Red Deception
Page 23
“Important?” Savannah asked.
“Just a friend.”
“You look worried.”
“Worrisome times, Ms. Flanders.”
“You look more concerned now than you did before.” It was a probing reply, but Reilly didn’t take the bait.
“Beyond what we’ve agreed to, I have no other information for you.”
“I’ll protect everyone’s identity,” she replied. “But I came to Kiev to find out more about you. And it seems like there’s a lot to discover.”
“I’m just an employee, and right now I need to be as good at my job as I can.”
“You’re more than just an employee, Mr. Reilly. And from what I’ve already seen from the bridge and in your travels, you’re very good at what you do. In fact, I bet you can describe the entire scene here in the lobby. Right down to faces and clothes. Is that part of your job as a hotel executive, or the part of the job that made you a target in Paris?” she pointedly asked.
Reilly leaned in across the table. “Ms. Flanders—”
“Savannah.”
“Ms. Flanders,” he repeated. “I have contacts, like you. It is my responsibility to gather the most information I can. You’ve undoubtedly seen my Congressional testimony.”
“I have.”
“Then you should also know that what I do for my company, others do for theirs. Global politics requires global assessments. That call was one of them. It’s going to get worse before it gets better.”
Reilly stood. “We’ll be leaving early. You better get some rest.”
“How early?”
“Don’t unpack. Be in the ballroom at 4 a.m. Two hours earlier if you want to be up with me.”
“I’ll be there at two.”
It was now early evening, seven-thirty. Flanders thanked Reilly and left the table. He remained, watching her walk to the elevator, show a security officer her room key and identification, and head upstairs. Reilly would hit the roof for final sat phone calls to Jordan and Dubai and then reconvene in his general manager’s office for a meeting at 8:30. From there it would be a countdown.
FBI LABORATORIES
QUANTICO, VIRGINIA
THE SAME TIME
“There’s this guy in the photos,” Joslen reported to FBI Director McCafferty. “He intentionally ducked away from photographs in the White House, and—”
“We know, Ruth Ann. We’re on it.”
“Jesus, Mac, you sure could have saved me a lot of time.”
“Sorry. But it helps to have independent confirmation.”
“Who is he?” she asked.
“No leads. An enigma.”
“An enigma who bent down to tie a shoe.”
Reese McCafferty said, “Okay. So?”
“In the corner of a picture. He went to lace his right shoe. He turned slightly to the side, near the drapes in the Oval Office.”
“And?”
“Ever know anyone trying to lace a loafer?”
This gave McCafferty pause.
“I thought you’d like that,” the chemist said proudly. “It’s not on camera, but while he was down on a knee, I think he put something on the floor. I looked at all the other photos after that, nothing in any except one: there’s a flat round object, an inch or two across. Hard to really see even with it blown up, but it appears to be a coaster. Right where the guy’s shoe was. And it wasn’t in the shot of him bending down. Mac, find that thing. Maybe the cleaning crew picked it up. I want to analyze it. It’s given me an idea.”
KIEV, UKRAINE
THE SAME TIME
The meeting began contentiously.
“No reporters!” Yuri Volosin demanded. The hotel general manager agreed with his countryman.
“The city is closing down. We all have family. We can’t afford being exposed if the Russians move in.”
“Not if,” Volosin interrupted. “When. And when is anytime. Now, tonight, tomorrow morning.”
“I have her assurance,” Reilly stated, “no one will be identified. Your men will be blurred in all of her photographs.”
Volosin stood three feet from Reilly and showed his anger. “My men may bolt. We’ve been burned by American press before. She puts them all at risk.”
“I have to get her out. She’d be writing about it anyway. I negotiated protections.”
“She’s a journalist. Let her cover the fucking invasion.”
“Major,” Reilly said without a real reason to believe what he was about to say was true, “I trust her. And I trust you. Let’s focus on what we must do together.”
Volosin let his objection settle in with the look of a seasoned combatant judging an uncertain ally.
Reilly fixed his eyes onto his new associate. Five seconds. Ten seconds. At twenty, Reilly cleared his throat with an inviting, “And?”
The corner of Volosin’s lips curled. He had seen what he wanted from Reilly: determination.
“I’ll be watching her,” Volosin replied.
“That makes two of us.”
“But the price goes up.”
Reilly expected as much. The price always goes up with complications.
“What is it now?”
“Ten thousand more. You can get it. It’s probably already on the way.” Volosin proved himself a shrewd player. “We can pick it up together when your plane arrives.”
“Agreed.”
With his new price settled, Volosin’s manner changed immediately. “Now trust me,” he said with a cold stare. “You will not take off until I’m paid.”
Reilly responded in kind. “You’ll get it. My promise. And the buses?”
“They’ll be at the loading point at exactly 0400. My men have the route, but I’ll have sentries posted along the way in case we need to detour.”
“Good.” Reilly now turned to his general manager. “Stephan, you have everything I asked for?”
“Yes, in boxes. Everyone gets yellow t-shirts to put on in the ballroom. The flags go with us on the buses.”
“Alright. At exactly 0315 cut the landlines and the Wi-Fi. At 0320 sound the fire alarms. And over the hall PA, announce in English, Ukrainian, French, and German for everyone to come to the ballroom with just their essentials. No more than one carry-on each. That should take 30 minutes. Then room checks. Once settled, they get their t-shirts to identify themselves to one another and to us. Take a head count going out. Head count at the buses. Again, at the plane. We’ll march to the pickup point at 0350. Tight formation. Have wheelchairs available, too.”
Lazlo wrote everything down. He would pass the schedule onto his security.
“Numbers?”
“Two-sixty-five including staff.”
Volosin cut in. “The bouncers stay.”
“They’re our security,” Lazlo replied.
“I’m your security, your protection, your army.”
At that moment the sky lit up outside Lazlo’s east-facing window, more brightly than in a thunderstorm. Explosion bright. Reilly automatically counted the seconds after the first glow appeared. At twenty, a booming sound. Twenty seconds. Roughly four miles out as sound travels—1,125 feet per second, 747 miles per hour, 4.7 miles per second.
The warning Reilly had heard on the phone from Heath had been correct: Russia was on the move.
FBI LABORATORIES
QUANTICO, VIRGINIA
Ruth Ann Joslen wasn’t ready to share her suspicion. At this point it was unsubstantiated and maybe too wild for the FBI, but not too wild for someone with the right degrees and contacts.
She called an engineering professor in Cambridge, a former lover—a geek who’d been building geeky things ever since his teens. His name was Lincoln Towers. An odd name for a person, but he lived up to it– very tall at six-seven, with a thin, bearded face.
Joslen woke him up.
“Lincoln, it’s Raj.” His nickname for her.
“What?” he whispered. “Shelley’s sleeping.”
“Put something on and g
o to your desk. I’ll call you back in five.”
“Jesus, Raj, can’t it wait until…never?”
She laughed.
“Your country needs you.” She hung up, waiting exactly five minutes before dialing again.
“Okay what is it?” Implied was, this time.
“I want you to tell me how you would try to kill the president.”
She explained the problem. The poison, the dog, and the victim. Traces of the poison in the dog’s bowl. The same poison in the president. But no visible means to dispense the dose.
“You’ve obviously woken me up because you think there’s a mechanical solution.”
“Maybe.”
“And you wonder why there’s no evidence other than the dog’s bowl.”
“There was a coaster on the floor. The kind that you put drinks on, gold leaf with a presidential seal.”
“How I’d do it?”
“Yes, with your most diabolical thinking,” Joslen replied.
“I’ll make this quick so I can go back to sleep.”
“You mean you already know?”
“You asked how I’d do it, here it is: google ‘origami robot.’ Popular Science, Popular Mechanics, online videos, lots of stuff on YouTube. It was developed by MIT. The most practical applications are medical.”
Medical. Saving lives, ending lives, Joslen thought as she entered the topic in her computer. Lincoln continued to explain, but Joslen was already reading on her own.
“Are you there?” he asked, after a minute of no replies.
“Yes! You’re a genius.”
“We both know that.”
“Thank you. I love you.”
“No, you don’t, but you’re welcome anyway.” He hung up.
Her next late-night call was to FBI chief Reese McCafferty.
“Mac, I know how he got to the president.”
61
THE KENSINGTON ROYAL NORDISKA HÔTEL
STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN
Marnie Babbitt flew to Stockholm knowing that Dan Reilly would also be heading there soon. Rooms were hard to get, but Reilly’s name opened doors at the Kensington Royal even with the Russian/NATO summit just days ahead. She had her own business to conduct: people to meet, deals to set up. And some shopping, for things she could more easily get in Stockholm than bring with her.
The negotiations, if the leaders went so far as to negotiate, were still five days out. So, she’d be well rested before Reilly came.
Babbitt noted the changes at the property. Operations moving to what did Dan call it? Red Status. Windows were reinforced with new wire netting made by a British firm. People could see in and out, but the thick metal weave would dampen the impact of outside detonated bombs. Bollards were up at the entrances. Bomb sniffing dogs on forty-five-minute drills patrolled with their handlers. Security was everywhere. When she went to the elevator, she learned that rooms on the third, fourth, and fifth floors were already blocked off, undoubtedly for the Russian delegation.
Dan Reilly’s systems were taking hold, and they were comprehensive and expensive. She admired what he had accomplished: it was above domestic or regional politics or national divides. It was a solution to a global problem—terrorism. Reilly had set the standard in the corporate world. No building would be totally impregnable, but now his hotel in Stockholm would surely be a harder target.
Getting the Russian contingent in and out presented more challenges, but once beyond the hotel perimeter they wouldn’t be Reilly’s concern. That worry fell onto the shoulders of Sweden’s police and military, NATO command, and Russian Federation officers, some of whom were already checked in.
Once in her eight-hundred square-foot room, Babbitt unpacked, undressed, and showered. She considered making a spa appointment, but instead decided to call it an early night, order a Caesar salad and a glass of wine, and try to reach Reilly. A relaxing conversation would do them both good.
KIEV
Reilly’s phone rang. He smiled seeing the number.
“Hi sweetheart. A little busy right now.”
“Oh, you’re no fun.”
“Won’t be for a while,” he replied.
“Then store it all up for me.” Reilly laughed. She heard commotion over the phone. Loud sounds. Explosions.
“Mind telling me what’s going on?” More explosions and the whopping of low flying helicopters.
“It’s heating up here in Kiev. But I’ll be leaving soon. I’ll call you when I’m out.”
“I’m in Stockholm. Come soon.” Reilly told her to sleep well. Before they hung up, she told him to do the same, but expected he wouldn’t.
Sleep was definitely not on Reilly’s agenda. The night was going to be long and the escape dangerous. He regretted not getting to Kiev earlier, but EJ Shaw insisted on his Venezuela trip. The regret intensified when his phone rang.
“Reilly, Volosin. Bad news.”
STOCKHOLM
Colonel Martina Kushkin was back on the job. Her latest subject was most willing: front desk clerk Nils Karlsson had accepted her key, her advances, and her bed. He was easy and hard at the same time. Karlsson didn’t object to anything, which was a great deal more than he usually received. And when the woman he knew as Pudovkin asked if she could take some video selfies of them to remember him by, he agreed.
Who needs hidden cameras to catch compromising sexual acts, she thought, when this generation shamelessly puts everything out on social media anyway?
She’d wrapped her new subject around her fingers and between her legs. But so far there was no need to make him feel compromised. He willingly shared house gossip.
It was a job for Pudovkin, but a job with gratification. She felt satisfaction when she allowed herself to give in to the sex, and ultimate satisfaction that came when she manipulated men, and on occasion, women, to talk.
KIEV
“What?” Reilly asked the former Ukrainian SAS officer.
“You have to reroute your plane. Zhuliany is out now, too.”
Zhuliany, also known as Igor Sikorsky, was Kiev’s secondary airport. It was named for the famed Ukrainian aircraft designer.
Reilly repeated his exclamation: “What?”
“The roads are jammed. Choke points everywhere. And gangs. Even with my men, I won’t risk it. But we have an alternate site to the west, a smaller airport.”
“How much smaller?” Reilly asked over noise outside.
“Smaller. I don’t know. Not big fucking jets.”
“We have a big fucking jet coming in. An Airbus 320. It needs runway length. Christ! Hold on.”
Reilly opened his laptop and asked Volosin for the spelling of the airport. He typed in Z-h-y-t-o-m-y-r Airport followed by runway length. He read it aloud. “1,650 meters.”
“What’s that?” the Ukrainian asked.
“End to end, the total length of the runway.” Reilly did a fast calculation on paper. “About 5,400 feet.”
“Okay, that’s good. Basically, one of your miles.”
“Wait!”
Reilly then did a Google search for the Airbus 320 airport requirements.
“Shit!” he declared. “Too short.”
“How short?”
“By a thousand feet.” He did the math again. “1,917 meters.”
“Fuck. A good pilot can brake fast,” Volosin said.
“Maybe,” Reilly replied. “But a full plane taking off, short by that much? Find another possibility.”
“No time. The Russians are crossing the border.”
Reilly knew that, though he hadn’t told Volosin.
“Call your contact,” Volosin declared. “Get that plane rerouted to Zhytomyr.”
Articles 102 and 106 of the Constitution of Ukraine gave President Dmytro Brutka powers to govern, protected by the law unless removed by resignation, election, health reasons, impeachment, or death. Right now, the most pressing concern for the first-term president was death. A bullet in the head by pro-Russian nationalists taking the capita
l, an attack from a Russian bomber, misguided friendly fire from Ukrainian troops, or an assassination attempt by some crazed citizen.
The fifty-four-year-old former Channel 5 television news anchor-turned Minister of Commerce-turned head of state had no real political ideology. This was particularly true with Russian troops knocking on his door. Serving somewhere in absentia was a possibility, maybe Paris or London. Resigning was an even more attractive option.
“Get me a way out of here!” he ordered Viktor Lytvyn, his Chief of the General Staff and Commanding Officer of Armed Forces of Ukraine. Here was the presidential residence at Mariyinksy Palace. The problem was how and where to go, given the quickening events. Word came that the Territorial Directorate North and Western Operational Command air bases were beginning to take fire. That meant the home of the 40th Tactical Aviation base at nearby Vasylkiv and the 7th Tactical Aviation housed at Starokostiantyniv were too dangerous.
“Then where?” Brutka demanded from his secure basement communications center, which suddenly seemed less than secure.
“A civilian airport, Mr. President. We’d fly in low, board you on a private jet. You’ll be out of Ukraine airspace within thirty minutes. Safer than helicoptering all the way to the border. You can govern remotely.”
Brutka really didn’t give a damn about governing. He just wanted out.
“Certainly not Boryspil or Zhuliany. So where? And when?” The president sounded panicked. “And how soon?”
“Zhytomyr, Mr. President. A short flight. But first we have to sequester a corporate jet.”
“Well, goddamn, do it!”
Reilly returned to the roof to phone his Jordanian contact. He checked his watch. He was late for this next scheduled call. He dialed and Reginald Thompson picked up on the first ring.
“Thompson, it’s Reilly.”
This time there was no good-hearted banter.
“What the fuck’s going on? In another two minutes I was going to cancel on you.”