He described the shipments he identified while flying over the port of Maracaibo. He gave his detailed observations once on the ground—who and what he saw at Rafael Urdaneta Air Base, how he was held and questioned for nearly two hours before being blindfolded and released outside the commercial airport. Finally, his opinion about the nationality of the actors.
“Koreans. More specifically, though they weren’t uniformed, North Koreans. Anything you know about that?” Reilly asked.
Heath stood and paced. He pulled his thoughts together.
“I do know the Venezuelan military took control of three civilian ports in recent months. One of them was Maracaibo. And Pyongyang offered,” he paused to recall the exact phrase, “‘…socialist solidarity and cooperation’ with the Venezuelan regime.”
“This looked like more than solidarity.”
“Could be food and durable goods. They need it.”
“Bullshit,” Reilly declared. “Not the way they were concerned about me and what I might have seen.”
42
WASHINGTON, D.C.
THE WHITE HOUSE
The Secret Service agent led the NATO Secretary General straight from his helicopter into the Oval Office. President Crowe immediately stood from behind his desk as Carlos Phillipe entered.
“General Phillipe, good to see you.”
“And you, Mr. President. My condolences for America’s losses. We’ve heard the latest.” President Crowe came around and hugged his guest warmly.
“Thank you, Carlos. Hard days for all of us. May I offer you coffee or tea?”
“Coffee would be wonderful.”
Crowe went to the silver urn, set on a colonial sideboard originally used by Thomas Jefferson, and began pouring coffee into a blue cup bearing the Presidential Seal.
“This thing holds 25 cups but recently we’ve been refilling it every few hours. Milk or cream?”
“Milk, please.”
Along with Phillipe’s coffee, Crowe brought a plate of madeleines to the table in the center of the room.
“I’ve asked Pierce Kimball to join us, he’s on his way from a Pentagon meeting. But let’s begin.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. I’ll get to the point: we are invoking the Readiness Action Plan to respond to Russian forces lined up against Latvia. We are poised to support Ukraine as well, but as you know, it’s a different situation there.”
“Troop strength?” Crowe asked.
“Four thousand troops. Vehicles, weaponry, and munitions in support.” Phillipe opened his briefcase and handed Crowe a folder. “It’s detailed in the order.”
“Kimball believes such a move will further provoke the Russians,” Crowe replied. “Gorshkov’s been trigger-happy since early spring when he was first ready to move.”
“I respect his opinion, but to be perfectly frank, the United States has shown little interest in our current situation,” Phillipe said. He took a sip and flinched; the taste was not to his liking. He quickly slid the mug back onto the table.
“We live on the razor’s edge, Mr. President. There is no trust between NATO and Russia. The alliance’s protective shield is viewed by Gorshkov as an encroachment on nations he considers within his sphere of influence, either culturally by language or historically by fiat.”
At that moment, Pierce Kimball walked in.
“I’m sorry I’m late. As you can image, we’re quite busy here.”
Phillipe stood.
“As are we, Mr. Kimball.”
“Help yourself to some java, Pierce. The Secretary General has advised me that they are deploying troops to Latvia under the Readiness Action Plan.”
Kimball turned halfway toward the seating area as he poured his coffee.
“A miscalculation, Mr. Secretary General, at great peril to peace. Your move could bring the crisis to the boiling point.”
“It’s already at the boiling point, as you call it. The Russian Federation is threatening a member nation and its intention is to bring Ukraine back under its domain. Gorshkov has never hidden his view that at the end of the Cold War, NATO’s expansion amounted to a cancerous tumor on the Russian body politic. He believes the way to cut it out is by surgically removing NATO. Consider: Crimea, Georgia, they were the easy ones. NATO has no relationship with them. But the rest of Ukraine, they think it’s theirs. And Russia has a nationalistic view of Latvia too. Mr. President,” the NATO chief addressed Crowe directly, “I implore you take a stand now.”
Kimball interrupted before the President could respond.
“Right now, Americans want us to focus on the threats at home.”
“Because they don’t know where Riga is!” Phillipe shot back. “Well, they damn well better learn, because Kiev, Warsaw, Bucharest, and Sofia are next. And given the changing political climate in Germany, who’s to say Berlin won’t be the capital in a new Russian alliance! We face a fundamental redrawing of the Eastern European map—it’s imminent. Our command has been meeting with our European leaders and we’re trying to build a consensus, but we want America in the lead. Without your support, the alliance will be absent of actual political strength, let alone greater firepower. And without that, Gorshkov will take advantage of the situation unless we make it very clear that the United States of America, you, Mr. President, will support Article 5.”
The Oval Office fell silent.
“Mr. President, Dr. Kimball, I can see it’s time to go. Thank you for the coffee. However, like your position, it was weak.”
Crowe fixed his eyes on Phillipe. A smile began to form.
“Mr. Secretary General, another moment please. I have an idea.” Pierce Kimball gave the president a surprised look.
“It won’t be everything you want, but it may buy some time without costing me impeachment.”
Carlos Phillipe took a step toward the president.
“Go ahead. I’m listening.”
Fifteen minutes later, President Crowe’s secretary acknowledged that the Russian President was on the phone and the appropriate members of the administration and intelligence community were listening in.
“Thank you. Put him through.”
A moment later, Crowe was on with Gorshkov.
“Mr. President, thank you for taking my call on short notice.”
Alexander Crowe waited for the English-to-Russian translation in Moscow and, in turn, the reply from Nicolai Gorshkov to be translated back to him.
“It’s a rare occurrence these days that we should speak,” Gorshkov said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I take no pleasure in calling you under such circumstances. As you know, the United States has been brutally attacked. Civilians in four of our major cities have been killed. America’s armed forces are at maximum alert.” He waited for the translation. When no reply came, Crowe continued.
“And yet, Mr. President, there is another crisis in Eastern Europe. A crisis of your creation. As pre-occupied as we are with our own national interests, I assure you we are just as committed to our NATO allies.” Following some whispers over the phone, Gorshkov spoke.
“Mr. President, you speak of your national interests. Do you deny the Russian Federation its own? Of course, you do. The United States has been party to NATO’s expansion. Right to our very borders, and in the process your North Atlantic Treaty Organization has violated agreements, abrogated its promises. NATO is a lie to us. So do not speak to me of your commitment.”
“Mr. President, English, please. We will save each other a great deal of time. And time is apparently not on our side.”
“Very well,” Gorshkov replied.
“Soon you will be convening in Stockholm. I urge you to act with restraint. The world will be watching.”
“Don’t lecture me about the world when Latvians are crying out for freedom, when a reunited Ukraine will lead to peace. No, Mr. President. Do not talk about the world watching me while your own people are watching you. I read your press accounts, I see your television broadc
asts. Europe is as far away as the Vale, the Stormlands, and the Reach.”
Kimball didn’t understand the reference. Crowe whispered, “Game of Thrones.”
“You do not know the resilience of the American people, Mr. Gorshkov.”
“And you do not understand the centuries-old plight of Russians. Mongols, Napoleon’s army, Hitler, we fought them all and we survived. But Russia was most secure when we created a defensive alliance against the West. Since we’ve lost that, you and your allies have given us no reason to feel safe. We will be safe again.”
“Don’t underestimate me or our history either,” Crowe said forcefully.
“There is a Russian expression, Mr. President,” he said in English, “‘You cannot pull a fish out of a pond without effort.’”
“Ah yes, we know it as ‘No pain, no gain.’ And I have another well-meaning Russian proverb for you. ‘If you like to sled, you have to be willing to drag it.’”
Gorshkov laughed. “Close enough, Mr. President. You never fail to surprise me.”
“I believe I can say the same about you. The fact is, I know your history. You should learn ours.”
They ended the call politely, but without resolution. NATO Secretary General Phillipe and National Security Advisor Kimball looked drained.
“What just happened?” Kimball asked.
“We played chess Russian style,” Crowe said. “Fast.”
Phillipe nodded. “Very. And that proverb you quoted?”
“It means it can be fun going down the hill, but going back up, not so much. In other words, be prepared to pay for what you enjoy.”
“I’m not sure I understand in this context,” Phillipe replied.
“But Gorshkov did.”
43
MOSCOW
“Your best assessment, General?”
Gorshkov’s Chief of General Staff, Army General Boris Dubynin, stood at attention in Gorshkov’s Kremlin office. On the spot where a young lieutenant had died, but only after the carpet had been replaced.
“Masterful, Mr. President.”
“Not me. Crowe.”
“Crowe? Crumbling in the chaos around him. Grandstanding, but with no audience. Stymied. Bewildered.”
Gorshkov nodded, and smiled to himself.
WASHINGTON
“What’s Gorshkov thinking, Pierce?”
“Calculating what you’ll do next. You threw him,” the National Security Advisor told President Crowe.
“He doesn’t get thrown off. Besides, whoever listened on the call is showering Gorshkov with praise. Now he’s strategizing, feeling he’s got the best of me.” Crowe turned and looked out the window toward the Rose Garden, turning over the conversation in his mind. He came to a worrisome conclusion.
“And you know what, maybe he does.”
MOSCOW
“America is nothing more than a spectator to the unfolding global events.”
Gorshkov furiously paced as he talked. The more he wound up, the faster he paced. General Dubynin dutifully watched him cover the office, back and forth.
“Like England and its self-inflicted wounds over Brexit and the EU, America has lost its compass. It no longer has a true north, a purpose as a major power. Its democracy would have failed eventually, we have just advanced the clock with our intervention. And now Crowe is consumed with threats to America’s infrastructure and, if he makes the wrong decision, politically or militarily, his administration will fail. But we may not need to wait for that to happen.”
“He’s totally paralyzed,” Dubynin replied without picking up on the last comment.
WASHINGTON
“Phillipe was right. Gorshkov knows that NATO has no muscle unless we’re engaged. Without confirmation that we’re all in, he will exploit our indecisiveness to move. Four thousand troops won’t deter him. The only way to stop Gorshkov—”
The president returned to his desk and begin writing.
“Sir?”
“I’m ordering the USS Harry S. Truman Carrier Strike Group to the Baltic from the North Atlantic. The Pentagon can make the announcement tonight.”
Pierce Kimball said, “Yes, sir,” but he didn’t agree with the decision.
“Find out how long it will take for them to deploy, then speed them up.”
“A deterrent, Mr. President.”
“We can hope.”
MOSCOW
“Crowe said we should know their history.” Gorshkov ran through what he remembered. Colonization, Revolution, the Civil War, westward expansion.
“Where is Crowe from?”
“I don’t know.”
“The state they call Arizona,” the president said, answering his own question. The Chief of General Staff didn’t make the connection.
“He’s a cowboy, General Dubynin. A cowboy and I will knock him off his high horse.”
44
HENDERSON, NEVADA
Harper sat at his usual Denny’s corner table, at the usual time, ordering his usual Grand Slam with two pancakes, two eggs over easy, two bacon strips, and two sausage links, from his usual waitress. He also waited for his sometimes-usual visitor.
Halfway through his 2 a.m. breakfast, the sometimes-usual man entered. And as usual, which suddenly hit the waitress as highly unusual, he wore the exact same dark clothes as he had on his previous visits. And, like always, he ordered his juice, egg whites, and dry toast and looked straight ahead, a dismissive signal for her to leave.
The usual, she thought.
After placing the man’s order, Angie Peterson busied herself at the counter. She heard nothing except the soft rock music that was always on. But in the mirror, behind the pie display, she caught a reflection of the customer. His lips were definitely moving. He was talking, more whispering to the man whose back was to him—the only other person in the restaurant. The only person he ever sat near: the regular.
Peterson finally accepted the obvious. It’s a meeting. Or more than a meeting. A rendezvous. Sex? Drugs? She continued to observe. Gangsters from Vegas? Her mind raced as she focused on the lips. Moving some. Stopping as if listening. Definitely listening. And moving again. Obviously secretive.
The trouble was, what was obvious through the mirror to Peterson was also obvious to the man at the table. He saw her reflection and caught her curiosity. And the moment their eyes locked in the mirror, she looked away.
Five minutes later, Peterson brought the man his egg whites, toast, and juice.
“Here you go, sir.”
She placed the food on table. He lifted his head and smiled. Not a friendly smile. A cruel smile. A warning? She forced a question to break the tension.
“Will there be anything else?”
“Just the bill.”
Angie Peterson placed it on the table. Seven minutes later he was gone. But he wasn’t gone. He waited across the street in the dark, through the dawn, and morning’s first light.
At seven she walked out into the sunshine, got in her car, and drove to her 700-square foot home on Gray Fox Way.
The man followed her in his vehicle and waited again. Patiently. He waited for her to sleep. It would be easier once she fell asleep. It always was. No need for her to suffer. She just wouldn’t wake.
His Russian handlers and his Korean generals might not be so sympathetic. But the man known as Pak Yoon-hoi at home, and in the U.S. as Billy Park, was on his own. The woman took too much interest in him. She could describe him to police or worse yet, pick him out in a lineup.
Yoon-hoi quietly broke in, calmly walked through her living room, down the hall, and slowly cracked open the door to her bedroom.
Funny, he thought. She lives alone, but she closes her bedroom door as if she has roommates. Old habits die hard. He smiled to himself. At least she’ll die easily.
He removed his knife, a 6-inch folding blade bought for cash without a problem at a Walmart in Las Vegas. He’d use it only once. That’s the way he worked: once and gone, like his burner phones. And once wa
s now.
45
LONDON
THE NEXT NIGHT
Reilly returned to the London Kensington Royal exhausted. He desperately needed a good night’s sleep, alone. Which is why he didn’t call Marnie.
In the lobby he surveyed the expanse. No matter how tired he was, Reilly never simply passed through. Like a battlefield officer, this was terrain to evaluate, to identify who looked like they belonged and who didn’t. He watched people coming and going and others milling around. He saw couples and families heading to pre-theater dinner, and a woman talking with the concierge, trying to secure tickets to a play in the West End.
He overheard conversations in English, French, German, and Chinese. All normal, except—
As he approached the check-in desk, Reilly caught sight of a particularly striking woman in a black leather jacket, black slacks, and high black boots. A businesswoman? A tourist waiting for a companion? No. She had eyes on him.
Noting Reilly’s glance, she turned a page in a book she wasn’t reading and smiled.
Reilly widened his view as he walked forward. He was aware of her lingering look. He casually circled the lobby, warmly greeting roving staff members who were wearing wireless earpieces and welcoming guests. Peripherally, he kept the woman in view.
Reilly, no longer feeling tired, was now on alert. She was doing surveillance. Not good in one of his hotels. But what was worse—he felt he was her subject.
He went to the front desk, retrieved his room key and turned to see if the woman was still there. She was. Reilly asked the desk clerk to have a bellman take his suitcase up to his room—he had something else to do.
“Hello,” he said with the same manner he’d been talking to his staff.
“Hello,” the woman said, with a slight accent he quickly placed as Russian.
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