RED Hotel

by Fuller, Ed; Grossman, Gary;

  “Yes, I am.”

  Shaw stood and walked to his refrigerator. “Water?”

  “No thank you.”

  Shaw removed a bottle for himself and returned to his chair.

  “I have to understand the level of the relationship. Please think carefully about the answer.”

  Reilly read this as cautionary statement with legal implications for Kensington Royal.

  “Dan, will you be receiving active intelligence that could potentially help our company assess threats against our properties?”

  “That is what I’ve asked for.”

  “And is there anything else to this relationship?”

  He’s looking for deniability, Reilly realized. He would give him an answer he could live with.

  “I initiated contact with members of the intelligence community in the course of investigating the Tokyo bombing. Suffice it to say, my contact will expand through the development of our strategic plan. What I argued for in the Washington hearing is absolutely true. We need information that is current and critical to our operation. I figured I might as well make the call. But your outreach to the White House can help, too. Let’s just keep them separate.”

  Reilly stopped there. If Shaw wanted a real answer he’d go back and break down his question into the two essential parts.

  Shaw straightened up.

  “Well then, I’m pleased that your relationships are communicating with you. And Alan has his own?”

  “Yes. Long-standing.”

  “So what are the two of you hearing?”

  Reilly felt it was a fair question, but he was still learning.

  “Japan, open and friendly. I’ve found South American officials to be dicey. As for Europe, my impression is that Great Britain, France and Germany will cooperate. The rest of the continent? No idea. Remember, this is why we’ll need our own analysts.”

  “You must have a sense of the danger,” Shaw said.

  “I have a greater sense of the void we’re in. Shared intelligence is a huge problem. The truth is that each country is more willing to talk to the US than one another. That’s no secret. I experienced that at the State Department. But it does mean the NSA and the CIA are in the lead. The fastest, most efficient way to circulate intel around Europe is to tell the Americans.”

  Reilly saw an opportunity to develop distance and deniability. “That’s why it’s important Alan and I cultivate direct channels inside the intelligence community. It should give the company greater confidence that we’re not going this alone.”

  “Does Alan know about your outreach?”

  “Not specifically.”

  “You’re planning on telling him?”

  Another carefully chosen word, Reilly perceived.

  “Planning. Yes.”

  “Good. Then let’s get back to work.”

  Just before leaving the office, Edward Shaw touched Reilly’s arm and held him back.

  “One last thing, my boy. You’re going to be very busy over the next few weeks. London, and then back to Moscow and Tehran.”

  Reilly’s eyes opened wide. “Yes.”

  “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

  Reilly smiled. It was pure Shaw.

  “I promise.”

  47

  The Times

  ADVANTAGE GORSHKOV

  Ukraine continues to devolve from crisis to crisis. The death of pro-Russian separatists at the Kiev hotel attack, ongoing endemic graft within the parliament, and the growing loss of patience in Washington and Brussels hands Nikolai Gorshkov an advantage in the region.

  “Ukraine will implode,” cautioned UN Secretary General Forstin Heildelberg. “Russia, working through its oligarchic interests, will be able to chip away at Ukraine’s infrastructure from the inside out.” Heilderberg further warned that if Ukraine failed to enact meaningful reforms, the West will wash its hands of a no-win situation, leading to a breakdown in which separatists sympathetic to and sponsored by Moscow, will seize control. “The Kremlin will then step in to protect its economic interests and its supporters, the culmination of its Crimea strategy.”

  Evidence of this inevitability is seen in the East, where pro-Russian rebels have intensified their fight.

  Dan Reilly read the day’s paper on his trans-Atlantic flight to London. Chris Collins and Alan Cannon were already asleep. He put the paper down, reclined in his first-class seat, and closed his eyes. There must be smarter people than me thinking about this. He pictured the map of Europe. It was a memory exercise he’d done since elementary school to identify countries. It had served him well in the military, too. He memorized safe havens and enemy posts, city streets and mountain trails. Top to bottom from the Baltic Sea, he envisioned the nations that bordered Russia.

  Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania. Then Belarus, not part of the Russian Federation, but home to Russian military bases. Below Belarus, Ukraine. Sharing borders with those countries: Poland, Slovakia, Hungary, and Romania.

  Kiev? Is Kiev part of something bigger? he thought. Another move toward … what?

  Reilly tried to doze off, but couldn’t. After fifteen minutes, he brought his seat back up and opened another newspaper. He focused on a page 5 article.

  Reilly ripped the page from the newspaper and recovered the previous article. He looked across the aisle and decided to wake Cannon.

  “Alan,” Reilly said, kneeling in the aisle of the spacious new Airbus A-380.

  Cannon awoke. “I figured you’d be coming my way.” He checked his watch. “Almost an hour. More than I thought I’d get.”

  “Sorry, but I wanted to run a thought by you,” Reilly said softly while his colleague raised his seat.

  Cannon took a long swig from a water bottle. “What’s up?”

  “Russia.”

  “The deal?”

  “Partly. The deal, the political landscape, the future.”

  “It’s a good market for us to be in.”

  “Unless there’s war,” Reilly whispered.

  Cannon’s eyes widened. “War? With who? Ukraine?”

  “Possibly, but not exclusively.”

  “Not Turkey,” the KR security chief said.

  “No.”

  “Then?”

  Reilly gave Cannon the articles he’d ripped out of the papers.

  “I’ve seen stories like this for years. It makes for scary headlines. Red meat for elections. It adds to the political narrative.”

  “Absolutely, but there’s a common denominator. Pro-Russian separatists targeted, right down to the Tokyo bombing. I’m no conspiracy theorist, but I am a conspiracy realist.”

  “It’s a long way to go to make a point that’s barely reported. The death of a fringe singer halfway around the world part of a bigger plan? I don’t buy it. Not enough.”

  “Maybe not one. What about two stories that have a familiar ring?”

  “Two?” Cannon asked.

  “Kiev. And that’s two that we know of. Two in the news now in Western press. I’m also curious what’s being reported in Russia and pro-Russian press where there’s sympathy for historically Russian populations.”

  “Well, looks like you just created a new research project. In the meantime, you know how much Shaw wants to make the Moscow deal work and he likes the idea of financing through your Barclays contact.” Cannon pointed to the sleeping Chris Collins. “Chris brought his Montblanc signing fountain pen with him.”

  “Just think about it, Alan.”

  “I will, but don’t you take your eyes off the work ahead. Shaw green-lit the plan and Chris can draft the paperwork. I don’t think you’ll see home for quite a while. You’ve got enough in your urgent and important boxes to last a year.

  Reilly stood up and smiled. “You’re right. Thanks.” He took back the clippings, returned to his seat, and pressed recline. As he fell asleep, he kept thinking that this time Alan Cannon was not right.

  48

  MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

  FSB HEADQUARTERS
>
  Anatoly Zherdev generally felt that private industry did a better job protecting its interests than governments. That’s why he smiled when he discovered Kensington Royal’s weak spot. Some of its resort properties around the world had casinos. Macau, Monte Carlo, and one in a US territory.

  He focused on the American location, the Kensington Resort and Casino along Condado Beach in San Juan, Puerto Rico.

  He made the decision to dive into Puerto Rico because the island government controlled gaming. That meant his potential entry point would be government computers, running on life-support in a financially-strapped bureaucracy. Likely they were maintained only part-time and by IT people who had more pressing duties than setting up more firewalls while Puerto Rico’s economy was crumbling.

  He expected he’d be able to slip through weak defenses and find a virtual side entrance into Kensington Royal’s mainframe. From there, he would grant himself root user privileges, hop across the Caribbean to the KR computers stateside, and accomplish his mission to develop a dossier on his target subject, Daniel Paul Reilly.

  “Here we go,” Zherdev typed code and hit send, reciting the line from “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves,” “Open Sesame.”

  HEATHROW AIRPORT

  Three men were in position at Heathrow Terminal 3 as the British Airways flight from Chicago arrived. One, dressed casually in jeans, a solid black T-shirt, and loose jacket, was outside the customs release door. He kept rising on his toes, peering forward, smiling like a husband or boyfriend anxiously searching for a sweetheart. Except romantic airport man had no passion in his eyes and he wasn’t looking for a love.

  A second man stood even closer to the same automatic door. He wore a plain black suit and held an iPad with a name on the display. The name of his airport pickup was as fake as his role in the crowd of drivers.

  The third man, wearing all black, was outside the terminal in a Lincoln. He had an actual executive chauffeur license, one of his many covers.

  The two men inside were low-level spies, most days assigned as couriers and trackers. The third man, the one in the Lincoln, kept the others on an open conference line. For now the mission was to identify and follow. He expected further instructions.

  Reilly, Cannon, and Collins cleared customs and walked briskly side by side through the open sliding door to arrivals. They pulled their single suitcases and laughed at a joke Cannon had cracked.

  Collins spotted their limo driver in the middle of the waiting crowd holding an iPad sign with his name on it.

  “Over here!” he said waving. “Kensington!”

  This made it very easy for an FSB agent posing as another driver to spot Reilly. He spoke in English over the Bluetooth microphone in his ear. “Party of three. Green.” It was code that he’d spotted the group and ID’d the specific target.

  Reilly came close to bumping into the man as he passed him in the public area. The limo driver kept looking forward and avoided direct eye contact. Not so for another lookout.

  Reilly saw a man on his toes. On first blush it appeared as if he were trying to peer over the crowd, but instead of looking for a friend, he locked onto Reilly just a little bit longer than normal. Reilly caught the stare. It was not the warm look of an excited husband or lover. It was steely and cold, and it lingered as he walked by.

  Reilly elbowed Cannon and tilted his lead to the left.

  “Seven o’clock behind me,” Reilly whispered. “Check him out.”

  The Kensington security chief casually patted his pockets, as if he forgot something. He stopped, turned around, and patted front and back. The forgetful move, likely repeated by hundreds of travelers a day, appeared completely ordinary. What was unusual, was the man intently observing them.

  Cannon continued his sweep. He saw the tail. To finish carrying off the ruse, he pulled his wallet from his jacket pocket and gave a relieved sigh strictly for effect. He turned, caught up with Reilly and Collins, certain he hadn’t given himself away.

  “Good eye,” Cannon said.

  As Collins walked ahead chatting with their driver, Reilly and Cannon each took quadrants left and right. They kept their vigil through the parking lot and into their town car.

  “Clear,” Cannon said as they drove off.

  “Clear,” Reilly agreed.

  “What?” Collins asked, completely oblivious to situation.

  “Nothing,” Cannon said.

  “Probably nothing,” Reilly added. He turned again to see if anyone suspicious was following them. An empty limo was.

  LONDON

  After checking into the Kensington Royal London Towers in Mayfair, Reilly showered and shaved, sipped coffee he’d made in his executive suite, and dressed in a light blue shirt with a forward point collar, a dark blue silk tie, and a charcoal grey three-piece suit, more British than American. Downstairs he joined his traveling associates and COO Lou Tiano, who had flown in separately. They took their waiting car to Churchill Place for the day’s meetings at Barclays headquarters.

  As they approached the drop-off, Reilly fixed on the massive bank headquarters. The building shouted money. Barclays’ magnificent new 32-story, one-million-square-feet, steel-framed corporate campus towered over Canary Wharf. Inside, he immediately felt that the airy design was meant to encourage communication among staffers, though most business, by its very nature, had to be conducted confidentially behind closed doors. Still, the open floor plan and glass paneling provided ample natural light, impressive views of London, and room for the bank’s ever-expanding departments.

  The Kensington Royal contingent was welcomed into a spacious conference room on a high floor. They accepted the offer of coffee and muffins from the greeter as they waited for the Barclays Hotels Team to enter. This gave them the chance to savor the extraordinary view of the Thames and London to the west.

  “Good morning,” Marnie Babbitt graciously welcomed them a few minutes later. Two other Barclays executives followed her.

  “Good morning, Marnie,” Reilly said extending his hand, completely professionally. “So good to see you again. Thank you for putting this together.”

  “Absolutely, Dan.”

  Everyone went through the formal introductions and exchanged business cards. In addition to Babbitt, the other attendees on the Barclays side of the table were Charles Perry and Todd Brymmer.

  Perry was the most senior representative at the table, a mid-level president. He wore an immaculate three-piece suit, de rigueur for the job and close to Reilly’s choice of wardrobe. Todd Brymmer was introduced as a director of finance. Not the director of finance. A director of finance. He gave a cursory hello.

  Reilly took him to be a level or more below Marnie. The contrarian who would have to be sold. Right out of the playbook, Reilly thought. He also assumed Brymmer was making up for insufferable years as a child when everyone called him “Toddy.”

  In the realm of corporate diplomacy, Brymmer was there to challenge. Reilly would ignore the bait and play to Perry, ultimately the quiet deciding voice, and Marnie, the avowed advocate.

  The roles for Kensington Royal wouldn’t be that much different. Tiano would listen, Reilly was there to speak in favor of the relationship, and Chris Collins would frown and be the tough negotiator. Cannon’s job was to ask questions outside of the roles the others had.

  On the surface, this looked like a good opportunity for both corporations. KR still lacked a Moscow hotel. The management arrangement would change that. Even though most of the incentive would be coming from Russia, a Barclays loan could erase the need for KR to write a check. The drawback in the negotiations was Barclays’ insistence of tying Tehran to the deal. Reilly strongly recommended against it.

  The fact that Perry was in the meeting spoke to Barclays’ interest in moving forward one way or another. As head of the bank’s Hotel Finance Division, he brokered deals throughout Europe. A relationship with Kensington Royal would further strengthen its aggressive position as an investment and equity partner in the
ever-expanding leisure market.

  Reilly began the session. “First I’d like to thank Ms. Babbitt for her overtures in Tehran and Moscow. Hopefully they lead somewhere beneficial for both Kensington and Barclays. So how about we all get to work?”

  His name was Leonid Klenkov. Bald, five-eleven, and without an ounce of body fat, he was the perfect operative. No romantic entanglements. No family.

  Klenkov was the third member of the Heathrow team—the field leader who had driven the empty limo from the airport. He had served with the 45th Guards Spetsnaz Brigade within the Russian Airborne Troops, in both officially sanctioned and secret assignments. Special forces with special talents. Now Klenkov did the same work and more for Russia’s secret service, the FSB.

  Usually Klenkov took orders from command. Other times, they came in a roundabout way. His current assignment was the latter.

  Such surveillance often came with additional instructions. He expected to get an update sooner rather than later, which he’d be prepared to carry out. But it wouldn’t be here. In fact, he considered the day’s work a waste. He knew where his subject was staying and he could pick him up later. But his orders were explicit. Remain with target. And he knew not to fuck with orders that came roundabout.

  MOSCOW

  “Nailed him,” Anatoly Zherdev told the FSB deputy director.

  “Took long enough,” Alexandr Vasilev retorted.

  It put Zherdev on the defensive. “My apologies, sir, but there was no easy way in. I actually had to find an alternate route.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Vasilev said with little interest in the process. “So, what do you have?”

  Zherdev handed Vasilev a file.

  “Personal information, business contacts, background. Salary. Bank accounts. Divorce filing. Of course, if I had more on the subject …”

  “Not necessary.”

  “Yes, but if—”

  “That’s all, Zherdev. I’ll let you know if I require more from you.”