Red Deception

by Gary Grossman

  “Executive with the Kensington Royal Hotels. I’m here to visit the Kensington Caracas Vista.”

  The company had decided to remove the name Royal in the Kensington name. It didn’t sit well with the ideology of the socialist regime.

  “To visit? We struggle every day because of your sanctions, you seek to overturn our government. And yet you want to visit?” Reilly waited a beat before answering. It was his interrogation training; experience told him to respond in a non-threatening manner.

  “A company visit, sir. To meet my general manager.”

  “I asked for what purpose. You answer with who. Again, what is your purpose at this critical time in our history?”

  “Upgrades,” Reilly said. It was a safe word. And it was true. Upgrades for security’s sake, like the ones he hoped were working now in Ukraine.

  “For whose benefit?” The customs officers waved his American passport but showed no sign of handing it back.

  “For travelers, our guests. For local employees. For their safety. It’s my job to check on our hotels around the world. We have two in Caracas.”

  “Not to spy on República Bolivariana de Venezuela?”

  Reilly remained focused on the officer but still friendly, not challenging. Challenging could put him in jail.

  “To meet with management and staff.”

  “After that?”

  “On to Colombia to do the same in Bogotá.” He considered adding that he’d just come from Europe but stopped. Again, less is best.

  The guard realized he had no reason to hold the American and he wasn’t even having fun taunting him. Running out of questions he asked, “How many days, American?”

  “No more than two.”

  “Two,” the custom officer responded. “You are to stay in your hotels, do your work, and leave. Two days. I will note that on your passport and in the system. Do you understand, Señor…?” He stumbled over his name.

  “It’s Reilly.”

  “Señor Reilly. Two days. No more. We will be watching.”

  He stamped Reilly’s passport with the force that could have broken the stamp. It told Reilly two things: he had won this round, and he’d better be careful. A pissed-off man on the frontline could make trouble in the backfield.

  “Thank you, officer.” He stopped short of saying have a nice day—there weren’t many nice days in this struggling dictatorship, he imagined.

  Reilly flagged down a cab and realized that, as in Russia, it was probably driven by a government employee. He pretended to fall asleep for the ride into Caracas.

  First, the Kensington Caracas Vista on Av Venezuela con Calle Mohedano. He’d check in and immediately meet with General Manager Raul Gonzales-Espinosa. His goal was to keep the briefing short, positive, and to the point: to provide protection for guests while beginning to close down in phases over the next month. Gonzales-Espinosa, a Venezuelan-born executive with twelve years of dedicated service, listened intently.

  Reilly outlined the immediate needs that needed attention that week. Next, the harder requirements over week two. The portly forty-four-year-old general manager nodded as he took notes. Then Gonzales-Espinosa outlined the safety measures he’d recently implemented.

  “We check all deliveries before trucks are permitted in. Likewise, the identity of the drivers. Bags are scanned and we have two dogs on the property.”

  “How long do you work them?” Reilly asked.

  “Four hours on, four hours off. Round the clock.”

  “No good,” Reilly responded.

  Gonzales-Espinosa looked confused. “I thought—.”

  “They’re good for forty-five minutes, then they have to rest. Their attention to scents fades. You’ll need a kennel with at least ten more Belgian Malinois through the shutdown.”

  “Belgian what?”

  “Malinois. They’re the best.”

  “This is Venezuela. We have one Basset Hound and one Beagle.”

  “Can you get more?”

  “Eventually, maybe.”

  “What about your security team? Do you trust them? All of them?”

  The general manager snickered reflexively. “This is Venezuela.”

  “And we have procedures to follow,” Reilly argued. “What about the rest of the staff?”

  “Loyal and dedicated. I know them and their families.”

  “Good. I want to thank them going and coming at the shift change, and explain that we’ll be hardening the hotel for everyone’s well-being.”

  “That will mean a lot, Mr. Reilly.”

  “And we’ll provide severance. Six months.”

  “Our people will be very grateful.”

  The general manager then dropped his gaze.

  “What is it, Raul?”

  “I’ve been worried for my family. My son is sixteen. The army could take him any day. And my daughter. She’s fifteen. They could—”

  He didn’t have to explain. The Caracas streets were dangerous day and night. More dangerous for girls.

  “How long will it take for them to be ready to leave? And will they be willing?”

  “With convincing, a week.” He shook his head. “Teenagers. They think they’re invincible.”

  Reilly remembered his own early years.

  “Yes. Invincible. But get them ready. We’ll get you and your family out.”

  Over the next three hours, Reilly briefed the security officers. After that he addressed the staff as their shifts ended or began. Raul Gonzales-Espinosa was correct, they were dedicated and extremely grateful.

  Reilly remained in the hotel that night. He heard gunshots. Single-fire weapons he expected were from civilians, answered by more serious automatic fire from the army. No wonder Raul wanted to get his family out of the country.

  The next day he took another cab to the more luxurious Kensington Bolivar on Av Luis Roche and gave virtually the same message to the general manager and his team. Ricardo Levy, a Venezuelan-American and an old friend of Reilly’s, was equally cooperative and supportive. But he really wanted to get out. He thought Shaw had him in the wrong place.

  36

  MOSCOW

  Nicolai Gorshkov’s displeasure usually ended with staff changes. Permanent change, without retirement or pension. Sometimes his decisions came with a warning; when that happened, the accused never had time to plead their case. They never knew what lay around the corner, in their homes, or when they started their cars.

  Tonight would be one of those nights. Gorshkov summoned two FSB officials. Only one, a man, could make it in person. Lt. Colonel Boris Belkan stood smartly at attention before him. The woman called in on a secure line from the London embassy. Gorshkov addressed them both sternly.

  “Lt. Belkan, Colonel Kushkin, I’m certain there’s an explanation,” he began sternly.

  “Yes, Mr. President. A simple case of mistaken identity,” Belkan explained.

  “There is nothing simple about this! Colonel Kushkin, would you describe it in the same manner?” Gorshkov yelled.

  “No, Mr. President. This was an unauthorized mission,” she replied sharply. “The order was to observe.”

  “That was not my understanding,” Lt. Belkan countered.

  Now Kushkin was furious. “Then you understood wrong! That was not the plan.”

  The call went painfully quiet for ten long seconds. At the eleventh second, Gorshkov smiled uncharacteristically.

  “I think we can move beyond this.”

  The answer surprised Martina Kushkin, until it didn’t. She recognized the tone. She’d heard it before and seen where it had led.

  Gorshkov, now speaking in a soft, conciliatory tone, said, “I understand. Mistakes happen. Excitement of the moment. Mixed signals. An opportunity arises and your man takes advantage of it. Would you describe it that way?”

  Belkan hesitated. His gut told him he was being baited. But to disagree might be worse than to walk into this conversational trap. He decided another approach: a non-answer.
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  “I can fix this, Mr. President. This will never happen again under my command.” Gorshkov smiled again.

  “Fixing it. Yes. My thoughts exactly. And your thoughts, Colonel Kushkin, since this was also your responsibility?”

  “I clearly communicated the order. But I will stand by any decision you make.”

  “Sir, if I may?” Belkan said, still at attention.

  “Yes, lieutenant?” Gorshkov asked.

  “We are continuing to track the subject.”

  “Oh? And where is he?”

  “Well, I don’t have that at this moment. I’ll find out.”

  “Actually, I have that information already,” Kushkin said. “He was spotted leaving Heathrow on a flight to Venezuela.”

  “Sir,” Belkan continued, “We have assets in Caracas. I can easily find out why he went there instead of Paris.”

  “Thank you, lieutenant. But I believe Martina understands her charge.”

  Gorshkov employing Belkan’s FSB rank, but Kushkin’s first name, chilled the junior officer.

  “Unless there are any last thoughts, I think we’re done here,” Gorshkov said.

  “Certainly, Mr. President,” Kushkin replied.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Belkan added, now worried about Gorshkov’s unusually calm manner and his phrasing of ‘last thoughts.’

  “Well then, there’s one more thing.”

  Gorshkov pushed his chair back from his desk and opened the top right drawer. Belkan remained at attention. Kushkin was silent over the phone. She sensed what was coming.

  The Russian president removed a loaded PSS SP-16 7.62x43 mm pistol from his desk. It was the FSB weapon of choice for covert operations and assassinations. He admired the gun, turning it from side to side, appreciating its design and marveling at how light it was in his hand.

  Belkan stiffened. He knew the weapon well. It had no manual safety, and though it was low-powered, the PSS SP-164 was especially effective at short range. Twenty-five meters was its maximum effective distance, but he was barely two meters away. He imagined the wedge-shaped bullet in the chamber. Gorshkov casually waved the gun in the air.

  “There are so many reasons one chooses a certain gun. There’s weight. Ease of operation. Handling. Of course, effectiveness. But I find it more emotional than physical. In my hand, the right weapon, this gun in fact, becomes an extension of my whole being.” He laughed. “I’m probably not making any sense.”

  “You are, Mr. President.” Boris Belkan had heard about the mind games Gorshkov played. He worked hard to hide his fear, though his voice gave him away.

  “Of course, this isn’t the best weapon to keep in a shoulder holster, but a desk drawer? Six rounds. It’s always ready.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They tell me at the firing range that my marksmanship is in the top one percent. But people are always flattering me.” He laughed again. “Sometimes I think they switch the targets out and let me take home ones only filled with bullseyes. Truthfully, I should be better, and they should be truthful. But people are people.” Gorshkov lowered the pistol. “What do you think, lieutenant?”

  A trick question? Belkan quickly thought. How to respond? Gorshkov demanded loyalty. But loyalty didn’t depend on truth; it depended on faithful obedience, which often conflicted with truth. The only truth that mattered was Nicolai Gorshkov’s truth.

  “Sir, you are president. I serve you.”

  Gorshkov smiled. “Of course you do.”

  Belkan relaxed his shoulders. Gorshkov had used his full rank. Better?

  “Lieutenant, you’re dismissed. Colonel Kushkin, please stay on the phone. You’ll want to hear this.”

  Belkan hadn’t focused on Gorshkov’s last statement. He turned on his heels, an exact military about-face, at which point Gorshkov raised the silenced gun and shot Belkan twice through the left side of his back, shots perfectly aimed to puncture his heart.

  Kushkin heard the pair of pops over the phone.

  “Martina?” the president asked. “Still there?”

  “Sir.”

  “Continue as planned and get Belkan’s officer back home. I’ll talk to him in the same manner,” Gorshkov said, returning his pistol to the desk drawer.

  37

  BRUSSELS

  “Nothing changed overnight,” NATO Secretary General Carlos Phillipe reported when the command team reconvened. “No advancement at the borders. No increase in troop movement. Quiet for now, but Russia is ready and able to pounce on two fronts simultaneously. The U.S. is preoccupied; we’re not unified. Gorshkov knows that. Maybe he even planned that. I’m going to Washington to try to convince President Crowe that he needs to stand with us despite his own problems. Without visible U.S. engagement, Russia will have a cakewalk into the Balkans, let alone Ukraine. They’re days away from taking two nations. We can fight, but we won’t win without American buy-in.”

  The NATO command grumbled its agreement.

  “We have seven days before Stockholm. Each of you needs to canvas our members—what level of support can we realistically expect?”

  “Article 5. A visible provocation,” General Rockford replied. “It should be everyone.”

  “Should, but won’t,” Phillipe admitted. “And Latvia hasn’t even asked for help yet—and Ukraine’s not a member.”

  “So we take the initiative. Troops on full alert and E-3 Sentries flying round the clock. Russia can’t possibly miss our readiness.”

  “What about reactions from members? Latvia will be jumpy,” Rockford said.

  “I’ll handle them and we’ll ask for forgiveness later.” He paused. “If we need to.”

  38

  VENEZUELA

  One more stop. One more delay before Reilly could return to Europe. One more element in the potential evacuation plan in Venezuela: a strategy session with the KR staff in Bogotá, Colombia. Then Reilly would attend to the impending threat in Ukraine.

  He was tired. When he got too tired, he was inclined to get sick. But in the midst of multiple crises, there was no time for exhaustion or illness. So, he started the morning with a Z-Pak of antibiotics he kept in his bag. Despite his globe-hopping and dabbling in international affairs, it was a reality check that under his job title, he was a regular man. No James Bond. No Jack Ryan, he thought. Just Dan Reilly.

  At Simón Bolivar International Airport he boarded an eight-seat Gulfstream 150 twin-engine jet charter. He preferred big planes; the bigger the engines, the better.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Reilly,” the young flight attendant said. She greeted him in the charter lounge. “I’m Roxanne Castro.”

  “Hello,” he said. “Are we ready?”

  “On time. May I take your bag?”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

  “I’ll run you through the safety procedures before we take off. Just follow me, please.” Castro’s English was as perfect as he suspected her Spanish was. And probably Portuguese, too, considering the South American charter routes the company flew.

  “We’ll have a short flight, a little over ninety minutes. First west along the coast, then south,” she said.

  “Short and sweet.”

  He rolled his suitcase on all four wheels, followed Castro out to the plane, up the portable steps, and into the all-white cabin with white leather seats. He chose one on the starboard side, three rows down.

  The captain stepped out of the cockpit and introduced himself.

  “Michael Tuxhorn, Mr. Reilly. Welcome aboard. We’ll have you there in no time.”

  Reilly figured his pilot, an American, was either a Navy, Air Force, or Marine vet. He asked.

  “Where’d you serve?”

  “Two tours on the USS Carl Vinson. Flew enough F-35Cs off the deck, I think I could land this on a dime.”

  “I’m hoping you have longer runways these days,” Reilly joked. “Just in case.” Tuxhorn smiled.

  “No worries. Sit back and relax. Roxanne will take care of you.”

/>   With that she arrived with a mimosa, cheese, and crackers.

  Ten minutes later the Gulfstream lifted off effortlessly, rose and banked to the north. Reilly settled comfortably into his seat, reclined the seat back, and figured he’d get at least an hour’s rest. That was until he felt a sudden sharp bump—not the kind of bump that occurs with sudden turbulence. This was an impact.

  The plane shook. It pitched right and dipped. His half-consumed drink spilled. The cheese plate that Roxanne Castro had delivered just minutes before seemed to float for a moment. He heard an alarm from the cockpit. The engines—or at least one of the engines—seemed to race.

  Reilly checked his safety belt. It was secure. Then he called out, “Roxanne, are you okay?”

  She said she was. He knew she wasn’t.

  As quickly as the chaos began, the flight normalized. The pilot leveled the jet and climbed. Reilly unfastened the clip to the safety belt and walked up the aisle. He sat across from the flight attendant and buckled in again.

  “I think we’re out of it,” he offered.

  She nodded and relaxed her grip on the arm rests. “Right.”

  She was about to get up and check in the cockpit when the pilot announced, “Sorry about that Mr. Reilly. All’s good. Seems like we had an encounter with a bird just before cracking a thousand feet. I’d say we did better than our feathered friend. But we’re checking out our systems.”

  “Ever experience that before?” Reilly asked the flight attendant.

  “No, but I saw pictures of what a bird of prey did to a Cessna near Simón Bolivar. It wasn’t pretty.” She unbuckled and stood. “I’m going forward. Stay buckled, Mr. Reilly.”

  Five minutes later she returned.

  He asked, “Everything looking good up there?”

  She hesitated. “Mostly. They’re still working it out.”

  “Shouldn’t we turn back?” They were now fifteen minutes on the established route along the coast.