RED Hotel

by Fuller, Ed; Grossman, Gary;

  One late night during his senior year, he walked smack dab into a robbery at the mall. Reilly was lucky he didn’t get shot, but a blow to his head took him down. Another security officer called 911. His mother was on duty—little surprise that the Boston Police and an ambulance arrived in record time.

  Reilly’s description resulted in arrests and his testimony put three perpetrators away for years. He lost two weeks at school, which gave him time to think about his future. The memory of his father loomed in his mind. At graduation he decided what he wanted to do. Enlist.

  The army reviewed his background and fast-tracked Reilly into the twelve-week OCS, Officer Candidate School, in Fort Benning, Georgia. From there, he went to an Arizona outpost fifteen miles north of the Mexican border. It was a special facility, the home of the US Army Intelligence Center and the US Army Network Enterprise Technology Command (NETCOM). Fort Huachuca would be his home for four months. From there he went into the Defense Language Institute at the Presidio in Monterey, California, for intensive studies in Farsi and Russian. Nine months later, with a basic command of the languages, the army awarded his studies with a ticket on a Boeing C-17 Globemaster III to Afghanistan.

  Very few people knew what he did there or the connections he made.

  11

  MAZATLÁN, MEXICO

  FOLLOWING THE HURRICANE

  Rivera drove Reilly through the town in the highest clearance truck on the property. Even with the 11.2 inches the Ford 150 Raptor provided, most flooded streets couldn’t be navigated. Those that could were riddled with heaps of floating trash including household items, roofs, broken poles, and sewage. Worse were the bodies.

  Looters were at work, with no police in sight.

  “Most people are smart enough to stay out of the gang’s way,” Rivera said. “Once the gangs are through, the stores belong to everyday thieves and rioters. It’s better than Christmas morning for them.”

  In desperate situations, which this was, everyone except the mourners could be a threat. That’s why Reilly sought to make an unlawful deal with people who held power. It’s what he’d done with tribes in Afghanistan.

  It took more than ninety minutes and a circuitous route to get to their destination. Six men armed with semiautomatics, from original Russian to Chinese and American variants, stopped them at the bottom of a long driveway leading to a huge white villa. They leveled their weapons at the truck.

  One of the men stepped forward and ordered Rivera and Reilly to get out, come to the front of the truck, and kneel on the soggy ground.

  “¿Quién eres? ¿Qué quieres? Who are you? What do you want?”

  Rivera explained that he was accompanying an American hotel executive who wanted to make an offer.

  The lead guard laughed. “¿Una oferta? Si tienes algo que queramos, la tomaremos! An offer? If you have something we want, we’ll take it!” He laughed again. “¡Dámelo! Give it to me!”

  “¡No!” The reply to the demand was Reilly’s. “Sólo será negociar con Señor Santiago.”

  This earned Reilly a rifle butt slam to his back.

  “Señor Santiago,” he repeated.

  Just as he was about to get another punishing blow, a voice boomed over a speaker.

  “Ya no más. Lleve al americano.”

  The guard who had been speaking motioned with his AK-47 for Reilly to stand.

  “I’ll be back,” Reilly told Rivera.

  Rivera, still on his knees replied, “I sure hope so.”

  With that, the man urged Reilly forward. Halfway up the driveway littered with debris, Reilly looked back. Rivera had been allowed to sit up and smoke. Reilly smiled inwardly. He knew how to get here, and he seemed familiar with the cartel. When he considered it, it wasn’t really surprising.

  Dan Reilly was ushered into the first floor of the magnificent estate. He heard the hum of generators that powered light and electricity. He was grateful for the air conditioning and utterly surprised when a valet offered him a bottle of Evian.

  He had waited no more than a minute when a thin, handsome man close to his own age sauntered down a grand staircase. He wore a red and blue pinstriped shirt, tan pants, and a blue blazer. Not the wardrobe Reilly would expect from anyone after a devastating hurricane, let alone the region’s drug cartel kingpin.

  “Señor, you put me at a disadvantage. Though you likely know my name, I do not know yours,” the Mexican said in flawless English.

  “Daniel Reilly. I work for the Kensington Royal Resort. I flew in just before the storm hit.”

  “You picked a bad day to visit Mazatlán, Señor Reilly.”

  “I needed to come to help, Señor Santiago. It’s my job.”

  “Your job surely did not include taking the chance to visit me.”

  “No it didn’t, but it was necessary.”

  “Very brave—possibly stupid.”

  “I’ve been accused of both,” Reilly replied.

  “Then let me talk to the brave man, not the stupid one. Why are you here?”

  Reilly paused to study his adversary. He was intelligent and charismatic, with dark eyes that glistened. But Reilly didn’t doubt for an instant that Santiago was as ruthless as he was suave.

  “To propose a deal,” Reilly said directly. “Less a matter of money than of principal.”

  “A deal with little money is not a good place to start,” the cartel kingpin stated.

  His eyes grew colder. Reilly focused on them. “Perhaps there is more at stake.”

  “And what would that be?” Santiago asked.

  “A mutual interest in the economy of the community.”

  Santiago’s expression warmed. “A most interesting choice of words, my friend. Let us take this to the library.” He gestured toward a door to their left. But before entering, Santiago stood inches away from him and asked, “What is that you want to negotiate.”

  “Protection.”

  12

  CHICAGO, IL

  TWO DAYS LATER

  “Collins is livid,” said Edward Shaw. “You put the company on extremely shaky legal ground. The Mazatlán mayor has threatened to file a complaint with the State Department over your deal with Santiago!”

  Shaw read from a list atop a file folder that he held. He paced in front of his nineteenth century oak desk. Dan Reilly sat with his arms folded and legs crossed, ready for more. More came.

  “You authorized nearly $15,000.”

  “By the time I was through, closer to $25,000,” Reilly said.

  “Okay, $25,000 in payoffs and payouts that will need a whole new line item. You damn well better hope the IRS doesn’t question it! On top of that, you coerced an American Express president and made unauthorized personal promises to hotel guests regarding their safe passage. And you guaranteed hotel employees full pay while the resort is closed! I have finance calculating the cost of that pledge. As I understand it from Raul Bustamante, all of this was within a few hours.”

  “About twenty, sir,” Reilly responded. The rant took Reilly back to a dressing down in Kabul from a commanding officer.

  Shaw took the files and tossed them in his wastebasket. He offered a half laugh. “Bustamante also said you alone are responsible for getting our guests out safely, quickly, and without complaint. That you demonstrated real courage meeting directly with the region’s most dangerous and powerful man. That you instilled loyalty in the staff by taking in our employees’ family members during the most destructive hurricane they’ve ever experienced.”

  Reilly reported back with the same good nature, “Yes, sir.”

  “And in doing so you’ve given Kensington Royal a positive marketing story to help balance Tokyo.”

  “That’s out of my area, Edward.”

  “Sometimes I wonder what isn’t out of your area. You continue to surprise me, son.” Shaw struck his hand out. “And thank you!”

  “It’s what I do, sir.”

  Reilly had never revealed everything on his resume, and he wouldn’t no
w. But Shaw’s comment implied a certain suspicion.

  “Oh, and for the record,” Shaw added, “any releases that are going out, you acted with authority and under my direction. Got that?”

  “Cover fire?”

  “More to the point, I’ll take the credit.”

  “Better for both of us,” Reilly replied, understanding the reverse would have been the case if his decisions had gone to hell in a handbasket.

  “Okay then, on to new business.”

  “Before you jump into that, Alan may have a lead,” Reilly said. “His plane back had equipment problems and was redirected to Kuala Lumpur. He connected on his stopover, and he’s finally getting out today. But based on what he told me, we’ll want to run it by some of our DC contacts.”

  Shaw didn’t ask who. Between Alan Cannon’s FBI years and Reilly’s term with the State Department, he considered them well placed.

  “One more thing, sir,” Reilly added. “We’ve also nailed down our consultants and we’re on the calendar for our first session. Collins is on board, too.”

  “Good, but you still have to smooth Chris’s ruffled feathers.”

  “No problem,” he lied. It would take some effort.

  “Money okay? You have your agenda?” Shaw asked.

  “Sort of yes on both. A few requested higher fees. I need them. So I said yes.”

  “Of course you did,” Shaw laughed. “And the agenda?”

  “Working on it, including a way for us to evaluate a range of threats and trigger procedures. We would have been better prepared in both Tokyo and Mazatlán, which are on opposite ends of the threat spectrum, if we had an overarching plan.”

  “How far along are you?”

  “Early on. I’ve been working on some possibilities. We really need input from the committee though.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, this is your ship to sail,” said Shaw. “In the meantime, you’re going on another trip this week.”

  “Where?”

  “Tehran.”

  Reilly returned to his office with a quick question for his assistant. “Anyone speaking to us in travel after my end run?”

  Brenda Sheldon laughed. “It’ll take some smoothing. No worries. From the online release PR sent through, it looks like Mr. Shaw managed the whole thing.”

  “Didn’t he?” Reilly joked.

  “Aren’t you upset?” she asked.

  “Not at all. Plus it takes the heat off so we can get some big things done. Hope you’re ready.”

  “Always am.”

  “Good. Then let’s schedule a meeting with Collins today. If it’s better, I can go to him. Then Alan Cannon when he’s back in. And early dinner reservations tomorrow in DC at the Old Ebbitt Grill.”

  “For?”

  “For two. I’ll take care of the invite.”

  “Oh?” she said coyly.

  “No oh. Strictly business.”

  “Any name?”

  “Mine.”

  “I meant the other name,” she quipped.

  “I’ll have to try to remember someday.”

  Maybe what I can’t get with Congress’s permission, I can get on my own, he thought.

  Brenda got the message. “Okay. I’ll book the flight. Back in the morning?”

  “Just the first leg. Tomorrow an overnight from Dulles to Tehran. And a hotel. Keep the return open.”

  “Busy boy,” Brenda said.

  “And it’s going to get a whole lot busier.”

  Reilly let Chris Collins vent. He got an earful of corporate law, a lecture on federal statutes that strictly prohibit conducting business with known drug dealers, and a primer on SEC regulations.

  “You exposed this corporation to huge liabilities and potential prosecution,” said Collins. “It’s my job to protect us. But I can’t do that if you’re working against our best interests. Maybe the man upstairs is with you this time.”

  “He is,” Reilly retorted.

  “This time,” Collins underscored. “But even Shaw has to answer to a board.”

  Reilly hadn’t considered that fact. There were others.

  Collins continued for another two minutes. He didn’t invite a rebuttal, but Reilly had one. He delivered it calmly.

  “Chris, I’m sorry for the distress. The problems. But here’s what I need. Find me the legal wiggle room, the workarounds, and the shortcuts you’re willing to live with. We’ll be better if we can react as a team in a crisis.”

  This was the same conversation he once had with a general in Afghanistan—a general who failed to understand there were missions beyond the stated mission, responsibilities for real-time decisions that couldn’t be calculated in advance.

  Collins sighed deeply. “I won’t sweep things under the rug.”

  “I’m not asking you to. Just work with me. Help me.”

  “No end runs?” Collins asked.

  “I’ll try,” Reilly said.

  “No secrets …” Collins paused before adding, “unless I tell you I don’t want to know.”

  Dan Reilly maintained a serious expression while smiling inwardly.

  “Sure.”

  Alan Cannon finally landed that evening. He passed on having dinner with Reilly—sitting down at the computer with the thumb drive was his only priority. Sandwiches from a commissary machine would do just fine.

  The Kensington Royal security chief explained to Reilly the process the Japanese intelligence officer had put him through. “I’ll spare you the time and effort,” Cannon said. “But I’m glad I did it myself. It made me examine the video closely, which validated Genji Takahiro’s judgment.”

  “So let’s see,” Reilly replied.

  Cannon had a copy of the file. He skipped through the footage until he got to a view from a closed-circuit police camera on the side of a building. Dust, likely from the blast, covered the black housing. It made the wide-angle image blurry.

  “Hard to see, but it’s still important. I’ll come back to it.”

  Next he jumped to a second angle from an internal store security camera that faced outward. It showed a crystal clear shot because pressure from the explosion had blown out the window.

  “Now watch,” Cannon instructed. “Normal speed first.”

  Reilly saw people running left to right, others walking quickly.

  “They’re getting away from the hotel as fast as they can. See, some are bleeding. They were hit by shrapnel and flying shards of glass.”

  “Got it.”

  A mother carried a small child. An elderly man limped past the camera, his leg bleeding. A motorcyclist pushed his inoperable bike through the street. A group of teenage girls ran by.

  “I don’t …” Reilly began.

  “Keep watching.”

  A man comforted a woman. His jacket wrapped over her shoulders. A young man tried to make a call. Everyone moved quickly, appearing no more than three seconds in the camera’s view.

  Then another man walked into frame. Walked.

  “That guy?”

  “Exactly,” Cannon said.

  “Everyone else is in a mad rush. He’s just walking away from a catastrophic event. Would you be walking?”

  “No way!” Reilly exclaimed.

  A moment later he was out of frame. There was another wide view from an additional police surveillance camera which gave more perspective on how casually he walked.

  “Maybe he was injured,” Reilly noted.

  “Naichō distributed still frames to all the hospitals. No one saw him.”

  “So you have a closer shot?”

  “Not another, but enhanced. Take a look at the store camera slower, blown up, and effected.”

  In slow motion, Reilly could actually see the subject bring his head forward after looking backwards in the direction of the devastation. Then, an unmistakable sly smile appeared on his face. Cannon froze the image.

  “Jesus!” Reilly exclaimed. “The guy’s gloating.”

  “Would you say victim or perp
etrator?”

  “Perpetrator,” Reilly answered.

  “My thoughts exactly. Takahiro’s running the picture by his contacts. I’ve sent it to the bureau. We need to tap into every global facial recognition database.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “From the wide shot we can even calculate the pace everyone is moving. Makes a strong case that the laggard could be one of the culprits. And with that smile, he had no intention to commit suicide. If we ever recover video off the hotel hard drive we should have positive proof.”

  Reilly watched the footage again. He felt the man walked with authority and pride. He tapped the face on the screen. “Any guesses as to his nationality?”

  “From a profiling point of view … ?”

  “Yes,” Reilly replied.

  “Only an opinion, but this guy’s not Middle Eastern.”

  “Which means?”

  “Not one of the usual suspects.”

  Reilly stared longer and harder at the computer. “Can you make me a copy, I want to share this with a friend tomorrow.”

  “Who?”

  “An old army buddy. A guy I was going to see anyway. Now I have even more reason.”

  Cannon looked at Reilly with a slightly askew eye. He pulled another USB drive from his jacket pocket.

  “You can trust him?”

  “Yes,” Reilly replied.

  “Then take it.”

  Reilly thanked Cannon and dialed Brenda.

  “Change of plans, Brenda. Earlier flight to DC in the morning and cancel Old Ebbitt Grill. I’ll see my friend at his office.”

  13

  WASHINGTON, DC

  Early the next morning a driver dressed in black waited for Reilly at baggage claim at Reagan National Airport. Reilly saw his name on an iPad display and raised his hand. The driver walked forward.

  “Mr. Reilly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Daniel Reilly?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll need to see identification. Your photo ID, please,” the driver stated.

  Reilly complied. Given where he was going, this was not unexpected.

  After checking and returning Reilly’s driver’s license and Kensington Royal identification card, the driver simply said, “This way, sir.”