“Cute,” Reilly replied.
“Bottom line is they want Barclays Global Investors UK Holdings to dump more than eight million shares in two missile manufacturing companies and a drone company, and to cancel loans to transportation companies doing business with those manufactures.”
“Like the 2014 demands against Barclays in Cardiff.” Reilly recalled a similar assault on a Barclays branch in Wales.
“Yes, but bigger this time,” she added.
“If it’s like the last, it’ll grind down. They’ll walk out.”
“That’s what we’re hoping.”
Reilly returned to his own one bedroom condo at 1150 K Street after filling his shopping list at Office Depot.
He lived in a relatively new high-rise residential building at the corner of K and 12th. The building had a front desk manned twenty-four hours a day with standing orders from Reilly that no one was permitted in his apartment without his approval. Still, he questioned the security officer on duty and asked for all others to report if anyone attempted to enter. But knowing what was still possible, he made a thorough search of his apartment, looking for anything out of place or the tell-tale signs that listening or viewing devices had been installed.
The apartment appeared to be clean. As an extra precaution, Reilly took the elevator up to the rooftop deck to activate his prepaid cell phone. Once done, he texted Bob Heath with a message that couldn’t be misconstrued.
52
MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION
“Two brothers,” Gorshkov explained to Andre Miklos.
The president told him about Mairis and Sandis Gaiss, beneficiaries of the new Russia and members of the billionaire Russian class. Post-Cold War investments had paid off handsomely for the ruthless Gaiss brothers, Latvian by birth, but fiercely loyal to Russia by expediency. They had turned 20,000 US dollars into a fortune with a combination of shrewd stock plays, strategic takeovers, and friends who had wanted them to succeed—at least at the time. But that was about to come to an end.
Mairis and his younger brother Sandis were not just dedicated to winning. They were champions of absorbing and destroying competitors and eliminating enemies. They were equally adept in the boardroom and the back alleys.
They forged political alliances and agreed to the Kremlin’s terms, thinking they had the better end of the deal.
For the past two years they ate and socialized with the president with outward smiles, all the while banking on a lifelong relationship with Gorshkov. They thought it was a mutual feeling. But they were mistaken.
“Two brothers,” Gorshkov said again as he finished his story. “Do the math. They can afford to lose one. And then who knows?” The president laughed at his own joke and proceeded to outline his agenda.
The assassin listened. It was complicated, creative, challenging, appealing to native emotions, and calculated to stir patriotic fervor. There were multiple moving parts with ultimate public relations benefits—a critical payoff and a prelude of things to come. The next steps in the master plan.
“The fuse?” Miklos asked.
“Yes. And you’ll light it.”
53
BRUSSELS, BELGIUM
ONE WEEK LATER
A middle-aged Hungarian architect passed through the revolving doors of the four-star Kensington Diplomat Hotel a day before the business meetings on his calendar. Jani Bakó pulled a single suitcase and stopped mid-lobby to survey the magnificent late nineteenth-century art nouveau design. The area opened to a high curved ceiling with painted intertwining motifs of plants, birds, and curvaceous female figures. He marveled at the detail and the beauty.
“Bonjour,” he said in French as he approached check-in.
Brussels was a diplomatic city. Accordingly, the receptionist, a blonde German beauty, was fluent in six languages. She read the name on his passport.
“Szervusz, Bakó úr,” she replied in Hungarian.
“Well, thank you. I’ll speak French and some English if that’s easier,” Bakó replied in English.
“Whatever you prefer.”
“English then,” he said, struggling somewhat. “My tutor said I can use the practice.”
“Very good then. I see we have you in for five days.”
“Yes, that is correct,” the architect replied warmly.
They continued to talk through the check-in process. She recommended the restaurant in the hotel, told him how to gain access to the gym with his key card and what to see in the area if he had time.
He appreciated the suggestions. “I’m here for a series of cultural tours. I’m an architect and Brussels is renowned for its design. It’s my first visit. So much to photograph, including your exquisite hotel. Late 1880s?”
“1895,” she replied. “It’s a treasure trove of art nouveau.”
“Abundantly apparent in the lobby. May I ask, is photography permitted?”
“Absolutely,” the receptionist said. “We’ve been featured in many art books. I’d be happy to have someone give you a tour.”
“Really? That would be wonderful.”
Jani Bakó thanked her and took the elevator to his floor, admiring the craftsmanship along the way.
Once in his room, the Hungarian architect unpacked. He took out a blueprint of the hotel and area street maps. Soon he’d return downstairs to take pictures, but Jani Bakó, née Andre Miklos, already had captured a great deal of video through his lapel camera.
In the bathroom he removed his glasses, which had no prescription, stroked the rough artistic stubble he’d grown over the last week, and smiled into the mirror.
Despite his new looks, it was the same menacing, smug smile, recorded weeks earlier on a security camera in Tokyo.
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
“What do you need?” Heath’s offer came with money, manpower, and the resources of the CIA behind it.
They had successfully coordinated their Metro travel to Walter Reed according to Reilly’s instructions and now wasted no time talking strategy.
“A couple of things. Tap into the extra security I ordered at Pam’s house. It’ll be installed in the a.m. You can follow ADT in right after they leave. I’ll give you the passcode. Next scrub any record of me at the Company. Anything and everything. Fast. And make sure there’s nothing traceable about us, in Afghanistan, in the army, or at Langley.”
“There shouldn’t be.”
“Make sure.”
BRUSSELS
Jani Bakó walked with the Kensington Diplomat General Manager, Liam Schorel, occasionally lingering to compose a photograph. “Astoundingly beautiful. I can’t thank you enough. You could have assigned someone on your staff to assist.”
“No, no. The pleasure is all mine.”
“I’ve long admired Victor Horta’s work and his influence.”
“Yes, one of Brussels’ most inspiring architects,” Schorel noted. “A true perfectionist, often inspired by music, particularly the violin. You can feel the influence in the lobby.”
“Most certainly.”
Bakó appeared to admire the interlocking wrought ironwork over marble, which soared to interior stained-glass balcony windows surrounded by fauna and flora scrolls and arabesques. He snapped another succession of photographs.
“Isn’t it true that the Conservatoire de Musique expelled Horta because they viewed him as a pupil who lacked discipline?”
“Truly. You know your history well.”
“How ridiculous,” Bakó said.
“How fortunate for us. Horta’s dismissal from the conservatoire has been a lasting gift to Brussels. To honor him, all of the furniture is either Horta’s original work or recreations based on his designs.”
“Such detail!” the Russian spy exclaimed between pictures. “Incredible attention to every aspect, everywhere.” More shots. “The table tops, the door frames, right down to the door handles. The buttons on the elevator?”
“Everything,” Schorel proudly responded. “Horta was so meticulous th
at the tiniest details were as important to him as the most open, airy, and flowing aspects of his design. Just breathe in the life he gave the lobby with the curved lines and the light from the windows.”
“Magnificent. You can almost feel the building’s heartbeat.” The visitor snapped more pictures before switching to video to pan across the lobby.
Liam Schorel stood out of the way.
Bakó zoomed in on the hotel flower shop between the elevator bank and lobby entrance to Bistango, the ground floor hotel restaurant.
“I see you’re taken by the window design on the shop.”
“The floral metal work over the glass—extraordinary,” Bakó declared.
“Horta carrying his organic touch forward,” said Schorel. “He intended the space as a flower shop in keeping with his vision. It’s always been that. Let’s go over. I’ll introduce you to Madame Ketz. She’s getting a little hard of hearing, but it doesn’t take away from her character. You’ll see. After, be my guest at Bistango. Our chef is renowned for his Flemish cuisine.”
“Oh, I truly wish I could, but I’m much too tired,” the spy replied.
Bakó smiled outwardly to Schorel, but his alter ego, Miklos, laughed inwardly.
BETHESDA
“Why are you so worried?” Heath asked Reilly.
“After the divorce, Pam let me store boxes in the basement that I had no room for at my condo. Some clothes, stuff from when I was a kid, and a box of war memorabilia. Whoever broke in went through it all,” Reilly explained.
“So?”
“So, there were photographs of us together in Kabul.”
“So what?”
“It won’t be hard to find a match for you,” Reilly said.
“It’s no secret where I drive to work every day.”
“Granted. But if our association comes out, there’ll be a shitstorm. Shaw’s adopted a ‘Don’t see, don’t tell’ attitude. But if it’s leaked, Congress will have me in the hot seat with a whole new set of questions coming my way and KR stock will be in trouble.”
“Got it. Give me a few minutes.”
Heath stepped away to make two calls. One was to a memorized number at INSCOM, the Army Intelligence and Security Command at Fort Belvoir, Virginia. The other was to the CIA director.
“Okay, in the works,” he said upon returning.
“Good,” Reilly responded.
“Your record is disappearing, but we’ll create a record of ‘official’ hotel inquiries, just as we have with other US corporations doing business around the world. Nothing untoward or out of the ordinary.”
“Let’s hope,” Reilly sighed.
“Anything else?” Heath asked.
“Yes, I want an appointment with a shrink.”
BRUSSELS
Madame Ketz was born in another era. Miklos thought she was probably in her mid-70s, perhaps closer to 80. She wore a chic ivory period fascinator hat accented with a white rose—a grand dame dressed for the 1895 opening ball for Horta’s hotel.
Schorel handled the introduction. The spy was gracious, taking her hand and kissing it almost royally.
Johanna Ketz spoke with a Dutch accent and happily shared her knowledge of how Horta brought the outside in to his buildings, creating a sense of openness.
“It’s been said that he came in daily to buy a flower for his lapel. Although I’ve never seen such a photograph, it makes for a wonderful story. I shall give you one in his honor, Mr. Bakó.”
While she went to the refrigerator, Miklos photographed Horta’s architectural touches in the shop, catching Ketz’s assistant building floral arrangements in the background. He whispered to Schorel. “I see she has help.”
“Yes,” the general manager said. “Frederik is very new. Madame Ketz’s long-time assistant suffered a heart attack only a week ago. Frederik is a temporary replacement.”
“Too much for her to do alone?”
“Yes. Far too much. Frederik is quite responsible, and that lets Madame Ketz do what she loves.”
The spy smiled. “Flirt with her customers?”
“Correct. And here she comes now.”
The old florist brought the Russian spy a vibrant pink orange rose for his lapel.
“For you, my handsome friend.”
“I shall come in for one each day before I leave,” he said, kissing her lightly on each cheek.
Back in the lobby, the general manager thanked Bakó for his graciousness. “We often get inquiries to tour the hotel, but not from architects with your passion.”
“Oh, it’s my on honor. Thank you for all your time. A few more photographs?”
“Of course,” Schorel graciously extended. “I failed to mention that the Kensington Diplomat is seriously being considered as a UNESCO World Heritage site. The process is long and complicated, but we’re hopeful.”
“I’m quite familiar with all that it takes. We have multiple sites in Prague, including the Historic Centre. But I must admit the magnificence here, Victor Horta’s talent and touch, surely set the standard for neoromanticism.”
“Precisely. I feel great responsibility for maintaining its character.”
The Russian had an opening for his next question.
“Speaking of that, you must take extra precautions against theft or vandalism.”
Andre Miklos planted the thought very casually through his guise as the Hungarian architect. He was rewarded with a very specific response.
“We do. We have twenty-four cameras in the lobby constantly recording in our security office behind reception and six independent sprinkler zones, although we could us some structural upgrades. Someday. Never know when we’ll get another earthquake,” Schorel joked. “The last significant one to hit was 1692.”
“Dangers rarely come with a warning,” Bakó noted.
“True, but for all other things, we’re buttoned down. We’ve taken exceptional precautions.”
Miklos cleared his throat to stifle a laugh. In fact, he’d never had such open access. In return, he decided to send the manager a 2014 Chateau Mouton Rothschild Pauillac and a vase of flowers from the old florist. Lilies? he thought. No, too dead on.
“I understand that Horta’s design lines, colors, and ironwork often continued beyond the public areas.”
“Oh, most definitely. Would you like to tour the basement?”
“Anywhere you’d like.”
54
WASHINGTON, DC
TWO DAYS LATER
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Doctor.”
Reilly shook Dr. Chadwick Ellis’ hand.
“Please, I’m much more comfortable with Chad. Besides it’s less formal here.”
For convenience sake, Ellis had recommended the Washington Harvard Club. Both were members with access to a private room.
“Well then, let’s begin.” The 56-year-old psychiatrist closed the door, picked one of the two deep burgundy leather chairs, and invited Reilly to take the other.
Reilly settled in and thought the doctor looked the part with wavy salt-and-pepper hair, a light blue and red checkered shirt, grey slacks, and a navy blue cardigan jacket with felt elbow patches.
“Nice not to have to fill out medical insurance forms,” Reilly lightly joked.
“Fortunately I never had to process any. Besides, my subjects are never even aware I’m evaluating them.”
Dr. Chadwick Ellis was not the typical psychiatrist. He was Harvard educated, with a minor in political science, and spoke Russian and Arabic. The CIA had recruited him his junior year and fully funded his medical school tuition. Now thirty years later, he was the CIA’s senior shrink, writing detailed political prescriptions.
“Bob Heath tells me you want to understand what makes Mr. Gorshkov tick.”
“If possible.”
“You’ve met Gorshkov?”
“Yes, briefly.”
“And your opinion?”
“Powerful. Calculating. We only spoke for a few moments. All in
English, and something was probably lost for that reason, but I had the distinct feeling he was sizing me up.”
“Why did you feel that way?”
Reilly felt this was a classic psychiatrist question. He smiled. “You’re good. You turned this back on me.”
“It’s what I do,” Ellis said as he leaned into his chair. “So, tell me why.”
“It was in his eyes. The coldest I’d ever seen with a smile that said, ‘Don’t fuck with me.’”
Dr. Ellis laughed. “Go on.”
“I thought you’d be filling me in.”
“Soon enough. Please.”
“Well, I had a sense he was probing for my weaknesses. Oh, and his handshake wasn’t a greeting. It was all about control. I couldn’t get the thought out of my mind that this was the most dangerous man I’d ever met.”
Ellis removed his glasses, raised them to the sunlight, and looked for smudges.
“You got an impression and interpreted it,” he said, replacing his glasses. “Was it what you felt or what he wanted you to feel? Do you know the story of the blind men and the elephant?”
“No, I don’t believe so.”
“It’s Hindu lore, but retold and popularized by the nineteenth century American poet John Godfrey Saxe. Forgive me, if you will. It’s worthy of our discussion.”
The CIA psychologist began the story.
“Once upon a time six blind men in a village encountered an elephant. Of course they had no idea what an elephant was. Perhaps by feeling it they’d understand better. One at a time each of the men stepped forward to touch the creature. First came the blind man who touched the elephant’s leg. He claimed an elephant was a pillar. The second touched the tail and argued it was like a rope. The third felt the trunk. He described the animal as a thick tree branch. Remember,” Ellis said, “these are blind men.”
Reilly nodded.
“The fourth reached higher and touched an ear. He claimed the elephant was an enormous hand fan. The fifth man ran his hand across the elephant’s side describing it as a wall. Finally, the sixth blind man, after feeling the tusk, said an elephant was a pipe.
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