cell, but that didn’t work either. The winds were kicking up and a tower had likely toppled. It was going to make the job of getting employees to safety harder. It also prevented Reilly from getting a call from Alan Cannon in Tokyo. An important call.

  When Reilly arrived at the hotel, a tall, distinguished man wearing a classic blue blazer, grey slacks, white shirt, and a solid blue silk tie stepped forward to greet him. It was Raul Bustamante.

  “Glad you made it,” the general manager warmly proclaimed. “Wish you didn’t have to.”

  “I’ll drink to that just as soon as we can,” Reilly replied. They shook hands and Bustamante led him inside.

  “You can change in the office. We’ve put a mattress on the floor for you, but I have a feeling no one’s going to get any sleep tonight.”

  He was right. The rain was beginning to pelt the oceanside resort, slicing west, whipped up by the oncoming winds. Within an hour they were in the middle of a full-fledged storm, with winds rising up to 50 and 60 mph. But worse lay ahead.

  Maintenance personnel handed out walkie-talkies, the only means of communication beyond shouting. Outside, staff worked in pairs with ropes tied between them. An hour later, winds clocked at 90 mph. Another hour after that, 120. Plywood covering the windows rattled enough to break the glass inside. Guest and employee family members moved further toward the inner walls. Children cried.

  Thirty minutes later the electricity went out. Emergency generators kicked in, but they only provided limited light and no air-conditioning.

  Forty-five minutes later, landfall—dead-on.

  The howl alone was frightening, but the building itself seemed to shiver and rock with fear. Inside, hundreds of people huddled together. Many prayed.

  Deep green lightning hit so close that everyone could feel the energy. The thunder was deafening. They heard cars propelled by the wind crash into the hotel and telephone poles snap. Tin roofs from blocks away hurtled toward their sanctuary, adding to the cacophony.

  Even Reilly wondered how truly hurricane-proof the Kensington Royal Resort was. He had experienced hurricanes before, but never like this. He tried to picture what he would discover when he stepped outside as he helped console the children.

  Suddenly the wind and rain stopped. Cheers broke out in the ballroom. Cries of joy. But Raul Bustamante warned them that it was only a temporary reprieve. The eye wall had just passed. Calm might only last thirty minutes.

  Many wanted to use the bathrooms. Bustamante had a maintenance supervisor check to see if the water still worked. It did. He allowed people to leave, but with the urging that they should return to the ballroom immediately.

  Reilly, Bustamante, and his senior staff ventured outside to evaluate the damage. Moonlight made it easier to see. Shingles were ripped off the roof. The pool was strewn with branches, fish, and anything that hadn’t been tied down in the beachside restaurant.

  The street leading to the resort resembled a war zone. Flipped cars, fallen trees, downed power lines, and dislodged hunks of cement. The worst was the flooding. The hotel entrance was surrounded by sandbags, but water had seeped through. Soon it would be in the lobby and flow into the ballroom. The general manager called for his staff to shore up the barrier. The wind would shift in a few minutes and drive the water right in.

  While they rushed to build a higher barricade, Reilly slogged through one hundred yards of knee-deep water, calling out for anyone who might need help. There were no answering calls. Further away from the property he feared there’d be multiple deaths. It was inevitable, given the way many people lived.

  The sky began to darken again. Reilly felt the wind build up from the backside of the hurricane. He picked up his pace, shocked at how fast the storm had intensified again. Less than twenty-five minutes. Blinding horizontal rain
fell so hard it hurt. Reilly ran.

  The second wave was far more severe than the first. It lasted three exhausting hours, as the storm slowly moved over the land.

  After it had passed, Reilly reemerged, shining a high-powered flashlight around the property. The hotel had withstood the storm, but it would take millions, multiple millions of dollars to bring it back online. More importantly, however, everyone under his care had survived.

  “Oh my God,” Bustamante exclaimed as he joined Reilly. “I’ve never seen anything this horrible.”

  “We will rebuild, Raul. And tell your staff that their jobs will be guaranteed. They’ll receive full salary during reconstruction.” This was just the first of his promises. Next he had to insure the hotel guests would get safe passage home.

  “Hello, Brenda. It’s Dan. Can you hear me?”

  He had tried calling for hours, but the satellite signal constantly failed. The phone finally connected after the skies began to clear.

  “Noisy, but working. I’ve been so worried. We’ve been following the news. It sounds terrible.”

  “A lot of cleanup and rebuilding for us. A lot worse for the locals. Here’s the immediate problem: No commercial flights in or out for at least a day. But we have more than a hundred guests to get back to the states. I’ll need a 727 or 737 in here as soon as possible. Can you connect me with transportation?”

  “Sure. I’ll put you on hold.”

  Ten minutes later Brenda returned to the call.

  “No go, Dan.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Travel couldn’t handle it without authorization from legal. The office had to locate and consult with Mr. Collins.” She paused.

  “And he wouldn’t approve?”

  “Liability issues. He said just hang tough.”

  “I’ve got guests stranded! Some of them are elderly and a few could use medical attention. We’ve been through a very scary night.”

  “Maybe if you talk to him,” Brenda suggested.

  “Better than that, I’ve got my corporate card. Connect me with the private fleet you use.”

  A minute later Reilly was talking with a representative who, after also putting him on hold, turned down the request as politely as possible.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Reilly, I simply can’t fulfill your request. Your corporation has a high credit limit, but this is out of the ordinary.”

  “So is a Category 5 hurricane!”

  “We have planes available out of Miami, but we’ll need to set up a higher line and that will take time.”

  “What kind of money are we talking about?”

  “Depending on your dates …”

  “Immediately after General Rafael Buelna Airport opens up down here.”

  Reilly heard typing.

  “That’s $152,609 round trip, based on twenty-four hours. But again, I can’t authorize it without an invoice number faxed to us.”

  “I’ll give you an invoice number.” He could make one up. “But a fax? Hell, nobody uses faxes anymore.”

  “We do.”

  “Then I’ll give you my American Express Corporate Card.”

  “That might work,” the representative said.

  Reilly read the account number and waited.

  A minute later the fleet sales office manager said, “I’m afraid not, Mr. Reilly.”

  “Why?”

  “The expense is well over the credit limit. Now if you have that invoice number and a fax?”

  “I’m in Mexico. We’ve just been hit by the worst hurricane in forty years, and I have no fax! I’m trying to get people out!”

  “Mr. Reilly, I wish I could help, but I can’t.”

  Reilly took a second to compose himself. “Yes, I understand. You said $152,609?”

  “Yes, but that’s just an estimate. It could go higher if …”

  “And less if we get out quicker. Please stay put. I’ll call you back.” He quickly told Brenda, who was still on the phone bridge, not to hang up. “Plan C,” he said.

  “Which is?” Brenda asked.

  “Call Sam Wheeler at AMEX. His private number is in the system. If the president of American Express International won’t approve the expense, it’ll cost them millions when I cancel their agreement with our hotels.”

  Brenda knew he’d do it, too. So did Wheeler, minutes later when he heard Reilly’s threat.

  “That critical, Dan?” the AMEX executive asked.

  “Absolutely. I promised I’d get them out, and now you can become a hero and part of the rescue, or the villain and see a huge chunk of business disappear. Want me to do the math for you?”

  “No! Just tell me what you need.”

  Reilly did.

  “That’s highly—”

  “Highly necessary, Sam. I’ll wait while you do it.”

  Twenty minutes later, Dan Reilly had his 737-800 ready to depart Miami as soon as the private airline could get cleared to land in Mazatlán.

  When he finished, Brenda remembered something else. “Alan Cannon’s been trying to reach you. He says it’s very important.”

  Reilly tried to reach his colleague, but couldn’t. A call back to Brenda revealed that Cannon was in the air, apparently without internet service. That made Reilly anxious, but there was work to oversee in Mazatlán and a new complication. His driver warned against going into town to pick up supplies.

  “Señor Reilly, it’s not safe. The gangs are moving in quickly, breaking into stores, taking everything they can. A few have tried to stop them, but they’ve been shot at.” He suddenly looked especially worried. “And I’ve heard they’re heading this way.”

  “The police?”

  “It’s Mexico. There’s only so much that they’ll do.”

  Reilly contemplated the alternatives if trouble reached the resort.

  “Miguel, how good is our security team?”

  “Like I said, it’s Mexico,” said Rivera with a helpless shrug.

  That meant they’d step aside if looters came.

  Reilly shook his head. “Mexico. Afghanistan.”

  “What?” the driver asked.

  “Nothing. Just people are the same everywhere.” He paused as an idea formed. “Feel like earning yourself a nice bonus payment?”

  “Yes.” Rivera smiled. Money always talked.

  “Then come with me.”

  Five minutes later, Reilly briefed his general manager on the situation and simply asked, “So Raul, how much cash is in house?”

  Bustamante was stunned by the question and the implication. “You’re not thinking …”

  “Not only thinking, doing. Miguel will drive me into town and I’ll come to a financial solution with the cartel boss.”

  “You hope.”

  “Okay, I hope. The terms will be cash for staying away. Leave the resort untouched, guarantee safe passage in and out of the city for supplies, and insure our people get to the airport safely. They’ll be richer for the efforts. So again, Raul, how much do you have locked up? Whatever it is, it’ll be less than settling lawsuits if we can’t protect our clientele.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe 180,000 pesos. About 10,000 dollars US. And another $5,000 in just American currency.”

  Reilly didn’t volunteer his experience in Afghanistan in such matters with local insurgents, but he did explain that an early bribe could take kidnapping or worse off the table.

  “Miguel, now it’s your turn. Will you drive me into the city and get me in front of someone who holds the power and can control his men?”

  “Yes, Mr. Reilly.”

  “Good.” And to the general manager he added, “Miguel earns a thousand US dollars for driving me, and another grand if I strike the deal.”

  Surprise and concern were clear on Bustamante’s face. The general manager had only recently transferred from a Kensington Royal hotel in Madrid and had never encountered issues like this.

  “Chicago will reimburse you,” Reilly said. “I promise.”

&nbs
p; “I’m not worried about your word. It’s your safety.”

  Dan Reilly worried about his own safety more than Bustamante would ever know. He was the only son in a family that had wanted more children. But this hope was lost when his father’s jeep drove over a landmine in Vietnam, and he was killed instantly. His mother never remarried. She brought Daniel up on her husband’s pension and death benefits and her own salary as a 911 call center operator in South Boston.

  Elizabeth Reilly frequently worked night shifts, so Daniel often spent evenings on his own when he was in high school. He could have taken the fork in the road that would have kept him in Southie. But his mother always told him to aspire to more.

  More in the 1980s meant getting into Boston Latin, making it on time to math and science tutors in Back Bay, and never, ever getting into trouble that ended up with a call to 911.

  She enrolled him in Taekwondo classes in Cambridge, a high school computer workshop at MIT, and a life-changing summer program with the Police Academy. Through the program, he was introduced to how departmental branches worked at the Boston Police Department. He toured the Ballistics Unit, the Police Academy, the shooting range, the heralded mounted unit, the juvenile division, the harbor patrol, and of course police headquarters and the 911 hub.

  He kept with the program for three years. It got him into a dedicated fitness routine, on track with leadership and mentoring responsibilities to younger kids, and ultimately a path to walk in his father’s shoes.

  The police work earned him glowing letters of recommendation from the Boston chief of police. They went to the admissions department and the presidents of NYU, Yale, Boston University, Boston College, and Tufts. But because of his commitment to help his mother, Reilly ruled out leaving Boston for college.

  He chose Boston University, enrolling in the undergraduate business program with a minor in criminal justice, and got a full ride. For living expenses, he took a part-time job as a uniformed Pinkerton security officer at the Prudential Center.