RED Hotel

by Fuller, Ed; Grossman, Gary;

  Kensington Royal’s DC operation covered half the floor, housing twelve full-time staffers and offices for Reilly and Cannon. Everyone was huddled in the conference room watching a fifty-inch TV screen.

  Cannon spotted Reilly as he walked in. He looked the part of a security officer: rugged, square jaw, piercing eyes. The 47-year-old Cannon kept his brown hair, graying only slightly at the temples, short, military-length. He hadn’t changed it in decades.

  “Did you reach … ?”

  Cannon lowered his eyes. They were not so piercing now.

  Reilly stopped. There was word, and he could tell it wasn’t good.

  “Fujimori,” Cannon sighed. “Fujimori and three young people at reception. Gone.”

  “Oh my God,” Reilly said. He’d hired Niko Fujimori as general manager knowing that the hotel would be best served culturally with a Japanese national in the front office.

  “We lost others, too, Dan. A valet, two members of the security team, and more staff inside. All told, I don’t know yet. It’s terrible.”

  Dan Reilly hugged Cannon, pausing for a moment to allow himself to feel the weight of what had happened. Then he pulled himself together.

  “All right,” Reilly said. “Let’s get to work.”

  The Tokyo bombing on top of the Congressional hearings reminded him he wasn’t just in the global hotel trade. He was in the anti-terrorism business.

  Dan Reilly had two offices—one in Washington and one in Chicago—but he generally worked out of DC. His trusted executive assistant was in Chicago, but actually everywhere, at least on a virtual basis.

  “You’re going to have to hurry to catch your plane,” Brenda said on the phone. “Out the door in five.”

  “Car?”

  “Downstairs, waiting. Let me know how long you want to be here. I’ll start booking Tokyo flights.”

  “Thanks, Brenda. We’ll all meet tonight. I’d say late morning out to Tokyo.”

  “Japan Airlines and American have 1:00 p.m. flights. United a little earlier at 11:00 and 12:30.”

  “The earlier the better.”

  “Want me to coordinate with Mr. Cannon’s flight?”

  “If possible. But he may need to deal with other security issues.”

  “What do you want to do with your calls?” she asked.

  “Email the list. Anything pressing?”

  Reilly could hear her fingers fly over the computer keys.

  “The Moscow acquisition. The mayor wants to see you when you’re there.”

  “I bet he does,” Reilly said sarcastically. “Put that on hold.”

  She read his tone loud and clear.

  “What else?” he asked.

  “Mr. Shaw wants to talk about Tehran.”

  “Hold that, too. Other problems?”

  “Nothing that can’t wait.”

  “Fine. Keep everyone calm. Especially the press,” Reilly added. “I’ll call again after I get through security.”

  “Fly safely. You’ll make things good,” she said.

  Good was no longer going to be good enough, he thought.

  3

  TOKYO, JAPAN

  Dan Reilly’s cab drove up as close to the hotel as possible, which wasn’t very close. Yellow police tape cordoned off the area from several blocks away. Permission to enter required proper identification and a friend in high places. Reilly had both. He was met at a security checkpoint by the US Ambassador to Japan, Ruben Norte. Reilly instantly recognized him from the luxury hotel’s grand opening two years earlier. He stood a good foot taller than most of the people who surrounded him and had a commanding boardroom presence. Norte intended the post, a political gift from the White House, to be the last chapter of his career.

  “Mr. Ambassador!” Reilly said warmly. “Thank you for meeting me.”

  After a quick handshake and a flash of his ID to first a Tokyo policeman and then a government security officer, Reilly was allowed inside the perimeter.

  “What’s the status?” Reilly asked.

  “Two more died in the last hour. So many in critical condition. Missing limbs, eyes. It’s awful. They’re in seven hospitals across the city. Now, everyone’s worried about another attack.” The ambassador paused. “And I thought this was going to be a cushy outpost.”

  “They don’t exist anymore, Mr. Ambassador.”

  “Ruben. It’s Ruben. It was Ruben in Detroit when everyone thought the American auto industry would tank. It’s Ruben here.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Let’s walk,” he said.

  Fifty yards ahead, there was utter devastation. Reilly gaped in horror as he took it in. It was far worse than it appeared on pictures sent to his cell phone and the footage on the news.

  The columns holding up the portico were gone along with the portico. Rubble covered indistinguishable burned-out car chassis, some containing bodies draped in sheets. The medical, security, and fire personnel all wore surgical white masks over their noses and mouths.

  All the glass was blown out of the lobby and as far as Reilly could see, many of the floors. The lobby smoldered. Water draining from the hotel flowed with a darkish red hue. Reilly knew why.

  “It could be another day until everyone is accounted for,” Norte said somberly. “Dogs are still finding survivors, and …” The ambassador didn’t complete the sentence.

  At that moment, Reilly saw Kensington Royal’s VP of legal, Chris Collins, and waved. Collins had been closing a deal in Beijing and was able to beat his colleague to Japan. The company lawyer was talking to a Japanese man with a lanyard ID draped around his neck. Reilly presumed he was a police detective.

  Collins had a surgical face mask tucked under his chin, ready for use. He wore a blue Brooks Brothers shirt, and a conservative black and blue print tie, which was loosened at the collar.

  “Dan,” he simply said in greeting. Reilly noted that Collins’ shoes were soaking wet.

  “Chris, thanks for getting here so fast.”

  The lawyer acknowledged the comment with a sad nod.

  Reilly introduced Collins to Ambassador Norte. In turn, Collins introduced his companion.

  “Dan, Mr. Ambassador, this is Superintendent General Ginshiro Yamato of Keishichō.”

  Reilly recognized the name. He was far more than just an officer. Yamato was the ranking head of the police force of one of the world’s largest cities: the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department, with more than 43,000 strong. He was a slight man, around fifty, with wire-framed glasses, a dark suit, and a blue tie. He could have passed for any Japanese businessman except for his eyes. They communicated indisputable authority that gave him an overwhelming, commanding presence.

  “Thank you for your assistance, Superintendent General,” Reilly offered, shaking his hand solemnly.

  At this point, Reilly noticed that Yamato was accompanied by his own bodyguards. One approached and whispered something in Yamato’s ear. The superintendent general quickly excused himself. Ambassador Norte also stepped back to talk to an aide. This gave Reilly time to confer with Collins.

  “How are you holding up?”

  “Terribly, but probably better than the corporation.”

  It was a predictable statement coming from legal.

  Reilly’s cell phone rang. He noted the caller ID and said, “Brenda,” to Collins before answering the call.

  “Hi. What’s up?”

  “We’re getting calls from press around the world,” she explained. “June wants to issue a more detailed press release. And a quote.” She paused. “From you.”

  “Jesus. I just got here. Tell her I’ll email something in a few hours.”

  “Sooner. The boss is on her. They want attributable quotes, but cleared through legal first.”

  “Well, I’m right here with Chris. We’ll work up something.”

  “She wanted something ‘encouraging,’” Brenda added. “Her word, not mine.”

  Reilly looked around. There was nothing “encouragi
ng” in view. Debris everywhere. Dank, smoke-filled air. Haunting outlines of charred bodies on the street. Women’s shoes, ruined jewelry, stopped watches, fused glasses, and the saddest thing of all, a blood-soaked teddy bear.

  “I have to call you back,” Reilly said. He hung up, not even considering what hour of the day she was working or whether she’d gone to sleep.

  Reilly checked his 1940s Gruen watch and did the math in his head. He quickly texted a thank-you and that he’d have something for her soon, and then she should go home. Next he returned to Collins.

  “What are you hearing?” he asked.

  “GMs in Singapore, Delhi, Seoul. They’re worried. All saying the same thing.”

  “Of course, they’re talking to one another. Email … no, call them. Schedule times for me after 9 p.m. Tokyo time. Thirty minutes each. And tell them to start checking IDs at the door and post additional security.”

  Reilly was beginning to formulate a plan. Singapore, Delhi, and Seoul were worried, he thought. If they were, others would be, too. And for that matter, so was he.

  “Anyone taking credit?” Reilly asked.

  “Don’t know. That’s a question for the ambassador or the police.”

  Reilly walked toward Ambassador Norte. He stepped over and around debris, all personal affects with no person to claim them. The dank odor was now getting to him. He separated the smells: smoke, burning embers, plastic, gas, oil, and … human flesh. It was an all too familiar odor—the scent of battlefields.

  He asked Norte the same question he had posed to Collins.

  “Surprisingly no one yet,” the ambassador answered. “Some light chatter on the internet. Nothing credible. I’m in touch with the State Department. They either don’t have anything or they’re not sharing it. I understand police are checking for any evidence in the FedEx truck. Prints, anything left behind. But there’s not much left to examine.”

  “And our people, Chris?”

  “Still accounting for everyone. Our nighttime security head was the first to react. He ran right out to stop the bomb. Caught the blast full force. We lost him and others.”

  “I want his name. I want everyone’s name and numbers so I can talk to their families.”

  “Be careful what you say,” the lawyer warned.

  “Jesus, Chris! Just give me the names.”

  Reilly tried to comprehend the true extent of the devastation. He pointed out a section midway up the structure, thinking no one in the immediate area could have survived.

  Norte filled in the details. “The bomb just below the swimming pool followed the first by about a minute. Timed just as people began rushing out of their rooms. Cruel beyond belief. It brought the pool cascading down. We’re still accounting for guests who were blown out or drowned. The fire department said that the water did help contain the fire damage—not a great consolation.”

  “It must have been someone in the hotel,” Reilly bluntly said.

  “What?” Collins asked.

  “Someone who stayed in the hotel surely did his homework and knew the vulnerable spots,” Reilly continued. “The computer records …”

  “It’ll have to come from IT. From our corporate reservations,” Collins said. “All the house computers were destroyed.”

  Reilly walked forward into the lobby. More destruction. Again, worse than he had imagined. Support beams were exposed where walls had been. Elevator banks destroyed. Blood and body parts splattered everywhere. He hadn’t witnessed anything like this since Afghanistan.

  “I’ll bet more devices were timed to go off downstairs and in the back when people were escaping,” Reilly said. He wasn’t asking. He was reciting from the terrorist textbook.

  “That’s correct, Mr. Reilly,” Superintendent General Yamato said, overhearing him. “One in the elevator shaft to drive people to the stairwells. Another in the northeast stairwell—maybe more.”

  “Damn them to hell,” Reilly exclaimed through a heavy cough. “Got another mask?”

  Norte stepped across the rubble and retrieved one from a doctor. “Here, but they don’t recommend going in further.”

  Reilly put on the mask and ignored the warning. As he stepped over the downed beams and cement blocks strewn throughout the lobby—or what was left of it—he took in the electrical and chemical fumes and the smell of burnt flesh. More memories.

  Everything that could burn burned. Everything that could break broke. Two minutes were enough.

  Outside he had more questions. “What do you think? At least five devices?”

  “That’s our current count,” Yamato said. “We’re still looking for more that didn’t go off, or were timed to detonate late.”

  “And I think it would be accurate to assume that if the driver of the truck walked away, this wasn’t a suicide bombing,” Reilly added.

  Yamato closed his eyes and nodded. “That’s a fair assumption.”

  “Wouldn’t that rule out some of the usual suspects? Al Qaeda? The Taliban? ISIS?”

  “That’s largely beyond my scope,” Yamato said. “But yes, some of these groups like to walk away these days. Remember Paris. Not everyone was there to meet Allah in the moment.”

  Reilly sighed. Tactics were changing, but hotels remained a soft target with high propaganda value. But that value was only good if a group cashed in on the media coverage, and so far no one had. After twenty-four hours, that seemed highly unusual. It was a thought he kept to himself.

  “Anything available to screen from the security cameras or cell phone video?”

  “I asked,” Collins said. “The security hard drive was destroyed. The hotel doesn’t back up to the cloud.”

  “A second drive?”

  “In the lower security office, right next to the loading docks where another bomb exploded. Gone.”

  “We’ve got a lot to rethink,” Reilly said, putting his hand on Collins’ shoulder. “Starting now.”

  He thanked the Tokyo police chief and exited the building with Collins and the ambassador.

  Outside Reilly stepped back and looked up and down the street. “Ambassador—” He stopped to correct himself. “Ruben, what about local area surveillance cams—ATMs, traffic CCTVs?”

  “That’s a question for the National Police Agency or Naichō, Japan’s Intelligence and Research Office. They’re the equivalent of our CIA. They’re taking the lead. But you’ll see a whole other team working in the shadows. They’re from The Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department Public Security Bureau. T.M.P.D.P.S.B., the agency responsible for the country’s public security. It’s unlikely we’ll get anything directly from them. Naichō and the National Police Agency will be your best contacts.”

  “Even more than the Metropolitan Police and Yamato?”

  “If it involves foreign influence, yes,” the ambassador replied.

  “Estimates on the amount of explosives?”

  “Wouldn’t know and wouldn’t know how to measure it. You?”

  “Somewhat.” Reilly’s service as a US Army intelligence officer required weeks of training in explosives. Some of that knowledge showed up in the deck he had prepared for the Senate subcommittee. Now that presentation and testimony seemed light-years away.

  Sudden shouts in Japanese from a policeman interrupted his thoughts.

  Reilly didn’t understand the order, but he certainly read the hand gestures. He grabbed the ambassador’s arm.

  “Away from the building! Fast!”

  Chris Collins got the picture, too. They ran across the street and added even more distance between them and the hotel. Two bomb-sniffing dogs rushed past with their handlers while five men in protective outerwear entered the destroyed lobby.

  Reilly saw what he recognized as a black SWAT command center truck the size of a semi on their side of the street. “Wait here,” he said.

  He went to the truck’s center side door and flashed his ID to an officer. Fortunately the Tokyo policeman spoke English and got clearance over his radio to let him ent
er.

  Inside, Reilly introduced himself to the commanding officer. He was told to stand in the back row facing a series of monitors, each fed by remote wireless cameras. He counted eight views. On the main line monitor were images from a roving robot camera that rolled toward an indistinguishable area.

  “Where’s it going?” Reilly asked the officer.

  “The heating plant. The dogs found another device.”

  A technician in the first row switched another view to the main screen. It showed a POV helmet cam from a member of the bomb squad who slowly crawled forward along the wet floor around the back of a boiler until he came within a foot of a package about the size of a shoe box.

  Reilly watched as the bomb squad officer slowly examined the package from the outside. He was careful not to touch it. He heard the man’s heavy breathing through the wireless feed.

  The officer standing with him translated a portion of the running dialogue.

  “From the size of the box and the proximity to the heating plant, he believes the bomb is C-4. Probably under five pounds. He’s described the box as wet with the smell that damp cardboard gives off. It’s possible that the timer shorted or burned out due to the runoff from the pool.”

  The bomb squad officer backed away as slowly and as carefully as he had entered.

  “He’s calling for the robot to X-ray the package. This will take some time. Now everyone has been ordered out of the building,” the officer explained.

  Fifty-five minutes later, the X-ray had been read. Experts determined that water had indeed short-circuited the device. The bomb squad members retrieved the package. Next it would be up to one or more of the investigatory agencies to look for identifiable markings, fingerprints, or other ways to trace its origin.

  Reilly thanked the officer, a captain with the National Police Agency. They exchanged cards, and Reilly asked if he could be kept informed.

  The captain simply said, “To the best of my ability.”

  It was more than he had gotten the day before from Senator Moakley Davidson halfway around the world.