RED Hotel

by Fuller, Ed; Grossman, Gary;

  “Well, has the early bird caught a new worm?” Federov asked.

  Federov proudly wore his crisply ironed uniform with medals and emblems emblazoned across his chest. He removed his hat and tucked it under his left armpit.

  “Actually two worms, sir. Do you have a few minutes?” Zherdev lowered his voice. “Inside?”

  “Enter.”

  Federov sat at his desk. Everything was so neatly arranged it screamed obsessive compulsive. Current files were in alphabetical order and pencils were all the same length, sharpened to fine points. The telephone was positioned squarely in the near right corner with equal space to the edges. The phone cord had no knots.

  To Nicolai Federov, order was a sign of character. Everything in its proper place; everyone doing his job as required.

  Zherdev took a chair across from the director and removed two folded pages from his inside jacket pocket.

  “Sir, I have disobeyed a direct order.”

  “Oh?” Federov asked, his face neutral. Instead of reacting, he arranged anything he thought was out of place on his desk.

  “Deputy Director Vasilev gave me a research assignment on an American businessman who had met with the president. I turned in a preliminary report, with more to follow. Surprisingly …” Zherdev drew out the word, feeling it would turn Federov’s head. It did. He continued the sentence, “The deputy director insisted I forego further investigation in favor of other duties. With all due respect to the deputy director,” this was a complete lie, “I said there was more intelligence to glean.”

  Federov bore down on Zherdev with a threatening stare. “And you disobeyed his order?”

  “I did. Willfully, Director. I continued all day yesterday and through the night.”

  He phrased his next thought all the more carefully. “Fearing that Deputy Director Vasilev would bring disciplinary action against me for disobeying his order,” he paused for a confident breath, “I decided to come to you.”

  “To be pardoned?”

  “To present the rest of my report.” He raised the paper and held it tight. “If the director wants to …”

  “Give it to me!”

  Zherdev felt he had played Federov perfectly.

  “Yes, sir.” He handed it to the director. “The subject is an American corporate executive. His title is International Senior Vice President of Kensington Royal Hotels. It’s a global chain. They’re currently discussing the possibility of managing the state-owned Moscow Excelsior Hotel. Prior to his present job, he worked for the US Department of State. Before that he was an army intelligence officer.”

  “And your assumption is that he continues to work in that field?”

  “I have every reason to believe that’s possible, sir, especially given his recent trip to Moscow. I need to dive deeper.”

  Director Federov alternated his view through his progressive lenses, reading the document and peering at Zherdev. Once finished, Federov returned to an earlier comment. “Vasilev ordered you to stop?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Do you have any idea why?”

  It was time to take Alexandr Vasilev down.

  “May I speak freely?” Zherdev asked.

  The FSB director’s eyes narrowed. “I suspect that’s not a failing of yours. But remember where you are and the liberties you’ve taken.”

  Zherdev suddenly wondered if he had gone too far. Maybe there was a relationship between Federov and Vasilev he’d failed to uncover. But it was too late. He had to proceed.

  “In my mind Deputy Director Vasilev exhibited gross incompetence, Mr. Director. And it was not the first time either.” Now to put his career on the line. “I have another file for you.”

  “Oh?”

  Anatoly Zherdev leaned down, unlocked, and opened his brief case.

  “At the risk of losing my job …”

  “Or worse. Far worse,” the FSB director replied.

  “Read this.” Zherdev handed over the research he had done on his reviled boss. “Information you likely don’t know.”

  Federov took it with great interest. He immediately saw Vasilev’s name and disturbing photographs.

  “We will continue our conversation,” Federov said. “I will notify you. Do not discuss this meeting with anyone.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Director.”

  “Wait to thank me until I decide your future.”

  Zherdev left with a polite nod. He had one more thing to do once he returned to his office. A very important phone call to another very important person he routinely reported to. However, even Federov didn’t know this man. Few did.

  “He’s everything and possibly more,” Zherdev began. He recounted his findings, his conversation with the deputy director, and his follow up with Federov.

  Andre Miklos was extraordinarily pleased that he had recruited Zherdev a year earlier. It had taken time, but he had delivered. Zherdev was his inside mole reporting on Vasilev’s ineptitude and Federov’s political posturing. He’d be due for a reward for this new work, but first Miklos sent a three-word text to his waiting operative in London:

  The message simply said “Stay on him.”

  LONDON

  In London, three hours behind Moscow, Klenkov got the text not long after the lights went out in the woman’s apartment again.

  Marnie reluctantly let Reilly leave. He quickly dressed and stepped out into the darkness at 4:15 a.m., first to check if he still had a tail, and second, to hail a cab.

  He stretched his arms wide on the steps to her house on Cornwall Crescent. The move gave him an opportunity to surveil the street. Reilly didn’t see any threats. He bent down to tighten his shoelaces. It was an awkwardly transparent move, but quite intentional. It might let anyone in the shadows know he was on alert to danger.

  For now, no one appeared. When Reilly felt it was safe, he started up the sidewalk, hoping to flag a ride. But it was still too early and Marnie lived on an exceptionally quiet street. Reilly had to walk to a more commercial area.

  Diagonally across the street, Klenkov signaled for his driver to hang back. He’d take his quarry on foot. While he walked, the Russian threaded a suppressor onto his Beretta M9A3 pistol and thought time and opportunity had come together.

  Stay on him? he thought. A quiet kill would be so much more satisfying. Like he had done to a British member of parliament and former FSB agents who had turned.

  Wishing he had the kill order, he pictured the scenario. Hit him on the street. One bullet through the back of his head. Quick. Efficient. Then drive away, and go to sleep.

  In the ninety meters to the corner he halved the distance between himself and his target to roughly sixty steps. The assassin calculated Reilly would follow the traffic flow at the corner, make a left, and look for transportation.

  Considering it was still dark he could act and quietly leave with no one even noticing. But that wasn’t the directive.

  Klenkov continued to close the distance, walking on his rubber soles. Thirty steps. Twenty-five. Twenty. Close enough. The subject, whistling to himself, turned the corner from Cornwall Crescent to Ladbroke Grove.

  He thought again how easy it would be. One shot and leave. But now it was too quiet. No footsteps ahead. The Russian automatically removed his Beretta.

  Without warning, Klenkov saw a large fast moving object appear out of the darkness in front him. It registered. A metal trash can top.

  The first impact knocked the Beretta out of his hand. The second smashed his head. Klenkov crumbled to the sidewalk. The fall broke his nose and cracked his chin.

  Reilly was about to bring his improvised weapon down on the assailant again just as a car careened around the corner. The driver slammed on the breaks and shouted in Russian. Reilly turned and saw a gun aimed at him through the car window some twenty feet away. He turned his body sideways, creating a smaller target. The bullet missed by only inches. Reilly dropped the trash can top and ran. For a few seconds Reilly had the advantage. The downed man would be s
lower. The car, inefficient. But he had to gain real strategic advantage to defend himself.

  “I’m okay!” Klenkov yelled to the driver. “Go!”

  The Russian fought through the pain. He spotted his subject cut sharply across the street. Klenkov retrieved his gun, rose, and ran. His prey had built some distance, but in no way was it insurmountable. Getting the American had suddenly turned into revenge.

  The Russian in the car began a fast U-turn to join the chase. That’s when he made a foreigner’s mistake, looking the wrong way for oncoming London traffic. Midway into his turn, a sixteen-ton lorry plowed into him.

  Reilly heard the crash but ignored it. Escape and time were his only options, especially considering there was one man left who was again on his feet and running at full speed.

  Reilly rounded another corner onto Elgin Crescent. Two blocks further he saw a construction site on Kensington Park Road. It was a high-rise office building, structurally about 30 percent completed, partially enclosed, and with no apparent overnight activity.

  As Klenkov sprinted, he sniffed hard to stop his nosebleed. He had only two thoughts. Catch up and kill.

  Fifty meters ahead the American vaulted a metal fence into a work area. Klenkov followed, reducing the distance with every purposeful stride. Soon, he thought. Soon, soon, soon.

  Klenkov ran faster and took the fence easier than his target.

  Reilly scrambled up the first of the unfinished stairs within the building. He didn’t get a good count of the floors, but it looked to have at least ten or twelve. Enough to work with, or so he hoped.

  The floor plan was about 20,000 square feet. Temporary work lights lit the way. He dodged shipments of plate glass for still uninstalled interior windows, crates with building supplies, and skids containing lumber. To survive, Dan Reilly needed to find a weapon. So far nothing.

  He ran up an inside flight of stairs to the next floor. Again, a quick look around under the limited light revealed nothing he could work with. The sound of heavy footsteps on the wood floors got louder. The killer was still on him, and Reilly felt his advantage, if he ever really had one, was slipping.

  Reilly assumed the man had recovered his gun. As soon as he had a clear shot … He pushed past the thought. Another flight up. The fourth. And then another.

  On the fifth floor he saw a box of construction supplies: loose tools including hammers, screwdrivers, and saws. Short of throwing them, they were no help. Ahead were loose rebars, but they would only be good in hand-to-hand combat, which was not going to work against a man with an automatic.

  Reilly was winded by the time he got to seven. He scanned the area. The floor was partially completed. Only one wall was up. The other sides opened to a straight drop.

  He spotted a few places to hide. Not many. Then he saw something he might be able to use. Reilly ran diagonally across the open expanse to what looked like a toolbox with an orange logo set against a black background. A logo he recognized. Ramset.

  Reilly took the entire kit and ducked behind a wooden shipping container in an unfinished office. The crate was the size of a refrigerator, lying lengthwise. Beside it were a stack of cardboard boxes, which offered no protection, and multiple plate glass office windows, upright and in a wood base. He crouched low, away from any overhead light, opened the toolbox, and did a quick inventory of the contents. The sound carried.

  Thirty seconds later, with a sliver of daylight beginning to slice over the horizon, Leonid Klenkov took the last steps up to the same floor.

  “Ah, I hear you,” Klenkov said as he slowly approached. “Now where are you hiding?”

  Reilly distinctly caught the Russian accent, but he was more focused on going through the toolbox, hoping it was complete. It wasn’t.

  Damn, Reilly said to himself as the footsteps got closer. Where the hell … ? The Ramset tool was there, but it was missing …

  Klenkov moved stealthily closer, looking left and right, his gun making turns around boxes and obstructions before his body.

  “Not here … or here,” the Russian said.

  Reilly calculated the distance between them. He was halfway. Little time and nowhere else to run. He felt around the floor, hoping to find the one thing he still needed.

  “You have no weapon, or you would have used it,” Klenkov continued. “And there are so many ways you can hurt yourself at a construction site, so why don’t you just come out. We can just talk.”

  Reilly shifted and felt around the floor. Come on, he silently mouthed. It’s a fucking construction site. There’s got to be …

  He saw what he needed about a body’s length away. But it was out in the open. Now he thought, Just keep talking, Ivan.

  Seconds later, Reilly heard the killer’s voice reverse direction away from him. He used the moment to lunge forward, grab the single small item, and return to the crate.

  But the shuffling gave him away. Klenkov pivoted and got a bead on Reilly’s hiding place.

  “Oh, now I have you.”

  Reilly didn’t respond.

  “Are you certain you don’t want to come out and talk about this?”

  There would be no talking. Klenkov’s Beretta was up and aimed at the horizontal crate.

  “All right then. Let’s see how well-protected you are,” the Russian said brazenly.

  Klenkov fired his silenced automatic. There were two sounds: the suppressed thud from his gun and simultaneously a muffled hit.

  “So,” he said, “what could possibly be in the way? An appliance?”

  Taking a single step forward he fired again.

  “No. Definitely didn’t hear metal. Did you?”

  Klenkov took another step.

  “Bricks?”

  Another shot.

  “Bricks? I don’t think so. Maybe sand.”

  He fired again.

  “Did you know it would take only seven inches of sand to stop a 9mm round?”

  Another shot. Closer.

  Reilly was listening, but busy at work.

  “Of course you did. You’re much better trained than I expected. That’s why you’re hiding behind something strong. Hoping I’ll run out of ammunition. But I won’t.”

  He shot again. Another thud.

  “So what does that leave us with?”

  Reilly concentrated on what he was doing. He calculated Klenkov was within twenty feet. That was good and getting better.

  “Did you know that a few jugs of water can stop a bullet?”

  The Russian fired twice more.

  “But if it had been water, we’d know it.”

  Klenkov laughed.

  “You’d be soaking wet by now. Maybe you’d drown in the process and I could save a bullet.”

  Now Klenkov swept wide about fifteen feet beyond the six-foot-long container that the American had hidden behind.

  The toolbox Reilly found contained a thin device less than two feet long. It looked like a small jackhammer, but was light and deceiving. On one end, a narrow black tube; on the other, what looked like a half of an orange colored cup. The generic name for what he held in his hand was a PA, a powder-actuated tool. This one was a Ramset Hammershot, sold for only around thirty dollars. It had a unique property which Reilly knew well from his trips to construction sites around the globe and volunteering on Habitat for Humanity builds in the United States.

  The Hammershot was a rudimentary tool to drive pins and threaded studs through wood into concrete or steel. This version was the most basic. It required a sharp hit on the cup side by a mallet or hammer while the tube end was placed up against wood or whatever surface needed to be secured by a nail.

  The toolbox had three of the four things required to make it work. The Ramset itself, the mallet, and a half-filled red box labeled STRONG. The fourth item, the thing Reilly had just found, was a 2.5 inch nail.

  Klenkov continued to circle. As he did, Reilly adjusted his position around the crate.

  The Ramset was almost ready. He opened the box labeled
STRONG and removed what appeared to be a bullet casing. It was, in fact, a .22 caliber explosive shell without a bullet at the end. But once inserted into the Ramset chamber and cocked, the .22 would become the charge that fired the typically-used threaded studs.

  But the tool kit was missing a box of threaded studs. That’s why Reilly had to find something else. The 2.5 inch nail fit perfectly into the barrel.

  He took five deep breaths and listened for the footsteps. Now he needed opportunity and the correct trajectory.

  “Ivan,” Reilly said mockingly.

  “He speaks,” Klenkov replied.

  Reilly shifted somewhat to the right, closer to the stack of standing plate glass windows.

  “What’s this all about?” Reilly asked. He pulled back the steel spring mechanism on the Ramset.

  “That’s a good question. They just tell me what to do and I do it.” He laughed. “And I do it very, very well.”

  “Who?”

  “Oh, I can’t say.”

  “You’re never curious?”

  “Oh sometimes, I suppose.”

  “There’s an old saying about curiosity,” Reilly continued.

  He took another deep breath. Though he couldn’t see, Reilly calculated that the Russian was almost opposite the glass beside him.

  “Oh?” Klenkov sniffled hard to keep his nose from bleeding.

  The sound came from the right of where Reilly was. He rose behind the glass, not showing his full body to the killer. In his right hand and to his side was the mallet. In his left, the Ramset.

  The Russian was actually surprised to see Reilly stand.

  “I suppose you think it’s bulletproof glass?”

  In one smooth move, the one chance he had, Dan Reilly raised the Ramset, put the barrel end squarely against the glass, directly facing the Russian at midbody height. Without another word he slammed the mallet against the orange cup end.

  The power of the mallet transferred into the .22 caliber casing that transmitted the energy to the nail. Instantly, the glass shattered with a flash. The nail continued straight on 15 feet at 223 miles per hour into Leonid Klenkov’s chest.