Red Deception Read online

  However, all the smoke that rose up the chimney into the frigid December night sky back in 1989 did not prevent Gorshkov from seeing beyond the end of Communism, and beyond Perestroika.

  President Mikhail Gorbachev was intent on purging the old ways and making way for the new. The Kremlin had sold Nicolai Gorshkov out. He vowed no one would ever do that to him again. He would be the good soldier, so long as it served him. But he was determined to rise in power. To the top. He would build a network of people loyal to him and only him, and ultimately eliminate those who had abandoned him and the system.

  Following his return to Russia, Gorshkov quickly advanced in the ranks of the KGB and its successor spy agency, the FSB. He parlayed his ever-expanding position into political circles, which ultimately brought him inside the Kremlin. Decades later, exhibiting the patience of Job but loyal only to his own aspirations for power, Nicolai Gorshkov became the natural heir to the Russian Federation presidency.

  On his way to the top he amassed billions, and felt no remorse for eliminating rivals and threats. They included the KGB officers in the chain of command who had reduced his Potsdam work to ashes, and politicos who failed him now. The press, which he now controlled, acquiesced to his re-shuffling. They reported the news as he dictated—the recent sudden deaths of an incompetent Moscow mayor, a very replaceable general, and several valueless FSB officers.

  He had learned how to survive in the classic Machiavellian manner, with special emphasis on swift, decisive action. It was the old Soviet Union reborn, but so far without the Eastern Bloc countries. So far. Today his minions were doing his bidding with active bots and bullets in the chamber. Like the old days, he had “influencers” in his pocket advising their bosses in corporate America and on Capitol Hill to stick to their own knitting and stay out of Europe’s affairs. By every account, it was working masterfully.

  His aides reported that public sentiment over the terrorist attacks in the U.S. was putting America first and the rest of the world a distant second. MSNBC, CNN, and Fox News had echoed and amplified the point. Moreover, President Crowe appeared to be ignoring the buildup on the Russian Federation border. And NATO was, by all accounts, floundering.

  Gorshkov’s campaign to take back neighboring countries—as he described it, “Russia’s historic destiny”—would be his crowning achievement.

  Crowning. Now that was a new idea. He liked it.

  21

  LONDON

  THE NEXT MORNING

  In an empty office at the London Kensington Royal Hotel, Reilly faced a fresh legal pad that wouldn’t be blank for long. He turned it sideways and wrote three city names: Stockholm, Riga, Kiev. In the left column, he enumerated immediate dangers and immediate decisions. He tackled Kiev, then Riga. Both lists had virtually the same items:

  Upgrade to Red Status

  Arrange for €100,000 cash

  Finalize timelines for evacuation

  Book commercial airlines and backup private jets

  Rent seaworthy boats

  Rent buses, hire drivers

  Order 250 yellow shirts for immediately delivery

  25 yellow flags for immediate delivery

  Deliver 25 analog phones with backup batteries

  Next, Stockholm, site of the upcoming summit:

  Security demands

  Upgrade threat to Red status

  Food checks

  Street closures

  Advance team meetings

  Close down guest parking

  No parking within 100 feet of building

  Reilly brought his notes into the morning meeting. He began with a question for his experts.

  “What’s the chance everything will go to shit before we’re ready?”

  Kalib Hassan spoke first.

  “High degree of probability. Escalation could be imminent.”

  “And if that occurs?”

  “There’s an old Arabic saying,” the mercenary offered. “Do not stand in a dangerous place expecting miracles.”

  Reilly didn’t dare say it, but he thought, Too many crises, not enough people.

  The London team had laid out the potential priorities for him.

  Crisis One: Kiev. Crisis Two: Riga.

  Both read like worst-case scenarios: Invasions. Thousands dead. Possible all-out land war.

  Crisis Three: Stockholm. But, for now, that was more about business logistics and operations.

  For now.

  NEW YORK

  THE SAME TIME

  Daniel J. Reilly.

  Savannah Flanders read the name and the brief—the extremely short brief.

  Daniel J. Reilly. President of Kensington Royal Hotels, International.

  US Army Captain, retired. Former State Department officer. Divorced.

  “That’s it?”

  “He keeps a low profile,” Blowen explained. “That’s from his company bio.”

  “Nothing on LinkedIn?” Flanders asked.

  “Same.”

  “Well, I was right about one thing,” Flanders concluded. “He was field ready. Trained. But now that you know his job, find me some clips, Mike. He can’t fly completely under the radar with such a high-level job.”

  “Got some already. Clips from recent Congressional hearings. Ready to screen.” He hit play. Flanders circled around to his computer and watched an archived C-SPAN session where Reilly was questioned by several Senators she had interviewed in the past. One cantankerous, the other friendly. No surprise there, she thought. Right down party lines. She made a note to call both. Blowen played the more substantive friendly testimony.

  “Mr. Reilly, thank you for joining us today.”

  “You’re quite welcome, Senator.”

  “Following up on the Chairman’s line of questioning, you recognize that the U.S. cannot provide complete protection for American citizens traveling abroad.”

  “I do. That would be impossible.”

  “Then what are you proposing?”

  “Terrorism is our new reality. Radical terrorism is responsible for virtually all of the attacks against hotels, most of which are owned or managed by American companies. We considered ourselves lucky in the 1970s when the Irish Republican Army phoned pre-attack warnings. Those days are over. Modern terrorists aren’t polite or politic. Their goal is to kill as many innocent people as possible. Unannounced and unabashed. Terrorism is no longer just a political threat, it’s a corporate business threat as well. In order to be prepared, we have to be armed, armed with information. Armed with timely, credible intelligence.”

  “At what cost, Mr. Reilly?”

  “Well, information gathering and sharing comes with a price tag, but so does the failure to invest in preventative measures.”

  “I remember this,” Blowen said. He stopped the playback. “Reilly was asking for raw intelligence.”

  “More than the online State Department advisories?”

  “Right. It’s coming up.”

  Senator, members of the committee, there have been terrorist attacks against hotels virtually every year since 9/11. Thousands dead. Tourists and first responders. Children. Christians, Jews, and Muslims. The bombs have not discriminated. Nearly half of these terrorist attacks used VBIEDs—Vehicle Born Improvised Explosive Devices. Kensington Royal is examining ways to increase our security perimeters to help guard against such attacks. But that has not thwarted VBIEDs from getting up to barriers at hotels and restaurants, or suicide bombers and gunmen from checking in at the front desk or sitting down for one last meal.

  The clip ended. Blowen found another, but Reilly’s testimony was interrupted when he received word that his company’s hotel in Tokyo had just been bombed.

  “He left, just like that. It was a horrible attack.”

  “And once again, he ran toward the danger,” Flanders observed. She pulled away from the computer, thinking.

  “I need to meet this guy.”

  LONDON

  A statuesque beauty turned heads as she walke
d out of the revolving doors into the London Kensington Royal Towers. She was dressed in a slinky red dress cut way above the knees and strappy high-heeled sandals. She noted the stir she caused, but didn’t react. It was all intentional. Her outfit was something of a uniform, provoking the intended reactions.

  She stood to the side of the check-in queue, looking like she was engrossed in a phone call. She wasn’t. Though she held her cell to her ear, she was actually waiting for a particular front desk clerk she had her eye on to finish with a guest.

  When the young man was ready he smiled.

  “I’ll take you.”

  Oh yes you will, she thought.

  He held up his left hand, warmly waving her forward. The woman smiled, wrapped up her fake call, and instantly engaged the handsome clerk whom she judged to be in his mid-twenties. The perfect age. Open, inexperienced and impressionable.

  “Good morning,” he began warmly.

  “Good morning.” She read his nametag and said in an appealing manner, “Jonathan.”

  Jonathan responded perfectly to her. Based on his age, exceptional good looks, and first-blush reaction, and the fact that he had no ring on his left ring finger, she decided he probably did all right with some of the women guests he personally checked-in.

  “My first time at your lovely hotel,” she offered in Russian-accented English.

  “Well, I hope I can help make it a comfortable stay for you.”

  She smiled.

  Jonathan was about to ask for her identification and credit card. She beat him to it and handed over her Yellow Sberbank of Russia Gold MasterCard and her Russian Federation passport in the name of Maria Pudovkin—not her actual identity, but one that worked for international business. Her real name was Colonel Martina Kushkin.

  “Ms. Pudovkin, let’s see now.” He pulled up her reservation. “We have you for two nights.”

  “Perhaps more,” she replied.

  Jonathan read into the reply what he wanted, then looked into her portfolio.

  “Well, good news. I can upgrade you to an executive suite.” It was his personal change, not the hotel’s.

  “You can do that for me?” He smiled. “Thank you. That would be wonderful.”

  They chatted casually about her stay. Some meetings, museums, and restaurants. Nothing she had to get to on any schedule.

  “I’m pretty open.”

  Jonathan swallowed hard and completed the check-in process.

  “Alright now. Would you like any assistance to your room?”

  Not to the room, but in the room, she thought. Pudovkin would undoubtedly give the young man an experience he would never forget. Now she just smiled.

  “No, thank you. But if I need anything, I’ll be sure to call you, Jonathan.”

  “Please do.” He programmed two plastic electronic key cards and placed them in her hand.

  “Here you go. You’re all set. Fifth floor.”

  She leaned in and whispered, “Why don’t you keep one for yourself? For later.”

  She pressed the card back in his hand. He casually palmed it, hiding his excitement behind the check-in desk.

  Pudovkin sighed deeply, allowing her ample breasts to visibly rise and fall. Then she turned to the elevator thinking, An inside contact is always worth a good fuck.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  President Crowe returned to television to calm the country, but it wasn’t working. Not this time. Not this President.

  Opposition radio hosts had been fueling talk of retaliation for days. Across the dial there were rants about “the Arabs, right-wing extremists, left-wing radicals, socialists, MS-13 gangs,” and by nationality, “The Saudis, the Russians, the Chinese, and the Mexicans.” But there was no consensus of opinion. And commentators who routinely trolled in conspiracy theories claimed the attacks were President Crowe’s own doing, so he could establish martial law and solidify his power base.

  More sympathetic hosts warned the White House to avoid another Iraq. Another Afghanistan.

  Crowe opened with a middle-of-the-road approach which was immediately met by raised hands and shouts from reporters wanting to be recognized. He braced for a hostile press conference.

  “Mr. President, do we have any intelligence on who is responsible for these terrorist attacks?” asked Washington PBS reporter Stan Deutsch.

  “No. But we are committing the full resources of the FBI’s Joint Terrorism Force, Homeland Security, and Central Intelligence, as well as law enforcement agencies across the country.”

  “Since there are multiple attacks that are obviously well-coordinated and require a significant investment,” began CNN’s Deborah Ball, “is there a money trail to follow?”

  “That will be part of the investigation.”

  “Will be or is?” Ball countered.

  “We’re following every possible lead.”

  Crowe took a drink of water, wishing he had given a stronger reply. He returned to the CNN reporter.

  “Deborah, to be clear, we are investigating all aspects. The identity of these killers, where they’re from, the money behind them.”

  John Rantz from Fox News cut in.

  “If it’s a foreign government, will you ask Congress for a declaration of war or order a punitive strike on your own?”

  “We are not there yet, John,” Crowe replied. “But I will not remove any option from the table at this time.”

  “Mr. President,” shouted a reporter from InfoWars, “It’s been said that your administration itself could be behind these horrific acts. Can you categorically deny that charge?”

  Crowe shot a critical look at the agitator and moved on.

  “Next question.”

  Hands shot up. The press pool shouted more questions. MSNBC, Fox, and CBS the loudest. But Crowe suddenly held up both hands, signaling for quiet. He returned to the Infowars reporter he had ignored.

  “Wait. I categorically deny your assertion. And you, sir, bring shame to your profession. That’s assuming I can even call you a professional among your peers.”

  It was a sharp retort that would lead most newscasts that night.

  “Next.”

  The shouting resumed. The president recognized Jack Casey, a WERS-FM news reporter from Boston.

  “Mr. President, are the attacks on the United States related in any way to what’s occurring in Europe, because—”

  “We have no evidence to support that.”

  Casey jumped back in.

  “Excuse me, sir, but following up on an earlier question, according to a NBC/New York Times poll, Americans, by a margin of 85 percent to 15 percent, do not want the United States to have any involvement in a war in Eastern Europe. Can you explain the administration’s position at this moment? Your position, Mr. President?”

  Crowe hesitated. This was the question he definitely didn’t want to answer.

  “We’re studying the situation.”

  More hands. More reporters yelling out.

  22

  NEW YORK

  Figuring Savannah Flanders had worked through the night, Mike Blowen came to work the next morning prepared. He put a nonfat vanilla latte to the side of her computer, within easy reach.

  “Full strength,” he said.

  “Thanks.” Flanders barely looked up from her typing.

  “How’s it going?”

  “It’s going. You?”

  “I’ll tell you one thing: almost everyone I interviewed said they’ll move before they go under or even over the river again.”

  “Same kind of reports out of D.C. and St. Louis. But that will change. We all go back to our old routines.”

  “Like lightning never striking twice in the same place?” Blowen suggested.

  “More like we have to just go on living.” Flanders handed her latest printouts to Blowen.

  “This is for the file now. They want us on background for a Sunday lead story. Vulnerabilities to infrastructure. I said we’d do it, but I want time on another angle.” />
  “Did you tell the desk what it is?”

  “Not yet. Gotta get more. Hopefully in person.”

  “What if someone else gets to him first?”

  “Let’s just make sure that doesn’t happen.” Flanders paused to refocus, then asked, “Okay. Anything new?”

  “The State Department would only confirm he had worked there. Not what he did.”

  “What about the Army?”

  “Sealed, according to my contact at the Pentagon. Trying to find out. No one’s opening up yet. I’ll call in some favors.”

  “Do it.” Savannah Flanders concluded, “There’s more to Reilly than meets the eye.”

  LONDON

  THE SAME TIME

  Reilly and Marnie Babbitt talked over lunch at The Ledbury. Marnie complained that her upcoming travel was as harried as his. Washington and Philadelphia, then on to Cairo and maybe Moscow. The uncertainty in Eastern Europe was making her work as a Vice President of Development and Finance for Barclays Bank ever more challenging. Projects in all three Baltic nations were on hold. The same for Ukraine.

  “Tell you what, I’ll trade with you,” he mused.

  “How about we meet up?”

  “I can’t promise anything. Not for a while.”

  Marnie nodded. “But you’ll keep me posted. Every day,” she implored, reaching across the table.

  “The best I can.”

  “Your best is better than anyone else’s.”

  Reilly smiled at the intended double entendre.

  “Okay,” she continued. “You can start now.”

  “With?”

  “Your schedule. Where are you going first? And when?”

  The hotel clerk was off duty. Col. Martina Kushkin, presently Maria Pudovkin, was on. She had taken him places he’d never been. And now lying in bed, she ran her left hand through his hair, kissed his neck softly, while her right hand gently caressed him where he most wanted. Through the foreplay she knew this was a perfect time to pump him in an entirely different way.

  The Russian spy got the young hotel employee to talk about his family, his life, and his aspirations. She praised him for his professional manner and predicted he would have a tremendous career. Not to rush pressing for information, she slid her head down and let him enjoy her warm lips. This aroused him, but he was not fully ready again. So she came up above the covers and kissed him deeply before resting her head on his chest.